Sea Cave Pilgrimage

January 27, 2014January 22, 2018 / mariezhuikov / 4 Comments

Icicles hanging down from the ceiling of a sea cave.

Icelanders resembled Minnesotans (at least of the last generation) in this regard: if nature has condemned you to life in a continuously foul climate, you have no choice but to ignore it and proceed with your plans. If you wait for the weather to improve before doing anything, your bones will have crumbled to fine dust. – Minnesota author Bill Holm

Despite the National Park Service urging people to visit another day because the wind chill was twenty-five below, my son and some friends traveled to the sea caves in the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore last weekend. We weren’t the only ones disobeying the feds to see this natural wonder on the south shore of Lake Superior. Since the parking lot was full, a line of cars was already parked on the main highway. This added ten minutes to the twenty-minute walk we were expecting across the ice to the sea caves.

It was no mean feat just to get this far. My son, who is a teenager, and his friend, would have much rather stayed home on the couch, little balls wrapped in comforters, playing computer games. “Why do we have to go?” They challenged more than once. After about the fifth round of such questioning, I was reduced to, “Because you’ll have fun, dammit!”

Once they were off the couch came the trial of getting them to wear more than one layer of clothing. Exhortations about how cold it was were met with more, “Then why do we have to go?” Somehow, the mother of my son’s friend (Charlotte) and I got the boys dressed and into the car. The wind direction made the walk from our car to the lake the coldest part of the trip. Charlotte and I were surreptitiously looking at each other, questioning whether this adventure was wise, and, although they would never admit it, I could tell the boys were happy they had been forced to wear so many layers.

Once we got to the lake, we joined the others on a hard-trodden snowy path along the shore. With the wind at our backs, the sunshine helped us feel warmer in spirit than perhaps in body. After about half-a-mile into the mile-long walk, I marveled at how warm my feet were. I thought my toes would be the first to go.

We were joined by snowshoers, skiers, dog walkers, and people pulling sleds containing mounds of blankets, which, from the hats sticking out of them, must have contained children. For the most part, it was too cold to talk, so we walked in silence – pilgrims on our way to see a natural wonder denied us for five years due to poor ice conditions.

Walking on the winter ice is the easiest way for most people to see the caves. In the summer, it requires kayaking or canoeing skills, or paying the price for a tour boat. A hiking trail runs along the top of the caves, but the view is nowhere near as spectacular as from the water.

I had seen the caves from water level, but never in winter. This year, the formations were more intricate and extensive than most, prompting widespread media coverage that piqued interest by the masses, including Charlotte and me.

Before you venture to the caves, it’s a good idea to check with the Lakeshore’s Facebook page and check the Sea Cave Watch website, a Wisconsin Sea Grant project. The site features real-time images of the ice conditions at the caves, although the wave sensor has been pulled for the season.

A frozen waterfall.

When we reached the start of the caves, the boys were quickly taken in by opportunities to explore. Icy nooks, frozen waterfalls, tunnels, slides, and hidden alcoves proved irresistible. When it came time to go due to a commitment back home, they protested, saying they wanted to stay longer. I couldn’t help but smile, noting their change in attitude. Nature had worked its subtle magic.

I hope the lesson is lasting and that next time, it will be easier to tear my son or his friend away from their comfortable couches and computers to experience real life.

One thing I want to mention if you go: please don’t break off the icicles from the caves. The conditions that formed them are not likely to happen again this winter, and it ruins the formations for those who will come after you. Take away memories, not icicles!

The view of Lake Superior when you turn away from the caves.

Why I Miss Wildland Fire Fighting

July 3, 2013January 12, 2018 / mariezhuikov / 3 Comments

Me getting ready to go to Yosemite National Park to fight fires, 1990.

The tragedy of the Prescott hotshot crew has me remembering my short stint as a wildfire-fighting “hero.” It started when I worked for the U.S. Forest Service (Superior National Forest in MN). I began my Forest Service career as a volunteer, first on the ranger district in Grand Marais (wilderness trail crew) and then on the district in Cook (photojournalist).

When I was in Cook, I got my first taste for what wildland firefighters do by delivering lunches from town to the fire camp as a driver. I enjoyed the obvious camaraderie of the camp and hearing the fire fighters’ stories. A few years later when I got a paying job with the Forest Service and the annual call came out for Fire Guard School, I was eager to sign up. I attended a week-long training camp conducted by Forest Service and Minnesota DNR staff. Notable among my classmates was Minnesota-based writer Peter Leschak, who went on to write several books about his later experiences. We learned how to dig trenches and sat in a lot of classes about fire behavior and the function of the fire organization.

