Sparkling Fall Days

These sparkling fall days called out for a response, and we answered the call, engineering an overnight on the North Shore.

The leaves were brilliant, of course. And the lake exhibited an uncanny depth of color when calm and also once the wind came up. A few days before we left, Hilary spotted a mom-and-pop place called the Islandview Resort in Knife River, just east of the candy shop—the kind of place where the cabins are up on a hill several hundred yards from the lake, on the "wrong" side of the highway, and you might say as you pass by, "Who would want to stay there?"

We booked the Honeymoon Cabin—our 47th honeymoon, I guess—and it was great. The cabins are strategically situated so they all have a view down across an immense lawn and out across the lake.

 They're old; you can almost imagine the tube-and-knob wiring under the paneling. The cabinets seem to be home-made. The chairs are wicker. Knotty pine walls. All the wood surfaces have the glow of antique shellac. The bathtub is four feet long at most.

But it was quaint and cozy, and considerably larger than many of the places we'd stayed in England. It was also much cheaper. And the view from the front deck, nestled in the midst of mature white pines and perky yellow popples, was superb.

But we hadn't gone north simply to sit around. We stopped at Hawk Ridge, which was quiet. We had better luck at McQuade Safe Harbor, where we saw a few Lapland longspurs. They're not especially striking in their non-breeding plumage, but I'd never seen one before.  The evocative name refers to their Arctic breeding range and the unusual length of their back claw.

Other afternoon stops included the Two Harbors library, which has a splendid de-acquisition shop, and the harbor itself, where we spotted some juvenile Harris sparrows and joined the crowd that was watching the James R. Barker ore boat maneuver around the breakwater and into the dock, delivering its famous horn salute—the Barker Bark—several times as it turned the corner.  (You can hear the salute on this link, not quite so sonorous as the original.)

Our dinner consisted of a chicken pasty we'd picked up at the Northern Bakery in Duluth and the remains of the BiBimBap Bowl Hilary had ordered at the Duluth Grill for lunch. After dinner we walked down the hill and across the grass to a large fire that the owners had started for guests in the firepit. Back on the deck we read aloud from the poems of T'ao Ch'ien and Louis Jenkins. Returning later to the firepit, we threw another log on the fire and watched the stars come out.

Simple pleasures continued the next morning. Gooseberry Falls State Park was teaming with visitors, but the Gitchi Gummi Trail was deserted. Out near the end of the loop we met up with an elderly man hiking alone. "Does this trail eventually take me down there to Agate Beach?" He asked. He glanced down at the beach hundreds of feet below us.

"I'm afraid not," I said. "That beach is on the other side of the river. You'll have to continue around this loop, cross the river on the highway bridge, and return to your car. You can drive down to that beach. There's a parking lot right next to it."

"My wife will like that," he said, seemingly unperturbed, and continued on his way.

In some ways the most extraordinary event of the trip was also the most unexpected. I had gone out with binoculars before dawn. The eastern horizon was glowing and it seemed like a perfect opportunity to see the comet tsuchinshan-Atlas unobstructed by buildings and trees. 

If I'd done my research I would have known the comet has swung around and is now visible on the western horizon, just after sunset. But I did see something else—the Green Ray. I had my binoculars trained on the spot where the sun was about to peek above the horizon when I saw a sudden flash of intense green. It lasted only a split-second. Then the edge of the sun appeared, a flaming orange-red.

I wouldn't have known what to call it if I hadn't seen the Eric Rohmer film The Green Ray, which came out in 1986. The plot concerns itself with a bunch of twenty-somethings trying to make the most of their summer vacations, which are mostly full of frustrations, disappointments, and missed opportunities, as I recall. Most of these kids end up watching sunsets on an ocean beach somewhere, probably in Brittany, and there's a lot of talk about seeing the Green Ray. At the time, I had no idea whether the phenomenon was real or merely a plot contrivance.

Now I've seen the Green Ray. Incredible. Hilary wants to see it too, naturally. We can add that rare event to the list of the North Shore's many enticements. 

Note: The film is currently available on several streaming platforms under the title "Summer." Easy to find if you add the word "Rohmer." (I wouldn't recommend it.)