Loon Swimming Companions

Posted on August 7, 2020 by Molly

For three years running I had a feud with the loons. We battled one another for my swimming space in front of the cabin, and invariably the loons won. With their fancy dances and alarmist yodeling, they drove me away. Away from swimming my laps. Away from their young chicks. Unseen but undoubtedly nearby in their nest.

I never did figure out where that nest was. But in loon logic it was too close for comfort. Too close to let a swimming human any closer.

By now I have been well trained. Starting each July, I scan the water for loons before pushing off from the dock. I double check the area as I near the widening in the reeds. The loon parents have radar and will speed in from the middle of the lake to fend off my advances. But not this year.

So far I have yet to encounter a single loon while swimming. Sadly, I know it means they have no chicks. Or perhaps they have moved their nest further afield. I hope it is the latter.

This morning a loon pair float into my space as I begin my swim. Hesitantly I breaststroke, keeping my head above water, my eyes trained on the loons. They remain calm. Floating, dipping their heads in the water, looking for fish. I try shouting to drive them away, but they ignore my silly cries, only giving a mild yodel to acknowledge my presence. So I swim on.

This is nothing like the protective threats of yore, which instilled a healthy fear and retreat. I know not to cross that line. But this feels different. I engage full lap swimming mode, crossing from one side of the reeds to the other and back again in a strong front crawl. Without the line in the bottom of a swimming pool, my laps tend to stray off course, so I steal looks now and again to make sure I am not veering closer to the loons. Still they float nonchalantly, willing to share the space.

Underneath my minor victory lies a good dose of discomfort. They are still wild birds, after all, and unpredictable. I head for shore while I’m still ahead on this round. I send my loon friends a silent thanks for their company and forbearance. For letting me swim with them.

Next year the feud may resume. I do want their chicks to survive. Just not near my swimming spot. I would miss my loon swimming companions.

All photos by Rich Hoeg, 365DaysOfBirds.com

Note: The telephoto lens makes the loons appear closer to me than they really were – they were about 5 yards away.

Reliving History

Posted on August 5, 2020 by Molly

The year was 1985. It was our first year back in Minnesota, and with one child in tow we eagerly headed Up North for our first family vacation on Lake Wabana. We rented the same little cabin Rich had frequented as a little boy, and I instantly fell in love with it as well. It became our summer getaway for the next five years.

The cabin came with a small rowboat, and we brought our prized motor to power it – a full 1.5 hp, with a rope on top that Rich would wind around and around then pull to start the motor. It was our locomotion for the week.

That year we took our first long boat excursion. Wabana is part of a chain of lakes, and our goal was to reach the Joyce Estate on Trout Lake, two lakes and two streams away. It required starting early in the morning on a day with little wind and no chance of rain. At our speed, it was an all-day adventure.

We pulled off the trip successfully, and it became an annual pilgrimage. Even when we bought our own cabin where we had a much bigger boat and motor and a family of five, we would trailer our boat over to Wabana and repeat the trip. Still a favorite cabin activity.

Today Rich and I rise with the sun and set out to relive history. The big boat has been replaced by a grandchild friendly pontoon boat, so we hitch up our little 12’ boat and a 3 hp motor. Arriving at the boat launch on Wabana, I strain to find the lake. The lingering overnight chill is robbing the lake of its warmth, and a thick fog lies over the still water. I am bundled in three layers and a jacket and I pull up my hood to ward off the light wind. This is not how I remember setting out.

As we motor away from the landing, a tall figure materializes in the mist. A lone paddle boarder is plying the waters, ghost-like as he crosses the bay then silently disappears. We struggle to find the opening to the first stream. Not daring to lose sight of the shoreline, we cling to the water’s edge until a bright sign jumps out at us. “Slow No Wake” it warns. That wasn’t there before, but we are thankful for the gaudy entry post.

Motoring up the narrow stream is easy with our tiny boat and motor. A merganser mom approaches with her brood of five chicks. Rich, ever the bird photographer pulls over and stops. Only when she is opposite us does mom see us, and she quickly prods her family into a frenzied sprint to get by. We laugh as we watch their heads wobble with the rhythm of their rapid strokes. No time to get that photo. The mental image was enough.

