Sunset over Lake Superior on our first evening camping.
When I mentioned to someone at church that Russ and I were planning on camping at Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore in Michigan, the fellow said he thought the place was overrated.
Shocked by his unusual opinion, Russ and I talked about other things with him for a bit until I had to ask why he thought it was overrated. “It’s just a bunch of rocks,” he said.
We managed to keep straight faces for the rest of the conversation, but during our Scamping trip a couple of weeks ago, it was our favorite thing to say whenever Russ and I saw one of the spectacular Jacobsville Sandstone formations in this park along Lake Superior.
We camped for three nights at the Hurricane River Campground (Lower Loop). We chose that from several other options because of its close proximity to Lake Superior plus a trail that leads to a lighthouse I’ve wanted to see ever since I learned that it’s the twin of the lighthouse in the Apostle Islands where I want to set a novel.
After a 6-hour drive from Duluth, we set up camp just in time to catch the sunset over Lake Superior. We were driving around the campground, looking for drinking water, when we caught a glorious orange glow coming through the trees. I made Russ stop the car and let me out. I ran with my camera to the rocky beach. By that time, the orange had muted to a purple-blue-orange, but I still managed to get one worthy shot.
Twelvemile Beach
The next morning, we headed out early on our bicycles. We pedaled 5 miles on the scenic, twisty-turny highway and a gravel road into Twelvemile Beach Campground. (Warning: if you do this, be prepared for hills!) Although we were perfectly happy with our campground, this one had gorgeous sites strung out along a sandy lakeshore with huge pines. If we end up returning, we’ll try this one next.
Once we biked back to our campground, we spent some time wading in Lake Superior to quiet our strained calf muscles. After lunch, we drove 12 miles to Grand Marais to resupply our ice and firewood. This quaint town reminded me of Grand Marais, Minnesota, on the lake’s North Shore in many ways, except that the beach is sandy instead of rocky.
Russ was eating cherries and spitting out the pits as we drove along. I hereby apologize to the citizens of Grand Marais for his littering. If cherry trees someday spring up in town, you’ll know who to blame. 😊
On our way back, we stopped at Sable Falls, which requires 168 steps down a stairway and another 168 on the return trip. The sight was worth it – the falls are beautiful! They come from the outflow of Grand Sable Lake. (Sable is the French word for sand.) A short way down the road from the falls there’s an overlook for the lake. We stopped and were impressed by the lake’s size and by a heavily laden apple tree rustling in the breeze.
The lighthouse in Grand Marais, MI
Sable Falls
The apple tree at Grand Sable Lake Overlook.
Our next stop was the Log Slide Scenic Overlook. Back in the 1880s, lumbermen built a wooden chute that plunged down the steep sand dunes. Logs were sent down the chute to waiting ships for transport. The wooden chute is no longer there but the impressive dunes are. It’s said that sometimes the logs would catch fire on the chute due to the friction from the sand and wood, as well as the heat of the sun.
The view from the top of the log chute at Log Slide Overlook.
Although it’s possible to walk down the path of the chute, it’s a LONG way back up, and we decided our legs had had enough exercise between biking and stair climbing. Besides, the view from the top was impressive enough.
We continued our sightseeing, driving toward Munising. We stopped at Miners Castle Scenic Overlook, which features viewing platforms for an eroded rock that looks like a castle turret. The shallows of Lake Superior around the formation were a breathtaking turquoise green, making us feel like we were in the Caribbean instead of the Upper Peninsula.
Despite this, Russ and I turned to each other and said, “Eh, it’s just a bunch of rocks.” 😊
Our final stop on this busy day was a sunset cruise out of Munising, where we saw yet more rocks. More on that in my next post.
…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 had the chance to meander to Stockton Island, one of several islands in the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore in Lake Superior a couple of weeks ago. I was there to cover what the National Park Service is doing to make their facilities on the island more accessible to disabled people. I’ll be writing a story about that for work, but I also got a tour of the island by former park ranger, Neil Howk, who gave us (there were about 8 of us) the skinny on the history of black bears on the island.
