September 15, Hurricane Ike, Lost Channel whirlpools

The remnants of hurricane Ike roared through last night after 10pm churning the river into a froth and whipping the island trees about like beach grass. The waves of rain pelted the windows and roof, but we were snuggled in dry and secure on the rocky bluff on which the main house is perched. We had double checked the docks and boats before turning in, so I felt comfortable letting things ride unattended during the worst of it. Just proceeding the storm the most oppressive humid heat wave settled over the waterway and island. Even with the doors and windows open we could not escape it. There was almost no air moving until, then, all at once, the storm was upon us.

When it had all passed over this morning, the heat was gone, but so was the electricity. Dad cooked a marvelous breakfast of omelets on the propane barbeque grill and we boiled up water for coffee on the wood fired stove, simultaneously taking the evening chill out of the house.

We decided to take a paddle down to the1,000 Island Bridge and the lost channel beneath it, possibly to see if we could find a way to hike up to the roadway and take a picture from that vantage point. Well, it seems, with the lower water conditions than we were used to, and the increased flow down the river from the recent storm, the river way displaying very unusual hydro dynamics. There were whirlpools at junctures in the river, where the water actually circulated around a hole – often 4-6 feet in diameter, with a height at least 6 inches below mean water level in the vicinity. At the spots where quiet eddy’s usually provided a respite from the current there were small standing waves, and eddy “fences” where the current streaming just beyond looked like whitewater. We had no real problems going downriver with the flow, although the whirlpools and dancing wavelets were throwing a fright into Diane, who was paddling in the stern today so I could take more pictures. I was not really getting any pictures since I was concentrating on assisting Diane in keeping the boat going in the right direction, and not up on rocks or slewed down the wrong channel.

Once we passed the bridge abutment in the lost channel ( and it’s warning sign: “area under video surveillance, absolutely no docking”) we gave up on our plans for a bridge hike and crossed the channel to began our paddle upstream and home.

This is where things got really interesting. As Diane and I were just at the upstream point of an island, preparing to cross the channel to our next inlet, our bow caught the eddy fence just beyond. In two paddle stroke we were maliciously rocked to the side as water swirled under our starboard gunnel – it friction on the hull rotating the whole boat along is long axis upriver. In a second, the upriver gunnel was under water and we were shipping the stuff by the bucketful. Whitewater boating instincts kicked in and we both braced and slowly rotated our hips to try and bring the gunnel out of the water. This procedure was successful, but then the 20 gallons or so of water that we had shipped sloshed to the other side of the boat threatening the other gunnel with the river’s wash. With that swish, another few gallons came onboard. I was stroking hard, but cautiously for the far shore, looking for a safe place to beach the boat so we could drain the water out. I was looking downriver to see where we wash out if we capsized. Meanwhile, Diane – with full view of the carnage from the stern seat was watching as with each stroke the 1/3 full canoe threatened to founder in the churning flow. Like a pair of tightrope walkers on the same slack line we wobbled our way across the current crabbing slightly upstream but across stroke by stroke. My camera was still dangling around my neck (out of its protective drybag) – as there was a group of geese I was photographing just before our circus act began. My rain pants and raincoat sloshed up from the back of the boat under my seat and ended up at my feet on one of our many gyrations, and it was only then that I realized how much water was riding with us instead of beneath us.

At last we reached the far shore and we carefully nosed the bow in a downstream eddy behind a dock. I stepped one foot out of the boat over the gunnel to the rocky bottom careful not to beach the boat itself on the sharp rocks and discovered I was far closer to the water line than I was supposed to be and only then turned around to look at my shipmate – crazy grin on her face, but already grabbing for the bailer to ease us out of our predicament.

We bailed scoop after scoop of the warm, clear water out of the boat and slowly, it rose and began to float more buoyantly on the ripples. We looked over our shoulder to see Ed and Eva struggling mid- stream in the strong, squirrelly current in their canoe. I thought to myself, how am I going to explain this to my siblings if they flip and get washed downriver back towards the bridge. I was already thinking of how to position our boat to throw a line to the swimmers and to gather up the life jackets, rain coats and other flotsam that would surely result if they flipped. I was repeating the mantra in my head – stay with the boat, stay with the boat willing them to remember it should they capsize.

