The sun is high in the sky, high over my head and the trees that filter its light into splotches of rippling radiance.

I walk onward in my hiking boots, ears open to the song of birds darting above my head. My eyes try to take it all in. I admire the beauty of my familiars, the trees. We’re on a first-name basis. My shapeless earthen-toned cargos and polo shift with each step I take, allowing some springtime air to rush in around my skin when the breeze reaches me.

I reach my destination at the bank of a small lake. Really, it’s not that small at all. But I live on the shores of Superior. Compared to her, all lakes seem small. The growing cattails and last year’s stalks sway ever so slightly in the breeze, and beyond them is this year’s growth of what I seek – wapato.

Suddenly, I’m a child. A strong, self-sufficient, independent child, but a child nonetheless. Stomping around in the mud will do that. I sing a childhood song about Superior as I perfrom my wapato dance.

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