The wind howls at my back.  My down jacket is full sail.  The lonely northern Minnesota back country road that I have just strolled down acts as a wind tunnel on this dark, blustery, winter night.  Penelope- wrapped in a full fleece suit- curls deeper into the crux of my neck.  Luna, in full regal of her winter coat, shudders with the gust.  A moment of apprehension grasps my thoughts.  I've been out in the elements for less than a half an hour; however, the sun is long set, the batteries in my headlamp are old and dim.  It's time to turn back home to stoke the stove and hunker down for another winter night along Lake Superior.  Turning around now means bracing myself against the full throttle of a December gail-amplified my the tunnel-effect of our road.  Continuing down the hill means turning later when it's darker, colder and in more time for the already-decreped coals in the wood stove to burn down.  I turn.  Luna's tail uprights itself.  She is ready for the return too.  We take the long way home tonight and walk the "perimeter trail".  The woods creak with the wind.  Three ships hunker along the shore- cautiously gauging the water for their crossing.  Life along the fringes of yet another winter storm that went somewhere else: all that we got is the wind...

The Ground We Call Home

The barren earth shuddered.  The immature continental mass of North America was tearing itself at it's seams.  For some unknown reason the plastic mantle-with relatively buoyant crust above it-was unsettled.  Slowly the eastern and western halves of the young continental mass began to diverge through a series of earthquakes.  Soon enough the tectonic events revealed voids.  The voids became the plumbing of huge volcanoes.  The duct work accommodates molten lava driving it's way to the surface.  The earth shuddered as distance fissures spewed felsic flows and deep mafic intrusions rich with metals were emplaced along the rim of a rift that had dissected the continent for over one thousand miles.  The red rhyolite of the Maple Hill exploded into existence as a massive flow hundreds of feet thick.  The viscous flow oozed it's way like a river of mud forming foliations.  Every once and a while exploding high into the atmosphere.  This ancient volcano violently regurged the depths of earth's bowels for about 20 million years forming a line of mountains thousands of feet tall rimming the perimeter of the contemporary Lake Superior basin.

Twenty million years of volcanics left quite the heavy load on the surface of earth.  The weight of the new volcanic group push down upon the depths of earth.  Slowly the weight of these ancient igneous mountains warped downward and led to the subsidence of the land.  On the flakes formed a basin.  To the east and west resilient ridges of hard crystalline rock formed highland areas. 

Millions of years passed.  The elements of time and climate wore on the region.  Rain and snow deluged the area through eons of cyclic time.  In the meanwhile the entire continent drifted millimeter by millimeter to the north and west.  The precipitation and wore grain by grain of rock and slowly eroded the substrate into rivers and streams.  This sediment was soon carried away in water and flowed down into the basin.  Once the slope broke energy dissipated and the sediment settled and deposited itself.

With time the global climate cooled.  As ice house conditions persisted slabs of ice-glaciers-began to creep south from the northern polar reaches towards the equator.  Along the way the ice carved a path of absolute destruction.  A path a denudation the plucked entire mountain ridges of rock from their roots.  Ice would move over, exert a vertical and shear stresses that would eventually lead to a failure of the rock along the minerals' cleavage planes.  The freshly eroded material was then carried away by the passing ice and deposited as low rolling hills known as moraines when the energy dissipated (much like the sediment in rivers)  as the glaciers began to melt.  Sediment within the basin eroded easier than the hard resilient rock of the ridges.  For another two million years ice episodically carved out the easily erodible sandstones of the basin and left the ridges of harder gabbro, basalt, anorthosite &  rhyolite.  These hills soon found themselves topographically above the deepened basin below.

Each time a glacier advanced over the area it receded north by melting.  The melting ice of mile-thick continental glaciers left a lot of water.  To compound- rather impound- the situation landforms known as moraines were deposited.  These rolling hills functioned as a dam when the glaciers retreated the north and melted off huge volumes of water.  In fact, at one point Lake Superior was 500' deeper than today.  This shoreline level can still be found on the slopes of the North Shore.  The Great Lakes continue to drain their melt water into the Atlantic Ocean.  As lake levels lowered it left ancient shoreline deposits along the way.  On our property there are at least three distinct shorelines.  Standing atop such a undulating berm one could imagine waves lapping up on a calm morning.   