Little Trout Lake is shrouded in fog. Despite its small size, we cannot see across. But we’re not looking there yet – a mama loon with her well grown chick distract us and we follow. Just beyond, a splash reveals three otters. That mama hisses as us and leads her two young away. They dunk and reappear trying to get away. The little ones imitate mom with baby hisses. Always looking behind, swimming to safety.

Despite grousing about the fog, and how we could have had a nice sunny day if we’d waited a few hours before setting out, I had to admit these were special moments we would have missed.

Another No Wake sign leads us to the next stream and on into Trout Lake. The fog refuses to lift, and the Joyce Estate lies on the far shore – somewhere out there. Relying on distant memories and dead reckoning, Rich leaves the comfort of the barely visible coastline and strikes out across the lake. One small boat plowing through deep mist. When a small point with tall pines gradually emerges from the fog Rich exclaims, “That’s it! It’s the peninsula with the sauna!” Sure enough, it’s where we were meant to be. Finding the beach where we used to swim with the kids, we secure the boat and start down the trail. Hiking back in time.

Back in 1915 David Gage Joyce gained ownership of 4,500 acres of land, almost completely surrounding Trout Lake. He began construction of the Joyce Estate on this spot two years later – a large private family resort with an expansive lodge, a number of guest cabins, butler and maid cabins, a two-story sauna, a 9-hole golf course, seaplane hangar, boat house and other amenities surrounded by beautiful gardens. In 1973, at the end of an era, the Joyce Estate was acquired by the Nature Conservancy and transferred to the U.S. Forest Service a year later.

On our first visit in 1985, nearly all the original buildings were still standing. Some were in disrepair, others still in quite good condition. The grounds were covered in brush and raspberry bushes, and we had to bushwhack our way into the old cabins to peer inside. It felt like a secret find, our own private fantasyland to explore.

Today, the Forest Service has torn down the crumbling buildings, stabilized the lodge, one guest cabin and the sauna, cleared out all the brush and mowed the grounds. It is preserved for visitors, accessibly only by hiking trail or boat, and includes a rustic campsite.

Once again, we peer into the buildings, walk gingerly inside where it looks safe and try to imagine the lifestyle of those who spent their summers here. I also see my children poking around, exclaiming over their finds, eager for a picnic on the beach. Waves of memories.

By the time we make our rounds and launch the little boat, the fog has finally lifted. As we reach the opposite shore, the clouds see fit to part and the sun comes out. It has turned into the warm sunny day that was promised. The return trip reveals all the sights we missed on the way over, and we putter along digging up visions of how it used to be 35 years ago.

Today, we’re back to just the two of us. And we have twice the horsepower. Times have changed. But not that much. We’re already planning to do this again next year.

A Wake-up Call

Posted on May 4, 2020 by Molly

It’s not easy being the wife of a birder.

I am snug in bed thinking about getting up but not actually doing so quite yet. From the other room, I hear my phone ring. At 6am it can only be one person – either that or something terrible has happened. Sure enough, it’s Rich.

“Get dressed right away! You have to come over here and see this! One of the owlets is on the ground!” Even in my groggy state I know right where he is, and exactly what he is talking about.

For the past three months, Rich has been visiting “his owls.” It took him a dozen wintry searches for the mating Great Horned Owls, triangulating their hooting, and looking for them in the trees. But it all paid off when he found their nest. It is in the woods less than 10 minutes by foot from our house. In late winter he watched Mom Owl on the nest and Dad Owl hunting for food. When they produced three baby owlets, you’d think Rich had new grandkids! He visited them on a regular basis, reporting back their progress and how fast they were growing.When the coronavirus hit and we took to sheltering in place, Rich’s vigil escalated. What else was there to do? He began checking on them multiple times a day. Whenever things got dull, he’d head out into the woods again. Or any time he heard a crow attack – a sure sign they were pestering the owls – he returned to the scene to make sure his owlets were still okay. I kidded him that he spent more time with them than with me.

Learning their nocturnal habits, Rich began refining his timing. Early morning when the owlets were being fed before sleeping, or evenings when they were becoming active again were the best time to see them. He even lured me over one evening, and I succumbed to the cuteness factor, staying to watch the three sets of owl eyes peer down at me from their branches high in the tree. They really were hard to resist. I went back a few nights later.

