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"Either get ready for elimination or your hearts must have the courage for the changing of the guards," - Bob Dylan
With a rush and a mighty rustle through a pile of downed leaves, the autumn changing of the guard blew into these Great North Woods in no uncertain fashion.
This was the intersection point.
It was the time of the season when there were still gorgeous displays of fall color adorning flaming hillsides and bluffs from Detour Village to downtown Ironwood.
But simultaneously, northwest autumn gusts, in quick and stirring events, were stripping trees bare of their remaining leaves, tossing them high into the air or down forcefully to the ground.
I watched a tempest lift, swirl and carry leaves across an open field of yellow grasses, past a bright blue lake turned gray by the reflection of woolen clouds above.
The sight brought to my mind the numerous desert dust devils I'd seen out west or the waterspouts I had watched on Lake Superior whose pointed tips dipped and dove, dropped and lifted over the choppy waters.
But unlike those bigger, bolder and more blustery events, the leafy whirl I watched on this day didn't have the ability to cause any real damage, despite its growling and biting behavior.
Above me, there was a maple tree gilded by autumn's magic wand. There's deep and fiery orange there too. It's one of those trees that jumps directly out of the scene, demanding attention, like a woman dressed in scarlet at a black-tie ball.
It is becoming easier to look through the dense forests to observe features hidden over the green and growing months of summer, like old two-track roads, lakes, river, bluffs, and other details depicted on topographic maps.
More than one killing frost we've already experienced has helped by wilting, shriveling and dropping many of the woodland plants that not only obscured my view but blocked my way when walking along the banks of creeks or through fields of tangles and tendrils trying to reach a scenic vista, a fishing hole or a favored spot to sit and think.
There will come a time undoubtedly when the fiery autumn harvest season abdicates its throne to the Wintermaker. That will reveal so much more to see, almost anything in fact that isn't covered by dead and fallen leaves.
Though there have been periods of recent rain showers, the region remains decidedly drier than usual. Many streams known for their singing and roaring waters are now producing nothing more than gurgles or sighs, as their weak water flows have exposed boulder fields and muddy stretches where fish used to swim.
Instead, they have had to move, to find deeper waters to survive the upcoming winter months. However, the retreat of the water from these places has afforded searchers like me an opportunity to explore the river in a different light.
I found a few pretty rocks that I would never have been able to see otherwise. I also discovered a few fishing lures their hooks dug into the waterlogged edges of what had been submerged logs or beaver-chewed branches.
There's a rusty Mepps French spinner with a silvery metal blade, a Rapala floating lure that resembles a minnow and a red-and-white-striped Daredevil spoon.
I pull and snap the fishing line attached to the lures and wrap it around my fingers. I slip it into my pocket until I can find a garbage can.
In these conditions, there are even places I encounter where waterfalls, once bold and boisterous in the showy weeks of spring, are now completely silent and dry, except for remaining pudding-like pools of mud.
Up above me, I first hear and then see a large flock of Canada geese honking their way south. They are followed by two other squadrons in short succession. Other than their chorus of nasally honking voices, they appear in silhouette as they move from one end of the sky to the other.
And with their departure, I note the arrival of other birds from places farther north. I see them from my vantage point here along the edge of the trees, seated on a cold boulder.
Dark-eyed juncos, birds of the sparrow family that have black and gray coloring and feed a lot from the ground, are here now in a small group of eight birds.
I watch them intently, soothed by doing so, as they pick up small seeds from the ground and then move a couple of inches to the left or right. Their jittering and short movements remind me of wind-up toys.
A few days back, I saw three separate groups of about a dozen robins each, gathered around mud puddles, bathing and looking for worms. They were likely taking a break from their southward travels.
I also saw a covey of ruffed grouse, and later, a couple more, as well as a woodcock I flushed while walking through the trees along a creek on the last day of trout season.
After walking down through a grove of mostly birch trees, I continued thinking about the "moustaches" and "eyes" I observed on the tree trunks that made me chuckle. Those birch moustaches remind me of the thick and slightly curled kind worn by lumberjacks or barbershop quartet singers.
The grass here is dry and yellow. I see a grasshopper jump into the air right in front of me and then disappear into the tall grass, where it then moved quickly toward the base of the growth.
This experience reminded me of another, involving a butterfly.
I was seated at our dining room table writing with the window slid open to leave in some warm autumn air. A butterfly landed on the screen and stayed there for a few minutes. I got up and went to the screen.
This was one of the so-called "punctuation butterflies" because two species - the comma and the question mark - can be identified by markings that look like these punctuation marks.
It was a question mark butterfly at my window, which is typically larger than a comma.
The butterfly soon flew away after I arrived, but it came back later to the same spot on the screen. This time, I went out the back door and around to the outside of the window to get a better look at this beautiful creature.
It appeared drab and dark like a leaf from the underside, but it was orangey from the top side with scalloped cuts in its wings, which helped identify this as one of the "anglewing" species.
I watched for a moment or so and the butterfly again flew off.
The next day, I headed out the back door briefly to get something. When I returned, I went to pull the screen door open, and there was a question mark butterfly, perhaps the same one, demanding my attention.
It did so by landing at eye level over the space between the door and its frame.
I bid the butterfly hello and watched for a minute or so. It then flew down along the length of the house before rounding the corner into the side yard - gone.
This experience might seem frivolous to some, but for me instead, these are the types of happenings that draw my interest and imagination tightly to nature.
The greatest natural experiences can occur in short episodes that are striking, comforting, interesting, exciting or otherwise intriguing in some way. And then, almost before you fully realize what is happening, they are over with and gone.
These are the kinds of moments that keep me headed outside to see what is going on at all times of the day or night, even for five or ten minutes. The results can be truly magnificent, as this was.
As I often do, I found myself at the side of a river having circled back toward where I started my outing. The river here was much lower than it usually is, but it was nowhere near being dry.
I take in some requisite breaths of fresh, clean air that is now scented with those warm and soft smells of autumntime. I wait the entire year to enjoy that sweet aroma, like waiting a year to taste the wild blackberries, raspberries or the blueberries.
The sunshine makes a brief appearance from behind the clouds. This is a common trait for the days of fall. It casts a shimmering effect when it strikes the red, orange and yellow leaves that are fluttering on the branches in the wind.
I continue walking, thinking about the planet Jupiter, which I saw early yesterday morning not far from the crescent moon in the eastern sky.
If the world hasn't gone crazy by now, it certainly seems to be on its way. I feel the tightening and anxiety of the situation balled up like a fist inside my head and my heart.
Precious days outdoors, in the quiet and beauty of nature, like this one can help a great deal in finding inner peace or at least a physical sensation of having room enough in my chest to breathe.
I'll be back here again soon.
Maybe even before the snow flies.
Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan's world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.