30-years in the Driftless

Thirty years ago I inadvertently landed in Wisconsin's Driftless Region. Lured by the call of Yoga, community and sustainable agriculture, I found a place that I have called home for the better part of my life. Over Memorial Day Weekend 1994, I made the somewhat impulsive decision to relocate to Blue Mounds, WI; a decision I have not regretted.

I was drawn to the Driftless by the
1994 Memorial Day Teacher's Hang Out Weekend

The Spring of 1994 was a pivotal time in my life. I'd recently graduated from college, and with a group of friends, co-founded the St. Paul Yoga Center. Despite the path that was unfolding, I felt an itchiness to explore and reevaluate my emerging adult life. I yearned to live closer to the land, and simultaneously felt that the Yoga I practiced and taught was detached from the natural world. The call of the 4th Annual Memorial Day Teacher's Hang Out Weekend could not have come at a more opportune time.

It seems almost quaint, now, to receive an invitation in the mail

While finishing my undergrad degree, I heard rumors of an emerging Yoga Farm in Wisconsin. The place sounded like catnip to this cat, though I was on a mission to finish my undergrad degree.  By the time Fall quarter of 1993 rolled around, after seven years and far too many stops and starts, only three classes stood between me and the BS in Physics. I was a slow learner, though I deliberately put Cress Spring Farm out of my mind as I focused on the Methods of Experimental Physics classes.

During the Winter of 1993/94, I was as depressed as I have ever been. Though I'm not constitutionally disposed to depression, the demanding coursework and the long darkness of Minneapolis Winter made it hard to put one foot in front of the other. As Spring tentatively emerged out of Winter, I received an invitation that buoyed my spirits - the invitation to the Teacher's Hang Out Weekend. At 27 years of age, deep in the heart of my Saturn returns searchings, I eagerly accepted the invitation to visit Cress Spring Farm (CSF).

As I neared CSF in my rented Hyundai Excel, I was immediately struck by the beauty of the Driftless. I didn't know the term Driftless at that time, though I spontaneously found my pace slowing to match the landscape. Over the duration of the drive, the roads shifted from the orthogonality of city streets, to the serpentine trajectories laid out by the area's river valleys. Little did I know that this land would speak to me in a way that place never had, and that I'd set down deep roots in the Driftless, much like the Bur Oaks that dotted the landscape.

Other than the transient pressures of finishing the Methods of Experimental Physics courses, my life in Minneapolis was very nourishing. I was surrounded by family and friends, had a new business to tend to, and other than the long Winters, appreciated Minneapolis as a dynamic city. At the same time, I felt disconnected from the natural world. Various forays to the mountain West were nourishing, though I ultimately did not feel that those places were my home; yet at the same time, I didn't feel a tap root connecting me to to the Twin Cities. Perhaps not uncommonly for someone in their 20s, I felt a bit adrift.

This feeling of being adrift included getting lost on my drive to the farm. Getting lost turned out be fortuitous, as I drove alongside streams, beneath distinctive rock outcroppings, and ultimately made it to one of the highest points in the state of Wisconsin. From the Blue Mound, I could see for what felt like forever. As I paused at that vista, I felt a sense of connection - of coming home. I know that probably sounds pretty cheesy, though that feeling of connection has persisted for 30-years.

I finally made it to CSF, and soon other guests arrived, too. The farm was quickly filled with a vitality that was absolutely intoxicating. The conversations, shared meals and garden work were a tonic for my urban bones. After dinner that first night, our conversation naturally shifted from the dining room to the yard. Twilight soon shaded into darkness, with the stars providing a celestial canopy to the rootedness I felt in this place. In that moment I probably should have been thinking cosmic thoughts or enjoying spiritual realizations. However, a quite mundane realization hit me - there were no mosquitoes! 

The Driftless, an area untouched during the past Ice Age, is a unique landform and ecosystem. Despite the abundance of rain, there is very little standing water. While mosquitoes fail to thrive in this ecosystem, the tallgrass prairie does. Like I felt an affinity for the land, I also felt an affinity for the region's plants. The forbs, bur oaks and coneflowers soon became good friends.

I've lived within a few miles of CSF for most of the past three decades. My time at the farm and community-living ran its course after six years, at which time I moved up the hill to the Village of Blue Mounds, where I've been ever since. As I write this essay, I'm within sight of the Blue Mound; the high point from which I gazed all those years ago. Several days per week find me in Blue Mound State Park, walking or skiing on the trails that have become as familiar as the backs of my hands. Like the backs of my hands, these trails change season by season, and year by year. Yet the land continues to speak to me and provide comfort, no matter which direction the winds may blow.

A lot happens in thirty years; some on the positive side of the ledger, and some on the negative side of the ledger. Life happens. A lot of my life has happened in the Driftless, and I anticipate a lot more of my life will continue happening in this region. I feel very fortunate to have landed here.