SATURDAY MORNING WITH CRANKY DON JOE | The Trees at Lake Harriet Have Apparently Become Rental Properties

By Cranky Don Joe

My name is Cranky Don Joe. Cranky DJ to a lot of my neighbors.

I am not an expert. Which immediately makes me more qualified than half the people redesigning modern outdoor recreation.

Now before anybody accuses me of opposing fresh air, sunshine, or the wonderful Minneapolis park system, let me make something perfectly clear. I love Lake Harriet. I have been walking around that lake for years. It is one of the finest places in Minnesota to clear your mind, stretch your legs, and convince yourself you'll start exercising more regularly beginning next Monday.

I know what belongs there. Water belongs in the lake, ducks belong near the water, joggers belong on the path pretending they aren't secretly competing with everyone they pass, fishermen belong on the dock explaining why today isn't a good day to catch fish, and children belong chasing geese despite repeated parental instructions not to chase geese. That is the natural order of things. Or at least it used to be.

Last Tuesday, I drove over expecting one peaceful walk around the lake. Nothing ambitious, just enough exercise to satisfy my doctor without creating unnecessary suffering for either one of us. Instead, I discovered the trees had tenants.

Friends, every other tree had somebody hanging between it and another tree inside what appeared to be a brightly colored nylon cocoon. Blue hammocks, orange hammocks, green hammocks, and one purple one that looked expensive enough to require homeowner's insurance. Everywhere I looked, human beings were dangling peacefully in midair like decorative Christmas ornaments that had somehow survived until August.

Nobody had informed me that Minneapolis had quietly converted Lake Harriet into vertical housing. I stopped walking and started counting: one hammock, three hammocks, seven hammocks. By the time I reached the bandshell, I had completely lost track because new residents kept appearing. I honestly began wondering whether the Park Board had started issuing official tree leases. There had to be paperwork somewhere. You can't just suspend yourself between public property without somebody in city government creating at least three forms and two informational brochures.

I stood there watching a young fellow approach a row of trees carrying what appeared to be a tiny cloth bag no larger than a loaf of bread. Friends, that confused me immediately. I own folding lawn chairs that require two grown adults, one shoulder brace, and several encouraging remarks just to load into the trunk of my car. Meanwhile, this young man reached into a pouch roughly the size of my lunch and extracted enough fabric to furnish a small circus. Out came straps, carabiners, buckles, more fabric, and even more fabric. By the time he finished unfolding everything, I was convinced he had violated several fundamental laws of geometry. I have suitcases that don't hold that much material. Within two minutes, he had transformed two perfectly innocent oak trees into what looked like a floating bedroom.

Then came the structural inspection. Friends, people no longer choose trees; they evaluate them. I watched three college students walk past at least fifteen perfectly healthy trees before settling on one particular pair. They examined bark quality, measured spacing, looked upward, stepped backward, nodded thoughtfully, rejected one location, and approved another. I have purchased automobiles with less careful inspection. One young lady actually walked around a maple tree twice before saying, "This one's perfect."

Perfect? Young lady, that's not lakefront property, it's a tree. Although judging by the amount of interest it was receiving, perhaps it actually had become prime lakefront property.

By this point, I had developed a complete theory. The trees weren't trees anymore; they were apartment buildings. The biggest oaks had become luxury condominiums, the younger maples offered affordable starter housing, the willow trees were clearly premium waterfront real estate, and the poor little ornamental trees near the parking lot were studio apartments.

Naturally, Larry arrived. Larry always arrives just after I develop a perfectly reasonable conspiracy theory. He climbed out of his car carrying one of those tiny hammock bags. Of course he did.

"Larry," I said. "Morning, Don." "You live here now?" He looked confused. "What are you talking about?" "The hammock." "Oh." He smiled proudly. "It's lightweight."

Friends, whenever Larry uses the word "lightweight," I become instantly suspicious. Last year he described a portable grill as lightweight; it weighed sixty-three pounds and required a furniture dolly.

