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I arrive at The Lost Creek Hiking Trail in Chatfield, MN on Sunday, June 21 at 5:57pm; 73 degrees feels lovely with 7 mph winds and 44% humidity. Even with the beautiful weather, I have to force myself to go. I haven’t been to Lost Creek since Trail Days on May 30th and the last time I brought my camera was May 3rd. In the final weeks of April, I could feel my resistance to photographing begin. Looking back, I now uderstand I had already started dreading the end of Spring ephemeral season.
With vegetation fully grown and shades of green all around, I knew I needed to move away from finding unexpected color and stages of growth. I knew that I needed to be realistic about my process, too, because I also know myself and I know that Summer becomes overstimulating for me. The heat, the humidity, the overgrowth, the visual complexity, the BUGS, they all start dominating my senses and I find it difficult to stay present to beauty, especially for extended periods of time. So, on my way out the door, I gave myself permission to leave after one image. 
The Lost Creek Preserve will continue throughout the Summer and, though I know that I will continue shifting and that these practice sessions will likely happen in short bursts, I am looking forward to learning more from Summer at Lost Creek.
I arrive at Lost Creek Hiking Trail in Chatfield, MN on Friday, March 20 at 11:11am; 52 degrees feels like 48 due to bright sun and 12mph winds; my body is feeling a little fragile after a week of sickness.
I immediately notice alternating patches of snow, solid ground, and slippery sludge, making obvious the swing from a major snowstorm to a series of warm, sunny days right after. The ground is inconsistent, shifting under each step. Turkey tracks can be spotted traversing every ground type. I pause at how the birds appear to move through without hesitation. I stop to take out my camera in a small clearing where I spent time six weeks ago. The plant life appears mostly unchanged, but the wind’s tone has completely shifted. What once felt hard, brutal, and relentless now feels soft, inviting, playful. The wind moves through the pines and grasses, and I enjoy watching the plants dance.
I put my camera away and spend the next hour hiking with my dad. My snow boots and ice cleats leave impressions in the snow/mud along with deer, bunny, and an occasional snowshoe print holding steady in the dwindling snow patches. I feel the urge to document every plant, every set of tracks, every moment of beauty, but instead I let the softening of the ground hold my attention for the rest of the hike.
With each step, the ground gets muddier and slipperier. Different steps are needed for different parts of the trail. Downhill sliding in mud requires staying loose and looking for friendly trees to recover balance. Uphill climbing in mud requires tiny steps on tip toes. Each descent and ascent gets easier, my gait loosens and the tension softens. On the final ascent, I notice I no longer feel fragile. A sense of play and adventure has returned, and I carry a renewed sense of vitality into the Spring Equinox. |
