Kayak To Go

Posted on November 6, 2020 by Molly

It’s not easy being small. I can’t reach half the shelves in my kitchen, and even carrying my toddler grandchildren can prove a challenge. So the idea of hoisting a kayak overhead to perch in a rack on top of my car is a non-starter. Which is a problem.

In my old age I have decided I need more independence. Perhaps it’s COVID, prompting me to find ways to enjoy outdoor recreation on my own, without relying on anyone else to make it happen. My activity of choice is kayaking, which is fine if I’m at the cabin, content to drag our weighty boat down to the dock and plunk it in the lake. But what about further exploration? New lakes to discover, shorelines to cruise, rivers to reconnoiter. There has to be a way.

With a little searching, I learn that there are two options: an “origami” folding kayak and an inflatable kayak. The first offers lightweight, high performance vessels with a hefty price tag. Not my bag. The second has a wide range of choices, from an oversized floatie to tough white-water models. I focus my research on something in the middle and soon zero in on Advanced Elements kayaks. Offering high quality inflatable materials with a strong fabric covering is a good start, but they also feature built-in aluminum ribs in the bow and stern to provide tracking that rivals a hard-shell kayak. It doesn’t take long to narrow my selection down to the AdvancedFrame Sport Kayak. At 10’5″ in length and a mere 26 pounds that packs into a carrying case that is 30″ x 17″ x 8″ I know I’ve found my kayak. The next model up has a few more bells and whistles, but packs another 10 pounds. This time it pays to be small – the sport version is enough for me.

But what about set-up and take-down? Will I spend all day on the shore just getting the thing ready for my adventure? A few YouTube videos calm my fears – it looks to be pretty slick. I press Add to Cart, throw in a double-action hand pump and wait for it to arrive.

My timing is not ideal. Early November is not the best season in the far north to venture out in a kayak. Especially when the nearest body of water is the largest of our Great Lakes, and extremely cold. But the weather gods look upon me with favor.

As the sun begins its descent on a clear afternoon in the 60s, I take my new kayak up to McQuade Harbor for its maiden voyage. A short trial run. As advertised, the kayak unfolds easily and I make quick work of pumping it up. About two minutes to fill the main chamber, followed by another minute for the floor. Half a pump inflates each of the deck risers and I’m good to go! In total, less than 15 minutes from the back of my car to water readiness.

I’m delighted to find low docks in the safe harbor where I can slip my kayak into the water and ease myself into the cockpit. It takes only a few swift strokes with my paddle and I already know that it feels like a “real” kayak. Even when I venture outside the breakwaters into the Big Lake, the boat takes the mild waves well and tracks nicely along the shoreline. It feels good.

Deflating the kayak proves to be equally easy. And it folds into its case with room to spare. I’m impressed with any manufacturer that understands that at the end of my excursion I’m not interested in fighting with my kayak to wrangle it into a tight space.

Two days hence, flat water and warm sunshine beckon. I won’t get another chance this year, so I tote my kayak down to the mouth of Lester River. No dock this time, only a rock beach so I gingerly float my kayak in the shallow water, wade out and climb in. I find I don’t need more than a few inches to clear the rocks and soon I’m skimming across the calm water.

I’ve been waiting years for this moment. I grew up in this fine city of Duluth, always admiring the houses on London Road with prime real estate on Lake Superior. Ten years ago we moved back here, and I’ve been dying to see what those houses look like from the water. Today I’m going to find out.

Houses are mirrored in the calm water as I cruise by. Even within a short distance, I find a huge variation in the backyard shoreline. Some homes boast lawns that slope gently down to an accessible pebble beach – definitely among the elite minority of landscapes. More often the yards meet a steep drop at the water’s edge. Some cliffs defy access, leaving homeowners with a splendid view but the inability to touch the water that laps or pummels their shore. In between are a myriad of inventive approaches. Ancient walls of stone, brand new cement retaining walls, enormous boulders holding back the lake’s fury – all in desperation to hang on to the land that the lake would like to claim. Where a bit of beach lies at the base of the cliff, homeowners exhibit great ingenuity with ladders, steps and guardrails to guide them down.