We also learned how to deploy our ‘shake-and-bake’ fire shelters. These are the devices that every fire fighter carries in case they get caught by the fire and have no other options. You shake it open, climb into it, and drop to the ground on your stomach with the shelter over you (at least that’s how we were taught back then, it might be different now). If the fire passes over you, that’s where the baking begins. The shelters are better than nothing, but truthfully, not by much.

A few months later Yosemite National Park in California started burning. It was my first, and only, on-the-ground firefighting experience. Our first job was to allay the fears of the residents of Foresta, Calif., whose town had been partially burned by the fire. Several trees still smoldered on a blackened hillside above the town and it was our task to put them out . . . at night in the dark, despite the possibility of hidden mine shafts and unexploded dynamite. After a few hours of hiking up the 90-degree incline, we found the snags and put them out. We “skied” down the loose dirt only to hear that the day crew had been called off the mountain because conditions were “too dangerous.” Maybe the fire conditions were worse during the day, but we found it ironic.

: The crew and I resting during our stint in a spike camp in Yosemite. I’m to the right.

My recollection of most of the rest of the experience centers around trudging through a foot of soot, which collected under my fingernails, in my pores, and despite wearing a bandanna — in my nose, and more worrisome, in my lungs. Morning in the fire camp was a cacophony of coughing and hacking. A few days later, I ended up in a clinic with a fever and a racing heartbeat. I was diagnosed with bronchitis and instructed to rest for a day and take medication. I rested in a spike camp that my crew was helicoptered into, high on the mountainside. Wouldn’t you know it, that was the day our crew built a fire line right next to the flames, and I missed it.

We worked out of the spike camp for a few more days (I did get to see some flames) and then we were ‘coptered back to the main camp, where we got a day of R & R (rest and relaxation). We took our first showers in 5 days and got a bus tour of Yosemite, which had been closed because of the fire, but recently reopened for tourists.

As we walked around the park attractions in our distinctive yellow and olive green fire clothes, people shouted their thanks to us for working on the fires. They wanted to shake our hands and pat us on the backs. With a start, I realized they considered us heroes. We certainly didn’t feel like heroes, we were just doing the job we were trained for.

Because I’m susceptible to pneumonia, I figured I’d have trouble with my lungs if I kept fighting fires directly, so after Yosemite, I started training to be a fire information officer. These are the people who work with the media and local organizations to get news about the fire out to the public. That way, I had all the fun of the fire camp but none of the soot. I ended up helping with fires in Colorado and Minnesota, but when I left the Forest Service for another job, my fire career ended.

I miss it. I like working in small groups to get things done. And I’ll probably never be recognized as a hero again. But the hero thing is not why I, or I assume, the Prescott hotshot crew fought fires. You do it because you like it, you do it to be part of a team, it’s exciting, a bit dangerous, and sometimes even fun. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Rest in peace, guys.

Me and the flames. I'm smiling behind my bandana.

Me and the flames. I’m smiling behind my bandanna.

It’s Climate Change, Stupid!

June 20, 2013 / mariezhuikov / Leave a comment

Shredded leaves from a hail storm litter my driveway.

Even though it only lasted a few minutes, the hail squall that passed through my neighborhood earlier this week did a respectable amount of damage. Winds up to 70 mph toppled stately trees, people lost power – some for up to 22 hours (I lost power for about 12), and hail shredded the leaves that had finally popped out on the trees, creating a green carpet over people’s driveways and the roads.

Loss of power and loss of my routine reminded me of just how vulnerable we are to even the littlest whims of nature. I would have had to eat a cold supper but for the propane-fueled camp stove tucked away in my basement. With all our experience with snowstorms, perhaps northerners are more used to weathering weather disruptions than those in lower regions of the country, but we are far from immune. With no televisions and computers for distraction, my neighbors all took to the street to compare notes and make sure everyone was okay.

Unfortunately, violent storms like this are only likely to increase in the future. A few days after the storm, I attended a public forum called “A Flood of Options – Adapting to Climate Change,” which was hosted by the St. Louis River Alliance and the Izaak Walton League, and sponsored by the Minnesota Coastal Program and Freshwater Future. Speaker Mark Seely, the Minnesota State Climatologist, said that one of the things we can expect with climate change (and it’s happening now) is an increased amount of moisture from violent storms. There’s already been a 31 percent increase in this type of precipitation for the Great Lakes.