Neil Howk imparts his knowledge about bears.
Neil worked for many years in the Lakeshore and is now on the board of the Friends of the Apostle Islands, which organized the tour on a sunny, breezy Friday. Neil took us on a short hike on the trail that leads through the campground on Stockton Island to the signpost for campsite number 4. We took a sharp right and began bushwhacking into the woods. Neil knew there was a bear den nearby.
After not too much whacking or getting whacked by tree branches, we came to a deadfall – a tree that had been blown over by wind. Neil said the bear had made its den among the tree roots, which provided a fairly snug place to spend the winter.
He felt okay taking us to this location because: 1) It’s not winter, so no bear will be actively hibernating there, and 2) Bears usually only use a hibernation site once, so disclosing its location should not endanger the privacy of any bears (except if another one ends up using it!)
Besides overwintering in dens in rocks or tree roots, black bears have also been known to hibernate inside hollow trees and even in eagle’s nests. I did not know the eagle’s nest thing. I also learned many other new bear trivia, such as: bears don’t poop all winter. Neil said they eat grass in spring to get their bowels going again.
The deadfall bear den that Neil Howk showed us on Stockton Island.
Also, cannibalism is normal for bears. Males will sometimes eat cubs – presumably ones that aren’t related to them, in order to bring females into estrus sooner so that they can procreate with them. And bears will also eat meat (besides the berries, ants, and other things that bears are known to consume). Neil said that deer fawns and chipmunks are among their favored meaty fare.
Another fact that Neil conveyed is that when bears were first counted on Stockton Island – sorry, I’m not sure when that began – there were only a couple. But now there are 20 known to live there. I can attest to their presence. On my several trips there, I’ve seen many bear tracks on the island’s beaches. (I’ll try to dig up some of my photos of those for this post.)
Black bears like to gnaw upon and otherwise dismember the wooden campsite markers on Stockton Island.
One memory that emerged during the tour came from a trip I made to Russia many years ago. One of my former husband’s relatives bragged about a bear he had shot. Granted, this relative liked his vodka and ended up chasing one of my young sons around the picnic table where we were eating – he was a rather scary, imposing figure, somewhat bearish. At some point, he showed us photos of his triumphant hunt. From the snow in the photo and the location, it became obvious that he had shot a hibernating bear. So much for sportsmanship, but I guess maybe they do things differently in Russia!
Anyway, I learned some things I didn’t know about bears from this tour, and I hope you did, too.
An Ice Age exhibit at the Bell Museum of Natural History, including a mammoth, giant beaver and musk ox.
I recently had the chance to meander through two very different natural history museums. One was public and the other not so much. Both impacted my psyche.
The public one was the Bell Museum of Natural History. This was one of my favorite hangouts during my college days when I was minoring in biology. (I won’t divulge how many decades ago that was!) Besides the obvious appeal to the science-minded, my poetry professor once took us to the museum for inspiration purposes.
The new Bell Museum.
The Bell Museum used to be on the Minneapolis Campus of the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis. Now, it has a “new” facility on the St. Paul Campus.
Russ indulged me (smart man) and tagged along as we visited the Bell’s planetarium where we learned about astrobiology, or the search for life on other planets. The planetarium has a domed Imax theater roof. We saw a movie that was narrated by an actual museum staffer (in real life). This was unexpected, but cool, because we could ask questions. Many children in the audience did, and I was impressed by their interest in the planets.
One thing I learned was that we’ve had unmanned spacecrafts land on Venus. Somehow, I missed that news. It was so interesting to learn about the inhospitable conditions there – the landing crafts only lasted a few hours before they were incinerated by Venus’s hot temperatures.
Antlers on the wall, Bell Museum of Natural History.
