Today I went to see the petroglyphs in southwestern Minnesota (the 'Jeffers Petroglyphs').

The first written history in all of Minnesota was recorded some 7,000 to 9,000 years ago by the ancestors of native mid-western tribes. After belittling and disregarding native knowledge for so long, even the MN Historical Society must admit: "Minnesota’s recorded history begins at Jeffers, where American Indians have been coming for thousands of years to worship and record the story of their lives."

Until this day, I have never seen anything of human origin that is so ancient. There is a feeling of deep wisdom and wonder in this place -- a feeling of wisdom that is even older than the oldest trees I have known. This place contains the wisdom of stone. It was here when glaciers scratched across its surface. It knew the footsteps of human ancestors long ago. And it also knew the lap of inland seas -- resting at the feet of glaciers -- which are long gone, but whose waves you can hear in the shifting grasses, and whose ripples you can see etched in red granite rock. I could not help but feel humbled at such a place.

It is no wonder that it was and is a sacred site.

After a morning track practice, I visited the local state park. I have been there once before, in the early fall and wished to see its face in winter. There are small falls less than a half mile hike from the station. In warmer weather, the stream cascades like a curtain over a limestone wall. The sandstone underneath erodes away, eventually degrading the integrity of the limestone above it, which breaks off to form an vertical cut. Like the Minnehaha falls, they were frozen, but water continued to move underneath. Besides this trail, the northern section of the park was closed to hikers -- the trails have been groomed for skiers. The southern section, meanwhile, has been groomed for snowmobiles and makes a smooth path for those on foot. A small stretch was reserved for hikers and snowshoers, and the footing there was rough, and brushed by sinkholes. It was in the lower teens, perhaps 10 degrees today, and I wore many layers. The cold remained with me afterwards.

     The trees, many of them tall and long-standing, were like spears in the snow. I went just after midday, and I appreciated the sun hanging in its descending gait, peeking through the boughs at my progress. Overall, however, the light in winter appears always coldy clear, yet somehow lessened. The shadows spread far, and followed the contours of their canvas. Although we experienced brief above-freezing temperatures, there remains considerable snow on the ground; it was laid out like an unbroken blanket, rolling, and smoothing the forest floor. There were numerous lines of animal tracks, dotting across its surface -- squirrels, it would seem, deer, and perhaps fox (judging by droppings). The snow betrays their paths, and I wondered at their goals as they left them. I found many small, sheltered niches beneath fallen trees, with scant dirt patches, and often the remains of acorns. The distribution of deer tracks was curious -- for stretches there would be only lonely strings, and yet at other places the snow was littered with dense patches of prints.  I saw only one deer itself, a dark grayish sort, and somewhat weighty as it bounded away on the other side of a fence of trunks. I also saw a large wood pecker, high up and thudding away on the lonely length of a tree. It was quiet, and the sound of its work echoed, and responded. The crunch of the snow was loud under my boots, but should I stop, I could hear the trickle of a stream, or the crack of wood above. There was one pair of snow mobilers about. I encountered them once, and the challenge of their motors resounded overpoweringly -- and alien. In fact, it unnerved me, in the same way, I can only imagine, the inhabitants are unnerved by something so contrasting. Towards the end, I began to succumb to the cold, my fingers especially, and so I picked up the pace. Nevertheless, I completed the +four mile loop, starting close to 2 and emerging some hour and a half later. I wished, as I went, that I had skis so that I would not intrude so noisily over the snow. But I was glad, nonetheless, for the stillness -- and the activity that is only hinted.

I went for a walk with my father, around Lake Harriet. It was in the single digits (7-9), and very cold on the east side of the lake. Apparently the wind was from the west -shifting between the northwest and southwest. It picked up icy snow from the lake and paths, and swept it into the air like white sand. My cheeks were quite cold. It is spectacular, that in Minnesota the weather can change so quickly, and so normally. In Minnesota, I feel that you must take every day as its own. Once we reached the more wooded stretch, where we were sheltered from the wind, it was not as raw. What always strikes me about the winter is the quiet, the solitude of it. Watching the sun however just above the bare tree tops, there is a feeling of intimate isolation -- even when there are others in sight, such as the icefishermen. When we had nearly rounded the entire lake, I walked out a little ways onto the lake ice. It is an amazing feeling, that with one step one can be engulfed by peace. The first step I took into the pure-white, layer of unbroken, undisturbed snow on the lake was one such step. I watched the tiny grains shiff across the surface, and around my feet, and looked out across the emptiness of the lake. It was cold, and it was wonderful.