This morning the urgency in his voice propels me out the door. “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity!” he claims. I’m not a birder, but I know better than to disappoint one. Trotting over to the nesting area, I spot Rich’s red jacket in the woods. Creeping up next to him, he points out the owlet – just 40 yards away, perched on a broken tree branch just a couple feet off the ground. It’s one thing seeing an owl up high in a tree. It’s another to observe it at eye level.

“I found him on the path. He was being hassled by the crows and was vulnerable in the open space, so I flushed him into the woods. Mom and Dad are up in the trees trying to protect him. I’m doing the same on the ground.” We creep a little closer, all the while being watched by those gold rimmed eyes.

This owlet is not so little any more. He’s over a foot tall, and has already mastered short flights between trees. Silently I peer at this fluffy white wonder, little horns already forming atop his head, signature owl eyes staring back at me. Even lacking any affinity for birding, I can’t help but be entranced.

The owlet clearly is not in any hurry to move. He perches motionless except for his pivoting head and blinking eyes. Rich hunkers down for the long haul, watching, protecting, his camera shutter pulsing rapidly. But I eventually reach my limit and turn to go. Alarmed, the owlet puffs up and flexes his wings, in defense against this blue jacketed stranger who suddenly feels threatening. His display reveals brown and black feathers, and he lowers his head to glare at me. As soon as he realizes I am retreating, he resumes his stationary pose.

I certainly didn’t expect to run out of the house at 6am this morning. Nor would I have chosen to spend my first waking minutes “birding.” But this is one of those times when it was worth heeding that wake-up call from my resident birder. It was a hoot.

All photos by Rich Hoeg. More photos, videos and details can be found on his blog, 365DaysOfBirds.

Toddler Distancing

Posted on April 19, 2020 by Molly

The plan was to meet up at Banning State Park for a social distancing hike. I was already out of the car when the Kennedy clan – my daughter and her family – spilled out of their minivan. The older three children clustered near the back of the van, collecting hats and gloves for the hike. They had been well versed in the rules. Stay six feet apart. No hugs. Don’t touch.

But 2-year-old Michael looked up and saw me. That’s all it took. He put one foot in front of the other, then began to run – right to me. Almost. Two feet in front of me he stopped. Looked up and waited with that big grin of his. It took all my self-control not to scoop him up and give him a big squeeze and bury my face in his ticklish neck. Poor Michael, he must have wondered what was up with his Grammy. Poor Grammy, her heart ached.

Once on the trail, things improved. The big kids ran ahead, fascinated by the old Quarry structures and the rock formations along the river. There were plenty of side trails to explore, walking sticks to test, river banks to climb. Little Michael kept up as fast as his little feet could carry him. If I couldn’t get close to the kids, being able to watch them in the outdoors was nearly as good.

We tried hard to keep our distance. Dancing around one another on opposite sides of the trail, as kids ran back and forth. I did my best to imagine it was just a normal family hike in the woods. The roar of the water flowing over rapids, discovering a lingering frozen waterfall, the carpet of pine needles and the kids’ giggles helped me hold the illusion. Breathing deeply, I took in the spring air, kicked up dead leaves and stood on big rocks. Grounded by nature.These strange times call for creative solutions. This was far better than our last in-person encounter, which consisted of waving through the window and leaving chocolate chip cookies on the doorstep. And it was more successful than our attempt at 4-way virtual family charades when we had a lot of laughs but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. We will keep trying, any way we can to be “with” family.

The truth is, I don’t really want to get good at this social distancing thing. I totally believe in the value of doing it, the necessity of these awkward practices. And I will do my part. But the next time little Michael reaches up for a hug, I just might not be able to hold back.

The Race that Wasn’t

Posted on March 15, 2020 by Molly

It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and we jumped at the chance to buy grandstand seats to watch the Cross-Country Ski World Cup Sprint Final races. All winter long we looked forward to seeing these world class skiers on Minnesota snow. It was a coup for Minneapolis and the Loppet Foundation, and a treat for those of us occupying the grandstand.

The mild winter and advancing spring posed threats to the snow and trail conditions. Communications from the Loppet Foundation assured us they were prepared for the warmest spring ever. Just in case. They had surplus “whales” of snow – stockpiles that looked like their namesake. Five PistenBully groomers stood by to move snow onto the trail. And plan C? Scrape up all remaining snow on the unneeded trails and move them to the race course. They were ready.