Although they had been stroking mightily the entire time we were practicing our water ballet, they appeared to be stationary in the river, moving nowhere closer to the security and calm of the more protected channel upstream despite their Herculean efforts. But then, almost by chance I think, the river let go of its hold on them and they shot forward out of the main flow and reached quieter water beyond. As if nothing special had happened, we joined up to them. In their seasoned and remarkable calm way they commented on how the river can change day to day and how they’d never experienced this usually fast, but easily navigable stretch of water in this way before. There were no recriminating shoulda, coulda woulda’s but we just kept paddling home relishing in the drama of the moment and looking for interesting birds.

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Startled Great Blue Heron on the wing overhead

Same Heron, different point

Heading down river to the Hidden Channel, and squirely waters.

One quirky Ash Island resident has his property adorned with unusual things at the water line. This head sticks out about 4 feet from the rock. On the other side of the point is a Hippopotamus.

This group of geese decided to fly off as we approached a junction of waterways




The day after Ike passed through, we have clear sky to the south west.

Evening light on Barrier Island

Looking east from the front dock. The Shark, Nirelle rides comfortably at the dock, held off by fiberglass whips.

September 14, 2008 Pumpkin Island

With mask and snorkel on, and a swim cap covering my head I kick off backwards from the moss covered last step of the weathered ladder on the front dock and take a gasp of warm air just as my back hits the river. Now, I can feel all of my skin – every square inch of it. The cold water is all around me. It’s bracing, but not unpleasant. By the time I count to 10, I’m enjoying the briskness of it all, and I kick forward, face down upstream off the steep rocky shore and scan the bottom for fish. With the snorkel, I don’t need to lift my head to breath, so I can swim unhindered, even in the slight swell that is blowing in from the coming storm from Lake Ontario. There is a light colored particulate floating all around, that seems like snow falling in the green world before my eyes. I can judge the smoothness of my stroke, by the way the white flecks either stream by, or hang still in the aquarium in front of my mask lens. On the bottom there are bunches of waving green bottom grass, and other plant life. I can see small striped fish, like guppies darting about in packs of 5 to 8, and then like jack-in-the-box, a Goby jumps from its perch on the bottom and flashes forward and out of sight. It appears that the Gobies have decimated the zebra mussel population, and as a result, the water which for the past years was crystal clear is now a bit murkier. I search but do not spot the larger, unidentified fish that usually lurks just of the upstream point of the island. More times than not, when we swim by we can see hm prowling about. No luck today.

Without the constraints of a swim lane, and the short lengths imposed by pool swimming, I feel much more energized swimming and stroke upriver looking back over my shoulder to see if Ed is following behind. Eventually, I reach my goal for the day, a dock on Ash Island just upriver from the mouth to Lover's Lane (the cozy and quiet protected waterway that bounds the south side of Pumpkin Island separating it from Ash Island) Already, I am determined to set a more ambitious swim goal for tomorrow.

Reluctantly, I turn around, and the current grabs me and rockets me along. I watch my progress along the bottom and almost effortlessly return to the dock with the river’s flow. Approaching the ladder from the water I can see a deposit of clam shells right at its base a few feet down, and suspect this is where the mink brings her dinner back before eating, then jettisons the shells before climbing under the dock and making for the entrance to her river bank burrow hidden beneath the dock.

At dinner as the sun sets we hear a duck calling out from the reeds. An odd time to be calling. Then as we watch, one, then two ducks paddle past making for the calling duck. Shortly, as the light fades, the duck calls stop, but we see a family group of four ducks swimming up river to their nighttime roust. I suspect, mom was calling in her scattered kids for the night to be sure they were safe – the group close to separating before flying south for the winter.

