Day 9: Boat Rides And Bullwinkle

Friday, June 21, 2013

Breakfast was at the casino.  Natalie and I basically never spoke. All we could do was listen in horror (and chuckle) at the fellow the next table over who droned on and on about nothing and everything at the same time. His dining partner (a work buddy perhaps?) said almost nothing in the 30 minutes we were there.  There was the occasional “Oh yeah….” Or “Uh-huh….” That was it.  If you see me trapped in conversation with such an individual, please just shoot me. 

At the posted time, Natalie and I had the car parked and the gear on the dock for the boat ride to Isle Royale National Park! While only 15 -20 miles from Canada or Minnesota, it is officially a part of Michigan, believe it or not.  Obviously used by Native Americans for centuries, the island has seen its share of mining and recreation (in the form of lodges and retreats).  It became a National Park in 1940 and was officially designated as a Biosphere Reserve on February 17, 1981. Folks, this place is for real.

But first, you have to get there. Two choices.  Take a boat from Minnesota or Copper Harbor, Michigan.  If you like planes, you can fly in.  It’s a float plane, by the way. There are no airports. 

Then you spend 50 gillion dollars a night and stay at the lodge on the island’s east end.  Or, commit to multiple days of back packing and live out of a tent.  Transportation does not run seven days a week.  In the end, it is two extremes, neither of which suited Natalie and I. 

This year, however, marks the first year where one could rent a cabin. Based at Windigo, the cabins sleep six people, have a gas grill in the front yard and showers are a short walk down trail.  Price, you ask?  50 bucks.  You can’t beat that. Bring your own meal or buy them from the store at the boat dock and you are set.  Our plan?  One night and two near full days.  A grill while camping? Enjoying a steak or turkey burgers with sage andpears? How can you beat that? 

Of course, this was all in the planning. We had to ride the boat first. Let me be very clear here. This.  Boat. Ride. Absolutely.  Sucked.  I mean sucked bad. 

Considering it was not even raining, it was a mess.  High winds created the chop and spray. The spray flew over the boat and just rained down the poopdeck were many people were hanging out.  While some people retreated into the cabin, I did not.  Despite the fog, I still knew my horizon.  I did not want to lose it. I would rather stay outside and get soaked then soak someone (Natalie?) in my vomit when I blew chunks all over the place in the cabin.  No, I was not certain to get sick, but I just didn’t want to risk it.

So I stayed outside.  The pitch. The roll.  The spray.  The grief. With no birds to distract you (I was waiting for storm petrel!), all you could think about was how much longer the boat ride was going to be.  Sadly, the weather and waves prevented us from seeing the lighthouse or the 1928shipwreck as we approached the island.  I was soaked from mid-thighs to my toes. I don’t say that lightly – I was soaked.  Standing in a river would have had the same end result.

After about an hour (maybe more?) we reached Windigo.  A tiny man in a white suit with a funny accent was jumping up and down as he pointed at us.  I couldn’t hear what he was saying.  A different employee, functioning in part as a bellhop, greeted us and took our bags to our cabin. That, ladies and gentlemen, is camping.  While they were doing that, we attended an interpretive walk with other folks from the boat.  Cool stuff.

After the failure of finding Pink Lady’s Slippers on the Keweenaw Peninsula, the interpreter showed them to us.  What a slick flower. The audible gasp in the group was Natalie. Textbook stuff here, people. The “gasp with the open hand on the chest” just like you see in the movies.  She was diggin’ it. 

The leftover pizza from the Casino (minus the ticks) made for a super lunch before we set off on our 4 miles hike to Grace’s Overlook.  A moose had been observed swimming the harbor. Double-timing down the trail, we arrived just in time to Bullwinkle the final leg of his swim before he made land fall and thundered off down the trail.

This is key stuff, by the way.  One of the key reasons for this entire trip was for Natalie to see a moose.  It doesn’t get much better than this!

The hike took us to the overlook were we munched pistachios on rocks that are literally over two and half billion years old – I don’t care what these clowns say! A Wilson's Snipe was winnowing the distance.  CanadaDogwood, Canada Mayflower, and Baneberry carpeted the forest floor. Natalie, sweet thing that she is, attracted a handsome devil. No, not me. It was a moth called a Spear-backed Black Moth. We estimate it stayed on her hand for at least a full mile. No joke. 

