Grand Marais MI – Harbor of Safe Refuge, Part 1

Heather and I first spotted Grand Marais MI well after nightfall, decades ago. We'd forged our way in via uncertain roads working northeast from Munising through Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, keeping as close to Superior as possible.

The big lake drew us there. Dammed if we'd bypass it.

Armed with a county map book, we set off from Munising toward the tiny dot marked Grand Marais. Often, there wasn't much of a road. Sometimes none at all, indications on the map notwithstanding. Travel took longer than planned.

Not for the last time, our expectation of civilization deceived us. I'm over that now.

Late on arrival, Grand Marais felt about derelict that night. Of course it wasn't, but the distinction got lost in the dark. We secured lodgings and hungrier than sin, walked a deserted street overlooking the harbor toward the welcoming light of a diner.

Couldn't guess what manner of all American fare we'd find there. Likely didn't much care, so long as it passed for food.

Born of a Grand Marais fishing family, at the Cozy Corner Bertha Chilson offered a choice of fresh, all we could eat whitefish or lake trout, either way with fries. Order up and before long she delivered sweet mercy to the two hapless young tourists by placing on our table a holiday-sized platter overflowing with two massive flanks of crispy Superior fish spread wide atop a smoldering mountain of fries.

Can't remember what I exclaimed. Who knows, it might've even been incoherent. Call it youthful enthusiasm.

But I recall real well, Bertha's reply. And will I suppose, until recalling nothing anymore.

"Pfftt," the old fishmonger said. "I've a local comes in here eats two of those."

Probably, we didn't finish the fries. Made absolute mincemeat of the fish though.

After dinner Heather and I wandered along the harbor out to the old Coast Guard Station. Bats flitted through lamplight, where insects swarmed.

Near the end of a wooden dock swam the largest live fish I'd ever seen in the wild. I raced like the wind to the car for my gear then likewise, back to Heather and the fish. Sans fishing license, I flailed shimmering black water for gargantuan creatures wandering unmolested beneath brilliant stars. Heather amused herself with the bats.

Each in our own way, we reveled together in intimate proximity with Superior. We'd made safe harbor after all. And were damned well fed for our trouble, besides.

On that first night in Grand Marais, the lasting maritime character of the place seeped permanently into us. I don't recall it, but I'd bet we slept well.

*

The Coast Guard Station at Grand Marias was built in the 1940's, when the Guard took over the duties of the old U.S. Life-Saving Service, whose storm warriors are the stuff of Superior legend. In wooden boats, Surfmen rowed toward the gale against the ice and frigid seas to save lives.

Now the Coast Guard Station that replaced the Lifesaving Station of the Surfmen houses park staff for the National Lakeshore. Near there, you'll find memorials to fishermen lost at sea and also to a pair of young men.

This memorial to the fishermen reads, They have seen the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep.

The one for two friends who died together too soon reminds us that big water is a slayer of innocence.

Inspiring stories of courage and heart-rending tales of loss are essential to the character of any maritime town's narrative. So it is with Grand Marais. Lifesavers are needed, at the only Harbor of Safe Refuge between Marquette and the Soo.

Except that's a lot of sand. And there's a whole lot more where that comes from.

Today, the grand marais wants to fill with sand.  The larger boats needed for life-saving on a really big, angry lake struggle getting in or out of what might soon enough be a grand marsh, were we to stop imposing our will upon it.

In any age, travelers whether by land or sea require safe harbor. No less so in the middle of nowhere. And in this particular middle of nowhere, Grand Marais is it.

During the early years of this century, irrational enthusiasm threatened to bring the housing boom down on this scenic lakeside tourist town. Shortly before the Great Recession busted that speculative nonsense good and hard, I stayed in the same motel Heather and I had during our initial visit, decades before.

The view remained the same but unlike back then, the room was unkempt. On the table next to an ancient TV was a leaflet, by way of explanation.

Condominium conversion coming, it read over theoretical schematics. 'Get in now' was the point.

I got it. Why waste money replacing grubby carpeting when a one time gut rehab promised a six figure return per unit?

A storm warning went up for early the next day. I turned eager to beat it and slept but a few short hours that night.

Bathed in splendid predawn light, I fled Grand Marais. Heading south past the Kingston Plains and back toward civilization, I feared for the little town's future. 

Wind warnings were already up for the Mackinac Bridge. Approaching Lake Michigan I turned right not left and was in for the long haul. Sleeping Bear Dunes would just have to wait.

Still a few hours out from reaching safe haven on the prairie, tornadic thunderstorms overtook me. Swimming with semis roaring three lanes at a time through blinding rain as darkness fell, I pushed on.

Travel took longer than planned.

Along a stretch of well-maintained Indiana road near my second Great Lake of the day, a roadside sniper abused folk's expectations of civilization. Caught in the wilderness at the height of the storm, I made it home just the same.

Meteorological Spring, One Long Week In

We come from the land of the ice and snow…

For some reason, that Led Zeppelin line about rampaging Northmen keeps coming to mind. Especially the savage alarm that precedes it, which just doesn't translate from Ah ah, as in the officially written lyrics. At the very least that's short two whole syllables, one of them quite long.

February was the fifth cloudiest on record, round these parts. As promised, this week a late chunk of broken polar vortex blew in. Tuesday, we shattered the record for lowest high temperature ever on that date. There's gotta be a better way to say it than 'low high', but there it is.

Up north, for the first time in more than two decades Lake Superior is 90% ice covered, about double what it was prior to February. That's well above forecasts, though it doesn't mean the sea caves of Cornucopia will be open, so don't get your hopes up on that.

