A Bird's Eye View

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As winter winds down, the days are relatively quiet. The most activity we see is in the world of the birds. Flocks of them are returning, whom Greg fondly refers to collectively as Tweety birds. I've seen red polls and finches, some grosbeaks, and the usual chickadees and nuthatches. The songs they sing are more spring-like, and they are voracious at the feeder. We've started to toss a handful of seeds out the window of our room, on to the roof of the screen porch. It makes for some great viewing. We get a kick out of some of the feisty finches, who spend more time defending territory from their flock-mates, than actually eating. I wish I could tell them that there is plenty of seed to go around.

For more years than I can recall, whenever Greg would see a small plane going over Gunflint Lake, he would declare that the pilot should come down to pick him up, and take him for a ride. After the blowdown, and since the fires, that desire has only grown stronger. He had been up in a plane many years ago, but with the changes our forest has endured, he knew the scenery would be different now. That wish came true yesterday. A friend taxied down the ice, stopped out front, and invited us for a quick tour.


For my part, I, too, had been up above Gunflint Lake many years ago, when our friend Bill had his plane at the airport at Devil's Track. He offered to take me and the boys up for a ride. Addie was too little, so she stayed home with Greg, waiting on our landing, to wave at us as the plane came by. Robert sat up front, and Paul and I enjoyed the view from the back. Since it was a good seventeen or so years ago, my memory of it is a bit faded. Mostly green and blue, that is what I recall.

On this day, of course, things were predominantly white. We do still have a lot of snow, especially when seen from the air. Add to that the expanses of iced lakes, and it almost looked like a black and white landscape. The sun was shining brightly, and it was easy to identify the lakes with which I am most familiar. Looking west into the BWCA, it was quite helpful to have our pilot pointing out the various familiar names of distant lakes. Turning south, he showed us the tip of the Lutsen ski hill area, and we could see Lake Superior on the horizon. I was totally struck by how close these places are really are to me. It may take me an hour to drive to town, but up in the sky, I could almost see it from here. Ely is further---three and a half hours away by car, but it was out there somewhere to the west. Out of reach, of course, due to the flying restrictions over the Boundary Waters, but not so far away just the same.


We circled back along the south side of Loon, and I could see over to Gunflint Lake, the ridge between the two lakes stretching long. Paul and I had hiked the eastern section of it in January, when we took the trail to Bridal Falls. Patches of forest butted up against open area that had been parts of prescribed burns in the past. I recalled one such event, the Saucer Lake burn, back in the fall of 2005. I was home alone with Addie when the Forest Service came through to rent our boats and use our landing. Another section of the burned area had resulted from prescribed burning during the Ham Lake Fire. Without those planned activities, the wildfire in 2007 may have had a different ending for us.


Soon we were making our way from east to west down Gunflint Lake, descending closer to the ice. The lake is mostly clear of snow, save for a few thin crusty patches. The ice is super slick and bumpy. The wheels touched down with a loud thump and we slowed as we approached our point. We got out and thanked the pilot for our adventure, grateful for the opportunity to see it ourselves, and for the photos we were able to capture. What an awesome surprise!

The Last Trip

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Last weekend, one of our favorite groups of fishermen arrived to try for some trout. Some of these fellows have been coming up for more years than I have been here, so they know the lodge, the family, and more importantly, the lake, really, really well. I know that I've shared a tale or two about them on these pages. When I think of trout season, I often think of these guys.

Word over the weekend was that this was the last time one of the guys would be up. Wow, that was tough to hear. Fortunately, it wasn't that he is too ill to come--he's quite healthy. Rather, it just isn't so easy to do this anymore. He's getting on up in years, so mobility is more challenging, and staying warm in the cold weather presents itself, too. Even at my "tender age", I notice these things, albeit on a whole different scale. But he wanted to do a last trip, and so they came and fished, and with the aid of trucks and snowmobiles and space heaters, they made it a comfortable expedition.

That thought of a last trip stayed with me throughout the day. I contemplated it more as I lay in bed that night. Recognizing something as important as "the last time" is hard for me to do. I remembered when our oldest son Robert was getting ready to leave home and move to Alaska. It struck me that because we had not taken a family vacation that year, our last trip together had already occurred, and I didn't even know it at the time. It made me sad to think about it. But would I have done anything differently, had I known? Maybe not.

I think the tough part is that I would be attempting to get every last bit of enjoyment and importance out of each moment. And I would be sad at the same time, so that might actually interfere with the fun of it all. It's probably better for me to be clueless, in these cases. It's kind of the same way with good-byes for me. I prefer to say good-bye to someone when they leave with the hope that I will someday see them again. The nature of this lifestyle and business we have is that we do see people come and go all of the time. Of course it is impossible to expect that we will see them all again, but we've been blessed with many return customers and guests who have become good friends. I love the opportunity to check in with them each year, to have them back around my table so to speak. I guess I'll just forever be an optimist that can't say a final good-bye.

One thing I do know is that when a certain west wind starts to blow on Gunflint Lake, and the trout fishermen are waiting to head out, I'll be thinking of Wes. That's his kind of wind.

Ditchmobiles....A Fact of Life

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Just when you think everything is going fine, cruising down the road at a reasonable speed, you move over a hair. That's when the pull begins, and bingo, you can't fight it. You're a ditchmobile. No, this hasn't happened to me in a long time. And only once, thank heavens. It did have to be at New Year's, one of my busiest stretches of the year. But that was so long ago, I can't even recall if it was Dec. 30th or 31st.

Whenever I see the scars from vehicles that have gone into the ditch, I think that it might make for an interesting blog post. It's not that I would photograph and broadcast someone's misfortune. Maybe it's more that it is a good reminder for myself to do my best to stay away from the deceptive edges of the road. That is really the problem here. The snow does an excellent job of hiding where the road ends and the shoulder begins. In some cases, the shoulder is only inches wide and the ditch below it is quite deep. The snow acts like quicksand, and sucks the tire right in. You aren't going anywhere in that case.

Greg is quite adept at pulling cars out of ditches. Anyone up here with a big truck likely is. It comes with the territory. What I find interesting are the ways in which a ditchmobile finds a good Samaritan, way out here in the remote areas. If you are within walking distance of people, you can find someone willing to help. But if it's miles to the next residence or lodge, you are at the mercy of whatever traffic might be driving by. On a cold winter night, you might wait a while.

Last night, I was waiting at the end of the side road for a friend who kindly picked up a plow part in town for Greg. She was on her way home, and we had pre-arranged to meet at the Trail when she would be passing by. Since Greg was out plowing, I said that I would meet her. I sat out there with my knitting, pleasantly listening to the radio while I waited. She got there about ten minutes after our expected meet-up, but that was not surprising given the driving snow that was falling at the time. She apologized for her delay, and explained that she had stopped to help a couple in the ditch about a mile back. The three of them were unable to get the car unstuck, so she said that she would relay the situation to me.

It happened that I had seen Greg's truck parked at a neighbor's, so I drove back to where he was. After telling the story, I had not one, but two plow guys ready to help out. We drove down the trail, and sure enough, by the Loon Lake access road, there they were. Within about ten minutes, Greg and John had the straps and chains in place, and in a blink, Greg had backed up and the car popped right out and up on to the solid road bed. He made it look so easy.

Naturally, the couple was quite thankful and appreciative. We were more than happy to help them. It's a neat sort of karma that lets paths cross in the way that ours all did last night. That's reassuring when we think that it might be us next time in the ditchmobile.