As the sun dips below the horizon, the moon rises and I catch a long exposure picture of the overhanging cottage on an adjoining island – its’ reflection clear as day on the night time mirror surface of the settled waterway. All the boat traffic on the river has stopped, as it is very difficult to navigate the shoals and unlit islands after dark. The storm has not materialized and we’ve had a great day. The cacophony of the calling crickets and occasional toad begins and we move inside to read and reflect upon the day’s events.

September 13, 2008 - Paddle around Ash Island

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September 12, 2008 Pumpkin Island

I awoke a few times, each time to a slightly brighter sky. Then in the oak leaves I could see through the clear story windows of the back bedroom, the catched movement indicating rain. I unraveled myself from the covers and could hear the pitter patter of rain on the roof. No rush today, I sat back and watched the day unfold at these early hours. The pitter patter turned to a steady drizzle, then a hard rain. Water coming down in torrents, the gutters unable to keep up, water jumped over the edges and spouted straight out from the corners of the house where folds in the roof come together - like being spit from gargoyle mouths high in the ramparts. Finally it settled down to a steady patter and the mist rose from the warm rocks. I look out over the wide deck and beyond the fallow blue berry bushes, picked clean for the season by birds and island residents. Over the rock on the point and the sentinel oak that guards that side of the island from the onrush of the river's current. Beyond a misty bay, fog shrouded islands loom in the distance - perhaps with their occupants of sleepy humans, or alert squirrels looking my way with the same thoughts.

The two large boats bob patiently at the dock below, tied loosely to keep from banging, and the kayaks are racked, awaiting some human assistance to begin their graceful glide. My hiking bots are by the door anticipating the musky dirt, pine needles and river muck beneath their soles. There are books stacked neatly by the chair looking over the bay and a pantry full of potential meals to cook. Yet, I sit staring out over the river and listen to the rain patter and the birds call - the duck's quack and goose's call, the wispy flap of a crow flying overhead and the distant rumble of boat moving far off downriver. That should be enough for today... I think.

September 11, 2008 across Algonquin Park and down to Gananoque

We camped in Mackey last night, on the shores of the Ottawa River. Mostly though we were at the side of a two lane highway, at the base of a hill where the heavy trucks applied their “jake” or engine brakes to scrub speed before the upcoming turn. This is not quite the same as a train whistle, but comes close. For the first night in two weeks we opt for an electrical hook-up and use that to watch a recorded movie on the computer. For a few hours we are transported to Bruges in Belgium, and forget the highway and the forest, and the growing sack of dirty laundry beneath the back bench seat.

Town after town we tick off our way east through what is now countless road construction projects – each with a flagman and a wait at the side of the road. The road skirts most towns and leaves us in the scrub pine and road side ponds of these north woods. There are stretches of road here where the land is completely flat – like Oklahoma filled with a semi-active corn or bean farms. Then the land begins to roll and we are in woodland again. Where we see it, the corn is shoulder high and seems ready for harvest. The first hay crop is in, and baled, and fields are green again with a second growth.

The large patches of Sumac have begun to turn color ahead of the rest of the trees and their tell-tale red fruiting part brings me back to memories of my youth, toiling what seemed then like whole weekends on my parents property, where their vision involved eradicating the scraggly stands of sumacs and blackberry brambles and replacing them with majestic oaks and pine. I imagined myself then, with hatchet and bow saw in hand a rugged woodsman, clearing land for a settlement – or a prospector in Alaska clearing land for a cabin. Now, strolling their land, the vision has been accomplished with the under story a flourish of wildflowers, cultivated fern patches and the sky blotted our by large hardwood trees maturing – their plantings and supportive poles of 40 years ago thin wispy memories lingering in the shade. The thick trunks and wide spacing would allow any number of large owls free room to fly and hunt.

At last we see the road we are seeking, and turning off the eastward heading route 17 as soon as it enters the outer reaches of Ottawa suburbs, we turn south on 29, then scenic 15 which will ultimately lead us to the Saint Lawrence River and our island stopping place for this leg of our journey. We have not driven south at all on this drive, and the sun directly in the large windshield makes the jeans I wear feel like double thermal underwear. Time to break out the shorts.