The shores of this ancient sea continued to drop to their present elevation.  The rock slowly eroded, was washed away and was then subject to rain, oxygen & carbon dioxide .  This chemical and physical weathering of the parent material resulted in the lowest mineral soil horizons.  Above that generations of successive vegetative species- all subject to the ever changing climatic conditions- grew and died leaving behind a thin veneer of organics.

Within a blink of a geologic eye humans (probably following game) found the north woods with it's numerous wild rice-rimmed fresh water lakes teeming with fish and thick forests full of fur bearing animals.  In another half blink a fairer complexion of man found their way.  They brought guns and traps and axes.  Forests of old growth pines were cut, milled and sent off to build Chicago and Minneapolis.  Iron ore was mined and sent east in ships to build railways to the west.  Poplar and birch grew in the place of pine.  The first homesteaders planted a potato patch on the south facing slope where our garden is today.  About 80 years ago a huge wildfire decimated the landscape.  Balsam fir, white spruce, poplar and a few birch took root and continue to persevere. 

Then, a few years ago, a white dog and two more humans began a daily trudge up the snow-laden hill.  Armed with a vision they began to carve out their niche in the wilderness...   

Warmer.  Highs in the upper twenties and lows in the teens.  It's raining to the south of us.  We're watching the clouds hoping for some more snow. 

About a half dozen deer have been spending the night bedded down around our cabin.  In the morning we wake to new beds hoofed into the grass and encircling us.  Every once and a while one will walk close enough to set off our motion sensor light in the middle of the night.  I stir them up every time I step outside after dark- white tails at attention as they prance off into the ink black woods.  I wonder if they aren't bedding down close to humans because the wolves are around?  Maybe they figure they're safer closer to humans where the wolves are less likely to venture?

The late season wolf rifle/trapping season is drawing to a close.  Only about 10 remain on the quota that is alloted to this region.

Lake Effect

There is nothing on the radar.  No blue, green, yellow or pink for that matter.  Despite that fact lake effect snow still falls after the second major snow storm of the season.  While the heavier-hit regions to the south of us have already shoveled themselves out; Lake Superior- for the third straight day- graces us with a not-so-subtle dose of lake effect. The low pressure system that brought this storm is well to the east of the upper Midwest.  However, the counter-clockwise rotation of such a system is pushing relatively cold air over the warmer air of Lake Superior.  This temperature difference creates instability which convects moisture into the atmosphere.  The greater the difference in temperature, the more moisture goes aloft.  The farther the air travels over the water (i.e. the bigger the lake), the more moisture goes up too.  Once this precipitation-laden air mass confronts colder air (relative to the lake) of the landmass the precipitation falls as snow.  This effect is exaggerated by the hills of the north shore.  Just like a mountain range, the higher up you go the the colder the air and the more snow is freed from the air.  This is known as the orographic effect.  On the ground we barely have six inches.  However, you never know how long these events last.  It all depends on how slowly the pressure system takes to move eastward.

The last few days have been a roller coaster of a ride.  First, Penelope started to crawl.  Her nudging around on the floor has given way to a full-fledged army crawl.  The reality that she is mobile struck us.  Unfortunately within hours of her triumph something else struck us and we all came down the the stomach flu.  All three of us!  We have spent the last 48 hours in complete disarray and completely oblivious to the storm outside. It was the first time that we have dealt with a sick child.  It has been nerve racking at times but an essential lesson in parenthood nonetheless. 

Outside the snow is elegantly falling.  Chickadees are going to town on our sunflower feeder.  Inside I find myself typing one handed.  The other is holding Penelope as she sleeps on my chest.  The dog is sleeping at my feet.  My fire is dying as I don't dare to disturb the resting and recovering child to add birch to the dwindling flames.  Christmas tree lights illuminate the otherwise drab light of the overcast day.  Jazz plays in the background.  I'm sipping my first cup of coffee in days; thoughts lost in the lake effect...

