SEMI-REGULAR RAMBLINGS Archive

In the last week of July, we met a couple of friends of ours, who come home to Duluth for a couple of summer months each year, at the Rose Garden, at 13th Avenue East and London Road. We hadn’t walked through the garden this summer, and glancing at it as we drove past indicated it might be nearly at a peak.

It was a great experience. The roses on thousands of bushes, arranged in several circles and several other concentric circles, had tightly petaled flowers of stunningly beautiful colors. As I wandered, I liked ones that had a light red that grew darker as it circled from the center, and a yellowish center. I named it as my favorite. Amazing what nature can do, even nature prodded by incredibly patient hybrid-breeders.

Then I got to the next group, and bushes of brilliant orange flowers caught my eye, and I put my “favorite” tag on hold. Good thing, because then we came to some deeper, darker reds, some fresh pinks, and on…and on.

What could be more beautiful, we thought. We agreed, something more beautiful probably didn’t exist.

Then last Thursday (August 13), my wife, Joan, and I were looking for a short bit of exercise, and as the light faded following sunset we decided to park in the Rose Garden lot and connect to the hiking trail through the garden. We cut through a couple of those circular layouts, and stopped in our tracks. All of the flowers, which had been so impressive as fist-sized three weeks earlier, with their petals layered so tightly, had now expanded — growing to about softball size, with their spectacular petals draped wide, as though outlining the barely-contained beauty within.

Unfortunately, the gathering darkness prevented us from fully appreciating the colors of the expanded roses, and we agreed we’d have to come back during sunlight the next day. By chance, the same couple called the next day, and we suggested meeting once again at the Rose Garden.

As our dusky suspicions hinted, the Rose Garden looked like an entirely different place with the now-huge flowers taking full ownership. A group of people working on the maintenance crew were hustling about.  I asked a young fellow, who was peeling away the outermost petals of some of the more-advanced flowers. He noted that every person who visits the Rose Garden is astonished at the beauty and the diversity of the dozens — hundreds? — of different breeds and hybrids. He also noted that almost all of the people who stop in to visit the place are tourists, or visitors passing through.

It seems as though, like many others things, people who live some place do it because they like the area, but so often they take the best things for granted. I thought of Duluth itself, and how some people passionately coexist with Lake Superior, in harsh weather and otherwise, while others want to live up over the hill, out of sight of the big lake, and out of reach of its often-chillier temperatures.

The Lakewalk is one such place. Many residents take advantage of its easy strolling attitude, from Canal Park to Leif Erickson Park, and now beyond, out to 40th Avenue East. But a great number of those walking on the Lakewalk are visitors, and tourists. And an enormous number of Duluthians don’t ever go near the Lakewalk. Too bad.

The Rose Garden, however, remains a Duluth treasure. If you’re driving into town on the freeway, instead of on London Road, you won’t even see it, so you won’t know what you’ve missed. But if you think about it, and you’re looking for a way to lift your spirits, or make you appreciate the true, simple pleasures of nature, take a break from the routine.

Stop, and smell the roses.

A young wolf on Hwy. 1 between Ely and Lake Superior kept us entertained with a real-world spectacle of deep woods emotion.

There are a lot of good reasons to drive up to Ely anytime you get a chance.

One is that it’s a neat little town, with a nice big hill right in the middle of main street that gives the town a lot more character than the hundreds of flat little Minnesota towns. There is much more to Ely than the hill, however.

It’s an outfitter town, with several well-fixed shops to set up every camper from novice to expert as they head off east of town for the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. On the way out of town, they’ll see the wolf center, which is another neat touch. Back in town, the Chocolate Moose is one of the best restaurants in the state, or any state.  A varied and gourmet-style menu is followed with some outstanding fruit pies or other delicacees for dessert. Will Steger, our own Polar explorer, and Paul Schurke, one of his trusted associates, both have shops in town, selling high-tech survival gear against cold weather.

