Trail Time – Ahhh, August
August on the Gunflint Trail. If there’s one thing that everyone talks about on the Gunflint Trail — besides fishing — it’s blueberries. This summer has been a lean one for blueberries wherever I have looked, but some people have had better luck — I call it luck but really, I think it’s dogged determination. I didn’t manage to pick enough to make a blueberry pie this summer, but I added my meager blueberry harvest to an abundance of raspberries and we had a fine pie, shared by the neighbors whose children helped pick the fruit.
I was a reluctant picker as a child, who, with my four siblings, picked blueberries for our family on was called the Blueberry Plains in Maine. That was a large swath of flat land that had burned surrounded by pine barrens. It was hot work then, and buggy, and it is no different now half a continent away and more than sixty years later. Frankly, I still find the whole experience less than pleasant — the vision of a pie, that beautiful deferred reward, drives me — and I commend any child who is willing to go berrying, but especially Felix and Nora, who helped me pick enough berries for a summer fruit pie.
The Gunflint Trail’s Biggest Blueberry contest is going on right now. If you’re lucky enough to pick a big one, take it to a weigh station along the trail — road signs are posted all along the road. Register online at Visit Cook County and you can win $100 for the biggest berry and there’s a bunch of swag too, just for participating. Contest ends August 20.
I’m usually happier canoeing or hiking rather than berry picking and I’ve had some great hikes this year. I’ve decided that my favorite part of a hike is that very particular sweet spot where the demands of the trail — like watching where I put my feet, or ducking overhanging branches — force me to forget whatever was worrying me about the news or family or my own shortcomings. It’s the moment when my attention migrates outside my own head and enters into the beauty of nature and the wild and free life that surrounds me. In that moment, nature expands inside me as my conscious mind expands outside of myself. It can happen on any trail: deep in the woods, on the shore, or standing far, far above Gunflint Lake and gazing down on the northern woods and lakes into Canada. I’m sure there’s a specific word for it, but here is one word: happiness.
On the water one day, we had a similar experience watching the ospreys and bald eagles diving, fishing, soaring, screeching. My heart took flight along with the birds as we floated there in a boat, eyes skyward. Our conversations dangled unfinished in the air because each time we tried to talk, one of us would say look there, there’s another bird. It was extraordinary.
Earlier this summer, I was traveling home after dark on the Trail. I saw a pickup truck in front of me slow down and pump its brakes, so I figured there might be a big animal up ahead. My headlights then lit up the back end of a moose in front of the truck. It trotted two or three miles down the Trail, the truck ahead of me in my car, both vehicles driving slowly. That truck driver did such a good job staying back and giving the moose space. It’s never a good idea to try and pass a moose unless they’re standing still and your vehicle is going very very slowly. Moose don’t understand our traffic laws so they have a tendency to change lanes quickly and since they aren’t equipped with blinkers, without warning.
On a trail right by a lakeside, a friend and I watched an enormous beaver easing itself into the water over a downed tree. We weren’t more than 15 feet away. A miracle occurred and my dog didn’t bark and the humans were quiet too. At first I thought it was a bear getting into the water — I had a clear view of its fat rear end and it was huge and dark and brown. Then I saw the thick leathery tail slide over the log, fat and shiny and gliding smoothly like a python. The beaver saw us standing there — we stood stock still, holding our breaths. One brown beaver eye was fixed on us as the creature very very slowly glided by, then, dipping silently below the water, vanished into the lake.
A summer is made up of experiences like this. What a joy to be able share the world with these wild beings.
— Marcia Roepke
