Contrary to what most of my posts suggest, I do actually spend lots of time in Minnesota, exploring the outdoors mostly near home, but sometimes a fair jaunt away to the more remote reaches of the state.
This is the case with one of my latest ventures, which was coordinated with an effort to achieve three northern Minnesota Checkpoints in one day (for more about the Checkpoint challenge, see my post from last year.) But Mission One was to make a stop at one of the premiere wilderness areas in the state: Sax Zim Bog.
The bog is renowned by birders, especially during winter, for the number of boreal species that winter there, most notably the enormous and ghostly great gray owl, as well as sharp-tailed grouse, white-winged crossbills, pine grosbeaks, boreal chickadees, and a number of other rarely seen owl species. The mixture of woods and fields makes the location an attractive habitat for these birds, many of which have flown south from the far reaches of Canada and beyond. The area is also home to northern mammals such as moose, gray wolves, and pine martens.
Typically, a bog conjures images of a muddy wetland. I always envision dark fairy tales of lost wanderers stumbling blindly after malicious will-o’-the-wisps and meeting their demise in quicksand-like mud pits, or urban legends (based on truth!) about human remains that are found mummified and unnervingly well preserved by the acidic, oxygen-poor conditions of the surroundings. Really a bog is any wetland area where dead plant material is accumulated (mostly mosses), and in the case of Sax Zim it is populated by a mix of spruce, tamarack, and white cedar, in addition to nearby hayfields and sedge meadows. This offers a wide variety of terrain, which makes it perfect for the large number of species that reside there.
The bog is north of Cloquet, about a 2 1/2 hour drive from my home near the Twin Cities. We traveled into the tiny town of Cotton and went west a number of miles down a snow-packed country road to the heart of the nature preserve.
A tiny welcome center, heated with solar energy and lacking running water, sits on the property. Nevertheless, it is kept warm inside and several birders were sitting patiently with long lenses nearby, waiting for something interesting to visit the feeders. Each year, the organization Friends of the Sax Zim Bog hosts a winter birding festival, this year to take place Feb. 17-19.
Feeders containing seed and suet are placed in various places around the bog, and these are often the best spots to find bird activity. Most people simply drive slowly down the long, snow-encrusted roads, scanning for movement without ever leaving their cars. Others prefer to hike, ski, or snowshoe through the area. Our time was limited, so we asked the desk volunteer where we might spot the best activity from the warmth of the car.
She pointed out a loop slightly north of us following Admiral and McDermitt Roads. She described the area as quintessentially boggy, full of spruce trees, and recommended a drive through at dusk to look for owls. The day earlier, she said, a great gray had been spotted sitting directly on the feeder.
On our drive through, we occasionally encountered other birders stopped on the road along the way, indicating a sighting nearby. In fact, small traffic jams started to build up this way. The first of these was a really fun encounter with a ruffed grouse, which was busy peeling the bark from a few thin branches and was twisting and turning this way and that, nonplussed by the observers in the nearby vehicles. Photography is challenging in this environment because if one chooses to stay in the car, the heat emitting into the cold air from the open window will cause a rippling wave effect which can blur the picture quality.
Unfortunately, our drive did not result in any other species observations (other than the numerous black-capped chickadees and red squirrels that were common at the feeders.) Despite the lack of bird cooperation, we were treated to a magnificent sunset along the jagged edges of the spruce tree line; an idyllic northern Minnesota scene.
We had three other cities to get to that night, so we had to hit the road after only a few hours at Sax Zim. I hope to revisit the bog soon, to keep looking for those elusive northern species.
When we left Sucia in the morning, everything was quiet. We were headed for our last stop on the journey – the large island of Orcas.
The morning waters were ethereal – with no wind, the surface was like a mirror. A dense mist hung overhead for a couple of hours, obscuring the tops of the craggy islands we passed along the way. We were almost silent, taking in the view and not daring to cause a disturbance with our chatter. After about 45 minutes, we started to notice the black, sickle-shaped dorsal fins of pilot whales cutting through the waters at a distance, sometimes falling back into our wake.
We didn’t sail at all – it was preternaturally still, and we sat back under the protection of the awning, which shielded us from the cold mist. It was like we were waiting for something to happen.
There wasn’t much of an alarm, but one of our group leaders got a call from a leader on the other boat, something got murmured about orcas, and then everyone was on high alert, scrambling for rain jackets, cameras, a good perch on the deck. I buttoned up my green slicker, tucked my camera in the roomy pocket so it would stay dry, and clambered into the chilly drizzle just beyond the main. I stood on the slick deck for about 20 minutes with numb hands and cold ocean spray in my face, peering hard at the horizon.
