Paris! A Story in Pictures

Bienvenue à Paris!

Welcome to Paris!

Paris. My favorite city. The second of my three reasons for this trip. This is a long entry, and the gist of the story is told in the photographs. I won't be offended if you skip my sterling text in favor of a quick photo tour.

I arrived on Saturday afternoon, and ninety minutes after checking into the Grand Hotel Leveque on Rue Cler, I was mixing with thousands of Parisiens on the Champs de Mars, enjoying the fine weather in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.

Le Grand Hotel Leveque

A lovely day, and everyone was out and about.

Performers were everywhere.

I walked a lot that first afternoon and evening, before finding myself at a crowded and noisy sidewalk café for a late dinner a half block from my hotel. In fact, I walked a lot the next three days I was in Paris. I used the exceptional Paris metro often enough to cover distances when I had to, but just as often I found myself looking at my map and thinking, "I could walk that." As much as anything, walking sums up my time here. I bought a two-day Paris Museum Pass and made the most of it. On Sunday I started at the Rodin Museum (my second favorite museum in this city), then walked to the Musée de Orsay (my favorite museum in this city and, I think, the world). Just getting started, I moved on to the small but spectacular Orangerie.

I have a rule when I visit art museums. No photos of the art. That's what postcards are for. I allow myself photos of the museum itself, and of the people looking at the art. I sometimes break my own rule, if I have a special reason. On this trip, I was looking for close-ups of faces for a project. Maybe the results will be found hanging on a coffee shop wall someday. Or, maybe not.

Having made that proclamation, I gladly break my own rule
for Auguste Rodin's incomparable sculptures.

The clock in the main hall of the Musée d'Orsay

An unhappy guy in l'Orangerie

A prop from the famed shadow theater of the old le Chat Noir cabaret.

Sunday was a lovely early autumn day and, as on Saturday, it seemed as if all of Paris was outdoors taking advantage of the fine weather. The Tuilleries Gardens were packed with residents soaking up the sun.

Sunday in the park, Parisian-style.

Parisians at leisure.

Some eschewed the parks for the tranquility of le Seine.

On Monday, I visited the Louvre and the funky Pompidou Center, not to my liking but also not to be missed if you want to get a complete picture of Paris. At the Louvre, I turned left where thousands turned right in search of Mona Lisa. I found myself in a nearly deserted Richelieu Wing filled with sixteenth century Dutch, French, Flemish, German and other northern European masterpieces. (I even found a Danish painting.)

Not wanting to leave, I wandered through a section of objets d'arts and tapestries. I smiled at a vast tapestry featuring dancing bears holding some VIP's coat of arms.

I decided on a quick visit to the Denon Wing, home of the Mona Lisa. I didn't need to see Mona Lu so much as the crowds that came to see her. Indeed, Leonardo's masterpiece was lost in the crowd. Whereas the empty Richelieu Wing had offered cool serenity, the heat generated by the mobs, and the meandering, oblivious, elbow-to-elbow throngs themselves were all I needed to motivate me to move on to the Pompidou Center.

The Louvre, through the eyes of I.M. Pei

A modern day artist copies a master.

The Louvre reveals its own beauty.

Party girls, immortalized.

Where's Mona?

The Louvre's beauty isn't always hanging on its walls.

From the Louvre to the Pompidou Center is a journey from the sublime to the ridiculous. As the French say, however, a chacun le sien. To each, his own.

On the plaza outside the Pompidou Center

After the Pompidou Center, I found my way to a favorite haunt of Ellen & Ben for a late lunch.

Later in the day, my museum pass took me to the top of the Arc de Triomphe for spectacular views of the entire City of Light.

l'Arc de Triomphe

Three generations at a memorial service for the fallen at l'Arc de Triomphe.

Montmartre, seen from the top of l'Arc de Triomphe.

Near day's end, I returned to my favorite spot in Paris.

And always walking. On Tuesday, my museum pass useless, I wandered all day. I spent hours in the lovely, haunting Père Lachaise Cemetery, a silent refuge in the midst of the busy city.

A visitor can lose himself on the endless winding paths of Père Lachaise.

You can purchase a cemetery map for a euro, but why bother?

Oscar Wilde, popular still. (Click on the photo to read the note.)

Autumn

Amadeo Modigliani and his distraught lover, together forever.

Time passes...

