Creative Conversation

Many people act like they expect to live forever, but they won't.

Creatives spend their lives crafting things that might, but they can never tell.

So artists offer their song to the wind and the wind carries the best part of them to an unknown place where echo is the currency of trade and whether or not their offering lasts, they'll not know it either way.

What's true is that art informs us, whether for a moment or forever.

It shows us who our neighbors are, how they see their lives and culture and their neighbors too, so that we might better understand them and better define our own place in the cosmos, having shared.

Creativity is an ongoing conversation as essential to human wellbeing as are earth, air, water and sky. Without its saving graces, we'd be a poor race indeed.

And from the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness of Michigan, a diverse group of dedicated folk devote their best efforts to assure that conversation thrives.

For two weeks last October I reveled in my residency at Dan's Cabin, courtesy of the Artists in Residence Program sponsored by the Friends of the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness. 

So extraordinary was the personal experience, so gracious the hosts and splendid the accommodations, upon leaving the place I promised myself to promote the work done at the Park by those who stand among its very best friends.

While there I led the ideal artist's life -- near the only time in my life I've been at liberty to do that, for whatever length of time. As direct result I accomplished some my best work ever.

And as is true of most of this Odyssey, where I've gone you can too.

Burdened by cultural noise and myriad sundry demands, tempted too much by handy distractions like T.V., Facebook and blogs, many artists yearn for an opportunity to submerse themselves in their work.

That opportunity is here.

Yeah, it's in the wilderness and maybe that's wholly outside your experience much less comfort level, I get that.

So here's the gig:

Nestled in a splendid grove of hemlock a mere quarter mile from the road, your fellow creatives have built a comfortable, sturdy cabin just for you.

Outside, the real world rules and a creek runs by. Inside there's a comfy bed, a well equipped kitchen, ample working space, a wood burning stove for warmth with everything framed by a wide expanse of windows that let the real world shine in, day and night.

And you're welcome to bring someone along whether for companionship or courage, should that suit you.

What the place lacks is phone, Internet, T.V., radio and all the distractions of contemporary life. I know of resorts that charge big money to rent that sort of liberty for even a single night.

On that table is a journal kept by a succession of residents for the benefit of those to follow. It's quite the thing to read. Artists use their stay at Dan's Cabin for everything from relaxation to adventure, from quiet contemplation to life altering self-discovery.

While there, they also accomplish fundamental work.

Out your door is a well maintained trail system cut more than 87 miles through 60,000 acres of wildness and offering prospects that range from remote waterfalls to accessible vistas. Then there're the pristine beaches of Superior, where folk hunt agates or swim or simply spend a contemplative afternoon beneath a warming sun. After which you might choose to bathe in the wonder of twilight as seen from the edge of the world's greatest inland sea, then marvel as the Milky Way blankets the sky one star at a time, an exquisite filigree undimmed by light pollution.

And being a creative, you will work, as the spirit moves.

Maybe you're thinking it all still seems too daunting. That you're too utterly urban to risk the real world or it's too distant or maybe you're too old to engage it or that your particular creative effort is an unlikely fit for the program.

What's true is that artists grow excuses like an untended garden grows weeds.

The Residency's hosted a rich array of artists whose work runs the gamut. Writers. Photographers. Poets. A filmmaker. Sculptors, painters, composers, graphic artists and musicians. Ceramicists and a glass artist. Printmakers and more.

That includes an octogenarian painter, a ceramicist in from Australia and an installation sculptor who traveled from Tokyo. So there's that.

What these folk share is a commitment to creative effort and the rewards earned when willing to take a leap of faith in oneself.

Did I mention the built in audience?

In return for Residency, your obligation is to donate a piece of work inspired by your stay and to give a public presentation during it -- the audience for which is involved, informed and friendly.

Can a working artist ask for more?