My favorite shop is a tiny little leather place, called Henry’s Shoe Repair. Inside, Henry makes the most fantastic belts in the history of the world. Nothing fancy, just thick, strong belts that go ‘way beyond mere leather. “Moosehide,” said Henry, showing us two widths in either brown or black. He didn’t have to tell me. For $30, I already owned a thick brown one and a thinner black one. But the thin black one got left behind in the security bin at the Detroit airport when I neglected to take it off going through the radar thing. When I realized it, I tried to stick it into the bin with my other stuff, but the security types wouldn’t allow it and put it into a separate bin coming along behind the people behind me. I was on the plane, reaching to stow something in the overhead bin, when I realized my pants were less determined to stay up than usual. The belt! My prize belt, gone. So this trip to Ely gave me the chance to replace it.

We had a good time driving from Duluth to Two Harbors, then North on Hwy. 2 until it meets Hwy. 1 en route to Ely. That’s a great stretch of road, if you have a good car to test drive, and I had a Jaguar XF-R — a great car. Coming back, I suggested we should stay on 1 past that junction, and head south toward Finland, where they used to have a strategic jet fighter base, and on to Beaver Bay for our return along Hwy. 61 to Duluth. It was a good suggestion, because I was driving. So we went thataway.

A few miles south of the 2 cutoff, we rounded a curve and I saw an animal. First I thought it was a deer, but it looked more like a dog. Then I realized it was a young wolf. I stopped, abruptly, and a couple blocks ahead, an SUV coming northbound also had stopped, and it looked like there were two dogs down by it, a black and a grey one. The young wolf near us obviously hadn’t been exposed to humans or cars enough to have any fear, but it ran past us to get on our north side.

Then it commenced to yip-yip-yip-HOWL, and it did it repeatedly. We realized then that those two dogs we saw down the road weren’t dogs, either, but wolves — probably the mom and pop of the young wolf near us. I turned the Jag sideways in the road, since nobody was coming, and shot a few photos, and even a couple video clips, of the wolf as it kept returning to the highway to howl for its parents.

I drove past the wolf, thinking I could herd it southward, toward its parents, but each time it would run past me, heading north, then dart off into the woods. But as soon as we turned around and started heading south, the young wolf would come back out on the highway and resume its howling routine.

The trip to Ely was really fun, the North Shore of Lake Superior on our drive back was breathtaking, as usual. But I had never seen a real wolf, howl a real howl, ever before in this lifetime. It was nothing short of unforgettable, and now I want to make that drive every week. Hit the restaurant, eat the pie, buy a belt, shop a little, but on the way back, keep your eyes peeled for anything resembling a wolf.

It wasn’t a long airplane ride, just from Detroit to Minneapolis, so the benefit of a first-class upgrade was marginal, since it just meant a couple of bags of peanuts and a can of fruit juice, or Coke, even though we were a bit late. I sat in an aisle seat, and a fellow with white hair was by the window. We sort of nodded to each other, but there was no particular need to speak. I’ve taken on the idea that many travelers would just as soon avoid small talk as make it, and if my seat partner talks, we’ll talk.

I plugged in my iPod earbuds after we got airborne, and listened to a lilttle Waylon, a little Lyle Lovett, and a little Emmylou, then we were descending into the Twin Cities.  I unplugged, and as the fellow glanced my way, I asked if he was from Minnesota or Detroit. “Neither,” he said. “I started in Ohio, and I”m making a connection in Minneapolis to fly to Iceland for a couple of days, courtesy of my company.”

It turned out, his connection was going to be ultra-close, and I told him it would be critical which gate we came into, and which gate he was departing from. He checked his ticket, and I realized he had to go to the Humphrey (international) terminal. I told him when we hit the gate, he should hustle to jump on the tram, go to the terminal, then catch the light rail from the Lindbergh to the Humphrey terminal. It seemed to take forever to get to the gate, and we were ‘way down on the C Concourse.

My wife, Joan, was picking me up, and I confirmed she was close by cell-phone as we got to the gate. I walked with the fellow, and pointed to the tram place, where he could still probably make it. Or have the best shot at it. Then I started walking toward the terminal. I glanced back and saw him asking another guy about the tram, then he got on board — heading exactly the wrong direction, away from the terminal! I kept walking, worrying now about this poor guy and wishing I’d spent more time talking to him. I’ve never been to Iceland, not had he been, but my younger son was there once and told me how fantastic a place it was. Oh well, I thought. I hope the fellow makes his connection.