...and has its way.

Then, it was off to the honky-tonk atmosphere of Montmartre, for the sole purpose of getting a photograph of the distant Eiffel Tower framed by the shade trees of Montmartre.

Far below Sacré Coeur, the hucksters thrive.

Mid-day haze can't detract from the beauty of the Eiffel Tower.

Gare du Nord, my departure point for the Netherlands,
possesses its own museum-like beauty.

A few miscellaneous postscripts:

• The Magic Sinks in the men's room at l'Orangerie: I wave my hands under the faucet, water pours over my hands and I wash. Next to me, a man waves his hands and nothing happens. He moves to an adjacent sink - nothing. We look at each other and smile. Then I try to rinse and - nothing. He waves his hand and voilá! Water! Then, nothing. We are completely flummoxed until a third man points to the small disks on the floor. We step on them, and we all rinse, laughing in different languages.

• After walking for hours on Sunday, I decide to try to find Coté de Bergamote, where I have a dinner reservation in the evening. I wander through the streets of Saint Germain without success. Hot and tired, I come upon the Church of Saint Germain des Pres and step inside. The church is filled, not with worshippers, but with people listening to a organ/flute concert. I find a seat in the cool, dark recesses and let the sublime notes flow over me as I rest for the walk home.

• Parisians have fun. So many cafés, bistros, restaurants, brasseries. So many people in them, eating, drinking, talking, having a good time. Armed with my map, I have no trouble finding Bergamote and no trouble enjoying the superb three-course formule.

• Walking home after dinner at Coté de Bergamote in the dark along the quiet streets by the Seine. From across the river, in the darkness near the Louvre, gentle strains of jazz float through the night air. A lone saxophone, somewhere in the city, keeping time.

• On another evening, I seek out Café Breizh, an upscale crêperie recommended by Ellen. The intimate, inviting restaurant is packed, so I make a reservation for the evening of jeudi. I am proud to make the reservation speaking entirely in French with the host. On Tuesday evening, I arrive at eight o'clock, but the restaurant is dark. I am puzzled. As I walk the streets looking for another restaurant to my liking, I search for an explanation. Then it comes to me. It is Tuesday evening. Mardi, not jeudi. I have recited the days of the week thousands of times since I learned them in high school; how could I do this? I sink into a grand funk, completely annoyed at my own stupidity. At the Seine, I stand on the bridge and watch the lingering daylight on the distant horizon behind Notre Dame. Finally, I find a sidewalk café on the banks of the Seine. A friendly waitress, soupe l'oignion, salade niçoise and a carafe of vin blanc restore me to a good mood. (Although dinner was good, the onion soup and salade niçoise that I make at home are much better!) A long conversation with an Australian couple and the next table finishes the job. The waitress hovers, wanting to close up for the night. We say our goodbyes.

Eating Alone Can Be Fun

On a night when a full moon hung over Maastricht, a medieval Dutch city meant for strolling just such nights, I found myself, besotted with French chardonnay, running through the quiet streets. I wore a sport coat with my jeans, pleased that for once I did not look like an American tourist. I began to sweat inside my jacket, the remains of my dinner acting like aerobic weights wrapped around my ankles.

The reason for my sprint was that I had stayed too long at India House, where I had just had a very fine meal. I was having a nice chat with Salam, the owner, on a wide variety of topics ranging from our families to health care around to world and our plans for the future. I had fifteen minutes to get to the train station to catch my train back to Eygelshoven if I wanted to be reasonably close to the agreed upon time for relieving the babysitter who was giving me a welcome break from caring for my lovely grandson.


I set out for Maastricht with the intention of discovering a new restaurant, but memories of a splendid meal at India House last year with Carol and Ellen hovered in the shadows of my mind. Armed with a hand-drawn map given me by Ellen, I ambled past several interesting looking places, not one of which insisted that I enter and partake. So I decided to walk the extra blocks to India House, just to take a look. It was a perfect evening for walking the quiet streets.

India House is not an impressive-looking place. It does not bustle like the row of sidewalk cafés on the town square around the corner. At the door, it was time to decide; and I didn't hesitate. A minute later, I was seated and was being given suggestions by Salam. He explained what Tandoori cooking is (baking the food inside clay pots or a clay oven) and demanded, "What do you like? Chicken or lamb? " No nonsense here. Both, I told him, but I have chicken frequently. "Do you like spinach?" he inquired. I told him yes, and he flipped the menu to the last page and pointed to a dish called Saag Gosh. I told him I'd go with his suggestion. I wondered if the spicy food would overpower wine, and he assured me that the French chardonnay would go perfectly with my dish.


