No trip to Minnesota is complete without a visit to its northeast region, and I’ve always felt a special affinity for the region even though I feel at home in the Cities.
The state enjoys three biomes that all run roughly diagonally across the state from the northwest to the southeast. The prairie grassland zone is the westernmost zone, its easternmost border a line from about the state’s northwest corner, all the way south to about the middle of the state’s southern border. This part of the state is, frankly, boring, unless you’re into wide open spaces and like looking at tall grass and towns whose architecture mimics the flatness of the terrain. The only towns I can think of that exist in this region are Moorhead and a town called Pipestone, I believe.
The next region situates itself immediately east of the humdrum prairies, essentially engulfing Interstate 94 and then Highway 52 in the deciduous zone (i.e characterized by mainly trees that lose their leaves in the winter). Cities in this zone include Alexandria, St. Cloud, the Twin Cites, Rochester, and Winona. If only because this is the region I grew up in (specifically St. Anna, a small town outside of Avon, a small town outside St. Cloud), this region is just kind of normal. That is, when someone says “city park,” I imagine most people would imagine trees with leaves and not needles and then also would attach the word average to the description. So this region, then, is just your average, normal area with trees that have leaves, a kind of suburbia of woods where the trees might be interesting, but only in a kind of cookie cutter kind of way, if you find inefficient residential design compelling.
But, my favorite zone that I just simply adore is the coniferous zone of the entire northeast part of the state. These are no boring city parks but rather forests. I imagine that when most people hear the word forest, they imagine dense thickets, tall evergreens, needles strewn about the ground, ferns, fallen logs slowly turning into soil, mushrooms of all shapes and sizes, birch trees defying the status quo with their enchanting pillars of light in the dark, shallow streams that every once in a while fall over ledges of rock into a magnificent and elegant display of mist, rainbows, foam, and gushing torrents of water.
This is where my friend Amy and I spent our weekend, 12-14 September, amongst all this, in a cabin. There’s just something about this region, especially in the autumn, when the air is crisp, the scent of pine extra potent, leaves saturating from standard to brilliant.
Our first stop on our way to the cabin outside Finland, MN, was at Jay Cooke State Park, named after a major financier of the Union’s efforts during the Civil War and who developed a nearby power plant in the region, and the park boasts a swinging suspension bridge (and by “swinging” they mean the bridge barely mildly moves a bit when you walk on it) and a pioneer cemetery in addition to the usual hiking trails and things. We only explored the immediate entrance, but that was enough to provide a prelude to things to come: fallen pine cones, rushing rapids and falls, desire paths through woods, skipping rocks, and testing temperatures of waters.
Duluth is only a small jaunt farther north from Jay Cooke, and we sadly arrived too early for the breweries to be open. Bent Paddle’s doors seemed solidly shut, but Lake Superior (located in one of those ridiculously boring 1-level buildings shaped like a rectangle and made of grey bricks and grey doors and grey windows labeled with signs in sans serif of grey letters where you would expect an office where people sit around answering grey phones about grey questions like how much grey paint it takes to paint one of those ridiculous boring 1-level buildings shaped like a rectangle–in other words, the least likely place to find a brewery where you expect golden and red bricks, tall windows, and creaky hardwood floors) was open, but only to fill growlers. What the building Lake Superior locates itself in lacks in any aesthetic awareness more than makes up for in the quality of its beer. And there’s nothing quite like filling a growler at a brewery, where you can admire the artwork of all their various ales and beers and see how they decorate using burlap sacks with colorful designs imprinted on them.
After this, it was high time for lunch. Sadly, the Duluth Grill had a line out the door as if it was lunchtime after the various cults in Lake Wobegon finished their Sunday ritual (I think it’s called “church”), but it was a Friday, which made the line out the door all the more surprising. Still, I was happy to see the place getting their full due’s attention.
So, we Yelped to find something else local in town. I know that there’s Grandma’s, but everyone’s been there, and while I highly recommend a visit, be aware that it’ll be very touristy, so you may not get to experience the heart of Duluth’s people. Yelp, however, suggested a quaint little place called Sunshine Cafe. But, while the servers were very warm and welcoming and while you get to experience some of Duluth’s true people (namely a crazy old man talking about how times are tough and who wants to buy certain businesses and turn them into havens of healthy hangouts for youth, not to suggest that all Duluth’s true poeple are crazy old men) the food left you thinking, “Um… I’m pretty sure I can make this food much better without much fuss, using actual potatoes that you have to actually skin and to actually cut and to actually boil and to actually mash.”
