View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

It might sound strange, but losing a child uproots you. It is like your foundation for your everyday, normal life is gone. Something essential is missing. It is always there, a hole. And then, there are the secondary losses; the problems that arise because of the huge tragedy of losing a young son who was a husband and father. Our family is suffering and we are trying to muster up enough energy to be there for them both emotionally and physically. But, again, we are also physically and emotionally depleted because of the deep grief we feel every second of every day and night. That’s why it is hard for me to answer the question, which in this country is really a greeting, of “how are you.” I have a very hard time answering. I could say “fine,” but that phrase literally hurts my ears. I try to answer something innocuous and then let it go. That is why an escape from any social life, even when it includes our family, is essential for our survival. And survive we must.

I am firmly a non-city girl. The farm is my sanctuary, but again, there are obligations and duties that sometimes feel overwhelming. So escape we did. Not far. Not flying, which I find stressful. But driving. To Lake Itasca. Three hours.

We didn’t camp, because that’s not my thing anymore. We simply rented a tiny log cabin in the park. A cabin that was “pet friendly” so we could bring our dog, Per. He is our comfort dog and again, we didn’t want to deal with the stress of having to bring Per to a kennel.

Itasca, our oldest state park, with its huge trees and beautiful lakes. With multiple hiking and biking paths. We had decided to be physically very active and to relax and read and just be. So we biked. We ended up biking around Lake Itasca which is 16.5 miles, because the trail was one-way, which we hadn’t realized. Grant is better at biking, so he kept Per on a leash. About half-way, it started to rain. Somehow it wasn’t unpleasant, we just felt like we were on an adventure where physical exertion was needed. When we finally made it to our tiny home, we were content to just sit inside and listen to the rain pound on the roof.

We also went swimming. Grant had read that swimming in cold water is good for the mood. That makes sense, the body must work so hard to warm up, there is not room to feel sad. Neither of us are good swimmers, but we ventured out in the cold water and came out gasping in the even colder air. But we laughed and decided to swim every day.

We had also brought our small fishing boat. The launch site at Lake Itasca was being upgraded, but we found that there are several smaller lakes in the park with boat access. Lake Ozawindib, named for the Ojibwe woman who led Schoolcraft to the headwaters of the Mississippi in 1832, was the closest to our cabin. The lake was small with trees around and tiny inlets. Along the shore was a cabin that a person could rent. Grant fished, while Per and I sat feeling the peace that, for me, only comes from nature. The air was clear and on the breeze came the faint smell of pine.

That evening, we hiked along Lake Itasca on the Schoolcraft Trail. The sun was setting and huge pines stood guard as we sat down on a small bench to watch the lake and the sky which was displaying all the colors of purple and pink. We held hands and listened to the deep silence of the ancient forest. I wish we could have stayed there forever.

But life goes on. And so must we. Drifting in and out of a world that at times is noisy but still contains moments of joy.