Split Rock

_MG_1550.JPGI 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.

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_MG_1270.JPGIt 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.

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Thanks for looking!

Dan

Minnehaha on the rocks

_MG_0364.JPGSome of you might remember my first visit to Minnehaha Falls in June, when it was tumbling over a verdant cliff in a lush valley. Six months later, a good snowfall and a week of freezing temperatures have given the 50-foot falls a set of icicles almost as tall.

I went Minnehaha Regional Park last weekend right after that snow arrived and saw miniature snowmen and snow-plastered trees. But the creek itself was almost completely clear of ice.

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_MG_0348.JPGSo I went back today to see what the cold had sculpted since then. Minnehaha Creek has frozen itself into narrow channels and ice tunnels. The ice’s surface often looks topographical, forming stair-step terraces, sometimes a few feet tall, that remind me of terraced rice fields or canyon walls. Instead of wearing away at these canyons, the water has built them.

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_MG_0395.JPGThose white blobs are bubbles that continuously flowed through what looked like a 4-foot-long, crystal-clear ice straw.

_MG_0425.JPGIt can be hard to see with transparent ice, but the shot above shows a good example of the terrace sets I saw: maybe 3 feet tall and stepping down from the upper left to lower right, with water gushing on the left side.

This last shot is what looked to be another set of terraces somehow under the water, giving them a distorted and unreal appearance.

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Dan

Dance on the breeze

_MG_2077.JPGEach year the sky over a rural corner of southwest Washington County fills with fabric birds and dragons and octopuses, anywhere from a few inches in size to a few dozen feet. Hundreds of them have been taking to the air over the unincorporated Canehill community for 17 years. Thank goodness I happened to be reading about Canehill’s history for work a couple weeks ago, because I might have never heard about its kite festival otherwise.

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_MG_2114.JPGApparently there’s a whole world of kite festivals I never knew about. The folks with the unusual black kite above (called a canard, or “duck” in French) told me Eureka Springs has its own in a few weeks that typically draws a crowd of serious kite enthusiasts. T.A. Sampson owns Springfield Ranch in Canehill and said she started her own festival just for fun, because she’s had a good life. She was quick to credit a dozen volunteers for making it all happen.

Saturday was breezy and beautiful, almost perfect for flying. Kites rose and fell en masse as the wind waxed and waned, occasionally diving to the ground with an alarming flutter of nylon. Such a dense gathering of kites meant some snagged each other’s strings as if fighting over patches of air. Trailing streamers gave many of them the look of sea creatures swimming against the current. I loved it.

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_MG_2188.JPGFor anyone wanting to head out next year, it costs a buck or two per person, a few more for a kite if you need it.

Thanks for looking!

Dan

Tanyard Creek

_MG_2069.JPGOn Sunday we emerged from the deluge: six straight days of showers and storms that dropped as many inches of rain, more than double the typical February. It caused flood warnings and left the ground a squishy muck. It also meant, of course, some good waterfalls. I took the chance to introduce myself to Tanyard Creek, a strong waterway known for its falls that flows through Bella Vista just off Interstate 49 near the Missouri border. A nature trail runs up and down the Tanyard valley. The woods are dense and Bella Vista is diffuse and quiet enough that I could almost forget I was right in the middle of town.

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_MG_1891.JPGAs with the rain, we seem to be emerging from winter itself as well. Spider silk drooped over the trail, weighed down by dew. The forest seemed more alive, with crimson flashes of cardinals, a heron, a quick glimpse of a bald eagle flying overhead. Excitable daffodils already poked out of the fallen leaves. I’ve been hearing frogs again around my apartment.

Still, the nights below freezing show winter’s not quite done. The cold night before my hike filled parts of the Tanyard valley with thick fog that shrouded the falls at one end of the trail, which are this park’s centerpiece. I might’ve waited for the fog to burn off, but I sort of liked the mystery of it. I’ll come back when everything’s green.

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_MG_2014.JPGThanks for looking.