Minnesota Prairie Roots

MY PHOTOGRAPHIC GOAL on a recent morning trip to and from neighboring Kenyon was simple enough: Photograph spring planting. But it wasn’t until Randy and I left this small Goodhue County town that I spotted field work underway.

On the drive over from Faribault, I saw a guy picking rock, more like a boulder, with a rock picker. That led to a brief conversation about our childhood rock picking experiences. Rock pickers were kids like us, not machines. They did not yet exist.

We assessed, as we headed east, that the absence of farmers in fields meant they’d either finished spring planting or had not yet begun due to no-tillage farming practices.

Once we left Kenyon, heading southwest into Monkey Valley, a picturesque rural area of woods, rolling hills and valley, creek, the North Fork of the Zumbro River, farm sites and fields, a tractor came into view. I must pause here to explain that Monkey Valley, as local lore claims, was named after monkeys that long ago escaped from a traveling circus into the valley. True? I don’t know. But it’s a good story.

I found that first farmer, pulling a roller across the land leveling the earth, just before the gravel road wound into the woods of Monkey Valley. I realized how much farming has changed in the decades since I left rural southwestern Minnesota. There’s more specialized equipment. Bigger implements to work more acres. Different methods of farming that are more environmentally-friendly.

As we followed the gravel road, our van kicking up dust on an especially windy morning, I admired the distant dense woods nestling a farm field under a semi-cloudy sky. Patches of blue peeked through the gray of building rain clouds.

Soon we happened upon the Hauge Old Stone Church built in the 1870s, a place we’ve previously toured during an annual open house. We stopped only long enough for a photo. No meandering among the graves this time as we are wont to do when coming across a country cemetery.

Farm sites hug the road here in Monkey Valley. While many are well-kept, some show the marks of time, like an abandoned silo standing next to the walls of a collapsed barn. I always feel melancholy in the presence of barns gone, their ruins like rural gravestones.

Not far ahead, life teemed in a flock of wild turkeys. I exited the van, moved slowly toward them, hoping to sneak closer for a better photo. But, like all wildlife, they are tuned in to danger and quickly dashed across the road from one ditch to the other. Never mind me and my photographic wishes.

Traveling on back gravel roads requires a slower pace. A sign posted on a roadside tree instructed: SLOW UR (sic) ROLL.

Continuing west toward Faribault, we slowed our roll for a herd of Holsteins fenced in the cow yard at Donkers Farm. I hold a special fondness for cows. I spent my formative years in the barn, scooping silage, pushing a wheelbarrow full of ground feed, feeding cows and calves, bedding straw, forking hay, shoveling manure, carrying milk pails and more. That imprinted upon me the value of hard work, of a farm family working together, of a rural way of life.

All across southern Minnesota, farmers prep the land, apply fertilizer, sow corn and soybeans. They invest not only their time, efforts and finances in the land, but also their hopes. Hope for timely rains. Hope for good growing weather. Hope for an eventual bountiful harvest. And then hope for a good market with high commodity prices.

So much hinges on hope. I see that on this day, on this drive past the fields and farm sites of southern Minnesota.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling