Northland Mud Season

Posted on March 29, 2016 by Molly

Few would claim that the Northland is at its best in the spring. While temperatures are nearing the comfort zone in the Twin Cities, we are still hovering around freezing. Although spring flowers may be poking up in warmer climes, here the vegetation is still brown. The ground is muddy and still icy in spots. In short, it’s pretty bleak.

And yet, when the sun comes out it is hard to resist heading outdoors. Never mind that cold wind off the lake, spring calls. That’s exactly how I found myself in Gooseberry Falls State Park this morning.

The woman in the Visitor Center warned that the trails were wet and slippery. But the draw was irresistible. I hadn’t come to the park to walk on the road. From the abundance of muddy footprints I followed, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Others too were enjoying the squish and slide of mud season. There is something innately satisfying about setting foot squarely in the midst of that soft wet earth and the squidgy suctiony noise that accompanies its exit from the quagmire. Big kids that we are.

If the lack of vegetation deprives us of color, it also grants vistas. En route to the lake shore, I was able to take in the falls from a distance, and enjoy the twisty, windy path of the river. It’s fascinating how it transitions from roaring falls to lazy stream in just a short distance. The dogwoods added a welcome touch of red to the scene. Not all scenic views were a product of nature. I particularly enjoyed the symmetry and design of the steps that took me high above the river to the cliffs above. Workers more recent than the original CCC crews that created the park’s magnificent log and stone buildings back in the 1930s were responsible for this ascending sculpture.Hiking between the shoreline and the falls, I decided it was a dual sound track park. Next to Lake Superior, the rush of the wind and the pounding of the waves filled my ears. It was a familiar noise I could feel as well as hear. Both sensations retreated as I moved away from the lake, soon to be replaced by the roar of the falls. The thunderous din grew as I drew closer to the source, and witnessed the power of the water as it crashed over the rocks. Still swollen by the spring run-off.My circuit complete, I tracked globs of mud back to the car on my boots, fresh air tingling on my face, and fingers feeling a slight chill despite my warm gloves. All so very satisfying. Spring in the Northland, mud season at its very best.

Winter Resurgence

Posted on March 17, 2016 by Molly

It seems a strange scene. I stand in my bare feet and swim suit, peering out into the darkness at 6:15am. The outside floodlights are on, and they illuminate a world blanketed in white. I expected the snow. In fact, it’s the reason for my one-piece lycra apparel. Assuming it would be too deep for running, I had decided on an alternate workout this morning. But I hadn’t counted on the landscape now in my field of vision.

Every branch is outlined in white. The thin boughs are magnified by a fluffy coating of snow much thicker than their own sinewy skeletons. The woods surrounding our house are no longer a transparent winter veil but a lacy wall enclosing our abode. I can already picture the Lakewalk rimmed by more ghostly shapes. It is much too good to miss.

Despite the dim predawn light, many have preceded me down the trail. Footsteps are plentiful, crisscrossed by bicycle tracks and the wide treads of fat tire bikes. The snow is not as deep as I feared, but the wet fluff lies over a layer of slush. Messy but not slippery, it makes for slow and arduous progress but poses little danger of falling.

The world is silenced by the snowfall. Footfalls and tire rotations are muted, but faces are glowing. “Isn’t this beautiful?” seems to be on the lips of all I pass.

I don’t normally take the small bypass in front of the town homes at The Ledges. But the chance to get closer to the lake draws me down the indistinct path. My impulse is rewarded, seeing the dry stalks of fall flocked with snow silhouetted against the gray-blue of Lake Superior, and framing the iconic Aerial Bridge.

While just yesterday the Lakewalk was perfectly clear for easy running, I have no complaints about this resurgence of winter. It taught me to seize the moment, change my plans, stop and take pictures. And best of all, enjoy my surroundings.

Spring Fling

Posted on March 13, 2016 by Molly

I seriously doubt anyone stayed at home today. How could they, with brilliant sunshine and temperatures in the 60s even right next to Lake Superior? I certainly didn’t.

My day started out on the Lakewalk with good running friends. We were a pack of four, but we met much larger groups of runners thundering down the path. It was as if anyone who owned a pair of running shoes was out there. For good reason. Skirting the harbor, the view was unsurpassed. Little iceberglets floated in the calm water, and the bridge reflected perfectly on the glassy surface. The water’s blue was even deeper than that of the sky. The gray days of winter faded from our memories as we embraced this sudden spring moment.

Exchanging my running clothes for cycling gear, Rich and I headed up the shore for an afternoon bike ride. Our starting point was Gooseberry Falls – along with the rest of the world. We were lucky to find a parking place, and had to pick our way through the crowds to get to the falls. There we found water rushing over and through the ice that still covered much of the river. Quite a unique sight.Riding along the shore, water was flowing everywhere. The rocky cliffs that line the road were oozing with water, dripping over the edges and down the craggy formations. Rivulets ran at the base of the rocks and through the brush. There was one waterfall in particular that we hoped to see, and were not disappointed. Only in the spring, does water shoot out from the rocks into Lake Superior like this.

At Beaver Bay the Beaver River came shooting out of its own icy formations. Clearly the rivers were unprepared for this sudden spring.

I was unprepared as well. Expecting it to be “cooler by the lake” I had overdressed, and sweltered in the sunny 60-degree heat of the day. But I wasn’t about to complain. The only misfortune was the fact that the ice cream shop in Beaver Bay was not open. We had both independently secreted cash in our pockets, intent on stopping to indulge.

I know it’s only March 12. And that even the calendar shows it isn’t spring yet. I’m too well versed in the ways of the Northland to think that this will last. One look at the weather forecast tells me tomorrow will be very different. All the more reason I so enjoyed today’s Spring Fling.

Not all Auroras are Equal

Posted on March 10, 2016 by Molly

We are fortunate to live in northern Minnesota where we can see the Northern Lights when the conditions are right. Over the years, I’ve seen my share of Auroras. The very best was up at our cabin. Late at night, sitting around the campfire, someone looked up and noticed the green glow. We all trooped down to the dock where we had a view of the whole sky. There were rays shooting up from all directions, reaching the apex and waving. Lying on our backs to watch the performance was awesome.

More commonly, the lights have been a green glow in the North. Sometimes they create spikes that stretch up into the sky. Others form curtains that hang above the landscape like the display I saw in the Boundary Waters with my son Carl. Each is mesmerizing and special.

With that as my frame of reference, I was unprepared for the Northern Lights in Norway. Sure, I’d seen photographs and tourism posters, but those are unabashedly sensationalized. I knew the chance of seeing the lights was better there. Pure geography means even weaker displays are visible. I just hadn’t realized how different they would be.

Our first night we got really lucky. In the vernacular of the serious Aurora Hunters, there was a “G2 storm” – which means an extraordinary amount of solar magnetic activity. That translates to a high likelihood of seeing the Northern Lights.

Not only did the lights blanket the sky, but they were exceptionally brilliant and intense. We didn’t have to look for a green glow. The whole sky was glowing. Against that backdrop bright rays shot across the sky, arcing over our heads and extending from horizon to horizon. It was as if we were witnessing huge electric currents, pulsating and giving off waves of color. Everything was perfectly aligned to bring us this fine display – location, clear skies, no moon and solar power in the atmosphere. And boy, was that obvious.The following night, we knew that the solar activity was weaker, so we adjusted our expectations accordingly. I think we were still harboring a Minnesota frame of reference, because once again we were amazed at what we saw. This time the lights may not have been as intense, but the sharp streaks were replaced by patterns and movement and the performance lasted much longer. For about an hour and a half we watched as the lights danced overhead. They were constantly in motion, creating shapes then morphing into something else. First active on one side of the ski, then picking up momentum on the other. My favorite was the circular curtain of lights, waving its folds and draping its colors as it curved. It was hard to know which way to look, because to view in one direction meant missing something behind me.I have Rich to thank for the photographs of these displays, as that is his specialty. Often times I feel that the camera overstates what I was able to see with my own eyes. But on this occasion, I think that the opposite is true. His photos are quite true to what we saw, yet cannot do justice to the whole experience. Not even his wide angle lens could capture the full image of what was happening up in the sky. You had to be there to see it. I can now fully appreciate the vast beauty of just what the Northern Lights can do. And it is abundantly clear that not all Auroras are equal. I’m convinced that we saw some of the best.

