On early Saturday afternoon (2 January, 2015), we left for Prairie de Chien at the confluence of the Mississippi and Wisconsin Rivers to begin a quick two-day road trip on which we visited a few Wisconsin attractions that included the World's Largest Six Pack in La Crosse and concluded with the Orange Moose in Black River Falls, a grip that frequently took us from pathos to bathos.
I have thought about visiting the monument first dedicated in 1947 to the last Passenger Pigeon shot in Wisconsin since reading about the plaque in Also Leopold's writings (See his essay at the conclusion of this posting).
The simple and sublime dedication to avarice and stupidity sits atop the bluffs overlooking two beautiful rivers, frozen just now and dotted with people ice fishing.
The last Passenger Pigeon, in captivity, named Martha, died at the Cincinnati Zoo just over 100 years ago: the numbers went from the billions to zero in an alarmingly short time.
The plaque is located in Wyalusing State Park, which also features
many American Indian mounds, sixty-four of them, I think.
We enjoyed our visit to the park and left for our hotel room in Prairie de Chien as the sun began to set over the frozen rivers.
Chronicled in the collection of photographs that begins with Friday's visit to the memorial, Saturday's kitsch trek began in La Crosse, moved to Sparta, and concluded in Black River Falls.
Our visit to La Crosse included four stops: The World's Largest six pack, Gambrinus, King of Beer, a large Baseball and Bat, and a statue as one enters the city that depicts Native American Indians playing, wait for it, Lacrosse.
Give a look to the stories connected with all four of the stops, linked in the preceding paragraph. The narratives connected with the six pack and the King of Beer interested me, and I was disappointed that we could not take a tour or sample the product.
The large baseball and bats sit outside the La Cross Loggers' baseball stadium, Copeland Park, situated near the Wisconsin River. I would enjoy watching a game there someday.
As we left La Crosse on our way to two stops in Sparta, I made a U-Turn to take a look at the statue of the three lacrosse players. As I got out of the car to snap a few pictures, a pick-up pulled up to me and asked if I needed any help, for without thinking, I had turned on the flashing lights. Well, a pleasant way to leave a place, to be sure.
Our next visits on our trip of kitsch took us to the fiberglass stature mold yard of Fiberglass Animals, Shapes, and Trademarks Corp. or FAST.
The company makes molds for all manner of
items you have probably seen at various theme parks. And walking through the mold yard describes something of a jaw-dropping experience.
I enjoyed watching the short video of the company's president, Jim Schauf, talk about his "bone field": filled with molds of all manner of items, from a beautiful pheasant to large-toothed sharks.
As we came to discover, FAST might well have made the molds for four final three stops we made on our quick tour, the Deke Slayton Aviation and Bicycle Museum, a Large Mouse with Cheese, a Leaping Deer, and the wonderful Orange Moose.
We both enjoyed our walk through the museum, which in addition to a bit of moon rock and tributes to Sparta native, Deke Slayton, one of the seven original astronauts, includes an fun collection of bikes, including one made for ice and another for mowing the lawn.
On our way to Black River Falls, our final stop for kitsch, we pulled off the highway to visit a site Linda discovered while we drove to see the Orange Moose, The Wegner Grotto near the small town of Cataract.
Paul and Matilda Wegner created the grotto filled with a variety of sculptures of cement--from a welcome arch to a church, from bird houses to a luxury liner--decorated primarily with broken glass and shells.
Our one-day voyage to strange attractions concluded in Black River Falls where we laughed ourselves rather silly--well, more than once on this odd outing--over the final three sculptures on the agenda.
Really, they speak for themselves!
I leave you for the moment with the Leaping Deer, the Giant Mouse with Cheese, and my favorite bit of fun, the Orange Moose, all located a few hundred yards of one another, a rich catch of kitsch to conclude the day's catalogue of smiles.