After a quick dinner (with some beer bought at the camp store (the Lift Bridge Brown Ale (#1461) from the Keweenaw Brewing Company)) , we hustled off to another interpretive program conducted by one of the island’s many researchers.

Wanna see wolves on Isle Royale? Ya better hurry….

Isle Royale is home to one of the world’s longest predator-prey studies on the planet.   For over 50 years, researchers have been studying moose and wolves and how they interact.  Moose populations have gone up and down over the decades for various reasons. Fine.  Wolves? Sorta of the same story. Up and down.  However, in the last decade, it has been more down than up.  In fact, they are disappearing.

Two reasons. One. Some dufous brought their dog to the island. It was infected with parvo-virus.  Since a wolf is a dog, a number of them were wiped out.  Two, the island is isolated from other wolf populations. The Isle Royale wolves have been in-breeding for a long time and are starting to suffer the consequences. Big time. With only EIGHT wolves left on the island, their days could easily be numbered.    Perhaps in the next three or four years, they will be gone.  That’s it.

They faced this situation a few years back. Using DNA studies of poops and watching the animals, researchers identified a new comer.  Apparently, this monster-sized wolf walked across the ice from Canada and rejuvenated the gene pool. A positive impact was noted in the numbers, but that effect has worn off. 

Time is running out.

Speaking of time, it was time to see some stars. With summer solstice upon us, it would have been nice to star-gaze from the middle of Lake Superior.  Sure, it means the day is the longest of the year, but it sounds cool, right?  Maybe we could even the Northern Lights?  Nah.  The island had been socked in with fog from the minute we landed….

Day 8: Connecticuts and Canoes

Thursday, June 20, 2013

The sun came up and off we went.  We left the tent standing.  That is how it works when you on a mission.  With a scheduled turnaround time of 0800 hours, we find Natalie a Connecticut Warbler, or, we don’t.  In either case, with some known miles ahead of us, we didn’t have all day.

Driving roads we had previously overlooked the day before, we finally heard the “Chippy-Chipper-Chippy-Chipper” song.  Finally!  For at least 30 minutes, we walked and paced and looked for the little bugger but to no avail.

We never saw him.

I was prepared to wait longer for Natalie’s sake (I’ve seen them before), but she was ready to go.  Not in defeat.  Not with her head hung low.  She was ready to go as she has demonstrated, repeatedly, that she is a mentally stable adult.  Sure, she could have pouted and poo-pooed the lost opportunity, but she is not like that.  She is not prepared to waste hours of vacation looking for a silly bird that is tantalizingly close.  She certainly won’t lie about it later (unlike the other frauds and cons that have infiltrated the ranks of our wonderful hobby).  Besides, as we rationalized our schedule, the Connecticut Warbler breeds in Michigan. We could make a weekend of it in the future.

In any case, the probable wolf tracks in the sandy road were cool. No photo. I’m an idiot.

I did, however, get this photo of a Broad-winged Hawk. Meh…

With that, we returned to camp, broke it down and set out for Minnesota.  Crossing the Bong Bridge into Duluth, we made our north along Lake Superior’s west shore.  Fog gave way to rain.  The scenic route was hardly scenic.  Scenic soup. Yeah, that’s what we’ll call it. 

A horribly botched GPS entry for a local brewery resulted in us missing it by 20 miles.  Really.  20 miles.  Even if I did it right, it was closed anyhow (it is not a seven-day-a-week operation).  Instead, we blundered into the town of Finland (population: nobody).  At the local diner, Sarah Palin waited on us.  At least it looked like her.  Sounded like her.  Wait. The waitress had a brain. Nope, couldn’t be Sarah.  Nat and I enjoyed the newly acquired Lost Trout Brown Ale (#1460) from the Third StreetBrewhouse.  Yummy yum. I mean it. Really damned good.  Did I say we liked it?

After a brief stop at the Two Harbors lighthouse, we made it to Grand Portage with about 2 hours to enjoy Grand Portage National Monument.  It was not enough time, but what an awesome place…

No longer will I listen to people bragging about how tough they think they are.  Outside of Navy SEALS, the Voyageurs were about as tough as you can get.  

