From Alaska to Hawaii

Posted on January 20, 2023 by Molly

The year was 2009. Our middle child, Carl, had just graduated from college, and our tradition was to take the new graduate on a week-long trip of their choosing. Just them and us. A final hurrah before they went out into the world on their own.

This comes from my journal of the trip, the first week of August:

Carl chose to go to Alaska, and wanted to stay in rustic places and have an active vacation. So we lined up an itinerary that included hiking, kayaking and fishing. We chose accommodations that were primarily cabins with a lodge and B&B thrown in – perhaps a little less primitive than Carl originally had in mind, which was a compromise for traveling with Mom and Dad.

Our trip started out on the Kenai Peninsula, south of Anchorage. We stayed in the very small town of Hope, off the main highway on the Turnagain Arm. That turned out to be our favorite lodging of the trip, at Bowman’s Bear Creek Lodge. They had 5 log cabins, which were around a small pond, and ours also had the creek running behind it. They were very basic cabins, just for sleeping and relaxing, with a bathhouse shared by all the lodgers. We rather liked that, because it limited the guests to people like us who like things simple but in beautiful surroundings. They also had a little café, which served fabulous food. Our first dinner of the trip was on their outdoor deck – at 8:00 at night it was still warm enough and plenty light to eat outside. Carl and I chose fresh salmon, which was as good as promised. What a great start to the trip!

Our hosts at the lodge were Kent and Melanie Bowman. We took to them immediately, and loved their approach to life which was embodied in a “free spirit” canoe that floated in the pond. “If you can catch it, feel free to paddle around.” Kent provided us with great advice on renting kayaks, fishing spots and knowledge about the general locale.

We spent three nights at Bowman’s Lodge, keeping active and enjoying our downtime just hanging around, playing cards, reading and lighting a bonfire late at night when it was finally close to dark.

When we left the Kenai Peninsula it felt like we were old friends with Kent and Melanie by then. They had given us lots of ideas and recommendations – all of it good.

The remainder of our trip brought additional adventures, sights and places to explore and precious alone time with Carl. We stayed in other great places, but Bowman’s still stood out as a highlight.

That could have been the end of the story. But it wasn’t.

Enter FaceBook, that love it or hate it app that connects people everywhere. I don’t know who friended whom, but Rich and Kent soon became FB Friends and kept in touch. Tired of hearing news second hand, I too friended Kent. So it was that I happened on a series of comments that drew my attention.

After working many years on the North Slope in the winters, Kent promised Melanie they would move somewhere warm when he was done with that gig. He was as good as his word and had posted a photo of the home and extensive land they had bought on the Big Island of Hawaii. It also included a guesthouse.

It was Rich’s comment below the post that drew my attention, which went something like this:

That looks gorgeous! We might have to go over and stay there!

Now I’ve always been interested in going to Hawaii, but Rich was not so inclined. Seizing my opportunity I entered the fray:

I saw that, Rich. You’re on!

A few years and Covid intervened, but Rich also kept his word. For our inaugural trip to Hawaii we booked into Bowman’s Big Island Guesthouse for 10 days.

Nestled next to Lava Tree State Park near Pahoa, Bowman’s is a paradise all its own. Entering through a set of private gates, we drove onto their six-plus acres of land and encountered a private retreat. Expansive grounds surround their house, outdoor living area and other outbuildings, including the guesthouse and a gazebo for guests’ use. Dotted with palm trees, flowering plants, gardens, greenhouse and a chicken coop (including an early rising rooster) it feels like an oasis. It is bordered by thick jungly greenery, enhancing the privacy of the space.

Kent and Melanie greeted us with open arms and our friendship was immediately refreshed. The change in locale only enhanced their friendly helpful approach to hosting, and we loved catching up on the new climate and lifestyle they have adopted.

The simplicity of the guesthouse is in perfect keeping with island life. Surrounded by windows, open to the breezes, light fans circling overhead, and enough kitchen amenities to be self-sufficient, it meets all our needs. The large front porch and gazebo provide extended living spaces. Dining by tiki light has become a favorite of ours.