Yeah, the deadline for 2013 entry is April 1st and I've left you little time to prepare. I apologize for that, but the organic workflow of this Odyssey combined with the vicissitudes of life and here we are.

All the same, most working artists have their best work compiled and at hand. So putting together a proper presentation takes at most a bit of contemplation and just a few hours time. I'm here to tell you that a modest if well considered effort expended late last winter paid off for me in spades come autumn...

These last couple years of fieldwork sparked by specific creative purpose then informed across a magnificent landscape populated by a diverse, indomitable people have indelibly informed me.

And with that, whatever light I possess is edged closer to lastingly perfect. A proper source of warmth for blood run thin once my day's grown long.

Of all the miles over all the months across country grand & hard, of the people, places, sights, sounds and smells, of the incredible history freely mixed with triumph and misery and truth and lies and glimpses of a regional future with promise unlimited -- even considering all that and more -- it's likely that my two weeks spent as a guest at Dan's Cabin will be the time I treasure most through the years.

So do yourself a favor -- consider applying for an artist's residency  at the Porcupine Mountains. Do it for your work. Do it for yourself.

Put your very best effort on the line for something uncommon.

Click here, to stop procrastinating and get started.

And by all means please share this link with other creatives of all inclination everywhere, whether via Google or Twitter or Facebook or good old fashioned word of mouth.

Because creative conversation is the name of the game and you never can tell where that'll lead...

The Porkies -- People & Their Government at Work

In the arena of contemporary public discourse, American government and government workers are routinely disrespected. How and why that happened doesn't much concern us here.

What's true is that a constituency exists for each taxpayer's penny spent, for everything the government spends those on. From warheads and surveillance to corporate welfare. From education and environmental remediation to the critical research necessary when trying to transition an entire civilization over to sustainable and against a fast ticking clock.

Our inability to make government function more wisely and at optimal efficiency leads us to a conversation where government itself seems rendered unsustainable. Save that almost everyone who yells "Cut!" is yelling about cutting yours not theirs -- so there'll always be some form of government left to deliver theirs, if not yours.

When fueled by irate righteousness the democratization of all media has unleashed in us, the nuance of real life is too often obscured and our public conversation fails.

Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park is a landscape eminently suited to the restoration of healthy human perspective.

It's prudent to remember that your liberty to visit was first secured through direct government response to local citizen advocacy, while today an ongoing and robust public/private partnership smooths your way.

Without government & government workers, it'd be just you alone against nearly a hundred square miles of undifferentiated, cut over northern wilds. It's unlikely you'd ever think to go there or even guess this exists, much less be able to launch a boat on it or snap a picture when someone does:

From a 120mm transparency

The real world stays open 24/7, so folk wander the Porkies day and night through the seasons. It's impossible to tell exactly how many people visit the place during any given year.

Something upwards of 300,000, best guess.

These include day trippers, trekkers, skiers and kayakers. Families on beach blankets next to picnic baskets. Fishermen and other dreamers. Hunters, bird watchers and gatherers of berries. Collectors of solitude, busloads of school kids, devoted world travelers and casual tourists alike.

And during a few short weeks in autumn, the Porkies play host to flocks of migrating photographers who descend on the landscape like hundreds of busy starlings, only to flee south when leaves fall to a wet north wind.

So the Park employs 35 workers to provide for the education, amusement, comfort and safety of all comers.

That's 12 full time paid staff and 23 part time paid staff to ride herd on better than 300,000 of us let loose over 60,000 acres of otherwise inaccessible wildness, open to us 360 days a year.

These 35 government workers maintain 87 miles of mostly backcountry trail. They clean toilets, cut grass, respond courteously to every inquiry and rescue the careless. They fix what we break, replace what can't be fixed as budget allows and otherwise faithfully serve the needs of everyone who visits.

They do all this and oversee the natural health of the place too.

