Tag Archives: Duluth Minnesota

Early season skiing

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Sometimes a little restraint is required. My husband, Rich, is a fanatical cross-country skier. He can't wait for the season to begin, and bolts out to the nearest trail at the first sign of snow. His spirits are impossible to dampen, and he relishes nothing more than being the first out on the trail. I have learned to interpret his early season enthusiasm with a dose of skepticism, however. His glowing reports of that first ski often come with skinned knees, new gouges in his rock skis, and harrowing tales of catching a rock going downhill.

My own forays out on the trails are attended by a greater dose of caution. Why is it that I think I won't remember how to ski? Why is it that my first venture of the season finds me flailing and struggling to find that elusive sense of balance? Never mind that the trails are ungroomed and that my skate skis are ill suited to the untamed powder in the woods. That first ski is never pretty.

Skiing ungroomed trails

This year's first outing was no exception. I let myself be talked into skiing the first snowfall on trails that reportedly had been rolled. In reality, hikers and dogs and tromped and stomped all over the trail, leaving it barely navigable on skis. Come to find out, we had mixed up trail names and were in the wrong place.

With another two inches of snow overnight, I decided I was willing to give skiing another shot. This time I headed to the right set of trails, and although the new snow obscured any previous grooming, it also erased the heavy wear from the previous day. Unfortunately, when I arrived so did two carloads of adults and kids with dogs who eagerly bounded out onto the trails ahead of me. Early season skiing certainly has its hazards. Without groomed tracks, trespassers on foot are oblivious to the errors of their ways. Forging on, I soon left the hikers behind and found I was enjoying myself. The woods were quiet and pretty in their new blanket of snow, and the trail was unchallenging but very skiable. I had no idea where I was going, having never been on the trail before, but it wasn't difficult to follow and I easily made my way around the figure eight loop for 2.8k of fun. So much so that I did it three more times. With each repetition, my rhythm improved, my technique began to return, and at times I even felt quite competent. I didn't exactly break any speed records, nor did I get the workout of my life, but I was out skiing.

Hopefully I now have the flailing behind me.

If you don’t like the weather in Duluth…

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Wait five minutes.  That’s the saying, and today it is so true!

Getting ready for my morning run, our outdoor thermometer said 30 degrees.  The Weather Channel on my iPad said 39 degrees.  Turns out both were right.  Stepping outside the door, seeing the frost on the garden and feeling the air, I knew our thermometer was accurate.  I headed up 7 Bridges Road and continued on toward Hawk Ridge running through the morning’s chill, challenged by the hill work.  Suddenly it was SO WARM!  It was as if I’d crossed a magic line and the heat was on full blast.  Off came the hat and gloves, and I wished I for lighter layers of clothing.  I had reached the critical elevation where I was out of the lake’s reach and its morning fog.  Sun blanketed my path and I knew I was in the zone measured by the Weather Channel – it was at least 10 degrees warmer than down below.  Not long after, while cruising down Glenwood Street I re-encountered lake effect air.  Back on went the hat and gloves.

I continued on down to the lake, through Brighton Beach and up the North Shore before returning home.  As I ran, the sun burned through the fog and began to warm the air even down by the lake.  Once again I felt overdressed.  But it was a welcome warmth and I enjoyed the glorious morning that resulted.

By early afternoon when we left for Thanksgiving dinner, it was positively balmy out!  The temperature had risen to over 50 degrees.  It seemed so odd to think that it was so warm on Thanksgiving when by all rights we could have snow.  (Oh, if only!  We skiers are getting concerned…)  But we didn’t give Duluth her due.  By the time we returned home, big fat flakes were falling and by now it’s even accumulating on the ground. It’s a winter wonderland out there.

What a difference a few hours makes.  Or five minutes.

We have arrived!

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It’s only a mailbox.  Well, a super-duper mailbox.  But it represents so much more.  After building a house and several years of splitting time between the Twin Cities and Duluth, we have finally tipped the balance and are spending over 50% of our time in the Northland.  And we anticipate that growing.  So we decided it was time to make it official.  Yesterday Rich filled out the forms to make this our formal residence and started mail service.  Expecting government forms to fill out in triplicate for the mail, Rich was amused and gratified to find that all it took was writing the address on a post-it note.  Done deal – that’s all our mailman needs.  Today the mailbox went up.  We are Duluthians once more.  We both grew up here, and love being back by Lake Superior.

I have to admit that for me, there are still family members in the Twin Cities that tug on the heartstrings of this decision.  We are fortunate to have two of our three children settle in good jobs back in the Cities after college.  And one has produced two beautiful grandchildren for us.  Proximity to them is priceless, which is why I know that we haven’t seen the end of Highway 35 yet.  Not in a long shot.