Soon I was taking my first sips of a half liter of chilled wine and eating the complementary light crusty bread, called poppadom, with three dips - mild, medium and hot - as in very very hot. My lamb came, along with my order of naan, an Indian bread that I mused might just be as good as a French baguette. There, I said it. It seems wrong to compare any bread to the breads of France, but you had to be there. You had to tear a piece of this soft, buttery bread and soak up the delicious sauce of the saag gosh with it to understand why I would say such a thing. For a while I just ate and allowed myself to be completely in the moment. I learned to do that on this solo trip. I had wondered before I left home what eating a good dinner alone would be like. Although sharing good meal is one of life's true pleasures, eating alone can be surprisingly satisfying. I chew longer, taste more, take in more of the surroundings. Not the preferred way to dine, perhaps, but not as unpleasant as one might think.

I also learned to read during my solo meals on this trip. I brought along "Best American Travel Writing," which has been perfect reading for a solo trip. Almost without exception, the essays are engaging both for the quality of the writing and for the human stories they tell. More than once I have found myself smiling, laughing and even grunting with pleasure at the good writing that leaps from the page. I did a lot of grunting this evening, alternately experiencing great pleasure from my reading and from my lamb and spinach dish resting in a sauce that required every piece of my nan to soak up.

I told Salam that my daughter had introduced me and Carol to his restaurant last year, and that I was delighted to return. I mentioned that Ellen and Ben have been here for three years and will soon return to the United States and that they had a one-year old baby who I was caring for while they visited Paris one last time. "I know them," he said with excitement in his voice. "They are from Minneapolis! Tell them I say hello!" Indeed I will.

Le Mont Saint Michel - Closer to God

Two years ago, Carol and I made a brief visit - only a few hours - to Mont Saint Michel, the imposing abbey inhabited for centuries by Benedictine monks, that lies on its own island off the Normandy coast. Ever since that visit, I had said that if I ever had the chance, I wanted to return and spend at least twenty-four hours, so that I could take photos in all different lights.

This year, the opportunity presented itself, and I grabbed it. After an uneventful flight to Paris and a series of smooth connections from Charles de Gaulle Airport through Paris and onto the coast, I found myself on the island of Mont Saint Michel a few hours earlier than I had planned.

And a good thing I was early, too. From the moment I had discovered l’Hotel St. Aubert on the internet, I thought it was too good to be true. A hotel right on the island at the base of the abbey for only $75! Never mind the photo of the hotel entrance that looked suspiciously wide open (with parking, no less) for such a tiny, medieval island. The map on the website showed it to be right there. I returned to the website more than once in the weeks before departure to make sure. A map (with photo, no less) trumped a photo of an area whose details I may have forgotten. So I skipped the Tourist Information and humped by bags up the main street in search of the St. Aubert. Ten minutes later, I returned to the TI and was informed that the St. Aubert is indeed on the mainland in the small village bearing the name of Mont St. Michel.
So I took a local bus back to the mainland, spending the two euros I had saved as a person over sixty years on the bus from Rennes. At the St. Aubert, a two-star hotel with poor recommendations (but, heck, on the island for only $75), they told me they were full, but that I had a room waiting at the Hotel la Digue at the end of the causeway (a three-star hotel that was my first choice two months ago, but full when I tried to get a room).

L’Hotel la Digue was very nice; the staff, quite friendly and helpful. And I quickly learned that the 1.8 km walk across the causeway was a plus instead of a minus. I had lots of exercise and lots of photo ops. The best views of Mont St. Michel, I concluded over the next day and a half, are of the entire island and abbey.

So I unpacked, regrouped and set out for le Mont. The day was cloudy, not great for photography. I explored and took photos for a couple hours, and then I hit the wall that one finds after a day of trans-Atlantic travel and a seven-hour time change. I gave up on the idea of dinner on the island, trudged back to the hotel, where I took one of the best showers I ever had and plopped into bed. I roused myself for a mediocre dinner in the hotel dining room and was in bed by nine p.m. All in all, a good start to my travels.

