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Ruth Anne Olson
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Wintery shores near the author’s cabin not far from Grand Marais, Minnesota.2 of 3
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Ruth Anne Olson
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Ruth Anne Olson
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The author and her husband called the original cabin on their lakeshore property a “shieling,” the Scottish word for a crude hut in a wild place, but it was warm enough for winter visits.As I stand to toss a newly cut length of stove wood onto a pile nearby, I’m startled to see an unfamiliar brilliant red light on the nearby shore. Large, round, glowing with the scarlet intensity of an emergency signal, it hangs close to the ground.
January’s bitter cold has abated in Lake Superior’s woods on this late afternoon, where I’ve been, warmed body and soul by the exertion of work and the sound of our hand bow saw grinding through the soft fiber of a fallen balsam. But now I’m dumbfounded. Knowing it’s impossible for a searchlight to make its way to our isolated rock-jumbled shore, I hold my breath with dread as I creep to the edge of the trees.
And there it is. Not an alien force close at hand, as I feared, but the sun. Millions of miles away. Fire-red, enlarged and sharply defined by color and atmosphere as it sinks toward the earth. I shiver at its beauty hanging low to the horizon atop a band of dark winter clouds. And then in a breath, like an immensely heavy rock, it drops from sight, leaving the world dull with thickening dark. Such is winter in the northern forest. Intense. Dramatic. Stories unfold over minutes or months, then disappear, leaving no hint of what was.
My first experience of winter in Minnesota’s north woods was in March 1984 when my husband, Tony, and I came with three of our children for a laughter-filled weekend of campfires, food, cold and discovery.
Lake Superior welcomed us with two days of splendor. Miles of deep blue and green ice reflected the cerulean hue of a cloudless sky. Nudged by breezes hinting of spring, the ice tinkled, crackled and rumbled – an orchestra of violins and English horns accented by a mournful clarinet, kettle drums, and an occasional grace note of bells. On arrival we stood transfixed, repeatedly trying without success to locate movement that might signal from whence a sound came.
Throughout the cold day, as we cooked lunch, played on an ice slope and sat reading in natural caves of rock and snow, the Lake continued its symphony performance. Then suddenly. Late in the afternoon. Silence. Without warning. Absent perceptible changes in volume, tempo or direction. Abruptly, the world was still.
In years since, we’ve heard this wonder countless times, yet still have no clue of how or why.
One of my greatest privileges during winter on Lake Superior happened some years later. Tony and I came on Friday to find snow-filled woods and a Lake of open water. Consumed by the necessary chores of camping in February, time passed quickly until on Sunday afternoon I went to stand on the shore one final time before our long drive home to Minneapolis. Bitter cold was sharp against my face, and the air was silent as I stood facing the inland sea.
With faint crackling sounds, the water grew dense, moving slowly as if becoming heavy. Where water met rock, a delicate skin began to form, then ever-so-slowly thickened and moved outward from the shore. Within minutes, its sounds strengthened and deepened, and in all directions before me, water became hard – soon so solid as to resist the thrust of my boot. Silent snow began to fall, caressing my cheeks and settling on my nose and lashes. As Tony came to stand with me on the now-whitening rocks, we dared not speak. When he reached for my hand, I shuddered with awe and unspeakable joy — witness to the Lake’s freezing and to the smallness of our own beings.
Not every winter fills the Lake with ice along our shore. Often we watch the temperature drop to zero – even 15 and 20 degrees colder still – and speak our disappointment at weeks and months of open water. But we’ve come to know that days of cold, with ice or without, will bring unexpected rewards to those willing to pay attention – to watch, to listen, to focus from self to the larger world.
With temps well below zero one morning, the sun shone brightly when we woke, and the Lake sparkled azure blue. Warmed by hot chocolate, we looked across the expanse of open water to see a vast skyline far out to sea. In the bright sun, tops of shimmering towers and low-slung buildings spread for miles along the horizon where we knew none existed. We looked through binoculars, then telescope – surprised to discover that magnification did little to dissipate the illusion’s solidity.
The sun rose higher in the sky. Scattered clouds scuttled from west to east while still the metropolis of air and light remained. As the day wore on, our fascination dulled, and we turned to other pastimes, remembering only occasionally to check the “city” to our south. In early afternoon, it was gone.
At noon another day, I looked toward a haze-filled sky to see streaks of brilliant green and soft red pointing to the sun – a sun pillar. It lingered for several long minutes before the color was absorbed by the white air in which the streaks had hung. It seemed unreal, as if it was my mind afire, pushing the limits of what nature can do.
Yet another winter day started calm, with the water still and blue. By mid-morning, ripples began to form in a strengthening breeze, and we heard a far-off grinding sound of moving ice. As the wind strengthened, giant slabs of ice moved toward our shore on the crests of breaking swells. Small bays became choked with slush and froze in sub-zero air.
Ice rode the crests of the now-thundering waves, flying into the air before tumbling onto the whitened shore. Still the waves grew, tossing their solidified cousins ever higher, soon obscuring our view of the Lake, which bellowed, now unseen, behind a 10-foot wall of ice.
Like a giant’s hand, waves repeatedly hurled tons of ice that glittered in the sunlight, before falling, shattering and tumbling down the inland face of the ever-growing line of peaks.
Months later the mountain range still stood – diminished, but sculpted by time into frozen crests overhanging the water. Hardened waves now turned back upon themselves, dripping in spring sunshine, returning to the Lake from which they’d sprung.
By April, the sun’s rays strengthen – their heat molding winter’s ice into porous formations. For many years, two boulders on our shore had been favorite summer sitting places. One winter they lay capped with wind-blown ice – the two joined as in a kiss. Through many months their lips of snow appeared warm with passion, seemed sealed with affection. But as daylight lengthened and the sun burned stronger, the lovers pulled apart. Tears dripped from an emerging circle of rock. And soon the boulders sat once again hard and black. Months later, a summer storm tumbled them into the freshwater sea.
Spring turns Lake Superior into a vast ballroom, filled with hundreds of soft doughnut-shaped rings of weakened ice that swish with sounds like crinoline-puffed taffeta skirts. Atop the Lake’s undulating swells, each turns and swirls with disciplined grace while an unseen orchestra of wind and water plays muted accompaniment. Or ice in spring sometimes becomes a steady flow of weary refugees, the wind blowing broken slabs in slow unvaried pace east to west. Coerced by forces unseen they pass, dulled into forgetfulness of what they’ve left, not knowing where they go. Hour after hour they pass, speaking only in whispers as the day fades toward sunset.
And so the earth and the Lake’s moods continue to turn. Day gains parity with night; open water gains dominance over ice; and black rock emerges from beneath white snow. In the circle of seasons, each replays its role on this vast stage of the inland sea.
This issue’s Journal: Ruth Anne Olson, a retired educator, and her husband, Anthony Morley, a retired editor, have been legal stewards of a patch of North Shore forest and shore rocks since 1983. Living in Minneapolis, retirement leaves them free to enjoy visits to the far north during all seasons. They also spend time in Haiti, working to tell the stories of the strong, amazing people they meet. Ruth Anne’s first story for this magazine “We Shall Have to Take Care,” (August-September 2010), won a Gold Award for Essay from the International Regional Magazine Association.