Quarries and caves made the day ~ April 28, 2004

David Heiller

It’s funny how something can sneak up on you and bring a smile.

Cindy and I found that on Sunday afternoon, when we took a walk to the quarry by Reno.

The view of the quarry from the top of Hillside Road

We parked our car in the little lot on Hillside Drive, walked up the broad trail, then turned right and marched up the old road to the quar­ry.

It’s a marvelous spot. The limestone stands sheer and beautiful, 100 feet high, and still looks amazingly fresh. You almost expect to hear a dump truck come rumbling up for a load. Of course, that won’t happen; there are a lot of trees growing in the quarry pit now, big birches that tell you it’s been three or four decades since this quarry was active.

And that’s probably good, because another blast or two of dynamite might send the entire bluff onto Highway 26 and into the river. It’s really just a sliver of rock by nature’s standards.

It’s a spiritual spot. A couple of young people have died tragically in recent years, and their friends have gone to the quarry and spelled out their names – Josh and Mark – while someone braver than I stood at the top of the quarry and took their picture. I can see why they would do that there.

We walked around the south side of the quar­ry, and up a trail to a little goat prairie. It’s so steep that I got dizzy looking at the river and had to sit down. What a view! We could see both spillways on the dike that leads to Genoa. And what a pretty sight that city is.

The wind carved a current in the river that paralleled the land all the way to Wisconsin. Or was it the wind? Maybe it was a line of river current, a ghost of the old days before the Army Corp of Engineers dammed up the river in the 1930s.

We walked to the edge of the quarry, about two thirds of the way up, and thought about climbing the narrow ledge to its peak. But not for long. It’s not a climb you want to make if there is a shadow of doubt.

David and I hiked throughout our marriage.
There is nothing that a hike doesn't
 help put into perspective.

We climbed up the other side of the quarry as far as we dared also. It’s even more dangerous, with a crumbling ledge about two feet wide, fol­lowed by a clump of boulders eight feet high that stops most people. I remember climbing over that spot with a friend when I was in col­lege. Was I braver then, or just dumber? Yes to both.

We left the quarry and headed north to Fairy Rock. I wanted to check out the old cave.

I found the path and scrambled down. Someone had tied a rope to a tree to help in the final six-foot drop. I still came close to falling. Our two dogs couldn’t make it, and Cindy thought better of it too. So it was just me and the cave.

It hasn’t changed much since the last time I visited it, but I still marvel at it. The ceiling is about 12 feet high at the highest spot, and it’s about 25 feet long. The limestone inside peels off easily when you scrape it. The colors are rich browns, all shades, and some red thrown in here and there. There’s plenty of light from the two big openings, but it’s still always evening inside the cave. Another spiritual spot.

I always wonder who has lived in this cave over the eons — I mean before Tim Serres. And all the people who have visited it. I remember seeing my dad’s initials in it when I was a kid — at least I think I remember it.

I checked out the names that are carved in it now. Most looked new. “Carolyn + John.” “Brad ‘99” Then I stood on a ledge, and looked up and to my right, and there it was, a big fat “D.H.” And that brought the smile. I don’t remember — wait, it’s coming back a little. Didn’t I stand on that ledge, right there, and carve that? Yes, Jeff Mitchell was with, and Billy Burfield. We rode our bikes down, and after that we went to the Root Beer Stand and bought a root beer for a nickel from Rita Grams.

OK, maybe that all didn’t happen. It doesn’t matter.

I left the cave and looked up. An eagle soared past, heading south, then another, then another.

I scrambled back to the top, where Cindy and the dogs waited patiently. We headed back home, both smiling on a fine April evening made even finer by the Reno Quarry and good old Fairy Rock.

Full circle, for now ~ May 23, 2002

David Heiller

Noah’s car was in the shop for a repair so I drove him to school a couple weeks ago. We didn’t talk about much. Just small talk, about the Twins and the weather. There was plenty of silence too, the comfortable kind that fathers and sons have when they are getting along.

Noah's graduation, 2002 Full circle, for this chapter

I took a left off Highway 61 in Willow River down the familiar street, then left into the parking lot to the entrance of Willow River High School with barely a good bye.