On the flip side, the rest of our family loves Duluth and the North Shore.  I guess we brought them up right.  And we learned one unexpected lesson.  Once we began celebrating holidays in our Duluth home, having our children and grandkids here for the holiday meant having them stay.  If the little ones get cranky or need a nap, they don’t head home after the big meal.  And we get them for several days, not just one.  There is nothing like waking up in the morning and making fresh muffins for my grandson.  Or snuggling with my granddaughter as she has her morning bottle.  Or perhaps I can go for a run and out for coffee with one of my own kids.  The time is precious, and there is nothing like sharing space with them in our home.

My daughter reminded me of the times she and her brothers stayed with my parents in Duluth while Rich and I took time to go up to the Boundary Waters or other adult pursuit.  She remembered it fondly, calling it “Grandma and Grandpa Camp.”  It’s a term I don’t remember myself, but I’m ready to recreate the experience.

Home is where the computer is

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We’ve had our house in Duluth for over two years now, and we’re beginning to tip the balance with spending more time there than in the Cities.  Instead of making trips to Duluth, I feel like I’m packing for a few days in the Cities.  That’s all fine with me!

But it does make for a transition of goods.  Most of my clothes still live in the Cities, and my favorites seem to travel back and forth.  I guess that just goes to show how few clothes I really need…  Perhaps there is a message there for me, and a closet cleaning activity in store.  Specialty cooking tools and ingredients appear to be making a gradual migration.  We’re more likely to entertain in Duluth, so with each recipe different items make my packing list.  Sports clothes are largely duplicated in each home, but the big ticket items like bikes and skis will continue to travel back and forth.

But the real indicator is my computer.  Until now, my “main” computer has stayed in the Cities.  It has all my specialty software installed – including SportTracks for tracking my workouts, and Scrapbook Factory for designing Christmas letters and creative photo pages – and stores all my photos and files.  In Duluth I have used a hand-me-down computer, which I primarily use to connect to the internet, do email, write on my blog, and use Word and Excel.  Any files I need from my main computer are accessible by virtue of using Carbonite for online backups or with Dropbox.  It’s a system that has worked well so far.  But now that has changed.  Recently I loaded up my main computer and moved it to Duluth.  For a technophile like me, that’s making a statement.  Duluth is becoming our real home.

Playing Favorites

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We have always had a favorite restaurant. A place where we were regulars, could go on a whim, and know we’d be well taken care of and have a good experience. It’s not something we set out to find, it just happened. Over time, we discovered that we consistently chose that particular restaurant when we wanted to relax, spend some time together and have a meal out. In fact, as I look back, we also fell into predictable patterns when it came to ordering as well – we each had our favorites that we ordered consistently.

Our first home was near Trenton, New Jersey. We commuted to work together, and at our exit on the way home was a place called the Yardville Hotel. It was in Yardville, but it hadn’t been a hotel for years. But it was a comfortable, small restaurant that served good Italian food. My favorite was the meatball sub sandwich and I could count on Rich to order a pizza. Including our side salads and requisite half liter of wine, our bill was under $20 including tip. Rich even went there the night after our first baby was born, and baby Karen made her debut just ten days later. She spent many a dinner hour there in her stroller snoozing by our table.

During our child rearing years in the Twin Cities, Marcello’s Pizza became our regular haunt. We all loved the pizza and it was our favorite Friday night place. Suckers for the kids, and Dad the Monster chasing the kids down the deserted hallway of the mall after dinner were part of the ritual.

Since then, D’Amico and Sons has been our hang-out. We know the staff well, enjoy being able to eat outside in the summer months, and like the ambiance. We’re comfortable there and have mulled over issues as well as celebrated good news there. It has a varied menu, although once again we usually stick to our favorites – pepperoni pizza for Rich and the basic Neapolitan for me. Side salads and wine are still requirements, but the bill is higher these days.

Now that we’ve moved to Duluth, we are in need of a new regular spot. There are many good restaurants that we like, but so far none fits the bill for an old standby. Perhaps we’re trying too hard. We’ve gone out several times thinking “this is going to be it” but always leave still searching. We should know better. A favorite isn’t selected, it happens. Until then, we’ll enjoy sampling the local offerings.

Going Above and Beyond

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An honest citizen and a creative, resourceful policeman just turned a stressful situation into a happy ending.  First, I admit that I brought all this on myself.  It was a beautiful afternoon, and I headed out on a 30-mile bike ride to enjoy the nice weather.  With the fall leaves beginning to peak, I brought along my small compact camera as well as my cell phone which I always take in case of an emergency.  But I forgot to zip the little bag on the back of my bike.  Can you see where this is going?  Sure enough, when I returned home the camera and phone were missing.  Somewhere in the 30 miles behind me they had fallen out onto the road.  The question was where?

