Superior Summer 2021, Pt. 2 - Transition

 

Thirty-eight years ago tomorrow morning, Heather took my hand in marriage. Didn't fully understand why she'd do that then, it's still something of a mystery to me today.

S'okay. Mystery is the stuff of life.

By this time the day after, we'd set up camp in the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness for the first week of our honeymoon on the shore of Lake Superior.

The second week we spent at Bobcat Lake, in the Ottawa National Forest.

We'd been going to the U.P. together for some years beforehand and I don't recall there being any real question but that we'd honeymoon there.

When younger, autumn was our preferred time in the northwoods. Tent camping during late September in the wilderness was frequently hard. It tested us and mostly, we passed.

Over time, August became our preferred month because that far north it offers the best of both worlds. Many days are still warm enough to enjoy quality time at the beach…

…while others offer glimpses of autumn's cherished mystery.

By late August, summer's harsh light is softened.

Though the living forest remains lush and green.

Save for 'round the edges, where September can be seen.

In my heart of hearts, I still love northwoods autumn best. Except we've been tested, have prospered for the experience and over the many years since, haven't forgotten.

So the reasonably long days of late summer that come mostly filled with warmth and easy living make by far the stronger case.

Besides, autumn's coming right down the pike. Nothing will stop it and winter's close behind.

So best to make the most of summer while we can.

Shining Light on the Prairie – Winging Toward Autumn

I've wanted for years to get a great picture of a praying mantis. All its other peculiarities aside, the thing about a mantis is that it looks you right in the eye and no bones about it.

The gaze of other insects is often opaque. Not so, the mantis. It sees you.

On a humid summer evening with a squall line bearing down and knowing we'd soon have to duck inside, I finally got my chance. This young one appeared as if from nowhere.

I raced inside, grabbed the Nikon and happily, didn't blow it…

It's been an up and down year on our prairie garden. A chill spring led to prolonged drought, followed by violent storms, then persistent heat, high humidity and periodically, more fierce storms.

Though I'd my doubts throughout June and most of July, by August the resilience of prairie life won out.

Now with every passing day, the light softens and recedes.

With that, the food supply is steadily constricted. It's getting crowded out there.

While there's still some pollen left on the Echinacea…

…that's increasingly the province of birds, whose sloppy eating habits spread the seed that'll inevitably turn into next spring's bounty.

It's been a fine year for monarchs. At any given time I can stand out in the yard and as many as five of them flit around me in the breeze. They jealously guard the butterfly bushes, which will provide for latecomer's the last food available after autumn's first frost.

My friends the Great Black Wasps returned, made babies and then taught their kids where the good stuff is. Each day, those buster the Greek Oregano from first light to last.

This year featured fewer Skippers than I'm accustomed to, but there were some.

Everyone works harder now, for less.

With evening, cicadas sing in raucous chorus. Afterwards, the nightshift takes over and critters I'll likely never see pronounce their existence just the same.

Every living thing on the prairie knows exactly what time it is. And that time is getting late.

Maybe this year will be when we find a monarch caterpillar on our milkweed. After all, that's why we grow it. As is, these hardy little buggers prevail.

In any event, we'll always have the mantis. We didn't, until one dropped by before the storm and said Here's looking at you, kid.

At this point, I'm just happy I was here to see it. And am utterly convinced the mantis saw me, for sure.

Superior Summer, 2021 - Pt. 1

Now we're pretty much halfway between spring and autumn equinox, with summer solstice the celestial fulcrum upon which northwoods life turned.

Here's to Superior summer. When life is flush, the living is (relatively) easy...

…and everybody eats.

A splendid season, even if the light is too often harsh and unforgiving…

…and the world is mostly blue or green, with little other color space between.

Soon enough, autumn will be on us.

And during August in Superior land, sometimes you can't help but see it coming.

Lake Superior Day, 2021 – On the road to a watery world

 Again this year, my dear friend Phil helps us celebrate Lake Superior Day. I've learned more about the Superior region from Phil than anyone I've ever met, and am pleased to have his contribution.

