Twenty-four Hours in Forestville

The New York Times often runs articles with titles like "36 Hours in Rotterdam," or "36 Hours in Ashville." I occasionally take a look to see if any of the photos give me a better sense of the locale in question. Maybe it would be fun to go there?

I thought maybe I'd submit such a piece myself—"Twenty-four Hours in Forestville"—especially considering Hilary and I just got back yesterday from an overnight visit.

I realize there is scant likelihood that such a piece would be accepted for publication. No one has lived in Forestville for more than a century. But the fact remains, it's a nice place to visit. There's a state park there now, and a camp ground, and even a few camper cabins. We've been going there almost every May for thirty years at least.

The town itself lies at the head of an attractive rural valley, thirty-odd miles from the Iowa border. It consists of three or four historic buildings—a barn, a stables, a general store—that have been lovingly restored and maintained by the Minnesota Historical Society. The society used to give tours hosted by talented actors dressed in historic costumes, but then they decided that was too "nostalgic" and cancelled the program. I guess it's just as well, because the "town" lies on the other side of the Root River from the parking lot, and the bridge connecting the two, which was closed to vehicles quite a while ago, is now closed to pedestrians too. There's no easy way to get there!

That's too bad. But the most appealing things about Forestville—the birds, the wildflowers, the lay of the land—are still available to anyone who comes down to visit the park.

In mid-May you can expect to see quite a few warblers migrating north through the woods and along the river. One that especially interests us in the blue-winged warbler. Why? Because it's sometimes the only place we see it. Unlike many warblers that are just passing through to their nesting grounds much farther north, The blue-winged warbler nests here. We almost invariably see it in the tall trees near the turnoff for the group camp, but this year, we spotted one right outside our camper cabin.

The blue-winged warbler has an unusual but easily recognizable two-note call. (No one would call it a song.) The first note sounds like a faint sigh, with the breath drawn in. The second note, much louder, sounds like a slobbery exhale.

We soon spotted the bird darting from tree to tree just outside our camper cabin. That was a thrill. We also listened to a catbird chattering away, even nearer to our front door. After dark a barred owl began to take up the slack with his haunting and mysterious hoots.

It was raining the next morning. And I discovered, to my chagrin, that at some time during the winter I had raided the "kitchen pack" for matches and never got around to putting them back. We had no way to light the stove and make coffee!

We enjoyed our yogurt and granola as best we could and drove down to the picnic grounds along the river to look for birds in the drizzle. The conditions were terrible: the low light turned the birds, most of them high up in the naked trees against a dull white sky, into silhouettes, and drops of rainwater on the lens of the binoculars didn't help.

The park maintenance crew had been felling diseased ash trees the previous day, and we could see the smoke rising from  one of the smoldering debris fires. It occurred to me that we could light a piece of newspaper from the ashes and use the flames to light our little camp stove, but I had a hard time imagining what it would be like to run fifty yards from the heap of ashes to the nearest picnic table with a piece of flaming newsprint in my hands.

Then one of the crew arrived to check the embers, and we walked over to ask him if he could spare us a book of matches. "I don't have any," he said. "But if they don't have some at the office, come up to the maintenance shed and we'll get some for you."

Thus began a long conversation about the park, various options for the bridge, the diseased ash trees. "In Wisconsin they don't do anything with the diseased ash," he said. "They just let them die."

We'd visited three Wisconsin parks recently, with nary a park employee in sight, and I told him a story about my reluctance to buy an annual pass at a park kiosk.

"One day, out of the blue, we were instructed to remove all those kiosks immediately," he said. "People were breaking into the boxes, not only for the cash but also for the credit card numbers. The trouble with removing the boxes is that people still arrive expecting to buy a daily sticker and can't do so. They stick around anyway, and then we have to give them a ticket."

He seemed especially proud of the park's equestrian features. "Did you know that 48 percent of the revenue generated by horse campers in the state of Minnesota comes from Forestville?"

"I had no idea," I said. "I rarely see horses around here."

"That's because you come during the week." He recommended we drive up to the horse camp to take a look. And after we stopped at the park office to get a book of matches, we did. We had lunch up there, and the coffee was so good. But more important than that, we were inspired to take hike up one of the horse trails to a ridge overlooking the river. 

This was a perfect choice, because the woods were full of wildflowers, and they were much easier to see than the birds. The individual species are lovely, of course—hepatica, may apples, false meadow rue, buttercup, nodding bellwort—but I have also come to admire the way they intermingle haphazardly on the forest floor.

We took this same hike once twenty or thirty years ago. It was a hot, sunny day, and we didn't see a single bird on the way up to the bench overlooking the valley. But as we sat there a spectacular magnolia warbler landed on a branch of the white pine a few yards in front of us. A glorious sight, and a reward for our efforts.

On this occasion we didn't need a reward. The carpet of flowers was enough. But as we sat on that bench—the view now heavily obscured by underbrush—Hilary saw some movement in a thicket nearby. A black-billed cuckoo!