The Last Day of Summer

Sunday, September 16.  80 degrees Fahrenheit.  We had just returned  from a long walk in the woods, and the pond felt soooo refreshing.

Summer is short in the Copper Country, and it carries a burden that none of the other three seasons carry - it is a time to do all the things that during the winter  you dreamed about doing when summer finally came.  This is an unrealistic expectation of any season, but it really can't be helped.  You need to dream about warmth and sunshine during the cold gray days of January.  As usual I only do about half the things I planned to do, but in hindsight I realize that I did many other things that were unplanned.  A totally planned life is no life at all. We need to stand up to our own inner tyrant once in awhile, and take each day as it comes without feeling that we have to wring the most out of it.

So, in some ways it is liberating to know that you are experiencing the last day of summer.  The pressure is off.  There is no longer time to do all the things you planned to do in the summer.  Fall is on the doorstep. Tomorrow the weather will be turning colder.  So what do you do?  Nothing at all.  You just kick back on an air mattress and feel the sun hot on your skin and watch the clouds, and a few turkey vultures, overhead.  No plans, no goals, just experience the delicious moment  and soak up the vitamin D.

A great blue heron showed up soon after we had left the pond.

A couple of days ago I had an experience which I wish I could bottle and relive.  Here's the story.  When we paddled our canoe from our campsite at Wolf Point, the morning was a bit chilly, the beach was in shadows and the wind began to pick up.   Soon  we were bobbing in growing swells, nothing serious, but as we sank into the deeper troughs I began to feel dryness in my mouth and a creepy feeling in my gut.  When we finally pulled into the mouth of the river I was relieved to get off the lake.

When we got home it was warm, sunny and calm.  I went for a swim in the pond, and as I was looking toward the bright yellow sunflowers by our chicken coop three words came to me that described the moment.  SMALL.  WARM.  SECURE.  At that moment I think I appreciated our little homestead in a way that I have never experienced it before.

Return to Wolf Point

We have been camping at Wolf Point since 1995, often several times a summer, but less in recent years, and not at all for the past two years.  So when we got unseasonably warm weather in mid-September and a favorable marine forecast (i.e. south winds and calm to one foot waves) it was time to break out of our ruts. 

There's nothing quite like paddling on a glassy sea.  It is not the norm for Lake Superior.

Most of the beach is under water now with the high lake level.

A young eagle.

Almost to the point.

Once landed, we unloaded the canoe, pitched the tent and set up camp.  The sun was hot and we were ready to cool off in the lake.

In September, with an offshore wind, the lake can be quite chilly.  Marja went in for a quick dip.

I however needed a real swim to cool off.  Thermomass has its advantages you know.  

The warm breeze dried us off quickly.

Time for coffee, a bagel with cream cheese and a good book - here Wendell Berry's latest book, The Art of Loading Brush.  Berry, a self-described agrarian, is an advocate of small farms, small places and local economies.  He is one of the deepest, most eloquent writers I have ever read.  We agree on many, but not all things, and it is always a challenge to read him.

Unless you knew that this shore runs north/south and had paddled a canoe a bit on big water, you probably would not notice that these small wavelets were coming from the south, offshore from the main bay.  There isn't enough fetch, i.e. open water, for them to develop into big waves.  But turn that same wind around so that it blows out of the north and those waves would have plenty of open water to grow.  We always pay attention to wind direction the big lake.

Marja reading in the shade with a towel over her feet.  Our old friends, the ankle biters (flesh flies) were taking advantage of the warm weather to try for a quick meal.  They easily bite through one layer of socks. Wolf Point is a wonderful place to camp, but you need to willing to share it with flesh flies, wood ticks and the occasional black bear.

The actual point.  Our campsite is in a small field about a hundred yards from here, the site of an old logging landing.

This is a tough place to live, but these plants call it home.

Mountain ash berries.

The sandstone at Wolf Point is continually eroding.  Water gets in a cracks, freezes and expands.  In time storm-driven waves break the chunks loose and pile them against the bedrock.

Heading back toward our campsite.

Home sweet home.

Our kitchen counter, a sandstone shelf.

Spaghetti always hits the spot.

Evening shadows.

Reading Wendell Berry.  The evening was still quite warm, but I needed a longsleeve shirt against the mosquitoes (did I forget to mention that our unusually wet summer has produced an outstanding crop of mosquitoes?)  There was a nice cool breeze close to the lake.

A small flock of  Canada geese, perhaps right out of Canada, flew off the lake in a straight line.  We heard them far out in the lake before I spotted them with binoculars.  They appeared to be flying only a few feet over the water and only rose as they approached land.  They were flying into a light south wind and I imagine it was lightest a few feet above the water.

Our bonfire.  The steady breeze out of the south blew all the smoke out into the lake. On most occasions your campfire smoke will blow in your face, no matter where you sit, so this was a rare treat for us.  We sat by the fire until the sky was full of stars before retiring to the tent.  We slept moderately well.  You never sleep really well the first night out.  It takes one night to get used to sleeping in a sleeping bag on an inflatable mattress.  Unfortunately we were only staying for one night.

Sunrise.  I have always gotten up in time to watch the sunrise at Wolf Point.  In June that means getting up around 5:30.  In September it's more like 7:30.  I get a potful of water from the lake and put it on the stove to boil, so that I can greet the sun with a cup of coffee in  hand.  It's little details  that make life pleasurable.  Mornings are wonderful and best enjoyed with leisure.  I cannot understand how people can get up at the last minute, bolt down their breakfast and rush out the door.

Gulls are early risers as well.

Wolf Point protocol dictates that you greet the sun with a cup of coffee and a bagel.

Getting ready...

The sun foretells its imminent appearance by painting the upper edge of the cloud bank gold. 