Being so near the Visitor Center during my October stay offered an opportunity to interact with Park staff far more than is usual for me, as my home turf of the Presque Isle is something of a lonely outpost by comparison. Near the end of the residency, I took advantage of one of the fine interpretive programs regularly offered by the Park.

Which is how I came to spend a bit of quality time with Lynette Score, government worker:

When traveling the Northwoods, many people hope to see a bear. The Porkies are a good place for that, as bears roam throughout the Park. But most times, bears know you're there before you do and any easy way to turn the odds of a sighting in your favor invariably courts disaster for both you and them.

Near the end a damp, chill afternoon, Lynette greeted me and two other travelers at a trailhead, then led us into the woods to get up close and personal with the next best thing:

That's a split trunk Birch and one-time winter home to a bear. It's located not far from the road, but you'd never know it's there and in all my years bustering 'round the woods, I'd not stumbled across the like or I might've tried sleeping there myself during some mystic summer's night of my youth.

In command of her subject and thoroughly engaging, Lynnette said this was likely the den of a mother bear, as those need approach winter's rest with far greater care than do their male counterparts. After all, it's the female bear that carries the considerable burden of ursine reproduction, a truly extraordinary process that Lynette explained in terms easily understood.

On the other hand, guys being guys whatever the species, male bears sleep pretty much wherever. They might fall asleep up in the branches of a tree or just lay down atop a depression in the earth  and nod off, only later to be covered by a blanket of snow.

Take this little guy, who made his den smack dab in the middle of what in full winter becomes a groomed, cross-country ski trail and for a while at least, slept right through all the traffic that passed over him. With the discovery of the den, Park staff ceased grooming and rerouted the ski trail, though a trail cam later captured the bear's early emergence on a too warm day in March -- mighty wet but apparently none the worse for wear.

Image Courtesy of Bob Wild and Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park

And while I know a bit about bears, it was Lynette who clued me in to the disagreement over whether or not they're true hibernators, because bears confound our scientific criteria for that by occasionally waking up.

Like when some hapless intern is sent into a den and checks the hibernation temperature of a bear via insertion of an anal thermometer...

Lynette offered the opinion that whether bears aren't true hibernators or are the most adept practitioners of it, the bear shows us that the wonder of Nature resists efforts at reduction.

Of course, she was right.

During these hard times and especially considering her expertise, young Lynette Score might well have accepted full time employment downstate. Instead she chose to take her chances and work part time in the Porkies, hoping to make a home and build a career serving people and a landscape better suited to bears than to most humans.

Would that more of us had that kind of moxie or shared that level of commitment.

And from now on, whenever some cackling demagogue appropriates government workers as excuse to constrain a people's government down to the narrowest of proprietary purpose, Lynette and her co-workers who've chosen tough careers in public service at publicly funded Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park will be among the folk I think of.

*

Significantly, the Porkies benefits greatly from a working public/private partnership through which citizens and their government together put shoulders to the load and achieve common goals.

Having worked my way right through my residency, I was well & truly done and it was only on the last full day when finally I took all things easy.

Late that morning I stopped by the Folk School for a bit of business, but mostly for the warmth of friendly company. There I chatted while everyone else in the room busily made for themselves pretty much from scratch a traditional Finnish stringed instrument, called the kantele.

Later, they'd learn to play it.

Friends of the Porkies thrives on a deep loam of citizen advocacy and appropriate government response. As the Artist's Residency is one result of that, I came to know this fine organization far better than I had.

It's like a big old backwoods Hemlock. The landscape might be hard but the Hemlock rises tall and sturdy just the same, with roots spread wide and the whole of the thing essential to the forest's continuing health, as new life invariably springs from old.

From a 120mm transparency

First there's the famous Porcupine Mountains Folk School from which the artist's program, Dan's Cabin and a host of other good things stem.

Like the annual Porcupine Mountains Music Festival that attracts both talent and audience from far and wide.

Then, should you care to see what a top drawer workshop overseen by a diverse cooperative of dedicated creatives looks like, go here.

