We chose a destination on the map, a place with a name hard to wrap our tongues around, that neither of us had ever been to before. We took an entire day and took our sweet, winding, whimsical time and way to get there. We found places we’d spotted on maps and in brochures. We found things that no map or brochure can point you to, small and not-so-small details that delighted and surprised us. It was the perfect juxtaposition of the expected and the unexpected, a true adventure. And so, as the grand finale to this little series of vacation photographs, come have a little glimpse of the beautiful Keweenaw Peninsula with us.
We took the roads labeled “scenic” and “shoreline” as much as possible, for obvious reasons. It’s the same great lake whose waves we’ve seen pounding the shore of our own home state, but it was no less breathtaking here!
We peeked hopefully beneath the leaves of these thimbleberry bushes, and were mocked with loads of not-quite-ripe berries. So we bought thimbleberry jam instead at…
…a fairy-tale bakery that smelled of gingerbread, surrounded by magnificent fragrant rose bushes. I never thought I’d meet a bakery that smelled as good outside as it did inside, but I was wrong. The fact that the delicious muffins we also secured here were baked by kind bearded monks in long black robes only added to its charm.
We climbed a red wrought iron staircase, which wound tightly to the top of…
…a perfectly picturesque lighthouse with a shiny red tin roof.
We picked wildflowers, ate the most delicious fresh lake trout right in view of the great lake it was caught in. and explored a historic fort. 
And then, as a fitting finale to the day, we drove right to the top of Brockway Mountain to see for miles in every direction, and join other happy people who were also taking time out of their busy schedules to watch the sun as it slipped like a giant copper penny into the lake spread out below us. 
And then that magnificent sunset chased us all the way down the long road home. The tired little people nodded off to sleep in the back seat, cheeks rosy with sunshine and sticky from after-dinner mints, and the great dark dusk engulfed the rugged shape of the peninsula as it rose to meet the twilight sky behind us, as the music played, softly and fittingly:
“Let us all be grateful for a land so fair,
As we raise our voices in a solemn prayer:
God bless America, land that I love,
Stand beside her and guide her
Through the night with a light from above…” (Irving Berlin)
It took six hours of driving to get there.
The bad news, however, is that when we arrived at the much-anticipated first scenic viewpoint, all we could see was white.
Because sometimes, you just need to go higher and then everything becomes clear.
We had to shout to hear each other as we climbed the spray-soaked stairs and rocks. Up among the dark leaning cedars, past graceful ferns and wild lily of the valley, holding small hands fast as we peered over rocky ledges. At Bond Falls, it was not hard to imagine this:
Meanwhile, the little girls made friends with the ducks that came begging along the quieter edges of the river for handouts…
…and got to admire the rare wood turtle their 
So, was the highlight of this vacation day actually visiting a waterfall, as the title of this post might indicate, or was it getting up close to the animals living around it? The answer to that might vary depending on which of us you asked, but in my humble opinion, the beauty of each served to compliment and enhance that of the other…
I certainly didn’t expect the guardhouse to be the most inspirational spot during our tour of a circa 1840’s fort, but that’s how it turned out. As I stood next to the row of prison doors, looking down the narrow hall to this window of light flooding in, a verse of a favorite hymn came overwhelmingly to mind:
Come with us to the beach! You know, that one that kind of seems like our own little secret, since you have to drive around a giant mud hole to get there, and then try not to get stuck in the sand while parking where the woods end and dunes begin. The other people sharing it with us are so far away we can almost imagine that the only creatures we have to share it with are the stray seagulls eyeing our cooler in hopes of handouts. The sand is so hot it scorches our bare feet and the water is cold enough to leave your body tingling deliciously after a single dip. It’s perfect.
Come wander amidst the white bleached driftwood, polished smooth by a thousand relentless waves. Come find smooth silvery bits to tuck into pockets as souvenirs, leaving behind the charred bits that are lovely memories of sunset beach fires and happy gatherings.
Come toil up through ankle-deep sand to smell the wild sweet peas clinging to the dunes, trailing tenacious vines along the heaps of shifting soil beneath the nodding grasses.