Arctic Aurora Brilliance

Posted on March 8, 2016 by Molly

When chasing the Northern Lights, there are no guarantees. Conditions can change in an instant. A promising forecast can evaporate. The atmosphere can refuse to cooperate. And even when there is a fantastic display, clouds can completely scuttle the view. How well we know this.

After four nights on our cruise along the coast of Norway dedicated to this pursuit, we have seen only a faint glow. While the trip's daytime scenery has been stunning, the unspoken disappointment over the lack of a nighttime performance is a minor undercurrent. But we still have three more nights on shore in Tromso to score an Aurora.

When I enter the visitor center, it is packed with people all anxious to see the Northern Lights. The number of tour operators promising to mine their expertise, drive to different locations all night long, and deliver a memorable experience is astounding. These visitors are prepared to fork over a small fortune, and they anxiously deliberate the selection of a tour operator and the night they will take their chance. I, on the other hand, am here merely to purchase a parking pass. My tour guide is en route with a rental car, already armed with weather forecasts, Aurora apps, alerts, Kp index and solar activity ratings. Rich may be as qualified as any expert out there.

With Tromso still socked in with clouds, we layer ourselves in warm clothes, collect cameras and tripods and begin our chase after dinner. Rich is buoyed by the recent reports, revealing that “the numbers” are suddenly escalating. The key will be to find open skies. Rich's research convinces him we should drive away from the coast, and he has selected an area 73 kilometers to the southeast for this target. Distance is of little concern in this pursuit.

Traveling down the fjord, I keep my eyes trained on the sky. It's hard to see with the reflections of the dash and outdoor lights on the windows. Peering into the darkness, I suddenly find stars. First just in one spot, soon all over the sky! We are still too near the lights of civilization, but we are on target. Constantly searching, I detect faint green rays in the sky over the water. Surely I am not just willing them into existence. They are there from every angle I try. Wispy and ephemeral they fade, but I'm certain I saw them.

30k short of our destination, the stars disappear. Rich chooses to turn around, hoping to return to the earlier opening. We are amazed at the constant lights along the road – who knew there were so many people living this far north?

Still panning the sky, I spy an unmistakable brilliant green pattern right above us! This time it is the real thing. It moves and changes shape before my very eyes. We have ourselves an Aurora.

We are on the top of a mountain pass between two fjords, and amazingly a pull-out appears next to the road. We park and are out of the car in a flash. Despite the lights in the house across the road and the glare of the passing automobiles, the display is so bright that nothing seems to dim its radiance.

Ribbons of green cross the sky. Stretching from one side to the other, we can't even tell which way is North. They twist and twirl overhead. They form and reform then subside. New shapes appear, like curtains with folds that wave in the breeze. Moving and dancing with varying hues of intensity, sometimes with a tinge of gold. The sky is aglow. Its green illuminates the big grins on our faces.

Rich is in his element, repositioning his camera every few minutes. So much is happening overhead and in every direction, there are endless opportunities to photograph the show. I abandoned all thoughts of trying my hand at photography the moment I exited the car. Riveted by the action in the sky, I prefer to see it all live than to risk frustration trying to capture it. My neck hurts from continually looking straight up – a sweet pain I happily endure. Even Rich shoots fewer pictures than usual as the display is so enthralling.

As quickly as it began, the performance fades. The striking shapes ebb into vagueness then dim into obscurity. The clouds have caught up with us.

In all, the glory lasted 45 minutes. But we continue to glow in its wake for the duration of the drive back to Tromso. It is a night for the memory books. My personal Aurora Hunter nailed it. He found a sliver of open sky during one of the brightest of Auroras. Both Rich and the Aurora performed brillliantly.

Snow in Abundance

Posted on January 20, 2016 by Molly

When snow declines to come to the cross-country skier, the only reasonable response is for the skier to go to the snow. It doesn’t take much research or experience to know where to find it. The Gunflint Trail consistently delivers on snow accumulation.

The drive up the North Shore is typical. Lake Superior’s warming influence reduces the snowfall near the shore. A leap of faith is required to believe one is indeed headed for significant snow. Turning inland from Grand Marais and slowly ascending the hillside the transformation is not yet apparent. But within a few miles, there it is. Snow. Lots of it.

The road is snow covered, the only sound the scrunch of the tires as they turn over frigid squeaky snow. The sky couldn’t be bluer. And the star of the show is the forest. A heavy wet snowfall earlier in the winter has covered the trees with huge deposits of snow. This is not your standard Christmas tree flocking. It is deep snowballish accumulations on all available branches. And it is stunning. In case I’m still not convinced, one step outside the car to take a photo lands me in thigh-deep powder.