Across all the miles we've traveled together on this Odyssey, I've kept a special watch for things sustainable because it's only those that'll ever allow the region to escape the historically destructive cycle of boom & bust.

We've found enough of those to be encouraged.

Prime amongst them is the personal partnership forged over time between concerned private citizens and their government, to advocate for ancient Kag wadjiw. That's a distinctly American relationship that assures a unique landscape and the people who live on it not merely survive but thrive, so that all of us are the better for it.

I'm the better for that partnership.

And if you're a working creative, please stop by this coming Thursday and see how you might be too...

The Porkies

Though coincidentally home to porcupines, when viewed from the east this range of ancient mountains resembles a crouched Kag, or Porcupine. That's why they were called Kag wadjiw by the Ojibwa. The name stuck.

Due to years of citizen advocacy, this magnificent place was first secured as a park in 1945. With further protections since gained, the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness became the crown jewel of the Michigan State Parks system and today ranks among the finest relatively undisturbed landscapes on the Superior Basin. At its heart stands nearly 35,000 acres of virgin northern hardwood forest, said to be the largest such tract to remain in North America.

From a 4x5 transparency

After near to twelve hours on the road and well past dark, on the first night of our first trip together to Superior, Heather and I arrived at the Presque Isle campground that marks the western end of the Porkies. We set up camp and devoured a stack of hastily prepared Bisquick pancakes slathered with rich currant jelly made by Heather's dad. Then we fell asleep to the whisper a big lake offers at its shore.

The next morning brought our first Northwoods lesson: leave a plastic jug of dough on the picnic table overnight and you'll later clean up after a critter ambles along and savages the jug for to get at the bounty of tasty goo while you're otherwise oblivious.

That morning also revealed that we'd pitched our tent at the forested edge of a high bluff looking roughly west out over Superior, so it was all good.

Heather, from a vintage 35mm negative

Our relationship with the place now stretches near to 40 years and is indelibly personal.

In the Porkies Johnny, Heather and I bushwhacked over the hills searching for evidence of Copper Complex people, to no avail. Likewise our always half-hearted hunt for the crashed B-17, artifacts of which can be found in collections scattered throughout the region.

We didn't actually look for the legendary pictographs as told to Henry Schoolcraft by the Ojibwa shaman Chingwauk, but always hoped we'd somehow find them anyway. To date, no one has.

Me & Johnny, from a vintage 35mm negative taken by Heather

It was on the South Boundary Road at dusk where we encountered our first wild wolf, many years before those were properly reestablished and long before one could even imagine we'd be engaged in civic conversation about hunting wolves, as we are again today.

This particular wolf instead worried over road kill just off the shoulder of the road.

We slowed and pulled alongside.

The wolf lifted its formidable head to address us with the most sentient eyes I've ever seen. In them could be found no sign of fear or aggression, though they fairly shone with a remarkable awareness and make no mistake.

In response, Heather rolled up her window.

After a while the great beast took a step back and drew itself in to the darkening wood. We left the wolf to its meal and returned to camp exhilarated.

I've not again been so close to a wild wolf until last autumn, during this Odyssey. To be sure it was under entirely different circumstance but again at the side of a road, which is an unhappy story for another time.

Heather and I spent half our honeymoon at the Presque Isle. On my 2nd night of marriage I managed to bounce a thankfully dull axe off the back of my hand. Heather fixed me then and there and our template for wedded bliss was set.

Of all the fish I've ever tussled with, by far the finest of 'em swam the Presque Isle.

Heather fishing the mouth of the Presque Isle, from a vintage 4x5

I once fought a fish upriver and down for more than forty minutes, tethered to only 6# test. Finally I gained the upper hand. At last I brought the behemoth to dark water at river's edge. In another moment, I'd need come to grips with a monster from the deep.

