The first part was easy. After a delightful delay conversing with Patti Keith as she planted next Spring's tulip bulbs at her beautiful little garden at Pine and 7th Street (where I learned that if you ring tulips with daffodils, the deer won't eat them). I tread my way through the soft sand of the Pinery to the old Copper Falls Mine stamping mill, the location of Rich Boggio's remarkable 1999, or was it 1998, two headed deer bagging. I munched a picnic sandwich as I watched deer and fox covert on the expanse of stamp sands below the overlook, the mine tailings flooding what must have been a sparkling little lake or at least a wild life laden marsh before man decided to utilize it as a waste pit.

Then the tough climb up the rocky trail, past the old Padberg home on White-Stocking Row, to what remains of the Copper Falls community. I stopped for a cool drink from the stream emptying from the mine adit just above the old stamp mill - Abby's favorite stop on our Copper Falls excursions. The flow was barley perceptible, giving me pause, but thirst born of tromping through the bush on a warm day is not very discerning. As my heart pounded heavily on the trek up the hill, water poisoning was the least of my concerns.

Copper Falls, the home for over a half a century for more folks than now call Eagle Harbor home, including such still familiar Harbor area names as Jacka, Clark, Vivian and Fisher, is now just a scattered collection of lovingly maintained "camps", deteriorating mine buildings, and trap and ash bed poor rock piles - all yielding to the smothering embrace of struggling birch, new growth pine, old spruce, and sumac ablaze in its fall finery.

As I trudged by the old mine homes, and up the steep and rugged trail to the summit, the difficult task of the miners who hauled the heavy equipment and supplies needed to exploit the copper bearing veins exposed by the scouring of Owl Creek, was all too apparent. I investigated a dark shape looming in the woods alongside the trail and discovered the stacked stone of what is left of either the engine or boiler house at one of the hillside shafts. Nearby was a massive poor rock pile, sufficiently hidden from view that it's slopes had not been extensively worked by the rock hounds. At its origin there was a large depression, obviously the covered over shaft. I walked gingerly around it, respecting the risk of treading too near these old shafts.

I soon discovered the reason for the trickle of water leaving the mine's adit down at the stamp mill site. The creek, which leaks down the old shafts and then drains out through the adit, is dry, suffering the fate of almost all Keweenaw watercourses in this unusually dry year.

The view from the bare rock outcrop on the summit high above Copper Falls was both affirming and disturbing. Affirming in the grandeur that treats the eye as it sweeps across over two miles of colorful wooded slope stretching out to lakeshore dunes, and then across the deep blue waters of the big lake to the faint outline of Isle Royale floating on the horizon some forty miles distant. The view is likely the same seen by the ancient miners who mined the veins of the nearby Owl Creek and no doubt stood on this summit over 5,000 years ago. The view from Brockway is perhaps more grand, but there is something special about the view from summits reached after a difficult climb of several hours up old mine or logging trails. It's not just the delicious blueberries that abound on our own Mount Baldy that attracts us up its slope to stand atop its barren summit each summer.

The disturbing aspect of my summit visit was the landscape havoc and clutter of trash scattered about the treeless hilltop and alongside the trail up the hill, apparently left by visitors who accessed the summit with the aid of all terrain vehicles. The last several score feet of steep slope up to the summit is badly scarred by the tracks of these vehicles, as is the summit itself. Trash, including pop and beer cans, paper, and the other debris of irresponsible visitors littered the summit, and the vehicle battered trail up was a dumping ground for batteries and tires. The miners of old certainly left their own marks on the landscape, as evident by the stamp sands, poor rock piles, and the rusting junk of tools and equipment, but their indiscretion was associated with hard and hazardous work, trying to eke out an existence in the harsh Keweenaw environment - not the indifference and callousness of man at play.

The stumbling trek back down the hill to the trail just above the Harbor cutoff road was accompanied by the eerie sound of a building wind working its way through the tops of ridgeline trees now shed of leaves. Summer winds cause a rustling, most often soothing, sound as they sweep through the heavy foliage. The back woods experience of a brisk late fall or winter wind howling by bare treetops is quite different - borderline scary, certainly spooky. It keeps one's sensory system on edge.

I followed another tempting little trail part way back up the hill to visit the Copper Falls' picturesque "steeple" camp. I encountered several new property line stakes; little lath sticks with bright pink ribbons attached and lot numbers scrawled on their surface. They are now to be found all along the Harbor Road, hopefully not signaling the impending end to our ability to freely roam through these old mining locations, but given the growing presence of posted and gated properties, it's not likely that my grandchildren will be able to duplicate my journey of this Indian Summer day.

Now to Central, not my original destination, but the result of yielding to the many temptations offered by hiking through the bush on a delightful Indian Summer day. The old Central road is a challenge, especially the section of the road just above the Harbor Road. This, of course is the original route to the Harbor, the road my mother's and other Calumet families often traveled by carriage in the early 1900s. It's smoother now, recently covered with crushed mine rock to support the logging trucks that are today its main travelers. Except for a solitary spiffy car that raced by me, and a hoot owl that seemed to follow me along in adjacent treetops, the hike alongside the several old Central mine shafts and across the marsh of Central Lake was accompanied only by the warming sun now beginning its afternoon descent. My legs welcomed the final descent into old Central, the "Duchy of Cornwall", and once home for over 1200 people , miners and their families.

