Long Time Gone: Day 8 -- Grand Marais

When I let my mind wander to Grand Marais, I picture the calm water of the sheltered harbor and the surge of Lake Superior beyond it. I see the wide streets and squat, sturdy buildings set against the serrated slopes of the Sawtooth Mountains. There’s a scent of fresh pastries wafting from World’s Best Donuts mixing with the fresh, fishy breeze off the lake.

But I have completely forgotten about the gulls’ constant cacophony. Their cackles and wails resound throughout town; they punctuate every thought and form the ear-splitting soundtrack for any activity, from, say, strolling the beach to eating a sandwich to, oh, I don’t know … lying in bed asleep at 4:30 a.m.

Which is what happened to Keith this morning. I slept through it, but Keith says he was involuntarily drawn into an early-morning argument between at least two -- and possibly more -- gulls outside our window, over an issue that was so significant and so pressing that it had to be addressed RIGHT THEN AND THERE.

Why does this not bother me? At home, I run a bedside fan at mega-speed all night to muffle the buzz of the ceiling fan's motor. Yes, that's right: I use a fan to drown out the sound of another fan. So how can I sleep through the seagulls' ceaseless screeching? I guess that just speaks to the allure of Grand Marais and the power it has over me.

We spent the morning wandering around town, before the crush of day visitors arrived. It was relatively quiet (save for the clamor of the gulls, of course) and we were able to wander in and out of shops at will -- no waiting to enter the store in socially distant lines on the sidewalk.

With streets that dead-end at the pebbly beach, Grand Marais feels like the end of the world, which is what I love about it. And yet, right where the earth gives way to Lake Superior, right before it all drops out into a vast, inscrutable universe, I have all the comfort and convenience of a bookstore and the World’s Best donut shop in one tidy, perfect block.

I also love that this town isn’t overrun by fudge stands and tourist outlets, or pretentious boutiques like more accessible hamlets on Lake Michigan. And it’s not populated by Buffy-and-Lauren types who wear their Vineyard Vines sweaters around their necks and pop into town from their large vacation villas up the hill. Because there are no large vacation villas up the hill. There are no million-dollar yachts on the water. There are a couple of sailboats and one small no-frills houseboat. This place, with its abundant access to Lake Superior, miles of hiking trails and thoughtfully planned bike lanes is easy and authentic and unpretentious.

This espresso stand is as flashy as it gets here.

Later, we drove 20 miles down the road to Lutsen Resort, where we rode the gondola to the top of Moose Mountain, 1,000 feet over Lake Superior, and enjoyed lunch at the summit chalet. From the deck of the chalet, we spotted a young bear sauntering toward the building. By “we” I mean “Natalie” spotted him. She has a knack for spotting wildlife. The rest of us would have missed it if she hadn’t alerted us. And we must have made too much of a fuss, because as soon as he noticed us, the shy bear quickly turned around and trotted back into the woods.

Then we each took a couple of rides down the mountain on the alpine slide. There were just a few other people with the same idea, absolutely no lines, and minimal staff presence. So, with no supervision, the boys in our family felt free to go as fast as they wanted down the slide. Sure enough, on his second ride, Keith took a turn too fast, fell halfway out of his sled, and scraped up his ankle, arm and ear. Nothing too serious, so we didn’t have to use the tourniquet he insisted on packing in the car for an emergency. But we did have to administer some Bacitracin.

Back in Grand Marais, Keith and Clare challenged each other to *another* mini-golf re-match. Poor Keith. I don’t know why he does this to himself: Clare won handily. Natalie found a spot near the lake to read her book while I tackled a week’s worth of dirty clothes at the Laundromat.

We all dove into baskets and fish and chips at a waterfront table at the Angry Trout Café, and then we walked to Sydney’s Frozen Custard for dessert. From there, we ambled out to Artist’s Point and walked along the breakwater to the lighthouse, at the mouth of the harbor.