This gallery contains 29 photos.
There were so many beautiful moments during our time at Crisp Point Lighthouse that I just couldn’t resist one more post to feature my favorite photo memories from our stay. Click on any photo for a slideshow with captions. For … Continue reading
We knew that Crisp Point Lighthouse was remote yet charming, but nothing prepared us for the beautiful sight that greeted us upon our arrival. Not only was the tower in good repair – having been brought back from the brink of endangerment in 1997 – but it’s supporters have rebuilt it’s service building, constructed a visitor center and landscaped the area with boardwalks and plantings to protect the dunes. It’s truly a testament to a dedicated group of individuals in the Crisp Point Light Historical Society. Along with a thorough orientation by the volunteers who preceded us on site, we knew we were off to a good start for our 5-day stint as lighthouse hosts.
We have easily settled into our job of manning the visitor center. There we are surrounded by an impressive array of lighthouse souvenirs to sell, along with displays of historical items. It is easy to linger and read the various pieces of literature in our downtime, absorbing more lighthouse history. With plenty of slow periods, we can easily take turns minding the shop and wandering the grounds.Greeting visitors is the best part of our duties. At times the whole parking lot is full, and at others we have a slow flow of customers who dribble in one vehicle at a time. Some even come by dirt bike or ATV. But they are all unique and come for different reasons. For those new to the lighthouse, just surviving the road to reach it feels like an achievement, but invariably worth it. And there are those who have been coming for years. They have great stories to tell, having seen the place before it’s recent improvements. Or when they could walk the beach in front of the lighthouse – land which has since been reclaimed by Lake Superior. We even met a man who once spent hours in the cold October Lake Superior waters to help build barriers to protect the lighthouse – all done by hand. And then there are the avid lighthouse collectors, on a quest to visit as many lighthouses as possible. Finally, those who come for a different reason entirely – rock hunting on the beach. All have something to share, enriching our own experience while on duty.
Outside our lighthouse obligations our life is pretty simple here. We have a campsite in a tidy enclosure, surrounded by the sturdy boardwalks leading to the lighthouse, beach and viewing areas. It has everything we need – a grill, fire ring, picnic table and soft sand under our tent for comfortable sleeping.The longer we are here, the easier it is to surrender to this existence. Our world is small, but the beaches and the horizon stretch forever. Our options are limited, but I have little need for much besides a good book to read. Our technology is rendered useless, but I don’t really miss it. In fact, it’s quite liberating not being a slave to the internet.
This place is a photographer’s dream. At this time of year we can see both sunrises and sunsets, with the lighthouse adding a dramatic setting. Even I tend to carry my camera around wherever I go. Somehow the lighthouse takes on a different appearance throughout the day, and we never tire of looking for new angles or shots to take. Theoretically we have pure dark for vivid stars and night skies, although the clouds have not obliged on that front. But a short cloudburst this evening delivered a stunning rainbow – an unexpected gift.
Being able to go up in the lighthouse tower is a treat, particularly in the off- hours. From there we can survey our surroundings, seeing it from a new vantage point. A perk of the job. And the visitor center has proven to be a godsend. Numerous times we have sought shelter there, whether it be from the wind, the rain or the ravenous mosquitoes. A haven for hassled campers.
Yes, it’s a good gig we have here. Definitely worth repeating. We’ll be back again next year to tend the light.
It’s not often that the Aerial Bridge opens just once for two boats. So when we saw the pair of boats headed for the canal, Rich and I quickly headed down to see them. It just so happened we were already nearby and had our camera equipment in the car – not so much of a coincidence, really.
Too cheap to pay for parking in Canal Park now that tourist season has begun, we headed over the bridge and planted ourselves on the south pier. The sun was already behind the hill, but for a short period of time the boats were far enough out to catch the day’s last remaining rays of light. It made for a pleasing effect reflecting off the superstructures in the otherwise dim light of the evening.
