Kat Bryant: A delayed epiphany from a North Dakota November

Making Tracks

By Kat Bryant

The recent snows here on the Harbor reminded me of a personal journey I took a couple of Novembers ago. I lay awake for hours Tuesday night thinking about it, and came to two decisions: one, I would write about it here; and two, I would take some action.

As to the first:

As my first Thanksgiving in North Dakota approached, I had no family or close friends within 800 miles to spend it with; so I resolved to do something completely new and different on my own. After some research and deliberation, I settled on a long weekend at Lake Metigoshe State Park.

The park is located nearly dead-center along the state’s northern border with Canada. My chosen lodging, the Blue Heron Yurt, sits alone on the banks of School Section Lake, one of five connected bodies of water there. It’s about a half-mile from any other structure, allowing complete privacy. And the park had miles and miles of hiking trails to explore.

It was perfect.

I packed just the basics — warm clothes, a sleeping bag and pillow, my camera, easy camp food that required no cooking, the fixings for hot cocoa (an absolute requirement), and one book: Richard Adams’ “Watership Down,” an old favorite that I hadn’t re-read in at least a decade.

Along the 3-hour-plus drive from Bismarck, I stopped at the purported geographic center of North America, marked by a 15-foot-tall monument in the tiny town of Rugby. (To my great amusement, a thriving Mexican restaurant was next to the touristy gift shop.) I also did a little hiking at the International Peace Garden — which wasn’t very colorful in November, of course, but still nice.

I arrived near dusk at the ranger station, where I signed in and picked up the key to the yurt, along with a map of the trail system. I enjoyed a fantastic sunset over the lake from my front porch, then settled in. After spending about an hour planning my hiking route on the map, I opened my book and read late into the night. The gas fireplace did an excellent job of keeping the tiny space warm, and I slept soundly until dawn.

I could write volumes about my hike, which took me about 8 miles (best I can figure, as I lost my bearings for part of it). I was well-prepared for the 20-degree weather; it was a clear day, with no significant wind. The late-autumn landscape was bleak, but beautiful. It was just becoming cold enough for the edges of streams and lakes to start freezing over, presenting some amazing ice formations.

I also came across plenty of evidence of beavers that day, though I never saw one of the hardy critters. There were a number of beaver lodges, including far and away the largest one I’ve ever seen; and plenty of beaver-gnawed trees. My most notable wildlife sighting was a rodent of a different color: a bright-white snowshoe hare, which the rangers later told me was a rarity before the first snow.

All in all, it was a religious experience for me, being so far from any trace of what we call “civilization.” Only birdsong, squirrel chatter, rushing streamwater and the occasional breeze through the trees added to the sounds of my own breathing and footsteps. I was in a constant state of awe.

I met no other people that day, except for one state park ranger. The only evidence of Man (other than the trail itself and a couple of “warming houses”) was the U.S.-Canada border: not a wall, or even a fence, but a wide strip of open space cutting through the aspen forest, stretching farther than the eye could see east and west. The trail follows that strip for quite a ways, meaning I hiked in two countries that day — without my passport! (Naughty Kat.)

When I returned to home base that afternoon, I was both exhausted and exhilarated. The thin layer of ice that had covered only about half of the lake that morning now enveloped the entire surface. Nature and I had both made some major progress that day, I thought with a smile.

Later, as I continued reading all snug in my sleeping bag, a windstorm kicked up. The wind howled. The yurt shook, but held firm. Before long, a high-pitched sound began to rise above the others. The best way I can describe it is a crystal chandelier during an earthquake. It was both lyrical and haunting, and once it started it remained constant. After a while, it finally occurred to me that it was the ice on the lake breaking up. Long after I finished reading, I lay transfixed by that sound in the dark.

The next morning, the wind had died down and there was no ice left on the lake; Nature had erased her work and would have to start again. The temperature was down to the teens, and I decided to stay inside and finish my book. I spent most of the day devouring those pages, with just a few breaks to eat, visit the vault bathroom and take a couple of short walks.

That night, just a few pages from the end of the book, I came across a passage that struck a deep chord:

Many human beings say that they enjoy the winter, but what they really enjoy is feeling proof against it. For them there is no winter food problem. They have fires and warm clothes. The winter cannot hurt them and therefore increases their sense of cleverness and security. For birds and animals, as for poor men, winter is another matter. … For (them), winter remains what it was for men in the middle ages — hard, but bearable by the resourceful.

I marked that page, knowing I’d want to return to that thought again. On Tuesday night, I did — and I couldn’t let it go.

And so (finally!) on to my second resolution:

I realize now that I was able to thoroughly appreciate that frigid weekend mostly because I had the appropriate gear. If I had forgotten my winter coat, boots, gloves, hat or scarf, I would have been utterly miserable.

I also realize there are people in our community who are short on such basic elements to ward off the Harbor’s colder-than-usual winter, and I have more than I need. So I scoured my closets for extra scarves, hats, blankets and such, and I donated them to our community’s homeless denizens. I hope at least some of my neighbors will find it in their hearts to do the same.

Because no matter what their circumstances, I believe life should be better than just “bearable” for my fellow human beings.

Kat Bryant is lifestyle editor of The Daily World and editor of Washington Coast Magazine. She hopes a few people will be able to sleep a little better tonight. Reach her at kbryant@thedailyworld.com or on Facebook at Kat Bryant-DailyWorld.