We are just a couple of miles from Pahoa, which is a delightful small town that boasts multiple coffee shops, some good restaurants, and even a free 50-meter community pool. It feels right to be nestled a distance from cities, high-rise hotels and crowds. This is the Hawaii we came to experience. Life feels slower here. There’s no need to rush anywhere.

Being located on the east side of the island, the wet side, means that we are in the midst of lush greenery, with humid weather and occasional showers. Okay, and sometimes big downpours. The only sounds in the yard are those provided by nature. The wind in the trees and the rustling of palm branches is all I hear in the background, accompanied by birdsong and the chickens. Nights are profoundly silent.

Just as Bowman’s Bear Creek Lodge defined its guests by its unique set of amenities, the Big Island Guesthouse will also appeal to a specific type of traveler. For us, it’s the perfect fit. And brought us all the way from Alaska to Hawaii.

Promises Kept

Posted on August 15, 2022 by Molly

Friendship doesn’t come easily. It takes work to continue the bonds, to nurture the relationships and overcome time and distance. Especially when 49 years and thousands of miles stretch between us. But we’ve done it, three times now.

The six of us entered Knox College in the fall of 1973, all living in the same antiquated dorm with even more ancient rules and traditions. We swapped roommates over our four years, and as our finale we all lived in the same “suite” with a few more senior girls. Bonding over our shared experiences.

Nine years ago, we instituted our first mini-reunion, which we now dub our Knox ReUn. We gathered for a weekend in the Twin Cities where three of us lived at the time, sharing the hosting duties. We followed that four years later, renting a condo in Chicago where two more members lived. It resembled dorm life, sharing bedrooms, communal cooking and assigned clean-up duties.

That left one locale – New York state, where Barb lives and better yet has a cabin in the Adirondack Mountains where she spent her summers since she was six years old. Promises were made, plans set in motion, airline tickets purchased and dozens of emails flew back and forth. Despite being delayed by Covid, five of us finally convened on Long Lake for the week.

It felt different this time. Sequestered in a beautiful setting, surrounded by water and mountains and myriad options for outdoor adventure was liberating. We found ourselves mixing and matching in little groups for kayaking, swimming, hiking or just lounging in a hammock. There was an air of leisure, a lack of schedule and a shared feeling of relaxation. An ability to take life as it came – a far cry from our self-imposed rigid study regimes of yore.

For the first time, all of us are retired, save one. No one felt any pressure to make the most of every minute. It was enough to just be there. Together. Conversation flowed easily. We no longer had a need to talk work, to air the stress and pressure we felt or bemoan the challenges we navigated. Instead, we could savor this freedom and the ability to enjoy our retirement from the careers we earned with that college degree.

Silliness and fun was not only allowed but encouraged. Barb booked us on a Rail Biking adventure where we pedaled alongside the Hudson River. We floated in the water, buoyed by noodles. We slurped ice cream cones mid-afternoon. We roasted marshmallows and consumed s’mores by the campfire on the beach. We attempted stand-up paddle boarding, some with greater degrees of success than others! It was college antics all over again. Only better.

For me, the best part of the week was the true immersion. All that mattered was what was happening right around me. The rest of the world faded into the background, inconsequential for the moment. Responsibilities would wait, deadlines could be elastic, duties were avoided. Spending time with friends trumped all.

When I entered Knox and forged these friendships, I never foresaw the longevity of these ties. I never dreamed that 49 years later I would be sitting around a table sharing morning coffee, or piling into a speed boat together. It took a lot of dedication and persistence to make this happen. But we’re not done yet. We’ve already decided to reconvene in three years for a destination vacation. I can already see it happening. Because this group keeps its promises.

A Gap in our Streak

Posted on March 27, 2022 by Molly

We all have Covid Stories. You know the litany – because of Covid I couldn’t do this, or travel there, or see so-and-so. Covid interrupted our lives, our routines and broke our winning streaks. But life went on.

In my case, the streak ended just shy of 30. Every year since 1993, my friend Susan and I have escaped our husbands, kids, work, stress and life to spend several days plying the ski trails by day, and sharing our woes, our dreams, our successes and failures in front of a fireplace by night. Until last year.