I set my alarm for early the next morning, not wanting to miss the opportunity to be out and ready with my camera at first light. I needn’t have worried. Sunrise comes late in Normandy, and when the sun did rise it was masked by a dense fog for quite a while. On the causeway, I tried to take some photos of the fog-shrouded abbey, but my camera refused to respond when I pressed the shutter button. Fortunately, I had brought my camera manual.) After searching a bit, I learned that the camera does not respond when the subject is not clearly distinguishable. Fog! The solution was simple: I bypassed autofocus in favor of manual focus. Tah-dah! (That night, processing photos in my room, I discovered that my fog photos for the most part didn’t work. I’m not sure why, but I did manage to salvage one or two, but none of the best ones of the abbey.

Early morning.

For the greater glory of God.

View from the ramparts.

In the midst of grand glory, small treasures.

Early morning.

With the sun up and the fog finally dispersed, I began my explorations. After exhausting the best of the morning light taking lots of photos, I found an agreeable café, La Croix Blanche, and sipped a cup of espresso as I watched the hordes of visitors stream past. Then, I paid my 8.5 euros for a ticket to the abbey and splurged by spending another 4.5 euros for an English audioguide (well worth it!). I took my time wandering through the spectacular monument, absorbing its history and photographing a lot of it. I can’t imagine how crowded it must be in August; Hordes of schoolchildren, babbling, laughing, exhuberant, were everywhere. And Japanese! I saw so many Japanese tourists during my stay that I thought surely they must outnumber the French.

Interior Splendor

Cloisters

A Monk's View

The tour was as satisfying as the first tour with Carol in 2007, although I have to admit that I think my best abbey interior photos were from that visit two years ago. This wasn't the case with my exterior photos. With much more time to roam near to and far from the abbey, I accumulated many different views. (All in all, I have thirty photos just of the full abbey!)

A Rare Moment of Solitude on the Ramparts

View from the Ramparts

Closer to God

After the tour, I returned to La Croix Blanche for a bowl of local cider and a rest. I wrote a few postcards and watched a few hundred more visitors trudge past. I liked La Croix Blanche; it did not have the touristy feel of so many of the places. And the staff was friendly. I’d noted grumpy vendors two years ago, and pondered the human psychology that prompted people to be hostile to the visitors who, although vastly annoying, are the lifeblood of the local population.

Le Croix Blanche

It was mid-afternoon by now. I had planned to return to the hotel at this point, rest a bit, and then return as the sun sank in the west for more photographs and then dinner on the island. I stuck to my plan, and that worked out just fine. I walked back to the mainland and my hotel, stopping every few minutes for for a fresh photo or two or three of the abbey.

Between 5:30 and 6:00, I walked back to the island, taking even more photos. I discovered an out-of-the-way passage at the west end of the island that lead past posted warnings of tides and quicksand down to a deserted stretch of beach, where I found a tiny stone chapel perched on a thirty-foot boulder at the water’s edge.

Humble Chapel at the base of Mont Saint Michel

Chapel Detail

At the base of Mont Saint Michel

Then I scouted all the restaurants as I took a leisurely stroll along the ramparts up to the abbey entrance. I compared prices and menus before settling on - big surprise! - La Croix Blanche. I was the only person on le premier étage (2nd floor in France). It was early by European standards. I noted, after settling in at a window table with a view of the tidal flats and the mainland, that there is a third floor that a few customers ascended to and descended from.
I learned here not to be snooty by overlooking the “menu express," which sounds like a quick feed for tourists. For fourteen euros, I received three delicious courses. The entrée consisted of tasty vegetable crudités and plenty baguette slices. I even ate (and enjoyed) the diced beets. For my main plat I had les moules au creme - a regional specialty Oh! So delicious! I washed it all down with a very nice white Muscadet at 3.70 euros a glass. A mistake - I should have gotten a half bottle. The dessert was a tasty apple tart, followed by espresso.

At one point during my meal, I glanced out the window to see a cluster of bread scraps sailing from the side of the restaurant over the rampart wall. A moment later, my waiter walked in the side door. From time to time over the next hour, he exited the restaurant with a bread basket and repeated the routine, fulfilling, it seemed, his own private mission to the gulls.

