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Naming the Sparrow
 Arriving
at the office in late August, I glanced (as I often do) out my window
toward the lake. The sun barely cleared the water, shooting a sharp
strip of light toward shore. Something in the sparkling water caught my
eye - a peculiar thrashing.
Remembering the old voyageur reports of mermen - one can
always hope for a sighting - I dashed into our publisher’s office
(where the binoculars are), then focused on the water. Someone was
swimming beside the shore. Judging by the rubber swim cap, it was not a
merman. Soon another, then another and yet another swimmer cleared the
building that had blocked them from my view. Their strokes were strong;
they seemed to know what they were doing.
A chill speared my spine. I would have felt less uneasy had I spotted mermen.
Frequent jokes peg Lake Superior as too cold for swimming. It
is chilly; in summer we call it “refreshing.” We don’t talk as often
about the lake’s swift shifts of mood, current and weather that make
Sunday swimmers like myself wary of full athletic undertakings in the
water, even relatively short shore-hugging jaunts.
The better prepared find the lake a challenge. For three
years, long-distance swimmer Jim Dreyer has tried to cross directly
from Grand Portage, Minnesota, to Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula. By
Lake Superior’s terms, a 60-some mile crossing is moderate: the lake’s
full north-south stretch is 160 miles and the full east-west stretch
382 miles. By human standards, of course, Jim’s swim is impressive … by
any stretch of any imagination. But for a third year, Jim aborted the
crossing and his Website declared: “Lake Superior Wins Again.”
Jim did not lose. If he wishes to try again next year, he
can. Many swimmers, anglers, kayakers and sailors have not been as
lucky. In the past few years, sudden riptides have caused drownings in
Duluth, Minnesota, and near Munising, Michigan. Strong kayakers have
lost their lives in surging waves near Grand Marais, Minnesota. Stories
and songs memorialize entire ships sunk and crews gone in the
not-so-distant past. Generations ago this temperamental water spawned
Ojibway tales of Michipeshu, the horned lynx of the lake whose tail
smashes the unaware or the disrespectful. Knowing the lake, I believe
in the lynx. Respectful awe tempers my love of Lake Superior.
Yet the lake can be helpful or playful. When a sailor
accidentally fell from a freighter near the Keweenaw a few years ago,
unseasonably warm waters and a strong shore-directed current aided his
swim to safety. I suspect he was grateful that his splash did not waken
Michipeshu. In a much earlier time, the lake did not help, but did not
topple the legendary Father Frederic Baraga when he traveled from
Madeline Island in an open rowboat through a lake storm. The cross at
Cross River, Minnesota, marks where the dear father (and no doubt the
trembling oarsman who transported him) gave thanks for good fortune.
As long as I could, I kept those swimmers in sight. They
disappeared behind the last of the hotels. No doubt they turned in
there, before the canal and its erratic currents. But I wish I had seen
them walking on land again … safe from mermen and lynx. It is, after
all, a very big lake.
Konnie LeMay
Editor
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