They boats were a motley pair. Out front was the Lakes Contender, which is really a flat barge with a custom tugboat cleverly tucked into a slot in the back end to propel it down the lake. Behind that was the Pilica, a saltie that flies the Maltese flag but is owned by the Polish Steamship Company, was built in Poland and carries a Polish crew. That vessel had much more pleasing lines.
Rich and I took up different stations along the pier, each testing out different camera settings and composition. The boats glided almost soundlessly through the canal as our cameras clicked and whirred. Once past a reasonable position for a good photo, I could stop and take it in with my own eyes instead of through the viewfinder. It’s infinitely more enjoyable that way, but that’s hard to remember when in pursuit of good photographs.
Although it was a cool evening, the wind had dropped and I found I was oblivious to the chill while watching the popular spectacle. After a long absence due to the late spring and ice-clogged lake, it is wonderful to have frequent shipping traffic once again. And evening is a magical time to watch the boats come in off the lake and welcome them through the bridge.
It was a long week. Especially for those of us who thrive on outdoor activity. Day after day of hard driving winds, sleet and rain meant squeezing in workouts in the “least bad” part of the day, and bearing the gloomy skies from behind rain-soaked windows for the remainder.
So when today dawned bright and sunny, in was an irresistible invitation to reconnect with Mother Nature. And by instinct I headed for the North Shore. My first engagement was my morning run. Padding down the road along Brighton Beach, I took in the rich blue of the sky and the water reflecting the same deep hues. The intensity of the colors filled my soul, after days of drabness deprived of this beauty. Bright white ice still clung to the shoreline, in stark contrast with the blue – a dazzling sight. The heavy gray rocks added the perfect balance and seemed to anchor the scene. It was easy to press on, mile after mile admiring the shore and drinking in the sunlight. Lacking a camera, I had to memorize the images of the shore in my mind instead.
As the day progressed and still we were graced with the sun, I knew I hadn’t yet had enough. For my second encounter I enlisted a friend and cycled up the shore. The same spell-binding scene passed by even more quickly as we pedaled. Although the air was cool by the frigid water, it felt refreshing and crisp with the aid of the sun. At Stony Point we circled back on the dirt road along the shoreline. Where days earlier the pounding waves and high splashing water were the attraction, today it was a tranquil setting where a family picnicked on the rocks. This time I had a camera in my trunk bag, but I was enjoying the ride too much to bother stopping to try and capture it.
After dinner I was enticed out to take
a walk with my husband. Hearing a boat toot for the bridge, we were inexorably drawn back to Brighton Beach once more. My third visit to the shore for the day. With the shipping lane finally opening up with increased traffic, the boat made rapid progress and was soon opposite our position. The sun was low but still shone on the shallow ice as well as the passing ore boat.
Finally I was able to get some photos. On foot, not distracted by the need to keep moving, I found the right motivation to focus and shoot. I could record the end of the day, if not the beginning and middle. I guess the third time’s the charm.
What do you get when you cross a passion for photography with a life-long love of birds? 365 Days of Birds – my husband Rich’s latest project. It’s a year long challenge he created for himself, dedicated to photographing a bird a day. As a fairly new amateur photographer, his intent was to use the assignment to improve his photography skills.
Now we are 61 days into the project. Yes, we. For although it’s Rich’s project, it has a habit of spilling over into my life as well. All the way out to Colorado and back, he scanned the skies. After all, he had to get his bird for the day. Then there are the pre-dawn ventures, hoping to get that golden hour light on his birds. Or the spontaneous photo opps on our way home from church. I never realized this project would be so all-consuming. But I will also grant that he has gotten some amazing photos.
Although Rich has frequently invited me to accompany him on his bird hunts or other photo shoots, I don’t often go along. I’ve learned that I just don’t have the dedication, patience and persistence that it takes to get the perfect photo. Nor do I have much staying power in the bitter cold – a staple for photographers in northern Minnesota. So I accept my limitations and pursue my own passions. Writing in the warmth of our lovely home, with a big mug of steaming coffee nearby suits me quite well.
