The online entry for the part of the Gitchi-Gami State Trail from Gooseberry Falls State Park to Split Rock State Park along Lake Superior said, This trail segment has steep hills and curves that can be particularly arduous for recreational use.
The warning was in italics and demanded attention. Russ and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Meh. How hard can it be?”
Will we never learn?! Spoiler alert: Actually, it wasn’t that bad, but a few of the uphills toward the end of our round-trip tour did defeat me, and I walked them. Just a reminder that I am 60 years old, so you gotta cut me some slack.
But the arduosity was worth it to bike a new (to us) segment of this trail on the North Shore and to see Iona’s Beach – a fabled shore littered with pink stones.
The Gitchi-Gami trail is composed of several paved segments totaling 33 miles. Eventually, it will span 86 miles from Two Harbors, MN, to Grand Marais, MN. I’d been on a segment north of the Gooseberry-Split Rock previously and enjoyed gliding through the birch and aspen forests and crossing river bridges.
The Gooseberry River before the falls on a foggy day.
After buying our MN state park pass at Gooseberry, we made our way to the trailhead, which is near the picnic area. The trail begins by taking bicyclists in the wrong direction – you travel south for a bit, but once you get near the park entrance it turns north. Cyclists get a spectacular view of the head of the Gooseberry River falls. In about 3 miles the trail winds into Twin Points Safe Harbor and Iona’s Beach Scientific and Natural Area. Fog from the lake rolled in and out along the way.
Iona’s Beach
We stopped and explored Iona’s Beach. Probably because of the mist, it wasn’t very crowded, but that was okay with us.
As you can see from the photos, the beach really is composed of pink stones. The stones have eroded from waves and frost from a nearby cliff (made of rhyolite) and are kept in place by dark basalt rock headlands on either side.
We sat by the water to see if we could hear the beach “sing.” When waves recede from the cobblestones, the stones come to rest with a tinkling sound unique to this beach. Waves were plentiful during our visit – the sound was subtle, but I do think we heard the beach sing!
The beach is named after Iona Lind, whose family bought the area and ran a resort there for more than 50 years. Iona ended up protecting the lakeshore she loved permanently by donating it to the state.
We continued on our way, gaining a close view of the rhyolite cliff from a bridge. A small waterfall cascaded down its face. The Split Rock River was another inspiring site. We made it a few miles into the park before my legs begged me to turn around, so we headed back to Gooseberry Falls. We did not make it all the way to the famed Split Rock Lighthouse.
All total, our trip was 15 miles. We were famished by the end of it. We wanted to eat at Betty’s Pies outside of Two Harbors, but it was so crowded that we opted for Blackwoods in Two Harbors. A mushroom and swiss burger never tasted so good!
The rhyolite cliffs that formed Iona’s Beach
FYI – Minnesota also has a black beach farther up the Shore in Silver Bay. It’s not natural, however. It’s created from discarded taconite tailings from iron ore mining activities. According to media reports and info from friends, it’s not that healthy to regularly play around on a beach made from industrial pollution, but a visit or two is just fine. The beach has been cleaned up in the past, but I would still be cautious if you have young children or have immune issues. Maybe opt for a natural pink beach instead.
Me, happily ricing, unaware of what lies ahead. Image credit: Wisconsin Sea Grant
I had a chance to harvest wild rice in the St. Louis River near Duluth recently for work. It wasn’t the first time I’d been ricing, but it’s the most memorable.
You can read about my little adventure on the Wisconsin Sea Grant blog through this link. Enjoy, and happy meandering!
Miners Dry Building at the Pioneer Mine Museum, tour headquartersin Ely.
Russ and I meandered farther north in Minnesota earlier this summer to bicycle in the Great River Energy Mesabi Trail Tour. Although we’ve biked on this trail in several different locations, this was the first time we’d travelled this new stretch of it and participated in the official annual tour. Note: this is not a race, it’s a recreational tour.
Bikers can sign up for several different distances: 12, 30, or 50 miles. Russ is such a bicycling animal he’d normally sign up for 50 miles. But some of us still have day jobs and can’t spend all our waking hours biking (😊), so he indulged me and we both signed up for the 12-mile tour.
The Mesabi Trail is paved and, once totally built, will stretch 165 miles from Grand Rapids to Ely, Minnesota. It’s almost all complete. The Ely part is the newest section, so we were eager to traverse it.