The next stop on our visit through Duluth was the Enger Tower, a 5-story stone sentinel that overlooks Duluth and the St. Louis Bay, 531 feet above the surface of Lake Superior. You can glimpse some really fine views of the surroundings below from various vantages, including the famous lift bridge, Canal Park, and that bizarre 5 mile long sandbar (the longest in the world) called Park Point where people actually live.
By this point, it’s getting relatively late (well, 4:00 or so I believe, but we’ve still got an awful lot of driving to do), so we continue on northward along the stunningly beautiful North Shore Scenic Drive (confusingly dubbed North Shore All-American Scenic Drive by some, for some reason), which is basically a descriptive way of saying, “Drive on Old Hwy 61 then follow the real Hwy 61 after you go through a town called Two Harbors in order to see Lake Superior as you drive along with a smattering of little towns and sleepy shops.” Seriously, though, it’s a wonderful drive, and I highly recommend this route over anything else along the shore’s edge, unless you’ve got to be somewhere fast.
One such sleepy shop that you can see along Old Hwy 61 in Knife River (yes, Knife River, the name of a town, and a town named after a river called, er, Knife River, a direct translation from the Ojibwe Mokomani Zibi, probably so-called because of sharp stones at the mouth of the river… I think the Ojibwe sounds better than the English, but whatever) is a fish shop called Russ Kendall’s Smokehouse. (Well, I call it a fish shop, because that’s one of their main things to buy, but you can also buy beef jerky there, too, and other things.) But, seriously… the best brown sugar cured smoked salmon and trout I think I’ve ever had! Just buy a pound or two, get some expensive crackers, slice it up, and enjoy a most delightful snack! It seems just the perfect thing to eat when you’re next to the majestic Superior amongst tamarack and birch. We may not have fresh lobster here in Minnesota, but we’ve got some of the best fresh salmon!
Also, if you haven’t heard, this gem of the North Shore suffered a devastating fire earlier this year in May. Fortunately they’ve re-opened, but I urge you to make a visit here to support their business. It’s terribly sad, naturally, but I’m so happy that no one was harmed and that they have such a warm community around them and eager tourists passing by who are supporting them during some tough times.
We still had some ways to go, however, to our cabin in outside Finland. A brief 40 miles after the fish shop, we came across a liquor store call Green Door, situated in Beaver Bay. It was a modest affair, but one of those modest affairs where the liquor store was attached to and accessible by way of a bar, the clerk hovering back and forth between bar counter and liquor counter through a small doorway. Modest though it may be, their selection of beers did not disappoint, and we were left having to make tough decisions rather than hold our noses and choose between stuff that’s not beer at all, by our definitions (i.e. Budweiser, Coors, and the like). Actually, we probably wouldn’t have held our noses, but rather left and found something else. Fortunately, if you find yourself quite far northeast and away from Duluth, there’s always Green Door in Beaver Bay, which will surely hopefully have something for everyone.
After a quick trip to a grocery store curiously called Zups located in Silver Bay, we at last made our way to our home for the weekend. This adorable little cabin situates itself amongst pines trees that are situated amongst sumac (and pronounce it the proper way, please: “schumak) that are situated amongst ferns that are situated amongst tall grasses that are situated amongst fallen needles and twigs that are situated above the heartiest, blackest soil, all next to a quaint little stream called the Baptism River. And, there’s a sauna, too, heated by a wood burning stove.
Seriously, though: this is perfect. It’s made all the more perfect when you slice up an onion, chop up some carrots, halve some mushrooms, peal some potatoes, cut up a chicken, create a broth of some kind of meat and red wine and whatever spices, do some simmering for a bit, and eat what my friend Amy calls, “Chicken Dinner,” a fantastic concoction of her own sure to delight the senses, best enjoyed when autumn is around the corner, temperatures hovering in the mid teens, with an IPA (or two or three).
But not too many IPAs. For the next morning, let’s just say I felt a bit hungover from a bit too much wine and beer. These things happen to people, you know. And they sometimes happen when least expected, unfortunately, and it’s most unwelcome when they happen when on vacation Up North when leaves tell you in their own way that autumn is just around the corner. On the other hand, however, they can be miraculously cured by some good old fashioned Finnish ways.
Seriously, though: this is perhaps even more perfect. Heat up the sauna to somewhere about the range of the upper 30s, have a bucket of water ready to create steam over heated rocks, sweat things out for a good 30 or 40 minutes, dunk yourself into a river that can’t be much above zero, repeat. And it’s best to do this with all your clothes off.
Headache gone. Just like that.
