Hayes Lake State Park
It has been almost a year since I left my home in woods for a new one on the plains. I won't lie and say it was an easy choice, but it is one that has been made and it's better to look forward than back. Now the White Pines have been replaced by fields of wheat and soybeans. Country churches and grain elevators dot the horizon where panoramic sunsets can expand unhindered by landscape. Though quiet and beautiful in a structured way, things feel distinctly foreign here. Now what can I do but put in a both feet effort to find a piece that fits? Step one is finding nature, because it's out there, hiding between sugar beet fields. That determination brought me and a visiting friend from back home on a camping excursion to a little known state park, Hayes Lake. If you're wondering where it is, just drive north where the soybean fields meet state forest. Just before you hit the border you'll find a patch of woods welcoming you to camp and explore.
A year ago I lived in an area where you could drive ten minutes in any direction and be in a different forest with ten different sandy bottom lakes, so you can imagine my elation when after an hour of farmland we arrived in a forest of pine trees, we heard loons, we had a private campsite canopied by leaves. First I had a couple of crazy thoughts, such as: 'I am never leaving,' and 'this is how wild animals must feel all the time.' But it wasn't long before the mosquitoes found us, formidable group that we were of two women and four dogs, and my elation deflated a little. The bug spray slowed them, but nothing stopped them.
Still, we set up camp and cooked our dinner over an open fire, determined to make the experience ours. After dinner I decided to go for a solo stroll as the night settled in around camp. I saw the lake for the first time and it looked like glass. It occurred to me that I could break the spell of stillness by simply throwing out a rock, but I didn't want to. I wanted to be an observer, I didn't want to wreck the magic just to say "I am here," or to satisfy some human desire for constant motion. I wanted to be like glass too, so I carried the image with me as I turned and descended into the woods.
The park boasts a bog walk, so I found myself taking quiet steps on decking that wound through the dark silhouettes of cedar trees. It smelled like cedar, and it was quiet, private. Something the prairie can't offer. I reached the end and sat on a bench and watched as shades of grey became black. Out of nowhere a stroke of fear ran up my back. "What if a big, bad wolf comes down the bog walk?!" "What if a serial killer is watching me from the Cedar trees?!" "What if I can't find my way back out and get lost in the woods, never to be heard from again?!" It's hard to say which scenario is the most ridiculous but between the three I decided to make my way back to camp.
Having worked four night shifts in a row before leaving, some things were forgotten, such as bedding. Luckily, my friend Sam was able to help to me out with this. She had a never before used dog bed in her car (my new pillow), a crusty old blanket in her trunk (my new blankie) and a fleece jumper with a walrus face on the hood and walrus flippers over the hands (my new nightgown).
One of the best parts about camping: girl talk into the wee morning hours. We touched on the where abouts of pretty much everyone from our high school, then compared a day in the life of our parents, and discussed next years camping plans, all the while riddling the conversation with factoids about nature, animals, and men. Hours later we woke up to a hot tent that smelled like dog breath.
After breakfast I struck out on another hike to explore the park in daylight. Tall, quiet pines lined the trail, leaving a floor of soft red needles to walk on.
I strung my way through them until I reached the beach. Clean, white sand and there was no one there but me. Jackpot!
I ran to the water, ready to dive under but something stopped me, the water was red. Looking down at my toes, which I could only barely see, three thoughts came to mind in quick succession:
1. It's like I'm looking through the stained red glass of a 1970's parlor window, and that's nice because I tend to idealize all things from that decade.
2. It's like I'm standing in a lake of red Kool-Aid, with this came the image of a tipped over Kool-Aid Man pitcher somewhere at the bottom of the lake.
3. What kind of nightmarish creatures are lurking in this stained water, probably watching my pale legs and turquoise toenails at this precise moment? With that thought I dunked under water in the shallow section and ran to shore like a giant wuss. Judge me if you want, but really, what would you have done?
