Exploring the Great White North Wilderness of Minnesota

The two avid snowmobiler's had gone far into the forest. It was late night, or more correctly early morning. The usual weekend trip to the cabin had gotten a late start. Not able to finish up the weeks work until late afternoon, these two men, in their very early twenty's, left Duluth. Headed to the family cabin some 40 miles north into the wilderness. These outings would become special memories, more so as one of the pair of enthusiastic youths would meet his end early in life. For now they had gone through high school together as close friends. Whenever they managed to get a weekend off together, it was off on some adventure. Camping in the summer, snowmobiling in the winter. This was just another of many late night excursions into the woods.

The temperatures were brutal, -35 had been considered normal for many winters back then. This was 1973, it may seem like long ago, but to this writer it feels like last week. That's how vivid the memories of early adulthood become. Driving to the cabin was a process, almost better in the winter as everything is frozen. Spring brings mud, and the dirt road doesn't rate very good maintenance. It can take hours to make the trip in late March, but January, when everything is frozen solid, the trip went quickly. Though narrow in places, the road is smooth and they arrived, dropping the snowplow down as they turned into the twisted driveway. With two snowmobiles set crosswise in the box of the pickup truck, they had plenty of weight to plow the driveway.

20 minutes of back and forth gave them good access up the hill to the garage. Parked, wearing sorrel boots and heavily insulated snowmobile suits, they worked their way down the curving concrete steps to the cabin. The cabin was perched on the side of a hill, set back about 50' from the waters edge. This time of year the calm water was replaced with the flat desolate surface of snow covered ice. Greeting them as they once again returned. Opening the front door with a loud screech, these cold temperatures make an unheated cabin somewhat unwelcoming. Knocking the snow off their boots, the first priority was a fire.

In short order a crackling fire was burning in the stone fireplace in the middle of the living room. Cold cabins take a good amount of time to heat up. As with most fireplaces, much of the heat goes up the chimney before the room feels any warmth. Over time the cold stones accepted the heat of the crackling pine logs. Not willing to count on the heat of the fireplace to maintain heat while gone exploring in the night, an oil burning heater was also ignited, and the temperature set. Most weekend outings resulted in the cabin reaching a warm and toasty state, just about the time you had to leave and return to the world of Monday through Friday.

With a simple late night cabin supper under their belts, rather then turning in as would be done by more mature adults, these two young men decided on a midnight snowmobile ride. Temps had continued to fall, now hovering around -40, the notion of remaining safe inside the cabin, hugging the smooth river rock of the fireplace seem fool hardy. After all people at that stage of life are immortal.

Boots and suits back on, they headed off. Two John Deere snowmobiles, one black, the other the familiar John Deere green. He was the local dealer for JD Snowmobiles and lawn equipment. The other was fresh out of the service. Four years taken from his life, it was good to be back in the north woods of Minnesota. With a military discharge, the desire to return to habits of the past was strong.

For years, before Vietnam forced him to leave, they had spent winters on snowmobiles. Always his friends machines, as the luxury of owning his own was out of reach. His friends generosity never wavered, as close to being a brother as he could have. In those early years they were quite a site. Riding on the rear of his friends yellow Ski Doo, complete with this huge pair of white felt boots. Army surplus arctic boots known as Bunny Boots. Of course the reason they were surplus was the size. Size 13, they were so big he could hardly walk. To fill the massive space inside these boots, required wearing street shoes as liners. Not what they were intended for, but warmth was the over powering need, that made them practical.

Many evenings and weekends were spent out on the trials and open fields around his Grandparents farm. Their's was a huge spread, going back in time to the original settlers of the region. Miles this way, and more miles the other way, easily taking the evening and late into the night, to go past the cattle pastures, and on to the open space of the homestead.