From time to time, I picked up my Inspector Maigret paperback mystery, but I could never get involved with it. I was happier watching people strolling by the window, trying to discreetly peek at what I had chosen to eat, at the salt flats spreading the the mainland, and the waiter’s ministering to the local wildlife.

A few more people entered the dining room as the sky grew dark over the bay and I worked my way happily through my saucy mussels. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, except for two Japanese girls, whose giggles punctuated the cloister-like calm of the dining room.

It was so quiet in the dining room that when I returned to the street I received a shock. The daytime crowds had vanished. All the shops and tourist cafés had closed. Only the restaurants remained open, and only a few visitors strolled the streets in slow motion. Still, it felt like Times Square when I stepped out of the restaurant onto the street. (It was like returning to the car after a week of canoing in the wilderness.)

I looked forward to the stroll across the causeway in the dark. I had expected to be alone, but found many tourists along the path, most heading in the opposite direction from me.
I stopped often to look back at Mont Saint Michel. Once, I looked up and saw low in the sky the Big Dipper, hanging not too far from where I would expect to see it on a dark night in the Boundary Waters. I smiled in recognition.

Mont Saint Michel is lit up at night like Disneyland. The floodlights painting the abbey made it look cheap, like a Pigalle prostitute, unconfident, needing enhancement to catch the eye and the interest of tourists.

I think that le Mont’s real beauty is on display in the light of day as it rises from the sea. Blue sky and grand swirls of clouds bring out its glory in a way that man-made lights could never achieve. Even overcast skies seem to embellish the abbey's tall spire. The monks thought that to build such a place of worship and contemplation on high land was to be all the closer to God. To look at it from the distant mainland, you almost believe that the abbey is indeed not quite of this earth, that it is somehow a destination to be achieved, a wayside rest on the road to heaven. To enter the abbey, after the long climb through the narrow streets is to enter a different world, one that perhaps is closer to God, if one’s belief is strong enough.

Rising to the Heavens

What would Mother Theresa, or Louis de Montfort or St. Clare, who spent their lives living among the poorest of the poor and ministering to them, have thought of such a majestic temple? Perhaps they would welcome the opportunity to spend time in silent retreat, praying, meditating and fortifying their spirits. But I think they truly found God in the squalid streets where they ministered to people weighed down by poverty, filfth, hunger, disease and violence. They labored, as did the Benedictine monks of the abbey of Mont Saint Michel, to bring themselves closer to God.

Wilderness - The Third Morning

Paris. Amsterdam. Madrid. Florence. La Dordogne. Yosemite. Crater Lake. The great American national parks. Even Seoul, Korea, once, when I was a young man. I have been fortunate to travel to these places and to immerse myself in the unique pleasures that each has to offer.

Today, however, I will write about the place on this earth where I most like to find myself. Northern Minnesota is home to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness - over a million acres of forest and lakes that have been set aside for the exclusive use of canoists and hikers, although I've never encountered a hiker in over thirty years of visits.

If one picture could capture the essence of the BWCAW, this might be the one.

Or this one.

Entry to the BWCAW is controlled by government-issued permits. There are no motors allowed in the BWCAW - no cars, no powerboats. There are no buildings to provide shelter from the elements, no electricity, no roads, no cellphones, none of the conveniences of civilization. On my trips, there are no iPods, no GameBoys. Campsite amenities include a fire grate and a pit toilet - not so much for convenience as to keep the pertinent activities restricted to limited spaces.

What the BWCAW offers in abundance is the natural beauty of the lakes, the sky and the forest; quiet that is unimaginable until you have experienced it; the solitude of a monastery; the opportunity to live by your wits, your physical aptitude and your initiative; night skies filled to overcrowding with stars; Northern Lights, if you're lucky; incomparable fishing, if that's your weakness; swimming at your your own private swimming spot; fresh wild blueberries to add to your pancakes; water you can still drink straight from the lake; forest you can wander into and not know where your steps will take you; encounters with wildlife - bald eagles, deer, moose, otters, beaver, black bears. Life slows as your canoe slides through the water and you fall into a rhythm of paddling as you take in the enormous beauty of the wilderness surrounding you. Portages provide their own brand of pleasure - a chance to get out and stretch your legs, walk through the woods, albeit weighted down with packs, and if you're the lucky one, the canoe. Each dawn in the BWCAW brings with it uncertainty that tingles the imagination. What will today hold?

