The weather could be worse ~ March 7, 1996

David Heiller

With all the cold and snow we’ve had this winter, it’s nice to know that the weather can always be worse, and it HAS been worse.

I talked to Red Hansen of Askov a few weeks ago about what was the worst winter he could remember. He answered without hesitation that it was the winter of 1949-50. That winter is still listed in the Duluth newspaper as having the most snow ever, 131.6 inches. So far this year, Duluth has received 111.5 inches as of March 4.

So with another 20.1 inches, we could break that record, although I hope we don’t. (Editor’s note: We got 135.4 inches that year. The record was broken!)

Red made these remarks about the winter of 1949-50.

“That winter we had so much snow, it would take a week to get a road cleared, then you’d no sooner get it cleared off than it would fill back in again, and it would take another week before you could get a plow in there to clear a township road out.

“The snow was much deeper, and it moved with the wind. We lived north of town 2½ miles out in the old Stovring home [across from the Harald Stottrup and Harold Jensen farms]. To get to work I had to walk. I ended up walking on snowshoes cross country.”

QUESTION: “Was that uphill both ways, Red?” Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Tell on.

“Pretty near a month on snowshoes. Sleeping in the post office at night when we couldn’t get home. The last train was 6:30 in the evening, and we sorted mail until seven. And then get the backpack on and the snowshoes on and go cross country through the woods to get home. Get home about 8 o’clock. That was a little tough going. Ι would say I was in pretty good shape when spring came.

“Same thing in the morning, we had to be in here by 8 o’clock. We’d leave home by 6:30 with a backpack on, then down through the woods, through the pine trees. But what was worse was Hedda was sitting out there with the two kids. One night Becky got pneumonia. We ended up with the county plow at midnight, plowing out there with a doctor. That time I took the family out with the snowplow. Becky had about a 104 fever. So it was a rough winter.

“When they finally got the plow in there, it kept building up and building up and building up on the sides. We ended up walking on top of the high ridge of the piled up snow, in other words over the ditch. We walked on the telephone wires. They were under the snow, under our feet. You can figure out how high the snow was.

“There was a guy named Jorgensen that had a telephone. We had to help him in the spring. He had so much damage with the snow, poles down, wires down, we all pitched in and helped to get the line back out to our place. We walked down the road and pulled the wire backwards, peeling it out of the packed up snow and ice. Then they came out and put it up on poles again.”

“Winter was a little bit different. Now we have tall trees, a lot of woods. At that time there was small, short brush, and that snow would move for miles and miles and miles and pile up. The drifting was worse.

Red and Hedda.

“The last time we got plowed out, I started walking in the morning and I got to Highway 23, and here came Arild Frederiksen with his 2½ ton Army GMC with a V-plow in front. He could make maybe 15 feet, hit the snow real hard, and there he would stop. We met him out there, and we started shoveling this opening that a vee plow could get into to break the drift loose. Otherwise he would hit it and stop. I think we started shoveling about 7 o’clock out there on the highway, and there was eight of us by the time we got to my place, and that would be 2½ miles east. By evening, by 4 or 4:30, we had gotten that far, shoveling ahead of the plow.

“That worries you, when you’ve got family sitting out like that. I was lying in the post office [one night], couldn’t get home. Telephone rang around 11:30 at night. It was Hedda. She said the oil burner had gone out. So figured it was a carburetor that was dirty. So Ι told her how to shut the oil off the big tank, where to find my tools. I the telephone was right around the corner from the stove. I told her step by step; screw by screw, how to take that carburetor apart, lay it all out on the floor and clean it, then step by step I told her how to put it back in again screw by screw. Got the whole thing put together again, opened up the big valve on the tank, opened up the valve of the stove. Ι said, ‘Now throw a match in there.’ It took hold. Ι suppose it was 1:30 before she got back to bed again.

“Problems at that time you kind of took with grain of salt. We were used to them as kids. Βυt today, it’s a different story. It doesn’t take much to make people say, ‘O.K., shut the door and stay home.’ But we didn’t. We had to get to work.