The road takes us right through Smith Falls, an old mill town that has retained much of its earlier charm. There are row after row of thin red brick houses, the church and town buildings hewed from large blocks of grey limestone. Its not until we reach the outskirts of town that he sprawl, chain big box stores and franchises cling to the roadway, like a parasitic fish attached to an elegant whale – Mark Morris Tires, Dairy Queen, Canadian Tire. But here in Canada, even these franchises make an effort to appeal beyond what gets delivered in the 18 wheeler from the supplier – there are bunches of colorful flowers in baskets by the roadway, and a pleasantly mowed front yard by the curb.

But now, the sun is setting over the river. We've stopped and done a few loads of laundry on Charles Street at the laundromat with the east Indian women sitting quietly behind he counter, celebrated the end of our drive at the DQ, picked up boat keys at the marina and coaxed the boat out of its shallow slip on the main land and puttered across the main channel to Pumpkin Island. As expected, we find the island quiet, and undisturbed. Our memories intact and matching the magic and peace of the place. No sooner do we get the duffel bags out of the boat, as we've slipped into swim suits and jumped in for a long luxurious swim. The water is cold, but not unpleasant, and we stroke comfortably for the point, on our backs, staring up at the underside of the overhanging branches in the trees by the shore. The setting sun is sparkling off the water, into the trees , then back down to us as we swim. There are only ducks calling and my breath to listen to as I float and swim, and think of all the water that has floated past this point since I was here last. Time, like the river keeps moving, and I make a silent commitment not to let as much time float by before I return here again - making that plan - not 10 minutes into this visit. Remember it this time.

Fourteen days of travel and we've covered 3,800 miles. From Oakland, to Washington to Southern British Columbia, back to Glacier, then across the northern frontier of the country and threading through the great lakes to the southern edge of Ontario, along the Ottawa River and finally to this spot astride the Saint Lawrence River. Far too many miles for one stretch. Now it's time to slow down and steep in the beauty, solitude, and camaraderie that is Pumpkin Island.

Lunch stop along the Mississipi River in Ontario


Five arch stone bridge across the Mississippi in Ontario - the sign claims this is the only bridge of its kind in North America - 5 arches - all stone

The Mississippi again - just upstream of the bridge.

September 10, 2008 – North of Lake Huron

This morning our camp on the shores of Lake Superior was a whole different place from the night before. Now, not a wisp of breeze ruffled the forest understory and we could hear bird call from deep in the woods. Out on the lake the wind had died, and with it the lapping swell. A huge flat expanse of mirror lay between us and the boreal woods to the far north across the water – way beyond the horizon, and only in the sea bird’s imagination. The sandy shore was benign and welcoming, luring Diane down to water’s edge to stick her toes in to test the temperature. Yesterday it felt more like the north shore of Kauai, so we had kept our distance and huddled on a log in the dune grass.

There were floats of gulls just off shore, relaxing on the mill pond surface.
We’ve been driving since western Washington State beyond the fringe of population centers – spending most of our time on quiet two-lane roads passing through the small towns – mostly forgotten once the big interstates were completed. Now, we have no choice but to drive right through Sualt Ste Marie, a US and Canadian city straddling the St. Joseph Channel which connects Lake Superior with Lake Huron. As we approach the outskirts of town an eerie fog settled on the road – unlike anything we’d driven through so far. The road climbs up into the fog, and suddenly we are in a maze of bridges crossing the channel. There are bridges on top of bridges – old swing style draw bridges over the locks with the highway on a super bride spanning it all. The fog splits and we see a massive pulp mill at the side of the channel – yards full of cut logs – one half the length of the western milled timber style logs, but these cut more for material handling and pulping. From the plants stacks belch plumes of white smoke and steam from countless vents. I wonder if this plant is actually the source of the warm moist air contributing to the fog? As soon as we pass by the plant the fog disappears and we are in the clear sun again wandering through the many turns and one way streets which lead us on Route 17 through the growing metropolis. All the Canadian brand names appear at the roadside – Canadian Tire, Tim Hortons, BP and more. We twist and turn and drive past the trim mown grass front yards of the neat brick houses until at last, the yards grow in size, the trimming becomes not so trim and we are once again out in the country moving east past the corn farms and wood land along the north shore of Lake Huron.