Tired as I was, I immediately began to retrace my route by bike, since it began on a portion of road currently closed to cars.  I was sure I knew where they had fallen out, as I had bounced along a washboard-like section of dirt road.  But my search was fruitless.  Not a sign of my missing items.  I returned home to start Plan B – had I enabled “Find my iPhone?”  Who ever thinks they will really need it?  If not, I would try calling the phone.  I was in mid-action when my husband, Rich, got a phone call.  “Are you calling about my wife’s lost phone?”  I heard him say.  His voice didn’t give anything away, but my heart did a flip when he replied “Yes, Officer.”  Hallelujah!  It was news just too good to be true!  An honest citizen had turned in both my camera and my iPhone, but that was only half the story.

Just minutes later, less than an hour after I made my dismaying discovery, the police officer was at our door, camera and phone in hand.  But his tactics for getting them back to us were just short of amazing.  First, my iPhone is password protected, so it was locked and he was unable to use it to find my contact information.  So he checked the pictures on the camera.  He finally located a picture with a van in the background and a legible license plate number.  How resourceful!  But when he ran the number, it came up blank – our daughter and her husband have a new van, and it was too recent for the plates to be in the database yet.  Dead end.  On to more pictures – this time he found photos from our Trans-Superior Cycling Tour, with the title boldly emblazoned on our cycling jerseys.  A google search quickly located Rich’s blog entries about our trip, and revealed our names.  Bingo!  He ran our names through the 911 database, and found a call that Rich made in 2010, which gave him Rich’s cell phone number.  Only he doesn’t use that phone any more.  Fortunately, Rich did leave his new number on his voicemail message.

Even though we offered to come pick up the items, the office delivered them right to our home. Our anxiety melted away when we heard how he had tracked us down, and our faith in people was reaffirmed – both by the person who found the items, and the officer who returned them to us.  We weren’t able to meet the first, but we did entice the latter to sample our homemade apple pie bars.  It was a sweet ending for all of us.

And I checked.  I do have “Find my iPhone” enabled and it works.

 

Cycling the Home Stretch

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We were up early and on our way while the sun was still making its way up through the trees. It was refreshing to be out at that hour, when the sky was an indeterminate color of blue, few people were stirring and cars had not yet crowded the highway. It was cool but held the promise of a warm day to come.

From Beaver Bay, the sights came early in our route. Within half an hour we were cycling up to Split Rock Lighthouse. The park was deserted and we were thankful that park rules were not so stringent as to require locked gates. We had our own private viewing of the lighthouse and its surroundings, able to take in the beauty of the buildings and shoreline in the golden sun of early morning. I’d recommend it to any tourist! In fact, we accidentally discovered a unique view of the lighthouse, reflected in the vaulted windows of the visitor center.

Our next pause was at Gooseberry Falls. While most of the rivers we passed along the shore had minimal flow, Gooseberry at least had enough water to provide a good display on the upper falls.

For that entire section of the shoreline, we were able to follow the Gitchi-Gami State Trail, a bicycle trail that aspires to connect Two Harbors to Grand Marais along the North Shore. Although it is still discontinuous, the sections like this that are complete are marvelous. In addition to relieving cyclists from highway travel, the trail is routed through the woods and periodically winds down toward the lake for additional views unavailable to those on the highway. It is well worth the additional hill climbs to take advantage of the trail. I learned too late that there were new portions of trail competed above Schroeder that would have benefited us yesterday.

One very small section of the Gitchi-Gami trail that is not to be missed is at Silver Cliffs. The trail follows the old highway around the tunnel, clinging to the edge of the rocks with stunning views of the lake and shoreline.

Despite having to travel 31 miles before eating, we were determined to stop at the Mocha Moose for breakfast. Not only did it represent truly reaching home turf, being on the Scenic Highway portion of 61, but it was also a key element in one of our earliest training rides. Back in March on a chilly day in the 40s, it was our turnaround point for a ride up the shore and back. That day we desperately needed the warming stop and loved the friendly atmosphere. Today we didn’t need warming, but we still got “moosinated” and enjoyed hearty breakfast turnovers.

From there on we were on extremely familiar territory. The landmarks seemed to fly by. Restaurants, lodgings, houses, rivers and viewpoints came in rapid succession. Was it because we had become immune to the distances that once seemed a stretch? Certainly we had come a long way since that early training ride.

At McQuade Harbor we were joined by my friend Myra who came out to ride to the finish with us. It was great having her support and company for the final miles. Upon reaching Duluth, we were able to follow the Lakewalk to Canal Park, our chosen destination point. After traveling at reasonable speeds on highways for 9 days, it was quite a change of pace when we reached the more populated sections of the trail where it is rightfully dominated by tourists, pedestrians, runners and four-wheeled cycle buggies. It made for tricky navigation, slowing and dodging the populous, but had a festive flavor at the same time.