In the natural history part of the Bell Museum, I was heartened to see that the painted dioramas I so loved in the old museum had been moved into the new museum. There was the wolf pack on the North Shore of Lake Superior. There were the sandhill cranes of the Platte River. I can’t imagine what it must have taken to move those overland to the St. Paul Campus intact!
Plus, the museum has many new exhibits that deal with the evolution of life on this planet. I don’t think they knew that stuff when I was a college student.
The not-so-public museum was the Zoology Museum on the University of Wisconsin-Madison Campus. I meandered into it for work. Every year, my boss at Sea Grant organizes a field trip for us science communicators and this year, our focus was Madison. This is where most Wisconsin Sea Grant staff are located, but there are many staffers from other areas in the state (including me), so all this was new to me.
The UW Zoology Museum is mainly for researchers and it was formed by researchers. Many of the specimens were collected during science expeditions or they came from nearby zoos. To give you an idea of its layout, there’s a bone room, where bones of animals are stored in boxes. There’s a skin room where animal skins are stored in drawers (think about an entire polar bear fitting into a small drawer). There’s also a taxidermy room that features various birds and mammals.
A soulful lion greeted us in the taxidermy room of the Univ. of Wisconsin-Madison Zoology Museum.
As we entered the facility, we had to carefully close doors behind us so that bugs and other contamination couldn’t follow us and destroy the samples.
In the lower level of the building is a fish room where various species of fish are stored in ethanol in jars and pails. This is in case the jars ever break – that way they won’t flood the other floors. The various jars are on shelves that are moveable. These are called compacter shelves. As opposed to stationary shelves, these can be easily moved so that more can fit in a room than otherwise possible. Zooplankton are also preserved here. Various historic scientific instruments are scattered on nearby tables.
Another part of this basement room features preserved mammals, reptiles, and invertebrates in ethanol.
It was all kind of creepy and gave me some good ideas for a horror story. There were so many many samples! Something about all those dead animals in jars seemed wrong, even though it’s for the sake of science.
A polar bear in a drawer.
The piece de resistance, however, was a room we didn’t even get to see. It’s the room with the flesh-eating beetles. The museum staffer described the beetles as the best method to remove the “meat” from the bone samples that the museum staff wants. The beetles live up to their name, eating off the flesh from the bones. The dark room the beetles live in is down a concrete corridor that would give even Edgar Allan Poe pause. We did not get to see it, but our tour host’s description was good enough.
The beetles do a much better job of cleaning than any other method, so the university still uses them, even in the 21 Century.
Mice and bats in jars in the Zoology Museum.
I realize that science needs access to real animals for research purposes, but I must admit that this research museum creeped me out much more than the public museum. I guess that’s to be expected. I’m glad I was able to see both of them.
Look for the fruits of this field trip in my fiction some day! I just discovered that there’s a horror sub-genre called “dark academic.” The Harry Potter series fits into this – think gothic architecture, pleated skirts, melancholia, and leather satchels. This is opposed to “light academic.” “Pride and Prejudice” fits into this – think of the opening of the movie where Elizabeth Bennet Walks through a sunny field reading a book. It’s all about light and happiness. My story will be more along the dark academic vein.
My takeaway with this post? Visit a natural history museum near you sometime. It might spark something!
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.
The Wisconsin State Capitol as seen from Lake Mendota.
May seemed the month for me to meander around Wisconsin. My communications group at Wisconsin Sea Grant goes on an annual field trip to familiarize ourselves with projects that our water research program works on and the researchers who we fund.
Although most of our staff is in Madison, Wisconsin, this year, we chose that locale for our field trip because we have several new staff members. This was especially useful to me, who works far away in northern Wisconsin.
One of our activities during the two days in late May was a pontoon boat ride on Lake Mendota. This is the lake where the University of Wisconsin-Madison is located, and Sea Grant has funded many research projects in and upon it. I had never been on the lake before, so I was looking forward to the ride. I know, I have such a tough job if I get paid to go on a boat tour!
