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Superior vantage points

Everywhere you stop along the scenic drive up Minnesota's North Shore, there's a more spectacular view.

If Minnesota were a party, the other lakes would be huddled around the chips 'n' dip, muttering and sneaking sidelong glances at Superior. Finally one of them would approach, extend his hand to Superior and observe, "You're not from around here, are ya, big guy?"

In many ways Lake Superior doesn't seem like Minnesota. It is not only the absence of Guernseys and grain elevators on its shore; there is a different "feel" there - of New England, perhaps, or Finnish fishing villages.

Lakes are hardly a novelty in the Land of 10,000 Lakes, of course, but this is the big one they call Gitche-Gumee. Other Minnesota lakes are like members of the family, easy to get to know, rarely threatening. But Lake Superior - so wide you can't see across it, sailed by freighters flying unfamiliar flags, big enough to have tides - well, Superior might as well be the ocean.

Like every school kid in Minnesota, I had heard about Superior all my young life: its prehistory, its role in the early European conquest of the continent, its function as broad commercial boulevard to the American heartland.

But it had been hard to picture then, as I gazed out the schoolhouse window over the fields of oats toward, well, more oats.

A family excursion to Superior was out of the question - we were tied to the farm by inconsiderate cows that demanded milking twice a day.

But this summer during a trip back home, it occurred to me: I'm a lawyer now. I don't have any cows.

So I made my own field trip. I drove up from Minneapolis to the western tip of the lake and was rewarded with a horizon-pushing panorama as I topped the hill just outside Duluth.

The next morning I aimed my rented Toyota northeast along Minnesota's seacoast. From Duluth it's virtually a straight shot 151 miles up Highway 61 to Grand Portage and the Canadian border. All along the trip I had Lake Superior out my right window.

At first that was enough - watching Wisconsin slowly recede on the other side as the lake widened. But soon it started to remind me of watching TV. I wanted instead to embrace the lake, get my arms around it.

I developed a routine:

(1) Pull over at scenic overlook and get out of car; (2) pause reverently, appreciating the divine attention to detail that put this surging water precisely under this soaring cliff covered with just the right number of somber conifers; (3) try from several angles to frame up a photograph capturing the purity of the scene; (4) cap the lens, mutter irreverently and return, frustrated, to car.

At pretty Gooseberry Falls State Park, guides explained why the shore is so incessantly beautiful. At the end of the last ice age, the melting of the glaciers not only filled the deep gouge the glaciers had dug, but also it removed a huge weight from the shore. The shore sprang up (if "sprang" is an appropriate verb for a process that so far has taken 10,000 years) to make high cliffs.

The local streams, such as the Gooseberry River, still seek the lake, however, and thus they carve through the rising rock, in places creating dramatic multiple waterfalls.

I joined the Friday afternoon crowd of scout troops and family groups exploring the park. Typical of Minnesota hospitality, someone had thoughtfully placed wood planking along many of the trails for the wheelchair users among us, as we followed the river across super-ancient lava flows, past families of falls, toward the river's rendezvous with the lake.

Of lighthouses and sandpaper

Later, I got out of the car at Two Harbors, a busy port during the heyday of Minnesota iron mining. For a commercial harbor and old railroad town, Two Harbors is surprisingly more inspirational than industrial.

I hiked for a bit around Lighthouse Point, opposite the quiet ore-loading terminal, enjoying the lake view and thinking how nice it would be to have a boat, a fishing pole and a bucket of bait. The lighthouse there still operates, but now also serves as a small B&B. (Lighthouses on a lake - doesn't seem right, somehow.)

I checked out Two Harbors' shrine to sandpaper, officially the 3M Museum.

Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing got its start here by making abrasives - and making a mistake. The founders had bought up lakeshore land they believed held corundum, the second-hardest substance on Earth. But it proved to be low-grade stone, unsuitable for the industrial purposes they had in mind.

Some quick thinking led to Plan B: making sandpaper from paper, glue and anything gritty. Though subsequent Plans C and D ultimately yielded Scotch Tape and Post-it Notes, the museum's heart belongs to sandpaper. There's a mosaic of it on the ceiling and more than you ever wanted to know about its development and applications in the exhibits of this little vest-pocket museum.

Back in the car, about four miles beyond Two Harbors I made a squealing left turn as I spied the most crowded parking lot I would see on my trip. The attraction: Betty's Pies.

I joined a line of enthusiasts waiting to get in. Judging from their size, many of them (okay, many of us) really had no business eating pie. But I both enjoyed a big, gooey wedge of blueberry pie at the counter, and I bought a chicken pasty to go. Pronounced PASS-tees (to distinguish them from stripper's wear), pasties are meat pies - a Great Lakes empanada, if you will.

If I could save only one mental image from the North Shore, it would be the Split Rock Lighthouse. Crowning the top of an isolated cliff, 168 feet above the water, its old kerosene-powered light once could be seen for 22 miles. The light is dark now, but its tower still stands watch over the lake far below.

Inside, I climbed the circular staircase, up the white enamel brick walls that once had to be scrubbed daily because of the accumulating kerosene soot. The stairs took me to the elaborate 252-piece lens that had focused the light. The 4.5-ton assembly, which pivots in a pool of mercury, still is spun by its original clockworks.

