Vol. 29
IN THIS EDITION: ESSAY | NOW READ THIS | BOOK NOOK | REFRESHMENT | FINAL FRAME
Moonshadow
This week I went to one of my favorite places in the county–anywhere, really–to watch the so-called blue supermoon rise just as dusk fell. Frederick’s Hill is the highest spot for miles around in our flat little neck of the woods, the prominent centerpiece of Pheasant Branch Conservancy, where a vast restored prairie meets its elevated oak savanna.
At the base of the hill are the springs that feed Pheasant Branch itself. Freshwater bubbles up clear and clean from underground aquifers, visible as fine grains of sand rippling along the bottom of the shallow pool nestled into the tree-lined nook of an old sink hole. The creek that runs off from it feeds a marsh that, in turn, is a major source of water for the Yahara chain of lakes that gives Madison its unique geography and its original Ho Chunk name (Dejope, meaning “four lakes”).
Once, there were peat bogs here, but they were drained and harvested by the early white settlers (tens of thousands of years to create, just a few decades to destroy). Much of the wetland prairie was drained and tilled for farm fields, which still ring the Conservancy along its north and western borders. At some point in more recent history, people realized how important the area was to restore and maintain in something closer to its original state–to keep the water downstream clean, to prevent flooding, to maintain biodiversity, and as a spot for recreation. There has been a considerable amount of effort expended to protect more of the land around the springs, the creek, the knoll, and to restore some of the wetlands and grasslands that were destroyed.
It is a beautiful place, full of buzzing, singing, colorful, diverse life. Still, from the top of Frederick’s Hill, you can see sprawling suburban development in several directions, and huge monocrop farm fields in the other.
The springs and the hill are said to have held special meaning for the indigenous people who called this place home for thousands of years prior to the arrival of my European ancestors. There are effigy mounds at the top of the knoll: one a bird form with a wingspan of more than 140 feet. Long ago, the Late Woodland people buried their dead there, in a spot closer to the soaring bald eagles and red-tailed hawks than not. A place that, up until 150 years ago, had glorious views of vast prairie and savanna in every direction. And the springs below, in addition to providing a seemingly neverending source of drinking water, were also thought to be a portal to the underworld. Sky above, earth below. A sacred place, no matter how you cut it.
The Ho Chunk later thrived there in what white settlers called the the Pheasant Branch watershed, where they harvested milkweed blossoms, wild plums, blueberries, blackberries, acorns, cattail lily pad roots and wild rice. A place of abundance. The Ho Chunk are still here, of course. So is the wild rice, and the milkweed, acorns, lily pads, blackberries, and even a wild plum tree that still grows at the top of the hill. Not so abundant as they once were, but hanging on, persistent, vibrant and resilient in the face of so much disruption.
I wasn’t the only one who sought out the vantage point of Frederick’s Hill to watch the moon that night. I hiked in during golden hour, heart bursting at the incredible colors and smells and sounds all around me. Big bluestem grass, purple coneflower, Canada goldenrod, delicate aster, compass plant and black-eyed Susan, all attended to by devoted insects.
Other photographers were set up to catch the sights. A group of people brought camp chairs and posted up on the trail on the side of the hill to take it all in. An older couple asked me, the “young person” with the smartphone app, to tell them where to look for the moonrise. I pointed east.
The moon rose, a startling orange disc sliding over the top of a faraway ridgeline, so bright it cast shadows across the prairie.
I remembered a time in high school when a friend recommended we play hide-and-seek in the woods during a similarly bright full moon. We went to the scrubby little forest along the shore of the manmade lake just outside of our dusty little Oklahoma town, a place we knew no one else would be. And the moonlight was so abundant it felt like daytime, only in monochrome–silver highlights and deep, dark shadow.
(Kasey, my friend’s name was Kasey, and she was an artist and a weirdo and hilarious, and a few years after we graduated and scattered to the four directions, she caught pneumonia while pregnant and she and the baby both died–so the story was told, but there were gaps I was never able to fill in. Kasey was the first friend to tell me to go and look at the moon. Good friends will tell you to go and look at the moon when she is particularly spectacular. You should always listen to them. You should always tell your friends you love them.)
I did manage to take a decent photo of the super-blue-moon. My first real attempt. When I had had my fill, I made my way back down the hillside and through the darkened prairie. So many startled rustles from within as I passed, no doubt disrupting the bedtime rituals of several small creatures. More people were arriving as I made my way out, taking advantage of the strangely visible night.
My earliest memory is a dream–a nightmare, in fact. I am lying in my crib, staring up and out a nearby window. A full moon peers in at me from the dark sky outside. It grows larger and larger and I am terrified of it, sure that it will come in the window and into my crib and devour me.
The moon and me, we get along much better these days. She reminds me of the past, grounds me in the present, assures me that she will remain the same in whatever future may come.
I don’t know what my point is, here, truth be told. Just that it was a beautiful night and I was grateful to have a place like Pheasant Branch to go to and feel really at home on Earth, knowing so many other eyes were all trained on the same phenomenon at the same time, in wonder, in love.
Now Read This.
“All These Hysterical Women” [Lyz Lenz at Men Yell At Me]
I think the hysterical women of the Victorian era were sentenced to rest in rooms with yellow wallpaper and told not to think because they saw what we see, what we still see — a system collapsing around us. These are our lives on the line. We should be hysterical; we should become unruly, unmanageable, we should fill the halls with rage, and the streets with screams. We should become unhinged, unfettered, and overwrought. We need to be hysterical. Our lives are worth it.
Honestly, this is the best recap of the GOP Presidential Debate in Milwaukee. [Alexandra Petri for The Washington Post] P.S. I will never stop loving the fact that shitbird former Wisconsin Congressman Tom Petri’s daughter is an awesome liberal writer/thinker/satirist.
“Republicans could force Protasiewicz off redistricting case with Assembly impeachment vote” [Wisconsin Examiner] Of this we can be sure: The only thing the Wisconsin GOP has left is their gerrymandered majority in the Legislature, and they will use it until their dying breath to subvert the will of the people and further erode our democracy.
“New Poll Shows Massive Backlash to Anti-LGBTQ School Policies” [Erin in the Morning] Further proof that it’s just a small but powerful minority of extremists that have hijacked political debate and policy in this country, with very real and dangerous consequences.
Book Nook.
Some recommendations:
Heartfelt, fascinating, gorgeous, emotional, very gay: “Cantoras” by Carolina De Robertis
Well-written, extremely horny and gay romance/smut: “The Lily and the Crown” by Roslyn Sinclair
Instead of the Amazon-owned Goodreads for tracking your to-read and read piles, check out the Storygraph app. All the same functions, well-designed, and Black woman-owned/operated.
Refreshment.
I’ve never been a big drinker, but in recent years–between my own body’s growing rejection of alcohol and too many genuinely traumatic experiences related to it–I’ve been looking for non-alcoholic alternatives to sate my love of a good potion.
Thankfully, NA spirits seem to be very much on-trend, and there are some legitimately tasty ones now on offer.
I recently stumbled onto and loved the Phony Negroni by St. Agrestis. The company also makes an Amaro Falso that’s as good as the real thing, IMHO. No mixing required! Just pour over ice and enjoy.
What NA cocktails, pre-mixed or otherwise, are you enjoying?
Final Frame.
‘Til Next Time.
Thanks for reading! Hit me up with questions, comments, suggestions, and tips on great hiking spots. And please feel free to forward this email to a friend and/or hit that subscribe button. xoxo