I’m fascinated by the rear view of the homes. Windows stretch across wide expanses, decks stretch across, stories climb high, all to take in the lake’s beauty. Old gazebos and small bath houses occasionally populate the shore, echoes of the golden days in which they were erected. And I paddle past the granddam of estates, Glensheen Mansion.

Homes give way to high-rises, as the senior care center and apartments loom above the waters. My arms begin to tire, I feel a twinge in my elbow and my legs tell me they have been static for too long. But still I press on. I pass the expanse of ledge rock I scrambled over this summer, pursuing my grandchildren who are far more nimble than I.

The Aerial Lift Bridge taunts me from afar. In my dreams I would journey down to the stately structure and ply the waters between the piers to pass under the roadway. But I will leave that for another day. Turning my fine craft around, I retrace my route and examine the homes once again, from modest to grand standing shoulder to shoulder on this Big Lake.

Having dipped my paddle into the world of exploring new waters, I sense it is only the beginning. I beach my kayak knowing we will make a great combo. Me and my kayak to go.

Coming Half Circle

Posted on October 15, 2020 by Molly

The infant days of COVID-19 seem so long long ago. Back in those early times, it all seemed so strange. So disruptive. So confining. And lonely. In lieu of a social life, I took to the outdoors. By mid-afternoon each day I needed to flee the house, and began walking Seven Bridges Road. What a boon it was to have the city extend the road closing, to have a safe place to walk just outside my door. To climb that hill time and time again, and venture over to Hawk Ridge to look down on Lakeside. Quiet, traffic-less, sheltered neighborhoods. Shuttered by the virus.

I watched the leaves come out, the grass come to life, the roadside don its cloak of spring green finery. And still I traveled through a foreign world. The road reopened, and I joined the cyclists grinding up those same hills. My wheels took me further afield, granting a longer and more vigorous escape. I retraced old routes, invented new ones and flew down newly surfaced roads that felt like butter under my spinning tires. It felt almost normal. But I couldn’t out pedal the grip of the virus.

In summer, lively voices accompanied my wanderings. Amity Creek was teeming with life as teens and families alike were drawn to its swimming holes and surrounding woods in greater numbers than usual. “Hammockers” inhabited the trees. Thrill seekers jumped from high cliffs. Kids played hide and seek in the bushes. Picnickers ate by the stream. All eager to forget. Not exactly social distancing. We all needed a way to cope.

Fall’s colors painted over my world, brightening my days with radiance. Every day brought a new landscape, each set of changing leaves outperforming the last. Enticing me out to walk my route before they faded. Those hikes were habit by then. Seeking beauty in a world inhabited by ugly germs.

The falling leaves now signal the waning warmth in our days. Days which have already grown too short for my taste, darkness closing in on both sides. Gone are the evenings we could sit on opposite ends of the deck with friends, to relish seeing them in person. To satisfy that craving for live company. In ways we are allowed in the midst of the virus.

I feel winter lurking at the door, ready to scale down my social opportunities. To limit my face to face contact to that contingent of friends that embraces snow, skis, snowshoes and bundled up walks. To challenge my creativity and strengthen my tolerance for Zoom. All in the name of staying safe.

I don’t know what I expected when the first shut-down order came. I wasn’t naive enough to think it was only a matter of weeks. But I didn’t fully grasp the long-term nature of this confinement. Yet here we are. My walks up Seven Bridges Road tell me we have come half circle. I now have no doubt we will complete this circuit, and then some. Until the virus releases its hold on our lives.

I Love this Ride

Posted on September 24, 2020 by Molly

As I strained against my bicycle pedals while advancing up the hill, debate raged in my head. Rounding the corner I asked myself, should I or shouldn’t I? Nearing the turn I pondered anew – what to do?

In my well ordered world, I would continue on with my planned early morning bike ride/workout. I would complete my 30 miles, finish my breakfast toast slathered with peanut butter en route to the coffee shop, then perch on the front porch with a medium skim latte and write for several hours. It’s what I do.

But possibility lurked. It was a mild clear morning with the sun just rising, and the brilliant leaves told me they were approaching prime. Not quite there yet, but the weather forecast promised ugly conditions for the next week. The leaves might not outlast the ugly.