But it wasn’t enough. Nothing could compete with the advancing threat of the coronavirus. First Norway pulled its skiers, a brutal blow. Then the rapid advancement of travel restrictions and social distancing. What spring couldn’t kill, disease could. Among all the cancellation announcements, that was the one that hurt the most. Not because of what I would miss, but because of the lost opportunity for Minnesota to host the first competition in two decades for the world’s finest skiers on American snow.

In lieu of our trip to the Cities for the race, we went down for the weekend to visit family. By Sunday, son Erik and his wife Katie – fellow disappointed ticket holders – and I decided to check out the wanna-be race course. The mild and sunny temperature had lured numerous skiers to the venue, and despite all a sense of festivity lingered.

Walking through the starting gate area, I couldn’t help but feel the excitement it generated. Skiers posed and shot out of the gates in private competitions. They skated up and over the bridge past the chalet, and I wished for my own skis to join them in the warm sunshine. We took our turns posing on the podium platform. If we couldn’t be there to see world class skiers, we could pretend to be rubbing shoulders with them.

Gazing at the empty grandstands, I tried to imagine the event as it was meant to be. Sandwiched into the bleacher seats, peering into the distance, watching for each skier who rounded the curve to cross the finish line. I could feel the excitement. Hear the roar of the crowds. Feel the home town pride of a place that could host this elite event. Almost.

It felt selfish to wish for what couldn’t be. To allow myself to feel the sense of loss. To think about what might have been.

Instead, I soaked up the sun. Took in the magnificence of the preparations. Envied the skiers of all ages and abilities gliding across the warming snow. And relished being among family.

In a world full of uncertainty, fraught with fears, and the impossible task of navigating between hysteria and safe decisions, it felt good to just enjoy the outdoors. Walk in the sunshine. Smile at strangers. Throw the ball for the dog. Enjoy life as it is. Even if for the moment.

Vacation Dreams

Posted on February 2, 2020 by Molly

For months, the word claimed ownership to weeks on our calendar. It feels like a lifetime ago that Rich and I sat down and plunked “Vacation” on three separate chunks of winter and spring. I knew the drill – if we didn’t dedicate the time early on, we’d fill up the calendar and never get away. But this time it wasn’t being busy that posed a threat.

As Rich’s eyesight issues progressed through the fall, we put our lives on hold. Ordinary outings like going for a walk, having dinner at a restaurant, attending a party all assumed an onerous significance. Could Rich manage it? The future meant later today, maybe tomorrow. Beyond that we could not see. The words languished on the calendar.

As winter’s cold, dry climate and brilliant snow reflections wreaked havoc with Rich’s eyes, we began to ponder the unthinkable. Might we have to become snowbirds? Would Rich have to give up his love of the Northwoods, his hunt for winter owls, and his passion for cross-country skiing to hibernate in a warm and humid climate that was kinder to his eyes? If that’s what it took to regain his eyesight, so be it.

Fortunately, the magic of Rich’s botox treatments turned our world around. With each stride forward, Rich regained aspects of his life he feared were lost forever, and we tenderly ventured to believe we could make plans again. So it was that I deleted late January’s “Vacation” week and replaced it with “Florida.”

Through the generosity of our friends, Arlene and Steve, we spent a glorious sunny week with them in Fort Myers. Rich and I were both there, but had distinctly different experiences.

For me, it was a week of indulging in long walks with Arlene, biking with Arlene and our friend Myra, lapping up the friendships. The constantly sunny days in the 70s salved my winter body. Ventures to Sanibel and Captiva delivered my requisite doses of beach and waves. Dinners in the company of good friends capped each day.

While I reveled in the pure Florida vacation, Rich still faced a series of trials. If Rich’s eye troubles have taught us anything, it’s that nothing can be taken for granted. What the blepharospasm took away from him will take months to regain. Things that used to be second nature, now require conquering anew. His confidence is badly shaken. Even the air travel proved stressful.

On this trip, bicycling posed a major hurdle. Battling fear of failure, Rich took Steve’s bike out for a spin in the safe environs of the development. Hesitant at first, belief dawning gradually, he covered eight miles on the quiet roads. His text to declare success contained four exclamation points, five smiley faces! Over the remainder of the week he expanded his distances, braving the real world, even biking to a birding spot. It remains to be seen whether we will be able to resume our bike touring. For now we celebrate one success at a time.

Ever the birder, Rich researched wildlife preserves and stalked local birds with great success. Perusing his photos each day, I reveled in the beauty – envious of his finds, but fully aware of my lack of patience to find and watch these rarities. Photos would do. Virtually guaranteeing success, Rich lured the three of us out early one morning in search of burrowing owls. Sure enough, we found eight tiny owls perched on their burrows in the vicinity of a ball field in Cape Coral. They weren’t hard to spot – the hovels of this threatened species were cordoned off by plastic piping, their holes marked by wooden crosses. Birding for dummies, perhaps, but they were gosh darn cute.

Florida may not become our winter home after all, providing the botox keeps up its work. But our sojourn south had many healing benefits.

Merely going on vacation – something so basic, so normal – felt like our re-entry to the world. Rich started to believe again. The future began to stretch out ahead of us once more. And we renamed another Vacation segment on the calendar. Costa Rica, here we come! We might as well dream big.

Ski Medicine

Posted on January 21, 2020 by Molly

It might not have been what the doctor ordered, but it was the best medicine I could take. I was still coughing and dragging from a bout with the flu when Erik called. “Would it be all right if I came up tomorrow night to ski the North Shore on Monday? You’d be welcome to join me.” Of course it was more than all right!

I tossed and turned all night long. Was I crazy to spend a whole day skiing when I could barely get off the couch just days before? I’ve never been one to hold back, nor necessarily listen to reason, so in the dark wee hours of the morning I rose and piled on layers of ski clothes.

As we drove the shoreline the sun rose in a cloudless sky, lifting over Lake Superior and bisecting the radiant band of orange hovering over the cold blue water. By the time we reached the Sugarbush Trailhead above Tofte, it hung low in the sky sending long sinewy shadows across the trail but doing little to raise the zero degree temperature. Pristine corduroy lay before my skate skis, crisp deep tracks for Erik’s classic version. We entered the deep silence of the trail.

Erik had some serious skiing to do. His goal was to complete the Picnic Loop and any other bits of trail he could find to ski 40 kilometers. As a serious contender in the upcoming Birkie Classic race, he relished this extensive training opportunity. So I waved him off, content to plod along at my own pace.

The cold snow squealed under my skis, glide eluding my fresh wax job, but the extra effort warmed my stiff chilled body. I didn’t meet another sole for at least an hour and a half, skimming the snow, lost in thought. Imperceptibly the sun gained strength, my fingers and toes rejoiced, and my skis slipped ever so slightly farther. Weaving through the woods, uphill and down I lost track of time and distance. Forgot my recent malady.

Through sheer luck, we finished at nearly the same time. Flush with excitement over the fantastic conditions, Erik confirmed his 41k distance – to my 20k in the same amount of time! Over lunch at the Coho Café we traded superlatives about our morning – the deep glistening snow in the woods, the distant lake views, the challenging but fun hills, the joy of skiing.

The Northwoods Ski Trail in Silver Bay gave us a leisurely afternoon ski. Narrow single classic tracks wound through the woods, with snow laden pines slipping past our shoulders and towering overhead. We skied together over the soft snow, sharing the views and even spotting a marten that scampered up a tree to peer down at us. A steep uphill got our hearts pumping, and rewarded us with a long smooth downhill. This wasn’t a workout, it was an experience.

A full day, sharing a mutual love of skiing, chatting in the car, just being together. One-on-one time with one of my adult children is a precious gift. This one also delivered a hearty dose of healing. Goodbye flu, I think I skied it out of my system. And Erik? He opted for another 15k on the Lester Trails when we returned, topping off his mileage above 60k. We both got the medicine we needed.

Snowbound

Posted on December 2, 2019 by Molly

We’re still waiting. Two days ago at this time snow was falling in earnest. Actually, it didn’t really fall, the wind swirled it in mad circles. Whisking horizontally past the windows. Sticking to the sides of the house. Clinging to the trees. It’s been a long time since the weather service used the word Blizzard. This time it was accurate. Snug inside, I enjoyed watching it rage.

Storming through the night, it finally tapered into delicate flakes as morning dawned. Rich layered up and began the process of digging out. Grabbing the yardstick from my sewing supplies, he took it down to the driveway. Lest he be accused of exaggeration he had proof – 19″. The accumulation took the life of his snowblower and required rigorous sessions of shovel, rest, repeat. All day long.

The news was filled with cancellations, including church services. But no matter, we could travel no farther than the end of our cleared driveway. Living on a remote road, we’re used to being last on the priority list for plowing. So I donned my heavy boots and a backpack for a trip to the grocery store, grateful that it was so close. Preparations for hunkering down.

Having covered the basics, I could hold back no longer. This kind of snow just shouted Snowshoes! And I answered the call. That unplowed road was all that lay between me and forest land, crisscrossed by multi-use trails. Not a sole trod before me, leaving deep pristine snow to explore. Trees hung low, burdened with heavy blankets of snow, blocking my path. Too pretty to disturb, I tried to skirt around them carefully. The slightest bump released a mini-blizzard and sent branches flinging upwards.Silence reigned. Only the plop of my snowshoes and the swish of trying to extricate them from the snowy abyss penetrated the quiet. The sun began its gradual reappearance, signaling the real end of the storm. Solitude worked its magic.Day two dawned clear and cold. The sunlight was as welcome as a rainbow after a thunderstorm. Glistening snow. Endless blue sky. Warming rays of the sun. Still the road remained clogged with snow. There was only one sensible response. Ski it!

7 Bridges Road was rife with snowmobile tracks, boot prints and the occasional ski track. It made for a firm if bumpy surface which beckoned me upwards, crossing bridge after bridge. But the real payoff was at the top. Branching off onto Hawk Ridge the walkers disappeared. Snowmobiles had pummeled the surface into a reliable ski surface. Lake Superior spread out to the horizon, the city of Duluth lay in grids below. The snowbound confines of the house dropped away as civilization lay at my feet.Returning downhill, I wondered if the snowplow had come. If I would have to find a new way home. I’m not sure if I was relieved or disappointed to be able to ski all the way to the driveway. Still snowbound. Still waiting. Time to plan tomorrow’s snowy adventure.

Yooperlites

Posted on September 12, 2019 by Molly

“There’s one!”

“Oh, that’s a really good one.”

“Here, your turn.”

“Wait, shine that light back over here.”

“Yes! Look at it glow!”

“Yea! Yippee! We found one!”

It’s been a long time since I’ve had this much fun in the dark. Giddy with our success, Rich and I press on, sweeping the flashlight over the rocks on the beach.

“Oh, another one!”

We would still be huddled by our evening campfire had it not been for a series of fortuitous coincidences.

Checking in with our contact for Crisp Point Lighthouse prior to our stint as Keepers, she alerted us to the fact that there had been frequent late night visitors this year. “They’re looking for Yooperlites,” she told us. It went right over our heads. We had no idea what she was talking about, but appreciated the heads-up.

Crisp Point map

Crisp Point Lighthouse 2019

Arriving for duty, I scanned the updated layout of merchandise in the Visitor Center taking in the new inventory. Passing the table of scrapbooks and resource books, the words jumped out at me. Yooperlites were featured on the front of the Mineral News newsletter. And my education began.

Just last year a gentleman began selling unique rocks he collected from Lake Superior’s shore in the upper peninsula of Michigan. Looking perfectly ordinary in daylight, in the dark these stones emit a brilliant orange glow under UV light. He marketed them using the name Yooperlites, based on the slang for UP residents (Yoopers).

That explained the nocturnal visitors. And why it was a new phenomenon.

According to the Mineral News, these are examples of concretions – sedimentary rock with minerals embedded in them. In this case, the mineral is believed to be fluorescent sodalite.

Interesting enough. Until a late afternoon delivery of supplies for the lighthouse that also yielded a key disclosure. There was a UV flashlight and samples of Yooperlite in the Visitor Center. Suddenly, we had the means to make our own discoveries.

With the last light fading from the sky we scour the rock strewn beach. It is surprising how many pinpoints of yellow or blue light shine back at us from the rocks, and how white rocks reflect that light. (Not to mention Rich’s white socks and my neon yellow shoe laces, which are blinding.)

But we seek the real gems. The rocks permeated with an orange glow. The more pocked with light the better. And they are there. As soon as the UV rays passes over those rocks, they light up. Not just colorful, they radiate from within. There is no mistaking them, and with each discovery we cheer and laugh, triumphant.