Then with a sharp thwipt no doubt heard all the way to Isle Royale, the line snapped. My knees shook while I used my left hand to pry loose my right from the rod. The name of the beast remains a mystery.

Then there was the time the biggest Steelhead I've ever seen rose from beneath my feet as I retrieved a spinner through fast water while perched upon an undercut shelf. I swear she never moved a muscle of her brightly colored flanks and became simply one with the current so when that spinner reached just there she was there too, to kiss it softly as it passed. And the fight was on.

For... I dunno, maybe three seconds. Seemed like forever then as now, so amazing the sight and rich my memory of it.

Funny, how often fisher folk's greatest tales involve no fish at all or the one that got away. Best leave that to ponder for people who don't fish...

And did I mention that the South Boundary Road is my favorite drive anywhere? Miles of classic two lane blacktop rolling up and down and all throughout the naturally indistinct boundary between governmentally sanctioned wilderness and not.

The Porcupine Mountains Wilderness is wonderland. A complex, richly rare landscape ideally suited to adventure and quiet contemplation in turn and at your discretion.

It's for that and because I take the place so personally, that we'll spend some bit of time there over the next few weeks...

Treasure Trove

Heather and I share a love of books.

Because our interests are broad and run deep or may be obscure, we especially love old books. And while compiling the bibliography for this project, it struck me again how valuable that love is to learning, as a significant number of titles on the list are out of print but all I had to do to avail myself of the knowledge in 'em was to reach over to the shelves and dig in.

For myself, I've always loved fishing as much or more than catching...

When you walk into a place with rows of shelves stacked full with books from floor to ceiling and the scent of old paper and bindings and wisdom wafts from the walls like incense in a gothic cathedral, the sense of anticipation is palpable because you just never know what wonders you'll find.

Maybe it's a vintage paperback of Traver's folksy Small Town D.A., only tricked out with lurid cover art better suited to Mickey Spillane and too lurid at twice the price to pass up. Or a first edition of Barry Lopez's towering achievement, Of Wolves and Men. Or a moisture bowed and somewhat beat but otherwise sound copy of Sigurd Olson's Wilderness Days, signed by the author.

Maybe you leave the store content that for all you've seen and tried but came up empty anyway, every day in the field is a day well spent, regardless of outcome.

The best of it is when you reach for a title you don't recognise to discover something you never knew existed and it turns out to be essential. Then when you get it home and settle in to read you find a note or news clipping or pressed leaf left by someone else who thought so too, a gift along the trail to learning. Then you gently put it back where you found it, so someday another like-minded traveler will open the book and wonder at the same gift.

Stores where you can hunt the treasure of used, rare or out of print books are fast fading from the landscape, victims of rapidly changing technology and the cultural mores that change with it.  Sure, you can shop on the Internet and I do, but the experience is never quite the same. It's not tactile.

Luckily for travelers around Superior, there remains a better option.

Chequamegon Books is a mainstay in tiny Washburn WI, near the base of the Bayfield Peninsula and hard by fabled Chequamegon Bay. It's one of our favorite stops around all the lake.

Richard & Carol Avol owned Avol's Books in Madison WI from 1979 until 1994. This last summer we traveled to Madison for the first time in years and went looking for our favorite bookstores in town but didn't find them. I wonder now if Avol's wasn't one of those, the timing's right.

Pretty much everywhere but especially true of big cities, the last few decades brought fundamental change to Madison, including steep hikes in the costs of living and/or doing business.  Unable to buy a building despite repeated attempts and though they were making a go of it, in the face of regular rent increases Richard & Carol weren't enjoying their careers as booksellers as much as they ought. So they decided to move on.

With friends from Madison who'd helped start the Big Top Chautauqua and having visited the place in all seasons, the Avols chose the Chequamegon Bay area for their new home. It took some years to find exactly the right building and a couple more to sell the business in Madison. Finally, they put down their stake in Washburn, at the eastern base of the Bayfield Peninsula and hard by Chequamegon Bay.

