This year, Jaclyn turned 40 years old. It was a big milestone for a woman who is a big deal.
To celebrate, we spent the weekend up north at the Naniboujou Lodge on Lake Superior.
Worth mentioning about the drive north:
For a week or so before the drive, our back rear tire had been losing air. The alarm came on one day, and a week later, here we were with a soggy rear tire. So I pulled off 35 for a station that seemed promising for air. And, goddammit, they want to charge you for air at the station. Air! Here people are, blaming the Biden for pricy gas, but they think nothing of wadding in quarters for air. Pay, for air!
A tornado had recently touched down north of Saint Paul. In several places actually, between Groningen and Moose Lake. Driving the freeway was more than just driving, it was a scavenger hunt, looking to spot fucked billboards, or sometimes, driving past huge swaths cut through big timber like butter—a reminder that the infrastructure around us, which we take for granted, is beholden to nature’s fury.
We had lunch in Duluth at a spot that was straight up fed to me on Instagram. The views looked spectacular! It was worth it. In real life, the view was spectacular. What a lunch! Looking out over the lake from the veranda, there was a couple falling in love at the banister. They were there before we arrived for a not-brief meal, and by the time we left, they looked as if they were only getting started.
The Naniboujou lodge was an endlessly interesting place to wander. Every nook and cranny seemed to have some fascinating detail. Cupboard doors, door knobs, lamps, the rungs in the stairway banister were all painted in the bold yellow, green, red, oranges and custom carved to match the angular, geometric patterns and shapes that repeated throughout the lodge.
Not pictured: Other guests watching me with keen suspicion as I fixated on and attempted to photograph the many details and architectural flourishes around the lodge. And mosquitoes.
The calm waters of Lake Superior lapped syruply against the polished shoreline stones. The absence of brine in the air (Superior appears to be an ocean, but doesn’t smell like an ocean) was crispy and the strong nip in the air was a welcome change after a balmy week in the 90’s back home in St. Paul.
Running alongside the Naniboujou Lodge is a small river (or, at least, there was a river there when we visited in ‘22). The river was warm and calm and, if it weren’t for the thousands of mosquitoes, could have been inviting.
Where these beguiling, sun-baked waters collided with the deep cold of Lake Superior, an eerie bank of fog licked up from the placid, brackish whorl. The fog was unnatural and sudden, a ghostly fortress that walled-in the shoreline like a wall, marking the deceptively peaceful riverhead where the two waters butt heads.
This is a primo spot for skipping stones. Just look down, every rock has been pummeled round, smooth, and warm. In the nape of the river, the calm eddy was almost glassy. Such a rock, and such a rippleless pocket allowed stones to skim along the surface until skating in a curling curve before slipping beneath the surface with a bloop.