Our end point was the Marine Museum by the Aerial Bridge. There we were met by our son, Erik, and my sister, Susie, who formed a rousing welcoming committee, including a sign. After the obligatory photos, it was ice cream cones for everyone (of course!). To make the celebration complete, we were honored with an oar boat that came through the bridge heading out into the lake – the ultimate Duluth experience. It was the perfect ending to our trip.

We weren’t really done cycling, though. We still had to ride home, seven final miles. As we returned along the Lakewalk, the now cloudy skies began to produce rain. It wasn’t a sustained rainfall, however, and actually felt kind of good, breaking the heat of the day. It was a leisurely ride, lacking the same sense of purpose we’d had on the rest of our tour. After all, we’d already celebrated our finish. We’d passed the 500 mile mark just before entering Duluth. And we had completed the circle around our end of the lake.

It truly was 500 miles of love, just like it says on our shirts. I can’t wait to plan the next trip.

I’ve Been Bridged!

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I could see it from a distance. The red light that meant the bridge was up. Being on the Park Point side of the Aerial Bridge when the roadbed is raised means staying there until the boat passes through. There is no other way off the narrow strip of land that forms the Duluth Harbor.

Most people don’t mind. They know that when going over to Park Point there is a distinct possibility they may need to wait for the bridge in order to return. And today I was solidly in that camp.

I’d chosen to do an easy bike ride instead of a hard workout. It was one of Duluth’s finest days, with sunshine playing off Lake Superior and comfortable warm temperatures. Cycling along the Lakewalk is by definition a leisurely ride, as it is shared by numerous runners, walkers, dogs and tourists, and winter has provided more than a few heaves in the pavement. Besides, it is prime territory for just looking out at the lake.

Cycling down Park Point and back is easy going. It’s flat and straight, with plenty of shoulder. I love looking at the jumbled assortment of houses along the way, from tiny cabin-like homes, to huge modern structures built high enough to see over the dunes to the lake. They are wedged close together and sometimes one in front of the other, all trying to get a piece of the prime beachfront or harbor shoreline. And there always seems so be an abundance of flowers. The area must be a magnet for zealous gardeners.

So approaching the end of the line of cars waiting for the bridge, it was an easy choice to swing onto the pier and just take it all in. It didn’t matter that the bridge was only half way up and that it was the Vista Queen tour boat going under instead of an ore boat of foreign freighter. It was an opportunity to slow down, take a break and have a closer look at what was around me. Like the bridge coming down, right over me. Like the view of the bridge, from below. Like seeing the bridge from the harbor side – how often do we look at it from there? No need to rush back and cycle over when the bridge was back down. After all, I had all the excuses I needed. I’d been bridged.

The calm after the storm

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I don’t remember the big Duluth flood of 1972. Odd, I lived here, and I can’t claim I was too young to remember. We weren’t here for the recent rainfall in Duluth or yesterday’s flooding, but we followed it closely on the web as water tore through the city wreaking havoc and leaving devastation in its path.

We drove up to Duluth in the evening. By that time, the day had cleared, the sun was setting and the air was calm. We had only one detour off I35, south of Cloquet, and there was an eerie beauty to the standing water on the roadside. Before reaching the top of Thompson Hill, we could see a double rainbow in the sky, terminating down in the troubled city of Duluth in the distance. It seemed to be an omen. The remainder of the route was clear, including the tunnels, yet we were almost the only car on the road. Emerging from the final underground portion, we could see a flock of ships in the now calm waters of the lake. For all the day’s turbulence, it was a strange feeling to see it all in the quiet afterglow of the day. We were traversing streets that had suffered only water and mud, not collapse, so the day’s pictures felt surreal in comparison.

Reaching our home, we were pleased but not surprised to find it high and dry. Blessed with the lack of a basement, our landscaper‘s effective water management planning, and being perched on a hill kept it out of harm’s way. But we now understood the reality of the creek’s high water mark and set-back regulations for building which had seemed so absurd at the time.

We immediately headed across the street to see Amity Creek. Having seen earlier pictures of the gazebo at “The Deeps” surrounded by swirling, angry water, we were eager to see it for ourselves. The water had receded significantly, and the creek was back within its rocky borders, mostly. It was still thunderous and raging, and far higher than we’ve seen it before, but had returned to some resemblance of a creek. But all around us were remnants of its earlier rampage. There was mud everywhere, and huge trees and limbs were thrust against anything left standing, showing us the outline of where the thrashing water had overrun the area. The power of rushing water.

Here are some during and after pictures of the footbridge and gazebo from three different perspectives.  The flood pictures were taken by others.  The after pictures I took the next day.

This flood I will remember.  Even though I wasn’t here.