Aldo Leopold's beautiful essay something of the serious, follows the preceding image of the Orange Moose,
In 1947, the Wisconsin Society for Ornithology erected a monument to the Passenger Pigeon at the confluence of the Wisconsin and Mississippi Rivers in southwestern Wisconsin, in Wyalusing State Park. The following essay, penned by Aldo Leopold on the occasion of the dedication of the monument, is widely regarded as the most poignant ever written about extinction.
Read the keynote delivered by Stanley A. Temple on the occasion of the rededication of the Passenger Pigeon Monument on May 17, 2014.
We meet here to commemorate the death of a species. This monument symbolizes our sorrow. We grieve because no living man will see again the onrushing phalanx of victorious birds, sweeping a path for spring across the March skies, chasing the defeated winter from all the woods and prairies of Wisconsin.
Men still live who, in their youth, remember pigeons; trees still live that, in their youth, were shaken by a living wind. But a few decades hence only the oldest oaks will remember, and at long last only the hills will know.
There will always be pigeons in books and in museums, but these are effigies and images, dead to all hardships and to all delights. Book-pigeons cannot dive out of a cloud to make the deer run for cover, nor clap their wings in thunderous applause of mast-laden woods. They know no urge of seasons; they feel no kiss of sun, no lash of wind and weather; they live forever by not living at all.
It is a century now since Darwin gave us the first glimpse of the origin of species. We know now what was unknown to all the preceding caravan of generations: that man is only a fellow-voyager with other creatures in the Odyssey of evolution, and that his captaincy of the adventuring ship conveys the power, but not necessarily the right, to discard at will among the crew. We should, in the century since Darwin, have achieved a sense of community with living things, and of wonder over the magnitude and duration of the biotic enterprise.
For one species to mourn the death of another is a new thing under the sun. The Cro-Magnon who slew the last mammoth thought only of steaks. The sportsman who shot the last pigeon thought only of his prowess. The sailor who clubbed the last auk thought of nothing at all. But we, who have lost our pigeons, mourn the loss. Had the funeral been ours, the pigeons would hardly have mourned us. In this fact, rather than in Mr. Vandevar Bush’s bombs, or Mr. DuPont’s nylons, lies objective evidence of our superiority over the beasts.
This, then, is a monument to a bird we have lost, and to a doubt we have gained. Perched like a duck hawk on this cliff, it will scan this wide valley, watching through the days and years. For many a March it will watch the geese go by, telling the river about clearer, colder, lonelier waters on the tundra. For many an April it will see the redbuds come and go, and for many a May the flush of oak-blooms on a thousand hills. Questing woodducks will search these basswoods for hollow limbs; golden prothonotaries will shake the golden pollen from the river-willows. Egrets will pose on these sloughs in Augusts, plovers will whistle from September skies, hickory nuts will plop into October leaves, and hail will rattle in November woods. But no pigeons will pass, for there are no pigeons, save only this flightless one, graven in bronze on this rock. Tourists will read this inscription, but their thoughts, like the bronze pigeon, will have no wings.
The pigeon was no mere bird, he was a biological storm. He was the lightning that played between two biotic poles of intolerable intensity: the fat of the land and his own zest for living. Yearly the feathered tempest roared up, down, and across the continent, sucking up the laden fruits of forest and prairie, burning them in a travelling blast of life. Like any other chain-reaction, the pigeon could survive no diminution of his own furious intensity. Once the pigeoners had subtracted from his numbers, and once the settlers had chopped gaps in the continuity of his fuel, his flame guttered out with hardly a sputter or even a wisp of smoke.
Today the laden oaks still flaunt their burden at the sky, but the feathered lightning is no more. Worm and weevil must now perform slowly and silently the biological task which once drew thunder from the firmament. The wonder is not that the pigeon passed out, but that he ever survived through all the millennia of pre-Babbitian time.
But there are fruits in this land unknown to pigeons, and as yet to most men. Perhaps we too can live by our desires to find them, and by a contempt for miles and seasons, a love of free sky, and a will to ply our wings. – Aldo Leopold