One of our group members had a family cabin on a nearby island, and her relatives had called her boat to report that they’d just witnessed a pod of orcas pass by. We happened to be very near the location of their cabin, and the info got relayed to our crew, so we diverted course in hopes of catching sight of the elusive whales. We all scanned the water fervently, watching for the slightest motion in every direction.
“There!” someone yelled from the wheel, and ahead I could just barely see what looked like four brief explosions of white water. I wasn’t sure of it at first, but as we got nearer the sporadic splashes continued, and it was clear there were some very large animals in the waters ahead.
Before long, one of the double decker whale watching cruises arrived on the scene, along with several other sailboats eager for a sighting. We killed the motor and drifted in closer, where we could clearly see the enormous black fins, at this distance like needles among the waves. Once or twice we saw a bit more of the animals as they lunged a bit further out of the water, but mostly it was backs and dorsal fins. Sadly, one or two motorboats zipped obliviously straight through the pod, defying the distance regulations that are in place to protect wild orcas.
As the pod moved, it appeared that an adult and calf were isolated from the main body of the pod and encircled by a ring of eager viewers, including ourselves. This gave us our best view of the orcas yet. I felt a little bad that the whales were isolated among so many boats, but the day before, the whale watch volunteer had told us that the animals are used to a lot of boat traffic. I think it would have felt too commercial, too cheap, to pay fare for a whale watching boat, but the sighting seemed amazing and rare as we just happened to be sailing along. Lucky we received a tip from our crew member’s relatives – it was impeccable timing.
I still can’t believe we saw the whales. By Day 5, I was prepared to accept the fact that we probably wouldn’t, especially because the whale watching point at Lime Kiln had yielded nothing. I stayed on deck long after we’d turned away toward our destination.
Part 2: The Mountaintop
The weather soon cleared into a terrific sunny day, and we docked at Rosario Resort around noon, leaving us the rest of the day to explore the island. As we pulled in, there were families playing volleyball in the sand court, children playing a hand game, and guests splashing in the outdoor pool. The point was dominated by an enormous white mansion, which was once the extravagant home of the Moran family. It now contains a luxury hotel and spa.
The town on Orcas was on the complete opposite side of the island, so most of us opted to explore nearby Moran State Park. I banded up with a few others who wanted to climb up to the top of the San Juans’ only mountain, Mt. Constitution, which was located in the park.
The towel lady at Rosario gave us directions and maps, but dissuaded our group from climbing to the summit because it was likely to take three hours or more, and visibility would probably be limited due to clouds. She suggested a few alternative trails around Cascade Lake.
We hiked up a trail toward the park and zigzagged across several roads, and I lost the group almost immediately as I puffed my way up a steep hill and stopped to take a picture of a bird/catch my breath.
I thought two things: 1. If I was having this hard a time just getting to the park, I probably would never had been able to get up the mountain (never mind keep up with my energetic crew mates), and 2. I could certainly never hope to one day hike the Appalachian Trail.
Since I lost the group, I instead took my time on a stroll along the lagoon, photographing birds, deer, frogs, and interesting plants. The lagoon led to a bridge that bisected it from Cascade Lake, where lots of vacationers were enjoying every type of water activity imaginable: swimming, kayaking, paddle boating, everything. The water had that perfect
emerald-blue hue that lent an air of unreality to the scene. I moseyed along the rocky trail, encountering an old man with one of those ergonomic bicycles. He was pushing it along and asking for directions; I helped as best I could using the map the towel lady had given me. I rounded the lake and arrived near the park office. Nearby was the tiny flowage of Moran Creek on its way down to the lake, and a few structures that I found were an interpretive station and tiny fish hatchery for stocking trout. Just behind it was the trailhead for Cold Springs.
The Cold Springs trail rose gently uphill beneath towering cedars, before disappearing around a bend. Consulting my map, I decided to follow it a little ways, just to see what it was like on the mountainside, and whether I couldn’t make it to Cold Springs, if the summit was out of the question. The trail sign said 2.3 miles, which seemed manageable, although the map categorized the hike as “difficult.”
I spent the next two hours slogging it bit by bit up every hairpin switchback, stopping to catch my breath about every 15 minutes or so. I was surrounded by magnificent, ancient cedars, sprawling carpets of moss and ferns, and the constant trickle of shallow mountain streams in the background. I halted at a wooden bridge over a rocky ravine, where I sat cross-legged and ate a Pop-Tart. I contemplated turning back and completing my stroll around Cascade Lake, which was easy walking. Two women and a friendly black labradoodle came motoring through; one said something like “Having a quiet moment?” and I said, “Seemed like a good spot for a Pop-Tart.” The absurdity of that sentence really struck me as funny all of a sudden.
Just after they were out of sight, and the woods were still and quiet again, a second dog came rocketing around the bend and past me on the bridge without a second glance, trying to catch up. I laughed aloud at this spectacle.