Higher temperatures are another thing that are happening, especially in the northern latitudes. The number of warm nights is increasing and so it goes that the number of cold nights is decreasing. Other lovely things to ponder are that mean monthly temperatures across the U.S. in 2012 were the highest since 1895 (I am guessing this is when stable record-keeping started). Not just by a little bit. Seely said they, “Obliterated all other year’s” temps. The same was true for Canada last year. Also, the value of economic losses due to weather/climate disasters has increased since 1980 due to hurricanes, floods, drought, etc. Seely said this is a motivator for communities to talk about climate adaptation. “Our climate vulnerability is becoming more and more clear to us.”

Other consequences include a longer mold and allergy season, increased frequency of freeze/thaw cycles, shorter time of ice cover on lakes (which leads to an increase in winter evaporation), and a longer growing season (which might not be all bad for northern Minnesota). The goal of the workshop was to inform participants about the impacts of climate change and provide ideas about how communities can adapt to it. It is a precursor to later workshops that will get more into advocacy and more specific adaptation measures.

During the question and answer session after his talk, Seely said, “Doing nothing is not an option. We’re obligated to think about this and to do something in our roles as citizens.” Chris Kleist, stormwater manager for the City of Duluth, also spoke, outlining the impacts of last year’s “500-year-flood” on the city. He estimates that long-term restoration will cost $12.6 million and the city has received about $2 million so far.

A look around the audience of 25 made it clear to me the presenters were preaching to the choir. Most of the others are already active in the environmental community. The guy seated next to me was so into the topic, he quoted from notes he wrote on a napkin. The type of approach used in the presentations wasn’t going to change anyone’s mind who wasn’t a climate-change believer. I know enough about behavior change theory to understand that.

Please forgive my Bill Clinton-esque title to this piece. I hope use of the word “stupid” does not offend, but I could not resist! It gets frustrating sometimes reading/hearing some of the refutations to climate change produced by nay-sayers. One of the problems is that those involved in climate change research and education do not employ effective communication techniques to get their messages across.

Spouting facts does not spur people to action. What does spur action and advocacy is storytelling, emotion, and spontaneity combined with some key message pre-testing and removing barriers to action. One of my favorite proponents to this approach is Randy Olson, a marine biologist-turned-filmmaker. He produced a movie about climate change (“Sizzle: A Global Warming Comedy), and wrote a book that tries to help scientists get their message across more effectively to the public (“Don’t Be Such a Scientist”). Seely did introduce a bit of emotion, but it wasn’t until the end of his talk, in the question and answer session. By then, an hour after his presentation began, it was too late.

It’s my sincere hope that the later climate workshops in this series integrate more effective communication techniques. And if you have a scientific message to get out to the public, please, consult with a trained communicator. It can only help! I’ll get down off my soapbox now.

A River Runs Through My Bucket List (or Learning How to Fly Fish Before It’s Too Late)

May 13, 2013 / mariezhuikov / 6 Comments

English: Green Highlander salmon fly. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have to admit, I like creating lists. They help me remember things and when I cross something off one, it gives me a straight-lined sense of accomplishment. A few years back I started a “Things to Do When I Retire” list; not really a bucket list (things to do before I die), but a similar concept. The list contains things like volunteering for the Red Cross, taking painting lessons, taking classes at a local folk arts school, and doing more photography.

I was content to delay the activities on the list until I had time during retirement, which was probably about 15 years away. That was, until one of my friends died unexpectedly in his early 40s. A sense of mortality smacked me in the forehead and I realized how much I’d been putting off really living and making the most of the present. In my friend’s honor, I decided to stop PLANNING and start DOING.

One of the activities on my retirement list is fly fishing. I suspect the inspiration for that came from watching the 1992 movie “A River Runs Through It.” Directed by Robert Redford and featuring Brad Pitt, the movie centers around fly fishing scenes in Montana. It was also around that time that I visited Montana and helped fight a wildfire on the White River National Forest in Colorado. I saw people fly fishing on rivers in these places and it looked so idyllic, I knew I had to try it someday. Plus, the biological aspect of the sport appeals to me. You have to know how to think like a fish and be aware of what’s going on with the local bugs to be successful.

