Stormy Ride

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CRACK! The thunder and lightning struck simultaneously as we sat down to dinner. I shuddered at the sound, my thoughts on Paul. Earlier, he had crossed the lake to help celebrate a friend's birthday, but was due home for supper. At twenty-one, he is an extremely responsible guy, but still, the mom instincts in me came forward. I hadn't discussed weather issues with him before he left. Would he stay put? Would he watch the sky and make a break for it? Did he know that lightning can strike up to fifteen miles away? All this crossed my mind, and we discussed it as we ate. It is hard, as a parent, to shake a feeling of helplessness.

Parenting in the Northwoods has been a privilege and a challenge. I suppose that is true wherever one chooses to live, but sometimes it feels like our situation is a bit more unusual than most. Magazine articles can only tell one so much when it comes to deciding what to teach your children, or how to discipline them when they are young. Tried and true experience, also known as trial and error, is probably the best guide. In this case, I was counting on all of the many years of conversations about being in this situation to be Paul's guide.

Still, my mind was restless. I went upstairs with my knitting, while Greg watched a movie in the store. I had my window open, and my ear cocked for the sound of the outboard. How many nights have I done this, I thought? Before the fire in 2007, the kids would take a boat across to enjoy campfires with their friends. Instead of waiting to hear the car pull into the driveway, like most parents do, I would listen for the sound of the motor, skimming the boat over the water. Tonight, it was hard to discern the sounds. It was a mix of the wind, the rain, the distant thunder, the movie downstairs, and the fans blowing in various corners of the lodge.

At one point, I was certain I could hear him. The rain had paused, and the wind was down a bit. I stuck my head out the window, listening carefully. Was that a buzz in the distance? Downstairs, Greg had paused the movie, and we walked down to the landing. A shred of light was left to the day, and we watched the grey haze on the horizon. No sound. As the raindrops again picked up, we headed back up the hill, me to my knitting and Greg to his show.

Half-an-hour later, I definitely heard the motor. I hopped up and ran to the window. I swore I heard the motor cut, and that the boat was at the ramp. Waiting by the window, I scanned the land below, watching for Paul's silhouette. After what seemed to be too long a time to wait, I went downstairs to go out and see for myself. As I reached the landing, Paul emerged from the shadows. He was soaking wet, and none too happy.

He had waited for what seemed like the right opportunity to head out onto the water. Once out there, the wind proved to be more of a factor than he had expected. He chose to follow the Canadian shoreline until he was directly across from the lodge. At that moment, the motor died. He began to paddle, and the waves lapped the stern, sending water into the boat. He looked about for a bailer, but only had the coffee mug that he had brought along. Between
paddling against the wind, bailing, and attempting to start the motor up, he was having a tough time. Finally, after several pulls, the motor caught, and he was able to start south. By then, he was west of the lodge, and when he got close to the south side of the lake, he saw a cabin light. He realized that he needed to change direction, but once again, the motor quit. The wind continued to push him west, but he prevailed and got the thing started up. At that point, he made a beeline for home. Turns out that I had heard him that first time, when he was headed across the lake. I was looking for him in the wrong direction. But here he was now, and I was extremely grateful.

Next time he heads off like this, we will have that talk about lightning. I may even take the time to check the weather and radar maps on the internet. I know that if all of this were happening in the town where he lives most of the year, I would have no way to know of it, nor any way to worry. But when it's happening right here, that old mom instinct cannot be shrugged. Guess I just have to live with that--and so does he.

Five Minute Adventures

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On my way home from Grand Marais the other night, I decided to have a five minute adventure. Near the North Brule River, a small road leads to the site of an old CCC camp. It is a part of the Superior National Forest, and it seems the current use for it is storage. Just past an iron gate, a large open area hosts culverts, picnic tables, and other big objects. The river runs along the far edge of the property. The reason I am familiar with this spot is that I had a chance to go birding there two years ago. I was with a group of fellow trail folks, led by two experienced birders. We were in the area listening and watching for the various birds that prefer a river-based habitat. As I recall, we were successful, as we saw a phoebe and an olive-sided flycatcher.