I had yet to perform my annual ritual. At least once a year I take a ride across the city of Duluth, perched on the hilltop following Skyline Drive with the harbor and lake far below. This would be the perfect day to do so. But it wasn’t in my plan. And I always follow my plan. Or do I?

I turned left. Never mind that I had only a half full water bottle for a 40+ mile ride. So what if my usual granola bar stash was in my other bike bag? Forget the fact that my map of this route was in the same place. I had to go for it.

Whizzing along in the early morning sunlight, the air alternated between hot humid blasts that fogged my glasses and the more habitual chilly air. I felt loose and free. The writing will wait. The story will still get done. I was doing something for myself, and it felt good.

I had a good 20 mile ride through the countryside just to get to the opposite side of town. But even that blossomed with fall colors. They were all around me. It’s what I had come for.

Reaching the Information Center at Thompson Hill marked the beginning of Skyline Drive. From there, the scenic drive snaked across the crest of the hill, weaving back and forth in a rolling ride through forests of fall colors. My pace took a nosedive as I continually stopped to snap pictures, to gawk, to appreciate.

Normally, the appeal of Skyline is the view. The panoramic spread of the St. Louis River, the harbor and Lake Superior is visible from multiple overlooks and is a real-life geography lesson. But not today. Blue smoky haze from the western wildfires hovered over the scene. Across the water, Wisconsin was a blur. The horizon erased. The flat water on this calm day stretched into nothingness. All of it was eclipsed by the vivid scenery in my immediate vicinity.

With one exception. The quintessential Duluth experience – a thousand-foot ore boat was inching its way out of the harbor and making its final turn to pass under the Aerial Bridge. In my “why not?” state of mind, I had all the time in the world to wait for it. Even if it resembled the scene from a faded black and white movie.

Skyline Drive dumps out unceremoniously at the gates of UMD, and I dutifully skirted the campus. But even that had its rewards, as I passed the flaming maples of Bagley Nature Area abutting a student parking lot.

The final stretch took me across Hawk Ridge where I bumped along the dirt road amid a gaggle of bird watchers observing the migration. Then I twirled down Seven Bridges Road through a tunnel of gold – home territory and the terminus of my own driveway.

How glad I am that I followed my yearnings. That I heeded the siren call and threw my plans to the wind. And relished this last gasp of warm colorful weather. Throughout it all, the same chorus kept repeating in my head: Oh, how I love this ride!

Music that Moves

Posted on March 10, 2020 by Molly

It was pure happenstance that I was there. But there was no mistake about the impact that the evening had on me.

As an usher at the Norshor Theater, I was trolling the open spots when I noticed a desperate last minute plea for ushers needed for a choral program. The date was open on my calendar, so I signed up. It was only then that I did a little research on just what it was I was going to hear.

My first clue was discovering that the Twin Ports Choral Project, the performing choir, is entirely made up of highly trained professional musicians. Every one of the 30 or so singers has lengthy vocal credentials. I knew I was in for a fine choral performance.

Then I looked into the piece being performed, “Considering Matthew Shepard.” In my ignorance, I did not know the story of Matthew Shepard, the young gay college student who was lured into the Wyoming countryside in 1998 by two men posing as gays, brutally beaten, tied to a fence and left to die. For eighteen endless hours he remained there, alive but just barely. He was discovered by a passing cyclist and died five days later, surrounded by his family.

A woman from Matthew’s town could not let go of the tragedy, and memorialized it in poetry. That was later put to music, creating the oratorio that would be performed at the Norshor. Despite now knowing the background, I was totally unprepared for the power of that evening’s performance.

Choir members were simply dressed in black, there was only a wooden fence on the stage for a prop. Three dancers in loose white clothing moved rhythmically to a few of the numbers. A plaid flannel shirt represented Matthew, later held by the woman who sang his mother’s part. There was no need for elaborate costumes or props. The music and the words stood on their own.

The musicians’ perfection carried the music, at times dissonant and atonal, at others slow and hushed. I followed the libretto printed in the program, the story unfolding. Included were words from Matthew’s own journal. His father’s statement at his funeral.

