Lake Superior Journal: Moonrise Serenade

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Recently I lined up next to about 60 other photographers along Minnesota’s North Shore anxiously waiting for the winter moon to rise above Split Rock Lighthouse. Almost everyone had their smartphones or GPS units out to look up the exact coordinates of where and when the moon would appear.

I felt a nostalgic twinge as I thought to myself, “It wasn’t always this way.”

In the early 1980s, Lee Radzak and I both got our dream jobs. Lee was hired as manager of the Split Rock Lighthouse Historic Site, and I got the job as manager at Gooseberry Falls and Split Rock Lighthouse state parks. Few people realize that the lighthouse site and the state park are separate entities, with the Minnesota DNR-run park surrounding the historic site operated by the Minnesota Historical Society. Lee and his family lived at the lighthouse site. My family had the privilege of living in a log-and-stone cabin near the Upper Gooseberry Falls that was constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1934.

Soon Lee and I were working closely together and became friends. Both of us were just developing a love of photography, and we were tuning into the natural cycles of our neck of the north woods. There are definite seasonal attractions for those who get the opportunity – or make the opportunity – to spend time beside the Big Lake. Spring runoff means North Shore rivers swell tenfold from the snow melt. In nearly 30 years as park manager, I was blessed just once to be in the right place at the right time when the Gooseberry River opened up, releasing huge chunks of ice the size of cars to crash over the falls. The roar was incredible.

Another favorite time for me is autumn, and there are two color seasons on Minnesota’s North Shore to enjoy. The red and orange of the maples turn first, followed by the yellow and gold of the aspen and birch. Even with two phases, the spectacular colors pass much too quickly, but November brings some of the best night-sky and aurora borealis viewing. I remember being on the shore one November night when the whole sky lit up with shimmering bands of green, yellow and red. They started directly overhead and cascaded full circle around me. The Lake was calm and the northern lights reflected in its waters – incredible. I sat on a rock entranced by the beauty of the moment.

Then there is the full moon. The moon rises over Lake Superior all year, but the winter months bring the glowing full moon directly behind Split Rock Lighthouse, something Lee and I quickly came to realize in our new homes.

In the early 1980s, there were no roads into the interior of the state park. The only access to what was called “Little Two Harbors” was a hiking and ski trail cutting down the hill from the lighthouse site. Many visitors would access the shore during the day on these trails, but few took advantage of the night views. December, January and February – when the moon rises behind the lighthouse – also happen to be deep winter when temperatures test the lower limits of any thermometer. But some small thing like 20-below temperatures certainly wouldn’t stop Lee and me from viewing – and hopefully photographing – such a magical configuration of moon and lighthouse. At least, that’s what I was thinking when I called Lee just before dark one sub-zero evening. His wife, Jane, answered. “If you are calling at this time,” she quipped, “it must be the full moon.”

I met Lee at his residence, one of the three brick buildings near the lighthouse. We threw our cameras into our backpacks, strapped on our skis and descended the hill to Little Two Harbors. This rock beach is the best location to catch the passing moon. It was all guesswork; no smartphones or GPS units.

That night, as on so many back then, we were by ourselves without another photographer in sight. Not knowing exactly where and when the moon would rise, we set up our tripods based on our best guess and then skied back and forth to keep warm. The moon wasn’t the only attraction on these cold evenings. The north woods come alive with sounds during a winter’s evening. The park’s resident wolf pack howled from the ridgeline overlooking Lake Superior. Rustling and fleeting shadows marked the movement of deer in the birch forest behind us. Some nights, the Lake ice groaned and snapped ominously under the pressure of the moving water and the cold temperatures.

Soon, the appointed time came and a faint glow on the horizon indicated to us where the moon would make its entrance. Sometimes that meant a quick shift of camera and tripod to the best spot. That night the huge orange globe that rose up out of the Lake turned the scene into something that we’ll remember forever. The still Lake, with open water still shimmering, drew the glow to our location. It was like the moon was reaching right out to us.

On this particular night, as my luck would have it, my old film camera got so cold that parts froze. Once I clicked open the shutter, it wouldn’t close until I advanced the film. Necessity and freezing temperatures can be the mother of invention, though. I used my lens cap to capture the right exposure, putting the cap over the lens at the three-second timing to get the best exposure. Later, when I got back the developed film – remember when we had to wait to see the image? – I was surprised that the picture actually came out. Even though I’ve taken better photos since, that remains one of my favorites.

Lee and I often repeated these outdoor winter nighttime adventures, and we’ve never tired of seeing the amazing sight of the full moon rising from the sometimes frozen, sometimes calm or sometimes troubled waters.

Development of park roads and a campground now gives hundreds of visitors the chance to experience what only a handful of us witnessed in the early ’80s. This year it made me long a little for the old days as I looked around at the crowd gathered to view the beautiful moon and the majestic lighthouse. But I wasn’t that selfish for long because, after all, no one should ever own either the inland sea called Lake Superior or the moon that rises above it.

Readers of Lake Superior Magazine or lovers of the Lake Superior Calendar are familiar with the work of Paul Sundberg, retired from his work as manager of Gooseberry Falls and Split Rock Lighthouse state parks and living in Grand Marais, Minnesota, with his wife, Karla. Paul got his first 35mm SLR camera while serving in the military at Fort Bliss, Texas. He continues to take photographs and to confound local wildlife with frequent visits and antics.

Just a note about Paul’s humor and the “rest of the story” on this lighthouse tale: Just as the moon was breaking the edge of the water on a definitely chilly night, Paul yelled to the other photographers, “I hope you all have your moon-shooting park permit. If not you can get them back up the hill at the visitor center!” Luckily most knew Paul was joking – though the reviews on this stand-up act may be mixed!