Well, “someday” came last week. Rogue, non-retired list-breaker that I am, I took a fly fishing class with a group of women along the banks of a river on the outskirts of town. The opportunity was organized by one of my women friends and taught by Katherine Lansing, a local fly casting instructor certified by the International Federation of Fly Fishers.

Katherine Lansing

Lansing became an instructor by accident. She had been fly fishing for a few years, then she signed up for a class she thought was about how to learn to cast better. Turned out it was about how to learn to teach other people to cast better. Although hesitant, she took the class, which led her on the path to becoming one of only 80 female certified fly fishing instructors in the U.S. at the time.

We met under a picnic shelter at a local city park on a 40-degree evening. As the five other women described how they became interested in fly fishing, I realized I was the only one there not introduced to the sport by a man. Everyone else had been introduced by a boyfriend, husband, brother or father. Not sure what that says about me. I do admit I had been hoping “some man” would take me fly fishing, but it just never happened.

Lansing started the class by giving us an overview of the various fly fishing equipment and showing us how things worked. Then she introduced us to knot tying. We learned two knots, practicing first on chunks of nylon rope, and then on the more challenging fishing line. Tying the knots became more difficult as the cold temperature took its toll on our fingers. But it wasn’t long before we were up and moving, practicing our casts on the lawn beside the river, which was roaring with melt from spring runoff.

Casting was fun, and people kept remarking that I’m a natural at it (preen, preen). If I am a natural it’s from a lot of practice casting regular fishing lures and maybe from throwing an atlatl (a prehistoric throwing spear), which is a story I’ll perhaps tell another time. As we casted, Lansing went around and gave us tips in her no-nonsense and helpful manner.

After about 2-1/2 hours outdoors, I could no longer feel my toes, so I decided it was time to head home. But I enjoyed the experience and I’m looking forward to actually getting out on the water to fly fish next time. Then I’ll be able to officially cross that one off my list, and I’ll have a new hobby NOW instead of waiting for my retirement or until I’m dead, whichever comes first. (Smile.)

Working by the Duluth-Superior Harbor and Lake Superior

May 8, 2013March 25, 2015 / mariezhuikov / Leave a comment

Huge chunks of ice piled atop eachother off of Wisconsin Point, Superior WI in April.

No deep thoughts for this week; just wanted to show you some photos I’ve taken recently at and near my office on an island in the Duluth-Superior Harbor. I feel so fortunate to work in such a cool place and I never take it for granted. Ice can still be found in the bays and along the shore, but the spring break-up is finally here and it’s as if a bottleneck of birds has been unleashed upon the waters. I haven’t taken any bird photos, but I did manage to catch a fox kit out the office back door, an instant before it got scared away by someone approaching outside.

A fox kit investigates a stick as seen out the back door of my office last week.

Yesterday I accompanied some researchers out on the St. Louis River Estuary. They were taking water samples for an ongoing project about seasonal water quality variation in the river. Because it was a calm day, we went out on Lake Superior just for kicks, through the Superior Entry. I got a good shot of the lighthouse despite the chilling wind that stole my cap later on and dunked it into the river. The researchers were nice enough to turn the boat around so I could retrieve it. My cap is now christened in the estuary, so I guess I’ll have to wear it out there all the time now. Anyway, I love the reflection in this photo!

The lighthouse that guards the Superior Entry into Lake Superior.

On the other side of the breakwall was the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers dredger and some tugboats. The Army Corps dredges the harbor (digs out the muck) to ensure that the harbor is deep enough for the boats that ply its waters. The dredge is resting here. I thought this photo looks like a little mechanical family; papa dredge, mama tug and baby tug. Enjoy!

Dredge and tugs, Superior WI Entry to Lake Superior

Vinny with a Y not an IE

May 2, 2013May 2, 2013 / mariezhuikov / 3 Comments

grey wolf (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was walking my dog through the local forest the other day when I met a 12-year-old neighbor boy for the first time. His name is Vinny; spelled with a Y on the end, not an IE. “People mix that up all the time,” he said. He was walking a chocolate lab who was also 12 years old. His lab got along well with my goldendoodle so we let them off their leashes to romp.

Vinny was the talkative sort. I’m always amazed at how much kids unknowingly reveal about their lives and their parents’ lives to strangers. While on the one hand, I’m glad children are still trusting, on the other hand, I shudder to think what could happen if the information made it into the wrong ears.

During our short walk, and with hardly any prompting from me, I learned about all of Vinny’s former and current pets, that Vinny’s parents are hiring a nanny for the summer to drive him to his soccer games, that he has a sore knee but his mom said that some exercise walking the dog would probably be good for it (I had to smile at that one), and that Vinny’s dad shot a wolf.