Looks easy, doesn't it? (My cedar canoe is 55 lbs. Aluminum canoes run up to 75 lbs. or more.)

All that stuff on the ground has to get to the other side of the portage, too.
We always try to do it in one trip.

Portages offer a different perspective of the wilderness.

I spend a week in the BWCAW every year in the late summer, when the water is the warmest and the insects are growing tired of annoying human visitors. If I miss a year (a rare occurrence), I feel cheated. I have gone into this wilderness with old friends and new friends, with family, and once, alone. I have camped with experienced wilderness campers and with first-time campers. For several years, I went each August with my good friend, John Danicic; and we achieved a harmony with each other and with nature that I can't explain to but remember with pleasure. I take great delight in introducing first timers to the wildeness experience. Last year, my son, Paul, a BWCAW veteran, and I took his nine-year old stepson, Ethan, on his first wilderness camping trip.

Ethan & Paul at Devil's Cascade this year, Ethan's second trip

What I always tell potential first-timers before they sign on is that it's the wilderness. It's the wilderness. If you don't think you can be happy paddling all day in the rain, or if being cloistered in a tent in a downpour will leave you miserable, then this trip isn't for you. It can get cold, even in August. It can be very hard; paddling into a stiff wind is hard work.

Ask my wife, Carol, about the BWCAW, and she'll give you a hundred reasons to take in Broadway plays for a week in New York instead. She has accompanied me into the wilderness a few times, and invariably we get rain, more rain and put-on-all-your-wool-garments weather. There's some bad karma there; I can't explain it. Ask me about the BWCAW, and I'll tell you about endless blue sky days and nights of stargazing and campfires.

Endless skies, deep waters, silent forests.

This year was a good one. I took two trips. On my birthday, I headed north with my longtime friend from Maine, Jay Bartner. Jay has said for years that he wants to see the BWCAW, and for years his busy schedule has crowded out the possibility. Last year I told Jay that what he needed to do was to decide right then that the BWCAW was on his calendar for August '09. He took my advice to heart. And, voila! There he was, putting his shoulder into paddling, when he wasn't mugging for the camera.

Jay Bartner, BWCAW rookie.

Father and son, BWCAW veterans. It does not get any better than this.

Jay, I can tell you with confidence, had a great time. We worked together well, whether we were paddling, portaging or setting up camp. Jay took charge of the campfires and did a splendid job. We found a great west-facing campsite and set up a base camp from which we explored lakes and hiked portage trails for the duration of the trip.

A word about campsites in the BWCAW. There is no such thing as a bad campsite in the wilderness. (Well, almost no such thing.) But there are certainly some that are head-over-heels better than others. For me, these start off with one key characteristic - they face west and give you the full advantage of the afternoon and evening sun. You can swim later in the day and sun dry yourself on a warm rock. Your evening play time is extended with the lingering light of the long northern dusk. Wet stuff dries on the clothesline more efficiently than in a Maytag.

Chef Jay, tending to our first night steak dinner.

Two amigos, with a good pinot noir to accompany the steaks.

Chef Marc is no slouch in the wilderness, either.

Sometime late in the spring, Paul asked me if I'd like to take a canoe trip with him and Ethan. How can a father say no to such a request? So the day I drove Jay to the airport for his return to Maine, I started repacking my gear and assembling food supplies for the next trip. We couldn't stay long - only two nights - because Paul had to get back to work. But we packed a lot into the time we had. We found a great west-facing campsite, explored Devil's Cascade and surrounding lakes, caught northerns, ate too many s'mores and told scary stories as we counted satellites streaking through stars too numerous to count. Ethan has grown a lot in the year since his first trip. He handled his share of the portaging and even took over paddling duty in the canoe. In fact, for the first time in thirty-four years of canoe trips, I got to be a "duffer," the guy who just sits in the middle of the canoe like an extra duluth pack and takes it all in while the others do the work.

Paul, Ethan & I paddled the stunning Little Indian Sioux River.

Mmmmmm. Pancakes and bacon for breakfast.

This is the perfect time to comment on another special delight of a wilderness vacation. The year I turned fifty, I took my first (and only) solo wilderness canoe trip. It was an experience I'll always be grateful for, but one I don't need to repeat. The wilderness with all its pleasures, surprises and challenges is something to be shared. How many times in life do you get to spend days of undivided, undistracted time with someone? It's how I got to know my son-in-law, Ben, when he was still Ellen's fiancé.