Anyhow, every time I was ready to call it quits and took a much-needed rest, I felt a little bit better and thought maybe I could go a little further after all. Soon enough, I ran into a few other members of my group, who had taken a rather expensive taxi ride straight to the top, where they had ice cream before trekking down. They told me that they had been hiking down for an hour, and that if I was aiming for Cold Springs, it wouldn’t be all that much further to the summit itself. The view was well worth it, they said.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll plan to be back a little late. I’m going to climb this mountain.”
It was almost another hour of rocky switchbacks, but everyone I met on the mountain was extremely nice. Even the two superhuman joggers who breezed past uphill said “thank you” as I stood aside to let them by. Every person I spoke with offered encouragement – “You’re almost there!” – and compared hike times.
The shade of the massive cedars and damp chill of the moss kept me comfortably cool, and soon I could feel the pure, refreshing ocean air coasting up the mountainside. When I hit the trail crossing I nearly shouted in relief – everything from there on was relatively easy going, and I was able to enjoy my surroundings a bit more. I passed several pristine mountain bogs and crossed the road to the last mile. To me, that last mile seemed like a mystic spirit wood, like something straight out of “Princess Mononoke.” I had a lot of time to think, contemplating the associations between mountains and wisdom, the significance of elements in spirituality, and reverence for the natural world, as well as human symbols and meaning-making. I felt a little bit like a pilgrim: a young learner seeking knowledge at the mountaintop.
I stopped to have my second Pop-Tart at the base of a cedar on the bank of Summit Lake. Near the top, the terrain changed drastically to a scrubby, lichen-covered rock face with small, witchy gray spruce and steep slopes of salal.
A short climb upward, and I was suddenly among hordes of noisy tourist families swarming over the old stone tower on the summit. Despite my fellow travelers’ promises that there was ice cream at the top, the Sugar Shack and gift shop were closed by the time I arrived.
The hike back down took another solid hour and a half – but the downhill strolling offered a different set of physical challenges. Namely: not slipping on loose rocks/accidentally rolling an ankle, and quickly developing blisters from the repetitious pressure. Dusk was settling in, and beneath the trees it began to get chilly. I sang a few songs, kept up a brisk pace, and enjoyed the gorgeous setting, even glimpsing a few deer through the trees. I developed a sudden fierce appetite and stopped once to devour a granola bar I’d stowed in my daypack.
Sore, blistered, and dirty, I hauled myself back down the trail to the waterfront (it gave me some satisfaction to realize I’d gone from lowest to highest elevation on foot in the span of just a few hours). My crew mates were sitting around a bonfire chatting, and warmly welcomed me back from my venture. It was a wonderful way to end our last day in the islands.
You can bet I can slept pretty well that night: floating in the sheltered cove of Orcas Island.
P.S. After everything, what struck me as funny was that nothing I climbed on the mountain was nearly as strenuous as that stupid steep trail leading out of Rosario, where I lost my group in the first place. It was literally the toughest traverse of the day!
It’s not every day I wake up just feet away from a harbor seal and her pup – that was how our first day in the Anacortes, WA marina began.
The day earlier, I met up with a 20-person team of field researchers at the Seattle-Tacoma airport. We had all flown in from colleges and hometowns all over the country to complete a summer internship program with Minnesota-based company Global Treks and Adventures.
Together, the team was researching different topics about the San Juan Islands (such as wildlife, conservation, economy, water resources, and more) to compile a collaborative visitor’s guidebook to the area. Global Treks takes interns on trips like these around the world, to places as far as the Spanish Virgin Islands and remote areas of Australia. Last year, I sailed with Global Treks through the Apostle Islands on Lake Superior, and was thrilled to travel with them again to this scenic wilderness in the Pacific Northwest.
It was a long and slow drive up the Washington coast into Salish territory. Over the course of several hours, we left the busy cityscape behind for a landscape of tall Douglas firs and exotic-looking madrona trees. Some of us dozed in the comfort of the backseat while we waited to arrive at our jumping-off point: the Anacortes marina.
The exhausted group held it together long enough for a pizza party in downtown Anacortes, before heading back to the marina to spend our first night aboard our respective vessels. I was assigned to the impressive 50-foot Christelle, along with 11 other crew members. The smaller Maggie was docked a few slips away, with an eight-person crew.
The first morning of our venture was spent quite lazily for most of us, but soon became frustrating when boat inspections were taking longer than usual. It gave the researchers plenty of time to relax and get used to their new, tighter living spaces, but anticipation to explore the waiting wilderness soon dominated the mood. It wasn’t until afternoon that we finally glided out of the marina, beneath a perfect blue sky with islands all around sweeping up in impressive slopes from the waterline.