Our videographer, Bonnie, arranged for the rental. She thought she would be able to drive the pontoon. But when we arrived, the staff said she was too young and that she had not taken a required boater safety course, so someone else who was older needed to drive the craft.
Captain Sarah at the wheel!
In stepped Sarah, our graphic designer. She had never piloted a pontoon boat before, but she had experience sailing, so we figured she was the next best thing. I could have possibly done it, too, but was happy not to have the responsibility since I am unfamiliar with the lake.
After Sarah’s short orientation to the pontoon’s operation, we motored off around the lake on a two-hour tour. Viewing how homeowners dealt with erosion in contrast to more natural areas around the lake led to interesting conversations among us.
When we were about a quarter of the way around the lake, a siren sounded. Everyone else on the boat seemed to know that this meant “get off the water!” We were near the university docks, so Sarah headed there. The problem is, she had never docked a pontoon boat before. She recalled from reading the orientation instructions that docking was the most dangerous part of operating the craft.
Understandably, she was wary. She thought maybe we could circle near the docks until the “all-clear” siren was sounded. In the meantime, the wind picked up and rain began to fall. Then came lightning. Sarah and Bonnie checked their phones. Both had received calls from the rental agency, telling them to get the pontoon off the lake.
After her third circle near the docks, Sarah gained enough confidence (or perhaps she was just worried enough) to try and dock the pontoon. She told us which side she planned to dock on, so we deployed the fenders and I organized everyone regarding who would throw ropes and who would jump onto the dock to catch them.
The only problem was that the wind was blowing with gusto by this time. Sarah’s plan to dock us on the left side quickly turned into a plan to dock us on the right side as the wind blew us in that direction. We adjusted on the fly and jumped out onto the right dock.
Stormwater gushes out into Lake Mendota underneath the college’s mascot, Bucky Badger. Note the mallard headed into the stream.
We secured the pontoon and stayed docked for at least a half hour. Rain poured down as the five of us huddled under its canvas roof. A brown plume of stormwater erupted from a nearby storm drain, carrying with it a red baseball batter’s helmet and assorted flotsam that the local mallard ducks surged toward, finding it irresistible. Gross!
Shortly, we discovered that rain leaked through the roof’s zipper, but that was easy enough to avoid. We thought of running through the rain into the shelter of the student union, but the surety of getting wet outweighed the danger of being on the water in a metal structure. Perhaps not so bright, but there were two other pontoons of people who had docked near us, and they were also waiting out the storm on their boats.
While rain poured down and thunder roared on our side of the lake, the pontoon rental people called Sarah and told her it was all clear and that we could go back on the lake. We were like, no way! We waited out the storm another half-hour.
Our unscheduled team-building exercise wasn‘t all terror. We saw this picturesque sail boat before the storm. Note the gathering clouds.
When it seemed like the storm was over, we hightailed it back to the rental place because we were overdue. Bonnie and our boss, Moira, were sitting in the front of the boat and the rest of us were under the canopy. Bonnie had a cap on. Moira didn’t, and she noted with some amusement that her long hair was standing on end.
I wasn’t sure if this phenomenon was due to the wind or some less friendly element, but it’s obvious there must have been electricity in the air. Bonnie didn’t notice it happening to herself because of her cap.
Capn Sarah quietly checked her weather app and gunned the motor. Eventually, Moira’s hair deflated, and we made it back to the rental center intact. Our two-hour tour had turned into a three-hour tour due to weather, but we weren’t charged any extra due to this “act of God.”
Later, at dinner, I looked on the internet to see what it means “when your hair stands on end when you’re in a boat on water.” The entry stated, simply and plainly: You will be struck by lightning!
When I shared this with my colleagues, we all felt lucky to have survived the tour unscathed. Sarah admitted that when she had checked her weather app while Moira’s hair stood on end, it had shown lightning in our vicinity.
