Photography

Visiting Wisconsin’s Highest Waterfall, Pattison State Park

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Big Manitou Falls, Pattison State Park. Note the tiny people on the overlook platform in the upper left.

Last weekend, admission to Wisconsin State Parks was free. Russ and I took advantage of this annual event to visit a park that’s only 22 miles from our house. As you, dear astute readers, can tell from the title of this post, Pattison State Park is home to the state’s tallest waterfall. The Black River falls 165 feet down a basalt cliff called Big Manitou Falls. A smaller waterfall, Little Manitou Falls, is also in the park, farther downriver.

The swimming beach at Pattison State Park.

Martin Pattison, a lumber baron who had a logging camp on the Black River, donated 660 acres of the 1,400-acre park to the state. If you’ve ever toured Fairlawn Mansion in Superior, Wisconsin, that was his house. In 1917, Pattison learned of plans to build a hydroelectric dam on the river, which would have destroyed the falls. With his wife’s encouragement, he secretly purchased all the land surrounding the falls to block development, and Pattison Park was formed in 1920.

According to the park newspaper, Patterson saved the falls because he felt a connection to them. “In being able to grant this site to the public, I have accomplished one of my chief ambitions. For years, I have spent much time amid the surrounding of the falls and have received so much enjoyment there that it gradually became part of my life,” he said.

On our trip, Russ and I left Duluth, Minnesota, which was shrouded in fog with temps in the 50s, and mist rising off the harbor. We journeyed to inland Wisconsin, with temps in the 70s. We parked in the main lot and took a short hike on a paved trail past the swimming beach on Interfalls Lake, then through a tunnel that runs under the road. Of course, we had to make noises in the tunnel to test the echo. 😊

The tunnel to the Big Manitou Falls Trail.

A small bridge took us across the river. From there, it was a short walk to an overlook where we could see the impressive power of the water flowing over the top of the falls. Another short walk (part of which was along the road and past the Big Manitou Falls parking lot) took us to several overlooks of the falls. Wild and rugged, the falls are the antithesis of the farmland and village we passed on our drive to the park.

We thought that we might get a good view of the falls from the riverbed, so we took the Big Manitou Falls Trail a half mile down to the river, but we were mistaken. We “only” saw the river. But if you like rivers, it’s worth it!

The view from the top of the falls.

Then came the half-mile hike back UP to the top of the falls. The trail is rated moderate to difficult due to the incline, but most of it was wide enough for two people to walk beside each other and was fairly level.

We walked back to the bridge and hiked along the other side of the river to two overlooks. The last overlook is not for the faint of heart! A wooden platform perched on the hillside makes you feel like you’re hanging on the edge of the cliff (because you are). But the view of the falls and the river gorge is spectacular.

The park features several other longer hiking trails, a campground, picnic area, and a backpacking camping area.

During our trip, I marveled that I’d never been to the park, especially since it’s so close to Duluth. After arriving back home, I checked with my older brother, and he assured me that I visited the park several times as a child.

I have no memory of those visits. Perhaps I was too young? In any event, I’m glad I rediscovered this gem of a park. It offers a blend of natural beauty, history, and adventure that makes it worth the visit. Whether you’re drawn by the thunderous falls, the hiking trails, or simply the peaceful setting, there’s something here for everyone to enjoy. I felt grateful for the chance to experience such a remarkable place—and am eager to return for more memories in years to come.

If you’re ever in northwestern Wisconsin, be sure to check out Pattison State Park!

Another view of Big Manitou Falls.

On E-biking and being WP Freshly Pressed

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A trillium along the Munger Trail outside of Duluth, Minn.

First, I ‘d like to say hello and thank you to all the new subscribers to “Marie’s Meanderings.” Yesterday, I received an email from Word Press saying that my “Remarkably Bright Creatures” movie review was chosen to be freshly pressed. This increased exposure almost tripled my views, and I’ve been busy responding to comments and offering reciprocal views of visitor sites.

In my 13 years of blogging, this is a first. Although Word Press did post one of my stories on Pinterest years ago, and it continues to receive lots of views even today.

This (delightfully) unexpected work when I’d normally be languishing in retirement has (ironically) thrown off my blog posting plans. I was going to write about my maiden voyages on my new ebike. Perhaps I’ll go into more depth about that later, but the condensed version is that I have mixed feelings. In some ways, the ebike makes biking too easy. I wish it had a lower assist setting — something between 0 and 1 (it goes up to 5). But, in other ways, I love the new bike because it makes pedaling up steep hills (of which there are many in Duluth) a breeze.

Long-distance cycling maniac Russ likes it because he doesn’t have to worry about me keeping up with him. Now, if only there were electronic cross-country skis he could use, I wouldn’t need to wait for him and we’d be equal! 🙂

I’ve been testing the bike on the paved Munger Trail and the gravel DWP Trail outside of town. It’s performed well on both. It’s trillium season, and the white and pink flowers are blooming in huge swaths in the forests along both trails. I stopped long enough to snap this image with my phone.