As I got to the terminal, the next tram was pulling up, and, sure enough, the fellow got off, clearly exasperated over his unplanned tram tour of the far reaches of the terminal. I waited for him, and said, “C’mon with me.” I told him my wife was waiting for me outside, and that we were going to go west on I-494 anyway, which meant we’d be going right past the Humphrey Terminal, and the only chance he had was to go with us. We walked hurriedly outside, I waved to Joan, and as she got out of the car, I explained, quickly, that we were going to give this guy a ride to the other terminal. We tossed our bags inside, jumped in, and I hustled over, cutting across the road where we used to go to watch planes take off, and zipped right to the Humphrey. I told him our names, and he gave me his, but I had no way to write it down, and there’s no way I can remember it.

The guy jumped out, thanking us profusely, and I told him it was no problem, but he had to get going to make it through security. Off he went, a big smile on his face, and we drove off. I’m sure he made it, because we got to the terminal before he would have even reached the light-rail downstairs. I hope he had a great weekend. It was  just a small favor, but it’s a really good feeling to know that a little favor that was no trouble at all for us may have allowed him to make his connection instead of starting out with a travel disaster if he’d missed it. I’m sure he won’t remember my name, either, but as our two ships passed in the night, I’m glad we could help him out.

By John Gilbert

How could there be better weather for the Fourth of July weekend? Duluth was the scene of mid-70s, clear skies, bright sun, great fireworks, and the whole deal on the Fourth. We sat on tiny folding chairs amid thousands at Bayfront Park, listening to the Duluth-Superior symphony after a couple of F-16s did a thrilling flyover by the harbor.

The fireworks were outstanding over the harbor, as usual, and we sat behind a couple from New Ulm that was visiting Duluth and the North Shore for the first time.

It was the next day, though, Sunday the Fifth, that we added to our enjoyment, and it spilled over to Monday, July 6. On Sunday, I was finishing up a week’s test-drive of a Porsche Carrera 4 S Cabrio, and while my wife,  Joan,  ordinarily doesn’t agree to top-down driving, she agreed this time because it was such a perfect day. We headed up the North Shore, to fantastic light traffic — more coming south on their return than going our way — and we drove past my favorite candy shop in Knife River, and my favorite breakfast place in Two Harbors, and headed on up to Silver Bay, and then further north, through Little Marais. Along the way, I noticed the steep bluffs of Palisade, and wondered why we had never stopped there.

We continued up the shore, and got to Satellite’s restaurant, one of our favorite stops on any trip up the Shore, because the meals are good-ol’ homecooked type, and the homemade pies are superb. I used to wonder about the name of the place, because Satellite is also the name of a company that makes portable toilets. But the owners of Satellite came up with the name back when they were opening, and the sky was so clear there that they could easily spot the various satellites as they sailed above.  We ate barbecued shortribs,  boiled potatos, cole slaw and mixed vegetables for $11.99, then a piece of blueberry pie. My miscommunication caused me instead to be faced with a piece of blueberry cheesecake, with graham cracker crust, so I “suffered” through it without protest.

Palisade cliffs

On our way back, still in late afternoon, we pulled our Porsche into the entrance to Palisade Head. A tiny dirt road faced us, and two people were departing in a Jeep Wrangler. “You’ve got the whole place to yourself,” the driver shouted. “Nobody’s there.” We continued ahead, up the steep ridge and then down to a neat little parking area, right near the abrupt cliff that forms Palisade Head, dropping a couple hundred feet(?) to Lake Superior. The view was spectacular, all around, as was the hiking along little trails right up to the precipice. Great spot for a picnic, we figured, if we had need of one.  Also just a another of the many wonders of the North Shore.

We cruised on back toward Duluth, with Highway 61 virtually without traffic because all the families heading home had already gone on ahead. We had time to relax briefly, and then we decided to drive downtown and take in a late movie (”The Proposal”) in Duluth. I heard later that we had missed the brief turn out into Lake Superior done by the Guardian, the tall sailing ship from Milwaukee that was making its first visit to Duluth. Oh well, how much pleasure can you put into one day?