After more conversation, it slowly dawned on me that, although I had no hand in organizing the pontoon ride or piloting the craft, my coworkers unanimously blamed me for our misadventure.
Why? Because, as we were about to board the pontoon, I was singing the theme song to Gilligan’s Island. And I MAY have mentioned something about a three-hour tour.
This post is reblogged from the Wisconsin Sea Grant blog, which I write for work.This is the second (and final) story in a series about my weeklong trip around Wisconsin as part of the Wisconsin Idea Seminar. Part 1 described our experience on the University of Wisconsin-Madison campus learning about Ho-Chunk history. This part will describe the rest of the trip in general, focusing on a tour of the Green Bay Packaging Co.
A Wisconsin Idea Seminar participant contemplates Black Smokey Falls on the Wolf River in the Menominee Reservation.
Continuing the first day of our tour, a Badger Bus took us to Portage, where we visited the Historic Indian Agency House, which is where the Ho-Chunk people came to collect their government allotments once they were displaced from their lands by settlers. Reading the names of the Native families on the outdoor plaques was a poignant reminder of this traumatic time in history.
Then we traveled to Appleton, where we took a walking tour of the town, learning about Black history. When the area was first settled, some land and businesses were owned by Black people, but by the 1930s, the town was entirely white due to organized, unofficial harassment that drove Blacks away. That has thankfully turned around so much that there’s even a soul food restaurant in town, which is where we ate supper.
Loblolly pine seedlings in the Green Bay Packaging Co.’s conference room. The company’s Arkansas plant uses loblollys when they need virgin wood fiber to make paper.
On Day 2, we drove to Green Bay where we toured the impressive Green Bay Packaging Co. There was a rumor floating around on the bus that this was the business that the Green Bay Packers football team was named after. Later, I discovered through my own research that this wasn’t true. The Packers were named after a meat-packing plant, which was one of their first sponsors. See, this Minnesotan really is learning about Wisconsin culture!
Green Bay Packaging makes paper from recycled materials. That paper is then used to make boxes. They don’t make the boxes on-site – they ship their paper elsewhere for that. Two years ago, they expanded their facilities on the same land by the bay. Much of the process is automated. Even so, the company employs more workers than before. In the early 1990s, this mill was one of the first in the world to become totally effluent free (zero discharge of wastewater).
We were led through the plant by Olivia Durocher, project development specialist, and Andrew Stoub, environmental manager. Durocher said that 50% of their recycled materials comes from “big box” companies like Target and Walmart and the other 50% comes from consumers. They produce about 550 tons of paper per year.
“Wisconsin has been a top producer of paper for a long time,” Durocher said. “We’re happy to have a hand in that.”
She explained that a paper fiber can be recycled seven times before it becomes too short to be used any more. That’s why other mills still use trees to make paper. “If you stopped introducing virgin fiber into the system, the entire country would run completely out of boxes in about six months or less. That’s why it’s important to continue to plant trees and use virgin fiber to produce kraft paper. It introduces that virgin fiber into the system. That’s why we can’t have all the mills be recycled mills,” Durocher said.
A map of all the communities we visited during our tour. Image credit: University of Wisconsin-Madison
Stoub said the water used in the plant does not come from the bay. About half of the water is recycled from treated water the mill has already used and half comes from treated wastewater from the city of Green Bay. The company uses the methane gas produced by their wastewater digestor to feed their boilers instead of burning the gas off, which many facilities do. Plus, the gas fuels a generator that produces enough electricity to power the mill’s wastewater treatment plant. “It’s a pretty cool sustainable system,” Stoub said.
During our tour of the plant, most impressive to me was its automated 100,000-square-foot paper warehouse. According to Durocher, it’s the largest vertically stacked paper warehouse in the Western Hemisphere. It holds 8,000 rolls of paper, which is the equivalent of 26,000 tons of paper – about 22 days of inventory. No people are allowed in the warehouse because of the danger of a huge tower of paper falling on them. As you can guess, when they built the floor for the warehouse, they took pains to ensure it was totally level!