It’s wonderful to be recognized for my blog, which is a labor of love. I think every blogger deserves this, and I hope your turn comes around soon.

Wandering Wisconsin Point

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The Superior ship canal and Wisconsin Point lighthouse.

Russ and I visited a windswept peninsula near Superior, Wisconsin, last weekend. We wanted to check on how the prescribed burn area was rejuvenating after the burn I helped with last fall. As we approached Wisconsin Point, the steady roar of Lake Superior on one side and the more muted lap of Allouez Bay on the other created a backdrop of sound. Once, the Ojibwe lived there, but now the point is mainly a recreational area. It’s known for its towering pine forest and the distant flash of its lighthouse.

The prescribed burn area on Wisconsin Point.

In the burn area, the air still held a faint, smoky tang, but plants seemed to be coming back well, even with our chilly spring. Bright green grass sprouted bravely through ashen soil, and I ran my fingers over the bark at the base of some trees, rough and blackened but still sturdy. The large trees seemed little worse for wear—did you know that the rugged bark of red pines is fire-resistant? The trees need fire to regenerate, so they have adapted to it. That’s one reason for the prescribed burn: to encourage red pine regeneration. The point’s white pines, their needles soft and fragrant, are doing fine, but the red pines remain sparse. On our walk, we spotted an eagle’s nest, a massive tangle of sticks perched high above, and heard the sharp calls of the birds echoing through the canopy.

Bear Creek Trail, Wisconsin Point

Wisconsin Point also sports a relatively new nonmotorized trail that I haven’t had a chance to hike yet. The Bear Creek Trail begins near Hwy 53 and parallels Moccasin Mike Road to Wisconsin Point. Once on the point, it crosses Wisconsin Point Road, enters a wooded upland, and then a marsh for a total of 2.3 miles. It ends at the first parking lot on the point and sports a gravel surface, wooden bridges, and an impressive floating boardwalk over the marsh. Along the way, a pagoda provides a scenic view of the lake and the bay. Although the weather was a blustery 45 degrees, the forest provided shelter and warmth.

The pagoda on Bear Creek Trail

As we crossed the marsh, we noticed a beaver lodge and heard a Sora waterbird call. Soras are also known as Carolina Crakes. They’re brown and white, about the size of a chicken, but with longer legs perfect for wading in the shallows. Although the birds are common throughout the U.S., they are relatively rare in Wisconsin because they require large and healthy wetlands for habitat, and we all know what humans like to do to wetlands. (Drain them!)

A wetland along the Beaver Creek Trail, complete with beaver lodge.

Our visit to Wisconsin Point was both invigorating and enlightening. Seeing the resilience of the landscape, from the recovering burn area to the thriving wildlife, was a reminder of nature’s ability to adapt and flourish. The combination of ecological restoration, immersive natural experiences, and unique wildlife sightings makes Wisconsin Point a destination delights the senses and invites return in every season.

A Hike on the Prairie

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We meandered west to Minnesota’s Pothole Prairie Region last weekend. Russ’s daughter had planted roots — bought her first house in a small town there. Naturally, we were eager to witness her new beginning.

The Prairie Pothole Region is an expansive area in the northern Great Plains, primarily located in Minnesota, North Dakota, South Dakota, Iowa, and parts of Canada. It’s known for its thousands of shallow wetlands, commonly called potholes, formed by glaciers about 10,000 years ago. Depressions in the ground left by glaciers fill with water from snowmelt and rainfall, creating a diverse habitat for various species.

Muskrat houses

The region is often called “America’s Duck Factory” because it supports over 50% of North America’s migratory waterfowl. These wetlands provide essential breeding, nesting, and feeding grounds for many bird species, making them one of the most important migratory bird habitats in the Western Hemisphere.

We enjoyed our visit not only to the house and stepdaughter, but also with our two little white “grand dogs.” They are energetic and wonderful hikers. We wore them out on the first day with two hikes. The second, where I took these images, was on the Edwards Waterfowl Production Area Trail. The first part of the trail was paved, then a longer section (about a mile) was mowed.

The trail sports a photography blind on one of the pothole ponds. We entered, but the ducks were far away, and I don’t have one of those fancy telephoto lenses on my camera, so the blind was wasted on me. But, we saw and heard many redwing blackbirds, yellow-headed blackbirds, tree swallows, killdeer, Canada geese, yellow warblers, and song sparrows.

The clouds put on a show – the kind only available in wide open spaces. I loved the oak stands that graced the hillsides.

We left the wetlands full of wood ticks and wonder. I hope you enjoy this virtual tour.

