![[bicyclist near Chippewa Falls, WI]](http://images.midwestweekend.com/graphics/biker_chippewa.jpg)
![[The Mississippi Queen in La Crosse, WI]](http://images.midwestweekend.com/graphics/mississippi_queen.jpg)
![[web site logo]](http://images.midwestweekend.com/graphics/title_and_tag.jpg)
Along Michigan's Pictured Rocks, there's no such thing as a bad view.
White sandstone cliffs line nearly 40 miles of national lakeshore, the nation's first when it was created in 1966. Named for the colorful swishes and whorls painted by mineral-laden water oozing through cracks, Pictured Rocks draws tourists from around the world.
This part of Michigan is inconveniently distant for tourists from big cities; Detroit is closer to Charleston, W.V., than Munising. But it may be just distant enough. Munising, 45 minutes east of Marquette, is an unremarkable town, but it sits in a remarkable setting that would be mobbed if it were any closer.
The ticks are out.
Regular ticks are bad enough, scuttling into hidden niches on the human body and gorging themselves on blood. But their ick factor pales next to the danger posed by deer ticks, which can transmit Lyme disease.
A deer tick needs to be attached to the skin for 36 hours to transmit the disease; even then it’s easily treatable if caught promptly. But if untreated, symptoms include fatigue, fever and achiness; eventually, it can lead to nerve damage, joint pain.
Even if it weren’t official, Timm’s Hill would be the high point of any Wisconsin hiking trip.
Timm’s Hill, a big pile of rock and gravel deposited by the last glacier, is Wisconsin’s highest point at 1,952 feet above sea level. I went hiking there expecting, well, a big pile with a nice view.
Which it was. It also turned out to be in the middle of an intriguing pocket of forest, settled by Swedes, Finns and Germans stubborn enough to handle the rocks sprinkled over the hills like salt on a pretzel. They were folks who liked to be outside, hiking, sliding and skiing, and it’s thanks to them this area now is a trove of trails.
It took me nearly 20 years of hiking on the North Shore to tackle Eagle Mountain.
It’s the highest point in Minnesota, but it’s not exactly on the shore; it’s 14 miles inland, as the crow flies. I was used to tramping along the rocky river gorges whose horehound-tinted waters rivers boil furiously down to Lake Superior; I was used to drama.
But the 3½-mile hike up 2,301-foot Eagle Mountain was just as dramatic. The path, a root-choked corridor through cedars and spruce, soon enters the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. Passing through bogs, partly on boardwalks, it skirts mirrorlike Whale Lake, then picks its way through gantlets of rock up to the top, where hikers gaze upon a spectacular panorama that includes the North Fork of the Cascade River and Zoo, Shrike and Eagle lakes, set amid waves of greens and yellow.
A few steps into the forest, and it hit.
The tang of cedar bark and pine needles, moistened by droplets of mist from waterfalls. The loamy richness of earth carpeted by ferns.
It was that north-woods perfume all Minnesotans instantly recognize, a powerful eau de outdoors that gladdened my heart and also made it sink with the realization that I'd stayed in the city far, far too long.
The expedition began on a beautiful morning in October. I got in the car, drove a few miles over the Wisconsin border and followed country roads to a gate, where a gravel lane led to a farmhouse. I parked, walked up an oak-lined path and, just like that, was atop the highest point in Illinois.
Charles Mound, at 1,235 feet above sea level, certainly was a nice place to be on a fall day. Near the U.S. Geological Survey benchmark, its thoughtful owners had placed two lawn chairs, facing a golden, hazy countryside dotted with silos.
There were better views nearby, however, along the Mississippi River Valley. Still, over the previous two weeks, this particular spot had drawn visitors from Texas, California, Washington, Colorado and many other states, 36 of whom had signed the register that sat in an old milk box.
All kinds of paths cross in the Wisconsin village of Trempealeau.
Canoes and cormorants, tugboats and trains, bicyclists and blues fans all are drawn toward this Mississippi River town. It’s just a little burg, but it’s smack in the middle of Mother Nature’s playground.
Perrot State Park starts at the end of Trempealeau’s First Street, with hiking trails that give vistors spectacular views of far-off Winona, the river valley and a hill French explorers called La Montagne Qui Trempe a l'Eau, or "the mountain that soaks in the water.'' To the north are the sloughs of Trempealeau National Wildlife Refuge, crossroads for birds and springboard for bicyclists.
A fall Saturday dawns, sunny and mild. It’s a perfect day for hiking — but where?