A lot of kids were streaming in, running just ahead of the first bell like Noah, and he joined them.

As I watched him disappear, an emotion hit me that I wasn’t expecting. It’s hard to describe. I suddenly realized that a big end had come to one of Noah’s chapters, and to one of mine.

First day of school, 1989

It was sadness a little, although it’s hard to be sad when you son's whole adult life is still ahead of him and you. I thought, “The things that we did in that school as parents are about to end,” and that brought a crooked smile.

I can’t begin to recount the memories here, and I would be in big trouble if I tried, because Noah has declared war on newspaper columns that include him, and I respect that mostly.

But they ran the gamut from good to not so good... as you might expect if you recall your own school years. I know he learned a lot, because Cindy and I learned a lot, and not just from helping him with math and proof-reading his English reports.

Like my sister Mary Ellen told me when I went to college, “Don’t let school interfere with your education.” The lessons Noah learned will probably not be what the chief export of Egypt is.

And since we served as general consul to those lessons, Cindy and I learned too. Phil Minkkinen should hand out honorary law degrees to all the parents on Friday night that can be redeemed at health spas or taverns.

I feel happiness for Noah and his classmates. Finishing high school is a big deal, and he’s glad to be doing that, and excited about his next move. I can still taste the freedom I felt when high school ended for me. It was like a chain was lifted from my torso. Yet I was kind of sad to see it go. That freedom is something to savor, because it doesn’t last. Chains come back, and by our choosing. There are good chains.

The other thought that hit me at that moment two weeks ago was that I was getting old.

Where did the time go? Was it really 13 years ago that Noah was getting on Dave Nyrud’s bus for his first day in school? I can remember it like yesterday, remember that he was wearing shorts (against our advice) and carrying a red back pack with a dinosaur on it. I remember the pride and sadness at that moment too.

We’ve come full circle. Now a new one is about to start, and I’m excited for Noah and all his classmates. There will be more milestones in Noah’s life. I’m looking forward to them. But I’m going to enjoy this one on Friday night in the Tom Stine gymnasium.

There’s more than fish to a fishing trip ~ May 21, 1992

David Heiller

We might even catch some fish. Last week’s column ended on that spurt of optimism, and it came true, except for Dave.

Dave Landwehr waiting for a lunker...
or a snag.

There comes a time every year, when we go canoeing up north, that Dave does his “Pretend I’ve Got A Lunker” trick. That’s when his lure gets snagged on a stick or rock, and instead of carefully working it off, he strains and jerks and bends the tip of his rod like he’s Babe Winkleman bringing in an eight pound lake trout.

That’s what he was doing on Saturday afternoon, when Paul and I paddled up. There he sat, making faces, groaning against the rod, snagged solid. It was kind of funny. We smiled like you smile at an old story that you’ve heard a few times.

Then suddenly Dave crashed back into his seat, and held up his rod and started swearing. The top section had broken clean in two. Now THAT was funny. We smiled, we laughed, we roared. It was an Oscar-winning performance, unfortunately better than even Dave had expected.

I figure that Dave tempted the fates one too many times, like the boy that cried fish. He never did catch one. But at least he can brag about the one that got away: it was so big that it broke his rod.

The rest of us did catch some fish, nothing to brag about, but enough for supper every night except the first night, when Dave made spaghetti with ground venison sauce which was so good we forgot about fish anyway.

The other three nights we sat around the camp fire full of boiled lake trout, wild rice, noodles, and potatoes. That’s a fine way to end a day in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.

You can’t ask for any more than that, but you get it anyway. You always catch more than fish in the Boundary Waters.

Like when Dave and Paul saw a ruffed grouse drumming as they took trips to the biffy one morning. Or an otter in Cherokee Creek on Sunday, coming out. Or naps, sweet, long naps in the sun, no phones ringing, no power saws buzzing, not even any mosquitoes buzzing.

A beautiful morning

Or on the granite slab in front of our campsite before sunrise on Friday morning, reading Sigurd Olson and listening to the birds of the north, their songs fresh and new and wild like the lakes and islands of the boundary waters.

