In Light of the Winter Sun: An Exploration in Northern Identity in a Changing Winter Climate
The dogs begin to howl exactly as the clock nears seven in the am. Outside, the air temperature dips to twenty below, ice creeping up on the windows of the insulated cabin. The musher sleeping next to me turns, awakened by the dogs she cares for. As suddenly as the howling began, it ends, a lone howl lasting a few seconds longer than the others. I blink sleepily in the blue light of the morning, and drift back into sleep.
West Bearskin Lake sunrise
So flows the days of my j-term, with the howling of sled dogs and the starting of snowmobiles. I spent the first month of the year in the far north, less than five miles from the Canadian Border, working winter camp programming – cooking, guiding day trips, handling sled dogs, and mushing. Working on the daily rate often had me up before the sun and staying up well past the sunset. This month was dedicated to an exploration of what it means to live in the North. The locals, my coworkers, and the sled dogs I lived in community with will find their own perspectives reflected in this work.
My first few days are filled with culture shock. Wool sweaters upon long underwear and underneath down jackets line the coat racks of camp. Hats, buffs, and even mittens are layered to keep out the biting cold. Some of the gear is beautiful – Mukluks made out of leather and wool, lined with bright red Arctic ribbon, crimson Wintergreen coats with delicate trim and fur ruffs dot the sled dog race courses, found in grocery stores, and inside mudrooms. Some of the gear is beautiful and used, the quilt-insulated bibs, roughed Carhartt jackets, and cracked chopper gloves find themselves in the mix. In the deepest cold, aesthetics are left behind, and the utility of warmth becomes evident. My days working are spent outside, standing still or moving for extended periods of time. Learning to dress for both becomes an art. Calm, windless days are rare here, clear sunny days even more so. Icicles grow unbounded off the roof edges, and fall at random. The flat, expansive ice across the lake is satisfactorily solid, and groans under the strain of shifting weather. Occasionally, a misstep and plunge into the layers of slush and ice serves as a reminder: the beauty can bite.
**************
Lynden has lived here his whole life – the twenty-two year old Grand Marais native sits, head bent, tuning his guitar. The sun from the windows catches his blond curls, illuminating them warmly in the light. He’s thoughtful, taking his time to fit his words together in response to the questions I’ve asked, plucking guitar strings absentmindedly as he talks. Northern identity, what it means to be a local, I’d come to learn, is a conversation every long-time resident of the area has had. Staying through the change of seasons is essential, he thinks. It becomes a way to understand the beauty and severity of the landscape – the reality changes when precautions must be taken to stay safe on the day-to-day. Respect for the land does not operate out of fear of the severity, but almost because of the severity. Winter, for the locals of Grand Marais, entails inevitable loneliness in the dark hours of the season, a strong sense of self-reliance, and the built presence of community.
Lynden Blomberg, musician
Bill Hansen knows what it means to live up in a remote part of the Northwoods – he spent his first two winters here alone, up the Sawbill Trail. After living here for 67 years, the former owner of Sawbill Outfitters is upbeat and chipper as he recounts his tales. At the time, his nearest neighbor lived twenty-four miles down the road, and he was without a telephone, with a tape recorder and a guitar for entertainment. "It's a fraught subject, being a local," he laughs. His knowledge of the area is vast – he remembers the days before the roads were paved and how various legislation affected the area, including the Biden stimulus package that brought electricity to Sawbill Outfitters in October of 2022.
"It's a fraught subject here, being a local."
It’s an unusually warm morning, and the snow from overnight has turned to a brown slush. The lake reflects the color of the clouds, and shifts in shades of gray and blue. The Angry Trout Cafe sits close to the water’s edge, a wall of boulders shoulder the outdoor seating, and panels of wood are weather-worn.
The wall of boulders were put in as a shoreline restoration and stormproof measure, Barb Lavigne tells me. She sits at the table across from me, at ease in her restaurant. Her pink sweater and gold jewelry give her a warm glow, despite the silvery gray light outside. She moved up to Grand Marais with her high school sweetheart in 1983, to join his parents on the sailboat charter company venture that had been started prior to their arrival. The restaurant sits at the same location now – perched amongst the rock and mere feet from the spray of Lake Superior.
The vision had started while the sailboat company was still running– starting small, serving hotdogs and popcorn, the pair turned their efforts toward their vision – locally sourced fish, complemented with organic produce. Initially, the food suppliers had been resistant to the idea of organic produce, but “it turned out to be the right move,” Barb says, laughing.
Barb Lavigne, owner of Angry Trout Cafe
It’s not a secret that the winter season is a quieter time for businesses. Bill looks at it as a time to be a part of the community, the low tourist months are the time when locals get a chance to let their hair down. Relying on a tourist-based economy can be a double-edged sword, any business owner will tell you. In the high season, 750 people pass through the Angry Trout Cafe, and runs a daily staff with eighteen employees. In the winter, perhaps seventy people will stop in, with a daily staff of four employees. It’s only the second winter the Angry Trout has been open – trying to keep the local economy going, and with a sense of dependability for it’s employees. Local craftsmanship is evident in the restaurant itself – it’s a work of art. The golden wooden tables are sourced from Ravenwood Carpentry, and the type of wood used to make the table is pressed upon the grain of the wood. The stained glass windows were crafted in town, and the ceiling is a how-to manual in timber frame construction – lengths of wood held together by dowels construct the corners of the room.
