Bluebonnet Bounty

Posted on March 26, 2019 by Molly

When you’ve seen the best, how can it possibly get any better? That’s what we thought when we heard that this year the Texas Bluebonnets were a bumper crop – the best in 10 years. We found it hard to believe that they could beat the ubiquitous blue carpet we saw back in 2015.

If the roadsides were any indication, our skepticism was well founded. We didn’t see the same dense pack of spiky blue blooms lining the roadways. Patches here and there, yes, and occasional islands of color. But still not up to par.

So we set out to cycle the Willow City Loop. This 13-mile winding country road is the epitome for bluebonnet viewing. Cars inch along as passengers ogle the flowers. Everyone ignores the “No Stopping” sign, pulling off when they can to take pictures. Grownups hunker down into the flowers, posting for the camera. Propriety is tossed aside in the presence of the state flower of Texas.

With the benefit of a car this time, we parked at one end of the loop and doubled our pleasure with an out-and-back ride. Starting shortly after sunrise in the crisp cool air, the low angle of the sun’s rays cast a golden glow. We were alone on the road at that hour, well ahead of the traffic yet to come.

Relishing the silence, we also reveled in the pace and flexibility of our bikes. We lingered and took it all in as we passed in slow motion. Stopping was as easy as parking our bikes, allowing plenty of angles for photographer Rich, and even a few cheesy poses of our own.

As the miles went on, so did the bluebonnets. Deep into the fields. Crowding the roadsides. Encircling the prickly pear cacti. Swarming under fences. Whole hillsides of them. The scene began to match the one we held in such esteem. Yes, we ultimately agreed, this could be just as good. Maybe even better. Photos tell it best.

After 26-miles, it really didn’t matter. We knew we’d seen a bounty of bluebonnets. That was good enough for us.

An Enchanted Hike

Posted on March 25, 2019 by Molly

Bike touring is great, but it does leave many “nearby” attractions undiscovered. I can’t count the number of times I have looked longingly at a sign for a promising sight while Rich chides, “Molly, that little detour is 12 miles round trip!” We cycle on by.

After two bike tours through Fredericksburg TX, this year we chose to arrive by car with our bicycles on the back. Settling into a tiny cottage just off the historic Main Street, we suddenly have access to all those missed opportunities. Nothing qualifies as too far to detour.

Today’s destination was my pick. I got my first glimpse of Enchanted Rock while on a long bike ride. Navigating the winding, hilly backroads, I turned a corner and there it was – the big pink granite dome. That was enough to put it on my bucket list for our stay.

Waiting out the misty morning, we timed our arrival perfectly – just as the sun came out. We also deliberately missed last week’s spring break crowds. No bikes for us today, the Enchanted Rock State Natural Area is for hiking. Loading up with sunscreen, plenty of water and cameras we started off with the iconic Summit Trail.

Calling it a trail is a misnomer. It’s a rock. And you walk up it. The big pink expanse beckoned and we meandered up the steep slope to the top. Chatting with other trekkers made the journey far easier than we imagined it to be. Wandering over the top of the dome, we admired the views, ogled strange rock formations and found wildflowers in the crevices. The notion of hurry did not apply.

Hiking back down an alternate swath of rock, we connected with the Echo Canyon Trail. I quickly understood the Challenging classification, as I picked my way between boulders. I was more at ease once it morphed into an easy walking trail.

Skirting Moss Lake, we finished on the Loop Trail. The highway width crushed rock path was impossible to miss, and the unshaded sun baked our northern bodies. But it delivered on the wildflower scale and provided some fun rock monuments.

Tomorrow we’re back on the bicycles for our favorite loop through the Texas bluebonnets. But today I was glad Rich humored me for an enchanted day of hiking.

At Your Service

Posted on March 10, 2019 by Molly

The boys thought they were asking a big favor. But in fact it was a privilege.