The tour began at the gritty, post-industrial Pioneer Mine Museum, which features photos and artifacts from an underground iron ore mine that closed in 1967.
The trail wound past a lake, through a few blocks of town, and then we were in the woods, along with 400 other people who were on the tour. There was no official start time, so people began biking in drips and drabs, which made for a less crowded experience.
Russ signed us up, so he had the tour map and I was fairly clueless about our route and where our turnaround point was. Also, the turnaround points were not marked on the actual trail (note to trail organizers, this might be a good idea!)
The spot on the trail by the raspberry patch where we finally turned around. (Note, the cyclists are not us. They are just some other people who didn’t stop for the raspberries.)
We passed one rest stop, which only felt about 3 miles out to me, but it was actually 6 miles and was our turnaround point. Because we were clueless and in good form, we kept going another couple miles, past a huge scenic meadow and lovely white pines until Russ found a patch of raspberries. Russ never met a wild raspberry he didn’t like, so we stopped so he could forage.
Once he was done eating, Russ thought to look at his exercise ap and discovered that we had gone over our mileage. So, we turned back, completing 16 miles instead of 12. No big deal, plus I probably needed the extra exercise, anyway.
Back at the museum, a little lunch was waiting for us, along with musical entertainment. We also ran into a few people we knew at lunch and met some new people on the trail. Much more fun than biking alone!
For information about other sections of the trail, please read:
…For the first time in my life I had failed to work for the joy of knowing the wilderness; had not given it a chance to become a part of me. –Sigurd Olson, “The Singing Wilderness”
Garretts Point Campsite
After our delightful stay on the Duckfoot Islands, we headed back toward the houseboat base. Our goal was Garretts Point, another sandy campsite in a protected cove. This was Garrett’s idea, for obvious reasons.
He successfully piloted us out into the lake. Then I decided to give houseboat driving another try. The first time I did it, my steering wasn’t so bad, despite the wind. There was less wind on this day, but my steering was much worse. I almost did a 180 with the boat! Luckily, we were in the middle of the lake, without any obstacles. That was one reason why I chose this stretch to try again.
The campsite rubber duckie
As I zigzagged down our route, I figured out my problem. I’m used to steering a sailboat with a rudder. For that, you turn the rudder in the opposite direction you want the boat to go. Not so with a houseboat. To turn right, you turn the wheel to the right. I kept wanting to do the opposite. Also, you’re steering from near the front of the boat and the motor is in the back. That’s weird, too.
Despite all this, we successfully reached the Brule Narrows again and Garrett took over. The rest of our trip to Garretts Point in a light rain was uneventful. The site is sandy, but the beach is not as big as the one at the Duckfoot Islands. The fire ring is circled by nine stately red pines. We were greeted by a sparkly rubber duckie that someone had left on a rock by the fire ring.
Garrett was excited to arrive, and we took an obligatory picture of him standing behind the official campsite sign. Russ explored in the kayak and found a huge beaver house nearby. The beaver visited us that night as we sat around the fire.
I spent most of my time reading, but I also had a chance to explore my feelings. It didn’t seem right to be able to access these rustic locations without working very hard. Sure, driving the boat was stressful, but I wouldn’t call it physical labor. I’m used to canoeing for days and sleeping on the ground. This just seemed way too easy, like we didn’t earn it. It felt surreal to sit in my fluffy bathrobe next to a rocky campsite with scraggly jack pines and the chatter of a red squirrel.
The bell on our boat
Northwoods writer Sigurd Olson had these same feelings when he flew into Quetico National Park in Canada in a seaplane. In his book, “The Singing Wilderness,” he described the switch from civilization so quickly to the wilderness as “violent” and a psychological shock. While flying into the wilderness was what he had dreamed of doing, it didn’t allow him time to adjust and to soak in the wilderness ambiance.
He wrote, “Yes, I had been on a flight, had gone far into the lake country, had taken a few trout and enjoyed myself, but inside I was still a little out of breath and somewhat baffled by what I had done.”
We had another restful night and got up early in the morning so that we could drive the houseboat back to base by 9 a.m. so that somebody else could use it. In no time at all, we were back to the base. The houseboat guys came out to us when we were in the bay to pilot the boat into the dock.
As it turns out, we arrived in the nick of time. As we were clearing our gear out of the boat, we heard on the radio that the wind had switched and picked up speed. The base issued a no-travel advisory. We were glad we didn’t get stuck out there because Garrett had a plane to catch back to New York City. Whew!