We were able to view the warehouse through indoor windows. The paper is moved around by four vacuum cranes (Konecranes), which each employ 14,000 pounds of suction. Compared to mechanical cranes, the vacuum cranes allow workers to store the rolls closer together and move them around faster. Paper from the warehouse is shipped out by rail and trucks. Alas, I don’t have any photos of the warehouse or the inside of the mill because we weren’t allowed to take them.
Stoub said you can tell that a box came from the company’s materials because it will have their logo on it.
Highlights from the rest of the five-day trip included a visit to the Menominee Reservation where we learned about their sustainable timber harvesting practices and sawmill operation. We also visited Big Smokey Falls on the Wolf River on the reservation, where we had a chance to get a feel for the land and contemplate what we’d learned so far. That day ended with a tea-making workshop led by Menominee Elder Bonnie McKiernan. We made a mixture that’s good for colds, with bee balm (which I have a ton of in my yard; I did not know it was edible), peppermint and mullein.
Getting friendly with some dairy cows at Soaring Eagle Dairy.
On Day 4, we visited Soaring Eagle Dairy in Newton, a woman-run business. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about how that industry runs. Their milk is used by Land-O-Lakes Inc.
During the final day, we took a walking tour of Milwaukee’s South Side and visited Escuela Verde, a charter school. The tour ended with an art project where we were able to reflect on our experiences.
Through it all, our bus driver Bob was with us. He literally held our lives in his hands, and we respected him greatly. He became a favorite among us.
I came away from the experience feeling more familiar with Wisconsin. This Minnesotan still has a lot to learn, but I feel a bit more confident in my knowledge base now.
I’m a born and bred Minnesotan. I’ve lived there almost my whole life. Sometimes, that can make working for Wisconsin institutions like Sea Grant and the University of Wisconsin-Madison challenging. While I am technically a UW-Madison employee, I live in Duluth, Minnesota, and my office is just across the border in Superior, Wisconsin. Although I’ve worked for Wisconsin Sea Grant 10 years, I’m not as steeped in my workplace’s culture and geography as I am in my home state’s.
This can lead to some interesting mistakes. One happened a few months ago when a co-worker said they grew up on Wisconsin’s Fox River. I only knew the part of the Fox that connects to Green Bay so, in the story I was writing at the time, I put that person’s birthplace near Green Bay. I was chagrined to learn she actually grew up near Oshkosh on a branch of the river 50 miles away from where I originally placed her.
I hate making mistakes in my stories. Even if it’s just during a draft. So, when I saw an announcement for the Wisconsin Idea Seminar in the UW employee newsletter, I jumped at the chance to apply.
The seminar is an annual five-day immersive study tour of Wisconsin culture and geography for UW-Madison faculty and staff. It’s designed so that participants:
Gain a deeper knowledge of the cultural, educational, industrial, social and political realities of Wisconsin
Learn firsthand about the social and cultural contexts that shape the lives of many UW students
See and experience the University’s connections to the state
Understand the public service mission of the University
Nurture an increased mutual understanding between the University and the people of Wisconsin
What this looks like in real life is about 40 people on a big red Bucky Badger bus riding around the state, talking to people and to each other, participating in activities and drinking in the landscape. The theme this year was Forest + River, which was right up my alley as a water research storyteller who is also a Wisconsin geographically challenged person.
This post focuses on just one of our experiences during the seminar’s first day. I plan to write another post later about the rest of the trip and a visit to the Green Bay Packaging Plant, which makes recycled paper used in boxes.
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Our experience began on the Madison campus with a walking tour of Ho-Chunk sites. Amid a cacophony of spring birdsong, Bill Quackenbush, tribal historic preservation officer for the Ho-Chunk Nation, took us to several effigy mounds. These are ancient burial mounds formed in the shape of animals — birds, in the case of the two that we viewed.