One fall, I looked beyond the usual northwoods favorites: Minnesota's North Shore, the many marquee trails along Wisconsin's Ice Age National Scenic Trail; Michigan's Escarpment Trail in Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park.
They’re spectacular, but some of the best trails are found in less obvious places — in state forests, wildlife
refuges, prairie, even towns. So I got out my map and picked Governor Knowles State Forest, on the Wisconsin side of the St. Croix
River.
If ever there was a game for our times, it's geocaching.
Why worry about the lost billions on Wall Street when there's treasure everywhere, under fallen logs, in the crooks of trees, on the girders of bridges? Why think about the future when you can be out in the woods channeling Long John Silver, Indiana Jones and the Hardy Boys?
Anyone who enjoyed childhood will like this modern-day party game, enabled by a Tom Swiftian gadget that flashes numbers beamed out of the sky.
When the last glacier melted out of Wisconsin, it left a gift to future generations.
It wasn't much at first — boulders, heaps of gravel, water, chunks of ice trapped under rubble. But over time, the ice seeped away and created kettle lakes for fishermen. The raging meltwater stripped away softer rock, leaving walls of volcanic rock for climbers and scenic river gorges for canoeists.
The heaps of gravel grew skins of greenery and, with boulders carried down from Canada, created a dramatic landscape.
Most guided adventure trips cost quite a lot. If you're prepared to pay, great; if not, you have options.
If you want to hike the Superior Hiking Trail on Minnesota's North Shore, for example, you can pay up to $379 per day, per person, or as little as $40 per day. Here's how it works out:
All of these trips include lodgings, meals and transportation as noted. Cost is per person and, for lodge trips, based on
double occupancy. For camping trips, meals (mostly groceries) are estimated at $20 per day.
In Wisconsin, a bunch of rocks sets hearts aflutter.
They enchant geologists, of course, but also scuba divers, rock climbers and botanists. The rest of us, too — hikers, birders, campers, Boy Scouts.
We all go to give Devil's Lake its due.
Going hiking on the Superior Hiking Trail? You'll want to pack sturdy boots, thick socks, water bottles, maps and rain gear.
Oh, and don't forget the bikes.
There's a new trail on the North Shore, a nice flat one, too. It's the paved Gitchi-Gami, with a 17½-mile stretch that links Gooseberry Falls to Split Rock State Park and Silver Bay Bay and a 6½-mile stretch that links Schroeder to Temperance River State Park and Tofte.
In fall, everyone wants to be in the woods. The Superior Hiking Trail Association organizes hikes on Minnesota's North Shore. The Nature Conservancy and Sierra Club host forays to their favorite places. State-park naturalists lead walks. Volunteers on the growing Ice Age National Scenic Trail show off their latest handiwork.
The rest of us get to come along for the ride. One year, I joined the annual Parade of Colors Fall Hike from the Chippewa Moraine Ice Age Interpretive Center, between Bloomer and Cornell in western Wisconsin.
Here, the Chippewa lobe of the vast Wisconsin Glacier began to recede, dumping debris and chunks of ice that became pristine
kettle lakes, and the trails are among the loveliest of the Ice Age Trail's zigzagging, 1,000-mile route across
Wisconsin.
If Duluth wasn't already one of the best hiking cities in the nation, it definitely is now.
Creeks, ravines, bays and lakefront have given it spectacular terrain for the Congdon Park, Park Point and Western Waterfront
trails (See Walking Duluth).
Now, 39 miles of the Superior Hiking Trail stretch from Jay Cooke State Park to Hawk Ridge, roughly following the same ridges and glacial beach terraces used by Skyline Parkway. Along the way, the trail passes such landmarks as Ely's Peak, Spirit Mountain, Enger Tower and the Rose Garden.
When it comes to hiking, we all like to be on top.
There's nothing like a great view, especially in fall. Climbing until we're eye level with birds and caressed by breezes, watching the land roll away into the horizon, we feel as if we're on top of the world.
Even military officers and scientists turn into poets when faced with a beautiful view.
Out in the forest, solitude can be overrated.
Occasionally, we all need silence. But you may have more fun if you play follow the leader.
When I go on a hike, especially if I don't know the area well, I like to tag along with naturalists. Thanks to them, I've learned all kinds of interesting things.
When it rains on Isle Royale, you just have to soak it up.
Moisture comes with the territory in Lake Superior's northern reaches. No one comes here for the weather, despite early advertising that called it a "Summertime 'Bermuda' Paradise."
Bermuda it's not. But paradise? It depends on how you look at it.