Trail Time – Inching Toward Summer
It’s wet and wild on the Gunflint Trail as we creep slowly toward summer. The poplar trees are not leafing out yet — they’re usually the fist bit of green to appear in the woods on the far shore of the lake. I went for a good bash through the woods with my dog yesterday — the footing was a little slick in places due to last year’s wet leaves, but there were enough saplings to grab to slow my descent to the lake as we explored an old skid road, a cut through the woods now overgrown by gangly willow and head-high balsam firs. It was cold enough — I wore a wool hat and jacket, tall rubber boots and thick gloves. Welcome to spring on the Gunflint Trail! Here’s a pro tip: Keep your sweaters handy.
Down at the water, all was calm. I thought — for about half a second — about sticking my toes in, and remembered a few years ago when KC the Sunshine Gal and I went for a May swim. It was May 11 and we had been working in shorts and t-shirts in the hot dry woods. There were still random piles of granulated snow in the woods, but it was crazily hot for that early in the season. After a while we were ready to cool off, so down we went to the dock and jumped in. Oh. My. Word. The only thought I remember having before my brain went as numb as the rest of me was this: “That was stupid,” and we climbed — flew really — out of the water as fast as we could. The sun warmed us up quickly and we were okay — no hyperthermia. And I guess that is one definition of a good day: no hyperthermia.
There was no chance I was taking a dip in the lake now. It was drizzly — earlier the rain had been pouring down. It reminded me of times at summer camp in Maine when every day was on the same schedule regardless of the weather. I remember swimming on those cold drizzly days — how warm the water felt compared to cold air on wet skin. How awful it was squirming into a wet swimsuit for afternoon swim. No matter what the weather was, I would to have broken a limb before I would stay away from camp. Nothing less could keep me away from cold swims, campfires, making lanyards out of gimp, lashing poles into a lean-to, saluting and singing at the flag each morning and evening. I loved camp.
It still feels like we’re camping here sometimes. We lived in a canvas tent the summer we were building our cabin, and you can still spot the vestiges of those days in our current life. You know the kind of make-do solutions you make when you’re camping, like using a rock for a soap dish. One of the best parts of sleeping in a canvas tent was the quality of the light — it was just an exquisite softly diffused glow. When it was sunny, or a full moon, shadows of trees and plants would fall on the walls in perfect silhouette. I remember waking up throughout the night and noticing how the shadows moved across the canvas. One morning a pileated woodpecker worked hard, excavating a stump right by our heads. Another time ducks flew over so low that we could hear their wings flapping frantically.
I know the ducks will come back soon. I can tell because four cars pulling boats passed by me on the Trail today and a loon flew overhead, calling, calling. Those are the sure signs that winter is behind us and summer lies ahead.
— Marcia Roepke
