For a few years we didn’t bring Hoover to Long Lake. Everyone knows, and is told, that cats don’t like change. They have their places and don’t welcome new ones. They don’t travel well. Upsetting their routine upsets them. We believed that was all likely true and for about three years Hoover stayed home, with daily visits from his cat sitter, while we frolicked at the lake.

Hmm. Then we let him give travel a try. He has a favorite blanket in his carrier (that doesn’t accompany him to the vet). Right from the get-go, Hoover was ready to get going. After several months of regular weekend visits, and longer visits too, he seems as comfortable at the lake as at home.

In warm weather, he moves from window perch to window perch, watching the birds and small mammals. Chipmunks, chipmunks are his favorite. He also finds the small red squirrels quite fascinating. In cold weather, he sits for long periods watching the area around the bird feeders. After awhile, he’ll find a cozy spot and fall asleep, no doubt dreaming feline dreams of the hunt.

And the best warm spot of all is by the fireside.

You have to look closely. It’s not a log. It’s not a a dog. It’s a white-tail deer, taking a swim late in October, when Long Lake was already very cold. An internet search (do deer swim) reveals what apparently everyone but me already knew, confirmed by many youtube videos. Yes, deer swim. They are quite expert at a “dog paddle” stroke. Hard to imagine how those long spindly legs work for swimming, but deer have been clocked swimming ten miles per hour. Apparently they typically take to the water to escape predators. Some believe they set out in search of better grazing, but I’m skeptical of that.

Some call ice fog “pogonip.” Pogonip is an adaption of the Shoshone word for cloud (pakenappah). That’s what The Old Farmer’s Almanc is referring to in December when it says: “Beware the pogonip.”

On a perfect spring or summer day, when everything is perky and bright anyway, rainbows are just the frosting on the cake. Very yummy but sort of more than you need. But once fall really gets going, it’s way different. It’s been raining for days and days now. You feel, in your bones, how cold it’s soon going to be. You are checking for cracks in every shell you live in trying to figure out how the cold will get at you.  Through the patio doors.  Through the electrical sockets. Through socks that have sprouted holes. Through a sweater that’s somehow not buttoning right anymore. You are bracing for the winter.

And then a rainbow like this happens. There is nothing better than a rainbow arched in a deep gray fall sky.

In a clearing off Sorenson Road, near Hillman’s Long Lake.  October 27, 2011.

Meet the lowly meadow vole. Microtus Pennsylvanicus. (And I have no idea what Pennsylvania has to do with it.) The meadow vole can birth up to fifteen litters a year. Litters average about seven pups. Female offspring are ready to birth their own litters in three weeks. (That “three” is not a typo.) A mother meadow vole has a postpartum estrus cycle that allows her to mate right after giving birth. With all the voles running around, I assume finding an interested male vole is probably not a problem. In captivity, voles can live for up to two years. In the wild, Wiki reports on studies estimating that 88% die within 30 days of being born.

With apologies to the tender-hearted, fortunately meadow voles are just about everybody’s favorite munchie. Snakes, birds of prey, dogs, coyotes, basically everything that lives (except squeamish us) eats voles whenever the opportunity arises. Otherwise, we’d be up to our eyeballs in meadow voles.

We have no idea why the meadow vole Steve photographed above was running in circles under our winter-ready row boat for about two hours on a cool sunny mid-October day. Maybe his behavior also shows why the most prolific mammal on the planet isn’t quite ready for prime time.

It’s drop dead beautiful here. The science of fall colors doesn’t seem to be much of a science. But wet weather followed by cold weather followed by very wet weather followed by very warm weather must have been the ticket.

This is just a taste of Montmorency County at its showiest. The maples are especially red this year. The birch are especially golden. And the steady green of the pines anchors the scene.

That’s me paddling with five, yes five, loons.

We had no loon chicks hatch on the lake this summer. Early rumor was one hatched, but we think not. We know at least one pair was nesting on Belly Button Island when a major tornado-like blow blew through. Shortly after, the nest was abandoned. It is so cool to watch the chicks grow to the point where they are ready to head south in early October, but it was not to be.

Instead, our lake seemed to be a loon party lake of some sort. We saw gatherings of 5 or 6 loons several times. They fished, chortled to one another, and sometimes did the vulture pose thing. But mostly they quietly swam around the lake, sticking pretty close together.

At the moment, we have one somewhat confused adolescent loon still living on Long Lake. He appeared about six weeks ago and still hasn’t left. We’ve seen the adolescent fly around so he shouldn’t be with us much longer now. He’s been flying north, but hopefully he gets it that those are just his practice flights. We wish him a safe passage. South.

In the right chair, especially on a chilly night, Hoover can be quite the knitting companion. Sometimes he drapes himself like a warm shawl collar around my neck. No wonder I need to inspect my knitting under a bright Ott-Lite to avoid the “knitting with cat hair” thing.

Porcupine: “This is a DEELICIOUS downed branch I’ve happened upon here in the middle of the path.”

“Yipes. Trapped like a rat, whatever a rat is. I don’t know what that big ugly thing is but I better boogie to cover.”

“I’ve now assumed the standard porcupine defense of hiding my head behind something while brandishing my impressive array of painful quills. Hopefully the big ugly thing believes that old wive’s tale, whatever a wive is, whatever a tale is, that I can shoot these quills of mine at will.”

“Can’t resist sneakin’ a peek to see how much I’ve terrified my wannabe attacker.”

We gather around the firepit on a dark, chilly night. Even if all you are doing is having good unspooky conversation and roasting marshmallows, you can’t help but look beyond what the fire lights.  At least in Michigan, you know you aren’t going to be some creature’s evening snack. Nothing bigger than a raccoon is likely moving about. The 2000 or so black bears that live in Michigan’s lower peninsula hardly ever even claw at people. But gazing into the shadows, it’s still easy to remember what scary stuff our ancestors knew could be lurking there.

This night was a cool almost-fall night. The sky was clear. We could look up and see our Milky Way galaxy all milky like it is, and was.