He held up the little bag. "This entire hammock weighs less than two pounds." I looked at the bag, then at the hammock already hanging nearby, then back at Larry. "Larry, that bag is committing fraud." "I'm serious, Don." "So am I." He laughed. "It's high-performance nylon."

Friends, Larry cannot successfully fold a fitted bed sheet, yet suddenly he has become an international authority on tensile fabric engineering.

He continued: "These straps protect the bark." "Wonderful." "They distribute weight evenly." "Marvelous." "They're rated for six hundred pounds." I looked Larry up and down. "That sounds reassuring for both of us."

He ignored that completely, then uttered a sentence I was entirely unprepared for: "You want a tree with good spacing."

Friends, when did ordinary citizens begin discussing tree spacing? I grew up believing trees existed for shade, climbing, or occasionally hanging a tire swing. Now, apparently, they're evaluated like suburban real estate.

"How much spacing?" I asked. "About fifteen feet." "What if it's fourteen?" "Not ideal." "What if it's sixteen?" "Depends on the suspension angle."

The suspension angle. Friends, somewhere along the way, outdoor recreation earned an engineering degree.

Larry must have seen the deep concern on my face because he immediately slipped into what I call his "explaining things nobody asked about" voice. "You've got to think about the load distribution."

Friends, Larry has never distributed a load in his life. This is the same man who once loaded six heavy bags of groceries into one reusable tote because he "wanted to make only one trip," then watched the handles snap halfway across the parking lot like a suspension bridge during an earthquake. Now he's discussing structural engineering.

"The straps have to be level," he continued. "You don't want too much sag." I stared at him. "Larry, the last time I saw you hanging from anything, it was the aluminum ladder in your garage after you forgot which rung you were standing on." He ignored me completely. "You've got to get the ridgeline right."

Friends, somewhere in America there is a professional hammock instructor making a very comfortable living, and Larry was talking like a man who had recently graduated at the top of his class.

We walked farther around the lake, and I began noticing something even stranger. Nobody in these hammocks was actually doing anything. One fellow was reading a book, another was staring at the water, one young woman appeared to be taking a nap, and three college students were carrying on a conversation so relaxed I couldn't tell whether it had started twenty minutes ago or during a previous presidential administration.

Then I spotted the one that truly confused me: a young man was lying in a bright orange hammock, looking at his phone.

Friends, you came all the way to one of the most beautiful lakes in Minnesota, found two magnificent trees, hung yourself in midair beneath a blue summer sky surrounded by birds singing, sailboats drifting, children laughing, and leaves dancing in the breeze, only to stare at the exact same screen you could've stared at in your apartment.

I nudged Larry. "What's he doing?" "Connecting with nature." "Larry, he's connecting with Instagram." Larry shrugged. "He's outdoors." "So is my mailbox."

That earned me a genuine laugh from a lady walking past with a golden retriever. At least somebody appreciated common sense.

The farther we walked, the more convinced I became that Lake Harriet had quietly developed an entirely new housing market. The best trees were occupied, some had waiting lists, and others appeared to have long-term tenants. One particularly beautiful pair of oak trees near the shoreline had three different groups standing nearby discussing availability. Friends, I have seen less competition for lakefront cabins.

Then I witnessed something extraordinary: a young couple approached an empty pair of trees. Before they could unpack their hammock, another couple arrived from the opposite direction. Both groups stopped, looked at the trees, then at each other, then back at the trees. For a moment, I thought I was about to witness Minneapolis' first competitive hammock duel. Instead, they politely smiled.

"You were here first." "No, go ahead." "Are you sure?" "Absolutely."

Friends, these people were negotiating tree rights with more courtesy than I've seen at four-way stop signs.

I leaned toward Larry. "They need addresses." "What?" "The trees. Tree Number 214 appears to have excellent lake views." Larry rubbed his forehead. "I don't think trees have addresses." "They're going to."

Because once you allow people to suspend themselves between public trees, the legal questions become endless: Do they receive mail? Can Amazon deliver packages? If somebody hangs a hammock above yours, is that considered a second-floor apartment? If squirrels already live in the tree, are they protected tenants? What happens if a woodpecker begins renovations during quiet hours? City government is going to need an entirely new department: The Bureau of Elevated Recreation.