I was glad to have had the houseboat experience, but I know that the next time I visit these northern border lakes it will be with a paddle and a pack so that like Olson, I can, “feel the rocks under my feet, breathe the scent of balsam and spruce under the sun, feel the wetness of spray and muskeg, be part of the wilderness itself.”
The sandy beach at Duckfoot Islands houseboat campsite, Voyageurs National Park.
When last you heard from me, Russ, Garrett, and I were stuck in a houseboat in the dead of night, beached on rocks by an unexpected wind direction switch.
The next morning, we radioed the houseboat base and let them know about our predicament. They asked if we were comfortable trying to get the houseboat off the rocks with our little motorboat. Russ was speaking to them at the time and he said no, not with the wind still pummeling us with waves. They said they’d get someone out to tow us off the rocks.
It was an eventful morning. We weren’t the only ones having trouble. On the radio, we heard that a child fell on a houseboat near us and the family wanted to get her to a hospital, so there was that, plus others were having troubles with the wind.
It wasn’t until early afternoon before a motorboat arrived with several houseboating staff. In the meantime, we wandered around Oveson Island, rereading the Fish Camp signs and just getting antsy to leave. This was the low point of our adventure.
Our original plan was to leave early in the morning, but now that was shot since we had lost half a day. Plus, that lonely loon was hanging around again. Loons are supposed to symbolize tranquility, serenity, and the reawakening of old hopes, wishes, and dreams. But this loon was just depressing.
A terrible photo of the lonely loon.
I looked up the type of wailing call he was making and it’s the kind loons make to locate their mates or their children. This poor loon had none of those. I felt so sorry for him. His wail has half-hearted, as if he didn’t have energy for a proper one. He must be the loneliest loon in America. Perhaps he lost his mate or maybe he was too young to breed. Loons breed between four and six years old.
In any event, it was time to move to a happier houseboat site!
The houseboat guys were able to get us off the rocks with no problem. Much to our relief, they said our hull was intact, so we could continue our trip. They drove us out to the main channel, and we were on our own once more. The wind had died down, so keeping the houseboat on course was a bit easier. We drove 9 miles, including a tricky stretch through the Brule Narrows. Garrett drove most of the time, including the narrows. It seems he had a hidden houseboating talent.
My toes and my paddle board on the dark water.
We moored in Saginaw Bay at the Duckfoot Islands site. Unlike our previous site, this one was an official houseboating site, complete with sign. We chose it because it had a nice sand beach. No more rocks for us!
We spent the rest of the day paddling around the islands. I was heartened to see that the loons here were a couple with a loonlet. No more lonely loons!
I enjoyed paddle boarding through millions of waterbugs who were scribbling their indecipherable words across the water. A gentle rain fell on and off, but the wind behaved.
Back on land, I became reacquainted with my old friend, “land sickness.” This is where you feel like you’re on the water even though you’re on land. (It’s the opposite of sea sickness.) I think it came more from all the paddle boarding I was doing rather than from the houseboat. The houseboat didn’t rock much on the waves.
A campfire provided our evening entertainment. The night was restful, and we awoke, bright-eyed, for the last day of our trip.
The gorgeous sunset our first night on Rainy Lake at the Oveson Island traditional site.
When the Rainy Lake Visitor Center was dedicated in Voyageurs National Park in northern Minnesota, I was there. That was maybe about thirty-five years ago. My mother wanted to attend, and she asked me to go with her. I’m not sure why she wanted to attend except that she liked national parks and perhaps this was her way of feeling connected to a local one.
A peg-legged Voyageur at the Rainy Lake Visitor Center dedication, 1987.
The ceremony was interesting and came complete with a man dressed up as a French voyageur – one of the intrepid fur traders who plied the waters by birch bark canoe in the 16th to 19th centuries. I know I have photos of the ceremony – I’ll peruse my old albums to see if I can find any to include with this post.
This is just a long way of saying that, although I was part of the park’s beginnings, I had not visited it much, if any, since.
Russ and I had a desire for an overseas vacation this summer, but I, as the major trip planner, just couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for the effort it would require. I think I’m still recovering from all the travel we did last year in the “post-COVID” frenzy.
So, we thought of trips closer to home. Houseboating on Rainy Lake in Voyageurs popped into my head. There used to be billboards advertising the houseboat companies on a local major highway and I always thought it would be fun to try.