Luckily, my friend Ted was still in his camp alongside the historic Central Methodist Church. He offered a glass of most welcomed water and a brief rest among the fascinating clutter of relics of an earlier time that grace the cozy interior of his lovingly cared for old miner's home. No antiques or things of worth, just "stuff", the kinds of things you might have found in the place when it was occupied by a hard working miner and his family over a century ago. Ted's place is truly "camp"; not the fancy digs I live in and loosely refer to as camp.

My Indian Summer day hike was now nearly in it's fifth hour and the shadows were creeping down from the hills. It was time to begin the long, but thankfully mostly downhill hike home. Once more up and over the hill above Central, but now following the barely perceptible old road that linked Central and the high slope mines at Copper Falls by a route along the ridge at the north edge of Owl Lake, the marshy headwaters of Owl Creek. The route travels through several large grassy clearings near the upper end of Owl Creek, most certainly the place of some long disappeared settlements or mine facilities. I wished Abby was along, she would have relished romping through the tall grass in search of critters, both feathered and furry. Of course, by this time she would have been as tired as I was. I certainly didn't feel like romping.

The view of the Harbor and the lighthouse alongside my "camp" as I rounded the last turn on the road coming down the hill, is always a special treat, but never more so than as I neared the end of this journey. All was quiet in our little village as I strolled along the smooth beach, nary a footprint nor a person in sight. A very strong wind, almost gale force, had followed me down from the hills, stirring up whitecaps in the Harbor.

I crawled out on the seawall in front of my place to rest, cool down in the new breeze, and gaze back up into the hills I had just visited. The distant and still fall hued trees shielded the old settlements and mine workings from my view - but they remained riveted in my mind. A day well spent.

Sunday, October 15, 2000. Just as we were drifting along in the warm embrace of a lulling bit of Indian Summer, with the weather wizards assuring us of more to come, Mother Nature pulls the rug from under our serenity and sends in a fierce northeaster. Dark, angry-looking waves, pushed ashore by gale force winds laced with cold rain, broke as they passed over the Harbor's outlying shoals, and then rushed madly across the entry cribs, sending up giant plumes of spray, before ending their nearly one hundred mile journey as they roared up the ancient rock battlement protecting the cottages along the Gold Coast. It was quite a sight!

Saturday was a day to hunker in. A day to pull the rocker closer to the bright flame and warmth of the fireplace, and settle back with a good book as I watched and listened to the storm vent its energy on the Keweenaw shore. On several occasions the temptation to taste and feel its fury became irresistible and I would venture down to the Lake Breeze rocks, or up to the Light Station. Laker skippers were reporting over 40 knot winds and ten to twelve foot seas, and as I leaned into the howling wind and felt the cold spray of the cresting waves nosily and majestically ending their journey on the nearby rock, I thought of sailors out upon the frenzied lake, and how glad I was not to be among them.

One such venture away from the comfort of camp was to the Harbor beach in search of driftwood for the hungry fireplace. Each storm offers a new supply, either washed in from far away shores, or exposed from sandy burial by the churning waves. Northeasters seem especially good as driftwood suppliers. The waves driven in from the northeast ricochet off the hard south shore, their remnants surging northwesterly across the Harbor and up the gentle slope of the soft sand swimming beach. As I picked each piece, and sifted through the other debris washed ashore, I wondered of its origin and how long it might have been on its journey.

This past summer, our Historical Society's program for harbor kids included a session focused on the children's book, "Paddle-to-the-Sea", a magical story of a child's carving of a little boat, tossed into the tributary of a great lake, and finding its way across storm tossed seas to some foreign land. Our kids listened to the story, made their little boats, but unlike the story, apparently thought of their achievement as art, to be taken home to admiring family. Their boats sit somewhere on shelves, gathering dust, not rocking in gentle swells nor tossing in turbulent seas on their journey to a faraway shore, where some beachcomber, such as I, might find it and wonder of its origin. They missed the point and magic of the story completely!

I found a "Paddle-to-the-Sea" boat a few summers ago on a remote Superior pebble beach. A simple, childlike, offering of painted design on a piece of boat shaped driftwood. A metal tag, like a GI's dog tag, was attached. The maker's name and home address were stamped on the tag, along with his request that I report the location and date of the finding, and then toss it back into the sea to continue its journey. I copied the information and tossed the little boat out into the lake. I dutifully sent the report of my finding to the young boy and quickly received a response from a clearly delighted child. He lived near Whitefish Point and had launched his little vessel into the lake at that infamous graveyard of Superior ships. He said he and his third grade classmates had read the story, made and launched their boats, and were tracking the reports of their journeys on a map of the world - yes, the world! They got the point, felt the wonder of the story. (Their teacher deserves a kudo.)

I didn't find such a gem as I picked through the offering of yesterday's northeaster. But as I returned to my fireside rocker and watched the waves breaking on our Harbor shore, I thought of this now young man and his little vessel - wondering where their journeys have taken them. Lake storms, even fierce northeasters, conjure an appreciation of the beauty and awesome power of the natural world, as well as an increased awareness of the varied ways we who share this life along the volatile lake, respond to its presence.