North Shore, Part III: Hoist and Derrick

Sunday morning began with a deliciously trans-fatty breakfast of shrimp and cheese omelettes and Cinnamon Grands. This left us happy but uncomfortably full on the drive to Split Rock Lighthouse. We arrived just in time to take in an informative and hilariously awful film about the site. I shook with frequent and silent laughter from the very first shot of our bespectacled, bow-tied narrator. "Name's Tinkham," he announced in a condescending, businesslike manner. "Ralph Tinkham." Ralph taught us all about the lighthouse its lens from France that turns on liquid mercury. He was not so forthcoming about the hoist and derrick used to haul supplies from the water up to the lighthouse construction site. "I won't tell you how we got the derrick up here," he smiled smugly.

After the dreadful movie ended, we went to see the site of the hoist and derrick for ourselves. We were unable to shed any more light on how the equipment had arrived at its former station, so we descended a long flight of stairs that led to the shore. The large, loose rocks that made up the beach provided a spectacular view of the lighthouse. Despite the fact that the site is designed to direct visitors down to the area, it felt very isolated. We climbed out to the edge of the beach and sat soaking up the spray from the lake until we realised how late in the afternoon it was. We were determined to make it to Gooseberry Falls before heading home, but the glinting of the lighthouse itself deterred us. I hadn't realised that visitors could go inside. We chatted to a person in uniform there before climbing the spiral staircase up to the shiny rotating lens.


I finally tired of looking at the gears displayed in a glass cabinet below the light, and we made the short journey to Gooseberry Falls. These falls were quite a bit busier and, seemingly, more tourist-friendly than the Tettegouche High Falls. You could walk across the stone in the riverbed and come close enough to put your hand in the rushing water. I wasn't quite as impressed with these falls, since I hadn't become lost in the process of finding them. It seemed a little too easy. And we were both craving a second slice of Rustic Inn pie. So we left after following the clearly defined trail around the falls.


We rather embarrassingly had the same waitress who had served us the previous afternoon. This time she was unfazed by my request for apple cherry pie, and I didn't have to wonder over her insistence upon the use of the 'and' conjunction. I'm now convinced that the best way to leave the North Shore is with the taste of pie lingering in your mouth. I was certainly content on the drive back to the Cities. It took far longer than we expected due to deer, mist and the languor of the employees at DQ. I was exhausted when we finally made it back, but I was also very refreshed. This may have had something to do with being around so many waterfalls. But my expat side had reemerged as a result of exploring so many new places, and that was the most pleasing aspect of all.

North Shore, Part II: Lost Like A Cyclist in Dublin

Contentedly stuffed with pie, Andy and I retrieved the car from across the street and drove down Highway 61. The original destination we'd had in mind was Palisade Head, but the drive was so scenic that we decided to bypass it in favour of the more distant Tettegouche State Park. Andy went into the ranger station to buy a permit and asked what we should do whilst in the park. The ranger on duty suggested a brief 0.7 mile hike to the High Falls.

We covered this distance slowly, stopping frequently to indulge our inner photographers. We'd had the good fortune to be sheltered in the car during the afternoon's sole bout of rain, and the sun soon made an appearance from behind the falsely foreboding clouds. Other hikers seem to have been deterred by the brief shower, however. We had the trail to ourselves, with the exception of a lone running man who startled us by bursting from a side path.

As we walked, evidence of the recent rain emerged in the form of expansive and frequent patches of mud. Likely because my trainers had grown uncomfortably soggy, I began to question the distance we'd travelled before Andy did. "I feel like we've gone farther than 0.7 miles," I ventured.
"No," he countered cheerfully. "It just seems like it because we've been stopping a lot to take pictures."
We continued on, and continued to take pictures. We kept confusing the sound of the wind with the sound of rushing water and expected to find a waterfall around every next bend as a result.

Instead we stumbled upon a sign for Nipisiquit Lake. We consulted our map (which previously had been of no help whatsoever) and discovered that we were significantly off course. We'd missed a turn somewhere, but where? We couldn't remember coming upon an intersecting path where we would have had the option to alter our route. While we were still lost in thought about our navigational error, Andy glanced up into a birch tree and noticed a mushroom growing high amongst its sparse limbs. "Fungus! You WAAAAAY up there!" he exclaimed, adopting his best gangsta tone and swagger (which weren't good). "WORD!"