I’m not sure where they got this adventure gene. But our sons both inherited it. Five years ago Carl and Erik climbed my great-grandfather’s mountain, Mount Brewer – 150 years after William Henry Brewer’s first ascent. Together they have backpacked in the Porcupine Mountains and the trail above Pictured Rocks. Last year they winter camped in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. This year they upped the ante, planning a 40-mile trek following the border route in the BWCAW. And they asked us to be their shuttle service.

Rich drove the boys up to Ely and beyond, to Moose Lake where he deposited them with all their gear. After harnessing up their pulks, they set off across the frozen lake, Erik on backcountry skis and Carl on a new set of Altai Hok skis – a cross between a ski and a snowshoe. Snowshoes were stowed within easy reach for portages and deep snow conditions. The deep blue sky contrasted sharply with the pristine snow and pine woods border under the bright sunshine for a picturesque start.

They allowed themselves three days to make it to the end of the Gunflint Trail. It would have been three days of waiting nervously to find out if they made it had it not been for Rich’s sleepless nights leading up to the trip. To assuage his concerns, he diligently researched satellite tracking units, and ultimately insisted they carry one. Or no deal on the shuttles.

Thanks to the generosity of a friend who lent them a Garmin inReach, they had the means of providing us with updates and more importantly, sending out a call for help if needed. At the end of day 1, we received the following message at dusk, “Camp made on Knife [lake]. Great day.” What followed was a link with their GPS coordinates. With one click we could see exactly where they were. Whew, peace of mind.

While we drove up to a modern warm cabin on the Gunflint Trail overlooking Poplar Lake, the boys made their way along the border from lake to lake, slogging through snow drifts, skiing on hard windblown crust and plowing through waist deep snow on portages. They trekked from sunup to sundown, made camp, ate and slept when darkness fell. Although they saw plenty of open water, they were fortunate not to find slush between the layers of snow and ice. Snowmobiles and dog sleds were allowed on some of the lakes, but alas, none created a packed path for them in the direction they were going. They took turns breaking trail.

Of course, we knew none of this at the time. We pondered the snow conditions, praised the good weather, hoped they were staying warm enough at night. The daily updates were a godsend.

We were in position for pickup on the third day. Mid-day we got word: “At Sag [Saganaga Lake] at American Point may finish late” I settled in with a good book across from the cozy fire. At 4pm we got the text we’d been awaiting. “ETA 1 hourish on snowmobile trail.” When we arrived at the designated boat launch, I couldn’t just stand there and wait. Hiking out the narrow inlet, I searched the distant shore, footstep after footstep. The two tiny figures that materialized on the horizon lifted my heart.

They arrived very sunburned and weather-beaten, but with the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen. They had done it! It was a lot harder and slower going than they had anticipated, due to the lack of packed snow, but they made it and were justifiably thrilled. Carl summed it up, “This trip gets a big check on my To Do list. I don’t need to do that again!”

The accomplishment deserved celebrating with dinner at the iconic Trail Center Lodge. Word leaked out about their adventure, and soon everyone around us wanted to know all the details. The staff presented them with medals and even offered to be their food sponsor for the next adventure, with their locally made Camp Chow ! Nothing could top seeing the pure pleasure on the faces of my sons.

I’m not likely to trek with a sled across frozen lakes through the Boundary Waters, go winter camping or even climb my great-grandfather’s mountain. But I’m so glad to be a part of my sons’ lives watching them do it. It fills my heart to know that they choose to pursue these dreams together. Carl and Erik, I’ll be there, at your service, any time you plan another adventure.

Sisu Initiation

Posted on February 16, 2019 by Molly

What do nine women, including three sisters, three generations and a handful of close friends have in common? Sisu!

Arriving at the National Forest Lodge near Isabella, I lugged my gear into the spacious log house that would be our home for three days. As the newcomer to a group that has convened here annually for years, I wondered how I would fit in. I needn’t have worried. Gathering in the kitchen, one member had already laid out hand-made snowflake earrings (no two alike, of course) and lanyards emblazoned with “sisu,” its definition under our names: “Sisu begins where the perseverance and grit end.” I knew it right then. These were my soul-mates. This was going to be a good weekend.