For me, the ideal trip has to be a minimum of five nights. You can have a splendid time in three (or even two) nights; but to let the wilderness wash over you completely, body and soul, it takes longer. You begin to shed the busy-ness of your everyday life when you leave your car, cellphone and watch behind at the entry point. Paddling and portaging canoe and packs, seeing your first bald eagle or otter moves the process along. Setting up camp, nursing a fire to the point where it's ready to cook your steaks just right gets you closer to what you're seeking. The first campfire and the stunning darkness of the forest night helps, and crawling into your sleeping bag takes you further. And so it goes, until that moment - for me it comes without fail the morning after the second night. That's when you feel as if you've always been here. On that third morning, not having a table to sit at or a chair to sit on for meals feels so right. Your feet move confidently over rough terrain. Silence rules. The western sky tells you all you need to know about the coming day. Rain falls, soaking firewood, and sending you to your tent to read or to nap and dream. The chores - cooking, washing dishes, setting up camp, breaking camp, getting firewood, hanging the food pack out of a hungry bear's reach - are no longer chores; they become part of the rhythm of your life, like breathing and whispering I love you.

Magic is tangible in the wilderness.

Maybe I'm not getting the point across to you. It's like the song, Do You Believe In Magic? (John Sebastian, The Lovin' Spoonful, 1965, if you're not old enough to remember.) There's a verse that fits here - I'll tell you about the magic. It'll free your soul, but it's like trying to tell a stranger about rock 'n roll. Maybe you've got to be there yourself on that third morning, when conversations take on a new richness, just as the silences between you and your companion do, when you find yourself smiling for no reason, when eagerness for adventure competes in a friendly way with eagerness to idle the day away. You leave your companion reading in the hammock (yes, there are ample creature comforts) and wander into the forest on a path beaten by others. The path soon disappears, but you continue on, bushwacking your way through the dense growth. You step over a fallen pine, making a mental note to come back with your camp saw later. You emerge into a sunlit clearing and stop to pick an instant treat of blueberries. You climb over an immense, moss-blanketed granite boulder. You sit. You look back and see the lake in the distance; how far have you wandered? The sun warms you. You feel the whole earth beneath you. You look at the infinite sky above. The silence enfolds you, broken softly by a wind sidling through the tops of the trees, then bending to touch your face. You gaze at shimmering aspen leaves and think for the first time so that's why they're called quaking aspen. A bee buzzing nearby becomes your companion. A field mouse scampers across your hiking boot; you sit motionless, hoping he will return. A butterfly flits its haphazard course in front of you. No one on the entire planet knows where you are. No one knows where you are. Do you believe in magic? You move your eyes from the butterfly to the vastness of the distant lake. Maybe you see a sliver of a canoe making its silent way across to a portage. Maybe you see into time, the water frozen solid and covered in white. You feel the slow rhythm of your heartbeat, hear it beat in answer to the bee still working nearby. How long have you been here, you wonder. It doesn't matter. You stretch out your legs and lie back on the warm rock. You close your eyes and breathe deep. You drift, as if in a canoe. You remember the time you and your friend paddled across the dusky lake to the mouth of a river. In the distance you saw a moose - a rare treat - grazing by the reedy shore. You set your paddles across your lap, careful not to make a sound. The wind is behind you, pushing you stealthily into the river, closer to the moose. The beautiful creature grows larger, until it looms as darkness descends. The wind that has brought you close carries your scent to the moose, who looks over its shoulder at you with indifference, then returns to its meal. You don't smell dangerous. You drift. You drift. You drift until you hear the bee, still humming, and you open your eyes. How long have you been here? It doesn't matter. All that matters is that you exist in this moment. For this moment.

All that matters...

Pleasures of a wilderness evening.

Here's to next year!

Sailing the Apostle Islands - Don't Forget Your List!

Good winds for sailing help leave everyday concerns behind.

We're on deck of Mariah, John's thirty-six foot Cape Dory, a beauty of a sailing boat, three hundred feet off Raspberry Island. The midmorning sun is high in the pearl blue sky, unmarred by even a hint of cirrus. On the southern horizon rests a herd of cumulus clouds, as if tethered to the land. The warm sun beats down, the prize for enduring eight months of winter. A chilly breeze reminds us kindly that winter is never far off. Today, we don't care.