I was aided in appreciating the history by re-enactors, who explained the mechanical stuff and spoke of "their" hardships, from a 1925 point of view. For instance, if you lived here in 1925, everything had to come in to this remote post by boat from Detroit, and then it had to be hauled up the cliff.

(But the lightkeeper's wife confessed that her life was made easier by some recent improvements: running water and flush toilets.)

Lighthouse keeping was vital work that saved lives, particularly in a region where the iron ore in the soil confused boats' magnetic compasses.

State Historical Society guides recounted Superior's many shipwrecks, including that of the Edmund Fitzgerald - and others that didn't make it onto the Top 40 playlists. The lake was peaceful during my stay, but the exhibits in the old foghorn building, like Gordon Lightfoot's song, remind us what can happen when hurricane-force winds and the witch of November come stealin'.

(And every year on Nov. 10, the anniversary of the wreck, the light at Split Rock is lit briefly in memory of the Fitzgerald's crew and all other sailors lost in the lake.)

I stopped for the night at my vacation base in little Tofte, a Scandinavian fishing village 83 miles above Duluth. My hotel, the AmericInn, was one of the few chain operations I saw north of Two Harbors; most of the resorts, inns and eateries seemed to be locally owned. Unless Sven and Ole's Pizza is a chain I hadn't previously encountered.

I finished my North Shore 101 course with two "Grands": Marais and Portage, the big swamp and the big schlep (that's a loose translation from voyageur French).

I can't picture Grand Marais as a swamp, though - the little harbor there affords lake views on three sides in a design that surely was funded by Kodak and Fuji. Even on a tourist-intensive Saturday morning, the harbor was peaceful, with the few sailboats anchored there buttoned up snugly like snoozing children in sleeping bags.

The stillness was broken only by a signature four-second blast every 65 seconds from the foghorn at the harbor entrance. And there were occasional "blups" in the water as a young couple skipped stones across the surface.

Maybe the harbor was so quiet because everyone was down at the boat auction. In the sunny yard of the North House Folk School, potential purchasers swarmed around the boats, kicking tires or keels or whatever someone contemplating a boat kicks, while others lined up to buy bowls of trout chowder.

This gathering was more about community than commerce, a fundraising effort for the traditional craft school, which teaches everything from canoe building to mushroom hunting to hat felting. There were kids and dogs, and it was hard not to get caught up in the spirit. If boats qualified as carry-on luggage, there would be one in my driveway right now.

While the Folk School teaches in a Scandinavian tradition, the Sivertson Gallery (one of a half-dozen in town) emphasizes contemporary Ojibwe culture.

Paintings of the Woodland School borrow themes from beading and quillwork, with bright symbols illustrating the myths and visions of the people. But my favorite paintings were portraits of moose calves. The artist emphasized their natural, spindly legginess, making it seem that each actually had more than four legs, like a Warner Bros. cartoon character in a chase sequence.

Near Sivertson's, which would be at home in any city's gallery district, there were reminders that this was not SoHo. The head of a toothy, oversized, fiberglass walleye jutted out from above the door of a bait and tackle shop. A sign in a window boasted, "We have leeches." An outdoor loudspeaker blasted novelty fishing songs of the In Heaven There is No Beer genre, no doubt to the annoyance of the more sophisticated commercial neighbors.

But Grand Marais is not only for gallery crawlers; it is for anglers and other outdoorsy folk. It's also a jumping-off place for the Boundary Waters Canoe Area and the southern terminus of the Gunflint Trail, whose 63 miles of two-lane blacktop provide access to dozens of hiking, biking, snowshoeing and cross-country ski trails.

The other "Grand" - Portage - was named that because, of all of the stops between Montreal and the Canadian Pacific coast, it was here that voyageurs had to carry their canoes across land for the greatest distance (nine miles).

Though you wouldn't guess it to look at the recreated stockade there, in the late 1700s this little opening in the woods was the headquarters of one of the world's wealthiest business operations. At the North West Co.'s rendezvous point there each summer, Canadian trappers transferred tons of baled pelts to voyageurs, who would carry them back through the Great Lakes for worldwide sale.

In an age when fashion meant fur, an estimated 75 percent of the world's pelts came through Grand Portage.

National Park Service rangers in voyageur costume (which resembled Grandpa's nightshirt and winter underwear) did their best to bring this history lesson to life. They let us fondle the pelts and try on beaver hats. And they played a game of street lacrosse, brewed potato soup in the primitive kitchen and demonstrated canoe repair. They also described the rigorous life of a voyageur, typically a teenager from Montreal who could look forward to being an exhausted old man by age 30.

Perhaps I had learned all this in school years ago, but how excellent to hear it from a voyageur himself.

- Freelance writer Jerry V. Haines views neither oat fields nor great lakes from his home in Arlington, Va.

If you go

GETTING THERE: Commercial air service to Duluth, the only airport on the Minnesota North Shore with regularly scheduled flights, is provided by Northwest, which flies from Tampa International Airport. Alternatively, Duluth is approximately a 150-mile drive from Minneapolis-St. Paul via Interstate 35.

