Author: Dan Gilchrist

The other day, the Minnesota Zoo announced the birth of a baby dolphin. The zoo is soliciting $25 sponsorships to help pay for the little calf’s all-fish diet. Once she’s weaned from her mother, she’ll eat up to 20 pounds of fish a day. Where will all that fish come from? Perhaps our thriving local seafood restaurants can offer some help.

Observant Twin Citizens will have noticed that sushi restaurants are proliferating here faster than Starbucks in a strip mall. The old guard still thrives in the warehouse district’s Origami and Sakura in St. Paul. But new shops such as Nami and Sushi Tango are being conceived all the time. Today there are more than 20 sushi restaurants in the metro. Minnesota may boast many amenities and natural resources, but an ocean is not one of them. So how do oceangoing fish migrate to the land of 10,000 lakes?

Most local sushi restaurants rely on more than one wholesaler, and each wholesaler has fish sources that vary by species and season. For example, True World Foods, a Chicago concern which supplies many of the Twin Cities’ restaurants, gets its salmon from farms in Chile and Norway, its Atlantic bluefin tuna from New England in the summer and from the Mediterranean during the rest of the year, and its yellowfin tuna from the Gulf of Mexico.

Fish markets in many big cities are notorious for their links to organized crime. True World has a stranger pedigree: It’s supposedly owned by the Unification Church of the Reverend Sun Myung Moon. (Indeed, the Rev. Moon is theologically obsessed with the tuna; it is a central symbol in the faith. Moon has salted his sermons with many fishy pronouncements, such as, “When the tuna bites, [the people] are instantly united as one,” and, “tuna fishing is certainly not a vacation for me; it is a war and a battle.”) When I called True World to check into the Moonies’ involvement, a company representative was reticent. “We have people of many religions working here,” she said.

If fish is to be served truly raw—never frozen—it will keep for about a week from when it is caught. But here’s the catch: According to Minnesota regulations, Atlantic bluefin, yellowfin, and bigeye tuna are the only fish that can be served genuinely raw. Other sushi cuts, including all the clams, eels, urchins, octopi, and what have you, are required to be “fresh frozen,” meaning they have been frozen for a requisite period of time—15 hours in a super cold “blast” freezer or a week in a normal freezer— and thawed for serving. These critters can be kept in a ship’s hold or a refrigerated truck for weeks.

Reassuringly, the Minneapolis Environmental Health Department reports that complaints against sushi restaurants are no higher than any other type of eateries, and the state Health Department has had no reports in recent memory of food-borne disease outbreaks due to sushi. (One local sushi restaurateur laments that when he pulls up customer records in response to a health complaint, he often finds they have “lots of tempura and beer on the bill. But people are very quick to blame sushi instead.”)

In truth, some local restaurants do a delicate dance with the health department and sneak non-tuna specialties that have avoided the oxymoronic “fresh freezing” process. On condition of anonymity, one local chef served me truly raw hotategai (scallop) that had been flown in from the Sea of Japan, and I have to say that the flesh seemed unusually sweet and tantalizing compared to its thawed cousin. On the other hand, I could not tell the difference between a bluefin tuna roll made with fresh frozen fish and one made with raw. The only way to really be sure what you’re eating is to badger your sushi chef—as long as you can convince him you’re not a health inspector.

And now the bad news: The Monterey Aquarium, which tracks fish populations around the world, reports stocks of Atlantic bluefin tuna, the most popular sushi fish in Japan and the U.S., are threatened by overfishing, and that salmon farming is degrading ocean habitats and possibly introducing parasites into wild salmon populations. Environmentalists are also concerned by the increased “penning” of tuna, where wild tuna are caught and then fattened in cages before being “harvested.” The Aquarium recommends avoiding bluefin tuna and farmed salmon to avoid depleting or damaging ocean resources. Sorry, Charlie!—Dan Gilchrist

The sugar glider is an adorable, furry animal that measures about a foot in length—roughly half body and half tail. This expensive flying marsupial comes from the Australasian rainforest, and it’s suddenly become popular here and nationwide. The animal is named for its attraction to sweet tree fruits of the rainforest canopy, and its ability to glide for short distances using the webbing between its front and hind legs—like a flying squirrel.

