APRIL 8, 2023 – The snow was already soft by the time I got underway with one load of gear for the slog to the car parked a mile away. From there, the paved roads were mostly clear, but already, the twisting, undulating back roads were so checkered with potholes, I drove as if I were skiing drunk on a slalom course—flinching this way and that to prevent tire blowouts or worse. Once on the main drag that leads north out of Hayward, I could switch to cruise control all the way to Seeley, known for three things:
1. The Uhrenholdt Forest, a section of old growth white pine dedicated to showcase the sentinel pinus strobus, dominant tree of the northern Upper Midwest, before lumber barons clear cut vast acreages of the majestic trees;
2. A small, custom lumber mill, located within walking distance of the edge of the Uhrenholdt Forest. Not to worry: the mill doesn’t poach but mills second- and third-growth pine in the greater area;
3. A tall, ski-chalet-like pizza place at the junction of “Double O,” formerly identified as “County Road OO.” Its proximity to the halfway point of the American Birkebeiner Trail, the CAMBA (Chequamegon Area Mountain Bike Association) trail system and the extensive network of area snowmobile trails, all accessible a few miles up Double O, keep the beer and pizza flowing year round.
I bypassed the beer and pizza and turned straight onto Double O and immediately passed through the cathedral formed by the Uhrenholdt pine.
The near noontime sun had chased all clouds away. I lowered the windows to let the fresh spring air in. I was a kid again.
I arrived on the scene later than planned—back at the cabin I’d been too absorbed sketching new ideas for another gnome home and had lost track of time. No matter. Trail conditions were still superb, though slower than they’d doubtless been an hour earlier. I savored the divine delight of skate-striding on the best x-c ski trail of the continent—some say, the world—in gorgeous weather. I headed toward the sun, which smiled back at me as I enjoyed the lightness of being.
For most of two hours, I had the trail entirely to myself. Upon encountering three skiers skiing north, I stopped—as did they—to exchange greetings and a delightful conversation. They were a retired couple, educators, and their son, a resident physician. An hour later I met a backwoods skier on super-wide trail-breaking skis as he emerged from the heavy off-trail snows. Another retiree, who, in the conversation we struck up, revealed he’d been a forester with a Twin Cities regional park. Naturally . . . we talked trees.
Many times on today’s outing I stopped to admire the trees. I’d take their individual portraits and group shots, as well. Most of the forest stalwarts wore battle scars left by punishing storms. One towering arbor, I noticed, had a major crook in its trunk for every 15 or 20 years of growth. Eventually, I moved on. As I did, I pondered as I often do, how trees mimic us. Pummeled by ill winds and the fury of storms, that tree with the five major crooks was like a human who’s survived many blows in life. Always reaching for the sun, the tree’s penchant for life was unstoppable. That crooked pine now stands taller than all its neighbors.
Those neighbors too bore the wounds of age. Gnarled by the elements, the big pine had sacrificed mighty limbs, some in the recent storm. Yet, these scarred trees stand tall and strong.
In the majesty of these amazing arbors, I thought, as I glided past, may we find hope and redemption from despair, courage and resurrection from the storms of life.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
