Tannin-Stained Reflections

I abandoned my socks and boots on the wooden walkway, then stepped off the warm planks, where my feet met the contrasting softness of sphagnum mosses. Such a welcoming sensation! The crisp rush of spring water enveloped my toes, and each step made a unique sloshing sound known only to those who traverse bogs in summer. I looked back at my path across the living blanket of green, which now displayed perfect footprints like those on a beach. The compressed moss slowly rose and the prints disappeared, the bog surface magically hiding my tracks.

I weaved through the stands of tamarack trees while my childhood sidekick, Max the English setter, loped across the spongy bog by my side. His long, lean legs easily traversed the hummocks and hollows of the landscape, the same obstacles that occasionally caused me to trip and fall to my knees, my legs sinking through the cushion of mosses and into the brisk bog water, staining my pants with tannin that my dad battled each laundry day. But I never minded the soaking; the rush of coolness was welcome in the heat of the day. I watched Max drop his giant head to the peat-covered ground and take in the scents of this place we called the “Little Lake” near my family’s home in northern Minnesota.

Sights in All Seasons. A bog is one of the richest ecosystems Minnesota has to offer. Though often thought of as unsightly or mundane, bogs host an abundance of species, including some found nowhere else on Earth. With harsh conditions such as extremely low nutrient levels and acidity far too high for most species to endure, a bog harbors some of the hardiest plants and animals around. The Little Lake, a 10-acre, spring-fed pond with fringing bog all around, served not only as my private playground but also as a revered outdoor classroom. Each season—from the green burst of life that greeted us each spring to the golden stands of tamarack readying for their long slumber each fall—brought sights and gifts for Max and me to marvel at.

In spring and summer, we were greeted with a wealth of plant, animal, and insect life. Ravenous golden shiners and fathead minnows darted in the shallows of the lake, metallically flashing in the sun. Bumblebees zipped by our heads, seeking the bounty of pollen available after the thaw of a long winter. 

In June, gorgeous orchids and irises revealed themselves in the summer sun’s full glory. Tuberous grass-pinks were the first to make an appearance. So small, standing only three or four inches tall, yet so bold, they vividly blushed in fuchsia tones. Pink lady’s slippers and northern blue flags arrived next, their beautiful magenta and deep, royal purple hues vibrantly sprinkled across the deep greens of the bog.

While we welcomed many of these Little Lake residents as they made their seasonal debuts, some, on the other hand, were not as friendly after their winter emergence. One summer day, while romping around the tamaracks, examining tiny, newly arisen pitcher plants waiting for their first fly meal, I heard an unfamiliar buzzing. The sound quickly increased in intensity, and Max and I soon saw a blur of yellow and black emerging from a hidden hive. “Ground hornets!” I screamed, and we quickly ran toward the dock, up the steep hill, and into the house. Hiding inside the cabin, we figured it best to let our stinger-happy neighbors settle before returning to the bog.

Fall brought us the beauty of change. Just as the leaves transformed from green to vibrant oranges, reds, and browns, so did the sphagnum mosses. Their emerald colors were replaced by a color scale that ranged from the hazel and golds of Max’s eyes to the vivacious burgundy of overripe raspberries. From the mosses emerged a rich variety of mushrooms, some smaller than my pinky finger, others big enough to be umbrellas for the spotted leopard frogs needing a rest from the scorching August sun. Providing a soundtrack for these beautiful images, ruffed grouse—always an exhilarating scent for Max to catch—drummed to their own beat while perching, just out of reach, in the golden tamaracks.

The air chilled as November approached, and many of our animal friends embarked on a siesta under the mud, nestled up in cozy dens, or migrated south. Those who stayed tolerated the often unforgiving cold and winds of the land with us. But we were all rewarded with the unparalleled beauty such hostile conditions yield. The coldest days, which sat around -20 degrees, redeemed themselves by rendering cloudless skies of azure blue where the sun shone brighter than any summer day. Through the frost and ice crystals that blanketed every tree and branch taller than the snowdrifts, the sunshine lit the icy frozen world like a prism.

Rare Privilege. I always knew my experiences at the Little Lake were special, but I have since realized that they are a rare privilege. While in my senior year of college, after I had decided to pursue a career in ecology, I took a course on freshwater environments. I came to class each day excited to learn about the mechanics behind the wonders of one of my favorite places in the world: a bog.

One day, my professor stood in the front of the room, showing slides and lecturing on the abiotic characteristics of bogs. “Bogs are ombrotrophic environments, meaning they source their water from rainfall rather than groundwater. The peat depth is often greater than forty centimeters and the depth to the water table can be …” she paused. I saw her glance up from her slides at the class of daydreaming students. “Has anyone ever been to a bog?” she asked.

A few pairs of eyes unglazed and half a dozen hands hesitantly rose into the air.

“Great! How about walking in a bog—have you ever been able to walk through one on a boardwalk or a dock?” 

A few of the hands slowly lowered. “Have you ever had the chance to walk in one without shoes on?”

As the question settled in the room, I glanced around to find my hand was the only one still raised.

“How did it feel?” she asked me kindly. I thought hard.

How could I describe it? Words like “cold,” “spongy,” and “wet” came to mind but sounded like only a small piece of the sensations I felt at the Little Lake. Exhilaration, curiosity, and the powerful sense of place I felt in my mossy nursery rang in symphony with those more basic descriptions. While I responded to my professor the best I could, using nouns and adjectives that echoed my textbooks, her question rattled in my mind for a long time after.

How does it feel when you’re in a place that is both timeless, as it has existed for ages, and ephemeral, as it is never the same, even from one second to the next? How would you describe the wonder and amazement, the education, and the wisdom that only that one unique place in the outdoors can provide to you?

A Lifetime of Lessons. The resolution that I have come to is that the answer to this question is different for all of us. Every time I retreat down that ramshackle dock made of splintered pallets to my hidden, private paradise, the answer is always something different. As I watch my young English setter, Louis, trot around in the sphagnum moss, searching for green frogs in the mucky shallows, I feel a sense of love and belonging, of wonderment and appreciation for the experiences I have had here.

The residents of the Little Lake and the land itself have never ceased to provide me with something new to see, feel, and realize; they have lent me their wisdom to challenge and expand my perceptions of the world, and guided me, even in my professional life, to better understand and preserve it. While a bog is an often unappreciated ecosystem, it holds the capacity to change the way you see not only the natural and human worlds but also your reflections of yourself, your values, and the next path you may tread in its tannin-stained waters.