Bill Quackenbush, Ho-Chunk tribal historic preservation officer.
The Madison campus is home to more of these ancient earthen monuments than any other university or college campus anywhere in North America, and probably the world. There are 38 burial mounds. At least 14 others have been lost to development. They are several thousand years old, perhaps as ancient as Egypt’s pyramids.
I learned something new right off the bat, mainly that there is a goose-shaped effigy mound right outside the Sea Grant office in Goodnight Hall. Granted, I don’t work on campus, but you’d think I would have heard something about that during my career here! Quackenbush said a Ho-Chunk village used to be where the office building is now located on the shores of Lake Mendota.
He explained how the Ho-Chunk are working to reclaim their culture. “These earth works are one small example of a portion of our life. We are no different today then we were back then. We humans like to take care of not only our babies and our children, but also our ancestors,” Quackenbush said.
The goose effigy burial mound near the Sea Grant office on the UW-Madison campus.
He criticized a stone marker on the mound not only for disturbing the site but for the text on it, which gives the impression that the mound is a thing of the past. “It isn’t a thing of the past at all,” Quackenbush said. “This is ever-present. It’s living and it’s here. Our ancestors are buried in this ground. They’re living, breathing things to us like that tree over there. Their bones have probably returned to the earth by now, but it’s the ground that is sacred to us.
“However, I don’t want to be all doom and gloom. There’s a lot of good things that have come from protecting these mounds,” Quackenbush added.
The mound site was designated on the National Register of Historic Places a few years ago. The University is working to restore an oak savannah that used to exist there.
The Ho-Chunk Clan Circle.
A short walk took us to the Ho-Chunk Clan Circle, a series of 12 metal sculptures that was dedicated earlier this year. Each depicts a clan symbol. Quackenbush said the circle represents the Ho-Chunk people as a whole.
Fitting my Sea Grant employment, I found myself standing near the Water Spirit sculpture. Quackenbush said the tribe was involved in the process of creating the circle and that the sculpture offers opportunities for him to meet and speak with more groups such as the Wisconsin Idea Seminar participants. He explained the various clan roles and how they fit into the tribe’s governmental system.
Next, the group was able to view a dugout canoe that Quackenbush built with the help of Ho-Chunk youth. They built it in much the same style as the ancient canoes that were recently discovered in Lake Mendota.
Quackenbush’s dugout canoe.
“This canoe doesn’t look very exciting, but the journey it’s been on is,” Quackenbush said. “When I saw that the historical society discovered the dugout canoes in the lake behind you as I was drinking my cup of coffee, it shot out of my nostrils! It was amazing to me because we had aspirations of putting one of them together.”
He worked with Dane County to find a suitable cottonwood tree that was going to be removed for a trail project. The county delivered the tree to a youth education center, which is where Quackenbush and the students worked on it. Everything came together and, like the clan circle, the canoe is a great educational discussion piece.
Amy Rosebrough, interim Wisconsin state archeologist, joined us and described how the historic dugout canoes were found. She also detailed the significance of the new canoe. “These lakes remember. With the canoes, they’re telling the story of the Ho-Chunk presence here.”
Her office’s goal has been to work with Quackenbush and other partners to keep that story alive, “…To let people know that when they’re out there fishing, this isn’t something new. This is something that’s been going on for thousands of thousands of years. It’s not just the mounds, it’s this whole landscape. And to have Bill and his team come through with this new dugout, that was a wonderful thing – to sort of bring that back,” Rosebrough said.
Our visit ended with a Ho-Chunk drum ceremony by the Iron Mound Singers. Listening to them was like hearing the heartbeat of the Earth. That is definitely not something I get to do everyday in my job as a science writer. As we walked back to the bus to head to Portage and Appleton, I felt privileged to learn more about Ho-Chunk culture and the history of the land where the university stands.
Marie's Meanderings 