The lake was dark and silent, save for a rim of rose at the shoreline. The island 200 yards out front emerged from the gloom, the pine tree branches a lacey black. A loon called and another, far down the lake, answered hoarsely.

The clear sky changed as morning mists rolled in. The air became clammy and thick. The sun inched above the distant shoreline, then glowed like a spotlight above the trees, and the fog melted and crept away. That was my cue to make a fire for coffee. What a way to start a morning.

Old-timers scoff at such romantic descriptions. They remind me that this country was logged at the turn of the century. It wasn’t so pretty then. They mention the mercury in the lake trout, the USDA caution to eat no more than one fish a month. The water isn’t so pure after all. They shake their heads at how much poorer the fishing is now than it used to be in the good old days. “Before schmucks like you discovered it,” they almost say.

Let them say it. There’s enough room for everybody, as long as we treat the land and water with the respect it has coming.

A Gift in the Moonlight

Jim and I paddled into the moonlight on Friday night. First we hugged the shoreline. Patches of moss glowed eerily in the darkness. Tree roots loomed like misshapen monsters.

Jim and David on a daytime paddle.

We moved into the middle of the lake, and the moon instantly cleared the tree line and shone clear and bright. It brightened our spirits too, made us grin and talk. Talk can’t describe how bright and pretty a full moon on a quiet lake can be.

We paddled around a dark island, then came out to a shimmering path of moonlight that lead like a yellow brick road back to camp. Two loons swam through it, silhouetted for an instant against a glittering ribbon of yellow wonder. It was a vision worth a thousand words, a gift no money could buy. Even old-timers would have enjoyed it.

We followed the moon down a narrow channel, toward our camp. A beaver splashed on our left. The voices of Dave and Paul guided us home, their campfire an orange dot on the dark shore. What a beautiful, age-old sight.

Welcome home

I could go on and on, but anyone who has been to the Boundary Waters can rekindle their own memories. In fact, I feel a little foolish for this sixth annual gushing about our trip.

But one more gush: When we got to Dave’s on Sunday evening, his son Matt stood waiting by the mailbox. As we approached, he stuck his hand out like he was hitch-hiking. His eyes gleamed above a grin a mile wide. It was a look saved for only Dad, gone five whole days, from a 10-year-old boy. It’s not a look you see every day, and not a look you easily forget. A look of pure love and affection. If it’s aimed at you, you’re the luckiest person in the world. I know I am.

That’s another thing you get from a trip up north, maybe the best thing of all. It’s enough to make you forget about whether or not you catch a fish, or even break your rod.

Long live the clock radio ~ May 11, 2005

 David Heiller

The clock radio by our bed has survived 25 years of marriage, and our marriage has survived 25 years of that radio. I don^’t know which is the greater miracle.

Cindy has always had control of the radio.

That’s part of the deal. Note that I didn’t say that’s part of the problem; 25 years of marriage has taught me a few things.

1976 The year David and I met,
and the year I bought the clock radio.

She sets the alarm, which these days comes on at 5:23 a.m. When we want to turn on the radio, that’s Cindy^’s job, and when it’s time to shut off the radio, she does that too.

You see, that little Panasonic radio with the “simulated wood cabinet” is not as simple as it looks. From left to right are nine buttons: doze, sleep, time set (fast and slow), alarm set, selector (which itself has three options, off, radio, and buzzer), manual off-on, volume, and band.

So this morning, Sunday, May 8, when I reached over Cindy to turn off the radio, the conversation went something like this:

“Don’t touch that radio!”

“What?”

“Every time you touch that radio you screw something up!”

“What do you mean? It’s just a radio.”

“You always mess it up, and you know it.”

“I was just going to shut it off.”

“You don’t know how to shut it off.”

I paused just long enough that it proved her point. “Well, you just, I mean, there’s this switch.”

But she had me in her sights. I was history. The truth was my hand was going to travel from left to right, from doze all the way to band, and by the time I was done groping, we’d be listening to Vance Mitchell^’s favorite radio station, good old 1490 AM, at about 110 decibels.

