A swim! The last time I swam was 10 days ago. How has it been that long? The water was the cloudiest I ever remember it being. Was it that cloudy, or was it my vision or my loose googles? Swam alone for 30 minutes, then my daughter joined me.
10 Things I Noticed
the water was so cloudy I couldn’t see to the other end
starting out, swimming just above the bottom, I heard some kicking noises and worried that I had picked a lane that someone was already swimming in (I hadn’t)
something brown, looking suspiciously like a band-aide, was stuck to the floor as it sloped down to the deep bottom. It stared back at me every time I swam above it
in the next lane, someone was swimming an exaggerated breast stroke, kicking their legs way out, taking up most of the lane, possibly stretching over into my lane. I was a little irritated, but more enchanted by the wide swing of their legs and their froggy look
I could see a small circle of light in the far corner
trying to look more closely at the band-aide, I noticed some other white things stuck to the sloped floor too. What were they?
as I flipped at the wall and looked up at the ceiling from below the water, I noticed that at the wall closer to the windows the light was yellow, and at the wall that was farther, the light was a pinkish-orange
my nose plug squeaked once — a high-pitched squeak
in the next lane a swimmer waited at the wall. Right as I flipped then pushed off, he started swimming. Was he trying to race me? Probably not
I don’t think I saw anything floating in the pool today
Another good swim. For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, I was agitated before my swim. It took some time, but the swimming helped calm me down.
Today’s Linda Pastan poem reminds me of something I was just writing about for my week five lecture for my class: gnarled branches.
In the Orchard/ Linda Pastan
Why are these old, gnarled trees so beautiful, while I am merely old and gnarled?
If I had leaves, perhaps, or apples . . . if I had bark instead of this lined skin,
maybe the wind would wind itself around my limbs in its old sinuous dance.
I shall bite into an apple and swallow the seeds. I shall come back as a tree.
This idea of coming back as a tree also reminds me of a poem I found the other day on twitter by Czesław Miłosz:
More spring-like weather. Above freezing. Sun. The sound of snow melting everywhere, especially under the lake street bridge. I checked and the last time I ran the franklin loop was on December 13th. It’s nice to get this view of the river again.
Felt relaxed. My knees ached a little — not an injury, just grumbling over the month of uneven, icy paths. Speaking of paths, the trail on the east side of the river was rough — ice, deep puddles — between Franklin and the trestle. I had to stop and walk a few times.
10+ Things I Noticed
a V of geese above me. When I first noticed them through my peripheral vision, I thought they were a plane
a white form up in the air. A cloud? No, a plane. It took me a minute to finally see it in my central vision
crossing the Franklin bridge, the river was covered in a steel blue ice
the bridge trail was mostly clear. The part shaded by the railing was not
everywhere the moisture on the path shone so bright that I couldn’t tell if it was only water or slippery ice. (it was mostly water)
crossing under the railroad trestle on the west side, I heard the beep beep beep of the alarm. I wondered if a train was coming. (I never saw or heard one)
heard some bike wheels behind me, then voices calling out Ice! I moved over and stopped to let them pass, then watched as they slowly navigated the ice on their thin wheels
lots of whooshing wheels and noises that sounded like sploosh! as cars drove through the puddles collecting on the edge of the road
a favorite late fall spot: right before the meeker dam, there’s an opening in the trees and a clear, broad view of the river and the other side
the river down below the trestle on the east side looked like an otherwordly wasteland. Brown, riddled with broken up ice
crossing back over the lake street bridge from east to west, the river looked like an ice rink that had been skated on for too long and needed a Zamboni
running down the hill from the bridge to the path, a woman crossing the river road called out, Oh! As I neared her, I stopped and she said, It’s slippery!