Images & text by Philip J. Kucera, except as noted...

Drive Wisconsin Highway 13 north. It's seventy miles of wonder along the state's "North Coast" and was recently designated a National Scenic Byway for good reason.

Start your journey at the Northern Great Lakes Visitor Center near Ashland, a proper intro to the history and culture of the entire Lake Superior basin. It's just beyond a US-2 roundabout guiding you to 13 north.

With twenty-one islands, twelve miles of mainland shoreline, nine historic lighthouses and sea caves to explore, the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore is the highlight of the Peninsula. Lakeshore activities are headquartered in Bayfield, population 463.

Inland, this vintage fishing village turned modern tourist town is surrounded by apple orchards and dotted with berry, while fish tugs and yachts nose each other lakeside. During early October well over 30,000 people might gather at the little hillside community to celebrate its annual Apple Fest.

Among America's national parks there's a uniqueness to the Apostles. Here the goal is to preserve not only the natural history of the region, but the cultural history as well. Boats take you on tours of old fishing encampments, lighthouses, to camp on an island, or for a grand tour through the island chain.

Even a family picnic…

Elizabeth Abernathy Hull, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

On Basswood, visitors can camp overnight, search for the remains of the McLeod-Brigham homestead (farmed from 1865 to 1923) and explore the rust and bust of the former Bass Island Brownstone Company quarry - in 1868, the first to open in the Bayfield region.

Lake Superior Sandstone

 

During the 1800's, tough Apostle brownstone built untold numbers of architectural masterpieces both public and private around the Great Lakes. Many of those still stand proud today.

Back in town it's spring and "Bayfield in Bloom." Nature's painted leaves are on display in autumn, retired Christmas trees mark an ice road to Madeline Island come mid winter.

A short ferry ride over shimmering crystalline waters to La Pointe on Madeline Island, brings you to where the first fur trade rendezvous' on the big lake took place in the late 1600s. A state park and two museums, shops and restaurants welcome you.

Consider driving the remaining miles of #13.  At Frog Bay on the Red Cliff Reservation, the first tribal national park in America protects nearly a mile of sandy Lake Superior shoreline amid the tribal forest.

Image by FJH

Cornucopia is a horn of plenty from where fish tugs once more search for lake trout, whitefish and herring on the open lake. Small farms feed the region.

Kayakers cast off to view sea caves. Shops built in old fish houses display the work of regional artists and crafters.

Six seamen from a crew of twenty-nine on the ill-fated SS Edmund Fitzgerald called the Bayfield region home.

 

At Port Wing on the Flag River, near the northern terminus of Wisconsin Highway 13, a monument stands in a field of Marram or beach grass, backed by masses of wild red roses at a lakeshore park. Here a sculpted sailor peers out over the waters of Superior, on watch day and night.

 

 

On Wisconsin's north coast, it's always about the lake.

 

Shining Light on the Prairie – Summer, 2021

 

Greek oregano bolts in our garden. All manner of pollen hungry fliers work it under a hot summer sun. Great Black Wasps have yet to return. Just a hint of the much hyped great cicada invasion.

Ants, we've enough of. Most everything else continues apace.

In the world at large, drought busting rains of late June helped turn early July's prairie robust.

 

Happily, I made it out and about in time for the season's last wild roses.

 

Lots of roses.

 

I found the prairie made so lush by rain and blazing sun that it can't be taken at a glance but to freeze it.

And even then...

 

When I was a kid on the 'empty' lots we called prairie, it was mostly the fauna that interested me, not the flora. Bugs and a multitude of other unmarked critters abound in the grass.

I knew those saw me. The plants not so much.

 

These days, flora breaks at least even.

 

The prairie is at once sharp-edged and soft.

 

Elegant.

 

Riotous.

 

 

The prairie overflows with a rich diversity of life. So by any measure that matters, is wonderous.

 

Whether in the northwoods or on the grasslands, my primary land-looking directive has always been simple.

If open water's suspected back there, try and push through to see it.

 

Because you can just never tell.