We were told that there would be no intermission, no applause during the concert. We were not told that we’d be holding our breath. That silence would reign among our seats. That we’d be touched to the core by the raw emotion, our hearts profoundly moved.

I heartily wished I’d been there with a friend. I wanted to relive the experience with someone else, talk about it, share the feelings it evoked. I tried hard to convey its impact, but without being in that audience no one could truly relate to it.

That evening stayed with me. Showed me that I need to step into uncomfortable territory. That music is important to me. So when another opportunity arose soon afterwards, I grasped it.

This time it was the lead-off event for the Clayton Jackson McGhie Memorial – commemorating 100 years since three black circus performers were lynched in Duluth. Strangers in town, wrongly accused of raping a white woman, Elias Clayton, Elmer Jackson and Issac McGhie were jailed. An angry mob 10,000 strong stormed the jail, beat and tortured the men and hung them from a lampost. In 2003, a memorial was erected on the corner of 1st Street and 2nd Avenue E, to keep the story alive.

Another musical performance ensued. It started with “Song of a New Race,” a lyrical orchestral piece that conjured up hope for the future. That was followed by an oratorio called “…And They Lunched Him on a Tree.” It chronicles a different lynching, but conveys the same sense of horror, of a mother’s grief, of the ordinariness of the victim, and the injustice. It finishes with a haunting truth, “And clear the shadow, the long dark shadow, That falls across your land.”

The final piece by Jean Perrault was commissioned for this event, performed by a trio of piano, cello and violin. I heard him speak about “We Three Kings” on the radio beforehand. He described the depths he had to reach to be able to compose the piece. To sink into the same darkness that spawned those evil deeds. It is not music to be enjoyed, he explained. The music is meant to elicit emotion, to bring listeners to the place of death and back out again. By the time the strings had stilled, I knew what he meant.

Music has power over me. Moves me. Changes me. I’m so glad I was there to hear it.

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.

Rain and Shine

Posted on October 7, 2019 by Molly

Four kids ages 1 to 9. Two parents. Two grandparents. Three generations in one small retirement home.

What to do when it rains on your weekend plans? Go out anyway! The key is to work with the weather, not bemoan it.

Inspired by Anne Marie Gorham, of Lake Superior Beach Glass (who happens to be the daughter of my best friend in Jr and Sr High School), we headed out to Burlington Bay Beach in Two Harbors. “The best time to find beach glass is when it’s raining,” grandson Ben informed me. He’d seen enough of Anne’s videos in pelting rain to know.

And sure enough, he was right! We forgot all about the raindrops while scouring the beach for those glistening shards. It didn’t matter that most were tiny white specimens. The mere fact that they were plentiful kept us peering, bending, picking and looking for more. I admit to feeling giddy each time I plucked one from the rocks. We scored some turquoise, green and one cobalt blue piece too.

We had visions of hiking on the North Shore in the brilliant fall foliage. Instead, we decided to check out the raging torrents at Gooseberry Falls. All that rainwater swelled the river beyond its banks, plummeting down to the lake with a thunderous roar. Something tells me the kids found it more entertaining than fall colors.

Passing the remainder of the day playing games, it was hard to imagine the rain would ever stop. But Sunday morning dawned crisp and clear. Seizing the moment, we started at The Deeps, where we inspected the new footbridge, then made our way to the Lester Park Playground. There we stumbled on a Park and Rec “Pop-up” event. The collection of lawn games and outdoor activities soon lured the kids away from the playground to try the offerings.

Karen was still intent on getting in that hike. “I don’t want to go for a walk,” the kids wailed. But as soon as we reached the COGGS Hawk Ridge Trail, the oldest two kids were off and running. “This is so cool!” They loved the advanced structures created for the most adventurous of mountain bikers, scrambling over the steep rock formations. Lakeside spread out below us, a collage of yellows and greens, while leaves of every color carpeted the path. Reining them in was impossible. Their energy contagious.

It’s hard to say which was better, playing in the rain or the sunshine. I just know I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

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.