It wasn’t long before we noticed numerous types of seabirds and other wildlife; the mustachioed rhinoceros auklets would surface with tight-packed beakfuls of silver fish, and the elegant pigeon guillemots were almost never out of sight. Every now and then, the round, blubbery head of a seal would surface for a few seconds before ducking beneath the waves.
By early evening, we had anchored in a bay off Lopez Island, where we motored by Zodiac to the saltwater lagoon of Spencer Spit. We took off our shoes to wade into shore. A woman was seated on a log of driftwood not far away, and when we approached, she greeted us loudly. She introduced herself as Hillary, said that she was very drunk, and tried to convince us that clamming here on Lopez Island was one of the best things we could do, ever. She said that she and her family visit the island annually to dig clams and have a huge clam bake afterward.
“All you need is a shovel,” she said. “You just look for holes and dig.”
We only had an hour or so to explore, so a group of us set out to try to find a park ranger at Spencer Spit State Park to learn about the area. While we located what looked like a ranger station, there were no rangers to be found, so we instead hiked around the lagoon, stopping to admire washed up treasures such as the carapaces of tiny crabs and shells of countless creatures. A few sandpipers were foraging in the shallow marsh water, and a great blue heron was hunched in the center of the tall grasses, almost motionless.
Worn out from the excitement of our first day on the water, we were eager to return to the boats for soup and grilled cheese before settling in for a peaceful night of sleep on the Salish Sea.
I first heard about Trekfest in 2012 when I stumbled upon the Riverside website.
Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek television series alluded to Iowa as being the home state of the larger-than-life James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise. A Riverside councilman picked up on this bit of trivia and petitioned Roddenberry to name Riverside as Kirk’s official hometown. Roddenberry granted the request, and although Riverside was not mentioned by name onscreen, it has remained the official birth town of the famed captain ever since. “I’m from Iowa. I only work in Outer Space.” – Captain James T. Kirk. The festival has enjoyed attention from Trek fans worldwide, with a few appearances from show-affiliated celebrities such as William Shatner. This year’s theme was “A Fistful of Datas:” referencing a Next Generation episode with a Wild West theme, which explained the prevalence of cowboy hats and spurs from guests in attendance (plus a few creative variations.) It was a five-hour drive from the Twin Cities, and we stayed in North Liberty–just 20 minutes drive away from the little town of Riverside. Upon entering the town, we weren’t too hopeful–it looked pretty much like you expect a rural, run-down agricultural town to look.
There weren’t too many people around, but the Riverside museum (called The Voyage Home), containing oodles of Star Trek memorabilia, was still open. The town’s model starship–guaranteed not to provoke copyright infringement–was poised on a trailer in the parking lot, along with a small shuttlecraft. We had our picture moment and enjoyed watching another fan, sporting an Admiral’s uniform from The Wrath of Khan, inspect the ship decorously. Inside the museum were glass cases full of every Star Trek trinket you could imagine: signed posters, full-size cutouts, puzzles, McDonald’s Happy Meal Toys, Christmas tree ornaments, action figures, costumes, props–even a photo album commemorating Riverside’s history (or is it their future?) intertwined with Roddenberry’s dream vision. I felt a little bad for the exhibits and artifacts presenting Riverside’s frontier history, which remain next to unnoticed in the sparkling glamour of the collectibles and knickknacks.
The merchandise was a little disappointing, but they did have acommemorative T-shirt honoring the life of Leonard Nimoy, who died in February this year. I bought a communications officer badge from the front counter (figure that’s the closest thing to my real life) and though I was tempted by the plastic Vulcan ears, I had to pass for the time being.
Everyone we met in Riverside was totally friendly and talkative, which I appreciated greatly. I don’t know how I’d feel about having a stampeding nerd herd flooding my town once a year; like Bill Shatner, I might be tempted to tell them to “get a life.” But in all seriousness, everyone involved seemed to have a fabulous time, embracing the theme wholeheartedly in their town parade and doling out barbecue, sno-cones and pies to visitors with friendly affability. We participated in a Star Trek trivia contest, but our casual affinity for the show was no match for the diehard fans. These are the Ensign and Lieutenant-level questions I was asked; (I left the Captain and Admiral levels to the real experts):
1. Name three drinks from the Star Trek universe.
2. At what age do the race Kaelon, from the Next Generation episode “Half a Life,” commit suicide?
3. What is the full name of Captain Kirk’s son?
4. What is the full name of the captain who preceded Kirk as captain of the Enterprise?
Acceptable answers included: 1. Klingon blood wine, Romulan ale, synthahol; 2. Age 60; 3. David Marcus; and 4. Captain Christopher Pike. I was only able to correctly answer the last one; I could never have answered an Admiral-level question! I’ll be sure to study up for next year. I look forward to seeing what Riverside comes up in 2016. Only 213 more years until one of Starfleet’s greatest is born!