Lake Superior Journal: Our Thanksgiving by the Lake

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For Thanksgiving a few years ago, my daughter Kate and I planned an escape to Lake Superior.

Our cabin on the shore is a haven, a place to reconnect with self, to be quiet and to let time flow without the continual punctuation of things to do and deadlines to meet. It’s the perfect place for an old-fashioned Thanksgiving.

Here our family strengthens our bonds with each other and with the land. This 20-by-22-foot cabin built by my father in the 1950s, with its wood-burning stove and handmade furniture, has been a welcome retreat for three generations now with my daughter Kate (living in Minneapolis) and son Nick (in California).

On Thanksgiving Day, we packed the car, including a complete dinner I cooked the previous day. It would be another day before we feasted.

We headed north around noon, arriving just before dark. After unpacking, we started a fire in the old woodstove bought by my grandparents more than 100 years ago. Then, with flashlight in hand, we followed the path to the lake. The sky was inky black, we could barely see. Waves from the south pummeled the shore in rapid succession, a series of thundering explosions followed by the sound of water falling on rocks nearby. Just after we cleared the bushes, a wall of spray shot up and sent us scrambling away.

Starting to feel the bite of cold, we wound our way back up the hill to check the outhouse. Lifting the seat lid revealed small icicles hanging on the underside. Frost crystals lined the seat, making this call to nature quite invigorating.

Inside, the cabin was several degrees warmer. This cabin has the luxury of electricity, insulation and necessities like beds, dishes, a cooking stove and refrigerator, sink, a couch and chairs, but no running water. The only water source is an artesian well 2 miles inland. Foraging for water would be a project for tomorrow.

We settled in for an evening of reading, drawing, snacking and card playing. Soon we called it a day, tired from packing and unpacking, the long drive and gathering wood. My cozy bed was piled high with blankets; I entered wearing long underwear and thick socks. Pulling the blankets up over my head, I left only a breathing hole. I turned the light out, aware then of muffled wave sounds from the lake, wind blowing outside and logs crackling in the stove.

I emerged from my nighttime cocoon the next morning greeted by cold and sunlight streaming in, slightly warming the front rooms. Just a small fire made it cozy again. The sky was clear with sunshine sparkling on the lake. From the window, I saw dead grasses still feathery, bending in the chilly wind. Fawn-colored aster seedpods now looked like clumps of goose down. Brown earth and grass colors blended with green of spruces, white of snow and birches, contrasting with deep blue of sky and lake.

With the wind lessening and the temperature reaching 45 degrees Fahrenheit, we decided to find out if the artesian well was still bubbling. Amazingly it was. A pipe running several feet back into the forest connects with a concrete shaft sunk to allow well water to collect and run through the pipe to the roadside, where it is available for passersby to stop and drink this cold pure water.

It looked so different now in winter encrusted with snow and ice compared to September, when wildflowers, grasses, clover and moss grew along its edge.

Later that afternoon, we hiked along the Cauldron Trail of Temperance River, still flowing in the center but frozen along its banks. A dramatic movement of cloud masses was backlit by sunlight already low in the sky. Wind swirled around us and rushed through the trees. Inland away from the lake, the air was not as cold or the earth as blanketed with snow and we could still relish the wonderful smells of pine pitch, damp earth and fresh water.

We headed toward a special rock formation we like to find each year. We call it “Woman Rock” because the natural form reminds us of a Henry Moore sculpture of a woman. We weren’t sure if we could find her buried beneath snow cover, but there she was, snow now filling her hollows, her smooth rock form contrasting darkly with piled winter white.

Because we were so intent on finding “Woman Rock,” we weren’t paying attention to the drastically changing weather. Wind continued to get stronger as we hiked, and clouds packed a darkening sky that let loose a squall of sleet and snow.

We needed to get back before darkness closed in on us. The wind was picking up, snow driving wildly at us and we still had at least a half-hour walk back to the car.

As we tried to hurry along the trail, we envisioned the food waiting at the cabin, a traditional Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings. These thoughts warmed us in contrast to the cold and dark as we continued on, shielding our faces from pelting snow.

In some places we climbed rocks, maneuvered up and down slippery inclines and grabbed onto tree roots to gain a foothold on the rugged trail, slowing our progress against the storm.

When we finally got back to the cabin, in no time at all it was warm again from the pot-bellied stove fire, and the tiny kitchen turned into a woodland café, serving turkey heated in gravy, mashed potatoes, dressing, candied yams, cranberries, broccoli and cauliflower.

As we savored our feast, I savored our enjoyment together for this special Thanksgiving. We had focused on simple things: carrying wood, carrying water, spectacular beauty and peace and comfort added to an inner wellspring of gratitude for each other, for this 50-year-old cabin, for memories of love and for this land.

The temperature continued to plunge and wind to howl outside; inside we made a cherry pie from scratch, crust and all. After putting the pie in the oven, I looked out the door and saw falling snow swirling in the dark night visible only when backlit by the yard light. We were inside, cozy and warm.

My thoughts turned to my father who loved this cabin and fishing. He would spend an entire day on inland streams, coming home with small rainbow trout preserved during the day wrapped in ferns and newspaper. He would smile and say, “No king had it any better.”

So with my father in my heart and my own family surrounding me, we were all together again at the cabin for Thanksgiving.

Liz Brekke, a freelance writer from Minneapolis, owns a meeting planning business, Meeting Your Needs. Liz has come to Minnesota’s North Shore her entire life, during the early years with her father and mother, Lars and Esther Brekke, and later with her own family. The cabin was built by her father (who immigrated from Vestfossen, Norway) with help from relatives and friends and is now owned by Liz and her brother Mel Brekke from Villard, Minnesota.