Cycling, After the Rain

Posted on October 6, 2017 by Molly

Sometimes it’s worth conceding to Mother Nature. Life is a lot more pleasant if you work with her, rather than trying to bend her will to suit a preconceived plan. Fortunately, I figured that out this week.

That plan was to cycle the Paul Bunyon Trail and do some hiking in the Walker area with my friend Myra. But two solid days of rain in the forecast were enough to put us off. We cancelled our motel reservation and instead took advantage of sunny days later in the week for some superb local cycling.

Our first outing took us across Duluth from end to end, traveling the full length of Skyline Parkway. There was a definite chill in the air as we stretched our route by cycling inland to Pike Lake before heading to the far western end of the parkway. We soon lost our fingers and toes to the frigid conditions, pressing into a brutal headwind. But it still beat rain. A warm-up with hot drinks at the Red Goose Coffee Shop restored feeling to our extremities and a change in direction eased the curse of the wind, boosting our spirits.

From our perch high above the city, we had full view of the harbor below. Despite the deep blue sky, the water was a distinct brown – no doubt the result of the runoff from the previous two days of heavy rain. The nascent fall colors were far from peak, but isolated trees of brilliant hues punctuated the landscape.

At Skyline’s opposite end, we traveled along Hawk Ridge. Flanked by birders peering through their binoculars, we took in the limitless view. There Lake Superior shone in its full blue glory. From our elevated perch it was a fast descent home down Seven Bridges Road, hardly requiring a single push on our pedals to complete our 50 mile ride.

Pausing for a gloomy day, we mounted our bikes again two days later. This time we chose the Gitchi-Gami State Trail along the North Shore from Gooseberry Falls to Silver Bay. Taking advantage of the longest stretch of completed trail, we cycled out and back to double the enjoyment of its pleasures.

It was quite a surprise to see water spouting out from the spring waterfall in the cliffs north of Gooseberry Falls. Its unseasonal appearance was yet more evidence of the recent wet conditions.

I remembered the trail’s hilly dalliance through Split Rock Lighthouse State Park, as it wound down toward the water and back up again through the woods. But I was surprised at just how much it undulated throughout the distance of our ride. We actually preferred that to the flat sameness of the rails-to-trails cycle routes.

At Beaver Bay, we pioneered a brand new section of the Gitchi-Gumi trail. Spying pristine new blacktop adjacent to road construction still in progress, we took our inaugural ride on a half mile of trail that veered up and inland away from the lake. A half mile later we joined an existing portion of the trail which took us to Silver Bay. We found that orphan bit of older trail rather mystifying, as it has been there for several years but apparently started in the middle of nowhere. Now it serves as a useful connector, completing the three mile stretch between Beaver Bay and Silver Bay.

Since this day’s ride was a mere 32 miles, we chose to top it off with a hike to Gooseberry’s upper falls. Once again the recent rains were in evidence, filling the river with turbulent rapids and rendering the trail muddy and slippery. Progress was slow but enjoyable, even if we brought home much of the mud on our hiking shoes.If I wasn’t convinced before, our pleasant sunny bike rides contained ample evidence of the rainfall we avoided. For once, this ultra-planner is glad that she chose to abandon her plans and go with the flow. Cycling after the rain.

A Google Guest

Posted on September 1, 2017 by Molly

We met through a Google search using two terms, “Lake Superior” and “ferries.” The second result yielded my story in Bicycle Times about our Lake Superior Half-Tour using the Isle Royale ferries to cross the lake. From there it was an easy leap for Tony to find us on Warm Showers.

If that all sounds a bit like gibberish, you are probably not a touring cyclist. But to those of us of that cult, it all makes perfect sense. In fact, it’s the epitome of traveling by bicycle – meeting great people in the most unexpected ways.

Tony is in midst of a cycling trip across the US. In the spirit of his easy going nature, he makes up his route as he goes, taking advantage of opportunities as they arise and dealing with what nature delivers. By the time he reached northern Minnesota, he had heard enough about the dangerous section of the Trans-Canada Highway above Lake Superior to know he wanted to avoid it. Hence his Google search. And my story.