(Well, the lying down in the cool breeze for two hours, a cup of coffee, and some Ibuprofen probably made a small dent in persuading the headache to leave, too…)
BUT… the dunk in the cold, cold river seemed to make the headache vanish completely and instantly, as if by opening a door that a headache can’t resist going through. Fantastic, really, to be sure!
Incidentally, the Baptism River is the only place on the earth where you can un-baptize yourself. This is especially important for fallen away Catholics like Amy and me who want to be excommunicated from the church, but find un-baptizing the next best thing. This really is the only location on the earth where you can do this: the Baptism River outside Finland, MN.
(Am I joking? I don’t know.)
So, our weekend was generally very much like this: admiring the cool breeze through the trees, enjoying salmon and trout on crackers, sweating out horribleness in a sauna and washing it off in a river where you can be un-baptized, and venturing out to more state parks.
And the state park in question is George H. Crosby Manitou State Park. Now, I’ve been to quite a few state parks in my time (and I have quite a few more to visit), but Crosby State Park is a real gem. We approached the park from Country Road 7, which is a gravel road, and driving on gravel roads always reminds me of growing up outside St. Anna, because for many years that’s what our “street” was until it was paved: a gravel road. Gravel roads also remind me of traveling to horse shows where I would ride upon my father’s horses while he plowed the field with a single blade. And they also remind me of being away from something altogether: away in a way where there are fewer people per whatever measurement.
And Crosby State Park provides that. These are some of the best hiking trails ever, and we happened only upon two groups of people total in our 2 hour woods trek. These trails also aren’t for the amateurs, either, as there is much hiking up and down steepish hills over unforgiving rocks, through trails that look more like desire paths than proper trails, and in order to admire some of the more astounding sites, you have to delicately climb up and over semi-walls of boulders and smaller big rocks. The Middle Trail (yes, that’s its proper name, the Middle Trail) takes you to a quite majestic cascades where the Manitou river plummets over jagged rocks in a display of mesmeric brilliance. In order to really appreciate the full beauty of the cascades up close, you have to be comfortable jumping up and down some somewhat tricky spots between those semi-walls of boulders and smaller big rocks. But, it’s terribly worth it.
But, forget semi-walls of boulders and smaller big rocks when you can visit Palisade Head, a proper wall of solid rock (well, semi-solid as you have to watch your step so you don’t fall into mini crevasses in the ground) that leaves those of us like myself with a weak grasp on approaching with confidence and solid knees sheer drops of quite a few feet, where you can fear for the lives of crazies who like to actually CLIMB ON THESE RIDICULOUS WALLS with nothing saving them except a harness secured to their body attached to a rope that they hope doesn’t lose its grip on whatever its attached itself to.
But, it’s fine. Everything’s fine. Because I’m not climbing on these ridiculous walls. I’ll let others do that for me. The fruits of the endeavors of these young men and women who were climbing Palisade Head showed in their arm and leg muscles muscles and the generally firm state of their bodies that Amy and I admired without allowing ourselves to drool hopelessly.
On our way back to the Twin Cities, we managed to find ourselves having to control our salivary reflexes once again when we finally had our chance to enjoy a late lunch, even though this time it actually was Sunday where you would expect ritual goers to be delighting in traditional after-idolization brunch. I decided to try the Asian steak bowl, and it was fantastic! They’ve also got some wonderful drinks, so I tried the beet lemonade, essentially normal lemonade with a couple tablespoons of beet juice floating atop that you stir around so that your lemonade turns a kind of vibrant purple-red and instead now has that wonderful rooty flavor of beets mixed in with the refreshing zest of lemon and tantalizing overabundance of sugar. Again, do visit Duluth Grill if you have a chance and you’d like to stay away from tourists in Canal Park (as fun as that can be too).
Trips to the North Shore (or Up North in general) are a kind of staple for certain Minnesotans who live in the Twin Cities who require the hustle and bustle of many people, the myriad options for theatre, music, art, and dance, and just the general nicety of having so many amenities available where you can easily cure boredom.
Other trips are also quite welcome, too, especially if your curiosity’s appetite frequently requires much grander ventures to even more foreign lands to satiate its needs, as in just a few short hours I will be on a plane headed towards London, where I shall be enjoying the fantastic life and times of a wonderful people and a wonderful country. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to post as I’m there, but I do intend to post when I return.
But, in the meantime, if London and the UK countryside isn’t quite your style or you need a brief weekend jaunt to get away from it all, make a trip Up North. And perhaps you’ll find some hidden marvelousness in the form of a brilliant cascade of rushing rapids over jagged, knife-like rocks tucked away behind semi-walls of boulders and smaller big rocks.