The search for a better life brought them north, as it has so many others. It's a path many more desire to follow and those of us who haven't yet take heart from those who have.

Folk don't get rich by selling books. For Richard & Carol it's their sole means of support, which is unusual in the book selling business these days. They've renovated their building, live upstairs from the shop and spend long hours at the business.

From Richard Avol:

Most of the visitors who come into our store are amazed such a store exists in this remote rural area. Many are book lovers and are very glad we are here. Most wish they could leave the cities they reside in and do something like we have done. It gives us pleasure to provide a bookstore for them that has real books in all fields, in large quantities on the shelves for visitors to handle, and we hope buy.

Heather & I do our part -- sometimes by the armful -- each & every time we visit the region. We build extra hours into any day planned for the Bayfield Peninsula because there exploration doesn't end when headed back towards Bessemer and we know just how rich the rewards might be, with one final stop made in Washburn.

Today Chequamegon Books is a fixture along a revitalized main street in Washburn. The day I visited in November, their coffee machine was on the fritz and that was the talk of the town. Must be some mighty fine coffee...

Of bookstores, Novelist Richard Russo wrote: ...they're the physical manifestation of the world's longest, most thrilling conversation.

Nowhere around the Basin is the truth of that more evident than at Chequamegon Books, where Richard & Carol Avol continue to honor that conversation through their life's work.

So stop on by and dig in 'cause though you never can tell what treasure you'll find there, you're absolutely assured of being in the very best of company while fully immersed in that most thrilling conversation that never ends...

Guest Shots -- The Sea Caves of Cornucopia

The fieldwork for this project was originally scheduled to run a single year, like it says up on the header. As it stands, we went 15 months.

With each passing day it grows more unlikely that I'll manage a coda. I'm good with that 'cause if the fieldwork ended at the Presque Isle River in November, then that was an entirely appropriate place for it, during some of the most perfect light of the entire gig.

While I've spent this winter largely housebound, others have been out and about. So this week we've turned things over to friends.

Photographers Philip J. Kucera & Betsy Wesselhoft recently walked Superior ice to work the fabled sea caves off Cornucopia and have generously agreed to share.

We'll let Phil go first:

Image Courtesy of Betsy Wesselhoft

Betsy & I have traveled the south shore of Lake Superior for a little over two years, gathering material for a photo exhibition. It's a collaborative effort to present two perspectives on the overlooked and secret sites of Superior's basin.

I'll admit we're an odd couple with the tying bind being our love of photography, the wonder of discovery...and the never ending quest for a decent noon meal on the road.

Betsy & Phil about to enjoy a decent noon meal at Maggie's in Bayfield

A friend of Betsy's sums us up with "You guys should title the exhibit The Lady and the Curmudgeon". Maybe she's right.

I'll try to describe us.

We met while covering a January 42k cross-country ski race in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. It's cold up north in January, know what I mean? We're working the finish line as the skiers limp in. I'm shooting close-ups of bearded faces turned icicle white, eyes almost frozen shut, aid workers manhandling the afflicted. 42k in the snow and cold and wind chill well below zero. I don't know why I was out there.

And Betsy? We warm to a cup of coffee at a greasy spoon after the race and I scan through pictures on her LCD screen. Skiers approaching the finish line with poles flailing -- you can almost hear the triumphant shouts; smiling faces in every shot, couples hugging -- caught midstream and jumping for joy.

Looks to me like The Agony and the Ecstasy, I tell her. You must watch a lot of movies is the reply. Thus are partnerships born.

But the subject for today is the sea caves of the Bayfield Peninsula. After three long, warmer winters, we're finally able to photograph the amazing caves in January. With global warming stirring the waters of Superior, these days the big lake doesn't often freeze over.