One could feel the warm southern air off the lake.  It was an unwelcome warm front.  The ski season had begun with a bang and then a bust.  Rain fell for most of the weekend and melted the base that we had hoped would last.  I accomplished little but plowing through another Alaskan adventure novel.  Now a dense fog dims the evening light.  Ravens are busy cleaning up the remaining deer carcasses.  Blue jays are content raiding the local birdfeeders.  The woods are dark, humid and quiet...   

Trapped

A yelping, screeching cry rang through the woods under a fitfully cloudy full moon night in November.

The ski began as most typical early season forays do.  The snow was thin but navigable.  A decent snowfall and full moon during the last week meant that the conditions were fair for a rare moonlight ski in November.  Driving home into the woods after a day in the office in town I felt good.  Thin cirrus clouds dashed across the sky and over Lake Superior.  I scurried to complete my chores, eat a quick snack and dress for the single digit weather. 

Under the half guise of a dampened moon and headlight my friend, the dog and I slowly climbed up the hill.  The conversation was rich.  The trail familiar.  We skied up to the old county road where we turned east.  We were bound for the meadows.  Our dog Luna pranced along.  At one point she found the leg of a deer and brought it along for the ride.  Dutifully (and to my surprise), however, she dropped and left it at my command.

The grade shallows out and we approach our destination.  The trail becomes rutted from four wheeler traffic.  All efforts and concentration is reduced to the few feet of the upcoming stride.  Suddenly a horrendous yelping cry pierces my ear.  I immediately yelled out in fear that a wolf was attacking Luna.  The cry descends to a mournful yelp.  Instincts kick in and I hop around.  I kick as hard as I can to assist my dog in painful need.  However, my mind is in front of my feet and I face plant into the snow.  Thoughtless efforts bring me back to my feet and I continue my dash.  The edge of my ski catches a tire rut and I eat the powder once more. 

Soon enough I reach Luna.  Her front right foot is caught in a toothless Alaskan wolf trap.  She whimpers as we wrap our heads around the situation.  At first glance it looks bad.  There's blood.  The dog is obviously in pain and the trap is firmly set.  Thankfully and somehow logically my mind recognizes the mechanism on the trap and we are able to release the jaws and free her. 

It's dark.  The dog is hurt and we are almost a mile from home.  Without a careful assessment of Luna's injury under light we elect to carry her home to prevent any further damage from her walking back herself.  Within minutes I find myself with an 80 pound mutt on my shoulders, traversing a tough trail with ski boots on in the dark.  Unfortunately this isn't the first time I've found myself carrying a traveling companion out of the woods.  The best thing that I've found is to fool yourself into thinking about anything else but the situation that you are currently in.  We mainly talked about canoeing as I struggled to march my way out of this mess.  Along the way I accurately detect the signs that I was on a trap line.  Signs that to my discredit I initially missed.  With the dog wrapped around my shoulders I tramped a tenth of a mile and rested.  During the rests we check to see how Luna was looking. Fortunately each time we felt that she had fared better than at first thought. After a number of rests we reach the cabin.  Once home it is clear that she will be alright. Her foot is injured and sore but doesn't seem to have any major broken bones or torn ligaments.

Luna walked away from this one better than expected.  Her injury is not life-threatening.  However, I take the fault in this one.  I misread my surroundings.  The lesson in this is that living here leaves little room for complacency.  I was in familiar grounds oblivious to the subtle signs around me and my companion paid the price.  Thankfully the price wasn't too large...   

Ski Season Declared

With the storm clouds over the lake and past us it was time to break trail! 

Penelope's first ski- 6 1/2 months old

The season's first significant accumulation of snow has fallen.  About three inches fell along the lake and about a foot being reported over the hill on the Gunflint Trail.  Another inch or so is descending as I write.  With the storm came a cold weather pattern that appears to be poised to persist for many days.   Our highs might break twenty degrees.  It's amazing how seasons happen:  one day you're hiking in a short sleeve shirt sweating your way up a hill climb while the next you're waking up to a blanket of snow with driving winds wondering where your best snow shovel is at!