Short and stocky, but strong, they paddled 40-foot canoes loaded full of metal trade goods from Montreal (yes, that Montreal) to Grand Portage, Minnesota.  Hustling 10-14 hours a day at 55 strokes a minutes was typical.  The meals sucked. The bugs sucked (literally and figuratively).  The weather could easily suck.  The tobacco you smoked (to keep accurate time) probably killed you just like it does today.  But they did it.

Once in Grand Portage, the suckitude continued. The goods (literally tons per canoe) were carried over land eight miles to bypass the falls of the lower Pigeon River.  It was re-loaded into smaller canoes which fanned out across the central part of the continent.  Throughout the summer, at various trading posts, the metal goods were traded for beaver pelts.  Packaged conveniently into 90-pound bundles, the return trip was made….all the way to Montreal. 

Keep in mind, the voyageurs were the muscle.  They moved the stuff. They were not responsible for prices or trade.  They simply got supplies from point A to point B.  You might think of them as truckers of their era. I wonder if they played silly games on the open lakes like these guys did?

This went on for decades.  Literally tons of goods (both fur coming out and metal goods going in) passed through Grand Portage during its hey-day.  The Fur Trade was one of the leading economic activities of its time.  It was huge. It was global. And Grand Portage was a North American epicenter. 

Standing on the original footprint (as proven by archaeological digs), the Grand Hall served as a headquarters for the North West Fur Company and was the center of both business and social activities.  While the fire detectors are not period 1801 either, the opportunity to walk through the hall was cool. History speaks. 

We also had a chance to walk “the trail” used by the Voyageurs when carrying the gear over land past the Pigeon River falls.  Those 90 bundles of beaver fur I mentioned earlier? Yeah, they carried two of them at a time.  16 miles.  In 8 hours. Suck on that, Tough Mudders.  Time is money. I was carrying a camera. I got pooped. Not really. But you know what I mean.

Marveling at how much the region, in the fog and mist, resembled Washington, Natalie and I needed to secure lodging.  As freakish as it sounds, we stayed at the Casino in a $130-a-night room that only cost us $50 bucks.  We were able to do this by signing up (for free, mind you) with Casino memberships.

Yes, folks, that’s right. We now have the opportunity to return to Grand Portage and piss away our earnings. What could more fun than working, converting that money to credit, and then spending hours in a zombie-like state, pushing buttons and pulling levers.   Wow.  Fun, huh?

In fact, it was thought to be so fun, we gave it a whirl. Really. For getting the room, we got $10 to gamble with.  We would have rather just cashed in the money and bought dinner or something, but the system works against that.  So, we gambled it.  Woooooowwww.  Fun.  Dumb.

Speaking of dinner, before participating in the gambling boondoggle that is wrecking families and futures across the country, we got a pizza in the dining room.  Still marveling at the Lost Trout Brown Ale, we ordered some more.  Natalie and I are also fans of spinach-artichoke dips. This particular version was a bit spicy as it had red pepper flakes in it.  She is mostly intolerant of nasty spices but it was within her threshold. 

It was at this point that I felt a tickle on my leg. There are tickles and then there are tickles.  This was a tickle I knew well.  As I casually scooted away from the table, I peered down on my leg only to notice a red pepper flake crawling just below my knee. I didn’t know they could that!  How cool!  Oh wait.  They don’t.  Ticks do.  Damn those things….

It is also worth noting that the dining experience was a little less than ideal. It was nice only because no one was smoking. You see, at this place (or maybe the whole state, I dunno), the smoking section and the non-smoking section share the same room. No walls, windows, curtains or any other divider separates the two.  Would someone please help me understand that?  If someone in the “smoking section” is playing the part of a chimney, what good does it do the person one table over in the non-smoking section?  Come on.  Isn’t that a lot like glass walls for a bathroom stall? Really….what is the point?

A brief evening drive (before the gambling nonsense) to scout for the morning found us gawking at Ring-necked Ducks and a beaver in a local pond.  If the sun had come out, evening photography might have been in order. Alas, it didn’t happen. Clouds were solid.

Day 7: Birding Places And Histories Faces

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

With dawn, we were up and out.  Our first target bird of the day was what has to be one of North America’s most obnoxious warblers – the Connecticut.

