Bear Head Lake State Park: Home on the Range

We took a few days off recently (off from what?) and headed north to Bear Head Lake State Park, which sits deep in the woods on a large peninsula extending south into the largely undeveloped lake. By “woods” I mean the North Woods—a mix of pine, spruce, aspen, and hardwoods, hazelnut and dogwood, ferns and sarsaparilla, that was logged more than a century ago and is now robust again. Many of the white pines in the park were too small to be harvested back in1910; they’re majestic now. 

The remains of some of the largest open-pit mines in the Western Hemisphere are located nearby, but you see them only occasionally along the highway, vast depressions in the earth, often surrounded by mountains of slag and clothed in a veneer of scrubby vegetation. What you see more often are the towns that once supported the mines—Gilbert, Eveleth, Tower, Virginia, Biwabik, Aurora; the ore was largely depleted decades ago, and now most of them are struggling.

At this point I might note that my mother grew up in Virginia, and we visited her folks from time to time. Though I didn’t play hockey, we watched the annual high school hockey tournament together year after year with great interest. I’d heard the names Mountain Iron, Roseau, Baudette, and International Falls many times before I had the slightest idea where they were. (Check out Jim Hoey’s fine book, Puck Heaven, for more details.)

My mom and her two older siblings on Lake Vermilion

Later, my parents bought a slice of land on a cove in Black Bay, at the west end of Lake Vermilion, and we built a boxy plywood cabin there, making sure not to disturb the towering red pines growing nearby. In time, by imperceptible and almost Proustian degrees, the natural mystique of the Iron Range sunk in, and it was compounded later by the summers I spent canoeing in the BWCA.   

A few years ago Bear Head S.P. was voted the best state park in America as part of a promotional campaign sponsored by Coca-Cola. I don’t know why. It doesn’t even rank among the ten most popular parks in Minnesota (which highlights a troubling aspect of the democratic process more generally: people who know absolutely nothing about the issues often do the most voting).

Yet Bear Head SP does have an attractive array of features. First and foremost, it’s a boater’s park. It’s on a large lake, but the shoreline along the campground area is riddled with inlets that would appeal to visitors interested in kayaking, canoeing, and—yes— paddleboarding. 

If you take the path through the woods along the shore between campground loops you’ll pass a number of makeshift docks where overnight visitors have casually moored their vessels and hung their life vests out to dry, evidently on a first-come-first-serve basis. Across the inlet lies the boat landing, a five-minute drive down a gravel road through the woods.

The campsite we reserved, sight unseen, would not be considered glamorous by anyone. It’s exposed to overhead sun for most of the day. The afternoon shade arrives at around 4 p.m. when the sun drops below a few scraggly trees and shrubs.

But almost immediately upon our arrival we spotted a female redstart in the bushes ten feet away. Then the male. We set up our camp chairs and sat down in time to get a good look at a chestnut-sided warbler in the shrubs on the other side of the picnic table. A few minutes later a northern parula arrived, so close I could see the double break in its eye-ring.

“This is going to be great!” I said.

But it wasn’t great. A scrawny (but cute) chipping sparrow was a frequent visitor. Two flickers in the distance. A catbird sitting on a boulder on the far side of the campsite. Slim pickins.

What was great was the openness and privacy of the site. We enjoyed looking off at the distant trees, the blue sky, fireflies at night, a good view of the (hazy) midnight stars, and no other people in sight.

Nevertheless, we left camp the next morning after breakfast to hike the Norberg Trail, which starts near the landing, the beach, and the unusually sophisticated “visitors’ center,” which is modern, air-conditioned, and fitted out like a suburban showroom you’d see in Design Quarterly.

The trail is lovely, winding through mature forests with the bright blue lake often in sight through the trees. Norberg Lake itself is a peculiar sinkhole with mineral-rich, turquoise-blue water—some people might call in a kettle lake. The return route follows a different path, and it’s also fine. Three miles of beauty, solitude, sunshine, and semi-open woodland bliss.

From there we drove a half hour west to the Kawishiwi Falls Trailhead, a few miles east of Ely. The hike itself is short, easy, and popular. The view of the falls is impressive. At one point, while we were examining an unfamiliar wildflower, a not-so-elderly couple squeezed by us. A few steps later the man turned and said, “Gee, we finally passed someone.” He seemed pleased.

The day was heating up by the time we set off on the two-mile loop around Blackstone Lake, a few miles further east on Fernberg Road. The light was getting harsh and the vegetation was scrubbier. Serviceberries were in bloom here and there, and Hilary also succeeded in harvesting a few handfuls of early blueberries. A young couple was camping at the walk-in site. We could see their bright yellow tent and hear their cheery voices as they swam together across the lake. They were having fun.

Back at the car, we took a short drive down the road to Moose Lake, one of the most popular points of entry into the BWCA. In 1968, at the age of 16, I headed out from here with friends Carl and Dave for our first wilderness experience without adults. A year later, my dad, my brother, and I explored one of the most beautiful parts of Quetico Provincial Park: Agnes, Kawnipi, Cutty, Sark, Kahshahpiwi. I remember the names of the lakes, but I hardly remember the trip itself (though Agnes Falls is truly unforgettable.) In 1980 we took a trip with two other couples down Knife and Kekekabic and around through Insula to Snowbank, stopping for weak root beer one afternoon on Dorothy Molter’s island. And Hilary and I started a trip here at Moose maybe fifteen years ago, though the weather was so bad on the return trip that we paid one of the numerous water taxis that ply the lake to give us a ride the last few miles back to the landing.

Truth be told, the Gunflint Trail has always been our preferred avenue of approach to the BWCA. I remember all these Ely-based trips now, as I stop to think about it, but the Moose Lake landing holds little nostalgic appeal for me. On our recent visit, we didn’t even get out of the car.

Our plan was to stop at the Subway in Ely to buy some sandwiches for dinner, then return to Bear Head for a cheese-and-crackers lunch at the beach. 

Sitting at a table under the pines, we listened to the merriment at the beach a hundred yards away, watched a family of common mergansers swim back and forth a few feet from shore, and convinced ourselves that after seven miles of hiking, we weren’t really in the mood to take kayaks out into the increasingly choppy lake. Next time, for sure.