This evening I must have let my guard down, as I agreed to accompany Rich out to see a Great Horned Owl and her owlets in a nearby park. Armed with my own camera and tripod, I set up shop next to Rich and promptly photographed the dead stub of a branch on the tree. A nearby photographer with a foot-long lens on his camera kindly set me straight, and it became clear just how well camouflaged Mrs. Owl was. And peering at the display on the back of my camera, I could just make out the owlet. To the naked eye, both were nearly invisible.
Somewhere overhead, father owl perched invisibly in a tree. I couldn’t see him at all until he swooped down and flew overhead to a distant grove of trees. From there, he traded hoots with Mrs. Owl and baby owlet turned to the sound of his voice. That was really cool. Unfortunately, so was I. As the cold seeped through my jacket and my fingers turned to useless stiff appendages, my interest waned. Still, I was glad I’d seen them and hoped I’d gotten at least one decent photo.
So now I ask, what do you get when you cross a fair weather wanna-be photographer with a natural reverence for majestic creatures? One Day of Birds.
Mrs. Owl and her owlet
Inactivity is not my strong suit. For someone whose whole being is finely tuned to making the most of each moment, and squeezing in as much physical activity into each day as possible, being housebound for a week is rough. However, the flu knocked out any false ambitions I might have harbored, and left me too wiped out to even consider moving any distance away from my perch on the window seat.
When recovery at last seemed an option, and I began to perk up a bit, my first foray back into the outdoor world was a trip down to Lake Superior. Camera in hand, this was to be a mild walk along the shore, not a physically taxing operation. Honestly, it was all I could handle. But so worthwhile.
With reports of Lake Superior being over 90% ice covered by then, I was greatly surprised to see that the recent winds had opened up a large expanse of deep blue turbulent water along the shore. It felt as though Duluth must have laid claim to a large portion of the only open water, by virtue of the shifting winds which can add or remove ice from the watery landscape in an instant.
Evidence of the wind’s handiwork lay on the shore below the A-frame information booth at the edge of town. There I found thick shards of ice tumbled on shore, piled up in haphazard form as the wind’s inexorable force moved them off the water. It was like an artist’s rendering of some modern art form, which took 
on blue hues as the sun shone through it with the water as a backdrop.
Walking was hazardous, with a thin layer of snow masking the icy footing underneath and a frigid wind blew off the lake, straight through me. My desire for stretching my photography skills and capturing artistic images
quickly faded to a lesser goal of at least catching some representation of the beauty around me. The myriad 
settings and nuances of focus would have to wait for a warmer day. But it didn’t stop me from enjoying the scene.
The most mysterious piece of all was the swirly cone out on the tip of an icy peninsula. What created the base of the form? And how did this opaque statue rise up above the icy chunks? It bore no resemblance to the flat rocky landscape I knew that underlay this setting.
It wasn’t long before my numbing fingers and chilling body drove my reluctant retreat from the scene. With a final look back to admire the ice, I carefully returned to the car. I’d had my big adventure for the day. My spirits rejuvenated by the lake and its ice. Yes, it was a great escape.
No one will argue that this has been an unusually cold winter. We have certainly had our share of days where the temperature never deigned to approach zero. But it does have its compensations. For the first time in five years the sea caves in the Apostle Islands are accessible by foot, thanks to the firm ice on Lake Superior. When stunning photos of the ice formations began to circulate, we became entranced and pledged to go.
Of course, it took over a week for the weather to cooperate, but today’s forecast looked promising, so we made plans with friends to make the trip together. As it turns out, we nailed the timing. Sunshine, clear blue skies, warming temperatures and little wind made for a perfect day for our hike out to the caves and viewing the ice.