Come watch a little blue sailboat slowly unfurl its white wings as it heads out to sea. Come watch the children with sand for freckles who build endless castles, never tiring rebuilding what the relentless waves erode. Come beware of children with mischief twinkling in their eyes and that bucket full of fresh cold lake water they’re saving for when you’re back is turned (it will be refreshing).
And when the sun and the wind and the splashing and the dunking and the running and the wandering has produced an appetite that seems as boundless as the blue waves reaching to the horizon, come and eat. There are slices of cold turkey, pickles and Jarlsburg wrapped in pretzel rolls or soggy sandwiches accidentally dropped in the lake, whichever you prefer. We have rosy-cheeked Ranier cherries and sandy granola bars for dessert, to hold us over until we drive past the ice cream shop that stocks Mackinac Island Fudge on our way home.
There are two things that cause writer’s block for me: having nothing to say, and having altogether too much to say.
I think what makes the sweeping landscapes of the west the most compelling is that moment when you walk down the winding path from the scenic overlook into the heart of the rugged hills—and find that the valleys are teeming with life.
A coyote comes out of nowhere, and a prairie dog town bursts into whistles of warning as the sentinels stand motionless, upright and vigilant at the entrances to their burrows.
A pompous tom turkey proudly fans his splendid tail out, dragging wings dramatically along the ground. A big-eared mule doe lifts her head, whisking her flag tail nervously at the sight of us. Is there a tiny fawn hiding in that thicket behind her?
Wild mares sniff the air cautiously while tiny colts rest peacefully amidst the sage brush. 
Along a bare windswept ridge, a herd of bison move as one together. One gaunt cow grazes greedily without looking up, as her wee calf wobbles along in front of her, still a little unsteady on his feet.
And on and on it went.
The thought of that absolutely gives me goosebumps.
For all the outdoor beauty we enjoy here in Minnesota, I must admit that there is one thing we’re a little short on, and that’s the long view. I do love all our trees, but thanks to those thick forests the places where you can stand and see for miles are somewhat few and far between. Which is why, when I travel to places like North Dakota and Montana as we had the opportunity to do this last month, I can hardly get enough of those endless scenic vistas. I love to see the beautiful, raw curves and contours of the land, love to see distant hills fading away in shades of blue and purple to the horizon, love the way those vistas kindle my imagination with the possibilities of what may lie even further beyond.
And God answers with that beautiful balance of justice and mercy befitting His character: “‘He who walks righteously and speaks with sincerity…
…he will dwell on the heights, his refuge will be the impregnable rock…
…his bread will be given him, his water will be sure…
It’s like being given a pair of God-shaped binoculars. And, really, can you think of anything more breathtaking?
If you’ve ever stood on the shore of Lake Superior on a summer day, you know the feeling. Waves crashing on the rocks at your feet, sending spray high into the air, vast expanse of water stretching to meet the sky on the horizon. It’s big; you’re small. It’s a magnificent feeling.
The trail was very icy, so we didn’t go far. Instead we went along cautiously until we found a spot with a good view, and then stood still to take in the magnificence of it all. I couldn’t help thinking of Psalm 93 as I watched to the blue-gray waves crash on the rocks below us.
…The seas have lifted up, LORD, the seas have lifted up their voice; the seas have lifted up their pounding waves…
…Mightier than the thunder of the great waters, mightier than the breakers of the sea– the LORD on high is mighty. Your statutes, LORD, stand firm; holiness adorns your house for endless days.” (Psalm 93)
We just returned from a trip to the Sawtooth Mountains on the north shore of Lake Superior. For much of our visit there, the peaks around us were veiled in fog or falling snow, but on the eve of our arrival, I was granted this sweeping vista with a clear view of craggy Moose Mountain silhouetted against the setting sun.
The amazing thing is that we serve a God whose eternal unchanging-ness supersedes the mountains. Even if these seemingly immovable peaks were to unexpectedly blow up and slide into the depths of Lake Superior, He would still be God. He is the only thing that we can truly count on to never change.
Rejoicing Hills 