Have you ever had one of those days where you did so much work on a computer that your brain was buzzing? That was me on Monday. I started work early in the morning and decided to take a break around 3 o’clock. The weather in Minnesota had shifted in about a week from subzero to 50°. It was amazing!
I threw on some boots and headed for the woods.
My goal was to clear my head, forget about work for a while, and enjoy the warmer weather and fresh air.
When I got to the park reserve where I decided to hike, there was nobody there. Mine was the only car in the lot, and the woods seemed quiet. I wasn’t too surprised, considering it was a Monday, the beginning of the workweek for many people. I had just spent seven hours in my home office, staring at a computer (minus a couple of breaks to let my dog outside).
At first, I walked on a paved path, then decided to cut into the woods. There were puddles everywhere, a big change from just a week ago when the temperature was about 60° colder. The earth had gone from frozen solid to melting and sloppy.
It amazes me how, at certain times of the year in Minnesota, we can have such drastic temperature shifts from week to week. Winter isn’t the only time this happens. (Although, technically, it’s still midwinter.) This year, I think things will become spring-like before spring officially arrives. Usually, it’s the opposite—winter overstays its welcome, and we get plenty of snow and cold well into the spring season.
I suppose it’s too soon to tell, but I have a feeling we’ll have an early ice-out on local lakes.
Walking off the path through the woods was better since the trails were wet and muddy. I noticed a sizable nest high in a tree and smiled at the thought of returning birds, soon to bless us with their presence. Spring nesting season is one of my favorite times of year. The birds are so active and soulful as they sing. I think all living things seem happier when spring arrives—it’s a time of bursting life.
As I walked, I reminded myself to stay in the present since it was still winter. Snow still covered the ground, and the nesting birds had yet to migrate.
While I’m a big fan of hope, I don’t want to spend my time outside dwelling on the future. I’d rather stay in the present moment and enjoy what is.
We humans do that sometimes, don’t we? We dip into the future or, conversely, live in the past. I call it straddling the present. I catch myself doing this sometimes—one foot in the future, the other in the past. It’s a state of worry and regret. It’s silly, really, since we can only live in the moment we have.
As I continued hiking through the woods, I saw some birds. A pair flitted between the trees, playful and carefree.
I was so intent on watching them that I didn’t watch where I was walking—and ended up stepping into a puddle deeper than the soles of my boots. Yep, my feet got wet. Oh well, it wasn’t terribly cold out, and wet feet never bothered me much.
As I got deeper into the park, I heard a splashing sound. I looked through the trees and saw a couple of teenage boys running. They were making quite a racket, stomping through snow, mud, and water. They wore shorts and T-shirts, and I had to laugh. In Minnesota, 50° in February is a heat wave.
A few minutes later, I saw a young man pushing a bike through the slushy snow, followed by two women on a hike.
While I love solitude in the woods, I also enjoy seeing others outside enjoying nature. It’s such a gift. I want everyone to open it, experience it, and love it!
I walked down to the river, where a pair of mallards floated on the open water. They swam gracefully, and I stopped to watch them until they flew off, quacking.
In the river were some large boulders—familiar sights I’ve seen many times. A small sheet of ice floated past them. The last time I was in these woods, those boulders were covered with thick sheets of ice. As I gazed at them, I wondered what sort of critters might step over or rest on them.
Just then, I heard a loud whoosh above my head. A pair of mallards flew by and headed upstream. It was thrilling—I’m certain they didn’t know I was there, as they flew so close.
I left the river and continued through the woods. Birdsong filled the air—woodpeckers (hairy and pileated), ducks, geese, and even a common redpoll. Don’t be too impressed; I used my favorite app, BirdNET, to identify them. It’s free and allows me to record bird songs, identifying the species while saving the date and location. I love handy nature tools that help me connect more deeply with what I see and hear!
Well into my hike, I saw a sign that read Park Reserve Hunting Boundary. That answered my question for next November. I like to find places where I can hike freely through the woods during rifle season. While I could wear blaze orange to be seen, I don’t take any chances. I was raised in a hunting family and taught to stay out of the woods during rifle season. I’ve never been a hunter myself, but many of my family members were—and still are. I respect the risks of wandering through hunting areas.
I saw two more women hiking, bundled in long, down coats with wool hats and thick mittens. Compared to the boys running in shorts, I figured they must be from Florida—where 50° feels cold!
Even with the ground still frozen, the woods were becoming more fragrant. That’s one of my favorite things about spring—the smell of earth and life reawakening. I also love the scent of fall, as everything decays and the woods emit a rich, earthy aroma before nature goes to sleep.
Before heading out, I walked to the opposite side of the river, where I’ve often seen a flock of mallards. Really, I should have been heading home—I had more work to do—but I couldn’t bring myself to leave. My brain had settled into a calm state, and my body felt relaxed. Once again, I had found my peace in the wild.
More space. More nature. More peace. Those are the things I need.
I walked through last year’s fallen leaves, now uncovered and no longer buried by snow. Wet and soggy, they were breaking down and decomposing. I love how nature recycles. It reminds me that humans didn’t really come up with much of anything on our own—so much is learned from nature.
When I reached the west end of the river where my duck friends usually gather, I didn’t see any. There was plenty of open water, but no mallards.
I paused near the river and stretched. My body was still stiff from so many hours at the computer, and moving felt good. As I stood there, I looked in every direction—at the ground, through the trees, and up to the treetops and sky.
I’ve trained myself to look up when I’m hiking. Because of that, I’ve seen eagles, a great horned owl, porcupines perched in trees… Nature is everywhere—beneath my feet, around me, and above me.
That morning, before starting work, I had read articles and listened to a podcast about changing my mindset. You’ve probably come across the endless self-improvement advice online. I don’t object to it—in a way, isn’t my nature writing a kind of “fix” since I encourage people to heal themselves outdoors?
But it’s different.
Nature is therapy. It’s free. It’s restorative.
When I’m outside, I don’t need to follow a how-to list or remember when to replace a thought. I just need to be.
I love that about nature. I am most myself in the wild, especially in the woods.
As I headed home, I smiled at the simple joy of being in a place where I can just be.
Free to be me.
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