Trail Time
The weather is getting chillier here on the Gunflint Trail now that the last blast of summer heat is behind us. Daylight hours are shrinking. On a cool gray silent day, the yellow and bronze of the birch and aspen glow in a soft light that casts no deep shadows. The moose maples and pin cherries answer with orange, red and deep maroon. Along a ridge, a swath of green reveals the birches that are still holding on to summer’s favorite color. One yellow leaf falls through the forest canopy, making a small noise every time it hits a twig or a branch: Tick, tick, tick until it comes to rest on the forest floor.
A pair of black ravens flies across the lake — north to south — playing in the air, spinning, turning, talking the whole way. Among their astonishing range of vocalizations I hear a new one that sounds like a chimpanzee; it makes me giggle as I stand alone on the shore by the vast still water.
Across the lake — looking west to east — the far hills look closer than usual. There’s a haze in the air, but it’s not smoke, thank God. It’s so dry across the whole northern part of this state. There’s a campfire ban in the Boundary Waters now and Lars and I will not be building any campfires either until we get some rain. There is not any precipitation in the near forecast.
The water level of the lake is very low. The grass that was growing in the water now lies on its side, matted and gray with old dried mud. There’s a very faint marine odor on this sandy bar that once was underwater — nothing as pungent as the smell of the clam flats by the seashore, but it’s there. I wonder if eons ago when there was a vast lake here — part of the ancient Lake Agassi — was the water fresh or salty?
A merlin calls again and again, Kree! Kree! Kree! I spot it fluttering above the tree line by a marsh and then it perches on the very tip of a spruce tree, facing upwind, like a weathervane. I wait and I watch. After a while it flies across the marsh to a craggy jack pine, where it perches briefly then heads to another pine, then it flies out of sight. A blue jay screams.
The bears are ravenous now in their hyperphagia stage; this is the season they’re eating to store up fat for their winter’s hibernation. And it’s rutting season for the moose — the bulls are wandering around looking to mate and to challenge the other males. One sauntered in front of me last week — it was black and huge and it must have been old because the rack of antlers was very generous. He walked slowly and deliberately and looked at me with not a shred of interest (I kept my distance — you don’t want to challenge a moose, believe me!) The loons are still here. Their lonely sounds rise up from the lake, making the world a little less silent and a lot more gorgeous.
This boreal landscape is so rich with beauty — those of us who have given our hearts to this place luxuriate in it. And don’t we all carry a piece with us wherever we go? And when we return, doesn’t it rise up in us and say “We’re back! We’re here! At last — together again!”
— Marcia Roepke