So I let Cindy reach over, and with one simple digit, faster than the eye could see, she had that radio off. Wow.

That was that, until the subject came up a couple hours later in the car. I was fiddling with the fan and heat controls, using the same dexterity that I use on the radio. Cindy reached over and flipped a knob to the right setting, and somehow the conversation was back to that darned radio. The ensuing conversation went something like this:

“I can’t believe you don’t know how to shut off the radio.”

Silence.

“I bought that radio in college.”

Silence.

“We’ve had that radio our entire marriage.” Pause. “25 years.” Cindy is proud of those 25 years, and I am too.

I knew I had to say something. “OK, how DO you shut off the radio?” I guess I’ve been waiting to ask that question for about 25 years.

“You push the doze button.”

Oh. That made sense. “Then how do you turn it on?”

“You push the sleep button”

Now I remembered why I had never learned how to operate the radio. It didn’t make sense to my logical, Mars-type thinking.

At our 25th Anniversary dance.

Cindy went on to explain the reason why the radio works that way, and I remembered it as we passed Hurleys, and kind of had it in my mind by the time we hit Grabhorns. But at the top of the ridge, when the wind hit the car, I had blessedly forgotten everything Cindy said. That’s not always a bad thing, as 25 years of marriage can prove in many intricate ways.

My goal is to have this conversation with Cindy again in 2030, just in time for our Golden Anniversary.

In search of the elusive, good used lawnmower ~ May 23, 1985

David Heiller

Buying a lawnmower is no small event in our family. The questions rage: “Should we buy new or used? Off-brand or name brand? Three horse or three-and-a-half horse? Twenty inch cut, or 22 inch cut?”

And of course the main question: “How much does it cost?”

My wife and I anguished over the issue for the past month. We knew the hand-me-down mower in the garage would not make another summer. Cindy wanted to go with a new mower. She figures we have a big lawn, and will probably always have a big lawn, so a new mower would be a wise investment. She also figures that if we still had the money spent on used mowers and repairs over the past three years, we could have a very good new mower.

I can’t argue that point. We’ve had four used mowers—three bought, one given—since 1981. Each of those mowers was serviced at least once during the summer. That’s between $150 and $200 in mowers, for three summers of sporadic cutting and abusive language.

But since I was in charge of researching the new purchase, I once again stuck my neck out and bought a used mower. I kept thinking, “One of these times, I’m going to get a gem, one that was used by a little old lady with a small lawn who only cut the grass on Sunday.”

The model I bought was an off-brand, didn’t even have a name. Its carriage was painted bright green, with a clean, white, three-and-a-half horse motor. It looked in good shape, and had been given the once-over by the dealer. The cost: $42.20, with a trade in.

When I bought home, my nearly two-year-old son crawled onto the engine, as if to ride it around. “Mo-mower, mo-mower, he said. He moved behind it, reached up for the handle, and tried to push it. It wouldn’t budge.

The lawn mower in residence with
the lawn mower of the moment.

Cindy was not quite as excited. “Oh, you bought a used mower,” she said. “I thought we had agreed to buy a new mower.”

“Did we?” I asked. My mind is able to block things out quite nicely when called to. “Oh yeah, you’re right. But this one looks so nice. I gave it a test cutting. And it’s been serviced. The guy even ground the valves for me.” I don’t know what the valve grinding entails, but it impressed me, so I tried it on Cindy. She returned to the kitchen, looking unimpressed.

The next night the “new” used mower had its debut, its first major league start. Halfway around the apple tree, after five minutes of mowing, something clanked and whizzed into the weeds. I stopped the mower. The air filter had blown off. All I could find was a twisted circle of tin. I picked it up: It was engine hot, and burned my fingers.

I glanced toward the house, feeling like Ron Davis after giving up one of those game-losing home runs. Here came the manager. Cindy approached the mower and me as I knelt by its side, trying not to look at the air filter hole.

“It doesn’t sound very good,” she said. “I wouldn’t write home about that mower if I were you.” She was showing great self-control, just like Billy Gardner must have in those ninth-inning disasters. The words “I told you so” were nearly bursting out from every pore.

