Trail Time – Roller Coaster Weather on the Gunflint Trail
Up on the Gunflint Trail, we’ve had every kind of weather lately. Just a week ago it was shirt-sleeve temperatures and sunny skies. How strangely warm it was that November day as a friend and I went on a walk down a dirt road, meeting up with a couple of very friendly gray jays. I managed to fool the birds into landing on my hand by placing a tamarack cone on my palm, which they grabbed and then promptly rejected. Next time, I vowed to myself, I’ll put some birdseed in my pockets to give them some positive reinforcement for their friendly manner. Later that afternoon the warm weather started to turn cold. Big gusty winds blew high up in the sky as the temperatures fell. All around me I heard sparse raindrops hitting dry leaves, sounding like the footfalls of a slow and careful animal. I sat outside bundled up in a big wool blanket, watching the weather change. I heard a strange cry from an unfamiliar bird. The lake was like a mirror as the sun set. That night the first hard frost came. The snowfalls we’ve had since have all melted; the rain keeps up a nearly daily steady drizzle. This morning I could see what looked like fog or mist in the air, but I couldn’t see any precipitation. I turned my face to the sky and then I felt the tiny drops of moisture against my warm face.
Every day I see something new in this beautiful boreal woods. There’s always something that speaks to my heart. I wonder why nature speaks to our hearts? So many of us who love this place feel a very personal connection to the woods and water here in the North. Even if we don’t understand the why of it, isn’t a wonderful part of existence to be able to have this spontaneous inner response to our beloved northland? Near my cabin, there is a birch tree with a single yellow leaf. That little yellow leaf has hung on long after all the other leaves have fallen. I look at the little leaf and I think of the courage it takes to hang on. Then I think of stubbornness and my mind starts pondering the difference between the two — stubbornness and courage — all from gazing at a little yellow leaf.
I was sick and tired of a few things last week, so I tried my best to get lost in the woods. Of course, it was impossible to get lost where I was walking — there is a lake to the North and roads east, west and south. But I did manage to find a lovely grassy spot in the sun where I couldn’t hear construction noises. On the way to that spot, I’d been bushwhacking, but when I turned to go home, I discovered an animal path that made my journey back much easier. How wonderfully tiring it is to bash through thick woods. One must be very careful. As I hiked back, I was thinking what great company a dog is in the woods and how little help a dog would be if I were to slip and fall or turn an ankle.
This has been quite a year for grouse and nearly every day my dog flushes grouse by the cabin, in a meadow, down a road or in the woods. A couple days ago, a grouse landed in my favorite wild apple tree, then flapped to a higher perch in a birch tree, where it blended in perfectly to the coloration of the tree trunk. If I hadn’t watched it fly there, I would never have spotted it, even if I had walked right underneath.
Each week I wonder if the Loons have left yet, and then I’ve heard a solitary cry that reminds me they are still here, although they might be gone by now. They never give us a final goodbye like we get from our Trail friends who head south for the winter.
I was wondering about Loon communication, specifically: do they every misunderstand one another like humans do? For example, here’s a verbatim conversation between Lars and I as we prepared dinner one night:
“No, sweetheart, I said Venetians. Venetians — from Venice not Venusians from Venus.”
I imagined a misheard bird conversations. It might go something like this:
First loon: “Wooooo hooo! I’m in the bay!”
Second loon: “Hoot! You mean the bay down by the rock that always has a lot of fish?”
“No, the bay where the osprey nest used to be.”
“What osprey?”
“Hoot. You know, that osprey bird — looks kinda like a big seagull but somehow more elegant. I mean, nobody ever calls an osprey a garbage bird. I’m not saying seagulls are garbage birds but some people call them that.”
“Whooo? What?”
And I say, so long to our lovely loons! Have a great winter and we’ll see you in the spring.
~ Marcia Roepke