“We’re softer. We’re used to better things. At that time, so it would snow, the car didn’t go, you walked. What are you going to do today? If the car doesn’t go, you’re not going to walk. Βut those days we walked. Pat the car on the hood when you walked by it and then walked to town.

“I used to crank on that old Model A, and it wouldn’t start. It stood outside of course. I’d crank on it until I couldn’t stand to crank anymore. Then I’d pull the crank out and hit it on the hood and throw the crank in the car an. start walking. But I had to get one lick in on old Model A.

Red had one vivid winter memory from when he was a kid living 1½ miles west of Askov with his folks, where he lives now.

“Many times, 11:00, 11:30 at night, mother dad and I would be out there shoveling so we could get to work in the morning. That was kind of nice. The moon would be shining, nice crisp night. You could hear the owls, and the shadows from the moonlight on the snow. We’d go there, and shovel for an hour, not a word being said side by side. Take your time, not rush It was a feeling of companionship. You’d get down the the highway finally, O.K., then you could get to` work in the morning. I’ve thought about that many times, the three of us out there shoveling.

“Yeah, times are a little different.”

Well said, Red.

A gem of a night at the park ~ February 15, 2006

David Heiller

I had the camera with me, but it was one of those assignments that really wasn’t work.

Any excuse to take a walk at Beaver Creek Valley State Park will do, thank you, and Saturday night’s was special indeed.

Α nighttime walk at Beaver is a bit unusual, but that night it wasn’t hard to do at all. Α group of volunteers had lit hundreds of candles and placed them inside white plastic containers. The containers were spaced about 30 feet apart on two different trails.

I wanted to get a photo, but I could see it would not be easy. The candles didn’t cast much light, and I didn’t want to use a flash. So I just walked, carrying my camera and tripod, and hoped for inspiration.

But the inspiration was not in a photograph that night. It was in the walk. First carefully, over the twin planks that line one edge of the road over which East Beaver Creek faithfully flows. Then past a crackling fire, manned by volunteer Todd Krueger. Then the trail and the candles, along the familiar road that suddenly was not familiar at all.

Things change at night. You can’t see far, you don’t know what’s beyond the curtain of darkness. It’s like walking in a tunnel.

It’s not a bad feeling though, and it was perhaps enhanced by the other people present. Everyone gave a polite hello as they passed on the trail. Anne and Greg Yakle with their dog, Marley. The parents with their two kids who ran ahead so that they could jump out and scare Mom and Dad. That brought back some pleasant memories. The group of laughing high school kids, who disproved the scowling stereotype that kids don’t know how to have fun these days. I like to hike in peace and quiet, but the human contact that night seemed just right.

The hills lurked off to the side, but not in a scary way, not this night, perhaps because of the beacons in their midst, both human and candle. Perhaps because of the coating of fresh snow that can give everything a happy look.

A full (or nearly full) moon always adds
to the pleasure of an evening. (drh, 1979)

The sound of water bubbling out of Big Spring held a lot of joy too, as only a gabby brook can.

And the moon. Wow. It was one night shy of its monthly glory, and it really sang. It sliced through the clouds and sifted through the trees and flowed down the hills. Then it settled on good old Beaver Creek, and they formed a two part harmony that reached up to heaven. I haven’t seen a lovelier sight in many years than the moonlight glittering off the creek in the middle of that snowy landscape. I stopped and watched it for several minutes. I wanted to tell everyone to do the same. But you don’t do that on a hike. You discover your own inspiration, and know that others will too.

Then it was back to the plank over the creek, and there was my photo, the candle light bouncing off the water and off the faces of some very contented hikers.

Park manager Roger Heimgartner greeted me there, thanked me for coming. He sounded happy, although he pointed out a few things that would change next year. He’s always thinking, even on a night like that, which is good for the park, and good for us.