The idea appealed to us because it would be like being in the wilderness, except with comfortable beds, a refrigerator, and no need to paddle (except for fun) due to the houseboat’s motor. We have some experience driving boats. It sounded perfect! Plus, we’d get to know the park better.
With enthusiasm, we began planning and invited Russ’s grown son Garrett along on the four-night, five-plus-day trip.
Campfire our first night on Oveson Island, Voyageurs National Park.
After we arrived at the houseboat base just outside International Falls, Minnesota, we loaded our gear onto the watercraft, a 42-foot Minnitaki, which sleeps two to six people. From the dark paneled interior, it looked like the boat was built in the mid-1980s. Some of the houseboats feature hot tubs, but we did not feel the need for one of those. We were being decadent, but not THAT decadent.
We were required to rent a small motorboat to tow along behind us in case of emergencies. The motorboat is also useful for exploring or fishing. We also bought 3 bundles of firewood. We brought our own paddleboards and a kayak, which easily fit on the top level of the houseboat.
We were oriented to its somewhat complicated workings by one of the staff, who also piloted it out of the harbor and made sure we were comfortable driving it before he was picked up by another staff person in a motorboat and we were left alone.
It felt rather like when I was cast adrift on a paddleboard for the first time. However, this was a 42-foot, a much more expensive craft! I was glad we opted to pay the hull insurance the company offered.
The weather was sunny with a wind at about 6 mph. That might not seem like much wind, but in a boat shaped rather like a huge bathtub, it was a lot. We all took turns driving and were surprised by how hard it was to keep a straight course. The boat comes equipped with computer navigation and the lake comes equipped with red and green buoys. We just needed to keep the red buoys on our right and the green ones on our left so that we did not run aground. Easier said than done.
After zigzagging across the lake for about 8 miles, we were ready to moor for the night. Rainy Lake features designated houseboat sites on land where the boats need to be tied up for the night by 6 p.m. No driving boats in the dark is allowed, nor is anchoring.
Walk the plank! How we got off the houseboat and onto land.
The first designated site we wanted was already occupied so we chose a “traditional” site on a nearby island. We weren’t sure of the island’s name because it wasn’t listed on our chart, but we figured out later it was Oveson Island. Traditional sites don’t have houseboat signs and they are a bit more primitive than the designated sites.
We tied the houseboat to three trees as instructed and walked down the skinny wooden gangplank to explore the small site, which came with a fire grate. It looked much like any wilderness campsite with rocks and pine trees.
After a scrumptious steak dinner thanks to the houseboat’s gas grill, I explored the island. A well-worn trail led away from our campsite. I was surprised when it ended at a well-built privy. I was like, “What the heck?!”
A trail from the privy led to a boardwalk and a small picnic area. Next to that were several buildings painted a light green. Interpretive signs along the way informed me this was the Oveson Fish Camp, built by Harry Oveson and occupied during summers from 1959 to 1985. Harry fished for whitefish and walleye.
Oveson Fish Camp, Voyageurs National Park.
An icehouse, a fish processing shed, and Harry’s house make up the camp. There’s also a large dock so boaters can visit.
Besides being a fisherman, Harry was a jack-of-all trades. He was an inventor, ham radio operator, mink farmer, home flipper, and an avid reader and bird watcher. I figured out later that I am acquainted with his nephew, Tony, who still lives near the park. Harry’s descendants operate a lodge on Pelican Lake, about an hour’s drive away.
Excited by my discovery, I scampered back to the houseboat. When I arrived, I told the guys that I found something, but I didn’t tell them what. They followed me down the trail, curiosity piqued.
I stopped proudly at the privy and said, “I found a privy!!”
They looked unimpressed until I laughed and pointed down the boardwalk where they could see the rest of the fish camp buildings. They were more impressed by this. (It’s the wilderness. Sometimes, you need to make your own entertainment.)
We spent the rest of the evening exploring the camp and later had a campfire at our site. At sunset, a single loon stationed itself off our stern in the small bay. It wailed a few times, making the wilderness ambiance complete.
A lone-tree island I paddled by on my SUP.
We also heard noises nearby that sounded like people having a party. Garrett thought it might be geese. Later, it began to sound more like geese to me, but not Canada geese. I wasn’t sure what they were.
The night sky was filled with gobs of stars – Voyageurs National Park was just recently certified as an official Dark Sky Park, so it’s protected from light pollution.