Those early years we felt so rebellious. The whole idea was born of a need for equal time, payback for the fishing weekend our husbands shared every fall. It was our turn to hand off the kids and venture off into the wilderness. Susan was pregnant with her second child, and I left three at home. It was ground-breaking, escaping before the days of cell phones, out of reach, out of touch on the shores of Lake Superior. And wonderful.

How well I remember the middle years. We were both in management, working in IT balancing the technical aspects our of careers while getting mired in people management, motivation and leadership. Living in the Cities at the time, we had a long drive to our chosen ski lodgings up the North Shore, hours we used to shed our challenges, our anxieties, and especially our frustrations. Speeding through the darkness, we peeled away layers of pent-up emotions, leaving them on the floor of the car when we arrived. The same topics would resurface over our après-ski wine and cheese, but the tone softened with each passing evening. We were not alone.

2002 Celebrating 10 years at Old Shore Beach B&B

Our kids grew up, our careers shifted paths, and the busy-ness of our lives moderated, slightly. We grappled with thoughts of retirement, of life after work, of building new homes away from the Twin Cities. The life changes that awaited us were ample fodder for our time together, and we allowed ourselves to extend our outing to longer weekend trips. The guys’ fishing trip had long since met its demise, but we clung fiercely to our annual tradition. We continued to see one another through life. Listening and supporting.

Retirement has brought increased freedom, allowing us to move to week-day trips. We’re more willing to splurge on our lodgings these days, to grant ourselves some extra comforts. But little else has changed, and despite now living far apart the bond of friendship rekindles the minute we pull away with a car full of skis, food and gear. A comfortable companionship.

I’m not exactly sure how we chose cross-country skiing as the basis for these escapes, but it has remained a constant throughout our trips. Year after year we’d glide through the woods, losing ourselves in the silence of the sport. Our paces often didn’t always match up, but it didn’t matter. We’d drift apart, deep in thought, one of us waiting down the trail to regroup. For all the talking we did at night, we let our brains percolate on their own in the midst of the cold and snow. Most trips we racked up the kilometers all day long, returning to our digs pleasantly worn out, chilled and ready for the fire.

From the very start, my ritual was to get up for an early morning ski before breakfast. Eager to push myself, I’d head out the door in all conditions. Susan joined me in the initial years, and on one memorable occasion we skied up to a ridge on the North Shore where we had a grand view of Lake Superior. We then plummeted back down to our B&B just in time for the sumptuous breakfast that awaited. We walked through the door, faces bordering on frostbite, eye lashes crusted with ice crystals and fingers that hardly moved. It wasn’t long after that when Susan elected to spend those early morning hours painting instead. But I persevered. I balanced the frequent brutal conditions with skiing as the sun rose, being the first out on freshly groomed trails and breathing in the tranquility.

2003 Susan painting at Poplar Creek Guesthouse

Perhaps it was the gap that urged us to look back and take stock of our accumulation of shared experiences. Just as our lives have changed throughout the last 30 years, so have our outlooks. We still eagerly pack up our skis, and look forward to time spent in the woods. Skiing remains the focus of this annual excursion but we don’t feel the same pressure to pack it in as we did during our working years.

“I think I’m getting wimpy,” I confessed to Susan on the drive up the shore. “I just don’t relish going out in those cold, sub-zero temperatures anymore.” She nodded. “And I’m not keen on skiing crusty snow, or steep downhills on a twisty trail.” My confidence is waning. I now prefer soft new snow with good grip and staying in control. Susan put it differently. “I call it being selective. We’ve earned the right to make different choices.”

We embraced this new attitude over a cozy breakfast in our trail-side cabin at Bearskin Lodge the next morning, as we monitored the thermometer, waiting for it to cross zero. The following day we chose to start our day snowshoeing through the deep snow in the woods. The recent snowstorm and grooming delivered ski conditions to my exact specifications, and the sun shone down in a deep blue sky as if to endorse the perfection as we glided down the tracks each day. Being able to walk out the door to over 70 kilometers of trails afforded me plenty of opportunity to continue skiing, even when Susan had reached her fill and retreated to the Lodge. Proving we have acquired the wisdom to pursue our own passions.