“Let’s give it a chance,” I said in a compassionate voice. “I’m not even a quarter done.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said, and turned back to the dugout.

I resumed cutting. The mower worked fine for the next half hour. Then it started stalling in the tall grass. Soon it was having trouble with the regular stuff, so that I was taking baby steps to let the blade keep up with the grass.

Finally, with only a 10 by 20 foot patch left, it quit altogether, and I knew it wouldn’t start again. I tried five or six times. Not even close to a spark.

I wheeled it into the garage, and parked it. It’s still sitting there, looking very clean and nice, waiting for one more shot at the lawn, one more shot at the big leagues. Then it’s either here to stay, or it’s back to the minors, and me with it.

The one that got away on Walter Lake ~ May 22, 1997

David Heiller

Paul, Dave, Jim and I had a chilly five days in the Boundary Waters last week. It froze most of the nights, and snowed most of the days.

But we didn’t mind, because the fish were biting.

Jim caught the first one a few hours after we set up camp on the Walter Lake. It was a 27-inch lake trout. We figured its weight, using a DNR formula, at 13 pounds.

Jim and a northern in the snow.

Later that afternoon, Paul landed a 42-inch northern. It weighed 21 pounds. The next day it was Jim with a 39-inch northern and Paul with a 38-inch one, 17 and 16 pounds respectively. Then Dave pulled in a 30-inch, eight pound northern.

It’s funny how a person can put up with crummy weather when he is catching fish like that.

Well, technically, I didn’t catch a fish like that. I caught a few smaller ones that fit nicely into the frying pan. It’s all luck anyway, right?

The fish I’ll remember most is the one that got away.

It took my cisco and bobber and ran with incredible power toward the shore of the bay where we were camped. Then it veered left, toward the center of the bay.

It stopped for a few seconds to swallow the cisco. Then it started swimming again. That’s when I set the hook. Wow. It was the biggest fish I ever felt. It was almost scary, thinking what was at the end of my line.

I started reeling in. The fish and my line went back toward shore. Then it stopped. I couldn’t budge the fish.

With a sickening feeling, I realized the fish was snagged on something. Paul came over with a canoe. I hopped in the front, and we paddled to the spot. He saw a flash of the fish amidst the branches of a dead tree under the water. The fish had taken a side trip through the snag when it ran with my minnow, and was now wrapped around a branch.

I gave one more tug, the line broke, and the big fish was gone.

How big was it? A 25-pounder, at least.

I moped about the lost fish a time or two. Dave tried to console me. “It’s just a fish. It’s just life,” he said in the canoe later that day. I knew he was right. But I couldn’t help feeling sad. I couldn’t help wondering how big that fish was. Thirty pounds, easy.

I lamented the loss the next night around the campfire. Dave said, “Well, at least you can beat it in cribbage.” We all laughed, and that was the last I mentioned it. No use crying over lost lunkers.

FISHING WAS only part of our trip’s highlights. We saw a cow moose and her calf one morning. The calf was sucking milk, while the mother eyed us warily from behind white cedar branches.

Seeing a mamma and baby moose in the wild is worth at least one big fish. It’s always amazing how big they are. The cow was six feet high at her hips.

ONE afternoon two forest service employees came across the lake and checked our latrine to see if a new one would have to be dug. They were clearing portages, using axes and saws.

We were glad they followed us in. It made the trip out much easier. On the trip in, we had to climb over several trees that had blown over the portages. That’s not easy to do with a pack and canoe on your shoulders.

The rangers were both young women, fresh out of Northland College. We told them about some of our past 11 trips together. They listened politely. That impressed me. It’s nice when people know how to listen. We felt like old-timers compared to them. But they looked very competent, and no doubt they were.

“They pay you to do this job?” Jim asked them. That summed up our feelings as they paddled off to the next campsite.

ANOTHER memory: We were crossing the first portage on our way to Walter Lake. Paul was walking ahead of me. He was carrying two packs, one in front and one in back; three paddles, two life jackets, and a minnow bucket. We pride ourselves on making portages in one trip, and Paul wasn’t going to break that tradition.