Being doubled over with laughter helped me to forget about my wet feet and simultaneously cleared my memory. "Wait...do you think we were supposed to turn where that guy came running out of the woods?" I asked. That indeed proved to be the case. When we arrived back at the spot where we'd encountered Running Man, we found that the turnoff for High Falls was clearly and un-missably marked. I blame the distraction of Running Man coupled with how enraptured we were with the trail.

The route to the High Falls was significantly less muddy than Mystery Route. And it was significantly shorter. We reached the falls in what to us seemed to be record speed. We lingered long enough to rest our feet and take a few pictures, then started to hike back. We were hoping to catch the sunset from Palisade Head. As we reached the top of the staircase that ascended from the falls, we came across another hiker. We talked for a bit about the muddy condition of the trails. "I knew I shouldn't have worn my work shoes," she lamented. Glancing down, I saw that her feet were tied into a pair of New Balance trainers. What a great job she must have. We encountered her again in the parking lot and learned that she volunteers for the Superior Hiking Trail, driving five hours from Bemidji to do so. "Husband thinks I'm crazy," she quipped. "He can stay home."

We parted ways with our fellow hiker and embarked on the harrowing drive up to Palisade Head. The road was narrow, with tree limbs and other various forms of plant life encroaching on the black strip of tar that slashed through them. The steep incline and tight turns added to the sense of exploration we'd been enjoying throughout the day. This dissipated slightly when we found the parking lot and a couple busily steaming up the windows of their car there. We paid them little mind and managed to regain our sense of adventure by climbing as close to the sheer drop down to Lake Superior as we dared. The view of the rapidly shifting water was vertigo-inducing. And the deep crevices in the dark, slate gray rock, while not brandishing the power of freezing, pounding water, were intimidating in their own way.

Finally we turned away from the water and started exploring a little ways inland. We quickly came upon an area where white clumps of something were scattered all around. "That looks like deer hair," Andy mused, picking up a piece of it. The fibrous appearance of the cluster made me argue that it was a plant spore--a bigger, thicker dandelion puff. "You're probably right," Andy conceded. But his agreement didn't last long. After taking a few more steps he stopped and in a hushed, urgent voice told me to "Look over there...but look slowly."

Contrary to his instructions, my head snapped in the indicated direction to see a headless skeleton next to a strangely tidy pile of hide. After absorbing the initial shock, we climbed onto a higher rock for a better vantage point. From this angle we could see an intact deer leg poking out from under the hair pile. The circumstances of the deer's death seemed a little dodgy and made us both uneasy. We didn't linger long into the dusk. We found the other couple, oblivious to the carcass nearby, still parked in the lot when we went back to the car.

Perhaps it was the lingering memory of the skeleton, but the drive back out to Highway 61 seemed even more perilous than the trip in. Actually, my discomfort can probably be attributed to my realisation that what I'd assumed to be a one-way was actually meant to be a dual carriageway. But we made it back to the cabin without incident and relaxed over a steak dinner and some Newcastles. We still had one more day of exploring (and all the attendant becoming lost and finding dead things) ahead of us.

North Shore, Part I: The Pre-Adventure Adventure

With all the overwhelming inappropriateness that had been going on at work, I definitely needed a holiday. So Andy and I took a break from temping and broken transmissions and spent a weekend exploring nature in the North Shore. I've somehow managed to live most of my life in Minnesota without ever seeing Lake Superior, so a visit there was long overdue. We left promptly after work ended on Friday, and I felt considerably better after putting some miles between us and the cities. A clear, moonlit night greeted us when we reached Duluth and the start of Highway 61 around 10 PM. A wide patch of the lake reflected the moonlight with unbelievable brightness, creating some spectacular scenery as we drove the rest of the way to Two Harbo(u)rs.