About that time, we reached one of my favorite spots overlooking the water. Normally there's an empty park bench, but not today. The bench was occupied, the nearby grass was occupied, and the trees were occupied.

I looked around. "Larry, where are ordinary people supposed to sit?" He looked puzzled. "Get a hammock."

Friends, that's exactly how revolutions begin. First they tell you everybody has one, then they make you feel like the strange person because you don't.

I folded my arms. "I don't need a hammock." Larry smiled. "I brought an extra one."

Of course he did. Friends, I should've recognized the trap. Larry didn't invite me to relax; he invited me to become entertainment.

Within minutes, he had selected two trees. "These are perfect." "They're trees, Larry." "They're evenly spaced." "They've been evenly spaced since the Roosevelt administration."

He ignored me again. The hammock went up in less than two minutes. I will admit something: it looked comfortable, very comfortable. That disturbed me, because I'd spent the previous forty-five minutes mocking every suspended citizen in Minneapolis. Now I was beginning to understand the appeal.

Larry patted the fabric. "Go ahead." "I don't know." "It'll change your life."

Friends, nothing good has ever followed those four words. Larry once told me frozen cauliflower pizza would change my life; it did, mostly by convincing me never to eat frozen cauliflower pizza again. Still, there it was, swaying gently beneath two magnificent oak trees, peaceful, inviting, and almost civilized.

I took one cautious step forward, then another. I reached for the edge of the fabric, it moved, and I let go.

Larry sighed. "It's not going to bite you." "That's exactly what people say before something bites you."

I tried again. This time I lowered my weight very carefully. Friends, I had drastically underestimated hammock physics. One moment I was sitting, the next moment I was rotating, then twisting, then disappearing. Within approximately three seconds, I had become completely wrapped inside several square yards of brightly colored nylon.

I couldn't see, I couldn't stand, one arm was completely missing, and one shoe had departed the conversation entirely. From somewhere outside the cocoon, I heard Larry laughing so hard he had to sit down in the grass. Children stopped riding their bicycles, a jogger slowed down, and even the ducks appeared concerned. One little boy tugged on his mother's sleeve: "Mom, I think that man got eaten by the hammock."

Friends, at that particular moment, I couldn't completely rule it out.

There are moments in every man's life when he must decide whether to preserve his dignity or continue pretending he still has some. Wrapped inside that hammock like a disgruntled caterpillar, I quickly realized the decision had already been made for me.

"Larry," I said from somewhere inside the nylon. "You all right?" "No." "You look comfortable." "I look upholstered."

The hammock had somehow folded around me with the efficiency of a fitted sheet seeking revenge. Every time I tried to free one arm, my other shoulder disappeared. Every attempt to sit upright caused the entire contraption to rotate another ninety degrees. I have seen fewer moving parts inside a commercial washing machine.

Larry wasn't helping; he had reached that stage of laughter where no actual sound comes out anymore. He was bent over, hands on his knees, pointing at me while silently shaking. Friends, never trust a man who points before he helps.

Finally, after what historians will eventually describe as The Great Lake Harriet Hammock Incident, Larry grabbed one side and steadied it while I slowly unfolded myself back into recognizable human form. I stood there brushing dead leaves off my shirt.

"I meant to do that," I declared. "Of course you did." "I was testing it." "For what?" "Emergency evacuation procedures." Larry nodded. "Very thorough."

I wanted to dislike the hammock, I truly did. Instead, I noticed something disturbing: it was comfortable. Not a little comfortable, but embarrassingly comfortable, the kind of comfortable that makes you reconsider several strongly held lifelong opinions.

I eased back into it, this time with considerably more respect for both gravity and nylon. The fabric cradled me, the breeze moved gently through the branches, the leaves rustled softly against one another, and the lake shimmered through small openings in the oak trees. For the first time all week, nothing needed my immediate attention: no phone, no traffic, no meetings, no committee, and no Larry explaining engineering principles. Well, Larry was still explaining engineering principles, but from this angle he sounded pleasantly far away.