When I stopped running to walk up the lake street bridge steps, I could hear and see the water gushing down through the pipe under the bridge. I had to stop and record it.
feb 13, 2023 / gushing water
Here’s my Pastan poem for the day. I found it before I went out for my run. My goal was to try and listen for voices out there by the gorge, and I did, somewhat. The woman who cried out when she almost slipped. 2 women walking on the bridge above, when I was below. The biker calling out Ice! A tree, its dead leaves rustling in the breeze. The soft not quite gushing of the limestone seeping melting snow. The drip drip drip of water off the bridge.
For Miriam, Who Hears Voices/ Linda Pastan
If the voices are there you can’t ignore them, whether they come up through the floorboard on a conduit of music or in a rattle of words that make sounds but no sense.
They can be messages from the sky in the form of rain at the window, or in the cold silent statements of snow. Sometimes it’s the dead talking, and there is comfort in that
like listening to your parents in the next room, and perhaps it’s the same parents still talking years after they’ve gone.
If you’re lucky, the vowels you hear are shaped like sleep– simple cries from the thicket of your dreams. You lie in bed. If the voices are there, you listen.
I am always looking for poems about love (not necessarily “love” poems). This one popped up on my twitter feed this morning. As a bonus, it’s about winter and fits with my theme of layers for next week AND it has wild turkeys in it!
After stepping into the world again, there is that question of how to love, how to bundle yourself against the frosted morning— the crunch of icy grass underfoot, the scrape of cold wipers along the windshield— and convert time into distance.
What song to sing down an empty road as you begin your morning commute? And is there enough in you to see, really see, the three wild turkeys crossing the street with their featherless heads and stilt-like legs in search of a morning meal? Nothing to do but hunker down, wait for them to safely cross.
As they amble away, you wonder if they want to be startled back into this world. Maybe you do, too, waiting for all this to give way to love itself, to look into the eyes of another and feel something— the pleasure of a new lover in the unbroken night, your wings folded around him, on the other side of this ragged January, as if a long sleep has ended.
As a bonus, this poem also has another thing I’m always trying to find: a reference to the idea of looking into someone’s eyes and really seeing them as (one of) the key metaphors for being fully human. I’m collecting these examples because they bother me. With my failing central vision, I can’t really look into a person’s eyes and see them. Does this mean I can’t be fully human?
3.25 miles trestle turn around 40 degrees 75% bare, wet, puddled pavement
A late afternoon run on a sunny, warm (warm for February in Minnesota) day! The path was wet, with lots of puddles, some slick spots, and lots of sloppy snow. Twice I had big slips. My one leg flew off to the side and I waved my arms involuntarily, but I didn’t seem to lose momentum and my body never felt the fear of falling — that fear deep in the pit of my stomach that quickly spreads to the top of my head and makes my whole body tense up.
10 Things
the warm sun on my face — it felt like spring
the late afternoon shadows — I can’t remember a specific shadow, maybe shadows of trees over the gorge?
a siren behind me as I ran up from under the lake street bridge. It sounded close and like it was stopping. I think I heard the siren double beep and then stop
some little yippy dogs freaking out down below at the minneapolis rowing club. So frantic! What’s going on down there? I worried for a minute, wondering if I was actually hearing someone screaming, but decided it was definitely some exuberant dogs
Also heard a strange moan or whine coming from the rowing club — not a human moan, but one coming from a machine
so much whooshing of car wheels through deep puddles on the edges of the road
lots of bikes deciding to bike on the mostly dry road instead of the be-puddled path
my shoes and socks were soaked before I reached the first mile. After the run, the white socks were now speckled in brown grit
smelled pot as I ran past a parking lot
heard a few random geese honks closer to the river
I didn’t look at the river or notice the ancient boulders or greet the welcoming oaks. Didn’t hear any birds — wait, I think I heard a crow at the beginning —or music coming from a car radio or a bike or someone’s phone.
This was a great afternoon run. I like running at this time, when the sun is slowly sinking. My only problem: the paths are usually much more crowded. Still, I’d like to try and add in some more of these runs so I can study the sun and the shadows.
Here’s my Linda Pastan poem for today. I don’t think there were any clouds to admire, but I’m posting it anyway!