But this particular evening, I wasn't necessarily birding. I decided to have a five-minute adventure, and just stopped in to see what was happening in that neck of the woods. I was not disappointed. At my feet were thousands of twin flowers. The delicate pink and white blooms hung from slender stems, carpeting the forest floor. A few steps later, the bunchberry plants did the same thing. These were thick on the land, and I could only imagine how it will look in a few weeks when the white flowers are replaced with striking red berries.


I continued on a short way, and the meadow opened up wide. On my left, the yellow hawkweed was in full color. On my right, a patch of orange hawkweed, though not as large, wanted to show off as well. This is an absolutely wonderful time to be out and about looking for wildflowers, as evidenced by this short outing. All the recent rains are paying big dividends right now.

I headed back to the car, since my groceries were warming up and dinner still needed to be made. If I'd had more time, I would have hung around to listen for the birds, or to go down to the river to explore. But that can wait for another time. It will still be there.

Five minute adventures are a great concept. In just those few moments, I saw so many things. It's true, I probably could find them on my own property, but seeing these little beauties in an unfamiliar landscape seemed to enhance them. Stealing that time from my own schedule felt a little decadent, but I need that every now and again. Can five-minute adventures be a little luxury?

One way to have them, if you are unable to leave home and find a piece of woods as I did, can be found through a website I've been following for several years. It is called Morning Earth. The owner, John Caddy, is a naturalist and educator. He daily posts a photograph and poem that he has written. You can have them delivered to your email, or you can follow him on Facebook, or just click on to his website. Each morning, I am greeted with a photo that John has taken, somewhere in his neighborhood or from his travels. I've seen some incredible shots, thanks to him. The poems to accompany these pictures are informative, humorous and thought-provoking. Whether you enjoy reading poetry or not, it is worth the time to check out his site. Each day, you could have a five-minute adventure, right from your computer.

A Quiet Morning

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Summer mornings on the porch can be an incredible way to start the day. Lots of peace and quiet, and a bit of nature noise mix to be just the right balance. This was one of the first mornings that the weather has been near perfect. Finally the sun is peeking out, the temperature is in the sixties and the mosquitoes are not too thick. (In general, they have not been a problem at all. Usually at this time of the year, they cluster all over our screens in the mornings. I've not seen many.)

So a cup of tea in the early day and a good book were all I needed to get things started properly. The book I am currently reading is The Gunflint Cabin, by our neighbor, John Henricksson. It is a recounting of cabin life in our neighborhood here on Gunflint Lake, and in general of the cabin tradition in Minnesota. I was smiling in parts, as I read of folks I know, and stories both old and new. Overall, a good way to get going. The white-throated sparrows, chickadees, blue jays and warblers provided just enough background music. A loon gave a shout-out. All was peaceful, until I noticed an extra level of buzzing.


Bald-faced hornets love to build nests in the most inconvenient places. I think they are rather like beavers and their dams in that respect. For many years, some very industrious beavers kept a good dam built up on Little Gunflint Lake. The lake narrows down to a river-wide passage, and the water is shallow there. The beavers live in a large house on the Canadian side, and they find it necessary to dam up the water in order to keep their house at a respectable level of submergence. At least, that is what I think. That, and the fact that beavers just love to stay busy. They would cut and haul one tree after another to close up the channel. Folks in boats and canoes would have to push, pull and sometimes get out of the watercraft, in order to cross over the dam. Definitely under the "inconvenient nuisance" category.

The hornets just happen to like places that are inaccessible for humans like me, but are still a little too close for my comfort. While sitting in my chair, I looked up to see an active hive, with three or four hornets working on it. It was right above my head. For a short time, we struck up a truce, with me continuing to read and sip tea, and them buzzing about doing their construction work. But when Greg decided to come out and join me, they didn't agree with the changes to the terms. Pretty soon a sentinel came to check us out, flying all around, and in particular, behind us. I tried to sit frozen for the most part, especially when the buzzing would quit and I knew that he had landed. When he lighted on the porch floor in front of Greg, he had made his fatal mistake. With a quick landing of the foot, he was a goner. The guys up above buzzed louder with the reverberations. They didn't venture down to us, though. Maybe they learned something?

At any rate, this evening the hive will be no more. When clearing out a problem like this, nightfall is the best opportunity. It doesn't have to involve chemicals or complete clothing coverage, as the critters are fairly harmless after dark. Tonight we'll knock down the hive, and the workers will need to find new living quarters. Then my mornings on the porch can continue in relative peace and safety.