Likewise, the mass of great northern ice that forestalls evaporation suggests it's unlikely the shipwrecks along Au Sable beach will be readily available this summer. So I'll chalk those off any speculative list.

What ice cut by open water running through the prairie says is that while there's a ways to yet go until ice and snow yield their wicked grip, the sun climbs higher in the sky by the day. Higher, faster, than any other month of the year. Even when you can't feel its good effects, the landscape absolutely does.

I've been working the new lens during brief forays to a local prairie remnant. The patch is only recently preserved and still full of invasive bull thistle. That'll take years of hard won volunteer work to clear, if ever.

It's good to get out but also to stay close to home. I don't much trust any winter, much less one that exerts a will to overstay. I've gone ice-fishing three times in my life and went through the ice twice. Lesson learned.

Thankfully, even this local bit of scrub prairie sports an abundance of natural riches.

One morning, coyotes mimicked a slow passing police siren. They sang and sang and sang, until they'd chased the intruder away. Couldn't beat the joy out of their song with a stick.

In my youth I typically enjoyed two successive autumns. The plan this year is to reap the benefit of two springs. The first, here on the prairie. The second, at Superior.

I've about had it with ice. The new lens checks out. I've restocked my fishing gear. The canoe is high, dry and ready.

Now there's only waiting on the world to catch up to my ambitions for it. Until then, an illusion of spring must serve...

Shining Light on the Prairie - Meteorological Spring

Maybe that title should better read meteoroillogical...

Freeze/thaw, freeze/thaw then freeze some more makes for a wicked nasty season.

Racing across three hundred miles of freezing big water before smacking into the prairie, arctic winds howl. The grayest February skies seen 'round these parts in fifty-seven years persistently weep. Even when a warming sun shines, the landscape is bone chill.

Every day the sun doesn't make an appearance and that's most of them, the world is cruelly muted. It's voice, a crackling murmur.

Still, signs of hope are found. And what's hope for anyway, if not to rely on during hard times?

Late autumn, I purged an accidental strawberry plant from the place it claimed in our garden where we'd let it grow wild through last summer, just to see. Purged that sucker with extreme prejudice, as only the squirrels benefited and not so much at that.

Yet there it is. Come back through hard frozen ground, even beneath a sheath of ice.

The new lens helped turn this barely transitional season that's normally opaque and indolent into a rich opportunity for fieldwork. On the right occasion, the freeze/thaw not only reveals but frames a post-seasonal spectrum of life and death. I'll remember that and be better prepared, next year.

"Death is life", the late poet Patrick O'Neil wrote. So it is. On the prairie as well as in the Northwoods, and everywhere else besides.

At least I know for certain that last autumn the Goldfinches twittering about outside my window feasted on this purple coneflower as it fell.

Beneath prairie tallgrass collapsed from exhaustion…

…and invasive bull thistle gone sandpaper sharp,

to inside the crust of barren native oaks obscured by waving ghosts, I believe renewed life grows.

Soon enough this will be Blazing Star shining with riotous life, not just its bones:

Call that a matter of faith if you wish, but in this one tough little bugger below, I keep finding early proof.

After the next chunk of polar vortex departs, I trust I'll find it still.

Shining Light on the Prairie – Late Winter, 2019

This year's dark season was by & large a forced march gone long from the start. Then in February between the stinking polar vortex and an ice storm, a new lens arrived. Count that as just in time, for me.

Step away from the screen, winter demanded. So I did.

Next week about this time, winter's over. My meteorologist tells me so. Meanwhile, the new lens is a keeper. 

Occasionally, the light is good and the wind doesn't blow too hard across the prairie. That and the inevitable turning of the season from dark to light is all I need know, for now.

With longer days, late winter's sun is warming. The season freezes, thaws then freezes again. Inexorably, cold darkness melts. There is but to look.

That first morning with the new lens, stepping gingerly so as not to slip and break my fool neck (or the lens) on a world sheathed in ice, I spotted the first frog of the year.

Maybe you don't see that speckled frog caught like a memory by winter in frozen Lamb's Ear. I didn't, at first. Now I can't unsee it.

But should you drive a harder bargain than me and find an illusory frog doesn't cut it to pin all seasonal hopes on, there's this:

Room With View(s)

To creatives of all sorts, everywhere --

October of 2012, for two weeks I held an artist's residency at Dan's Cabin in the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness, courtesy of the Friends of the Porkies.

The experience enriched my perspective on the real world and the folk who dedicate their lives to the protection and nourishment of it.

You'd like to think wilderness could just maintain itself. But, alas. The older I get, the greater the meaning of 'perpetual maintenance' becomes.

Two weeks at Dan's Cabin enriched me in ways that continue to unfold. If you've never spent two weeks living in the woods, I heartily recommend it. The wilderness will embrace you, give it half the chance.

If that's not your cup of tea, then find other residencies more to your liking and creative skillset. There's every sort of welcoming safe haven out there for creatives, maintained in all manner of fine places, catering to about every creative discipline under the sun.

My stay at Dan's Cabin was greatly productive. A fine place to work.

Maybe your residency wherever doing whatever will be too. I urge you to find out. You can start here.

The effect those two weeks had on my work is ongoing. My hosts were among the finest folk I've met. If I could change anything, it'd be that I didn't wait so long before giving it a shot, which would've left me more years to reap the benefit.

So go for it. Because the years do flow on…

Can you Camus?

The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.

                                                              – Albert Camus