Why obnoxious? Simply put, they are not easy to see. One can hear them under the right circumstances (breeding grounds, for example), but they manage to hide behind anything that could possibly obstruct your view.  It really is quite annoying.  Found in boreal forests (for the most part), Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, northern Wisconsin and large parts of Minnesota are breeding grounds for this yellow and gray sneak.

Sadly, after driving and hiking and listening and watching for miles and hours, we secured a ton of birds but no Connecticut. Many other warblers were on the grounds, including Parulas and Chesnut-sideds, but no Connecticut. Not a peep.  A consolation prize was a stunning look at another Clay-colored Sparrow for Natalie. Sure, she saw one the night before, but not like this bird. He was sooooo cooperative.

Pressing along to bird the Brule River, the evil spectre of “I’ll sing for you and get your hopes up, but you’ll never see me! “ reared its ugly head. It was the Black-backed Woodpecker. Exactly where the book said they would be, we heard one.  After entering the woods from the road and doing everything right, the bird never showed itself.  If we re-entered the woods, he moved off.  If we followed, he went deeper in. If we retreated back to the road, he came back to the road.  The cat and mouse game ended when the mosquitoes came out in force and the roadside ditch we had to cross was confirmed as a tick metropolis.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, ticks.  The one creepy crawly that can get grown men squealing like little girls, ticks became a common feature on this leg of the trip (we had them in Michigan, too).  The trick is to look for them frequently and grab them before they suck your brains out latch on for a blood meal.  No, I don’t squeal, but I hate ‘em as much as the next guy.

Following the guide, we checked other sites for Connecticut Warbler and Black-backed Woodpecker to no avail. We tried. We really did. But nothing worked.

A brief walk along a portion of uneventful trail allowed for another pin in the map.  The Saint Croix National Scenic River.  Nice.

By mid-afternoon, Natalie was in sleep mode and was napping as I drove.  Her napping is not to be confused with the Black Bear that was “napping” on the side of the road. His slumber looked like all the other animals that we see “sleeping” on roadsides. Yes, it figures.  The only bear we saw on the whole trip and he’s dead.

With bird activity slowing down, we plotted a course for the town of Poplar.  Not quite New York City, the 2010 census recorded barely over 600 people.  But it wasn’t to visit them; it was to see the grave of one who lived there once upon a time….

Richard Bong is not a name that many people know.  World War II buffs, however, know him.  Stationed in the South Pacific and Philippines, Bong is, simply put, the best combat pilot in the history of the United States.  Scoring 40 confirmed kills in a P-38 Lightning named after his wife, Marge, he grew up in Poplar, Wisconsin. 

Joining the Army Air Corps in 1940, he soon became a threat that the Japanese simply couldn’t handle.   The “buzz saw” action of the P-38 armament (4 .50 caliber machine guns and a 20mm cannon clustered in the nose) sliced and diced Japanese planes.

Indeed, the Japanese never got him.  A test flight did.  In January 1945, with the war in the Pacific winding down, Bong was sent stateside to be a test pilot.  On August 6^th, the same day as the Hiroshima bombing, a fuel pump in the experimental P-80 Shooting Star failed.  He bailed out, but sadly, was too low for his parachute to be any good. 

Some historians might tell you, by the way, that the numbers don’t tell the complete story.  While Bong had 40 confirmed kills, the second highest kill total, 38 enemy planes, was tallied by Tommy Maguire.  Some honestly think that Maguire was the better pilot but had fewer kills as he was spending a lot of time flying a desk; he had administrative duties.  They feel that if Maguire flew more missions, he would have eclipsed Bong’s total. 

Of course, we’ll never know.  On a fighter sweep in January 1945, Maguire committed a known “triple no-no” in his P-38. He attempted a low altitude, low speed, tight turn with external fuel tanks still attached.  He did so trying to draw an enemy fighter off of his wingman.  The plane’s engines failed.  He rolled and pancaked into the jungles below. 

Both men earned the Congressional Medal of Honor. Both men flew the P-38. Both men -total badasses.

A quick fuel stop (after all, my Cruze gets about 450 miles on a tank of gas compared to the P-38 range of about 1300 miles….) was followed by grassland birding.  North and east of Poplar, Nat and I found ourselves gawking at Upland Sandpipers (a bit too far for my camera) and Bobolink. 

A camp dinner and DQ dessert (there was one right up the street) was perfect as we planned the attack for tomorrow. Early to bed for an early rise….