We explored the surreal lighting further once we arrived at the cabin we'd reserved for the weekend. Only a short flight of hewn log stairs separated our dock from the lake. The light spilling into the shallow pools trapped in the craters on the rocky shore formed a beautiful and completely indescribable scene. It seemed as though it had been artificially created. I couldn't help feeling as though I was walking on the moon. Andy and I spent some time trying to capture the scene, but the images we composed are only a faint approximation of the lustrous scene.

The next morning was very lazy. It was our obligation to check in with Jerry, the person with whom we'd made our reservation over the phone, that finally coaxed us out of the cabin. No-one answered our knock at the main office, but a sign on the door directed us to cabin 9. Jerry motioned us in through the window as he finished up a phone conversation. We choked on the overbearing haze of stale Winston smoke that pervaded the cabin as we entered and waited for him to hang up. When he did, he explained that he'd been chatting to a woman who'd "supposedly" been his friend for years. "But now she thinks I'm an asshole for not keeping in better contact," he growled.

He seemed to set the matter aside quickly enough, and he led us out into the fresh air and back to the main office. He chatted as he attempted to run the credit card reader, telling us that he'd lived in California before coming back to help a friend with the cabins. He'd thought it was temporary. But, as he explained, "I got stuck here." Despite his gruff demeanour, I can't imagine he was actually bothered by the pristine setting. Just before we left, Andy mentioned that we were planning to visit the renowned Betty's Pies for lunch. "Is that a good place to go, do you think?" he asked. "Enh, it's OK," Jerry shrugged. "The place across the street is better, though."

Indeed, the Rustic Inn was all that Jerry had succinctly said it was. I was immediately impressed by the enormous jalapeno that garnished the toothpick spear barely keeping my turkey cranberry sandwich assembled. And the taste lived up to the expectation set by this daring condiment. Andy and I had both decided to take advantage of the lunch special because it included a slice of pie. We pored over the varieties carved into a wooden menu board as we finished our entrees, carefully considering our options. Suddenly we overheard a waitress reciting additional possibilities to a nearby table. Andy was taken with the prospect of cherry peach pie, and he inquired about it when our server returned to take our dessert order.

"Well," she replied thoughtfully, "I know we have cherry and peach, but I don't know if we have cherry peach." I shot Andy a baffled look. Surely cherry and peach was the same thing as cherry peach? Luckily Krystal assured us that they did, in fact, have the latter. It didn't occur to me until embarrassingly later in the day what she'd meant by emphasizing the conjunction. She knew they had cherry pie, and she knew they had peach pie, but she didn't know if they had cherry peach pie. Sadly, figuring this out caused the statement to lose much of the humour I'd found in it.

While we slowly ate these amazingly delicious specimens of pie, it started to rain quite heavily. A brief electrical interruption accompanied the downpour. When the lights blinked off, we immediately grew concerned for the huge quantities of ice cream they must have on hand for a la mode orders. What would happen if it all melted? In addition to the sticky puddles of ice cream coating the floors, there would be a tragic increase in the number of naked pie slices. Fortunately that disastrous outcome didn't occur. The power, including the stereo system, was immediately restored. "Is the Titanic music our cue to leave?" Andy asked. It was.

Temp Nostalgia

My job at Tax Place has come and gone. I must admit that I didn't realise how good I'd had it. They fed me free lunch every Tuesday and Thursday, my coworkers were appreciative of the work M and I did for them, and they generally just let us be and didn't treat us like we were five-year-olds. But the value of these small luxuries didn't become fully apparent until I started my new temp assignment.

Something about being a temp seems to make all of your coworkers assume that you are absolutely stupid beyond hope. My supervisor at Class Action Place demonstrated this on my first day when he was explaining how to affix adhesive labels onto forms. He not only instructed me as to where I should place these specific labels, but also how to apply them. "You just peel it off, stick it on, and give it a little press," he revealed. I let this comment slide, barely refraining from making some snarky remark about how my preschool education had sufficiently prepared me to handle stickers. Another woman felt the need to tell me how to file a form. "Make sure to put it between the one that goes before it and the one that goes after it," she said.