Friends, I understood. I hated that I understood.

"You see?" Larry said. "I see nothing." "What do you mean?" "I'm lying down." He laughed. "You like it." "I didn't say that." "You don't have to."

I remained silent because the physical evidence was becoming difficult to dispute. The hammock wasn't just comfortable; it was slowing everything down. People weren't rushing past, they weren't checking watches, and nobody seemed anxious to get somewhere else. Children laughed without anybody telling them to hurry, dogs wandered happily beside their owners, readers actually turned pages instead of scrolling screens, and even the sailboats out on the water seemed to be moving at exactly the same pace as the hammocks beneath the trees. The whole park had settled into a quiet rhythm I hadn't noticed while I was busy making fun of it.

Then, naturally, Larry ruined the moment. "You should buy one."

Friends, there it was: the recruitment speech. Every hobby has missionaries, golf has missionaries, pickleball has missionaries, electric bicycles have missionaries, and apparently hammocks have missionaries too.

"I don't need one." "You'd use it." "I already own folding chairs." "Hammocks are better." "Better than chairs?" "They're a lifestyle."

A lifestyle? Friends, it's a piece of fabric. Let's maintain proper perspective.

Then something else occurred to me. I looked around: there had to be fifty hammocks hanging around Lake Harriet. At roughly two people each, that meant one hundred people had voluntarily chosen to spend their afternoon gently swaying between trees. Nobody was arguing, nobody appeared stressed, nobody was honking, and nobody was posting angry comments on neighborhood social media groups about garbage pickup schedules. They were just existing.

That's when another unsettling thought entered my mind: maybe this wasn't really about hammocks at all. Maybe people had simply become so busy that they'd forgotten how to sit still unless somebody suspended them off the ground. We schedule everything, meetings, practices, appointments, errands, even relaxation now requires calendar invitations. Then somebody hangs two straps between a pair of oak trees and suddenly remembers what an unhurried afternoon feels like.

That realization almost made me philosophical. Fortunately, Minnesota intervened.

Without warning, a mosquito landed directly on my forehead. Not an ordinary mosquito, friends; this thing looked experienced, landing with the confidence of a pilot arriving at an airport where it had accumulated frequent flyer miles.

I swatted and missed. Another one arrived, then another. Within seconds, the entire local mosquito population had apparently received an emergency notification: NEW RESIDENT DETECTED. HAMMOCK OCCUPANT. ALL AVAILABLE PERSONNEL RESPOND.

I leaped out of that hammock faster than I had entered it. Larry looked confused. "What happened?" "I've been discovered." "By who?" I slapped my neck. "The welcoming committee."

Friends, I had spent nearly an hour accusing young people of renting trees. As it turns out, the mosquitoes had been collecting rent all along.

I started brushing imaginary insects off my sleeves while Larry calmly remained in his hammock. "They don't seem interested in me," he observed. "Larry, they've tasted you before."

We packed up and started walking back toward the parking lot. As we passed another row of hammocks, I found myself looking at them differently, not as apartments, not as strange inventions, and not even as oversized socks hanging between trees. I saw people giving themselves permission to slow down, to breathe, and to look up through the leaves instead of down at deadlines.

Maybe that's why the trend has grown so quickly around Minneapolis. Not because people suddenly discovered fabric, but because they rediscovered stillness.

That doesn't mean I'm buying a hammock. Let's not get carried away. I'm still perfectly satisfied with my folding chair, mostly because I already understand how to get out of it without requiring witnesses. But I will admit one thing: the next time I walk around Lake Harriet and see another brightly colored hammock hanging peacefully between two trees, I won't assume somebody has illegally rented public property. I'll simply smile, wonder how much the monthly rent is, and quietly hope the mosquitoes are collecting from somebody else.

As for Larry, he informed me on the drive home that hammock camping is becoming increasingly popular. Naturally. This is the exact same man who once bought a standing desk, then spent six months sitting beside it.

Until next time, Cranky DJ

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