The Clouds/ Linda Pastan
From a high window I watch the clouds—
armada of white sails
blown by the wind from west to east, as if
auditioning for me, as if they needed
nothing more than to be in a poem.
What a delightful little poem! I think this counts as one of Mary Oliver’s little alleluias on the page.
4.45 miles minnehaha falls and back 31 degrees 100% slick, sloppy mess
Yuck! With warmer temperatures comes puddles, slicker ice, and soaked socks. Most of the trail was covered in little brown lakes. Oh well. The sun was warm on my face, and I felt almost too warm in my layers, so I was happy to get out there and run. Because I was trying out my new bluetooth headphones, and because the path was so challenging, I was distracted. Did I notice at least 10 things? I’ll try:
10 Things I Noticed
running south into the sun, the slick path sparkled
kids yellling at the playground. I think I heard one deep voice — was it a teacher?
there was a very big puddle in the street at 42nd, right by the path. As cars drove through it, I could hear all the water splashing up onto the curb — glad I wasn’t running there!
passed the same group of 3 walkers + 2 dogs in both directions on the narrow bridge
the river was mostly open, with streaks of white ice
a few people at the falls, near the bridge
a man and a dog playing in the snow near the longfellow poem at the falls
unable to avoid it, I ran straight through a deep puddle on my tiptoes
glanced over at the house with the poetry in the window to check if there was a new poem. Too much snow to see the sign with the poem title
the long dark tree branch of the mostly dead tree on the corner stretched across the path and the road. I wondered, as I ran under it, if it would fall on me
As part of my February challenge, I’m reading poems from Linda Pastan. Here’s the one for today:
Practicing/ Linda Pastan
My son is practicing the piano. He is a man now, not the boy whose lessons I once sat through, whose reluctant practicing I demanded–part of the obligation I felt to the growth and composition of a child.
Upstairs my grandchildren are sleeping, though they complained earlier of the music which rises like smoke up through the floorboards, coloring the fabric of their dreams. On the porch my husband watches the garden fade into summer twilight, flower by flower; it must be a little like listening to the fading
diminuendo notes of Mozart. But here where the dining room table has been pushed aside to make room for this second- or third-hand upright, my son is playing the kind of music it took him all these years, and sons of his own, to want to make.
I love the gentle way this poem unfolds, how it reminds me of my son and demanding he practice his clarinet, and its idea that practice accumulates and can take decades to lead to the things we want to do.
The practicing son in this poem reminds me of another poem I posted in the fall, Transubstantiation:
my six-year-old grandson, in the early August rainy morning, piano-practices “The Merry Widow Waltz.” Before I was a widow, that song was only a practice piece, a funny opera
Met RJP at the pool again after she was done with her classes. Added in about 1000 yards of swimming with the pull buoy. I tried reciting the poem I memorized yesterday — Linda Pastan’s “Vertical” — while I swam, but it was difficult. I couldn’t sync up the lines with my breathing rhythms. I don’t think I was ever able to recite the whole thing, only the first bit: “Perhaps the purpose of leaves is to conceal the verticality of trees which we notice in December as if for the first time: row after row of dark forms yearning upwards.”
10 Things
cloudy water, at least as much, maybe more?, crud than the last time I swam: floating hairballs, some strange stain on the wall tiles in my lane
when I got in the pool, there was only one other swimmer. More people came, then left. At one point, most of the lanes were filled, but it was never too crowded
I could see that a storm was moving in by how the pool floor kept getting darker then lighter as the thickening clouds moved past the sun
heard a click underwater several times. Decided it was caused by the swimmer next to me — her knee of elbow clicking as she did the breaststroke
watching my daughter swimming freestyle underwater — looking strong and serious. Once as I passed her, I kept my head below looking over at her until she looked back
doing my starting ritual of pushing off and them swimming underwater until I reached the blue line and the end of the shallow water, I held my arms out straight in front of me, almost squeezing my ears. I felt like I could have stayed underwater until I reached the wall
the muscle I felt most while I was swimming today was my calf, and especially as I kicked harder during my first lap. It wasn’t sore, and it didn’t hurt, I just felt it more
following behind my daughter, trying to stay slow and never pass her, I started my flip turn then stayed at the wall, suspended underwater
worked on my flip turn, trying to flip with my core, and not my arms
every so often, when the sun came out from behind the clouds, I saw a circle of light on the pool floor
Yesterday I posted a poem from Linda Pastan that describes a sparrow as “brief as a haiku.” That made me think of the first poem in her final collection, Almost an Elegy:
Memory of a Bird/ Linda Pastan
Paul Klee, watercolor and pencil on paper
What is left is a beak, a wing, a sense of feathers,
the rest lost in a pointillist blur of tiny rectangles.
The bird has flown, leaving behind an absence.
This is the very essence of flight—a bird
so swift that only memory can capture it.
All of this quick movement and the brevity of the bird in flight, also made me think of another poem by Pastan I discovered today:
are heading south, pulled by a compass in the genes. They are not fooled by this odd November summer, though we stand in our doorways wearing cotton dresses. We are watching them
as they swoop and gather— the shadow of wings falls over the heart. When they rustle among the empty branches, the trees must think their lost leaves have come back.
The birds are heading south, instinct is the oldest story. They fly over their doubles, the mute weathervanes, teaching all of us with their tailfeathers the true north.
Because of my interest in peripheral vision and what it means to see movement (as opposed to sharp, fixed details), I’m always trying to find poems that offer details and descriptions of movement. I love how much Pastan focuses on how the birds move — they swoop and gather, cast wing shadows, rustle like leaves. She doesn’t offer any descriptions of their color, size, or sound. She doesn’t even name them. I don’t miss those details. The description of their movement is enough.
I love all of this poem, but today, especially this:
They fly over their doubles, the mute weathervanes, teaching all of us with their tailfeathers the true north.
Their doubles, the mute weathervanes? Tailfeathers as teachers? So good!
4.5 miles minnehaha falls and back 13 degrees / feels like 6 75% snow and ice-covered
Warmer this morning. Even the feels like temperature was above 0. Sunny, not too much wind. Only slipped a few times, even though the path was an ice rink. Heard lots of birds — a few I could name, pileated woodpecker, black capped chickadee, a lot I couldn’t.
I ran south again today. A few winters ago, I ran north all the time. I wanted to avoid the double bridge near the 44th street parking lot because they never cleared it. Now I mostly run south, trying to avoid the uneven stretch between lake street and the trestle. Encountered a fat tire, some runners, and a few walkers, including a guy near the falls, blasting some loud, dissonant music that I couldn’t quite place.
Devoted a lot of time to staying aware of the icy path, looking out for hard chunks of snow or smooth, slick patches of ice. Forgot to look at the river, or forgot to remember I was looking at the river.
10 Things I Heard
the loon-ish (at least to me) song of a pileated woodpecker
the feebee song of a black-capped chickadee
some strange high-pitched whine coming from the new apartment building across from the falls — the one they’ve been working on for way too long and that blocked the bike path in the summer so that FWA and I had to bike through the grass
construction noise coming from that same apartment building — was it a nail gun? a truck backing up? loud pounding? I can’t remember anything about it but that it made me think, construction noise
the loud, not quite heavy metal or hard rock but something like that, music coming from a walker near the falls
the hard crunch of my feet on the month-old snow
kids yelling and laughing and playing during recess at Minnehaha Academy
a runner calling out some greeting after I waved at him
the creaking and crunching of car wheels behind me from a truck driving over the lingering snow
the faintest jingle of my house key in the pocket of my orange running shirt
Anything else about the path? The worst stretch, as in most uneven and icy, was right after 38th heading south. All slick ice. I wondered (and worried) about what will happen when it gets warmer and this ice melts. Noticing the shin-high wall of tightly packed snow lining the side of the path closest to the road, I imagined the water having nowhere to go and turning into a little lake.