The rocks of the point bathed in the warm red glow of the sunrise.

The sun has now risen into the next layer of clouds....

Leaving a ghostlike layer of clouds beneath it.

Breakfast.  Hot oatmeal with brown sugar, butter and raisins, our traditional fare when camping.

Dishwashing is simple.  You fill the pan with small fragments of sandstone and swirl it about in the water like you were panning for gold.

Presto!

If you feel like you still would like to use a brush, there are plenty available.

Reloading the canoe.  Marja held it near the rock while I piled on the packs.  One of the decadent aspects of canoe camping is that you easily take too much stuff.

Heading back.

Goodbye, Wolf Point.  Hopefully we'll see you again soon.

Biking With Savu - Labor Day 2018

Me with my biking buddy, Savu.

Heading up the lane to the corner of our farm.

My son Samuel built this bridge over a low spot on our singletrack, but we have had so much rain this summer that it needs to be longer.

The trail goes through a valley and passes this huge boulder left by the glacier.  I believe these are termed glacial erratics because they are strewn randomly about the landscape.

The picture doesn't do it justice, but this is a bench that Sam built along the hillside.  If you were to roll off it you would likely take a tumble into the valley.

A rock crossing that Sam built.  I built the entire length of the trail originally, but Sam has made a lot of improvements.

I have also heard from a number of people that they enjoy walking along it as well.

A rockpile along an old fence line.  When I consider how much work the original settlers did to create farms in this area I wonder what they would think to see it today.  That kind of hard physical work makes mountain biking feel like a frivolous activity by comparison.

Savu never falls.  He can climb any hill, race down any trail, jump over any obstacles.  For every mile I put on the ride he puts on two or three chasing critters and investigating scents.

From the singletrack we turn onto the old railroad bed which was built around 1900.

Near the top of "Gun Hill", named by my kids because locals target practiced at a bank and left plenty of shell casings on the ground for the boys to collect.

Almost to Mud Lake.

There's not much muddy about Mud Lake.  It is becoming a sphagnum bog surrounded by heather.

Only a small area of open water still exists.

Savu is a Siberian Husky with bloodlines from the dogs imported to Alaska by the famous musher Leonard Seppala in the early 1900's.  Savu is lean and fast and has remarkable endurance.  I have never tired him out on a mountain bike.

A short, steep climb on the trail behind Mud Lake.

The trail climbs a big hill that never fails to get me huffing and puffing.

After the hill,  the trail goes mostly downhill through some moderately fast sections, always a pleasure to ride.

Back to the old railroad bed, along which is built a powerline.

We stopped at Messner Lake to see how high the water is.

In some summers the lake dries almost completely up.  This is not one of those years.

Heading up toward Trimountain on Les Cobbles.  The Tour de France often includes stages on old cobblestone lanes that rattle the teeth of the riders.  You can do the same thing here, but it's best done on a full-suspension mountain bike.  Courtesy of the glacier.

Once again the picture doesn't do it justice.  This is the beginning of climb up to the old firetower site.  It is a killer.  I can make it about halfway up before I flop over.  My boys, at least three of them, can pedal right to the top.  I've witnessed.  The key to a climb like this is to have the proper weight/strength ratio.  I'm sure I have the strength, but I am too fat. Still, I hope to be able to climb it one of these days.  It's really very simple.  If I weighed what I did when I graduated from high school, I would be able to shoot up this hill like a squirrel climbing a tree.  Of course it would help to have a teenager's metabolism, wouldn't it?

Trees marked for cutting.

A forester selects the trees to be removed and marks them with a paint gun. To improve a stand, the smaller and poorly formed trees are cut, leaving room for the best ones to grow.

One of the nice things about biking logging roads is that you get to appreciate the scenery.   I enjoy regular bike trails - singletrack - but your focus must stay fixed on the trail.  I have often remarked to my biking companions, "We are sure riding through some beautiful scenery that I ain't seeing."  It is enjoyable in that it challenges your fitness and bike handling skills, but if you start gawking at the scenery you'll be kissing a tree or doing the classic over-the-handlebars dismount before you know it.

These leaves will be gone in a little over a month.  It pays to take time to appreciate them while they are here.  May is long time from now.

Back-lit maples leaves.  I remember my Finnish wife Marja's reaction to these when she first saw them.  Maple trees are rare in Finland, and to her looking up at a maple leave canopy was nothing short than magical.  She was right of course.  Take time to look up.  Don't worry, your head won't fall off your neck.

Green in many shades.

Savu doesn't spend much time looking up.  But he has a nose than can pick up an incredible palette of scents.  He lives in an olfactory world.  If your sniffer works that well, then you too can keep you nose to the ground.

In our area, the woods are quite open, with only a thin layer of underbrush.  No thorns, no vines, no tangles.  Once the leaves fall you can walk anywhere in the woods and see the ground.

The trail back down runs through a thick "dog hair" stand of young trees.  Apparently this area was very heavily thinned in the past so that the young trees grew thick.

Goldenrod blooming at an log yard opening.

Heading down one of my favorite long downhills.  You can really rip on this one.

But it's good to take in the scenery as well.

About of mile from home, heading through a recent clearcut that was sprayed with herbicide this summer to prepare the section to be replanted with pines. Shortly after I took this picture I encountered a work crew of hispanic men gathered around a couple of trucks filled with tanks of what I guessed was herbicide.  They had backpack type spraying equipment and I wondered what kind of protective clothing and gear they used.  I would have stopped but they were speaking Spanish and I didn't want to make them feel uncomfortable by asking questions in English.  It was a sobering moment to realize that this kind of hazardous work is farmed out to immigrant labor.

Back home.

Time to wash off the mud.

And cool off.   Having this pond dug was one of the best investments I ever made.