I foolishly thought Lake Superior’s edge would be frozen in some interesting way this past weekend, but the lake was too rambunctious for that.
A piercing wind blew in from the choppy water and pushed up waves a few feet tall that crashed too loudly for conversation. Occasionally a deeper, concussive boom sounded as the water slammed against Split Rock Lighthouse State Park’s dark cliffs. It was another gray, overcast day on the North Shore, yet the waves and churning bubbles somehow glowed a vivid teal. I was entranced.
It seemed ideal for the lake to be in a lively mood for this visit. The Minnesota Historical Society’s visitor center says the park’s namesake lighthouse was built more than a century ago, even before a road reached the spot, shortly after a disastrous storm rolled over the lake in 1905. The storm sunk or damaged a couple dozen ships and killed more people, including some within view of the lighthouse’s future perch.
Lake Superior is the biggest and deepest of the Great Lakes and is full of danger and shipwrecks from edge to edge, including that of the Edmund Fitzgerald from the 1970s over on the eastern end. The area’s weather and wind get much of the blame, but the historical society also pointed out the iron in the very rock, which helped make the region so important for shipping to begin with, could also screw around with ships’ compasses. I never would have guessed that.
The park’s just a few miles from another park we visited back in October, but still far enough to see a new side of Superior. The water was placid then, and the old, igneous rock of the shoreline was wine-red there instead of black. Instead of October’s fall colors, last weekend we hiked through a foot of snow.
I’m still waiting for the Cities to get that kind of decent snowfall this season.
Thanks for looking!
Dan
This primordial-looking rock first emerged as lava around 
I’d actually been to Lake Superior once before, more than a decade ago. That trip was Gooseberry’s opposite in some ways — to the opposite end of the lake in Michigan, 300 miles away, in the middle of summer, with soft sand beaches that come from cliffs of sandstone instead of black and deep-red volcanic rock. The lake that’s big enough to cover North and South America with 1 foot of water isn’t limited to one personality.
Tahquamenon Falls in Michigan, above, is impressive, and Gooseberry has several cascades of its own. We hiked from the shore back upstream along the Gooseberry River to reach them.
I have so much of Minnesota left to see — it’s almost twice as big as Arkansas — but it hasn’t disappointed yet. I’ll be back to the North Shore for sure, though. I’ve got to at least find a 
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