Found this great passage by Roland Barthes from a poetry person on twitter. I want to collect it now, return to it later. It makes me think of passive attention, telling the truth slant, my peripheral vision, and distraction:
To be with the one I love and to think of something else: this is how I have my best ideas, how I best invent what is necessary to my work. Likewise for the test: it produces, in me, the best pleasure if it manages to make itself heard indirectly; if, reading it, I am led to look up often, to listen to something else. I am not necessarily captivated by the text of pleasure; it can be an act that is slight, complex, tenuous, almost scatterbrained: a sudden movement of the head like a bird who understands nothing of what we hear, who hears what we do not understand.
When I mentioned distraction above, I was partly thinking of an article about poetry and distraction that I posted here a few years ago. I found it again and discovered that this article begins with the quote from Barthes. Nice!
3.5 miles under the ford bridge and back 0 degrees / feels like -9 75% ice and snow-covered
Brrr. This isn’t the coldest run I’ve done this year, but it felt like it! Well, most of me was fine, just not my feet or my forehead. Running into the frigid wind, I got a brain freeze. A mile in, I had mostly warmed up. The path was in terrible shape. All uneven with long sheets of slick ice. I never worried about falling, but I got tired of moving all around the path trying to find bare patches.
I thought about Bernadette Mayer and her list of experiments, especially this one: “attempt writing in a state of mind that seems less congenial” (Please Add to This List, 12). Extreme cold + uneven, icy paths + lots of layers = less congenial. I wondered how these conditions affected what and how I noticed the gorge.
10+ Things I Noticed
crunching snow, loud and brittle
the smell of smoke from the usual chimney (the one on edmund that I always smell every winter)
the river, half frozen, half open, all cold-looking
the path, 1: almost completely covered in snow and ice
the path, 2: the ice is flat and smooth and light brown
the path, 3: an occasional bare strip, sometimes what I thought was bare was actually brownish grayish ice
at least 2 other runners — we held up our hands in greeting
2 or 3 walkers — all bundled up, faces covered up to the eyes
the buzzing of a chainsaw, laboring in the cold — workers trimming dead branches at Minnehaha Academy
looking across the ravine from the double bridge, noticing someone dressed in dark colors walking along the retaining wall at the top of the overlook
haunting wind chimes
the sizzling of dead leaves on a neighbor’s tree
the sharp scratch of another dead leaf as the wind blew it across the sidewalk
At the end of my run, walking back home, I marveled at the chattering birds, sounding like spring. I saw them, not their details, just their movements, fluttering, swooping, soaring, flashing. Then I heard the distinctive knocking of a woodpecker on some dead wood. Before I had a chance to enjoy the sound, the beep beep beep of truck backing up silenced the bird.
layers:
2 pairs of black running tights
2 pairs of socks
a green long-sleeved shirt
a pink jacket with hood
a thicker gray jacket
a gray buff
1 pair of black gloves
1 pair of pink/red/orange mittens, wool and fleece combo
a fleece-lined cap with brim
sunglasses
Lots of layers!
Oh, I needed this run! What a difference it makes for my mental health to get outside and move.
This morning, I happened upon this beautiful prose poem:
We made our bed in its mounds and all our furniture was covered in mossy baize. We swam through velvet-lined tunnels, swagged ourselves in greenness all winter. It was the green of pond algae, the painted shed at the bottom of the old garden, kale, tourmaline, the needlecord skater’s dress I wore in 1979. It was the emerald brilliance of moray eels, of tree snails; pea soup green. We were moss creatures, felted deep in woods. It was the first plant on earth, at least four hundred and fifty million years old, its rhizoids like a forest of stars, rootless, absorbing moisture and minerals from rain, surviving in the harshest of climates. We became bryophyliacs, singing hymns in the sunken moss cathedrals, while light through the leaves flickered over us in waves, like signals, as if we’d been blessed. I believed moss could live forever. You told me about the Barghest who haunted the valley, could turn you to stone with a look.
