MAY 16, 2026 – A year ago, I worked myself to exhaustion planting Norway pine and white spruce seedlings, mostly in the tree garden of Björnholm. As is the case this spring, the ground then was so dry, a walk through the woods mimicked the Kellogg’s Rice Krispies jingle—snap, crackle, pop. After planting the seedlings, I hauled umpteen gallons of water way up into the tree garden to give the new plantings a drink. Most have survived.
As my readers know, once I’d recovered from the arbor project, I plunged into the design and construction of the “Pergola-on-a-Platform” on the highest ground on our land overlooking Grindstone Lake. Hauling tools and materials to the building site required over a hundred round trips up and down the trail from the Red Cabin—a third of a mile each way.
Moreover, between the foregoing projects, last year I had to install the “wonky dock” (my own modular design) three times (twice with help), thanks to late season ice floes.
With the approach of this summer, I promised myself that I’d devote my energies to lower intensity projects.
So much for good intentions. Today I logged just shy of 20,000 steps simply attending to routine outside maintenance here at the Red Cabin and putting up the screens at the old cabin of Björnholm. No new projects; no special endeavors.
In weather less than the perfect conditions that prevailed today, I might’ve complained; I might’ve muttered, “I’m getting too old for this,” as I raked (I refuse to use a noisy leaf-blower) around Beth’s back flower and Hosta gardens; cleaned-up and re-organized my lumber inventory; collected all the winter protective (against browsing deer) fencing for the three dozen hemlock seedlings in the nearby woods; made four round-trip hikes to the old cabin; and there, wrestled with shutter removal and storage and screen installation. But how can one grouse about honest work in warm sunshine with the daylong breeze singing through the boughs of the towering pines?
Except for three silhouetted fishermen in a boat anchored 200 feet from shore, I didn’t see any people today. I worked entirely alone and without any noise from the outside world; no music, no podcasts, no voices. Conditions were perfect for observing and thinking as I worked.
The central theme of my thoughts was how time in this place is like no other time in no other place. For one thing, besides the logging that occurred on this land 125 years ago and the limited harvesting a decade ago in what is now the tree garden, these lacustrine woods have been untouched by human manipulations. This is not true of our yard, neighborhood, surroundings back in the cities. Very little there hasn’t been worked over almost completely from its original state. Second, though the Twin Cities have an abundance of lakes, rarely when I lay eyes on one do I think of the Ice Age. Here at the Red Cabin and Björnholm, on the other hand, when hiking up and down glacial eskers and moraines and peering out across the big shining lake, it’s almost impossible not to be reminded of the ice sheets that shaped this part of the continent—not a million years ago, but just 12,000—a blink of any eye in geologic time.
The odd thing is that whenever I’m up here surrounded by nature, the most noticeable feature being arboreal, I’m reminded of . . . people. Trees, in particular, remind me of humanity. The surrounding pines, oaks, maples, birches and poplar exhibit so many of the traits I see in people—beauty, disfigurement, strength, weakness, vulnerability, resilience, flexibility in youth, rigidity in old age, having all the luck—or none.
Yesterday, at the top of the Ragnar Way Trail, the dense grove of volunteer Norway pine are now over six feet tall—or, I should say, they were before severe storms last winter. Now, one of the pines stands perfectly straight, but all the surrounding trees—all the same age—are now severely bent because of the wind and heavy wet snow brought by those storms. Most notable, however, is that they are leaning over in the direction of the straight and undamaged tree. They reminded me of the Genesis account of Joseph’s dream in which the sheaves of wheat of his brothers bowed to Joseph’s, which stood tall.
Later, at the transition between the Nor-Way Trail and Ray-Way just below the pergola, I stopped to admire a towering white oak. I’ve walked past it hundreds of times, but this time, it was unusually exposed, since it’s only mid-May[1]. About 10 years ago, a terrific storm blew through and split the tree in half. The downed half, which forced the trail to zigzag around it, shows no sign of rot or disease. The half that’s still standing bears the foot-wide and 20-foot- tall scar of its battle with the elements. And yet at the top of the scar, the tree’s trunk continues, unscathed, reaching to a dizzying height. From the ground, that uninjured part of the tree looks like a fully mature oak growing out of its own pedestal carved by nature’s fury.
You cannot help but admire that oak’s persistence; its determination not only to survive its traumatic ordeal but to thrive well beyond mere existence. And once you see the parallel to human resilience, you cannot help but be inspired.
The most powerful effect of the northwoods experience, however, is the view of the clear nighttime sky. Far from any light pollution, this area is grand for star-gazing. On a clear night at home, I can see only a handful of celestial lights. Here, they are so bright and numerous, the sight is almost unnerving. They never fail to transport my thoughts and imagination far beyond the apogee of the moon; well past the outer limits of our solar system; quite simply, to galaxies far, far away.
Tomorrow I shall return to the hub-bub of home, work, and urbanity—not saddled with regret for having to do so but energized and inspired by nature’s messaging in this time and place.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
[1] The foliage here is at least two weeks behind where it is at the latitude of the Twin Cities.
