We'd done the drive from the Cities to the Arrowhead on two earlier canoe trips. In the decades since I've driven the road north dozens of times. Liked it the first time we headed to the North Shore and its appeal has, if anything, grown over the years. Had a lot of good times on the forest and waters northeast of Duluth. Each trip threw a few more sticks on the fire of memory. There's an old saw saying 'the third time's the charm'. As far as I'm concerned every trip up the shore of the big lake is the charm.
Should you ever drive from Minneapolis to Grand Marais in the summertime, if you're like me one thing's for sure, you'll no doubt climb in the car sporting shorts and a t-shirt. And the first thing you'll do after climbing out for lunch in Duluth will be to climb right back for a sweatshirt and jacket. Duluth has its share of warm weather but that share tends to be mighty meager. You see, the water in Lake Superior from which the city rises is always either ice or cold enough to chill beer. And the lake is big enough to add a feel of frost to the surrounding air on any day of the year. Unless you're in the mood for suicide you don't want to spend more than a few minutes afloat in the waters of Gichigami. Or sitting outside at lunch when dressed for summer.
Of course Uncle Emil knew the score. Long sleeves and jeans from the get-go. Woods wear. The windows of the truck were cranked down from the moment we left town 'til we crested the hill above Duluth. Once out of the cities on US 61 we settled into a game of scoping the hawks. Emil's rules. Like playing cards with a man whose nickname included a city. Single point for being the first to spot a hawk. Double points if you're the first call a kill or see the blue of a kestrel hovering over a ditch. If you recall Emil's ability to see invisible pelicans soaring above the unnamed lake in Manitoba then you know I stood little chance of winning. Took me all the way to Moose Lake before I caught onto his game. Seemed each hawk had its own territory, half mile on a side. Also had a strong sense of honor and wouldn't trespass on a neighbor's turf. So, about a half mile past the last hawk Uncle Emil knew we'd soon come on another.
"Archie me lad, you see that one up ahead? The one atop the telephone pole?"
"Next pole or the second?"
"Neither. The one I'm seein's around the next curve, behind that stand of pine."
Now how could I see something that wasn't as yet visible? In fact neither could Emil. But he knew sure enough there'd be a hawk shortly and most likely it'd be on top of a pole checking the grasses below for a quick meal. My only points came from the kestrel. Even then Emil gave me a look like he'd seen it first and was merely tossing me a bone. Skill comes in a lot of different guises.
The road north split farmland, slowed through quiet towns, curved around lakeshore and the first naked basalt slabs then finally gained the worn remnants of the foothills of an ancient mountain range. Had we been traveling this way a few hundred million years earlier, Uncle Emil's property would have been lying thousands of feet higher and on the other side of the planet. Might also been have been on the side of a volcano where we'd have been eaten by giant millipedes.
Cresting the final hill, we could see the port cities of Duluth and Superior surrounding the ore and grain boat filled harbor. A year earlier the taconite pellets to make the steel of Emil's truck were no doubt loaded onto one of those ships. An ordinary or extraordinary thought depending on your point of view. Duluth is a beautiful city. For all practical purposes it's a sea port and would be home to a million or more people if it was able to grow palm trees alongside its boulevards. Regardless, we were descending into the most exotic location in the upper midwest.
And slowed to the pace of the nineteenth century. At the bottom of the hill Highway 61 turned into stop and go city streets and we puttered along. Should you have been riding with us, the old houses and industry of the port would have told you I was lying when I called Duluth exotic. Most everything was old, eroded, corroded, weather-beaten by countless storms or covered with a thin layer of coal and iron ore dust. Downtown wasn't much better. Aged brick and stone buildings built with boom money were now rumbling downhill faster than the ore cars descending the hill from the Iron Range - Da Rainch in Minnesotan - to the west.
We rumbled along with traffic and through stoplights 'til we reach the far side of town where the road closed in on the big lake. There the substantial houses and mansions began. Lake side of the road of course. Seemed money liked a view of water. Also was needed to pay the gas bill so residents needn't wear mukluks to bed in July. Inside Emil's car with the windows rolled up and heater on, it was easy to forget we weren't in northern California.
A few minutes later we were rolling out of town. Since I wasn't from Duluth we were driving up the North Shore. Had I lived in Duluth it'd've simply been the Shore. I didn't care either way. To me the world had changed. A highway along an inland sea and endless woods all the way to the arctic. Still is. Forty years earlier there'd been no road and our destination of Grand Marais was only accessible by ship, dog sled or foot. To me it would've been even more exotic, pioneer-like to climb off the boat into a land of trappers, loggers and fisherman. And bars and cat houses. And preachers of course.
Our first stop of the day was up the road from Two Harbors at Betty's Pies. The restaurant and name are still there opposite the lake but not Betty. Unless she's buried there. Oddly enough that was my first and last visit. Emil's too. Wasn't that the food and pie was bad. No sir. In fact both were close to perfect. Meatloaf as good as my mom's and the cherry pie worth a fair side trip. Maybe it was too good and we feared being disappointed should we ever return. More likely the stars never lined up for a second visit. To be given the honor it deserves, tasty food requires an appetite to pay it homage and hunger never again beckoned as I passed. Always other places I'd rather be farther up the road.
There're agates on the shores of Lake Superior. Emil's fault that I found out. Looking for the banded rocks is an idiot's addiction. Don't know if moseying a cobbled beach at a snail's pace while bent over and staring at the ground would be normal anywhere but in Minnesota. We take our pleasures in small quantities. Have to admit it's a mystery why anyone would spend time searching out something that'd end up forgotten in the back of a drawer. Yes, both me and Emil were numbered among those with no common sense and enough time on our hands to flaunt it.
The beaches of the big lake are home to millions of agates. Problem is there's trillions of rocks and the egg-sized treasures a rock hound tries to sniff out are few. I'm only guessing at their number as I've yet to find one that wasn't polished and lying in a rock shop. Doesn't mean I've given up. Drop me on one of those beaches and I'll search 'til I'm bleary-eyed. All well and good but on this trip our hearts were set on Grand Marais and grocery shopping. Doesn't sound exciting but Emil figured we'd eventually get hungry. Physical labor has that effect on a body.
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