Our sleep on the boat was restful except for the thumping of the motorboat against the stern. We hadn’t read the part in the boat manual yet about tying the motorboat up on shore for the night, but you can be sure we did that the following night. That turned out to be a very good thing!
In the morning, I enjoyed my mug of hot chocolate outdoors on the back porch of the boat while wearing my fluffy light blue bathrobe. I have never worn a bathrobe in the wilderness, and this felt especially luxurious.
The weather forecast called for sun, heat, and twice as much wind as the day before. Given the difficulty we had steering the boat, we decided to stay put. The wind was expected to die down the next day.
We spent our time paddling around the island in our kayak and paddleboards. Garrett and I saw a bald eagle, a single loon that I was pretty sure was the same one from the previous evening, and a regal pair of trumpeter swans. These must have been making the mysterious geese-like sounds we heard the night before.
The day was restful – full of reading, games, conversation, and eating. I watched a red squirrel drink from a puddle. I investigated the otter scat – full of crayfish parts – that littered the shoreline rocks. The sunsets both nights were beautiful – the sun made into an orange and then huge red ball in the sky from haze from wildfires in Canada. The loon parked itself off our stern again, giving its mournful wail. It sounded lonely. I called back to it a few times to give it some semblance of company.
Garrett and the trumpeter swans
However, the night was not restful. Around midnight, the wind switched so that it was directly behind us, causing our houseboat to bang into the shoreline rocks. Russ got up and retied our lines, but it was too late; our boat was wedged sideways on a rock ledge. After his effort, much of the bumping sounds stopped, but we had visions of a hull breach and our trip possibly being over. Once again, I was thankful we bought that hull insurance.
We’d have to radio the houseboat base the next morning and let them know the bad news. I mulled this over while listening to the loon, who had begun calling again.
Was our trip over? If not, how did we get out of this fix? Read the next installment, coming soon!
I was paddle boarding at our cabin recently and had my phone along. I don’t always take it because it could fall into the lake. It’s the height of summer here in the northland and the water lilies were blooming. I decided to try and get a good photo of one.
I maneuvered my board next to a lily and ended up sinking it. Argh! But it popped back up. As the water drained from its petals, I began taking photos. After about the third one, I noticed that the clouds were reflected in the water. Cool!
My board drifted away from the lily and my friends, who were in a canoe nearby, requested my presence, so I had to leave the lily.
Once back on land, I excitedly viewed my photos. One turned out just as I had hoped. Although the plant stem and a leaf are discernable underwater, it looks like the lily is floating on a dark sky with white clouds. I hereby dub it, “Sky Lily.”
The Rouchleau Mine Pit as seen from Minnesota’s tallest bridge.
Russ and I explored a new (to us) section of the Mesabi Bike Trail in Minnesota’s Iron Range this weekend. The section we targeted took us across the state’s tallest bridge, the Thomas Rukavina Memorial Bridge, near Virginia, Minnesota. We driven over the 204-foot-tall structure plenty of times but always looked longingly at the walking/biking/ATV trails right next to the freeway, and today was the day to make our dream come true!
The Thomas Rukavina Memorial Bridge outside of Virginia, Minnesota.
We meandered to bike trailhead in the town of Gilbert at the Sherwood Forest Campground. Biking toward Virginia, we promptly lost the paved trail as it merged into the city roads for several blocks. I think in the past, trail directions had been painted on the road, but those have been lost to the weathering of snow and traffic.
A veterans’ memorial mural we biked past in Virginia.
We had a general idea of where to go, however. We just followed our noses for a few blocks and the trail reappeared, taking us past a restaurant and across Highway 37. Then we headed into the woods. I love these forested sections of trail with their lines of aspen and birch. Pink fireweed is beginning to bloom, which added pops of color to the route. One impressive stretch took us on a skinny peninsula high above a gravel pit and a wetlands area.
What the bike trail looks like across the bridge.
The topography is gradual and unchallenging. The only part my legs complained about was the gradual incline once we returned from the bridge, but I get ahead of myself.
Eventually, we reached the bridge. One side of the trail is for walkers and bikers. The other side of the painted line is for ATVs. A low concrete barrier separates the trails from the freeway. A high railing on the outside provides protection from dropping 200 feet but still provides a view of the Rouchleau Mine Pit below. This mini Grand Canyon was created by iron ore mining activities and now provides drinking water for the city of Virginia.