I tip my hat to Roger for putting this event together. Thanks also to the volunteers who helped with the candles and the refreshments in the lodge. I stopped in there on my way out for a cup of cocoa and some cookies. I could see a look of pleasure and pride on their faces. They put together a great event, one well worth attending next year. Anything to support the gem that we have in Beaver Creek Valley State Park.

Warm thoughts about cold weather ~ February 8, 1996

David Heiller

I heard a man making a commentary on the radio on Saturday morning. He had been to a writers’ convention in Florida, and a lady had asked him why he chose to stay in Minnesota.

He proceeded to list a lot of things about the state, mostly negative, mostly centered around the weather.

I empathized with him for a few minutes. After all, we had just withstood the coldest day and the longest cold spell in the history of the state. Poor us. Poor, stupid us.

But then I thought, like Loren Brabec, “Wait just a minute.” It wasn’t so bad.

Our family spent a lot of time inside, but it was good time. We played Rumikubs and cribbage and Yahtze. We played music and sang songs. We read garden catalogues and books, and watched a few movies.

All with a clear conscience. It was too cold to do anything outside, so why not enjoy it inside? I cleaned the junk drawer and sewed some missing buttons on a pair of pants and two shirts and Cindy’s jacket. We relaxed, and made sure the wood box stayed full and the pipes weren’t freezing.

It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself in weather like that. But think about Sarajevo, where they have endured winters like ours for a couple years, and don’t even have any trees to cut down for firewood anymore. When you think of places like that, it’s hard to feel sorry for yourself.

A cold, lovely winter's walk.

On Saturday, when the temperature rose to a balmy 14 below zero, my daughter and I each strapped on a pair of snowshoes and walked to the woods. It was beautiful, just like a postcard, with deep snow everywhere.

We saw tracks of mice and squirrels and maybe a weasel, but no deer tracks. Our dogs went with us, MacKenzie plunging ahead, up to her head in snow, and Ida content to follow behind. We passed by pine trees, and I thought of that Jack London story, “Το Build a Fire.” It was Jack London weather on Saturday. Once in a while a tree would pop like a rifle shot.

One time the dog stepped on my snowshoe and I fell down face first. The snow was so deep that I couldn’t touch the ground with my hands. It was an eerie feeling, like being in water over your head, and for a split second I panicked. But then I leaned back and got my feet under me and stood up. Mollie enjoyed watching that, since she had fallen several times herself.

It was a good time being with my daughter. She enjoyed it as much as me, and we both enjoyed it more because we had a new appreciation for being outside without fear of freezing to death. We needed to get out.

On Sunday, the thermometer skyrocketed to zero, and 168 skiers went to Banning State Park to enjoy the sunshine and raise money for the Pine County Cancer Ski-A-Thon.

Poor, stupid us? I don’t think so.

The cold weather had its funny moments too. Cindy Jensen came into work on Friday noon, February 2, I asked her how cold she had had it. “38 below,” she answered.

“You must be in a warm spot,” I said in all earnestness. Most people had temperatures in the 40 to 50 below range. Ten minutes later I realized how dumb that must have sounded. 38 below zero is a warm spot? Since when? Cindy and I both laughed about it.

I laughed too at John Filtz. He had minus 56 degrees that Friday morning: I asked him if he and Gladys were getting along all right. He answered: “As long as I stay by the stove and she throws the wood in.” His sense of as dry as his firewood.

And I know this is a cliché, and, that lady from Florida wouldn’t understand this, but there is a common bond that is formed in surviving the kind of weather we had last week. My for others, and my self-respect, goes up after such times.

Speaking of Florida: yes, the weather there may be perfect, but don’t forget they have their share of problems. For one thing, everyone and his uncle want to live there and do live there. And don’t houses sink into the shallow aquifer of Florida? And aren’t those aquifers going dry? And wasn’t there a hurricane or two there last year? And what about drive by shootings and illegal aliens and drug wars and Miami Vice?

I guess every location has its Achilles heel. Ours just happens to have a little frostbite on it.