I need to add this to my growing list of green poems!
4.5 miles minnehaha falls and back 24 degrees / feels like 9 wind: 16 mph / path: 99% snow-covered
This run was both hard and easy, and I loved it. Hard because of the wind, often in my face, and the soft, slippery snow. Easy because it felt so good to be outside and moving through the wintery world.
Even with yak trax, the soft snow makes it harder for me to lift my legs. Today I felt it in my right knee — what I call the “OG” knee because it’s the one that first started giving me problems (my kneecap was slipping out of the groove) and that led to never doing the marathon. Every so often, a short sharp pang. Nothing too alarming, just enough to remind me that my body is still here, tethering me to the world. I started thinking about Thomas Gardner and something I wrote almost exactly (one day off) 6 years ago, right after I started writing in this blog:
My right calf is still a little stiff from where I strained it last week doing mile repeats in the cold. Just enough to not let me out of my body.
Poverty Creek Journal/ Thomas Gardner
I wrote: “Even as we try to transcend our bodies while running, we are constantly reminded of our limits. We are bodies. We need that reminder to ground us and to keep us from getting too lost in the dreamlike state that running creates (jan 26, 2017).
As I ran this morning, I thought about how I like that running outside in the winter tethers/connects me to my body. It’s impossible for me to get too lost in any dreamlike state, or any one thought or series of thoughts. The path, the wind, the cold always brings me back to my body. Sometimes, bringing me back to my body involves suffering and complaining, but more often it is about grounding me and helping me to stop overthinking things. Of course, these reflections only came in flashes that lasted less than a minute or two. When I’m running, I can’t hold onto thoughts for longer than that. Now, as I write this, I’m sure that I’m missing something else I was thinking while moving. It all made so much sense as flashes and feelings. Much harder to remember it and put it into words later!
10 Things I Noticed: Wind
running south, the wind was in my face
cold, but not brain-freeze cold
strong, but not strong enough to shove me off the path
I could hear it rushing through the dead leaves on the trees in the oak savanna — sizzling
it stirred up an occasional dead leaf from the ground
at one point, I felt the spray of water on my cheek — was that the wind blowing the snow? probably
ahead of me on the trail, I could see something big-gish — was it a chunk of hard snow or ice? no, it was a branch with a few orange leaves on it. As I ran past it I was startled when the wind picked up and made it move slightly
near the falls, I felt the wind from several directions — was it swirling, or was I winding, or both?
no sledders enjoying the hill — is this because of the strong wind?
the wind was not loud enough to roar, but it seemed to grumble non-stop for most of my run
Found this poem the other day when it showed up in my instagram feed. It’s from episode #799 for The Slowdown Show:
What has a soul, or pain, to do with a stone?
–Ludwig Wittgenstein
You could walk not far through the grass to the shed barefoot restless eye landing on distance there not far you could walk looking down at various grasses weeds clover along the way your toes in the green the undersides of your feet the cool damp where is significance you think as you imagine walking across grass to the shed barefoot what counts here does anything count on the short walk while looking down and then over then up at the catbird in the lilac where there are now dry brown sprays at the robin hopping in the grass over there what counts you ask incredulous at the pace not your pace the pace of time as if rolling downhill gathering speed wound around itself like giant twine but invisible so not present in the sense of seen the way you assign to the visible presence even as what is on your mind as you walk across the grass toward the shed is invisible names their persons hunger mistakes the lost and the recently slaughtered because of words believed by the hopeless lost from view tossed into the past like a weed a rind a stone found in grass so find solace in the particular single crow high in the dead ash its one-note cry sky pale blue low light sliding across wires.
I was drawn to this poem because it reminded me of how I think and how I notice as I’m walking. Lots of wandering and words running together without a break. One thought into the next. From here to here to here.