World’s Laziest Photographer

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Lately, I’ve been feeling like the title of this post. I haven’t gone on any special photo outings. Maybe winter has something to do with it. It’s hard to take photos with gloves on and coldly painful to take photos with them off, even for a few minutes.

BUT, I managed to snap a few when we were at our cabin last week. The weather was a crazy mix. Rain came first. After it stopped, the tree branches were coated with gleaming necklaces of raindrops. I commented to Russ that if I were a real photographer, I’d be out there with my camera, capturing the magic.

Nope. I was too lazy. Then came another bout of rain, which turned into dime-sized hailstones. We watched them fall from under the safety of our cabin’s metal roof. The hail stopped, and then a bit of snow drifted from the sky. It added a layer of white to the ice on our lake. The ice had begun to melt, especially around the edges, but was in no danger of disappearing any time soon.

The next weather treat on this crazy day was sunshine. The air temperature shot up from the 30s to near 50 degrees F. The temperature difference between the lake ice and the air formed a mist that added an air of mystery to the landscape.

This was too cool to miss. Even though we were in the middle of something, I apologized to Russ for the interruption, tugged on my coat and rubber boots (too lazy to tie the laces on my other boots), and slogged outside with my camera. I took the shots you see here.

After I returned inside and we ate supper, we watched a television show as the sun began to set. I happened to look away from the TV for a moment and noticed the mist enlarging and glowing in the sunset. Too lazy to venture outdoors again, I just turned around on the couch and snapped the last image in this post out our deck window. (I love how there’s a little spot of blue sky in it near the top.)

Reflecting on that day, I realize that sometimes being “lazy” simply means finding beauty in the moments right in front of us. While I might not have energetically chased every shot or braved the cold for hours, I still found magic through my lens—whether it was from the warmth of my cabin or the comfort of my couch. These small acts of noticing and appreciating remind me that inspiration doesn’t always require grand effort; sometimes, it’s enough to simply be present and open to what unfolds.

Returning Good Fire to the Land

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A fire crew member monitors the Nov 2025 cultural prescribed burn on Wisconsin Point.

A story of mine appeared in the April/May 2026 issue of Lake Superior Magazine. It covers a project I’m involved with that’s designed to bring back the Ojibwe tradition of prescribed burning on Wisconsin Point, a long sandspit on Lake Superior. The Ojibwe once lived in the red and white pine woods there until they were moved to reservations in the mid-1800s. Before then, they would set small, controlled fires to keep brush down, encourage plants like blueberries, and help red pines sprout. They call these fires “Ishkode,” or good fire.

I first heard about this practice a few years ago while I was still working as a science communicator for Wisconsin Sea Grant. The organization funded research that studied tree rings and fire scars on Wisconsin Point and its neighboring sandspit, Minnesota Point. I reported on the project by writing articles, news releases, and producing a podcast.

Last year, a few months before I retired, I heard that the Ishkode group was looking for help with communications. I immediately volunteered, and you can read about the results in my article. I’m happy to say that last fall, Ishkode successfully returned to the point for the first time in 159 years. And nobody got hurt! More patchwork burns are planned in the future.

As a result, I was approached by a different group that’s working to bring Ojibwe fire practices back to Minnesota Point. Although the two points are separated by a short span of water, they are different politically and socially. Not only are they in different states, but Wisconsin Point is uninhabited, whereas more than 100 homes line Minnesota Point, many of which are beachfront mansions. Wisconsin Point is owned by the City of Superior and the Fond du Lac Tribe. Minnesota Point is a mix of private, city, and state Department of Natural Resources property. There’s even an airport near the end of it.

Both fire projects are led by Fond du Lac tribal members. Except for those folks and me, most of the rest of the people involved in each project are different. Because of its complexity, the Minnesota Point group is much larger (about 40 people). I began helping them this winter and finally have everyone’s names and affiliations down.

Our goal is to conduct a prescribed burn on Minnesota Point this spring. It will be the first time in 180 years that a burn has occurred there. Things are falling into place nicely, and so far, public reception has been good.

I’m happy to have a hand in returning a missing piece of the ecosystem to the shores of Lake Superior. As one of our group members said, the burns will help the choked forests breathe again. These points aren’t the only places where the Ojibwe used to burn. Evidence can be found all around the lake.

For more information, check out my article in the print version of the magazine, or check the Wisconsin Point Ishkode webpage.

Smoke from the prescribed fire drifts through the pines on Wisconsin Point. The fire will help the beleaguered red pine population regenerate.

Pancakes, Anyone?

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Each of these ice pancakes is about three feet across.

Winter is loosening its cold, hard grip on Lake Superior. One sure sign of spring is pancake ice. Sorry for the misleading title—these pancakes are not edible. But I suppose they are, if you like chewing ice.

