Last camping of the year

I was able to camp five times over the summer with varying companion combinations; one kid, two kids, no kids, with and without Boris, with and without assorted friends. Each trip was special, each has a story. The summer finale was a boys-only trip to Tettegouche State Park. Tettegouche is on Lake Superior along Minnesota's north shore. The shoreline is a place of beauty where wind, rock and water combine in a splendid showcase of nature's artwork.

My old Land Cruiser is my preferred camping vehicle. It will get about anywhere, but it's not gonna get there fast. We settled in for a measured ride accompanied by tire hum, wind, and music. It was a sometimes blue, sometimes grey, kinda drive. It was windy, a chilly and humid fifty-something degrees. The mood became a bit more electric at about four hours when we crested MN61 and looked down into Duluth and Lake Superior. Excitement was building, but so were the tummy grumbles. Duluth made for a fine lunch stop before completing our final leg.

By the time we arrived at the park the kids were worked up to a frenzy. The last hour of driving, an hour of shoreline views, rocky cliffs, and a lighthouse had piqued their interest and imagination. At the camp site the winds were gusting, park service warnings had them up to 25 miles per hour or so. It was a struggle to contain the kids long enough to help pitch the tent. But once the stakes were in, the rainfly secured, I released the kids and off they went.

They returned about three quarters of an hour later with a story of an epic trail to the river and the falls upon it. They had "discovered" Two Step Falls on the Baptism River. It was a scant 1, or maybe 2/10th of a mile walk from the camp site. A short distance, but with series of steep wooden staircases to descend, and climb up on the return. Eventually they visited the falls five times, three of them without me. They explored, they ran, they had fun.

We had two half, and two full days of romping through the woods, sitting by the fire, playing in water. They were excited for any trail that led to the river or lake. Ripples, play pools, roaring waterfalls, steep cascades, and the expanse of Lake Superior drew them in. They couldn't get enough, each vantage point offered a new way to examine and appreciate the chaos. Each new beach offered shoreline to explore, rocks to climb, pools to observe.

When we reached evening, when the sun and temperature dropped, the fire pit became their nexus. It provided warmth and light. More importantly, it was "the forge." The hottest, reddest part of the fire was the place to burn, incinerate, an endless procession of sticks. Many sticks had a story, swords being forged, torches being lit, or some wooden sacrifice to a distance mythological being. They joyfully patrolled the campsite with smoking sticks, warding off the mosquitoes. And I bit my tongue, omitting the observation that no mosquitoes were present...

Our return drive home was muted, quiet affair. They were tired, and I think a bit relieved to contemplate their own warm bed instead of a chilly tent. There weren't many complaints about unloading the truck. And I was tired, too lazy to argue or cook. And stinky, we all needed a bit of freshening up. Buffalo Wild Wings was offered as enticement for prompt and quick showers. Within the hour we were in a booth, catered by helpful staff. I was glad to know I needed only to eat, offer thanks, and pay.

And as we sat, I looked at the kids playing B-Dubs electronic tablets, I realized they had gone from mid-Sunday afternoon to Thursday evening without electronics; no computer, no tablet, no TV, and no associated complaints. When the food arrived and the tablets set aside, we talked about the trip. They had forgotten empty-tummy mood swings, fights over directions to hike, aggravation about my choice of trail snacks and lunch. They forgot about missing Minecraft or TV. They forgot about scrapes and cuts. They remembered the trees. They remembered the water. They remembered the stone. They remember falling sleeping in a tent to the sounds of crickets and critters. They remembered bacon and eggs. They remembered walking through wilderness. They remembered standing atop a sixty foot waterfall.

They remembered a fun camping trip, and I was content.

P.S. I do have some pics to share...

Shelter from the rain

Whitewater State Park is a small, beautiful, lush park in southeastern Minnesota. The centerpiece is the Whitewater River cutting through the countryside. It, and its tributaries have carved out beautiful limestone bluffs, and silted out wonderful valley meadows. There aren't many miles of hiking, just about ten or so, but they are worth every step up and every step down.

Somewhere along the beginning of Meadow Trail, hidden from the road behind a screen of trees, scrubs and flowers is a simple wooden shelter. It's a four post design, each post supporting a corner of the roof and bench. My guess is that a hand-full of people could sit comfortably, maybe a few more standing. It is but a small shelter. The wooden shingled roof is green, lush from moss and lichen. We walked by with but a few words on it's aged patina, intent on seeing the bluffs and meadows.

We walked part of the Meadow Trail, some of it paralleling the Middle Fork Whitewater River. We veered off when it intersected with the Dakota Trail. The Dakota's brisk uphill brought us to Eagle Point overlooking the meadow we had just left behind. The stone overlook was precarious, slick from the rain. But it provided us a beautiful panorama.

By this time the gentle drizzle had picked up, it was now a gentle rain. But on we hiked. The trails were quiet, only the sound of our four feet. The forest was green, vibrant. And quiet. No other people talking, no airplanes overhead, no cars within earshot. The forest was muted, just the sound of rain falling through the leaves.

The rain, the moderate temperature created an amazing view of low clouds capping the scenery. At time we could see it flow over the hill tops and between the saddles. It was beautiful. Further along the trail we came upon Signal Point with a view of the gorge just up-steam of the meadow. This overlook was no less precarious, but this time wet, slimy mud was the cautioning factor. Careful footwork provided yet another wondrous view.

The trail dropped us down into the gorge and walked one of the Valley Trail loops. The loop was not heavily used, the vegetation was dense, our feet and legs could not avoid brushing off the water, pollen and leaves. Afterwards we headed back, eventually returning to the meadow.

By now we had been hiking through the rain for hours. We were soaked, but not cold. Trail mix and fruit had kept the tummy grumbles down, but it was well past lunchtime and we were hungry. But we remembered that trail-side shelter, we knew our lunch destination.

Lunch was a simple affair, hummus & tortillas with chopped tomato & basil pesto as a tasty condiment. Dessert was a couple of plums; juicy, sweet, and refreshing. All the while, the rainfall provided white-noise soundtrack. But we were out of the rain. We were replenished. We talked. Life was good.

I took several pictures throughout the park, but none of that shelter. And maybe, just maybe I'm glad I didn't. That lunch, a simple picnic, created a memory of time spent under mossy shingles, sheltered from the rain, talking with a beautiful friend.

I needed the hike, I needed the lush green landscape and limestone bluffs. And I needed to share it with a friend. I did all that and my life is better for it.