March Madness

With winter on its heels in Minnesota, Aaron and I rushed up north one last time to capture some images in snowy landscapes. The ice floes were pounding the ledge rock as we visited a Lake Superior subject, but four foot drifts surrounded the old Alex Rouska sauna at the Finland, Minnesota Historical Site.

The most important shot was an attempt to capture the experience of plunging through the ice after sauna into the cold lake. We spent two hours boring with a power auger and sawing by hand through ice to clear a 30x30" entry, not exactly an Olympic venue. But in just four feet of water on a gravel bed, it was just right for a personal plunge and dunk, and would make for an easy out for the plunger.

But first we had to get four 30-inch-thick chunks of ice out of the hole. That took a two long pry bars and a lot of patience. Imagine two mice trying to dislodge ice cubes from a square lowball with toothpicks to get the proportions. But that was much more fun than the slow march of the handsaw.

The Opposite of Cold

I am halfway to completing a manuscript for my book with photographer Aaron Hautala about Finnish saunas, a journey that so far has taken us from Toimi to Wolf Lake in Minnesota, Bjurbäcken to Jyväskylä on the Nordic peninsulae, and back again via Kivi, Aksel and Misery Bay on Michigan's UP. We have had a few very good sweats, but fewer than I would have imagined. Hustling around on unfamiliar ground taking pictures and interviewing people is not always a path to relaxation and simplicity.

But I was able to spend the holidays in the north woods, and simplicity got its first boost when I took the boys out to harvest a fresh balsam near the driveway at sunset on Christmas Eve. During the weekend, we all, down to the last Kaia, enjoyed a prolonged sauna afternoon through a solstice sunset as the temperature eased back into single digits. I gained a thorough reminder that sauna is one of the few ways to unwind while defunking the stinky bottoms of your children. And to build leverage against an arctic front sprinting out of the northwest.

Still to come: Oulu, Wisconsin, Cook County, Minnesota and the frigid shores of Thunder Bay, home to Kangas Sauna and Hoito pancakes.

Moving Water and Earth

My latest published article hits the newsstands today in the June issue of The Rake. I profile the St. Anthony Falls Laboratory, an earth-science research center embedded in the falls in downtown Minneapolis.

Ice Up

We spent Thanksgiving weekend at the lake. A few cold nights had finally frozen its surface, but the days again became sunny and warm, and water pooled over most of the ice during the day. The nights were cold enough to even the score--the first evening dropped quickly from around fifty into the low twenties, and I sat by the fireplace long after Genie and the boys were asleep.

During one trip out to the deck to inspect the stars and take a deep breath, I heard a sound like distant machinery across the lake. I knew the sound well, because I lived at the cabin during the summer of 2000, when the last five miles of highway from Pequaywan to Brimson were paved while I studied for the bar exam. The engineers had sited a gravel pit very close to White Lake. The road crew ran only during the day, but the gravel sorter ran twenty-four/seven for a couple of weeks, and I grew to be almost unperturbed by the ceaseless summer serenade.

This time it sounded more distant, beyond the farthest shore, but a steady and regular mechanical sound. All had been silent when we first arrived, and even the first time I'd been back outside after dark, and those are empty woods back there. Could it be that I was hearing the crystalline din of a lake freezing? I almost convinced myself of that certainty, then dismissed it. Maybe someone was running a cement mixer on the beach...

Two nights later, we had a fire outdoors to burn some brush, and I was down near the lake all evening. The temperature once more fell quickly at dusk, and soon the distant jangling began again. It started from where the lake had first been shadowed at sunset, migrated slowly across the far shore to a point where it sounded like crickets and peepers, and culminated in a faint tinkling that didn't come from any particular direction. The next day the weather turned overcast, windy, and cold, and the lake emitted the occasional whoop and moan, running the gamut from loon to humpback whale--one long dispeptic bloop must have lasted three seconds. The surface thickened quickly, and I kicked myself for failing to bring mine and Cole's skates. I have heard the ice often in the depths of winter under snow, loud rifle shot to deep alien warbles, and it never ceases to amaze me. But with the luck of a mild late November respite from winter, I was treated to an unmatched natural concert.

© 2006 Michael Nordskog

Eating Crow: An Introduction

When I wrote a novel three years ago, I had no idea it would become a critical and popular sensation, and thus I have not been disappointed. I've let it steep for awhile after a couple of rejections: Graywolf was put off by the lack of dialogue in the sample chapter; Coffee House actually summoned the entire manuscript before remitting a form-letter rejection. I saw this as progress, because at the time I'd just gained my first freelance byline.

I have recently decided to revisit the story, work out a few kinks, and flesh out the characters via periodic postings to a separate blog. The chassis of this novel is the notion that we are all beings with a consciousness that, properly tended, exceeds our hat size. That spiritual fulfillment is as diverse as are the means by which life reproduces, as varied as the many shapes of seeds. That some get a second chance to sum up their mistakes and soar on the thermals for awhile, and that some get it right the first time. Eating Crow certainly will require your suspension of disbelief, but I would not call it magical realism--I would use the term supernaturalism. If I have succeeded, I have adapted the story of the ugly duckling to a familar context and entertained the reader.

Seaside

We've left the seaside behind--a week on Genie's native Cape Cod shore and the more rugged coast of Maine. Not enough time in either place, but this has been a journey for mere sampling. Still, we saw enough of those places to know that we'll return for a longer periods in the future. Nauset, Cummaquid, Nantucket, Provincetown, Camden, populated respectively with body surfers, horseshoe crabs, blueblooded daysailors, drag queens, and lobsters. The boys have expanded their grasp of natural history.

We spent the weekend at Chris and Gayla's lakeside camp (read cabin) in Rangeley, Maine, a place absolutely identical to Brimson except for the mountains that rise in the distance and large hills near the lake. White pine and birch abound, as do mosquitos and black flies. But we were beyond that season--we felt the first breath of autumn and stayed snug inside while it rained and rained. We're not pollyannas, finding a silver lining in every obstacle, but this was just what we needed--a weekend of books, games, and easy comfort among great friends.

We're in Vermont this morning with Arleigh (Genie's neice) and Jay, and the two youngest progeny of the Petrovits line, newborn twins Sophia and Taj. From here we leave family and country behind. We plan to camp every night across Canada, depending on whether we can escape the sights of Montreal later today. Plenty of miles of two-lane Canadian shield highway lie between us and home waters.

© 2006 Michael Nordskog

High Point

We have reached the halfway point of our trip, and after one slight day in NYC, we're currently enjoying the Hudson River valley at the home of Jeff Bark and family. We had a wonderful side trip to the roots country of Genie's mom in Colesville, New Jersey, the highest part of the state. The old Campbell property borders High Point State Park, where we camped for the night. Natural settings don't come to mind when most of us think of New Jersey, but these highlands are beautiful, covered with mature forests and small lakes surrounded by sharp ridges and plenty of bedrock, and threaded by the Appalachian Trail.

After a peaceful night's sleep in the tent, our second campout of the trip (the first ended soddenly with a morning deluge on Lake Michigan in an Illinois state park), we drove a few miles to visit Genie's first cousin Jim and family, folks she had never met. They showed us around the farmstead, complete with old stone walls and an ancient barn--the core of the farmhouse itself dates to the mid-eighteenth century. Best of all, they directed us up the brook that Monnie always recalls so fondly, to a waterfall with the family reputation as the highest in New Jersey. It was the highlight of the property until they recently sold 35 of their 40 acres to the state as an addition to the state park. Among other mysteries, we saw via an old baby picture of Jim's sister Edie that Jasper does indeed favor the Campbell side of his provenance.

We have put a wonderful day in Chicago behind us, and a very comfortable weekend stay with Brian Nordskog and family in Pittsburgh, where their new pool mitigated the last of the big heat wave. From here we bear northeast to Cape Cod, new ground to everyone but Genie, followed by stays on the coast and in the mountains of Maine. Strangely, this morning's New York Times travel page examined both of these destinations along with Minnesota's Arrowhead!

© 2006 Michael Nordskog