Yooperlites glowing

It is a heck of a lot more fun than hunting for agates. And a lot more successful. With each new Yooperlite we find, we are spurred on to uncover another one. And another. Selecting only the five best to keep. Sure enough, in the daylight their hidden glow is locked deep inside.

Yooperlites daylight

I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow night. Oh, and did you know? I was born a Yooper.

Yooperlite w Crisp Point Lighthouse

Farvel Norge

Posted on August 27, 2019 by Molly

It was an alien feeling. Walking down the jetway in Copenhagen in 81 degrees of sunshine felt like a blast furnace. Just the day before it was 42 degrees when we awoke in the Norwegian Arctic.

Clearly my head was on bike touring when I made my packing list. I brought every layer of warm bike clothes I owned. I didn’t think very clearly about our post-bike adventures in the far north. I looked on with envy at the passengers on Hurtigruten, snug in their quilted jackets, hats and gloves. Thankfully, hunkering down in my layers of cycling clothes was nearly as good. I admit to feeling silly in my sandals. In fact, in four weeks in Norway, where sturdy hiking shoes are the norm, I only saw one other person in sandals besides the two of us. And he was wearing socks. Okay, so I resorted to the same measure of desperation.

Norway and especially its islands are reputed to be wet. After 16 days of cycling in near perfect sunshine and moderate temperatures, I could hardly argue with cloudy skies and a few showers once we were off the bicycles. Our timing was impeccable. I could easily deal with cold and damp from the protected environs of the ship. And after all, it wasn’t too far removed from a typical Duluth summer.

The remoteness and low population density of Norway also reminded me of Northern Minnesota. With one big exception – the mountains. They were everywhere, a constant backdrop to the coastal views, the picturesque fishing villages, the harbor scenes and even sandy beaches. Ranging from towering rocky peaks to softer tundra mounds and sheer cliffs, I never grew tired of them.

We just missed the last day of the midnight sun. But we still had 18 hours of sunlight each day accompanied by near light on each end. Sunsets lingered forever, as the sun reluctantly retreated toward the horizon. On the flip side, the length and quality of my sleep depended on the effectiveness of that night’s blackout curtains.

Breakfast was always included in our lodgings, and consistently meant a breakfast buffet that rarely varied in its offerings. Skipping over the cold fish, meats, cheeses and relishes that are Norwegian staples I’d head straight for the fresh loaves of hearty warm bread, wrapped in a cotton cloth just waiting for me to cut a thick slice or two. A bowl of muesli – not to be confused with granola – soaked with milk and topped with raisins and almonds would hold me long into the afternoon. Sweet options were noticeably absent.

At dinner time I was in my element. As a fish lover married to a solid meat eater, I relished the opportunity to indulge my tastes. I made it a point to order fish every evening, which wasn’t hard given the ubiquitous coastline and fishing industry of Norway. I’m rather proud of my record, eating meat only 4 times for dinner. And three of those were evenings when we had set menus.

If there’s anything I’m looking forward to eating at home, it’s fresh fruits and vegetables. We rarely had them beyond a few offerings at breakfast, and leafy salads as we know them did not exist. Beyond that, I admit to having a hankering for a thick chewy chocolate chip cookie.

Our travels often reveal a favorite drink of the day. This trip we discovered pear cider. Already fans of hard cider, we quickly adapted to this local variation. The cold slightly fizzy brew went down easily after a long day of cycling. Or just sightseeing.

We certainly never had to worry about being connected. No matter how remote the town or how modest our lodgings, we nearly always had free WiFi. Even on board the ship, it came with our passage. You won’t find that on any cruise ship!

Norwegians do love their bicycles. City centers were full of them. Kids all ride them to school, just as their parents cycle to work. Bike trails are the norm, both in town where they are shared with pedestrians, and out in the countryside. And colorful bikes posing as flower pots adorn many front yards.

Three flights down and two to go before we reach home. Flicking through my photos I’m already feeling nostalgic. Savoring the memories. Here’s a favorite.

Farewell Norway!

Superior Footprints

Life and the Outdoors in the Northland

Category Archives: Outdoors

Loon Swimming Companions

Reliving History

A Wake-up Call

Toddler Distancing

The Race that Wasn’t

Vacation Dreams

Ski Medicine

Snowbound

Yooperlites

Farvel Norge

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