Day 7 -- To Grand Marais, Minn.

We heard the rain slamming into the roof of the Comfort Inn last night – from the warmth and comfort of our clean, dry beds.

But this morning, we awoke to blue skies, and Keith and I started to second-guess our decisions. Scratch that. Keith and I continued to second-guess our decisions. From the moment we opened our weather apps last night, we had been ricocheting back and forth between “yes, we should” and “no, we don’t need to.” 

“The radar says it’s going to be bad.”

            “But the hourly forecast says it’s going to miss us.”

“Yes, the rain is definitely coming.” 

“No, it won’t be that bad.” 

Yes, we should get a motel room.” 

“No, we can tough this out.” 

“It’s going to be miserable if we’re packing up camp – again – in the rain.” 

“Too bad. This is what camping is all about.”

So, when I saw the blue sky this morning, I wondered if we made the wrong call. 

Then I made a mental note to put away the phone from now on, and to rely on our own instincts and experience (imagine that!) rather than on the stream of weather data that spews from our phones.

I’m sure we would have survived the stormy night at our campsite. But we did what we felt we had to do, and that’s okay, too. What I know for sure: We don’t need the Weather Channel app to justify our decisions.

Besides … the morning’s blue skies quickly clouded over. And then the drizzle started. And then the drizzle turned to rain. And it rained all day. And if we had camped last night, we never would have dried out. 

From Two Harbors, we drove up Highway 61 to Gooseberry Falls State Park to check out the campsite we relinquished last night. The ranger nodded knowingly when I explained why we never checked in. “Oh, I don’t blame you,” she said, with an unmistakable Minnesota inflection. 

“Was it bad?” I asked. 

“Yeah,” she nodded solemnly. “It was bad.” 

We drove around the campground and didn’t see anything too far out of the ordinary. Tents and rain shelters were still intact. But the trees were still dripping and the campground was definitely swamped under pools of standing water.

After spending some time hiking around on the rocks at Gooseberry Falls, we got back in the car and continued north, forgoing stops at Split Rock Lighthouse and Tettegouche State Park, because by this time rain had re-started in earnest. We just kept going until we got to Grand Marais.

Nat and Gram at Gooseberry Falls, 2005

This little village of 1,400 people set on the Lake Superior shore, 40 miles south of the Canadian border, is my favorite little spot on Earth, with its charming storefronts perched right on the edge of the rocky beach, and a perfect little harbor sheltered by a tiny tree-covered barrier island called Artist’s Point. Considered a gateway to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, Grand Marais is the starting point for the Gunflint Trail, a National Scenic Byway that leads to the inland lakes and ends at Saganaga Lake in the BWCA, and is also the heart of the region’s creative scene, home to the Grand Marais Art Colony, the North House Folk School, several renowned galleries and a population of progressive, northwoodsy, bohemian types.

I have been looking forward to bringing my family here and showing them around. But when we arrived around lunchtime, the gloomy drizzle made for an unfavorable first impression.

We ate lunch at a picnic table on the beach right in the middle of town, with seagulls swooping, waves lapping, and children climbing around on the rocks, but the kids seemed rather unmoved, to my dismay.

Covid, of course, has kind of added a layer of inconvenience and estrangement. On this dismal day, the idea of eating a gooey grilled cheese sandwich with a cup of soup inside a cozy café sounded especially appealing. Unfortunately, though, eating inside was out of the question. And while the captivating little shops and galleries beckoned, they were limiting the number of customers inside at one time; queues had formed on the sidewalks, so we were unable to just wander in. All of this made Grand Marais seem somewhat uninviting.

We plan to stay here two nights, in an Airbnb-style inn overlooking the harbor. So that housekeeping can do a deep-clean between guests, check-in time is a strict 4 p.m. With nothing to do before then, we jumped back in the car and drove 35 miles further north to Grand Portage National Monument. 

The site marks the headquarters of the North West Company, the largest and most profitable fur trade depot in the heart of the North America. Around the turn of the 19^th century, 80 percent of all fur en route to Europe was processed at Grand Portage. Although the interpretive center is currently closed, we were able to poke around the reconstructed depot area that includes a stockade and Great Hall, and presents a view of life at Grand Portage in the late 1700s.

Our stay at Grand Portage did not last too long, as we all got thoroughly soaked. Back in the car, we turned north again, since we were only seven miles from Canada. We were curious to see if we could break out of the United States and make a run for it in Canada. As Keith put it, “The Long Family is going to try to Von Trapp is right out of this nightmare.” Sadly, we have to stay here, and Canada remains tantalizingly, frustratingly just out of our reach.

On the way back to Grand Marais, about 10 miles south of the Canadian border, we slowed down for what we thought was a small deer on the side of the road. But it was no deer … it was a wolf (!!) pausing nonchalantly as he stepped back into the woods, with his head cocked over his shoulders so he could stare us down as we passed.

The skies started to clear as we approached Grand Marais, and after we had parked and started pulling our packs out of the trailer, we actually overheated and had to start peeling off layers. 

What a difference a sunny afternoon makes. Suddenly, Grand Marais was looking a lot more inviting. 

Our apartment on the main street, overlooking the harbor, is absolutely sublime – perfectly appointed and beautifully decorated, with very thoughtful touches – including a turntable and a collection of record albums, with ’70s and early ‘80s pop representing heavily. There’s a spacious living space and kitchen, and a spiral staircase leading to two bedrooms upstairs, as well as a knock-out view of the town and the harbor from a private rooftop deck. 

(Dad, if you’re reading this, it’s on Wisconsin Street, almost directly behind the Dairy Queen and directly opposite the harbor, right next to the Ben Franklin.) 

We noticed a miniature golf course on our way into town this morning, and Clare was intent on defending her Minnesota Northwoods Golf Championship. So we made our way back there for a late-afternoon round of 18 holes.

It's called the Putt N Pets because there's are enclosures with goats, chickens, turkeys and peacocks. The goats have access to a ramp that leads up to a platform where there's a pulley and a rope attached to a feed bowl. If you put a quarter in the goat food machine, you can fill up the bowl, and the goats run up the ramp and use their mouths to tug on the rope to pull the bowl up to their level.

Who has two thumbs, absolutely NO golf experience and is the current reigning Disco Miniature Golf Queen? This gal. Me. By a landslide. Woot!

We picked up pizza from Sven and Ole’s down the street and devoured it at the wide kitchen island in our apartment. Then the girls spent the rest of the evening rifling through the record album collection and queueing up songs on the turntable, from ABBA, Men at Work, Lana Del Rey (a contemporary outlier!), Fleetwood Mac, Journey, and the “Footloose” soundtrack.

I have to say, I am shocked … shocked … that Clare barely knows how to play a record. We had to explain how to find the different tracks on an LP, and she asked me just now, “Is the first song on the inside ring, or the outside?” 

Keith and I have failed in our jobs as parents. Looks like we have some work to do here.