We made rapid work of choosing beds and dumping our bags. The Flathorn-Gegoka cross-country ski trails awaited right outside the door. As soon as we could strap on our skis, we set out to make the most of the remaining daylight. Brilliant blue skies and warm sunshine offset the blustery wind, and soon we were sheltered by the deep forest. With two-feet of newly fallen snow freshly groomed into narrow single classic tracks, we brushed shoulders with tall pines. Branches laden with mounds of snowy fluff, sun peeping through, all sounds but the swish of our skis were muffled by the soft whiteness.

Morning brought sub-zero temperatures, but not a single Sisu sister hesitated. Fueled by a healthy and hearty breakfast in the lodge, we donned all our layers and ventured forth on skis and snowshoes. The pattern would repeat itself over the next two days. Eat and ski. Groups formed and reformed, venturing out until fingers and toes needed rejuvenating or the next meal beckoned.

Behind every Sisu sister, there is a lighter side. Or a crazier one. Some intrepid souls could not resist the lure of the sauna and polar plunge. I readily admit to passing on this experience, but they didn’t hold it against me.

There were no midnight sorties on the trail by headlamp. Instead, fierce competitive streaks emerged. Huddled around the dining table, we furiously shaped and reshaped crosswords playing Bananagrams, and drew artful clues for Pictionary. This was serious business, perhaps enhanced by a sip or two of wine.

If sharing a passion for word games, skiing as many kilometers as daylight allows, nestling by the fire with a bit of wine, waking to the smell of brewing coffee and sneaking oatmeal cookies are any indication, I think I passed the Sisu initiation. Thank you, sisters!

Winter Water

Posted on December 6, 2018 by Molly

If I had any doubts about winter’s arrival, it only took a trip up the North Shore to the Canadian border and beyond to confirm it. While patchy snow powdered Duluth, the more northern climes delivered deeply flocked pines and enough snow on the ground to make boots a necessity. Not exactly typical waterfall weather, but that was the whole attraction.

It took two stops at Kakabeka Falls north of Thunder Bay to catch in it bathed in sunlight. Afternoon delivered the warmth and light we sought, and transformed the view into a thunderous sparkling delight.

Pushing further north, we ventured in search of Silver Falls. Following unplowed roads into the park of the same name, we stopped to hike at Dog Lake. With only vague directions to the falls, we declined the remaining narrowing white road onward. Silver Falls await a return visit.

Just at the border, High Falls in Grand Portage State Park graced us with sunshine once again. The Pigeon River flowed with gusto, even as its borders froze into creamy icicles. Especially intriguing was watching the water falling behind the thinner icy patches.

While Rich stopped to investigate the water fowl in the bay at Grand Marais, I found yet another water feature in the crystal remnants of recent wave action.

The best part of all? We had every single one of these sights to ourselves. Apparently, we were the only ones out in search of winter water.

On to Plan C

Posted on September 26, 2018 by Molly

Sometimes life intervenes. Our revised plans to camp in our tent on our trip out west started out well enough. We scored a nice campsite on the river in Teddy Roosevelt National Park, and managed to squeeze in a short bike ride on the wilderness loop after arriving. A bison spent the night on the banks of the river just below our spot, and in the morning he took a stroll right through our campsite! We decided to let him have it.

On good advice, we drove the Beartooth Highway to enter Yellowstone. Getting an early start, we were well down the road and into the mountains just as the sun began hitting the peaks. It only got better from there. The 68 miles took us a full three hours to cover, slowly winding our way around hairpin curves, ogling the views over the edge and stopping frequently to take in the scenery. We hadn’t even gotten to the park yet and we were already enamored with the locale.