A quick check on the Warm Showers app confirmed his suspicion that we were indeed members – part of the cyclists who hosts cyclists network that exists world-wide. A few keystrokes later, it was all arranged. Tony would cycle 90 miles and stay with us the next night.

Living in Duluth, we are not on a heavily traveled cycle route, so we have cycling guests only a few times each summer. But the routine is always the same: Provide a bedroom, offer up shower and laundry facilities, serve a bountiful dinner to replenish their depleted calories, and engage in lively conversation about where our respective cycle tours have taken us. It never fails to be an entertaining evening.

That night, Duluth provided a perfect summer twilight. Not only was it still warm, but the lake was unusually calm. Best of all, a boat was headed for the Aerial Bridge. We were able to give Tony the ultimate local experience.

We sent Tony off with a big cyclist’s breakfast in the morning. But he didn’t get far. A broken spoke turned out to be evidence of more serious wheel damage, and replacement parts would not arrive until morning. Tony took it in stride, and we took Tony back in. Another evening of sharing, a walk along Amity Creek and good vibes of friendship ensued.It’s always a pleasure to welcome cyclists to our home. Countless others have done the same for us. No matter how we find each other.

Hiking with the Super Moon

Posted on November 14, 2016 by Molly

When the sun shines, you just gotta get out there and enjoy it. And when the temps are far warmer than they should be in November, there is no excuse for staying inside. So although I have not been out hiking around Duluth for ages, I’ve logged four straight days of blissful rambles through our local woods. I have to credit the weather for that.

My first foray was down Congdon Creek and back with my sister, Susie. This was our backyard growing up. We’d play in the woods and follow the creek on a regular basis. I walked over the huge pipe every day going to Ordean Jr. High. (You could never do that now!) And yet, we were amazed by the beauty and extreme scenery that day as we meandered along the creek. It was flowing faster than could be expected for late fall, and the high rock canyons and waterfalls left us in awe as we crossed and recrossed the river on the new bridges.

I followed that with the trails just below Hawk Ridge, with their outstanding views of Lakeside. I still can’t quite work out which streets are which from that height, but it doesn’t matter. The lake stretched out in the distance, and the sun brilliantly illuminated the entire scene. Even closer to home, I walked the Lester-Amity ski trails, delighting in seeing them now free of trees and ready for that first snowfall that signals the start of cross-country ski season.

Those were just warm-ups compared with yesterday’s hike on the Superior Hiking Trail with friend, Beth. She took me on her favorite hike across West Duluth, which she calls the “greatest hits” for its wide array of natural scenery. Starting from Highland and Skyline Parkway, we made our way on the Superior Hiking Trail across the ridges high above the St. Louis Bay to Lincoln Park. For six miles, we walked through beautiful woods, kicked up leaves, scrambled over rocks and embraced the fall scene surrounding us. Nature had retreated to its pre-winter state, brown and brittle with dry wispy remembrances of blooms past their glory days. Beautiful in its own way.

Once up on the ridge line, there was more. Each opening of the trees brought stunning views of the city and shipping lanes below. It wasn’t hard to marvel over the beauty of the city where we live, and our good fortune in choosing it.We started late enough in the afternoon that sunset crept up on us mid-hike. The blue sky began to pale and the city glowed in the low angle of the sun.I was anxious to see the rise of the Super Moon, which is one of the reasons we chose this hike. We began searching for its debut, peering out over the lake at every opportunity. It was Beth who first spotted it, low and pink, still reflecting the colors of the sunset in the opposite direction.That part of the hike was magical. Every view of the moon was different. Framed by new scenery. Taking on more vivid colors. Peering out at us from its perch in the sky. I didn’t even care that my good camera and tripod were in the car. I preferred to see it all live, and snap the occasional haphazard picture with my pocket camera.All were great hikes. Restorative and soul enhancing. But that last bit was extra special. It’s not every day that you can hike with the Super Moon.

Superior Footprints

Life and the Outdoors in the Northland

Tag Archives: Duluth Minnesota

Kayak To Go

Coming Half Circle

I Love this Ride

Music that Moves

Snowbound

Rain and Shine

Enjoying the Season

Cycling, After the Rain

A Google Guest

Hiking with the Super Moon

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this: