Semper Itasca

 

I like to call it Minnesota's little Yellowstone, not because of the wildlife—our best sighting on a recent visit was a porcupine waddling across the road—but because of the classic lodge, the stately pines, and the succession of minor sites to visit on your way from the Brower Visitors' Center near the park's east entrance to the Mary Gibbs Visitors' Center at the other end of the lake. You have Preacher's Grove, the Indian Peace Pipe stop, the Wegman Cabin (which makes me think of a sleek greyhound every time we pass by), the campground, the beach, the museum, the canoe and bike rental shop, the U of Minnesota Biological Station (established in 1909), the Indian graveyard, and so on.

Lake Itasca is shaped like a tuning fork, long, thin, and bifurcated; its beauty reveals itself mostly via sidelong glances through the trees, often from the road along the high bank on the northeast side. The west side of the lake is inaccessible except by water or intermittently along two shortish trails—the Dr. Roberts Trail and the Schoolcraft Trail—but they cover only a fraction of its length. And that's good. Because one of the underlying, yet crucial, virtues of Itasca State Park is that all the while you're enjoying its recreational offerings, you remain dimly aware that the greater part of the park is inaccessible to humans, and hasn't been altered much in more than a hundred years.

Hilary and I hiked both the Roberts and the Schoolcraft trails during our recent two-day visit, along with the hilly three-mile Hiking Club loop that includes parts of the Oziwindib and Deer Park Trails, and the BoHall Trail, which took us deep into the relatively undisturbed scientific and natural area. The bird-life was meager but the turning leaves, though sporadic, were all the more dazzling for that, and we took our time. The vivid but often isolated yellows, oranges, and reds were rendered more striking by other trees nearby, including the stately white and red pines, that were still rich shades of green. I think some of the combinations, enhanced by the bright sun and sharp cool air, were among the best I've ever seen.  

But we're not the type to say, "Let's go north to see the changing leaves." The pale purple asters weren't dazzling, but they were nevertheless superb in their own way. The green grasses bending uniformly in a marsh. The grayish green of the arrow-wood bushes.  A blue beech, its leaves dipped in mauve. There's always something to see, or feel, even in the depths of winter. Let's go any time.

The cabin we'd rented was small—Bert's Cabin # 6. I would estimate it to be 12 x 30 feet. But it had everything you might need—kitchen, bathroom, couch, table, bed—all in close proximity. It didn't take more than three steps to walk from one room to the other. The space heater was loud, but the deck out front was ample, and the nearby cabins weren't that close—fifty yards or more away.

We met our nearest neighbors because they stepped out to see the pileated woodpecker that was wandering across the road. (Bizarre behavior.) They'd been coming up for fifteen years with the same and other friends in varying combinations. We liked them immediately.

"But there are only five of you, and four cars in the lot!" I said.

"We're persnickety who we drive up with," one of the women said with a knowing grin that reminded me of a scene from The Adams Family.

We never saw them again, though we spent quite a bit of time sitting out on the deck. After dinner we watched the light fade from the sky. Only three stars appeared in the narrow space open to the sky amid the pines. No traffic noise. It was so calm and quiet all I could hear was my own ears ringing.

On our last night the temperature dropped down to 45 degrees in the night. In the morning, before dawn, we listened to the hoot of the great-horned owl. And then the report of shotguns. One. Three. Eight. Eleven. They came from every side, but always remote, like a feeble neighborhood Fourth of July celebration in the next county.

"I wonder if duck hunting season started this morning," I said. "seems sort of early for that."

"Can you hunt in a state park?" Hilary said.

"I have no idea," I said. "But those shots sound pretty far away."

I thought of the wood ducks we'd flush on the Schoolcraft Trail the previous morning. Not very meaty, and squealing with all their might as they made their escape.

Before we left the park that morning we took a last two-mile hike through the woods on the Roberts Trail. It was overcast, and the colors were muted. At one point we passed a trio of hikers: young girl, middle-ages man with pony tail (Native American?), and elderly woman. "It's a beautiful morning," I said. "There's always something to see on the Roberts Trail," he said cheerfully. (He reminded me of Dave, the short-order cook on Northern Exposure.)

Then the little girl said. "Why are you hiking with ski poles?"

"These's aren't ski poles, they're hiking poles," I said. "They come in handy on muddy terrain, give your upper body a workout, and keep your knees healthy. You should get some."

"I'm NINE," she said, with emphasis.

Then grandma, who was bringing up the rear, said, "I could probably use a set." 

As we left the park we became aware of another event we knew nothing about. A hundred-mile bike race was in progress between Park Rapids and Itasca. First we saw the refreshment station set up in a parking lot near Douglas Lodge. There were a few hand-made signs along the road, hardly legible. As we headed south out of the park we began to see the bikers on the opposite shoulder pedaling north past us in small groups. They were stretched out, with long gaps between the clusters, all the way to Park Rapids. (That explained why several guests staying in nearby cabins had left before dawn.)

In Park Rapids we made our final major discovery. The annual Art Leap festival and driving tour was under way. Nine galleries were open in town, with twenty more spread out across the countryside from Akeley to Menahga.

You gotta love those back-country names.

We had a lot of driving ahead of us as it was, so we grabbed a latte at Bella Café, wandered the Beagle and Wolf Bookstore next door for a few minutes, then headed over to the nearby Nemeth Art Center. Hilary had picked up a festival brochure and noticed that an early Alex Soth series titled "Paris / Minnesota" was on exhibit.  More later about that....