Just outside the edge of town, just might be the finest place around.
There is a small but intriguing tract of land where I like to hunt that is close to my home. It is the kind of woods where the constant drone of not so distant interstate traffic is always heard from surviving tangles of sumac, alders, and buckthorn.
This public hunting area, designated as a W.M.A. (wildlife management area) had no doubt been a wild life bonanza in its heyday.
Somewhere into the late 50’s or early 60’s an extension of north reaching highway, turned freeway, changed it forever. Even though the road’s winding track seemed to forgivingly weave neatly between chains of environmental lakes, the impact of its dissecting intrusion left a pristine, breathtakingly gorgeous ecosystem in a coma. Remnant beauty is evident where seams of prairie grass and disconnected squares of crops amongst hay fields and sloughs once connected and flourished. From the horse and buggy days, on into the four, then six cylinder tractor eras, the land had only ever subtly changed through an age; through several centuries with its integrity untarnished.
But eventually man, machines, and money had somehow saw fit to divide the east from the west- to separate the wind waved grasses with concrete, tar, and miles of chain linked fence. Today, road litter, deicing chemicals, scattered fragments of broken glass and plastics are mixed with styrofoam and fast food wrappers. Bottles, cans, cups, and papers occupy the shoulders and ditches. THIS reality- emerging from a once natural waterfowl oasis brimming with scurrying inhabitants- The stain of urban living brought to that of country.
Yet when I retreat to this vastly degraded landscape, a glimmer of hope and resolve still remains. The mere fact that I can load the shotgun and let the city kept dog roam freely at last, is testimony enough. The ember of a not ready to die fire is fanned and stoked until flames leap once again.
She and I parallel a conspicuously mown pathway for recreators, that tidally skirts the edge of cat tailed pockets of water and aspen logged patches of varying ages. As I tote the gun and eye the skyline for distant flights of ducks and geese, I swear that the dog is smiling. She is elated and content just to be in a place where she can get her paws good and dirty. No matter the warmth or the cold, the Labrador will take to the muck or water undaunted by these- or by any other imposed deterrent.
The same damp lake swept winds that once caressed uninterrupted miles of scenic “Terry Redlin” like profiles of landscape, still sings through the branches and golden popple leaves. Stands of burnt red oaks still clutch their bunches of remnant leaves and well matted dear trails lead me through secret passages of dry ground amidst islands of marsh soaked grasses and otherwise impassable terrain. Hidden creeks and cuts between larger bodies of water are nestled in the forest and sheltered from the grassy tractor beaten roadways that still remain.
Hints of a one time farmstead are entrapped by saplings and underbrush in the form of rusty steel auto fenders, bumpers and mattress springs. I seem to discover something new with each subsequent visit.
I am convinced that the property was secured by the Minnesota D.N.R. from an estate of some fashion or other; an arrangement entrusting the large acreage for the sole purpose of protecting it from “future development” and from constructed urbanized materials. I am also content with my supposed deductions and with the lack of pursuing or insisting upon a proven answer to these presumptions. I surmise that deductive but speculative reasoning is bliss. The dog seems to agree because she is still smiling.
Several trips ago I stumbled upon two hidden cemetery markers beneath a fallen stately oak. One name was female the other male. With no dates or terms of endearment on the stones I assume they were assigned to a pair of once beloved canines. Perhaps they were old farm dogs as much a part of this place as any of the protected beauty that has beat the odds of evaporation despite the tests of time and “progress”… again a proposed deduction of utmost speculation and delight.
From where the stones are viewed, the visitor is afforded a picture of rare and scenic quality. The plateau of oaks that shelter the small resting place are stately pillars of glory that offer million dollar views from high above the lakeside.
I make it a point to visit now and then to uncover and wipe debris from their marble stoned faces. As the autumn sky begins to flaunt her spectrum of golds and yellows in the chill sunset, I imagine the area before the constant sound of trembling tires on asphalt interrupted its stillness.
As the sun fades and my older legs have gotten their portion of exercise, I start making my way back.
As I do, I reminisce about my first discovered visit to this place…another dog… younger legs…a perfectly flushing woodcock and a perfect shot to compliment the sunset.
Looking back…I realize that I haven’t fired a shot since that day some years ago…and I wait for the day that another bird may give THIS dog and me an opportunity.
But I hope the day is no day soon. There are other places for taking game and for opportunity. For now, in spite of man’s intrusions…I am still content to look upon this place as being perfect.
By
Ned Henrys
Ned Henrys 