Hunting Prairie Gems

Tom and Kathie Brock and other Prairie Enthusiasts tend to Black Earth Rettenmund Prairie State Natural Area, just south of the city of Black Earth, Wisconsin. The slow-moving traffic and small downtown belie its popularity for hunters, trout fishermen, and nature lovers. Black Earth Creek snakes its way through town and joins Garfoot Creek just west of the city limit. The Department of Natural Resources classifies both as Class I trout streams.

But, there is more to this area than fishing or hunting. Sunday, I set out to find some prairie beauties and capture a bit of their splendor with my camera. My quarry: June bloomers. The steep slopes of Rettenmund prairie harbor remnant grassland habitat. Seen from a distance, the milkweeds, black-eyed susans, spiderworts, sunflowers, and prairie clover create a Monet-like scene, scattered with points of color against the backdrop of paler grasses. Here, the two stars today were the wood lilies and butterfly milkweed. The two feet tall single-stemmed lilies shouted out with flame-orange brilliance as if to say “Look at me!”. Purple-brown spots dotted the inside of the six large petals forming a cup perched atop each stem. The smaller milkweed flowers, though, make up for their stature with abundance and originality. Each sprawling stem carries hundreds of orange-hooded flowers, petals curving downward and away as if to set the frame for the show.

Pleasant Valley Conservancy, about five miles to the west of the Rettenmund Natural Area, shelters a state endangered species – the purple milkweed. This oak savanna beauty first appeared after the Brocks began restoring their property in 1999. These plants announce their arrival with a showy display. The characteristic hooded milkweed flowers produce an eye-popping shade of magenta. It’s not hard to see them amongst the dull (by comparison) grassy surroundings, shaded by tall white oaks. But, they come and go, springing up some years and not others, according to Nature’s whims. It was my lucky day and truly a pleasure to capture a picture of these illusive gems.



All pictures by CartoGeek

Home Fires Burning

The blaze edged closer and closer. The coming fury, pushed along by the light southerly breeze, roared as the dry prairie grass ignited. A warmth rose on my cheeks as the fire approached, a flutter of concern bubbled in my stomach.

No need to call 911, though. A carefully planned burn unfolded before me. Prescribed fires occur all over the Midwestern prairie states in the spring. Unlike a cheery Currier-and-Ives winter hearth fire, this one, in southern Wisconsin, moved with wild intensity and power.

As a kid, fires brought the best kind of comfort – warmth on a cold evening, the embers' murmuring tones echoing in the brick hearth. The flames always mesmerized me. I threw in twigs and stirred the coals with the poker, endlessly entertained by the erupting flares of light. I wadded up bits of newspapers and watched as the red-hot coals ignited the fuel into a dozen hues – yellows, blues, and greens – as the inks combusted. The glossy advertising pages produced an especially colorful display.

Seated atop the brick hearth extension, the fire’s heat flushed my cheeks with pink warmth. Turning around, my back got the same treatment. Drying my hair after a winter’s bath was far more pleasant at the fireplace than with my mother’s noisy 60’s-era portable salon dryer. In the morning, the cold gray remains lay in the firebox, ready to sweep down the ash chute.

I found comfort in the fire. I never thought much about the power of the flames caged within our fireplace. That is, not until I found myself helping with a prescribed burn.

Once let loose on a dry prairie field like the one I was standing in, a fire devours nearly everything in its path with all-consuming ferocity. The stalks of Indian grass, at nearly seven feet tall, waved in the gentle breeze. The fire soon enveloped them, the flames carried higher and higher by the long blades of grass. Smoke billowed from the leading edge of the soaring blaze. Standing more than 20 feet away, I felt the intense heat. The fire’s roar sounded like a run-away semi-truck barreling down a steep slope.

I found the display just as mesmerizing as the fires of my childhood. But the heat in my cheeks broke my reverie. I backed off to the safety of a previously prepared firebreak.

Backfires set earlier in the day created protective strips to help corral the flames where needed. Done right, a nicely executed prairie burn rivals a military maneuver – meticulous planning, good communication, and battle-ready crew movements. The day’s preparations ended with the fire scorching the four-acre field within a half hour.

The fire’s aftermath leaves a blackened patch of earth. Drooping nubbins of heartier fire-adapted plants remain to break up the topography. Regular burning keeps invasive plants at bay and paves the way for new growth. The earth, now perfectly prepared for new shoots to rise, Phoenix-like, can renew the splendor of the prairie for another year.