Swim! I wouldn’t have minded running in the cold today. It’s sunny and bright. But I’m trying to swim at least once a week. Partly because I love swimming, partly because it feels good after a few hard runs on the rough paths. Today’s swim was wonderful. Only one other person in the pool. The sun was streaming in the big windows and making the whole pool floor dance with shadows.
10 Things I Noticed
the woman next to me was wearing a swim cap that looked like it was from open swim. I wanted to ask her, but we were never stopped at the same time
she was in a black suit — I think it was a tri suit. She swam breaststroke and freestyle and also ran in the deep end, her legs pedaling under the water
there was something big and white on the pool floor, right on the part that slants down — what was it? I couldn’t tell*
after the woman next to me left, I was alone in the pool for most of the time
shadows on the pool floor, 1: faint, from the trees outside, flickering gently
shadows on the pool floor, 2: a sharp, long cylinder of darkness — the lane line
shadows on the pool floor, 3: the sun brightened and more dancing shadows with a long strip of light
shadows on the pool floor, 4: in the lane next to me, a small ball of light — the opposite of a shadow, glowing. In the shallow end of the pool. I could see it from the far end after finishing my flip turn
colors noticed: orange (of course), blue, a little green, yellow (maybe?) near the door to the locker room
not always, but sometimes, I noticed the small bubbles my hands made as they pierced the water
*the white thing on the bottom was very distracting. What is it? I kept looking down, trying to study it, but with my bad eyes, I didn’t have a chance. It was almost the size of my fist. I thought about swimming down and picking it up. Gross! I decided one of the kids on the Otter’s swim team would probably pick it up during practice this afternoon.
The only one in the pool, nearly submerged for 45 minutes, I felt alone and not alone:
Alone and Not Alone/ Carl Sandburg
There must be a place a room and a sanctuary set apart for silence for shadows and roses holding aware in walls the sea and its secrets gong clamor gone still in a long deep sea-wash aware always of gongs vanishing before shadows of roses repeating themes of ferns standing still till wind blows over them: great hunger may bring these into one little room set apart for silence
I found this poem last week and have been wondering when to post it. Today was the day. I like Carl Sandburg and his space for shadows, his sea and its secrets, his one little room set apart for silence!
4.5 miles minnehaha falls and back 21 degrees 99% snow and ice-covered
A common refrain: if only the path hadn’t been so icy and snowy, this would have been a near-perfect run. Loved the temperature and the grayish-white sky. Loved feeling strong and capable. Loved being outside moving and not stuck in the house. The only problem was the path. Terrible. Uneven, hard, rutted, slippery. Wearing my yaktrax helped a little, but it was still difficult. About a mile in, my right thigh was sore — I think from the extra effort of picking it up off of the slippery path. Thought about turning around, but decided to keep going to the falls and back.
Was able to Good Morning! Mr. Morning! Also gave some directions to the falls — up the hill. Passed a lot of runners and walkers. Can’t remember in there were any bikers — oh, I saw someone biking ahead me on the road, both of us on our way to the river.
10 Things I Noticed
the cry of a pileated woodpecker
a fine mist — was it barely snowing?
a quick glance at the oak savanna — the split rail fence is sagging in one spot. I couldn’t tell for sure but I think the top 2 railings might have split
a person standing in the snow near the part of the Winchell Trail that climbs out of the gorge for a few seconds near Folwell before dropping down again
a woman walking a dog near the falls in a long light gray puffer coat that almost reached her ankles
voices below — I stopped to look and saw someone walking closer to the bottom of the frozen falls
2 people standing above the falls, holding a phone high in front of them, taking a selfie
off to my side, a leaning tree covered in white on one side
at the start of the run, hearing a nail gun off in the distance — probably roofers
2 different times I encountered a walker wearing an orange backpack — 2 different times, 2 different walkers, 2 different backpacks, both orange
Did I see those orange backpacks? I believe I did, but I’ve been seeing a lot of orange lately. It’s one of the only colors that I notice these days. Strange.
Forgot to look at the river. I bet it was still brown.