There was no need for snowshoes or ski poles, nor any possibility of getting lost, as the trail was well trampled by many before us. We followed the edge of the lake for about a mile, with the scenery improving with each step. Layers of rock, topped with trees high above our heads became increasingly impressive, as did the spiky icicles that flowed down the exposed edges.
Fortunately, we chose to visit fairly early in the day, as even though it was mid-week, a large number of people were making their way out to the caves by the time we were on our return trip. We were pleased to be there when there were still relatively few others there.
Caves abounded in the rocky coastline, ranging from small openings in the ice to huge caverns. Inside, the ice formed fascinating patterns, hanging from the ceiling like frosty stalactite.
Rich crawled into several openings, and was rewarded with some great photos. But the dripping, groaning and thumping of the ice was too spooky for my tastes, so after a few such sojourns I made do with searching out unique angles – outside.
It was a great day for lingering. For gawking and feeling awed by the beauty of it all. For feeling so fortunate to be able to see it for ourselves. And for impeccable timing. No sooner did we reach the car than the skies clouded over and the wind picked up. The day was no longer so perfect. But by then we were off in search of lunch. Lucky us.
Now that we are Duluthians, it seemed only right that we take in the John Beargrease Sled Dog Marathon. With family in town, it was a natural to head over to the 
starting area ahead of time for Meet the Mushers. In a parking lot filled with dog kennels, sleds, equipment and people, it took on the aura of a festival. Dogs and mushers were easily accessible, and more than willing to be petted and talk about the race and their experiences. We could feel the excitement build as we perused the starting chute, and it was hard to tear our granddaughter away from meeting the “puppies.”
Once the race was in progress, Rich and I headed out to more remote spots to try our hand at photographing the action. Our first stop was at the top of Seven 
Bridges Road. While only the half-marathon teams took that route, we had great fun watching them navigate the downhill that ended in a hairpin curve. Not all dogs understood that they needed to turn, which was comedic. And I quite enjoyed this team’s lead dog, who seemed more intent on checking me out than leading the team!
Still early in the race, the mushers eagerly waved
and appreciated our cheers as they passed by. One in particular seemed to be having a great time – and it was a woman to boot! What spirit she showed.
When the action slowed there, we moved to a post further out of town, which proved to be a beautiful viewing point. Without warning, mushers came around the bend and traveled down a gently undulating and curving path heavily lined with thick and snowy pine trees. There we had ample opportunity to let our cameras shoot continuously, catching them all the way down the trail.
It was there that we saw our first full-marathon teams, with up to 14 dogs pulling the sleds as opposed to only 8 for the shorter distance racers. The teams seemed to stretch forever, and were amazing in their ability to coordinate their movements in a compressed space without getting hopelessly tangled. And they proved to be a challenge to fit into the viewfinder of the camera! We particularly enjoyed those with brilliantly colored booties – a necessity for the dogs’ feet out on the icy trail.
We quickly learned that photographing the race required more waiting than it did clicking the shutter. We never knew how long it would be between teams, and keeping warm was a high priority. Fortunately, we were decked out in our warmest gear, and found that talking to other spectators was entertaining and helped pass the time. Once a lead dog appeared, then it was a scramble for the camera, getting it lined up properly and shooting either with clumsy mittens or frigid exposed fingers. When using continuous mode, I felt like I was shooting blind, and came out with some headless mushers in the process. And while the photos taken from far away were not great, I enjoyed replaying them later in rapid order, seeing the dogs advance down the trail in stilted stop-action form.
We were relieved to return to the car at the end of each stop, to feel its warmth and let the seat warmers work their magic on our chilled bodies. The mushers weren’t nearly so lucky. It was hard to imagine them continuing on mile after cold and windy mile, and on into the night through the dark. They are heartier souls than we, still out there, following their dogs.
I now know I can trust my instincts. On our annual XC ski weekend, I like to go out before breakfast to either ski, snowshoe or take photographs. This year was no exception. Before leaving the cabin for an early morning walk, I popped a few muffins in the oven along with some pears to bake, leaving Susan in charge of them while she pursued her own morning passion – painting.