On first inspection, the creature cries out for easy metaphors. Is it a chipmunk with a monkey’s tail? A raccoon shrunk in the washer? A hamster with the gift of flight? But it’s the eyes that really sell it, especially to children and soft-hearted adults. They are big, limpid, and black, and surrounded by a mask of dark fur. The eyes are distinct in the animal companion pantheon. So entrancing, in fact, that it takes you a while to notice the animal’s sharp claws, which dig into your flesh as it tries desperately to escape from your hands. Ouch! Once free, the animal makes a beeline up your arm and shoulder to the top of your head, presumably in search of any fruit that might be growing up there.

According to Erin Hertel, who breeds and sells the animals, sugar gliders are high-maintenance pets. They need at least a half hour—and preferably an hour—of attention every day from their owners, in order to remain tame. Gliders who don’t bond with people early in life are harder to work with, such as the breeding male that Hertel has affectionately come to call “Evil” because of its proclivity for biting her.

To help the owner-animal bond, Hertel asks buyers to come and handle the animal each day for several weeks, once the joey has emerged from its mother’s pouch. Tammy Mason, a breeder in Mankato, strongly recommends that gliders be bought in pairs. She says they are highly social animals, and they can actually die of loneliness if the owner is away too much.

With a life expectancy of about 15 years, the glider’s need for attention can represent a substantial commitment, as can its dietary regimen—about three-quarters fruit and one-quarter protein. Then there’s the fact that gliders cannot be house-trained, a character flaw which they remind owners of frequently and without prejudice. Hertel says there are tricks to induce elimination before they are handled, but the less said about that the better.

Gliders are popular among college students, whose nocturnal habits mirror their own, and apartment dwellers who can’t have a dog or a cat. Sugar gliders will sleep in their owner’s shirt pocket while they watch TV or work on the computer. Some even like to carry the animals in a pocket or a specially-made zippered pouch when they’re out of the house. But hazards for the sugar glider abound in the human setting. A chance flight through an open toilet seat—a strange propensity indeed, for the incontinent little guy—can mean a sad and ignoble end to the $200 pet.

For 23 years, Rick Lindsey has lived aboard a renovated World War II warship that he salvaged himself. Previous owners had stripped the ship of everything of value, including the deck planking and pilothouse. Eventually, it was abandoned in the St. Croix River. There the wooden hull lay, half submerged, until Lindsey found it one day while fishing. He bought the salvage rights to it, and, with the help of two Caterpillar tractors, hauled it from the river in 1976. “At least I think it was ’76—it’s getting a little hazy,” he joked, noting that the ship’s previous owners all are long dead.

With the help of some friends, Lindsey rebuilt the vessel on the banks of the St. Croix. It took three years. When they relaunched it in 1979, there was much fanfare; all three national TV networks covered the maiden voyage. Taking into account several feet of additions Lindsey built, the ship now measures 116 feet. It is bedecked with huge solar panels, wind generators, a DirecTV dish, and a small derrick in the stern.

Since 1984, Lindsey has moored the ship on the Mississippi at the Island Station Marina across from Lilydale Regional Park, about a mile downstream from downtown St. Paul. Built in 1942 in Texas as a subchaser-class warship, USS SC 1342 participated in the D-Day invasion in Normandy, Lindsey said. Although their numbers dwindle each year, veterans who served on similar ships in World War II occasionally visit, and they recognize many of the components still present on the hull, such as the depth-charge mounts in the stern, the engine room, and the bedrooms.

