Wild River State Park -- No Floods

For a casual weekday overnight, you can hardly do better than Wild River State Park, not much more than an hour north of the Twin Cities. Don't believe the Star Tribune reports of flooding. (News thrives on disaster.) Hilary and I spent a delightful 24 hours there yesterday, hiking the trails (almost entirely dry), listening to the birds (44 species) and sometimes spotting them through the leaves, and tending the evening fire made up  entirely of charred pieces of wood Hilary  gathered from neighboring fire-rings.

Yes, the St. Croix River is high, and the dock at the boat landing has been dragged up on shore for safe keeping. Good idea. Yes, the dumping station is closed due to a damaged pipe. But I think it's been that way for months. (And to be honest, I don't actually know what a dumping station is.)

On the park website I read:

Ponding water has provided excellent mosquito habitat. Screen tents are recommended for camping, and don't forget your bug spray!

Mosquitoes in Minnesota? Unheard of. What next? Killer bees? And has anyone manufactured tents without screens since the days of Nessmuk and the baker tent?

Nessmuk

It's gorgeous at Wild River, on the river and in the woods and across the prairie fields. Birds are singing everywhere, though at this time of year you don't often see them through the leaves: ovenbirds, wood thrushes, yellowthroats, bluebirds, orioles, catbirds, sapsuckers, peewees, kingbirds, vireos. Out in the fields we saw hoary alyssum, butterfly weed, hoary puccoon, false indigo, leadplant, and all kinds of unnamable grasses. Regardless of the names of individual plants, the patterns and textures are stunning.

We ate a fantastic dinner of Subway sandwiches we'd picked up in Stacy, accompanied by a kale salad-in-a-bag from CostCo and some Old Dutch Mexican Street Corn tortilla chips that I bought on sale at the grocery store, without bothering to read the fine print at the bottom of the bag: "flavored with a special blend of paprika, garlic, & lime."

As evening drew near, I noticed a fawn lurking in the grass ten feet from the edge of our site. A welcome guest. Mom showed up an hour later and lead her child away.

After "dinner" we tended the fire for an hour, adjusting the scraps of wood to take advantage of changes in the draft. This is a full-time activity, perfectly suited to a vacant and meditative evening.

A barred owl hooted several times. (The whippoorwill came later.)  Three cyclists—two adults and a teen—appeared out of the woods from the trail leading to the amphitheater and whizzed off into the gloaming.

The next morning we hit the trails again early. Cool air, dew in the grass.

The hop hornbeam are flowering. But are these hop-like growths flowers or fruits? In either case, magical times.