The view from our anchorage at Raspberry Island.

It's the first of four days of in the Apostle Islands. Idyllic, I'd have to say, except for the annoyance I'm feeling. The annoyance struck suddenly with a crude epithet from my lips as we sped along a country road headed for the marina. I forgot the beef jerky! The good stuff from Nelson's Butcher Shop, enough salt-laced protein to keep two sailors happy for four lunchtimes. I had looked forward to surprising John.

"You shouldn't have told me," he said. I had to, though; I wanted to share the pain. It didn't work. I was still fidgeting at my negligence, still seeing that delicious dried beef sitting on the shelf of my refrigerator. Acceptance is a slow-acting palliative, especially when you start remembering other things you forgot. White wine. Jack Daniels. Salad dressing. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Off my game, is what I said.

I didn't make a list. That was my problem. You need a list for wilderness camping. (This was luxury "camping" but it was still wilderness.) For thirty years people have admired and complimented me for my canoe camping lists - with good reason. I have never been caught in the wild without everything my companions and I needed for comfort and survival. Well, except for the toilet paper incident, but we won't go into that now. Besides, that incident had a surreal resolution that I believe my years of diligence earned for me.

I was lax on this trip. It will never happen again. I'll have a list for next year's sailing trip, a written list. Bet on it. In fact, I've already put it together and begun refining it.

Well, things got better; and my chagrin ebbed. A cold beer on a sunny deck will do that. A hike across a lonely island to a lighthouse will go a long way to soothe, as well. (Well, not so lonely; the tour boat had deposited a clump of tourists that littered the trail.) That evening, we grilled fresh whitefish from Lake Superior that evening and settled into the rhythms of life afloat.

Aboard ship or on land, John is always so helpful.

The next morning, after a leisurely breakfast, we headed for Julian Bay on Stockton Island, a favorite anchorage of John's. We again had good winds. We dropped anchor at lunch time and commenced to seriously hang out for the next two days. We read. I wrote. John tinkered with instruments and gadgets. We went ashore, where we hiked and talked with the rangers. The only excitement was following the drama of a sailboat that drifted away from its anchorage while its owners wandered the trails on the island, the anchor not having been correctly set. We listened to the radio messages and watched as a good neighbor motored out to retrieve the sailboat - better than t.v.

Efficiency: doing my writing and collecting solar rays.

We hiked the Tombolo Trail on Stockton Island.

On Saturday night, John set his radio dial to Radio WTIP, Grand Marais, and we sipped wine and listened to "Small Change," a trivia game. Two hours later, the hosts of the show snnounced that their time was up until next week, and John and I wondered where the time had gone.

Do you know the theme song of the Muriel Cigar commercial sung by Edie Adams? Do you know who painted "The Boating Party?" Who was the leader of Oliver Twist's gang of street urchins? The name of the president who had three dogs named Drunkard, Tippler and Tipsy? The last name of Bonnie of Bonnie & Clyde? If you like trivia like this, you'd love "Small Change." For two hours the hosts fired dozens upon dozens of questions at the audience and then took answers on the air. The good news is that WTIP is a small local station with not many listeners, so you can get through to them to answer. We got through several times and batted about .500 on our answers. We set John's cell phone on the table between us, sipped wine and when we had a couple answers, one of us would grab the phone and call. Great fun.

Hello. Grand Marais? I have the answer.

If you want to find out how much fun, you can check out "Small Change" online. The show is on Saturday evenings, 7:00-9:00, Central Time.

Oh, the answers, in the order I asked the questions:
* "I'm a little Muriel, only a dime. Why don't you pick me up and smoke me sometime?"
* Renoir.
* Fagin.
* George Washington
* Bonnie Parker

The next morning, after breakfast and coffee on the deck, we took the dinghy and motored along the shoreline, exploring bays and sea caves.

We toured close to shore.

This monolithic rock (rocky monolith?) lies just off Stockton Island.

We ventured into sea caves.

That night we listened to the lonely notes of a saxophone from a nearby boat as we stayed up late to watch the moon rise over the lake to the east. In my entire life I had never seen a moonrise from the horizon. It is a stunning sight, a quivering ball of fire that gives no light to the sky as it seems to rise from the dark waters on the distant horizon.

Here I am, working hard, earning my afternoon beer on the deck.