When The Rake met Lindsey the other day, he was busy rebuilding an aging motorhome on the riverbank near his ship. A DeSoto and several Chryslers in various states of resurrection also occupied the yard. Rick is a wiry 50-something, with owlish glasses and long black hair. The grease-stained dress-shirt he wore had obviously seen the undercarriage of many an automobile. Although he hasn’t moved his ship in several years, he said its two diesel engines are still operational. Between Lindsey’s various car projects, his carpet wholesaling business, his role as caretaker at the marina, and his intense interest in the Internet, though, USS SC 1342 doesn’t get around much anymore. “I used to cruise a lot, but I’m just too busy these days, you know?” Lindsey said.

Lindsey’s reliance on solar power is more inspired by practicality than any bright-eyed environmental notions. He began installing his solar panels—he claimed to have the second largest array of panels in the state—a couple years ago, after the city cut off power to the dozen or so people living in boats at the marina. “People say to me, ‘That’s so great that you’re conserving energy.’ Bullshit! It’s free power,” he said. Six forklift batteries are charged by the solar panels each day. They provide Lindsey with 150 amps of electricity, easily enough power to run his big-screen TV, computer, stereo, air conditioner, and hot water heater.

Lindsey stays in the boat year-round. He said the river ice remains slush during the winter, and, aside from a few logs that get snared in his rigging, the spring floods are mostly uneventful. “You’ve got to keep an eye on your cables, though,” he said, casting a watchful gaze at the steel lines that anchor him to shore.

Coming down the water, with a wide-open mouth of vibrating teeth, the milfoil harvester is a light blue paddle-wheeled contraption worthy of a Dr. Seuss rhyme. Or maybe it’s something Jules Verne would have moored at his lake cabin.

The combine-like machine is a common sight on Twin Cities lakes, ever since the early 1990s when the Eurasian water milfoil infestation really took off. The weed crowds out native plants, which in turn hurts the fish populations that feed on those plants. Mostly, though, it was the outcry from a repelled public that spurred local anti-milfoil efforts. Milfoil is a nuisance to boaters and anglers, and a possible hazard to swimmers, who get tangled up in its creepy tendrils. And it grows like crazy—up to a foot a week. This year seems particularly bad, and there are several theories why. For example, the lack of snow last winter may have allowed more light to reach the plants beneath the lake ice, extending the growing season.

In Minneapolis, between Memorial Day and Labor Day a crew with two harvesters and two trucks rotate between city lakes. They remove 20 tons of weeds each day, focusing on priority sites like swimming areas. Where does it all end up? At a compost site at Fort Snelling State Park. The machines, which are made in Wisconsin, are on the lakes for 6-10 hours each day, six days a week. They make multiple passes over the same areas because the paddle wheels blow down the weeds as the harvester approaches, but then the weeds straighten back up. “It’s like trying to mow your lawn blindfolded,” one driver told me.

On a sunny morning a few days later, crewmember Tom Tollefson took The Rake for a ride on Cedar Lake. Tom allowed me to sit briefly at the controls, and I couldn’t resist gunning it. The harvesters are surprisingly fast. Tollefson took over and dropped the front shovel into the water. The blades on the business end of the shovel are like a giant hair clipper, and they cut the weeds off 3 to 4 feet below the surface. Then a series of conveyor belts ratchet the weeds up the shovel and to the back of the boat. The milfoil comes out of the water in tangled mats, and it smells faintly of fish and chlorine. No one has found a good use for harvested milfoil. Several years ago, a curious park employee tried to get a neighbor—a farmer—to feed the weed to his cows. But the man showed him a watering pond that had already been infested with milfoil. Even with their wide-ranging herbivorous appetite and two stomachs, the cows fastidiously avoided it.

At the south end of Minneapolis-St. Paul International airport, adjacent to an east-west runway, there is a single row of parking spaces off Post Road. This provides a vantage point to watch planes landing and taking off. If the weather is nice, a few planespotters congregate here among the loitering limo drivers and couriers who wait here for their next pickup. While thousands of south metro residents have installed expensive, elaborate soundproofing in order to forget their proximity to the airport, there are those who want to be as close to the roar of jets as they can be.