Traveling at the end of the season, we assumed that the crowds in Yellowstone had thinned. But that wasn’t the case. Even the campsites were still in high demand, so rather than moving around the park we snapped up four nights in the Canyon Valley campground, hastily making reservations en route. Tall pine trees towered over our humble tent, needles carpeted the ground and plenty of space insulated us from other campers. All seemed well. But we only lasted two nights.

It wasn’t the thunder-snow that we heard rumbling and falling icily on our tent the first morning that drove us out. In fact, we luxuriated in the excuse to hunker down reading in our cozy sleeping bags until it ceased. It wasn’t the 25 degree temps the following morning. It wasn’t even the meager camp meals that we concocted over our ancient sputtering cook-stove.

Yellowstone snowy campsite Yellowstone reading in tent

It was the bugs. No, not the buzzing, biting, flying irritants that usually annoy campers. Pink-eye and flu bugs. Lingering gifts from a recent visit with our grandchildren took Rich down hard. And each successive day he worsened. No matter how cushy the air mattresses (and ours aren’t), there’s no pretending that we get a good night’s sleep on the ground.

Just as in bicycle touring, we instituted our trusty rule. When someone gets sick, no more camping. It’s the only way to get better. But scuttling Plan B was not that easy. Those late season crowds? They filled the lodgings too. After many phone calls, we scored a room in Grant Village that had just been released. Wincing at the cost but celebrating our luck, we repeated the search in the Grand Tetons.

So much for our free-wheeling campervan plan. Goodbye outdoorsy tent camping. Hello Plan C – warm, inviting park lodgings with electricity and soft beds, secured with advance reservations. I’m entirely certain that the park sights will still be stunning.

Farewell my lighthouse

Posted on August 29, 2018 by Molly

The last sunrise. A final morning walk on the beach. A concluding entry in my journal. It is the last of five days that I will repeat this early routine. I will miss this place.

As if to mark the occasion, sunrise is the most colorful of the week. I scamper to my favorite views to try and capture the image. Clouds light up from below as the sun advances up from the horizon.

My walk takes the pace of a stroll across nature’s canvas. Tottering over mounds of Lake Superior rocks, I leave no trace. When the charcoal, gray, pink and white mosaic gives way to sandy beach I smile. Here I can walk more steadily, stop concentrating on where I place my feet and look around. I could pick up my pace, but there is too much to see.

Molly walking beach at CPL

My footsteps from yesterday are still visible in places – a surprise on this windblown expanse. The afternoon’s visitors have also left their mark – bare feet, dog paws, a rock message composed on the sand. I wonder about the huge paw prints that walk alone, appear very recent. They could belong to a bear.

It’s nature’s traces that are the real attraction. My favorite are the fine lines that curve and intersect on the firm sand. They mark the perimeter of the waves’ advances. they tell the story of the water’s movement. A few days ago big waves drove high up the beach. Today they merely lap the edge. Black sand stretches add to the design, mingling colors.

Bird and critter tracks wind hither and yon though the sand. Drunken wanderings leave a fanciful path. Tiny feet press distinct prints. Animal friends join and leave. Explosions occasionally occur in the intersections of a crowd.

The wind too participates in this artwork. Symmetrical ripples linger across the sand. A lazy stream creates similar patterns under water, on its journey to the lake. It is all there for the visual taking.

The lake is quiet as my coffee and I settle down on my “writer’s log” on the beach. A light wind blows. Weak sunlight flows over my shoulders, tempered by broken clouds and remnants of wildfire smoke. The beach exudes calm.

I don’t mind that it is not a sparkling blue day. This feels more relaxed. The air is that temperature that I don’t feel – it’s just there, comfortable. The day does not demand attention. It just is.

Soon the first visitors will arrive and I will resume my station in the Visitor Center for Crisp Point Lighthouse. During lulls in the day we will pack up our gear. Roll up the sleeping bags. Take down the tent. We will prepare to say our goodbyes to Crisp Point. For one more year.