Paul is not a small man. He says he weighs 300 pounds. As my daughter would say, “Yeah right, Dad.”

Paul, on an easier portage,
during a different year's trip.

We came to a spot on the portage where water from snow melt was rushing across. A half-rotten log lay on one side of the trail. Paul didn’t want to get his feet wet, so he tried walking across the log. The log cracked and sagged. Paul jolted from one side and the other, like a cement truck on a high wire. He couldn’t see his feet because of the pack in front.

We stood and watched and tried very, very hard not to laugh, the way you do when you see someone slip on a patch of ice.

As usual, Paul made it across. He always does. He is surprisingly nimble for a mountain. A few well chosen words always seem to help him. He provided a humorous moment for the rest of us insensitive louts.

The four of us plan on returning to our fishing hot spot again next year. I want to take another stab at that 35-pounder that I lost.

By the way, Walter Lake isn’t the real name of the lake. If I mentioned the real name, I might not live long enough to return there with my three fine friends.

Spring: a cure for all ills ~ May 13, 1993

David Heiller

Nature has a way of healing people, both their bodies and their minds. I’m reminded of that every year about this time. I get down on my hands and knees, and you could say I’m praying in a primitive way, though mostly I’m pulling weeds.

There was a lot of healing to be done last weekend. Cindy took sick on Thursday, and could barely get out of bed for two days. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t eat with us and help with homework and add that un-definable magic that mothers bring to a home. A cloud fell over the house.

Out of commission...

But the sun shone on Friday. Rain fell in warm spurts on Saturday, a good rain, gentle and full of life. The rhubarb grew about three inches each day. By Sunday Cindy was able to stand and talk and say thank you for her Mother’s Day cards and flowers, and the cloud was gone.

In another time and place that plague might have killed her. But not this time of year. Not with weeds being pulled from the garden by the wheelbarrow-full, and orioles singing at 6 a.m.

More proof? Noah took sick on Sunday, and had the same symptoms as Cindy. He lay on the couch all day Monday, even missed school, something he hates. He’s only nine.

I came home from work on Monday afternoon to spell Cindy. Noah and I sat on the couch, and spied a rose breasted grosbeak in the maple tree, 15 feet away. He was staring at the double-sided, Alvin Jensen deluxe bird feeder, which was filled with black sunflower seeds next to the window. He looked uncertain, like maybe he had never sat on an Alvin Jensen bird feeder before. If so, he’s one of the few birds that hadn’t.

Birds cured Noah!

After 10 seconds, he flew over, hovered in the air for five seconds, then made a gentle landing. He seemed to stare through the window at Noah and me. I couldn’t see him smile, but he probably did. His rose breast filled us with joy. What a beauty.

An hour later, Noah was playing outside with the dog. He was better, and that was no coincidence. You can’t bottle rose-breasted grosbeaks and take them like medicine three times a day. They’re much more powerful than that.

How powerful is the earth in spring? Pearl S. Buck had a character in The Good Earth who worked in the fields while she was pregnant, right up until she gave birth. Then she strapped the baby to her back, and kept working, her milk dripping onto the black soil.

It was like that last weekend. There was Sue Landwehr, crouching over her flower beds, pulling weeds. She had that contented look on her face, and you could see that she wouldn’t have traded places with anyone anywhere right then.

There was Frank Magdziarz, straight as a bean pole at age 76, looking over the 20 acres of oats that he had planted that morning, a field as spotless as a new brown carpet.

There was Steve Hillbrand, stretching in the morning sun like a cat, feeling the warmth in the air and saying in an almost surprised voice, yes, by golly, spring IS here.

There was Donna Cronin with an excited grin and an armful of trees that she had received from the Finlayson Sportsmen’s Club. She couldn’t wait to plant them on her farm.

And there was Cindy, on her feet, the flu driven back like a lifting fog, on her hands and knees, helping me pull weeds.

Ah spring. It’ll cure what ails you.

Now if only the Twins would start winning.