Next year will be our 30th trip, and there is no doubt we will go. We will still pack up our skis, dream of the solitude on the trails, communing with winter and pushing our bodies in the great outdoors. But we will also have the grace afforded by age, to give ourselves options. To make different choices, because we can. And it’s infinitely better than another gap in our streak.

The Little Cabin at 30

Posted on September 7, 2019 by Molly

“Grammy, do you ever wish the cabin was bigger?” I had to smile. With 17 people gathered for the weekend, coming in and out of the modest abode, it was a fair question. No sooner had I responded to the seven year old, “Yes, I do, Mya!” when her mother chimed in.

“You have to remember, Mya, when I was little it was only the five of us here. It was just the right size for us.” She was right. How well I remember coming up the driveway for the first time, knowing right away that it was made for us. Perusing the knotty pine interior, the stone fireplace, and the two tiny bedrooms. It was the simplicity of the place that appealed to me. The bookshelf to stock with cabin reading. The short wooden dock, enough for our 12′ boat. It was a place to build family memories.

What is it about a remote cottage, with its cramped space, mismatched dishes, mattresses that sag, raggedy towels and a needy wood stove that is so appealing? The yard games we never play at home are entertaining there. Bonfires invite storytelling. Grilled meat tastes better. The chilly lake dares intrepid swimmers and fishermen. Board games take on new life, and fierce competition. It’s a-ok to lie in a hammock or sit on the dock and while away the afternoon reading. Or snoozing. And we have front row seats for the Northern Lights.

For so many years the cabin has been our haven, away from work, school and too-busy lives. Time slows down there. Priorities shift. Time slips away, but the cabin doesn’t change. We still treasure the simple existence it offers. I still get excited bumping over the dirt road as we approach that driveway yet again.

Those three little kids in the bunk beds are now grown and married and have produced five (almost six!) grandchildren for us. Carrying on the tradition, they have come to treasure their own family time at the cabin. It’s still just the right size for them.

It was their idea to celebrate this milestone. This Labor Day marked the 30th straight year we have gathered as a family with our good friends the Readingers and their offspring at the cabin. Admittedly, we had to farm a few members out to beds in nearby resorts this time, but they all converged on the cabin throughout the day. As Mya noticed.

Thirty years generates a lot of memories. Everything we did triggered flashbacks, smiles, rolling eyes, laughter. It was a weekend of déjà vu as grandchildren followed in their parents’ footsteps.

It was a celebration of friendship. Of lasting bonds that form over years of sharing, from being new parents to empty nesters. From being children to new parents. From carving out time away from work to relishing retirement. And through it all, we still relish cabin life.

We did our best to recreate some of the best moments. Some, like this one, came as a pure gift. Like a blessing on our gathering.

The remainder will have to wait for the next gathering, at the Same Time Next Year. And 30 years beyond.

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!

And then there were three

Posted on September 14, 2016 by Molly

If you’re going to have a friend join you on a bike trip, it is mighty handy if he just happens to be a bike tour operator. Especially if you are in his home territory. And an all around good guy, like Jim.

We had already spent one day making our way north along the western shore of Michigan. It was enough to impress us with the Lake Michigan views and fine sand beaches. And I was enamoured with the brilliant blue-green color of the water, reminiscent of the Caribbean. We discovered that many towns were built on lakes, small bays or rivers adjoining the big lake. They frequently afforded appealing views with boats bobbing in marinas. And in between were orchards laden with ripe red apples, farm stands, peaches for sale, scenic farms and woods lining the road.

Our rendezvous point with Jim was Arcadia. A tiny village, it boasted both a nature preserve and a beautiful town beach. With free time available, an afternoon for doing your own thing seemed in order. Rich eagerly headed out in search of birds in the marsh. I spent my time walking the beach with the roar of the waves in my ears and the wind on my face. We finished just in time to meet Jim for dinner, and capped off the day with a splendid sunset over the lake.

