Emily Brisse

We came here zinged on a big city's pulse, sleep deprived by bright lights and street noises and man's ingenuity. High. But the Alps--larger than London by so many metric tons--gives us the sense of coming down. The moment we arrive in Grindelwald, Switzerland , village of expensive winter coats and sloped farmer's fields, of cascading waterfalls and white glacial rivers, of a chorus of wildflowers I have neither seen nor heard before, we let some bit of stress go. The steps we ascend, constantly, are slow going and measured, paced with our shallow breaths. The long hikes we attempt result in weary, spent bodies, sometimes bruised. And at night we devour plates of food--thin soups and hearty breads, strange salads and thick cuts of meat--until the only thing left in our psyches is sleep. As we climb up to bed, the open windows let in the lullabye of jangling cow bells and somewhere rushing water. For a few minutes, we watch as the light fad...

It has been ten years since I was first in Europe. A third of my life away. It was Paris then and it is London now. It was ingenue then and it is teacher now. It was a world and a lifetime ago, and I feel all those rotations of the earth in my body, in all the stories I have lived and told since then. Life moves quickly. Paris at twenty was a dusky sweep of January street lights, of bridge painters, long afternoon hours spent in cafes with glasses of wine and pages of my journal. I had arrived there among other students, but knowing no one. I cherished my solo walks down back streets, my eager and bumbling exchanges with shopkeepers in my best French, a language I knew only by the vocabulary post-it notes I had used to wallpaper my dorm room. I sat in the Luxembourg Gardens on mornings crisp enough to reveal one's breath, and I dipped a baguette into jam and watched the birds brave my presence for the crumbs. I read Gertude Stein and Eliot and Lowell and Hem. I thought, I know what...

I’ve been trying to pinpoint it: the moment I knew I loved the natural world. I’d like to say it happened while overlooking a lush Montana riverbank plump with wildflowers, an image I claim as my first memory, but I was two and a half years old then, and too young to make declarations. Years later, when I was sixteen, I glimpsed the Continental Divide stretching across the Colorado horizon and felt something come loose in me, an awe that lacked edges. But that was not the first time that feeling came, even if before I hadn’t had the language to describe it. I could pick from memories on Lake Superior or in the Badlands or on the Mississippi, but the moment I keep coming back to is a simple one, cushioned in no impressive names, that took place in my Minnesota small town front yard. My family had just moved, and everything about our new life seemed strange and overwhelming. How does one make new friends at ten? How does one navigate the avenues of grief for a life that we’d left...

on thick days the rhododendron, the azalea shrubs in blush are too much concluded praise,  so I slip into the quiet of green woods and green air and say nothing

A few updates all at once: For one month starting in early June I'll be traveling through London, Switzerland, eastern France, and southwest Germany. Why? Twenty-five or so high school students. I'm chaperoning the German trip . Yes, I know. But I think it's going to be great fun. And the stories, my friends, THE STORIES. A new essay about my father and me and our fishing exploits is up over at The Backcountry Journa l. Check it out? Here's a little tease: " Water. A boat or a bit of shoreline. A rod, bait, maybe a net. That perfect fish. I'd place my bets that you're already seeing it, that time when you pulled a slick, silvery body in. That time a surge that felt a lot like love came up with the end of your swallowed line. Your fishing story. And the people you turned to first to tell it."   [ more ] Some publicity folks asked if I might like to review the BBC's most recent nature documentary series Frozen Earth . Since they pr...

My appreciation for place comes most directly from my parents, but I also have to thank Grandpa and Grandma Longstreet for scouting out the piece of southwestern Minnesota lake land that has become the one consistent spot on earth I've returned to since the year I was born. I visit Lake Shetek and Keeley Island and the Longstreet Lot less now that I'm older and farther away and--that too-easy word-- busy . But its greens and blues and laughs and grill-roasted turkey dinners feel no less vivid. My essay "The Lake," out this month in Minnesota Conservation Volunteer , is a long-time coming. A long  time, pre-me. It's a thank you letter, really. So: Grandpa Bud, I imagine your face with the smile I would have witnessed had you lived to meet me, and Grandma Mar, I miss you so much and sense the pressure of your hand around my wrist. Keeley Island, Lake Shetek, MN