In news that surprises no one, I am feeling grateful for my big, wild, handful of a dog for dragging me out the door once again.
I finished the animal chores (with the exception of dislodging two broody hens-I’m going to need coffee for that) and settle into the couch with the cats, despite Roscoe’s insistent nosing around my feet. He wanders away to steal cat food, and returns with an expectantly wagging tail and a mouthful of rubber rain boots, which he drops at my feet, cocking his head adorably. I am so touched to see him expressing his needs more clearly than a human man, despite the language barrier, that I peel myself out of my cozy nest and tug on the boots.
We live on about eight diminishing acres that stretch out along the riverside, and that is where we walk this morning. The first section is dominated by volunteer silver maple saplings, afflicted with black tar spot but generous with syrup as they age. This land was row crops previously, and as prone to flooding as it is, I’ll take the maples any day.
The trees open up to a wide stretch of what ought to be prairie but is only an approximation: a mix of reed canary grass, ragweed, and morning glories. I can smell plasticky chemicals wafting off the neighboring fields, which surprises me; what would they be spraying this time of year? I try not to breathe till we get to the forest.
The forest has become a gated community thanks to some wise beavers, passive-aggressively scolding us for walking too close to the riverbank by felling a couple of beautiful cottonwoods across our path.
The cottonwoods’ rustle is one of my favorite sounds, so at first I was disappointed to see them go. But the felled trunks have become a sturdy bench, from which I now watch Roscoe racing across the river in pursuit of a heron. The river is so low that he barely has to swim, but of course he is still no match for the heron. Just a few slow beats of her massive wings and she’s gliding upriver out of reach.
This river flows into the Mississippi and as I understand it, the beavers have an essential role in the river’s preservation. When fur trading became a huge thing a few centuries ago, their numbers were decimated, with disastrous consequences for the ecosystem and water quality. So I will get over the cottonwoods, enjoy them in their new form, and leave the beavers to do what they do.
Roscoe and I like to finish our walks at the garden (I don’t speak dog, but he does race ahead of me to dig up moles and chomp on his favorite watering can, so I think the route is working for him.)
I had been hemming and hawing about whether to plant a fall garden, until I noticed that I already had! My garden is a bit chaotic and I often lose track of what has been planted where, until the tomatoes die back to reveal a spray of carrot tops, or I cut a bouquet of zinnias and find spinach lurking beneath. I’m also a bit of a lazy gardener, so I tend to let things go to seed, and between volunteer surprises and forgotten plantings, we’ll be harvesting well into the fall and early winter.
Though I will be needing to put in some garlic soon. If you’re reading this from Iowa, let me know if you have a good source.
Chaos gardening all the way! That’s definitely how I do it, too 🌱