STAYING THERE: Once the headquarters of a major hardware chain, Hawthorn Suites lets you watch harbor operations up close. Doubles start at $95. Waterfront Plaza, 325 Lake Ave. S Canal Park, Duluth, MN 55802. Call toll-free 1-800-527-1133; www.hawthornsuitesduluth.com

On a smaller scale but also finding a new purpose in life is the Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast; doubles for $125. P.O. Box 128, Lighthouse Point, Two Harbors, MN 55616; 218-834-4814; www.lighthousebb.org

About midway in the trip to Canada is the comfortable AmericInn; doubles from about $100, but ask about discounts. 7231 W Highway 61, Tofte, MN 55615. Call toll-free 1-800-634-3444; www.americinn.com

In Grand Marais enjoy serene lake views particularly from the upper-level rooms at Best Western's Superior Inn and Suites; doubles from $109 during summer, heavily discounted off-season. 104 E Highway 61, Grand Marais, MN 55604. Call toll-free 1-800-842-8439; www.bestwestern.com/superiorinn

EATING THERE: Just outside of Duluth (take Scenic 61, not the bypass) enjoy smoked fish at Emily's 1929 Eatery, 218 Scenic 61, Knife River; (218) 834-5922.

Just beyond Two Harbors stop at Betty's Pies, which actually has a full menu. 1633 Highway 61; (218) 834-3367.

Why the Angry Trout is upset isn't clear, but a cup of trout chowder or a grilled herring sandwich at this Grand Marais stop will mellow your mood, particularly if you dine outdoors on the harbor-view deck. Highway 61 (near North House Folk School); (218) 387-1265.

WHAT TO DO: Admission prices listed are for adults; ask about discounts.

In Duluth, hum The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald to yourself as you tour the William A. Irvin tied up in the harbor. It's a bit smaller and older than the doomed boat, but you can get a sense of what a sailor's life was like. The $6.75 admission price also gets you onto the adjacent tugboat Lake Superior. 218 722-7876; www.williamairvin.com Open daily, May-Oct. 15; closed Nov.-April. The Irvin is not handicapped accessible.

The 3M Museum in Two Harbors now occupies the little building that once housed the company's first headquarters. Many of the explanatory exhibits are kept in the firm's old filing cabinets. Unless you're really passionate about sandpaper, you can see everything in 10 minutes. Admission, $3. 201 Waterfront Drive; (218) 834-4898. Open daily, 12:30 to 5 p.m.

Someone has given a lot of thought to the visitor at Gooseberry Falls State Park. Many trails have wooden walkways; explanatory exhibits provide nifty info on the geology and biology. Off Highway 61, 13 miles north of Two Harbors; 218 834-3855, www.dnr.state.mn.us/state_parks/gooseberry_falls/index.html No admission charge, but $7 for daily vehicle permit beyond the visitor center.

At the scenic Split Rock Lighthouse, you can see the light - and the keepers' quarters and other aspects of this landmark. Admission, $8. On Highway 61, about 22 miles north of Two Harbors, 218-226-6372; www.mnhs.org/places/sites/srl Access to grounds only, Oct. 15-May 15.

The National Park Service's Grand Portage National Monument is a painlessly educational look at the lives of the voyageurs and their Ojibwe neighbors, as well as a short course in the fur trade. Admission $3. Near the Canadian border on Highway 61; 218 387-2788, www.nps.gov/grpo The buildings are closed mid October through late May. The grounds remain open for cross-country skiing, however.

FOR MORE INFORMATION: Regarding hiking, fishing, canoeing and other outdoor activities, plus a list of outfitters, check www.exploreminnesota.com/activities

For details on driving Minnesota's North Shore, click on www.lakesuperiordrive.com or milebymile.com click on "Minnesota," then "State 61.".

Duluth information is available from the city's Convention and Visitors Bureau, toll-free 1-800-438-5884; www.visitduluth.com

Find out more about Two Harbors at www.lakecnty.com/twoharbors

For the Grand Marais area, try the Information Center, toll-free 1-888-922-5000; www.grandmarais.com/center.html

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Nature puts on a fall show

According to Retta James-Gasser, a naturalist at Gooseberry Falls State Park, leaf color changes hit Minnesota's North Shore in two waves: In mid-September to early October, the maples of the highlands north of the lake change to orange and red; then between late September and mid October, the birch, aspen and tamarack trees closer to the water turn gold.

The timing and intensity of the changes are determined by the weather during the preceding weeks. Sunny, warm days combined with cool - but not freezing - nights produce the most striking colors.

All of the state parks on the North Shore are good places to watch that process; there's a park about every 20 miles between Duluth and Grand Portage.

For up-to-date information on the leaf-peeping, go to www.dnr.state.mn.us/fall_colors/index.html?region

Other natural events: In the fall, several species of salmon and trout fight their way upstream to their home waters for one last fling. Temperance and Cascade State Parks are good places to watch them battle the waterfalls, but they often are thick in the French and Knife Rivers as well. The North Shore also is one of the best places in North America from which to observe migrating hawks in September and October.