Lighthouse Life

Posted on August 29, 2018 by Molly

Living in the moment. It’s what I crave most as we approach our stint as lighthouse keepers at Crisp Point Lighthouse. For five days, my daily life will revolved around my duties tending the lighthouse and its visitors. The rest of the world will live at a distance.

The process begins as we drive down the rough 18 miles of dirt road. I leave civilization behind. The woods close in around the car. My cell signal dies out. I shut down my electronic devices for good. I abandon my to do lists, my deadlines, my schedules. Anything I don’t have in the car, I don’t need. Tent, sleeping bag, a duffle of clothes, cook stove, food supplies and water comprise my worldly goods.

This is not new territory. Rich and I are in our fifth year as keepers, so we know the drill. Our duties revolve around hosting the visitors who come, eager to see the lighthouse. We have already established camp in our keeper’s site before the first arrive.

This is the first time we have been keepers in the peak of the summer season. Warm weather is a welcome change from our chilly October visits, and visitor numbers swell accordingly. We see close to 100 people a day, keeping us busy greeting, informing, helping and chatting with these visitors. I love seeing the eager faces, thrilled to know they can climb the tower, go out on the catwalk. From my post in the Visitor Center I meet people who have been coming here for years, decades some of them. They know more about the early days than I do, recount first hand stories of the decay followed by brilliant restoration. Despite being busy, it is restorative work. I have no need to plan my day. It develops with each person who arrives to see the lighthouse. It feels good. Serving others.

There are always cleaning and maintenance jobs to be done and we fill in with those around our visitor duties. Rick Brockway, president of the Crisp Point Light Historical Society, comes daily and pitches in non-stop on chores. His tireless efforts make this lighthouse site worth the long arduous drive. Rich helps out with replacing a segment of the boardwalk. I sort, fold and put away the new shipment of t-shirts that Rick brought. Our efforts pale in comparison to Rick’s dedication.

It’s the edges of the day that I relish. Fringes of time to drink in the surroundings, revel in owning that remote space for a brief stint. Nestled against the shore of Lake Superior, camping on the soft sand, hearing the repetitive lap or roar of the waves against the shore. Sunrise and sunset, that red orb rising and falling into the lake. The wood crackling as the campfire battles against the wind that whips away its flames as well as its heat.

Post sunrise the sun paints the lighthouse with its magical morning glow. inching up the tower. The structure is illuminated rather than being the illuminator.

Five days, living under the shadow of this lighthouse. It’s quite the life.

Is this still Texas?

Posted on April 7, 2018 by Molly

Two jackets, a quarter zip thermal shirt, long sleeve t-shirt, short sleeve Cuddle Dud, arm warmers, biking shorts, tights, wool socks, gloves, toe warmers and a hat. It was just barely enough to stay warm cycling all day. We didn’t pack our heavy Minnesota gear for cycling in Texas, so instead I wore everything I had in my panniers. Yesterday it was 87 degrees. Today never got above 40.

We were warned. Whenever we told folks we were melting in the heat because we were from Minnesota, they responded, “Just wait until tomorrow. You’ll feel right at home.”

Not only was it 36 and windy as we cycled away from our motel, but a fine mist soon coated our glasses and dampened our outermost layers. It might have dampened our spirits as well except for one huge bonus. The 21 mph wind was directly behind us. After battling a headwind for two days, this was a wind we could welcome. Even if it delivered frigid air.

Rich at motel

The best way to stay warm was to keep cycling. So I was surprised when Rich randomly stopped halfway down a hill. I was even more surprised to see him wandering into the roadside grasses until I realized he was taking photos. In that weather, I knew it could not be a bird. Instead he was documenting the increasing population of bluebonnets and other wild flowers. There were frequent bunches lining the road and we could tell that some fields were filled with bluebonnets, but in the misty distance they appeared as a dim blue fuzz.

Texas wildflowers

I finally got my latte when we stopped at Oliver and Company coffeehouse in San Sabo for breakfast. In fact, I had two. I’ve never done that before. But they were small, and I still wasn’t warm after one.