As they grew older, toward the end of their teenage years, when they were able to spread their wings, his friends responsibility was to the family business. A lumber yard and general contractor operation. Many fine home were built in the area under his father's direction. Often to speed up the process, they would work together on Saturday's as their freedom was hinged on his friends completion of his assigned tasks. Cleaning up after sub-contractors, even unloading the occasional truck of clay drain tiles, or rail car of redwood from the west coast. Like a game of pick up sticks, the contents of the box car would be a jumbled pile. By sliding into the top of the car the first stick would be pried out of the mass, followed one at a time by the rest of the load. Once the first hundred or so boards were pried from their tightly wedged berth, the rest of the load released their bond and the lumber was neatly stacked on the flatbed truck.

By early Saturday evening the chores were done, the store was closed. With one night and the following day left for capitalizing on the enthusiasm of youth, they would head to the cabin. This was one of those weekends, noteworthy only for the severity of the cold.

Leaving the cabin's warmth, the two snowmobiles came to life. Up the steep slope of the back yard and out onto the hard packed surface of the snow covered dirt road. Riding the roads to trail access points was a common practice in those days, none of this staying to the shoulder, riding at a reduce speed for safety. Remember they're immortal.

With 400cc two cycle engines wound to full scream, it was full speed ahead right down the middle, heading blindly into corners at 70mph. Counting on the fact that headlights would be shining around the corners toward them indicating oncoming traffic of either the tracked variety or rubber tire vehicles.

Turning north, away from any indications of civilization, the trail vanished quickly into the darkness of the pine wood forest. Darkness, only slightly interrupted by the flicker of the almost full moon as it worked it's way through the black shadows of the tree tops. Casting a blue hue over the snow, creating a jeweled appearance glistening on the snow crystals.

The trail was narrow, a long deserted logging road. Wide enough for truck loads of logs to wind their way back to the main highway and on to the paper mills in Cloquet. Abandoned years back, it had been allowed to return to its natural state. A few more years and the forest will have reclaimed its own, with no help from mankind.

Tonight it's an avenue, a way to rapidly enter the realm of those lost in the last century. Logging trains, timber crews, native Chippewa, generations long passed on. This is their land, a quiet peaceful place. Where nature is in control.

It's said that when the night is still, you can hear the wail of a train whistle. Reported to be the ghost train that travels through the swamps. Logging trains, dated far back in time. Supposedly the tracks from this train enter the swamp, and disappear into the bog. All that remains is the wail of the steam whistle, to echo through the dense woods. A lonesome wail, not unlike the moaning wind.

Slowing to a more moderate pace, the two intrepid snowmobiler's rode farther into the deep woods. Coming up a grade to the top, it looked like a good place to stop. Shutting off their noisy contraptions, it was a chance to survey their surroundings. Ahead the narrow trail, with about a foot of fresh undisturbed soft snow, sloped away from them, running straight ahead after a slow decent of about 75-100' in elevation. Continuing on to the horizon, or what appeared to be the horizon as snow fog hugged the ground and the misty covering blurred the image in the distance. The moon shown through the tree tops, but it was low in the sky. Illuminating the scene with a bluish tint. Over head the Aurora Borealis, known as the Northern Lights, were swirling their muted colors across the sky. It was a dark and clear sky with the stars gleaming so bright they seemed within reach.

They laid back on the seats of their mechanical steeds, enjoying the absolute quiet. Enjoying the show provided by the celestial wonders. It was a spiritual moment, one to be savored. The cold of the mid winter night vanished and a calm overtook the scene. Then it happened, like a spirit from past visitors returning to this isolated spot.

From behind them, a swoosh and a flash of white. Swooping out of the high pine tops, a huge Snowy Owl. Coming down to within feet of their heads, close enough to startle them, causing them to gasp in surprise. The owl continued on, gliding directly down the narrow logging trail. Gaining some altitude as the ground dropped away, it flew down the slope and off into the misty distance.

Time in the woods was special, time with a close friend can't be replaced. They were brothers, not in a biological way, but in a natural way. Friends forever, even after the death of one, only a few years later.