The conversation takes a quieter turn when the subject turns to climate change. This far north, even a slight change is tangible. Bill mentions the moose he used to see along the Sawbill Trail, sharing how his children used to sleep right through his exclamations as he drove them to school. They were commonplace, now a rarity to be found even along the Gunflint Trail. He acknowledges that moose are synonymous with the identity of the north, and as sightings get further apart from each other, that identity begins to lean towards aesthetics.
As for the flora and fauna, he could name twenty species that weren’t here when he was a kid, and twenty species that aren’t in the area anymore.
It’s not all negative, Bill is sure to point out. The bobcat and lynx were trapped out of the area decades ago, and he’s seen the population come back. Even amongst the losses, he finds a silver lining.
"There was always ice"
With the Angry Trout sitting mere feet from the water, Barb and her husband worry about the water levels. They had protective work done near the shoreline of their restaurant to prevent further water damage from the increased frequency of the storms. Shoreline-protection construction projects and algae blooms have all become more common in recent years.
She mentioned the diminishing ice cover of Lake Superior – the pictures she has of her children on the Lake Superior ice, and the two miles she used to ski into work via shoreline by. “There was always ice,” she says. It’s true– 90% of Lake Superior used to freeze over, now, perhaps 10% will. As we chat, the expansive blue water shimmers in waves beyond the restaurant, past the bay, out into the horizon.
The stories the locals tell echo the research – the disappearance of moose, resurgence in the bobcat and lynx populations, and the diminishing ice cover of Lake Superior are changes documented in numbers, and in the stories of those who’ve lived by the changing landscape.
An unfrozen Lake Superior
**************
The sun streams into my workspace, the fragrance of tea filling the room. These days, my senses are heightened – I’m more in tune with the rays of the sun, a rare delicacy mid-January in the Northwoods. The snow sparkles, and in this rare moment off, I’m taking it all in. The work it takes to run a camp is never-ending, I’ve learned in my days here. Hands are cracked from constant dishes, faces wind-burnt and rosy from the hours on the lake, and the frost-laced wisps of hair escaping hats reveal the harsh beauty of winter. Any of my coworkers can tell a story of a dogsled tangle, spinning out on the road, or the heat breaking. Stacks of books line the shelves in the dining hall, the two guitars in the corner, and the puzzles scattered on the tables allow for a step away from the technology of today.
In my days here, the light has steadily grown – lasting into the five o’clock hour. Winter has an edge, and on the worst days, I can begin to feel the fog of gray days taking their toll. Loneliness seeps in, crawling up like ice on windows of a warmly lit cabin on the coldest nights. Finding recreation and creating community to lean on during the long dark hours prove themselves essential.
Elsa, resting
This far up the Gunflint Trail, the abundant snow lends itself to learning how to dogsled. The dogs all have personalities – certain dogs can run next to others, others must be kept apart. Some dogs listen to commands, others don’t, and hence, must be kept out of the lead position. The politics of the yard are intense, and the drama ever-unfolding. Occasional violence in the dog yard brings back the reality that the dogs are animals, and echos yet another reminder: the beauty in winter can bite.
Sarlo, with blood on her neck post-dog fight
Dogs barking on the gang line
The dogs yip and yowl, tugging, pulling at their harnesses, jumping, lurching forward. I nod my head to the handler to pull the snow hook out of the ground. The sled jumps forward, only held back by the daisy-chained rope. The noise reaches a fever pitch and my ears ring with the noise. I turn inwards – it’s time to run the dogs. I’ll push the sled up hills, brake downhill, call out commands, and have the insight to take care of the dogs during our run. Exhaling, the rope is pulled. Silence falls, and the dogs run.
**************
A month in a beautiful place isn’t nearly enough time to come to terms with what it means to hold a Northern identity. I must acknowledge that the short time I was in the area cannot paint a full picture of diversity or capture the experiences of every local. As climate change creeps and twists the ecosystem we know, it is my hope that these vignettes will create faces and stories out of research numbers and statistics. Reckoning what the North looks like without the bitter cold of winter is nothing short of a loss of identity, community, and economy. And although the growth of algae blooms along the shore of Lake Superior increases, in the absences of the moose, in the shifting of flora and fauna, slowly, the lynx find themselves repopulating along the North Shore, as native as they once were.
Footsteps in the snow
As the early morning sun breaks through the white and red pine forests, the dogs begin to howl. It is almost exactly seven am. The snow crunches under my footsteps as I go to greet the lake. The sky is painted in hopeful pinks and reds, the blue light of the day soon to arise. Wind brushes my nose, and the ice holds. For now, up on the Gunflint trail, this day in this winter, is the same as it has been. And, as suddenly as the howling began, it ends, a lone howl lasting a few seconds longer than the others.
Howling in the morning
**************
Keely Spens is a Junior at St. Olaf College, studying environmental studies and management. Read her artist/author statement and creative process below.
**************
