Everyone has a Mentor or at least should have!

My love of the outdoors began from a family of mentors. First it was my Grandmother with her victory garden and beautiful flower gardens. It was her bright blossoms and bees that caught my early interest and imagination. I loved the colors and smells, but I never will forget the first time I got stung. I stepped on one big bumble bee in Grandma's front yard.

My Dad had a somewhat different perspective. He introduced me to the outdoors by handing me a snow shovel and showing me how to mow straight lines in the yard. To be fair, I have great memories of Dad taking us to twin lakes to go plinking (shooting at blackbirds in the swamp). He also took us hunting for pheasants and rabbits and we learned to eat wild game at an early age.

But, in the purist terms, my real mentor was my mom. Dad got us there, but it was Mom that got me to see the real beauty of the outdoor world. She would be the first to point out the smell of hemlock drifting through the woods. She could identify the songbird by its song and knew the types of wildflowers by the season they bloomed.

How does one learn all these things without a good mentor, keen senses and steady observation? Mom's questions always came with answers. What tree did that leave fall from? What constellation is a mighty warrior and has three stars for a belt? What month of the year do the redpolls' come back? She knew and then we knew.

Because of this in the past 40 years I have introduced many people to the outdoors. The last 20 years, via a cabin we built on the edge of the Boundary Waters. Mom, at nearly 80 years young, would still make the difficult journey there two or three times a year. The trip started with a six-hour car ride and ended crossing six and a half miles of water by boat. All of this to get to a place where most of the time she would just sit and observe. Her agenda included expending equally time watching birds, then grandchildren, the more birds, then great grandchildren. She was in her element. I don't know if she loved the campfires, boat rid

es or fishing more. But, I'm pretty sure it was fishing. She didn't care what size, color or specie, she just got a kick out of catching one. The exact time of each capture would be prominently announced with her patented high-pitched squeal and crackle. We all knew what that meant and would turn to see her proudly holding up her quarry.

As you can probably tell by now, Mom is gone now, but certainly not forgotten. We lost her this last summer. If you listen carefully, I believe you can still hear a some of her high-pitched laughter echoing through the woods. My favorite memories of her are many, but the most rewarding is this. The last time she came to the cabin she couldn't get around much anymore.

One afternoon I took my brush cutter and cut a path wide enough to get the ATV out to the cedar ridge behind the cabin. I said to her, “Come on, Mom, let’s go for a ride.” After we had bumped our way far enough out into the woods, I turned the motor off and we just sat there not saying much. We were soaking in all that is included in a beautiful fall day. That day the smell of hemlock may have been replaced by fresh cedar, but it would do. The look on her face said it all, shear contentment. I had taken my mentor to a place she loved and together we had a chance to enjoy it one last time.