Our morning departure as a threesome was quite a wake-up call. We had reached the coastal sand dunes, and as they rose steeply above the water, so did the road. Our initial few miles were straight up, ending at an overlook with long views up and down the coast. No one but me was willing to climb the steps to the top. But it was worth it. The low sun was just beginning to illuminate the trees below, and the clear blue skies and enhanced the deep color of the water.

It was a grand day for cycling and necessitated taking time to enjoy the sights along the way. Having three people meant more interests. More ideas. More reasons to stop. A photo opp for Rich. A rest stop for Jim. A lighthouse or two for me. One looked like a toy, but Point Betsie Lighthouse was quite nice.

We were in unanimous agreement on one thing. Ice cream. A requirement at the end of a long, hot day of cycling. Such was our mission upon reaching Glen Arbor after our 50-mile ride. Fortunately, Jim’s expertise led us to just the place – a shop where all the ice cream featured Michigan cherries!

We were grateful to learn that Jim was a very agreeable traveling companion. Despite the dire weather forecasts for morning, we threw caution to the wind and stuck with our plans to camp that night. For our reward, we scored the only campsite in the DH Day National Forest Campgound with a water view! The fact that they had only primitive campsites (outhouses and water faucets, period) was no problem. Our beautifully secluded spot also had beach access. With Jim leading the charge, we were soon swimming off our day’s sweat and rinsing our cycling gear all at once in Lake Michigan! I certainly never expected to swim in the lake on this trip. And had we been on our own, I’m not certain we would have taken the plunge. It’s a good thing that by then there were three.

A Metro Century Ride

Posted on August 25, 2016 by Molly

We live in the beautiful wilderness of the cool Northland. So why would we want to cycle 100 miles through the urban metropolis in the southern climes of Minnesota? The answer is unclear, but Myra has her heart set on traversing the cycling trails across the Twin Cities. I managed to fend off her desires last year, but ultimately succumb to her pleas. We schedule our 5th annual Century Ride.

I should have saved myself the anxiety. For every one of my arguments against the locale, we are delivered perfection. Following a string of hot humid weather, storms blow through and the day dawns crisp and clear at 56 degrees, never climbing above a sunny 74. We manage an early start and cross the city in the quiet of a Sunday morning, unencumbered by traffic. When my rear tire suddenly blows only 16 miles into the ride, an angel appears in the form of a passing cyclist who generously helps me (read “does it for me”) change the tube. Feeling nervous about the accompanying gash remaining in my tire, we discover the bike shop we passed just 2 miles back is opening in 5 minutes. And to think we almost took a different route through town.

The best part of the trip is exploring the plethora of bike trails throughout the Twin Cities. Starting in Plymouth, we make our way into Minneapolis via the Luce Line Trail then onto the Midtown Greenway. Reaching the Mississippi River, we travel many miles along its banks on the West River Parkway and Sam Morgan Regional Trail. The splendid river views and gawking at the palatial homes keep us well entertained.

Downtown St. Paul presents the only area where we have to navigate city streets. We had done our research and identified a viable route, only to discover that the main bike-friendly street is under construction. But with a bit of dithering and the aid of Google Maps we identify a reasonable alternative, and survive the experience.

Our eastern destination and the mid-point of our ride is Stillwater, and those 20 miles are sweet. Three more trails take us there, the Bruce Vento Trail, Gateway State Trail and Brown’s Creek State Trail. Each is more rural than the next, with Brown’s being the newest trail with a delightfully smooth surface. Coasting downhill the final two miles into Stillwater is easy going, and the return climb back up is barely perceptible. While not crowded, we share the trail with groups ranging from hard core cyclists to families out enjoying the beautiful Sunday afternoon.

We reverse our route for the return trip, although there are several opportunities to vary the journey. And everything looks different when viewed from the opposite direction. Naturally, we take time out for a DQ break. With nearly 1.5 hours lost to my flat tire and the putsy time it took to cross St. Paul, we don’t finish our trek until just after 7pm. But on such a beautiful day we aren’t complaining.

Our final distance is 106.7 miles. With bits and pieces of other trails in between the main ones, we covered 12 different bicycle trails. And only 4 miles were on the city streets of St. Paul. Even I have to admit, it was a darned good metro century ride.