Of course, as a wolf novelist, this last bit of news gave me pause. I can’t even remember how the topic came up, but suddenly, there it was, as unexpected and pungent as blood on leaves. I do remember that Vinny was explaining how he likes to deer hunt. He was in his deer stand when he was 7 and a wolf appeared and scared him. From questioning and further conversation, I got the impression he was in the stand alone, but that his dad was nearby, possibly in a different stand. Vinny ended up meeting up with his dad and telling him about the wolf. That’s when he told me his dad shot the wolf.

Oh, there were so many things I could have said and so many routes our conversation could have taken. My first instinct was to trot out the fact that wolves have not been documented to kill a human in the U.S. but once in recent history; that they are shy and normally do not approach humans. But I didn’t. I wasn’t there in the forest in a deer stand with a scared young boy. Obviously, something the wolf was doing scared him and concerned his dad enough that he decided to kill it. And during my book signings in northern Minnesota and Michigan, I’ve heard many stories from people about wolves. I understand that they are capable of all sorts of behaviors, many of which are seen as threatening by humans.

Instead, I said something about wolves usually being curious more than anything else. I wanted to ask him if his dad reported the shooting, because I’m sure at that point in history (5 years ago) the wolf was still considered an endangered species and thus illegal to kill. But I really didn’t want to know.

Vinny then went on to describe a plan he and his dad made in case Vinny ever felt threatened by a wolf again. He told me the special kind of ammunition they would use, which would hurt/scare the wolf but not kill it. This gave me a bit of consolation. At least they knew that killing the wolf was wrong and either got the special ammunition idea from a conservation officer or his dad had thought about it enough to figure it out. I doubt that shooting a wolf with anything is a good idea because the wolf could die of an infection, but I kept my mouth shut about this, also. I didn’t want to criticize Vinny’s dad because that could shut Vinny off for future conversations about wolves.

Our conversation ended with Vinny asking me if my youngest son likes to hunt. I told him we weren’t hunting people, but that my son enjoys fishing. By that time, we were at a crossroads and we separated, each to our own homes. I hope I meet Vinny again. Maybe I’ll have another chance to educate him more about wolves. I sure hope so.

Chickadees Don’t Lie

March 6, 2013March 13, 2013 / mariezhuikov / Leave a comment

My dog and I took a forest walk today. I’m fortunate to live next to a large and wild city park that sports the occasional bear or moose. The black-capped chickadees were singing. Not their signature “chicka-dee-dee-dee” call but their two-toned “phee-bee” song that means spring is coming and I‘m in love.

Okay, romanticism aside, the song most likely has the mixed meaning of the male chickadee saying “stay out of my territory” and “baby, come over here.” But to me, it sounds like spring.

Wait a minute. It’s only the first week in March. In northern Minnesota. It’s still only 25 degrees outside, tops. Plus we just got a bunch of snow dumped on us. And the chickadees started singing this tune at least a couple of weeks ago. Who would want to mate this early? How could spring be coming?

But it is. The amount of daylight we’re receiving feels downright decadent compared to a few weeks ago. The ravens and crows are returning, along with the gulls. My dog is already leaving muddy footprints across the white kitchen linoleum.

Soon the world will become “mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful” (thank you E. E. Cummings). After the snow melts, the landscape will become the color of meatloaf (thank you Barton Sutter).

I know spring is coming because the chickadees said so. And chickadees are honest. Would this feisty panda bear of birds lie about something so important? I don’t think so.

Tribute to a Tree

February 28, 2013 / mariezhuikov / 3 Comments

My favorite tree is dying. Chunks of it lay scattered around my yard, courtesy of an industrious pileated woodpecker with its jackhammer-strong bill and bright red topknot.

The tree is a maple of some sort; probably a sugar maple, maybe a red maple. I haven’t wanted to define it in that way so I haven’t tried to figure it out. The tree grows at a slight angle, as if a north wind blew continuously for decades. My shed and garage bask in its shade.

Up until about ten years ago, its branches used to almost touch the second floor of the house. After a ball of lightning entered and toured around my sleeping baby’s bedroom as his father put him in his crib, those branches are gone. We decided to cut off the lightning travel route in case it does strike twice. Thankfully, the lightning ball exited without hurting anyone; just scared us real good and fried several electrical appliances. The baby even slept through it all.

