Find a group of people who challenge and inspire you; spend a lot of time with them, and it will change your life.
Amy Poehler
…not that St. Peter’s Dome, the one in Northern Wisconsin at the end of a long drive up and down ancient Lake Superior shoreline and waves of leftover moraine from the last, aptly named Wisconsin, ice age. The car is full with four of us who are spending the weekend in a wee cabin on the edge of the wilderness – Richard, Chris, John (our host) and me – and we fly as if on a sleigh, only scattered dirt holding the tires onto the road.
The parking lot is huge and hints at the number of people who come here to hike the moderately difficult 4-mile out-and-back to the highest point in the Chequamegon (pronounced shu-WAH-meh-gun) Wilderness of Northern Wisconsin. Known to locals as “Old Baldy, the views from 1,600 feet are supposed to be spectacular looking towards the Bayfield Peninsula jutting into Lake Superior and the Apostle Islands as if tossed pebbles following behind. We’ve kayaked extensively through the Apostles and perhaps this hike will whet the appetite for the coming paddling season.
But what should we take with us, is the first question upon arrival. The trail looks packed and snowshoes seem a bit much. We settle on a combination of slip-on traction (Yak Trax) plus ski or trekking poles then head out with only one backpack filled with water and bananas.
Another couple leads the way as we trudge towards the magnificent bridge over a tiny frozen creek. This minor trickle never received a name until four-letter ones were attached to it in 2016. That year, torrential rains took out most of the culverts and bridges throughout the forest as well as miles of road which just peeled off their foundation like mud. It took years to repair, but the Highway Department and Forest Service decided to go all out and ensure an event of this magnitude wouldn’t be able to create the same sort of damage.
It’s funny to marvel at a man-made object in the wilderness, but this one of two enormous bits of steel attached in the middle is pretty amazing. None of us has a clue how it was put in place. Helicopter? More likely, driven in here. What follows is a long boardwalk, also reinforced and solid. Two inches of packed snow cover each and we cruise through, chattering away.
The day is forecast to be warmer and cloudy, more a refrigerator than a freezer. I quickly heat up and remove my hat and gloves, taking Richard’s. My pack explodes when I unzip in the snow and I think I cram everything in. The sun comes out, blazing through the trees and glaring off fresh snow. Long shadows grow on this late winter morning, dark blue.
I remember a time with my friend Debby in the Boundary Waters when we planned to walk several miles on frozen lakes to see Native American pictographs. The day was gloomy but we packed our sunglasses anyway and ended up needing them as the sky cleared and the sun shone – enough for not only sunglasses but also to remove our shirts. It’s not quite as tantalizing now, but all things glisten – needles at the end of a fanning hemlock, oily bark on a peeling yellow birch, the snow itself in chunky crystals. A faded and curling ash leaf vibrates in the soft breeze. I step off trail momentarily, and sink in to my knees.
This area is considered “second-growth” hardwood forest, lumberjacks eradicating every last White Pine in the Nineteenth Century. No longer an ancient mesic forest, the woods are dominated by sugar maple, black ash, white cedar, and yellow birch. Why this dome is here at all is because of a fracture in Keweenawan granite that’s exposed near-vertical cliffs. Surely it’s a glorious place to visit in early spring when it’s a mass of wildflowers including trillium, trout lilies, bellwort and spring beauty – but it must be jam packed in autumn, too, dressed in deep reds, oranges and yellows.
Today, we all agree, is perfect in its silence and clear views – plus no bugs! We head steeply down over a creek we can’t see through hear its trickle, then up where we catch the two people we met in the parking lot. A blue marker seems to suggest the trail moves straight ahead, but there’s no longer packed snow or even much of a posthole-trail. The woman leads a zig zag up a sharp face and promptly falls into a drift up to her waist.
I offer Richard one of my trekking poles and suggest he use it like an ice ax, ensuring it’s dug in before stepping forward. We both advance slowly and have a good laugh that such an “easy” outing would require actual skills. Chickadees chatter and hiss from the trees above and one lone blackbird barks out a caw. The couple flies up and then back down without a word. Perhaps the view was not good enough?
Just as they reach us, we look left and see the obvious and far easier trail we missed. The angle eases as we head over the top and towards the view. The wind howls and I need my hat and gloves, but when I open my pack, the hat is gone! It must have dropped out when I let everything explode in the snow at the beginning of the trail.
Richard has a skull cap and lets me wear his wool one as I grab a few selfies before retreating. Clouds build in the distance and I start to feel cold, realizing my feet are soaked from the deep snow. Retracing our steps is easy and I break down all the bridges of snow between footsteps to try and create a more packed trail for the next visitor. I even draw a few arrows with my trekking pole up the “correct” trail knowing it’s all for naught with snow on the way tonight. Maybe someone can use it this afternoon.
The trees squeak and moan high above as the wind picks up and all our glorious sun disappears. The forest is dark now, slightly menacing. We’re together in a foursome and not going far, but we took very little should anything go wrong. Up and down we go, the track getting easier with each step. Soon we reach the turn off for Morgan Falls and walk into a grotto with pink cliffs, 60 feet high surrounding us.
It’s magical in here, the narrow falls frozen solid with only a small burble below our feet. During reconstruction, handicap access was added to this spot and it only seems fair to share such a delightful place with everyone. In summer, the stone is covered in moss and the water steps down one cataract after another sideways along the cliff into a pool surrounded by ferns. Frozen now, we step close to the the wall covered in deep snow.
Sharp icicles dyed a rootbeer brown by decaying tannins protrude from the rock and Richard can’t resist making a little music on the “pipes.” As we return, I lag behind to snap pictures and study the footprints in the fresh snow. The boys call for me to come quick and get out my camera. I head up to them hoping they’ve come across some unusual find.
That find, is my favorite hat, placed on a twig at eye level so I wouldn’t miss it. Ah, the advantages of an out-and-back.