The place names here are a mix of French and Indian, reflecting the settlement and taming of this fertile north land - Missisagi Indian reservation, Blind River, Serpent River, Iron Bridge, Whiskey Lake, Basswood lake, Sagmok Indian Reserve, and finally Espanola – where did THAT name come from?

The sun stays bright and clear over our right shoulder all day as we drive further east. We’ve given up on the dashboard compass which stubbornly insisted that we have been traveling north since we started looking at it leaving Oakland. The sun now is more reliable – as it stays in the southern sky all day long. The air is clear over the great lake, and clouds are now beginning to form just over our heads at water’s edge. The woods at the roadside are dense, but with mostly thin spindly trees a mix of conifer and deciduous. Our lunch spot today has a bright red maple – ahead of the curve. The speed limit has restricted us to 60 mph – so we have an easy time looking around and watching to eagle nests in the taller trees or pond views at the side of the road. There is really no passing to be done, so we spend the time joking and imagining ourselves in the bigger geography which surrounds us rather than just the thin asphalt ribbon on which we travel.

September 9, 2008 – Black River Harbor, Michigan – shores of Lake Superior

We camped last night in the birch and oak forests just above Black River Harbor on the shores of Lake Superior just over the Michigan border. We’ve left Wisconsin behind and are now bound across the northern Peninsula (or NP) as the locals refer to this area. We drive from Route 28 north to the shore through dense forest. Along the 15 miles side trip north we see signs for numerous waterfalls – then suddenly, the leaves part and we are on the edge of the lake at our campsite. No transition, not introduction. Just forest, then Lake – forever. Our site is on a bluff over the lake, and we can’t even see the shore beneath, but can hear the waves gently lapping the rocks and sand that must surely be there waiting for the water after its log wind blown journey from the north. We scurry as quick as we can through the forest looking for a way down t the water’s edge to a vista not impaired by the leafy filter of the northern woods. We stumble upon a trail that leads us to the Black River, and its mouth where it joins the mighty lake. There is a stone break protecting the river’s mouth which allows a collection of small fishng boats safe harbor in the river just upstream. This park is mentioned in GORP (The great Outdoor recreation Pages) on the internet in case you want to read more about it. We come across this write-up while trying to coax driving directions out of a reluctant iPhone.

There is a wood buttressed suspension bridge across the river (no sailboats going further upriver from here) and find the beach and its long stretch of sand and rocks that forms the boundary between sky, inland sea and woodland covered shoreline.
This morning we continue east after stopping briefly at two water falls within ¼ mile of the road. Each fall required a hike down tall steps to the river, but we both relished the morning exercise before the prospect of another numbing day in the car seats. There is a lot of light tan foam accumulating below the falls – a sign of pollution I think – but not sure as I’ve not been in these woods before.

The road climbs higher now onto this northern peninsula and the woods seem wilder. This whole region was referred to in the 1800’s as a “Pinary” and fortunes were made and squandered extracting the timber from this region. The mansion built along Lake Michigan lower in the state were a testament to the wealth produced by the scale of this undertaking. Now, the trees all seem about the same age, and same size – a whisper of what I imagine they were when harvested originally.

We strike up a conversation at a lakeside stop and learn that the west shore of Lake Michigan is indeed where we “should” be going – where the lake’s waves are sufficient for surfing, and where the true beauty of the state resides, We mark our map for future consideration, but continue east and a north along our planned trajectory.
We blow by the small intersection labeled “Harvey” on the map but fail to find a safe spot for the photo opportunity to capture the irony.

Lake Superior is now hard on our left with white caps crashing onto a sandy beach. The wind tugs at our camper’s canopy and Diane works hard at the wheel to stay on course between the white and dashed yellow lines. Luckily, the speed limit is slow here so slight swerves don’t force adrenalin to squirt the way it does when we are speeding along the interstates at 75. From here to the Canadian border we mostly travel across National and State forest land – Hiawatha National Forest, Lake Superior National Wildlife Refuge. We’ll travel south of Whitefish Bay and make our crossing into Canada late this afternoon or tomorrow at Sault Ste Marie.