Artful Cycling

Posted on August 13, 2016 by Molly

The weather is definitely not what I envisioned. Instead of clear blue skies and sunshine, the world is shrouded in fog with dense clouds. But the radar map shows no storms, so I stay the course despite the conditions. If I waited for good weather, I’d miss out on a lot of adventures.

My plan is to combine a favorite 50-mile cycle route with friendship, coffee and art. The first leg of my journey is my inland route to Two Harbors. With each turn of my pedals, the air gets wetter and my visibility shrinks. My glasses further obscure my view by collecting mist and drips from my helmet. I eventually abandon them, figuring a bit of blur is preferable to near blindness. But it’s calm, not raining and the temperature is very comfortable for cycling. And I love the quiet of an early morning ride.

My first destination is a new combination cyclery/coffee shop, SpokeNGear. Joan is already there waiting for me and within moments, I am convinced that the advance publicity doesn’t do it justice. The modern décor of the coffee shop is uncluttered and inviting, flanked by soaring windows overlooking the woodlands. Anyplace with good scones is a winner in my book, and I can truly taste the lavender in my raspberry and lavender scone that accompanies my latte. An hour passes quickly as we visit in the welcoming space. Before leaving, a staff member from the bike shop graciously tightens some bolts on my bike that the Northland’s bumpy roads had worked loose.

Coffee and friendship established, it’s time to move on to art. The Art Fair in Two Harbors is sandwiched between local businesses on the main street. Numerous booths offer a wide variety of crafts and art, and it is always more fun to browse with a friend. We complete our circuit with our wallets in tact, but enriched by the visual displays of talent and each other’s company.

Miraculously, by then the gloomy morning has been transformed into the sunny day I visualized. With the sun warming the slight wind off the lake, I fly down the Scenic Highway. The scenery is classic North Shore with the deep blue lake contrasting against the greenery of the trees and the rugged rocky shoreline. I can’t help but feel the good fortune of living where we are surrounded by such beauty.

Just a mile from home and with my odometer already registering 51 miles, I reach Brighton Beach and the Art Festival. There I find booths spread out along the shoreline, featuring 40 selected artists. Having the Big Lake as the backdrop enhances the appeal of the art. It invites lingering, considering, and in my case, yes, buying.

It’s a good thing I didn’t cave in to the whims of the weather gods. It’s the sunny part of the day that will stick in my mind. Along with the coffee, the friendship and the beauty of the shore. Art is in the eye of the beholder, and in this case it was picture perfect cycling.

Good Morning, Lakewalk

Posted on April 21, 2016 by Molly

It’s early but all the regulars are out there. My morning running ritual takes me down the Lakewalk day after day. There I enter my world of the familiar. I know I should vary my routine, and I do work in some hills or head up the shore periodically. But my feet just naturally lead me to the Lakewalk.

The route is always the same, but the experience never is. On the grim, cloudy and windy days, I nod to my fellow runners as we pass. We exchange knowing glances, acknowledging the brutal headwind, the chill of the air. We share the same rugged determination. We are out there, no matter what.

When the sun shines and the lake sparkles, our faces reflect the joy of our surroundings. Our “good morning” exchanges ring out merrily. Those are the days when the Aerial Bridge beckons irresistibly, drawing me further down the Lakewalk to its terminus in Canal Park. Ten miles turn into 13. But it’s worth it.

My trusty companions on the Lakewalk punctuate the miles yet loosen my brain from focusing on the rigors of my run. Cyclists pass on their way to work, warning me with the sound of their tires or a cheery ring of a bell. Dog walkers are always good for a “hello” and seem to have only beautiful and well mannered pooches on the end of their leashes. Fellow runners whiz by in both directions, but usually with a wave of encouragement.

And then there’s Arley. A fixture on the Lakewalk, his presence brightens anyone’s journey. I first see him walking, coffee cup in hand striding purposefully at an early hour. Next, he passes me on his bike, destined for the end of Park Point and back. White hair flying out from under his cap, always with a chipper greeting for me. At times he accompanies me on his bike, spinning away the miles with conversation as I run. When the snow flies, I can count on his having cleared the portion of the Lakewalk adjacent to his house.