The morning was gray and uninspiring, but it was pleasant wandering through the fresh snow that had fallen during the night on the small roadway right next to Lake Superior’s shore. Mine were the only tracks in the snow, and the rest of the world seemed asleep. The area was an eclectic collection of tiny cottages, large homes with sweeping views and tumble down sheds. I wasn’t adventurous enough to trudge through the deep snow to get to the water’s edge, so I had to confine my photography to what I could see from the road.
As I walked, my thoughts kept wandering back to the oven. Did I tell Susan when the muffins would be done? Did I set it to the right temperature? Despite my best efforts to dismiss that responsibility, something nagged at me. But I walked on – intent to let go and savor the freshness of the morning.
Opening the door to the cabin, my senses were assaulted by the harsh burning smell. And it wasn’t the blaze in the fireplace. Susan looked at me sheepishly saying “I failed…” Suddenly the six black rocks outside on the deck railing took on significance as I recognized them 
for what they were. And the charred pears that melded themselves into the baking dishes were equally appalling. I knew it! I shouldn’t have left my baking in the hands of an artist absorbed in her work.
But in fact, I was wrong. And Susan’s self-blame was misplaced. Instead of activating the lower heat element, the oven malfunctioned and turned on the broiler, charring our breakfast to death. No amount of care or attention could have stemmed the tide on that disaster waiting to happen. All we could do was laugh. And poke fun at ourselves and the situation. And our six black muffins. Sitting in a row.
My instincts were right – something was bound to go amiss. I just didn’t know what. And Susan’s painting? It turned out quite nicely. A lot better than the muffins.
Toe and hand warmers have become my best friends. That little warm glow next to my sensitive digits is so comforting as once again I head out into the COLD.
The thermometer is hovering just
below zero – a veritable heat wave in this cold snap. I pull on my long underwear, add several thermal layers, don my head wrap and head out the door with my skis. For my first circuit around the trails I take in the sun’s golden glow on the trees and long shadows across the snow. Despite its lack of warmth, I enjoy the ambiance and even the crisp air. It makes me glad I made the effort to get out and ski. During my second lap, the cold begins to infringe on my body. First the thumbs go, followed by my fingers. By the time I’m gliding rapidly down the final hills, my knees complain of the chill, and I have no desire to go for a third lap. I can’t wait to reach the warmth of the house.
The Northern Lights indicators are all pointing to a high likelihood of activity. My husband’s phone buzzes with multiple alerts informing him of the fact. He’s intent on going out to see and photograph the display late at night, and I hesitate but decide to join him. The temperature is already -11 and heading out of town and away from Lake Superior it continues to plummet. Fortunately, Rich has been busy scoping out viewing points that allow us to stay in the car and watch for the northern glow. We are happy to occupy our seats with their “bun warmers” and wait. And wait. Scuttled again with a lack of aurora, we decide to salvage the trip with some photo shots of stars. It’s clear and cold, and Rich 
catches me doing a “warming dance” alongside my camera as it takes its long exposure on the tripod. My photos weren’t very good, but we do get in some valuable practice, and a few good laughs, mostly at ourselves. And I get a decent shot of the dashboard…
The temperature has finally risen into the teens, but snow is falling and the wind is fierce. We watch the snow swirl outside our windows, note how blustery it is and think how cozy we are inside. But we don’t stay there. Instead, we pile into our down jackets and jump into a 4-wheel drive truck with friends to go to a UMD hockey game. Hockey? Me? Okay, so I’m not really a hockey (or spectator sports) fan, but hey – it’s a social outing. And after all, it’s indoors.
We’re Minnesotans – better yet, Duluthians. And proud of it. Life doesn’t stop just because it’s cold outside. That’s why we keep the warm clothing industry in business and continue to pursue our outdoor activities. Otherwise it would be a long, dull winter.
Superior Footprints 