Image courtesy of Philip J. Kucera

You reach the cave area on Wisconsin Hwy. 13, a few miles east of Cornucopia, Wisconsin. Watch for the Meyer's Road sign. It's a one mile-plus hike on snow and ice from the plowed parking area to the first of the caves. You'll walk on frozen water and the footing can be treacherous. We carry climber's crampons and use them when the ice is bad.

Image courtesy of Philip J. Kucera

The caves come under the aegis of the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore. You can call the park hot line for info on ice conditions and access to the caves.

 It's an adventure for the hardy and the cautious.

If you've the spirit, you'll find yourself in icy wonderland.

Image courtesy of Philip J. Kucera

I'll turn it over to Betsy to tell you about our recent walk out on the ice...

Image Courtesy of Philip J. Kucera

At the bottom of the stairs to Meyer’s Beach, we encountered a family of four returning from their walk to the iced over sea caves.

Seeing the two young daughters beam with the pride of conquering the caves triggered a random memory. An Olympic coach told his adult gymnasts before competition: “If little girls can do it, you can”.

I had my mantra for this excursion.

Left foot, right foot, one step at a time. This isn’t so bad. I can tell we're walking the shore as there's dirt in the snow. It’s cold, but I'm dressed for it and at least in this one regard, I’m comfortable.

After about twenty minutes we're on the ice. It’s lumpy but solid and my photography partner says it's eight inches thick.  He doesn’t know just how much a chicken I am at heart. Or maybe he does.  He mentions that I shouldn't let noises heard out here bother me. Check.

Imagine if you will a suburban-raised woman of a certain age smack dab outside her comfort zone.  Having heard about the beauty of the sea caves, I've anticipated seeing them for years and have often envisioned myself on the wrong side of the ice. It’s not a happy thought.

Enough of that. I’m on the right side of the ice and am actually breathing normally, though my senses are on full alert and my heart is grabbed by the very first turn we make.  I start shooting and don’t want to stop. Can I capture this? Can I bring a piece of this home in my black-camera-wonder?

Phil beckons me on to the next area. Keep moving, says he. There is so much more.

He’s right.

Image Courtesy of Betsy Wesselhoft

We encounter more folks on the ice and everyone is filled with goodwill. We're out together in this magical place where the only price for admission is a bit of bravery and a $3.00 parking fee, paid on the honor system. For this place where jaws drop and eyes widen with each new view. For this place where danger lurks all around, in the caprice of ice and the winds it shifts with.

"Look in here," Phil says. "Hoarfrost".

There are millions of ultra fine strands of ice inside the cave. These ephemeral beauties evade our ability to capture without the benefit of ground-hugging tripods. We take memory shots and walk on.

After a bit, Phil wanders while I stay grounded where I'm at. I take a deeper look all around, allowing this other-planet view to settle into my soul. It's like nothing I've ever experienced.

The sun goes down behind the overcast sky.

Phil waltzes back through uneven ice in his normal deft manner as I anticipate the walk back. He never slips and refuses any kind of a walking stick. Earlier, I took a quick digger even with mine.

On this day of days, we're last to head off the ice.

I follow Phil around the outer edge of an ice ridge and that takes us a significant distance from shore. I wonder how we'll get across this high ridge to reach the shoreline. A wave of anxiety rolls through me.

"If little girls can do it…"

Breathe. Left. Right. Left. Right. A few long minutes later an opening appears and a clear path is presented. Gratitude resonates throughout my being as I glance upward.

Let the light seep away I think to myself, since we're now at the base of the stairs.

Soon we're back in the warmth of the car. Contentment fills time and space as we journey back to Ironwood.

If women can claim notches on their belts (and of course we can), I’m claiming this one. I’ve faced my fear of the ice and returned with evidence of the day to share. That night as I drift off to sleep, my gratitude goes out to all little girls who inspire us to take risks.

And to Phil, who knew not only that I could walk the ice, but how enriched I'd be once I had.

Image Courtesy of Betsy Wesselhoft