September 8, 2008 Across to Michagan

Last night we crossed into Minnesota before stopping for the night. We’ve left the broad corn and soybean fields behind and re now traveling through Minnesota’s lake country. Small diverse farms are interspersed with previously timbered woodlands which are now home to recreational homes, fishing camps and all other sorts of modern recreation in the woods. We are crossing the State well off the interstate highway on 10, then 34, then 200, through the National Forest and te Chippewa Indian Reservation. We leave Leach Lake to our north – a place full of jet skis, fishing boats, and shore side moored party boats forlornly awaiting their owner’s return under tattered boat covers. We drive by and see two fisherman just as they are pulling a large fish over the side of their modest fishing boat – I can almost hear the joy and amusement in their voices with their success. IN a flash, the lake is gone and the woods close in on the two lane road. We pass marshy areas – alert for moose and deer in the reeds. “Northwoods Welding, Farm Fresh Eggs and Cut Flowers” one sign reads. Turn here.

And the blacktop ribbon unfurls just ahead of us – just enough for us to pass over following the low rolling contours of this plateau above and west of Lake Superior. North of us, the map indicates population is sparse until it stops altogether at the extensive Superior National Forest and the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. Another trip we’ll come through here and stop for an extended boat trip – but for now, we keep rolling east.

There is just now a touch of color in the trees, but no real impact on the overriding green of the place. Green trees, green understory, green grass, green ferns – only broken by the stark white of the birch’s bark and the yellow blossoms of the roadside wildflowers. The branches drop over the roadway here on both sides. As if, if traffic were to stop for a season, the left and right upper edges would touch and they would cover the roadway leaving a tunnel for travel beneath.

This morning the clouds were reflecting the over arching geography of the land spread out ahead of us. We could see the long arch of the great lake reflected in te cloud formations – their edge showing us the boundary between the fresh water ocean and the land. We drive ahead through the forest imagining the quiet here once the long winter’s snow cover has arrived.

To our surprise, we cross the Mississippi River, a mere stream here really as the outlet to Moose Lake. Could it be we are at the headwaters of this mighty waterway? Many stream, river, and lake names have appeared in our travel over and over, Trout Creek, White River, Moose Lake, Duck Pond, but Mississippi? That name seems reserved for the real and authentic McCoy.

September 7, 2008 – Driving East through eastern Montana and across North Dakota

We stayed at the shady Rest RV park last night in northern Montana – a sleepy mix of full-time and transient residents with nice shading aspen trees between the sites. Our draw here was laundry facilities and free wi-fi, both of which we were craving after a week on the road in relatively remote locations. We’ve chosen to travel east here on route 2, a “red” highway, but really a two lane, no shoulder work horse of a road connecting the widely spaced wheat farms and cattle ranges that fill the landscape.

Since leaving the mountains of western Montana, the land has been almost pancake flat, the road running just 50-60 miles south of the Canadian border. No irrigation is in place here, and the sparse yield is reflected by the sparse population. We’ve passed through three Indian reservations, firs the well-know Blackfoot reservation, then two lesser known – the Belknap and then the Fort Peck reservation. The land and it’s use on and off the reservations is almost indistinguishable, but on the reservation the federal cookie cutter houses give things away.

We are traveling roughly parallel to the Missouri River which runs west to east. It’s path to our south is visible by the tell-tale larger aspen, willow and oak trees that form its flood plain banks. Up here miles to the north it is mostly just slightly rolling prairie, plowed or fenced. The rail line runs alongside the highway – and every 30-40 miles a modest grain elevator waits on a rail siding. We’ve seen a few trains, 100’s of car long some moving, some sided, awaiting to fill a handful of cars at each elevator.

This is the route Lewis and Clark followed on their exploratory journey west. They often ventured north and south of the Missouri river in search of game, and other local knowledge. Here there are roadside markers with snippets of that trip recalled.