The superfluousness of these instructions lessened as my coworkers discovered that I was capable of opening envelopes, labeling, filing and even scanning. But this victory over insulting explanations soon lost its lustre. I arrived at work one morning to discover that people from another department had infiltrated the Temp Annex. Previously we three temps had been surrounded by empty desks. Filling these spaces would not necessarily have been a bad thing. But they were filled with some of the most obnoxious people I've ever encountered. None of the Temp Force ever determined what these people do, aside from talking excessively and excessively loudly.

The topics of the endless stream of conversation range from the Bible verses with which they intend to decorate their new cubicles to the laying on of hands to late periods to pregnancy, delivery and epidurals. Recently, a woman who feared she might be pregnant began to confide in a woman who is already pregnant. I unfortunately overheard them discussing each of the early signs of pregnancy they'd experienced. I even more unfortunately overheard one of them utter the word 'discharge' in the context of that discussion. To make matters even worse, such conversations are conducted in the droning voice of the pregnant woman, who too liberally sprinkles her speech with "Yaa knooooow," and the horrendous grammar of the might-be-pregnant woman, who favours phrases like, "Why you ain't in here?"

It quickly became apparent that no solace would be provided by this team's supervisor, who sits amongst them. In fact, he is a large part of the problem. Thankfully, he avoids talking about biology. Instead, he shares the tricks he's learned in Excel whilst managing the spreadsheets of films that he likes to keep in his spare time. When he's not boasting heartily about his love of films, his band (a cross between Tool and some other metal band), or any other subject on which he considers himself to be an authority (which doesn't exclude much), he speaks in an exaggerated stage whisper. When he's not whispering, he hisses along to the heavy metal beats playing in his headphones.

The object lesson in his pomposity occurred a few weeks ago. He sneezed, and said something in Latin to excuse himself. He then sneezed a second time and uttered a different Latin word. I know it was Latin because he then cried, "Whoa, that's a lot of Latin for one day." To me, this is very similar to saying gesundheit and then remarking, "Whoa, that's a lot of German for one day!" The others around me must have felt the same way because no-one responded. After a second of what must have been excruciating ego-crushing silence, he repeated, "I said, that's a lot of Latin for one day!"

My assignment was due to end just when I thought I couldn't take much more. I saw my supervisor in the hall as I was heading out to lunch on my rather joyous last day. "Don't forget 2 o'clock," he reminded me.
"What's at 2 o'clock?" I asked.
"The big processing meeting," he replied, looking confused as to why I hadn't informed myself about this important event.
"Oh. I don't have email, so I didn't know about it," I replied. "And it's our last day anyway. Do you even want us to come?"
"What?!?" he cried. "No, it's not. It better not be!"
I told him that Staffing Place had told us 9 June was our last day, and I hadn't heard that the assignment had been extended. He resolved to talk to the other supervisor and try to fix the debacle.

I went to the meeting after lunch. The other two temps, who'd already decided not to come back even if an extension was offered, didn't. My supervisor left the meeting to fetch them, and they eventually slunk in late. At the end of the meeting, my supervisor said, "I just found out at 2 o'clock that the temps won't be coming back tomorrow." There was general uproar amongst all the overworked people present. "They've accepted other assignments," he said, with resignation in his voice. "They weren't extended and their assignment's done." I had been looking forward to having a week or so off to write and just enjoy being rid of my coworkers. But I'd learnt from one of the other temps that morning that Staffing Place didn't have much else to offer. So I cracked under the pressure at the meeting and agreed to continue there until 3 July (if not longer).

To make matters worse, I was now the only person from my department sitting amongst the obnoxious members of the infiltrating department. I thought this might be too much to bear. Fortunately my supervisor bailed me out. "We're not going to leave you sitting over here all by yourself," she said, stopping by my desk the next afternoon. "Starting tomorrow, you can sit over where P. used to be." My escape from Temp Annex did not come soon enough, however. I was there to hear the woman concerned about being pregnant reveal that she was definitely not expecting. "It came last night!" she exclaimed joyfully.

While I can still hear Latin Sneezer ranting about films from time to time, my new area is blissfully quiet and relatively normal. It makes the job a little better. It's certainly good enough to be my source of income until I leave for Australia. But I can't help waxing nostalgic about Tax Place occasionally. I will always have my memories...and traces of toner in my lungs.