Because knowledge is power or whatever, I googled "why are some lakes red?" but did not get a good answer. Something to do with salt content and algae I guess. I did learn that in the olden days people saw red water was a sign of the apocalypse. Back then they didn't have google, they just had a file for everything not immediately understood and it was titled: God's Wrath. Well, as God's Wrath didn't ensue after I submerged myself in the red lake, I decided to continue my hike to the dam.
Hayes Lake, like many Minnesota lakes, is really just a backed up river. The dam was built in my favorite decade, the 1970's. Before that there was just a river, the Roseau River, twisting steadily through the woods. I was determined to see the structure that transformed it, but minutes into my walk the mosquitoes were so bad I turned around. If I wasn't running at full bore there would be between 10 and 500 mosquitos on me, and full bore is not a speed I can maintain for very long. So I hustled back to camp where my friend and our many dogs were enjoying themselves immensely. She was reading comic books in a hammock and the dogs were barking at RVs that circled through the campground.
Soon, I too was doing what I do best, reading Deepak Chopra in the shade, then I was heating up a can of beans over a camp stove and sipping a Summer Shandy, then I was coloring in an "adult" coloring book while we discussed a forecasted storm and the swarms of mosquitoes. From there we decided our camping trip had peaked and the best course of action would be to pack up early, drink beers in my back yard and sleep under a roof.
It was a good choice, even if it wasn't the one Anne LaBastille would have made. If you're wondering who she was, she was an environmental activist/ feminist who built her own cabin in the Adirondack mountains in the 1960's. She wrote a series of four books on her experience, the first is called Woodswoman. After seeing this picture I no longer fear aging:
So all in all what did I take away from Hayes Lake State Park? It's a pretty park, and a sparsely used one. We only saw one other tent camper and a handful of quiet and respectful RV campers. I didn't see any other hikers or swimmers. I saw one person canoeing, but the lake is not much for boat traffic. A big part of that is probably due to the boating restriction: electric motors only.
The pine trees and winding trails are a great escape from the plains that start to the west and don't seem to stop until you reach western Montana. The park has 13 miles of hiking trails, 5 miles of mountain bike trails and 7 miles of horseback riding trails, all things I would love to do, once the mosquitos have all froze to death. Since it's not a great swimming lake, I can wait for the cooler weather before I return. I imagine it would be a great spot to go for a morning kayak on the still waters surrounded by the changing colors of the forest, and I'll be waiting patiently to do just that from my house on the prairie.
A year ago I lived in an area where you could drive ten minutes in any direction and be in a different forest with ten different sandy bottom lakes, so you can imagine my elation when after an hour of farmland we arrived in a forest of pine trees, we heard loons, we had a private campsite canopied by leaves. First I had a couple of crazy thoughts, such as: 'I am never leaving,' and 'this is how wild animals must feel all the time.' But it wasn't long before the mosquitoes found us, formidable group that we were of two women and four dogs, and my elation deflated a little. The bug spray slowed them, but nothing stopped them.
Still, we set up camp and cooked our dinner over an open fire, determined to make the experience ours. After dinner I decided to go for a solo stroll as the night settled in around camp. I saw the lake for the first time and it looked like glass. It occurred to me that I could break the spell of stillness by simply throwing out a rock, but I didn't want to. I wanted to be an observer, I didn't want to wreck the magic just to say "I am here," or to satisfy some human desire for constant motion. I wanted to be like glass too, so I carried the image with me as I turned and descended into the woods.
The park boasts a bog walk, so I found myself taking quiet steps on decking that wound through the dark silhouettes of cedar trees. It smelled like cedar, and it was quiet, private. Something the prairie can't offer. I reached the end and sat on a bench and watched as shades of grey became black. Out of nowhere a stroke of fear ran up my back. "What if a big, bad wolf comes down the bog walk?!" "What if a serial killer is watching me from the Cedar trees?!" "What if I can't find my way back out and get lost in the woods, never to be heard from again?!" It's hard to say which scenario is the most ridiculous but between the three I decided to make my way back to camp.