While there is plenty of wood to be split I am comfortable in the fact that we have much of the year's supply stacked and drying.  My winter project list is drafted.   I'm working on figuring out materials. For the most part I will be picking away at building more storage and some custom finish trim pieces.  

The deer rifle season has closed.  Our neighbor took a nice ten point buck on the south east side of the property.  The final rifle and trapping wolf season is now open. 

This afternoon we cut down a balsam fir and used the top for a Christmas tree that now resides in the corner of our living room.  Underneath there are already a couple of presents for the little one!  With the change in seasons we are patiently waiting for a solid snow base to declare the ski season and pack our trail! 

At first glance I mistook the raily back of the loping wolf as a deer.  It's four lanky effortlessly gained ground along the Gunflint Trail.  His thick, full coat of fur bristled in the cold autumn air.  Gray, black with a slight tinge of copper orange as the my truck crept closer.  His ears funneled themselves in my direction and with one fast jump he was over the ditch and in the woods.  I watched his yellow ears fixate on the passing blur of a vehicle.  I couldn't help but wonder if he realized that for the first time in his life there was an open season on his life.

The rifle deer and wolf season are open. Initial reports are of a "productive" harvest of wolves. There are two seasons on the wolf in Minnesota this year. The first coinciding with the deer rifle season. The second is a rifle/trap season. A maximum of 400 wolves will be harvested in the State this year. In Minnesota a wolf hunt is inevitable. Timing, however, is everything to successful management of any resource. The hunt has left mixed feelings in the area. I for one could never kill a wolf unless it was harming my dog. However, I do understand the need for management but am conflicted whether we are truly at a population that it is warranted. Folks are quick to point out the "dwindling" deer herd. Really? My unscientific investigation concludes that I hit pert near one per year on the road, see at least one daily and wage a constant battle with them over my apples and vegetables. Furthermore, with all due respect; I don't know a single deer hunter who comes out of the season empty handed. I can't say that about anglers, moose or bear hunters. All that I can do is trust that our resources are in the hands of experts and hope for the best.

To me it all is very "manifest destiny" that the second a predators' population rebounds to get off our self determined list that we feel the need to "get them" and "keep them in check". Humans clearly are the "top dog" on the food chain. However, we have so handily asserted ourselves in the ecosystem that maybe we should let time create a buffer for any assumptions that we are falsely making with our management decisions? Myself, I couldn't pull the trigger on a wolf and I am not that big of a fan of venison so I just wish my friends and neighbors the best of luck and help them haul out their kill.

Frost crystallizes it's way up towards the center of the windows.  Cold, stagnant air hovers over the North Shore.  Ice now slowly forms on the lakes of the Quetico/Superior Border Country.

Light barely pierces the trees along the eastern horizon.  The dog slumbers in front of the wood stove; warmed only by the spent coals from last night's inferno.  The baby has been up for hours.  At this time she is content lying between us flailing her petite arms and cooing; eager for the upcoming day.  I slowly stir, roll to my back and allow my eyes to calibrate.  The air is chilled.  I find comfort under the down blanket that envelopes our family.  There is, however, incentive to getting up and embracing the limited light.  Winter is near but has not fully gripped the north woods.  This leaves me the opportunity to further my firewood ambitions.

Stretching my chilled limbs I shuffle my way to the wood stove, stir the coals, place some birch bark and kindling on the smoldering embers, open the draft and wait for the warmth to waft it's way throughout the cabin.

Now finding my stride I stroll to the tea pot, fill it and put it over a high propane heat.  Coffee ground and in it's filter I warm a wash clothe and stir the smiling baby.  Penelope usually has a lot to say at this point in the day.  Perhaps she needs to tell me about all of her colorful dreams?  Today is no exception.  She babbles as I wash, change and dress her.

Baby content, coffee brewed, stove churning; I step outside.  The thick air stings my nostrils.  The dog sniffs around.  The sky is crystal clear.  A warm rising sun illuminates the understory.  Black capped chickadees pluck around on balsam limbs.  Sap suckers chuck away at a dead birch left on the upper edge of our clearing.  A crow noisily fans his way just above the tree line.  In the distance a deer hunter sends a salvo.

Time to get to work...