We quickly learn from the locals that the snow is both a blessing and a curse. The blanket of wet snow brought destruction as well as beauty. Bending and breaking trees, miles of trail were blocked and closed. Despite massive efforts to clear the trails, the clean-up work exceeds the available resources in some areas. In particular, the Banadad Trail‘s 28k of ski trail are largely inaccessible, with clearing efforts able to open only seven kilometers on the western end. Indeed, many fear for the state of portages in the BWCAW.

Our destination is Bearskin Lodge, home of the central Gunflint cross-country ski system with over 70 kilometers of trails and excellent grooming. Fortunately, Bearskin’s trails are nearly all open. Four days of unlimited skiing await us. And so does the cold. Arriving in the midst of a cold snap, we encounter overnight lows down to -19 and daytime highs in the single digits below zero. But the brilliant sunshine and blue skies are more than fair compensation. Donning layers of suitable apparel, we are easily able to enjoy the amazing beauty of the Northland as well as the skiing.

Stride after stride delivers more dazzling scenery. I can’t help but think the tall narrow pines cloaked in snow are the spitting image of Dr. Seuss’s whimsical trees. And snowshoeing takes me even further into the depths of the magical woods.

Yes, this skier is happy. With abundant snow on the Gunflint Trail.

Ice at Dusk and Dawn

Posted on January 11, 2016 by Molly

It’s been an unusual winter all the way around. Here we are in our first real cold snap and the lake is still ice free, even along the shore. Lake Superior was its quintessential blue as I drove up the shore yesterday morning. And in sharp contrast I spied ice encrusted bushes at the water’s edge, glistening in the sunshine like giant crystals. The below-zero temperatures had teamed up with a good wind off the lake to create the perfect formula for instant icicles.

Those marvels just begged for a photograph, so I returned at sunset. Hastily crouching behind the ice sculptures, I tested various angles as long as the light and my cold fingers held out. A fun exercise, it left me wishing for more. So with crisp and clear skies early the next morning I set out once again. But I hadn’t bargained for the “sea smoke.” Overhead the sky was clear, but a thick band of steam clouds clung to the surface and horizon of the lake. At first I thought my sunrise had been foiled. But in actuality, it made for some interesting effects.

Never underestimate nature. Nor our magnificent lake. Lake Superior ice holds plenty of beauty and surprises at dusk and at dawn.

Seasonal Mix-up

Posted on November 18, 2015 by Molly

Is this really November? Just across the street Amity Creek is roaring, filled to the brim with fast moving water rushing over the rocks on its trip down to Lake Superior.

I love the sound of the waterfall, the natural white noise of nature that I can hear from our house. And despite the spitting rain, it seems a fine afternoon to walk the trails along Amity Creek following the swollen waters. Every turn brings a renewed appreciation for the beauty of our neighborhood. The amazing outdoor wonders that are just outside our door. The sound of the water fills my ears, drowning out any possible infiltration of human or automobile sounds. It’s just me and the riverbanks.

And yet, something is amiss here. This is the time of year the creek should be barely more than a trickle. I should be looking for ice crystals on the placid thinly coated waters. Watching my step to avoid slippery patches. Better yet, gliding over the snow on newly groomed ski trails.

The creek is a pretty good barometer. There seems to be some kind of confusion in the seasons. Last spring, the usual daredevil kayakers were stymied by the lack of snow and non-existent run-off. The creek was so low, none of them dared shoot the falls to plunge into The Deeps. They would love today’s tumultuous waters.

Last I checked, Thanksgiving was still on the calendar for next week. I just hope I don’t find swimmers at The Deeps when I go for my post-turkey stroll.

Sunset Cycling

Posted on November 15, 2015 by Molly

After two months sitting dormant in the garage, my bicycle is back out on the road again. These oddly warm days of November have enticed me back onto the seat, and it sure feels good. How could I forget how wonderful it is to fly along Scenic 61? My feet going in circles, the wind whistling through my helmet, the whir of my gears and the lake my constant companion. Never mind that it’s chilly, I’m wrapped in layers of clothes and my toes grow colder with each mile.