Pancake ice on Lake Superior with Duluth’s iconic aerial lift bridge in the distance.

Pancake ice can form in early winter, too, but in spring it occurs when the ice begins to melt and waves or wind blow the ice chunks around. The wind whistles over the lake, carrying the crisp scent of melting ice and the freshness of open water. The ice chunks slap against each other like bumper cars at a fairground. The pancakes form circles with ridges along the sides, their surfaces glistening under the pale, watery sunlight. Pancake ice can also form on open water when it gets cold and ice crystals freeze and then break up and are blown around. This phenomenon can also occur on rivers and in the ocean.

Sometimes the rotating, colliding ice makes sounds, but I didn’t hear any during Russ’s and my walk along Lake Superior’s shore the other day when I took these photos. Instead, there was only the whisper of our boots on the asphalt trail, and the restless sigh of the breeze—sharp enough to sting cheeks and make eyes water.

This year, Lake Superior experienced 27% ice cover. The last time the lake came close to being completely frozen was 2019. The long-term average is 61.5% ice cover, and I assume that average is going down as the climate changes.

During our walk, other signs of warming weather in Duluth were the white legs of everyone who wore shorts for the first time since October. Mind you, it was only 44 degrees F with a cold northeast breeze, but people are so desperate for spring that shorts seemed like a good idea! I even saw a bare-chested man wearing shorts, his skin turning pink in the biting wind. I was not so inclined. In fact, I had to raise the hood on my jacket and cinch it tightly around my face, feeling the rough fabric press against my cheeks as I tried to shield myself from the breeze once we turned around and headed back to our car.

But the pancakes and white legs are here on Lake Superior. Spring can’t be far behind.

On the Dunes

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Ice off of Minnesota Point in Duluth. Each of those slabs in the foreground is the size of a person lying down. The ridge behind it is about fifteen feet tall. (I popped a squat to obtain this viewpoint.)

On the Dunes
By Sara Teasdale

If there is any life when death is over,
   These tawny beaches will know much of me,
I shall come back, as constant and changeful
   As the unchanging, many-colored sea.

If life was small, if it has made me scornful,
   Forgive me; I shall straighten like a flame
In the great calm of death, and if you want me
   Stand on the sea-ward dunes and call my name.

I recently stumbled upon this poem while leafing through a stack of old, yellowed pages—poems I had once painstakingly typed on a clattering Underwood typewriter during my high school days. Back then, before the convenience of photocopiers, I’d wander the library aisles, selecting poetry books that called to me. I would borrow them, then sit for hours, as I copied lines that stirred my soul. I imagined that I’d refer to these pages often, though, they have gathered more dust than fingerprints. Now, rereading them, I’m flooded with nostalgia, peering through a window into what once moved my younger heart.

Poet Sara Teasdale lived from 1884 to 1933. She is characterized as “neurotically intense,” and it’s said she moved in the company of poets like a “recessive flame.” She had a tempestuous affair with poet Vachel Lindsay. Later, she married a businessman but then divorced him, retired to seclusion, and in the end, died from an overdose of sleeping pills.

Her poem struck me because I’d just meandered to the beach in Duluth with Russ. If you’re not familiar, we are blessed with a long sandbar at the mouth of Lake Superior. Of course, the beach was snow-covered. The lake’s power was on full display in the form of huge piles of ice piled high about ten yards offshore. I had my phone with me and was tempted to brave the ice to take some photos, but I hesitated, not knowing if the ice was safe. I am well acquainted with the vagaries and dangers of this Great Lake.

However, two other people walked out to an ice ridge in front of me. They survived, so I figured I’d be okay if I followed in their footsteps. I ventured out, and these photos are the result. I was glad I braved the ice to share them with you! Russ wisely remained onshore. I’m also glad that the little adventure didn’t hasten my death so that Russ would need to stand on the dunes and call my name when he wants me. 😊

Winter Fog

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My fair city of Duluth, Minnesota, has donned a silvery veil these past few days—a haunting fog that drapes the world in mystery. I don’t know about you, but I adore the hush and wonder of fog; here, I am home. Each morning, the temperatures bite, and the fog cloaks every branch and rooftop in crystalline frost and shimmering ice.

Restless for movement, I ventured out, camera in hand, into my transformed neighborhood. The roads glittered treacherously beneath a thin armor of ice, so I strapped on my boot’s iron claws. Each step crunched with possibility. The world was both dazzling and dangerous.

As the sun coaxed the temperature upward, ice shards crashed from trembling trees and sagging power lines. Splintered branches, felled by the weight of winter, littered yards and tangled themselves in lines above. Once, a cascade of ice from a power line narrowly missed me, which sent my heart pounding. But I pressed on, determined to witness the spectacle to its end.

Who knew a simple walk around the neighborhood could be so exciting?

Winter biking in Duluth.