Christmas Day on the Gunflint—cold, clear, and beautiful. Minus 16 F last night, now minus 14 with a stiff wind putting the windchill at minus 40, but the sun shines timidly through a haze of ice crystals. Blown snow eddies about in dervishes dancing down the lake, casting the far shore into dark, silhouetting the ridge of white pines, their shorn branches ravaged by the ’99 blow down. Pine grosbeaks, chickadees, red-breasted nuthatches, jays (blue and gray), and an errant redpoll, their feathers all puffed out, gather at the feeders to feed on sunflower seeds, raisins, and peanuts, or rest in birch or moose maple branches waiting their turn to feast.
Inside: Coffee with a simple breakfast and a blazing fire that raised the inside temp from 50 to 75 in about an hour and a half, a lighted Christmas tree decorated with ornaments my father made so patiently with beads strung up in various configurations. “Pastime,” he always said. Holidays songs slide off the iPad, recalling idylls of Christmases gone by, reigniting in our hearts once more “those olden golden days of yore.” Opened presents under the tree tell of adventures yet to be had: a pair snowshoes, a book on bogs, thick sweat pants, art supplies, a woodworking tool.
Snugged in our little cabin with wind roaring about it, we float, for a while seemingly suspended above the slip of time, freed of the gnaw of thought.
The forecast states we are headed for nights of minus 20s with wind chills well below the minus 40s. Already, the dogs can’t keep their feet planted in the snow. In a day or two, we will need to get water from a hole in the ice and haul in wood from the shed. Nothing lasts forever.
Don Wendel
Grand Marais
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