On a recent night, Phil from Richfield was one of several spotters—all guys in their 20s and 30s in need of a shave—who sat alone in their cars with aviation band radios. By switching between different frequencies for different runways and cross-referencing the chatter with a flight schedule, he figured out that the 727 landing just then was from Omaha. Beyond the raw appeal of watching these improbably huge vehicles get off the ground, the spotters said they find something reassuring in the buzz of commerce and recreation that plane traffic represents.

Birdwatchers get heart palpitations at the sight of a flame-colored tanager or a red-throated pipit. Do planespotters have similar epiphanies? Phil got a distant look in his eye when he recalled how six Blue Angels jets took off in unison on one MSP runway a few years ago, and another time—five years ago in Miami—when he watched a Concorde jet throttle up over the beach on which he was sunbathing. “That was incredible!” he said. “Of course, I’ve always been a plane junkie. I used to ride my bike here to watch planes when I was seven or eight. I’m 34 now.”

Phil’s interest in planes pervades his life. He was laid off as a baggage handler following the drop in air travel after September 11, but he was just recalled for duty. Any big plans after returning to work? “Maybe I’ll finally take some flying lessons,” he said with a wink from behind his aviator sunglasses.

Several spots down, Bill, a burly man in a sleeveless T-shirt, and his wife Sharon brought their two sons. They watched the planes from folding chairs in the back of their pickup. Bill explained that the airplane noise drowns out the sound of their TV set in their South St. Paul home, especially in the early evening. “So we figure we might as well come down and watch them,” he said, without a trace of irritation. They come to watch planes two or three times each week. The visits have recently taken on a near–ecstatic quality for the kids, who are looking forward to their first plane ride—destination Disney World—in a few weeks. “We like the planes ’cause they’re loud!” hollered one of the boys.

It’s been a year and a half since the passing of Mahlon Nickence, the best-known voice of WOJB-FM 88.9 in Reserve, WI. Since then, former program manager Dave Kellar has resumed hosting the Saturday honky-tonk show that brought Mahlon his notoriety.

On Saturday nights, the station’s switchboard still lights up an hour before the show goes on the air, with old-timers requesting songs by Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and Wilma Lee, children asking for novelty tunes like “Funny Face,” and young lovers asking for the off-color John Prine-Iris DeMent duet “In Spite of Ourselves.”

Nine years ago Mahlon, a Korean War veteran and a member of the Lac Courte Oreilles Band of Lake Superior Ojibwes, began bringing suitcases full of his personal record collection into WOJB’s modest studio. He was trained in as a volunteer DJ by Kellar, but his popularity was due in part to the fact that the training never quite stuck. He missed needle drops, talked over the records, and he was sometimes hard to understand. If you didn’t know Mahlon was a lifelong teetotaler, you might have thought he’d had a nip or two. According to those who knew him well, his somewhat garbled speech was due to his refusal to wear his partial dentures on the air. “You’d hear him on the air and he’d make these mistakes and people loved it, because they said it was real,” said station manager Camille Lacapa recently. “They could relate to him because he was just like them. He made mistakes, and he laughed at his mistakes.”

Before taking over the honky-tonk show, Mahlon was well known on the reservation for his community work, including serving as its first fire chief. According to Bob Albee, a Minneapolis media professional who helped found WOJB 20 years ago, Mahlon’s broadcasts also helped “turn the hearts” of his fellow elders on the Lac Courte Oreilles reservation. They were skeptical and suspicious of the reservation’s radio station until they heard one of their own on the air, playing the old country songs they’d grown up with. By the time of his death, Mahlon had amassed a large and dedicated listenership among locals, both Indian and non-Indian, and among the thousands of hunters, anglers, mountain bikers, and cross-county skiers who flock to northwest Wisconsin throughout the year. Evelyn Nickence, who served as call-screener for the honky-tonk, said she and Mahlon would often get calls from Twin Cities residents who had driven north and east until they could pick up WOJB’s signal, then they’d pulled off the road, parked, and listened to the show.