The shorter days catch me by surprise. I’m enjoying the golden glow of the sun behind me as I ride up the shore. Its low light reflects off the white of the birches and bathes the shoreline in amber as it slips down in the sky. I pedal on, in search of a good vantage point for a photograph, oblivious of my narrowing window to return.

At last a gap in the trees provides me with a view. Turning around, I find a stunning sunset. The sun is making its final descent to the hillside of Duluth, and in its final moments the brilliant yellow flare is almost blinding. The rest of the sky is just beginning to take on a fiery orange cast, each cloud becoming the perfect reflector for the sun’s rays. I snap photo after photo, trying different viewpoints and settings, hoping to capture the magic before my eyes.

Returning to my bike, the road is visibly darker. Daylight is fading fast with the sun’s disappearance. I have a good 40 minute ride to get home, and it quickly becomes a race with the diminishing light. Thankfully the flashers on my bike have retained enough battery power to make me visible to cars. But they do nothing for my own night sight. What might be a dire situation is actually a thrill. With each passing mile, the sky intensifies to an even deeper red, reaching high overhead. The trees have become flat black silhouettes, outlined in sharp contrast with the crimson backdrop. Looking higher, I discover an ultra-thin crescent moon perched in the darkening sky above. My legs pump and I spin toward this magnificent scene. I drink it all in with my eyes, knowing I can’t afford any more stops on this trip. Perhaps it’s all the more beautiful for its ephemeral nature.

My own neighborhood is darkest of all. The last few blocks lack a streetlight and I am pitched into near total darkness on our rural road. There the moon hangs over the neighborhood homes, and I am thankful to return safely. Yet all the richer for my sunset cycling.

Staying after Class

Posted on November 9, 2015 by Molly

Class was dismissed, time to head home. Or so I thought. It was the end of a wonderful 4-day stint in Grand Marais, rubbing elbows with real authors and nascent writers at the inaugural North Shore Readers and Writers Festival put on by the Grand Marais Art Colony. My time there was jam packed with workshops, craft seminars, entertaining speakers, readings by authors and book related special events. I left with a head full of inspiration, myriad ways to improve my writing, and great role models among both presenters and attendees to fuel my ambition.

The noonday sun shone brillliantly in the deep blue sky. I shuffled through the fall leaves while breathing in the brisk air, listening to the waves crashing against Lake Superior's shore as I walked back to the motel. After days indoors perched on chairs, listening intently, thinking and practicing writing, the outdoors felt envigorating. So when Rich proposed staying on for another day, it didn't take me long to overcome my natural inclination to stick to the original plan and agree to the extension.

In short order we headed up the Gunflint Trail. With hunting season just opened our hiking options were limited, but Rich assured me no sane hunter (or deer) would choose the steep trail up alongside Northern Lights Lake. The trail rose steeply rewarding us with nice views of the lake through the trees. Navigating the path required careful attention to where I was going. Avoiding slippery rocks, wet mud and tree roots kept my eyes riveted on the trail. Perhaps that's what brought the forest floor into such sharp focus, with all its intricate detail. There the lichen spread its delicately patterned fronds over the green mossy ground cover. From a distance, it resembled a field of cauliflower. Up close it was like fine lace.

Similar looking decor proved to be something else entirely…snow! Just a gentle reminder that winter is not far away.

The silence of the trail was a calming influence. With only the wind rippling through the trees as accompaniment to our falling footsteps, it made for a relaxing retreat. My only regret was that the trail wasn't longer, to prolong our foray into the woods.

With the fall days rapidly growing shorter, by mid-afternoon the shadows were lengthening and dusk was already beginning its advance. We chose to spend the remaining hours of golden sunlight at the harbor, watching the waves crash on the rocky breakwater. By then, I was grateful for bringing a warm jacket, gloves and hat. On the North Shore, one can never be over-prepared for the weather.

As the sun set behind the lighthouse, casting its fiery glow, I knew we'd made the right decision. It was worth staying after class.

Superior Footprints

Life and the Outdoors in the Northland

Category Archives: Outdoors

Northland Mud Season

Winter Resurgence

Spring Fling

Not all Auroras are Equal

Arctic Aurora Brilliance

Snow in Abundance

Ice at Dusk and Dawn

Seasonal Mix-up

Sunset Cycling

Staying after Class

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