Molly at coffeehouse

Molly feeling cold
Whether it was the double lattes, warm food, extra calories or just spending some time indoors, it felt marginally warmer when we returned to our bikes. Or perhaps it was the absence of mist in the air. But it made the difference between being chilled and feeling comfortable. And it certainly improved our ability to see and appreciate the lush green rolling countryside studded with leafy trees and the occasional longhorn cattle.

Today’s ride was completed in record time. We fairly flew down the road. Uphills were effortless with the wind’s turbo boost. On the flats we easily clocked 20 mph. Our average speed jumped from 9.5 yesterday to 13 mph for today – a gain of over 35%!

Texas is full of surprises. We shall see what the Lone Star State delivers tomorrow.

Enjoying the Season

Posted on March 14, 2018 by Molly

It’s that time of year again. Not quite mud season. Worse. The piles of snow left on the ground have guaranteed this late winter phenomenon – thaw, puddle, refreeze, ice. It wreaks havoc with sidewalks, creating skating rinks overnight. It makes ski trails into luge runs in the morning, and slush in the afternoons.

This in-between season has forced me to modify my outdoor activities. A creature of habit, I too often get in a rut, reluctant to vary my routine. But Mother Nature is showing me that change has its rewards.

Lester River Trail

A hike on the Lester River Trail proved to be a viable option last week. I found that rather than focusing on a workout on my skis, I could just meander and take in the snowy sights in the very same woods. The trails were firmly packed by fat tire bikes and foot traffic, making travel easy. It was an entirely different experience. I was far more attuned to my surroundings.

At the Lester River overlooks, I wondered if I might have snowshoed up the riverbed. But the sound of flowing water and open spots in the ice told me otherwise. I was content to admire and follow my beaten path. All was quiet on that weekday afternoon, making it a most peaceful venture.

One look at the puddles on the Lakewalk was enough to reroute my morning run. Heading out before dawn, I have moved to the dry pavement of the Scenic Highway shoulders. As a bonus, I have a perfect view of the sunrise over the lake. One day a deep red line glows across the horizon. The next a pale orange hue hangs above the low clouds. The sun’s rays skitter across the lake.

By the time I turn around to head home, the low sun illuminates the snowy mounds that line the lakeshore. Adjacent to the deep blue water, the face of the snowbanks reflects the sunlight. The backsides are bluey shadows. It’s a color pattern that never grows old. I watch it for miles.

Reaching via Brighton Beach, I find a new scene every day. Over the weekend when the wind was calm, the water’s surface froze into a fine mirror. Its thin veneer perfectly reflected the rocks, snow and ice. The picture of calm.

Brighton Beach ice 1

I returned later in the day to see what sculptures the wind had made with the fragile ice. Sure enough, ice shards lay stacked in random fashion on the shore, glinting in the sunlight. As I walked the shore to take in Nature’s art work, I kept hearing an eerie whining sound. I turned to see rocks skidding across the surface of the ice, as if they were miniature curling stones. The resulting harmonics emanated from the rocks, changing pitch as they slowed and then stopped. I wondered how the responsible adults figured out this musical phenomenon.

Brighton Beach ice 2

This morning brought an entirely different experience. Once again traveling through Brighton Beach, I caught sight of Rich taking photographs. Following the trajectory of his camera brought this image into view:

I don’t know what possessed these young men to ride their fat tire bikes off the ice bergs to plunge into Lake Superior, but it was enough to stop me mid-run to watch. (To see Rich’s video, click here.) I may have found new ways to enjoy the outdoors this season, but I will stop short of trying this one.

Superior Footprints

Life and the Outdoors in the Northland

Category Archives: Outdoors

Bluebonnet Bounty

An Enchanted Hike

At Your Service

Sisu Initiation

Winter Water

On to Plan C

Farewell my lighthouse

Lighthouse Life

Is this still Texas?

Enjoying the Season

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