The sky stretches from the horizon flat ahead, left and right to fill all my vision. Entire symphonies of cloud formations can be seen with this vantage point – with the puffy cumulo-nimbus down below and the high stratus wisping along over it all. Then there are the patches of deep blue in which it all floats.
Its taken a full day, but we’ve finally crossed Montana and have entered North Dakota. Now the flat plain begins to roll – like large sea swells in the ocean of prairie land. We also turn south to make for the super highway a hundred miles to our south, through the Missouri National Forest, as population density is soon to increase on rt 2 and the town speed limits will impair our progress. The road begins to turn, first left then right, and we regain knowledge of how the steering wheel turns, after having it almost lashed in position for the last 10 hours of driving. It’s hard to imagine the magnitude of human endeavor required to transform this vast prairie landscape into cultivated field and fenced range land. Now, as far as my eye can search, there is evidence of the land being cultivated (by the way – even pockmarked with occasional duck-dipping oil well pumps).

Out here, the hay bales are not the small rectangular ones of my youth, but massive 1,000 pound rolls as tall as the truck in which we are traveling. They stretch out on the fields to the horizon in the places where hay has been harvested. I can’t even imagine the convoy of cross-country vehicles required to retrieve and transport these massive bales, probably 2-3 per truck load out to a waiting road trailer for subsequent transport to cattle ranch.

We stop for the night at Buffalo River State park, just inside the western border of Minnesota – having made it across North Dakota in basically one day’s driving. We picked an out–of-the-way regional park, off the interstate for the night, but failed to anticipate the dirt track auto raceway directly across the road from the park’s entrance. Surely they can’t race these noisy cars all night , can they?

Sun-dried tomato pesto with roasted pine nuts on whole wheat pasta with fresh grated Parmesan cheese is dinner, along with a tomato and cucumber salad and copious amounts of California Merlot.


Grisly Bear on he shore of the lake - see the tell-tale hump?




The badlands of North Dakota

We drove right beneath the right end of this rainbow... ad low and behold, my pot of gold was sitting right beside me!

2008_September 5 - Hike to Grinnell Glacier, Glacier National Park

View from the end of Swift Current Lake - Fresh snow on the mountaintops from yesterday's flurries.
This hike is started by taking a boat first across Swift Water Lake, connecting to a second boat crossing Lake Josephine, followed by a 7 mile round trip hike climbing 2,500 feet through the sub-alpine, then well into teh Alpine zone.
We start climbing right above Josephine Lake.
This hike is filled with wildlife. There are Grisley bears on the beach near the start. We need to call out around corners and in the willow thickets to be sure not to surprise anyone. We keep alert above and below the trail, and are rewarded with views of big horn sheep, and far above, like a few thousand feet, reclusive mountain goats.

The trail is actually a series of ledges that lead up the escarpment between Lake Josephine and the glacier. Here it is fairly wide, with some vegetation, and plenty of sheep and bear droppings. Other places, it becomes much narrower.

Looking back down the glacier carved valley - all the way out to Sherborne lake - where the road stops in the winter season.

This magnificent falls - Crystal Cascade fals at least 1,000 feet down the sedimentary rock face. There is no granite here, but sporadic limestone deposits which form overhangs and small cave formations. Most of the high caves are occupied by wildlife, so we don't go exploring.



Bear Grass in bloom. There is also vast fields of aster, indian paintbrush, penstiman, and pockets of arnica. Unlike the Sierras, there is no lupine in bloom.

The tail remains of Grinnell Glacier. Actually this morrain abd drainage pool below the glacier is now called upper Grinnell Lake. The fresh white is evidence of recent calving this summer.



Big horn sheep were all around us at the higher elevations. At one point a pair pranced in front of Diane on the trail.


This picture give some sense of te trail on the ledges. The goats and sheep are comfortabe on the steep grasy parts. Better footing than me!

This pair of asters was growing right out of a crack in the iron rich rock.



These buses are still used to ferry tourists around the various attractions in the Gacier National Park. In good weather the top rolls off completely.


Resting my tired dogs under the awning in a light drizzle once we got back to camp.