It snowed again. And again. That was our weekend, and our start to the week. I really shouldn’t complain, but misery loves company, and Northern Minnesota has a lot of miserable company as April continues its snowy reign.
Because my faithful four-legged friend was short-changed for exercise this week, between work and family activity schedules . . . (high school track season has begun — of course, the first outdoor meet was canceled due to snow on the track) . . . I promised him a nice hike Sunday afternoon at Gooseberry Falls State Park rather than our usual local routes.
Before heading up the North Shore, I decided to call the ski venue where I lost my prescription sunglasses at a nordic ski meet earlier this winter, and remarkably, they had found their way to lost and found — when they had not emerged in the days following the race, I had written them off as lost forever! So, a change of plans, with an afternoon loop up to the Iron Range, then down the Superior National Forest Scenic Byway, and finally along the North Shore to Gooseberry Falls. With no other interested day trippers in the family, my favorite lab and I headed out the door and hit the road.
We took the more scenic route for our “lost and found” errand — mile after mile of evergreen-lined highways with some fresh snow still precariously clinging to the tree branches, blue sky finally breaking through the layers of gray that blanketed the landscape for days — was that a sense of optimism I could feel stirring?
A quick break at a roadside pullout, retrieve sunglasses, briefly check messages on the phone before looping on to our hiking destination, and . . . optimism gone — how could we possibly owe that much in taxes? A first-world problem, I know, but one that soured my afternoon, nonetheless. I sat in the car, debating whether I wanted to spend the next 90 minutes winding our way down to Gooseberry, with another 45 minutes or so home after that. “Screw it,” I thought, “we can just head back home now, and walk one of our usual routes.” But, have you ever looked into the face of a hopeful lab, sure that the next time the car door opens, paradise awaits? How could I say no? Sour mood and all, we continued on our way.
I have rarely driven the Superior National Forest Scenic Byway. On this Sunday afternoon, we passed perhaps two cars traveling in the opposite direction during our time on the byway. It was peaceful. We saw a beautiful bald eagle perched in a tree alongside the highway. The road twisted and turned, with the Sawtooth Mountains (remember, we are in Minnesota, use the term “mountain” loosely) appearing on the horizon, letting us know Lake Superior was not far beyond. I found myself smiling as I enjoyed the scenery, chatted with my furry friend, and listened to my favorite music through my iPod.
Then my trusty friend threw up. No, really. My smile gone, I finally dared to glance into the back seat. He had seemed a little antsy, but I figured he just needed a few minutes to run off some steam and make himself comfortable again. We found a spot near a nordic ski trailhead, just off the highway, and as soon as he jumped back into the car, and I sat down in the driver’s seat, he threw up. He was so embarrassed and apologetic about it, poor guy. Perhaps the ugly tentacles of the winter doldrums had reached his gastrointestinal system? I cleaned it up best I could (OK, I admit to feeling some gratitude for the snow about then), and we once again hit the road for the remaining drive as the afternoon hours turned to evening.
The novelty of catching that first glimpse of Lake Superior as we come over a crest of the road never grows old — no matter where we travel from, that big body of water captivates a person like few things do. Once again, glimmers of hope and optimism struggled to emerge, reminding me to be grateful for scenes like this so close to home.
Gooseberry Falls is a much-loved, heavily trafficked State Park. Pulling into their large visitor center parking lot and seeing only three cars is a rare sight, one that we welcomed. Not so sure the pair grazing under the bird feeder welcomed the sight of my four-legged companion and me, but we only briefly disturbed them by pausing for a photo, before we continued on down the path to the Falls.
Ahh, the joy of a black lab galloping in the snow! He was right that we needed to continue on our way, and not let the doldrums of daily life and our extended winter interfere with finding joy.
After crossing the Gooseberry River, we headed up the often snow-packed, sometimes slippery steps to the river overlook trail.
Other than a photographer capturing a close shot of the semi-frozen falls, we had the park to ourselves it seemed. The rushing water had only begun to emerge from beneath its frozen winter crust. Another warm day or two, and the bulk of its winter coating would melt and wash down the river.
I remember hiking this path when my boys were young. The trail is quite narrow and precarious in spots, high above the river valley. Rambunctious, danger-oblivious boys and girls were the motivation behind the prominent warning sign on the overlook trail.
The views are why it is a trail that one can hike again and again, never growing tired of the changing scenery as it moves from one season to the next, as the water runs high or low, as the lake in the distance shines blue or blends into the gray horizon. What a gift.
Best of all was our departing scene. A pinkish glow separated the lake from the sky above it, off in the distance at the end of the winding, frozen river bed. We walked past the visitor center and its interesting “River, Lake, Falls and Forest” nature art column crafted from a 100+ year-old fir timber, with plant and animal images hand cut out of recycled copper, aluminum, and brass.
And then, silently standing just beyond the column, was one of the friends who greeted us as we arrived. He (or she) stood as if he were part of a winter postcard scene, so beautifully framed by the birch as the river valley opened up behind him. I felt a sense of peace and contentment as we said goodbye, and was reminded of what was important in life.
Ciao! ~ Kat