Having worked four night shifts in a row before leaving, some things were forgotten, such as bedding. Luckily, my friend Sam was able to help to me out with this. She had a never before used dog bed in her car (my new pillow), a crusty old blanket in her trunk (my new blankie) and a fleece jumper with a walrus face on the hood and walrus flippers over the hands (my new nightgown).
One of the best parts about camping: girl talk into the wee morning hours. We touched on the where abouts of pretty much everyone from our high school, then compared a day in the life of our parents, and discussed next years camping plans, all the while riddling the conversation with factoids about nature, animals, and men. Hours later we woke up to a hot tent that smelled like dog breath.
After breakfast I struck out on another hike to explore the park in daylight. Tall, quiet pines lined the trail, leaving a floor of soft red needles to walk on.
I strung my way through them until I reached the beach. Clean, white sand and there was no one there but me. Jackpot!
1. It's like I'm looking through the stained red glass of a 1970's parlor window, and that's nice because I tend to idealize all things from that decade.
2. It's like I'm standing in a lake of red Kool-Aid, with this came the image of a tipped over Kool-Aid Man pitcher somewhere at the bottom of the lake.
3. What kind of nightmarish creatures are lurking in this stained water, probably watching my pale legs and turquoise toenails at this precise moment? With that thought I dunked under water in the shallow section and ran to shore like a giant wuss. Judge me if you want, but really, what would you have done?
Because knowledge is power or whatever, I googled "why are some lakes red?" but did not get a good answer. Something to do with salt content and algae I guess. I did learn that in the olden days people saw red water was a sign of the apocalypse. Back then they didn't have google, they just had a file for everything not immediately understood and it was titled: God's Wrath. Well, as God's Wrath didn't ensue after I submerged myself in the red lake, I decided to continue my hike to the dam.
Hayes Lake, like many Minnesota lakes, is really just a backed up river. The dam was built in my favorite decade, the 1970's. Before that there was just a river, the Roseau River, twisting steadily through the woods. I was determined to see the structure that transformed it, but minutes into my walk the mosquitoes were so bad I turned around. If I wasn't running at full bore there would be between 10 and 500 mosquitos on me, and full bore is not a speed I can maintain for very long. So I hustled back to camp where my friend and our many dogs were enjoying themselves immensely. She was reading comic books in a hammock and the dogs were barking at RVs that circled through the campground.
Soon, I too was doing what I do best, reading Deepak Chopra in the shade, then I was heating up a can of beans over a camp stove and sipping a Summer Shandy, then I was coloring in an "adult" coloring book while we discussed a forecasted storm and the swarms of mosquitoes. From there we decided our camping trip had peaked and the best course of action would be to pack up early, drink beers in my back yard and sleep under a roof.
It was a good choice, even if it wasn't the one Anne LaBastille would have made. If you're wondering who she was, she was an environmental activist/ feminist who built her own cabin in the Adirondack mountains in the 1960's. She wrote a series of four books on her experience, the first is called Woodswoman. After seeing this picture I no longer fear aging:
So all in all what did I take away from Hayes Lake State Park? It's a pretty park, and a sparsely used one. We only saw one other tent camper and a handful of quiet and respectful RV campers. I didn't see any other hikers or swimmers. I saw one person canoeing, but the lake is not much for boat traffic. A big part of that is probably due to the boating restriction: electric motors only.
The pine trees and winding trails are a great escape from the plains that start to the west and don't seem to stop until you reach western Montana. The park has 13 miles of hiking trails, 5 miles of mountain bike trails and 7 miles of horseback riding trails, all things I would love to do, once the mosquitos have all froze to death. Since it's not a great swimming lake, I can wait for the cooler weather before I return. I imagine it would be a great spot to go for a morning kayak on the still waters surrounded by the changing colors of the forest, and I'll be waiting patiently to do just that from my house on the prairie.
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