Our Morning At The Ice Caves

01. 17. 2014

Meyers BeachSea CavesGeorge at the sea caves

Always in the big woods when you leave familiar ground and step off alone into a new place there will be, along with the feelings of curiosity and excitement, a little nagging of dread. It is the ancient fear of the unknown, and it is your first bond with the wilderness you are going into. What you are doing is exploring. You are undertaking the first experience, not of the place, but of yourself in that place. It is an experience of essential loneliness, for nobody can discover the world for anyone else. It is only after we have discovered it for ourselves that it becomes a common ground and a common bond, and we cease to be alone.

 Wendell Berry

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Jack leaves tomorrow— back to Madison to complete the second half of his freshman year. I wanted to do something epic to recognize his leave-taking; some collection of experiences he can bring to Madison, package away in his dorm room and pull out when he needs to remember why Lake Superior will always be home. A morning walk to the sea caves in a foot of fresh powder and more falling from the sky was, quite possibly, the most epic adventure we’ve had since he came home in December.

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The sea caves have been inaccessible since 2009 and while I’ve been out to them twice in the past (in the company of 75 – 100 other travelers), this was the first time we’ve traveled the mile or so alone. The walk was a mixture of apprehension (how do I know if the ice is thick enough), wonder (the snow, wind and ice enveloped my eyes and ears) and excitement (Ted, Jack and I were alone, walking across a frozen lake towards one of the wonders in this world).

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There was a single track along the shore and out across the lake.  The snow was a pristine white blanket, it was quiet enough to hear the ice creak and pop with unseen swells from the lake and it was solitary enough to feel the ancient energy radiating from the rocks that ringed the shore. Words can’t begin to describe what it felt like to witness the wild and ephemeral beauty of ice and sandstone.

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The different colors, shapes and textures of the ice was mind-blowing. It was a work of art, created by wind and water— magical in its perfection.

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The silence was remarkable. I’ve spent hours on the lake and there’s always noise— seagulls, waves, wind, voices carried across the water but today was the kind of muffled quiet that accompanies a snowfall. Perfect for a photo safari with two of my favorite men and George.

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Each ice formation was different but equally majestic.

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Sharing the experience of sacred wisdom, imagined in ice and stone, with Jack and Ted was more than I hoped for when we set out in the morning. I know Jack carries that wisdom in his spirit and a morning spent deepening his connection to this mystical place will serve him well as he moves into the world.

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The lateral lines and warm colors of the sandstone were a stunning contrast to the stark white, vertical ice formations.

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Deep in this cave, I found a bit of greenery— frozen in its climb towards the light.

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The last cave reminded me of a cathedral. The sandstone cliffs soared straight up and the path through the crevasse led me about 150 feet back to the sound of running water. As I stopped and listened to the water deep in the belly of a sandstone cliff, I said a fervent prayer of gratitude. Grateful for a spirit that recognizes the divine in the sound of running water, for the unending blessings I’ve received over the course of my life, for the wisdom of wild places, for our children with open hearts and a sense of wonder, for a partner who is my ‘ever-fixed mark’ and for sandstone canvases painted with ice on the shores of my favorite Lake.

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The eyes of the future are looking back at us and they are praying for us to see beyond our own time. They are kneeling with hands clasped that we might act with restraint, that we might leave room for the life that is destined to come. To protect what is wild is to protect what is gentle. Perhaps the wilderness we fear is the pause between our own heartbeats, the silent space that says we live only by grace. Wilderness lives by this same grace. Wild mercy is in our hands.

Terry Tempest Williams, Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place

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