The tree still bears a scar down its middle from that strike. Squirrels climb it and knock off bark pieces. In summer, its leaves are deformed with a shag carpet of red bumps caused by gall mites.

I know the maple is old and it’s on its way out, but I love that tree and don’t want to see it go. It’s one of the reasons I bought my house. On summer days, I sit on the bench beneath it and play with my dog. In fall, I lie inside on the couch appreciating its brilliant colors. The tree greets me on cold winter mornings when I shovel the back porch.

Come spring I will need to cut it down to keep it from falling on my garage or shed. I’m not looking forward to that day. I suppose we will find someone to use the wood and then plant a new tree, or several, to take its place. I’ll move some young maples that grow behind the shed. I’m sure they must be the old maple’s children. But it won’t be the same. They will be small and it will take years before they form a magnificent shape.

I feel like we’ll need to perform a ceremony of thanks for the maple and to mark its passing. If you have any ideas, please let me know.

Snow Angels with a Cause

February 14, 2013 / mariezhuikov / 2 Comments

Making a snow angel harkens back to a northern childhood winter ritual, usually performed with friends. It’s just not something you do alone. You flop down and swish your arms back and forth, usually ending up with a cold face full of snow. I remember creating many while growing up. Ever the perfectionist, I worked hard to get up and out of my angel without leaving evidence of footprints or handprints; as if the angel truly fell from the sky into the snow.

Last weekend, about 2,000 people lay down in the snow together, flapping their arms and legs. They gathered at the University of Minnesota Duluth’s football stadium, trying to break a world record for the most snow angels created simultaneously.

I’ll cut the suspense; no record was set (we would have needed about 9,000 people for that) but the event raised money for a good cause: clean water for Ethiopians. It was organized by a Duluth Rotary Club and Proctor High School DECA.

I attended with my teenage son, two of his friends, and one of the boy’s mothers. Although things were a bit confused, and certain people’s feet got cold because they didn’t listen to their mother and wear boots (ahem), the mood of the crowd was one of hope and whimsy.

The hope wasn’t centered so much around breaking a record as it was on bringing the community together for a common purpose. There’s something about so many people gathered to do the same thing that serves as a reminder of the power of the individual.

Whimsy was present, of course, in the act of creating the snow angels. It was also in the costumes some wore so they would be able to pick themselves out in the aerial photo taken by a helicopter that flew overhead at the appointed time.

Hope and whimsy: it was in this spirit that all of us gathered. And for a few minutes, we truly were snow angels with a common cause.

The Music of Nature

February 6, 2013August 9, 2022 / mariezhuikov / 2 Comments

Nature isn’t just what we see. It encompasses all our senses. Think of the vanilla essence of Ponderosa Pines, the rough grains of sandstone, and the sound of a dolphin’s exhale as it surfaces. We’re so used to the visual it’s challenging to remember other senses, especially in environmental and scientific work. I recently learned there’s a field that specializes in sound and the environment. It’s called acoustic ecology.

Acoustic ecology explores the relationship between living beings and the environment through sound. This can take many forms, from delving into what a forest sounded like 70 years ago when different species of birds lived there, to the affect of car alarms on the urban environment.

On a blustery day this past October I had the chance to talk with an acoustic ecologist. Chris Bocast is a talented musician who specializes in the field. He just finished producing a podcast about Lake Superior for our joint employer, Wisconsin Sea Grant. The series isn’t an example of acoustic ecology per se, but it does show how sound can illustrate environmental topics.

Because I’ve worked around Lake Superior for many years, Chris wanted to include me in the series. And of course, I couldn’t let him get away without covering the St. Louis River Estuary, too.

We met during a Sea Grant conference in downtown Duluth. For the interview we walked next door to the historic Greysolon Plaza Hotel. We sat in the hotel’s ornate and quiet mezzanine lounge.

In the middle of our conversation, Chris asked, “What’s the function of an estuary in an ideal ecosystem?” I replied that I happened to have written a poem about that, and darned if the poem didn’t make it into the series. It’s “Two Sisters” from my last entry.

Click here to listen to the Lake Superior podcast series. My poem can be found near the end of program #7 (Superior’s Sister).

The piano-based ambient music Chris created for the podcasts is unnamed. He told me it’s designed to evoke a sense of the pristine. I don’t know about you, but I could bliss out on his music all day.

Marie's Meanderings

Internet home for Marie Zhuikov: Blogger, Author, Poet, Photographer

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