"I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees," wrote 19th-century naturalist Henry David Thoreau. I know just what he meant. That sense of contentment and heightened awareness comes with every walk in my favorite woodland.
French fur trappers, traveling west of the Mississippi River more than 300 years ago, found vast grasslands in east-central Minnesota. But on rolling hillsides where standing water limited the spread of prairie fires, grasses gave way to deep woodlands of maple, basswood and oak. They called it bois grande, and the name has endured: Big Woods.
The Big Woods once covered more than 2 million acres in Minnesota. Today this distinctive forest community exists only in scattered fragments. Among the best and largest of these is Wolsfeld Woods Scientific and Natural Area (SNA), located just 15 miles west of downtown Minneapolis.
In summer, the massive trees at Wolsfeld Woods form a leafy canopy so dense that the ground is cast in almost permanent shadow. Wherever a tree has fallen, saplings and shrubs bolt toward the light. Autumn is golden in the Big Woods, the color gradually drifting from above to decorate the forest floor.
Winter offers a completely different experience of Wolsfeld Woods. The sun angles low over the horizon, peeking between lanky tree stems and outstretched, leaf-bare branches. Below, the snow is marked with evidence of activity despite the cold — here a tidy line of arrow-shaped turkey tracks, there a tunnel made by a foraging shrew. People also leave signs of their time in the snowy woods: large, oblong snowshoe prints, narrow lines cut by cross-country skis, and simple bootprints along the trail.
I recently asked Liz Weir, a longtime member of the nonprofit group Friends of Wolsfeld Woods, if she gravitates toward any particular part of the 220-acre site. "I think my favorite spot is on the north side," said Weir. "The trees were cleared of buckthorn and there's just a sense of peace and well-being in the healthy woodland."
The woods seem to change from one visit to the next. I bring binoculars for birding in all seasons, and a camera to capture scenes I want to share. Mostly, I just walk and appreciate the quiet solitude. On one recent ramble, I stopped to admire leaves frozen in a shallow stream. Tiny, wingless snow flies clambered over the snow-crusted ground, and a pileated woodpecker swooped in to hammer at the gnarly bark of an old tree snag. Along the southern loop trail, I came upon several of the state's largest sugar maples. Below them, a stubble of 6-inch seedlings peeked above the snow — the future of the forest.
One mature tree can produce millions of leaves in its lifetime; a woodland of trees makes too many leaves to imagine. Squirrels and chipmunks gather them to line their winter nests, while other animals burrow under the leaf litter to wait out the cold. Meanwhile, microbes, fungi and insects begin the work of decomposition. As the snow melts, ephemeral wildflowers pop up in the enriched soil, grabbing their share of sunlight before the big trees leaf out again.