Wind likes to whip around the bridge, but the weather was fair for us. The bridge was built because mining companies wanted to dig where Highway 53 used to be. They gave the transportation dept. plenty of notice, but, as you can imagine, moving a highway is no small feat. This was the most economical route. Even so, the project cost $220 million! And the bridge was constructed as part of it.
The Oldtown-Finntown Overlook.
Thomas Rukavina, its namesake, was an Iron Range lawmaker born in Virginia. He was a staunch advocate for the Iron Range and its people. He’s also memorialized in a park about a half-mile farther down the trail from the bridge. Bridge View Park offers a good vista of the structure and some interpretive signs and benches.
Once we biked to the outskirts of Virginia, we stopped to investigate a rather overgrown overlook of the mine pit that features a 50-foot caged safety bridge out to the pit’s edge. It’s named the Oldtown-Finntown Overlook.
From there, we passed the historic downtown district with its quaint old streetlights and American flags flying. The trail took us to Lake Virginia. We decided this would be a good turnaround spot. We biked around the small lake, disturbing a gaggle of Canada geese, which hissed at us, and then headed back to Gilbert.
The total trip was 13.5 miles. Although the bridge was our main goal, it was fun seeing the other, unexpected attractions along the way and becoming familiar with a new route.
Long-time readers of my blog may recall that I identify with my Scottish heritage. I had a chance to celebrate that recently by attending Robert Burns Night, which was organized by the Duluth Scottish Heritage Association (DSHA).
Robert Burns is a well-know historic Scottish poet. If you’ve ever sung Auld Lang Syne on New Year’s Eve, you have him to thank. His birthday is recognized on January 25 by Scots, rather in the tradition of Christ’s birth on December 25 by parts of the world, if you’ll permit me a bit of sacrilege.
Scottish dancing lassies doing the sword dance.
The celebration was held at a historic club downtown. This was not my first Robert Burns Night. My mother took me to one held at the university many years ago. Then last year, Russ and I ordered a takeout Robert Burns dinner from the club since there was no gathering due to the pandemic. That “dinner” fed us for four days! It featured neeps and tatties (turnips and potatoes), haggis (more about that later), black pudding (blood sausage), Scotch eggs (hard-boiled eggs wrapped in sausage meat, breaded and fried), and trifle for dessert (a decadent concoction of cake cubes layered between berries, pears, and vanilla pudding mixed with whipped cream).
Attendance was larger than usual for Burns Night this year because it was the first time in three years it had been held in person. One-hundred-and-sixty of us gathered in kilts and clan scarves to listen to bagpipes and watch Scottish dancers.
After that came the formal part of the program, which included 4 toasts of scotch: One to “the immortal memory of Robert Burns,” one to the president, one to the king, and one in Gaelic.
Then came the star of the show, the Haggis. This traditional dish takes minced sheep heart, liver, and lungs, and mixes it with oatmeal, suet and spices like nutmeg, cinnamon and coriander, plus salt, pepper and stock. The mixture is boiled in a bag, usually made from a sheep’s stomach. We love it. I’d say it tastes like a chunky beef barley stew.
The Haggis is paraded into the hall by the chef and a whisky bearer, led by a piper in formality that would border on the absurd if it weren’t Robert Burns Night. Once the Haggis was settled up front, one of the DSHA members recited Burns’s “Address to the Haggis,” which involved stabbing it with a large knife and inhaling its pungent vapors.
Make way for the Haggis!
After that, a local reverend offered grace and a piper in the rafters played “Amazing Grace.” Then we dispersed to seven clan rooms. Each featured different foods to sample and memorabilia specific to each clan. One room featured scotch. I was disappointed at the lack of trifle this year, but our enterprising friends found dessert bars on a different floor.
After much eating and conversation, a ceilidh dance was held in a large lounge room. Even though I’ve been to a ceilidh before, it wasn’t until that night that I learned (from overhearing a conversation) that ceilidh means “party” or “social visit.” We danced and listened to Scottish music performed by a live band.
We were sated and pleasantly tired from dancing once the evening ended. We felt like we’d been on a trip to Scotland without leaving the comfort of our own city. If you ever have the chance to attend Robert Burns Night, I’d encourage you to do so. It’s a spectacle, indeed.
A morning fog descended upon our cabin deep in the north woods, outlining the barren trees with frost. The birds stilled. The sun pushed through, a white disc more like the moon. I walked the wide road, a witness.
Marie's Meanderings 