It was the Lakewalk that introduced me to a kindred spirit and running friend, Arlene. Perched on opposite sides of an ice encrusted street, we traded encouragement as we approached. Our steps slowed to a walk, one greeting led to another and soon we were trading phone numbers to meet up for our next run. Where else might I meet another passionate running enthusiast and heart-felt friend? Barely a day goes by that does not find one or the other or both of us treading the Lakewalk.

Admittedly not all Lakewalk encounters are friendly. Passing through the wooded area just past East High recently, a dark form materialized just ahead. A tall figure wedged between the fence and a tree turned out to be an upright bear, attempting to scale the fence with his hind claws. I’m guessing it was the inhabitant of the 36th Avenue culvert, having wandered away from his den. Passing in a hurry, a quick glace back led me to believe he was perched atop the fence. I wished I had a camera with me, but perhaps it was better that I didn’t linger.

It was very thoughtful of the City to extend the Lakewalk to our neighborhood just as we moved in. And the subsequent addition of the tunnel under the highway was equally welcome. Every morning is a good morning on the Lakewalk.

Skiing – and so much more

Posted on February 2, 2016 by Molly

For twenty four years in a row we have maintained our tradition. Without fail. There have been years of sickness, but we overcame it. We had small children at home – five between us – but still we escaped. Snow failed to materialize, but we went anyway. Jobs were stressful and demanding, but we left them behind. A lot has changed over the years, but Susan and I still get away for our annual cross-country ski weekend every year.

This year’s venue was Golden Eagle Lodge, on the north side of Bearskin Lake on the wonderful Central Gunflint Trail Ski System. We stayed in a lovely cabin aptly named “Trailside” and took full advantage of our proximity to the 70k of XC ski trails at our door.

It wasn’t long before the weekend’s unique qualities began to reveal themselves. And as each new challenge presented itself, we coined a new term. It seemed better than complaining, and far more fun.

Adaptability It’s the characteristic needed when things don’t turn out as expected. Like the gas fireplace that ceases blazing after the office closes at night. And your figure out it’s the only source of heat in the cabin. Or when the enormous clumps of snow that once graced the tops of the pine trees melt enough to fall, creating tree avalanches that obliterate the ski trail with icy mounds. Or topple weakened trees across the trail. It’s the turn-on-a-dime trait that comes in handy for revising ski plans to take advantage of trails that have been groomed in favor of those still coated in refrozen snow. It’s figuring out how to use a percolator when you’ve only ever made drip coffee.

Lurch This is what happens when the snow gets warm and wet, and ices up the bottom of your skis. It creates a huge snowball underneath your foot, which effectively stops all forward progress. Your body lurches forward with the momentum of your former glide, while your ski remains firmly planted in the ski track. And an inane sound escapes your lips as you try to regain some sense of balance (and lose all hope of retaining any dignity).

Perseverance It keeps you going when you realize you have chosen an overly ambitious distance to ski given the sticky snow conditions. It makes you move when you fear you will be finishing your ski in the dark, and your headlamp is still back at the cabin. It becomes your strength when you are dead tired after dragging your snow-bound skis across the snow (and lurching). Its mantra sounds something like “think of crisp, chilled Chardonnay waiting for you.”

Yet for each challenge the rewards were many. Skiing at sunrise, watching it paint the sky with orange stripes. Baking in the heat of the sauna, letting our aches drip away. Sunny days, warm temperatures. Talking, sharing, laughing caring. Sipping that Chardonnay.

It’s a rare friendship that endures this long. Perhaps it’s even more rare to keep up a tradition this long. But we’re unlikely to miss next year’s milestone – 25 years of skiing together. And so much more.

Superior Footprints

Life and the Outdoors in the Northland

Tag Archives: Friendship

From Alaska to Hawaii

Promises Kept

A Gap in our Streak

The Little Cabin at 30

Sisu Initiation

And then there were three

A Metro Century Ride

Artful Cycling

Good Morning, Lakewalk

Skiing – and so much more

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