Tom Dunlap owns the coolest slingshot I’ve ever seen. It’s mounted on the end of an eight-foot pole, and he can aim the whole apparatus like a crossbow. Amazingly, this is a professional tool, one he uses when he climbs and prunes trees. He also uses it for recreation, as he did the other day when he took me tree climbing.

In addition to running his tree service company, Dunlap teaches climbing to professional arborists and recreational climbers, and he serves as adviser to the U of M Urban Forestry Club. He accompanied the club on a trip to Seattle last year to attend an international arborist conference, and to climb “superlative trees,” as he calls them. As student Sarah Folger recalled, the highlight of the trip was climbing a 200-foot old-growth Douglas fir in Seward Park on Lake Washington. “It was awesome,” she said. “We went with people who were really good climbers. You could even see Bill Gates’ house across the water.”

With The Rake in tow, Dunlap’s target was more modest: the canopy of a 65-foot American elm tree on the U of M’s St. Paul campus. He shot a small bag of lead shot through the upper branches and used its tether to thread a heavy climbing rope along the same route, eventually anchoring one end of the rope to the trunk.

Tom sent me up the free end using a technique adopted from spelunking; I used two handle-like devices called Mar Bars, one on my feet and one for my hands, to ratchet my way up the rope like an inchworm. I was quickly reminded that the sports I enjoy on the ground don’t require much strength in the biceps.

After taking a few breathers on the way up, I arrived at the lower branches about 25 feet up, and Tom quickly followed on another rope. In the midst of 30 mph gusts of spring wind, one difference between tree climbing and rock climbing quickly became apparent. Rocks don’t sway disconcertingly in the wind. The view from above was nice, but more appealing was the invisibility of the climber, even among the spring buds on a relatively bare tree. Students walking by were mostly oblivious as we spied on them from our living aerie. This climber noted how much of people’s lives are lived in a small zone between zero and seven feet off the ground. It was with some reluctance that we eventually lowered ourselves back into it.

The marine iguana, which is found only in the Galapagos archipelago, spends most of its time sunning itself on the volcanic rocks and sneezing. For nourishment, it dives in the sea and feeds on algae. Consequently, it has to rid its body of sea salt somehow. To do so, it expels a salty mist out through its nostrils—unmistakeably a sneeze—leaving a white coating of salt on its crown until the next time it goes swimming.

I found myself trying to hold my camera still, waiting for the large orange lizard to erupt. Inevitably, the moment my arms gave out and I put down my camera, the iguana would let loose a torrent of sea snot worthy of a National Geographic cover.

The peculiarity of the animals on these islands has fascinated visitors for the past 500 years. Although Charles Darwin spent only a few weeks on the archipelago, the observations he made and the samples of species he took back to England were the basis for his theory of evolution.

Today the Galapagos still attract scientists, and they were among the first places that biologists were able to do what Darwin had thought impossible: to observe natural selection in action over just a few years rather than thousands or millions of generations. Evolutionary biologists Peter and Rosemary Grant have observed finches on the small island of Daphne Major for over a quarter century, and, after painstaking measurements and number crunching, they’ve been able to track how different types of birds’ bodies and beaks are selected for different environmental conditions over time.

The casual Galapagos visitor can’t see natural selection in action, but the peculiar specialization of shape, habit, and diet that the islands’ wildlife has developed over millions of years of isolation is on prominent display. The absence of large land predators has left the birds and animals indifferent to tour groups traipsing through their habitat. Bird mating dances and giant tortoise copulation go on uninterrupted, even with the clicking and whirring of thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment nearby. Snorkelers are themselves observed by curious sea lions that dart around them in the water.

Although many visitors sport Darwin T-shirts and marvel at walking in his footsteps, the draw of the Galapagos is much more Dr. Dolittle than it is Darwin. Even my brother, a hard-nosed evolutionary biologist who spends more time on computer models than he does observing nature in the flesh, admits that the main attraction is being as close as we are to very cute and intriguing animals. And who can blame him? If birds landed on our heads at home, or if deer didn’t dart away at the slightest sound, it might be easier to see ourselves as nature’s friend rather than its foe.