Fall is made for festivals. It's harvest time, and the fields and orchards are overflowing. Trees turn red and gold. And it's the last time we'll enjoy warm weather until spring.
The many people who heed the urge to get out and about on crisp autumn weekends make it the busiest tourist season of the
Any town that can hold a fall festival does, and well-established ones, such as Bayfield's Apple Festival (see Big apples), become almost too popular.
When fall arrives, we get a sudden urge to hoist a stein of beer, eat a grilled bratwurst and listen to red-cheeked men in
little felt hats play the accordion.
Fall belongs to the Germans, who streamed into the Upper Midwest in the 1850s and still are the largest ethnic group in every
state. Which is a good thing, because Germans like to have fun.
In October 1810, they had so much fun at the wedding of Princess Therese of Saxe-Hildburghausen and Crown Prince Ludwig of Bavaria, held in a meadow near Munich, that they decided to do it every year.
Long before the second-growth forests of Minnesota and Wisconsin’s north woods became fall destinations, sightseers were flocking to northeast Iowa.
Flat? Hardly. In this part of Iowa, only the river is flat. Towering bluffs line the Mississippi, providing unparalleled views of the sprawling river plain.
For more than 150 years, people have gone to great lengths to see these views. In 1851, when the town of Lansing consisted of a few log cabins, a
20-year-old steamboat passenger named Harriet Hosmer noticed a particularly steep bluff there.
Around the Upper Midwest, Door County is the tourist destination that other tourist destinations envy.
Everything a tourist loves, it’s got: Lighthouses, craggy shorelines, sand dunes. Golf courses, boutiques, bistros. Bicycle paths, hiking trails, beaches.
There’s a little bit of New England in the white-frame buildings of Ephraim, where tourists click photos of
Wilson’s, a century-old ice-cream parlor.
At harvest time, Minnesota's bluff country overflows with beauty.
Fat pumpkins await buyers at farmers' markets. Golden clumps of wildflowers line bicycle trails. From buggies, the Amish sell homemade baskets, bumbleberry jam and apple butter.
There's an abundance of everything, including tourists.
On a crisp, sunny fall day, we all get the urge to go for a drive.
The countryside is alight with color, and there's a lot going on – art-studio tours, corn mazes, hay rides and harvest festivals in every little town.
And you'll be chasing the colors, of course.
It was the first Friday of November in Lake Geneva, and tourists were so happy to be there they were almost giddy.
Only a few leaves clung to trees, but the sun shone, and the air was balmy. Downtown, gaggles of shoppers walked briskly down streets lined with corn shocks and pots of mums, and horse-drawn carriages clopped past the beach.
At the bistro, harried city folks pushed through the doors with that “Whew! Just-arrived-ready-to-relax'' look.
On a lovely day in fall, few places show off this region better than the St. Croix River Valley between Minnesota and Wisconsin.
The 52-mile stretch from Taylors Falls to the St. Croix’s confluence with the Mississippi at Prescott has everything a tourist could want — shops, historic houses, theaters, train excursions, boat cruises.
But mostly, it has scenery — scenery I wanted to show my nieces Alissa and Livia, who had left Florida to start careers in the Twin Cities. As it turns out, the St. Croix looks awfully good to people raised in Florida.
In the forests and lakes around the northwestern Wisconsin town of Cable, the reds, oranges and yellows of fall are mere gilding on the lily.
This landscape, much of it part of Chequamegon National Forest, is beautiful in any season. In winter, cross-country skiers
glide along forest paths and the 52-kilometer Birkebeiner trail, on which North America's largest and most famous
Nordic-skiing race is held each February.
In spring, the mountain-biking season starts, culminating in September with the Chequamegon Fat Tire Festival, the nation's largest.
In the Dells, when the children go home, the adults come out to play.
Autumn is a quiet time in Wisconsin Dells. The outdoor water parks are closed, many attractions are shuttered and the water-ski show performers are in Florida for the winter.
In the rush of summer, many tourists spend a whole week in Wisconsin Dells and never see the dells that drew tourists in the first place.
Fall is the busiest travel season of the year — we all know the nice days are numbered, and we're going to try our darndest to make them count.
But with pretty much everyone heading out to look for fall color, especially on weekends, there are few bargains.
That's why those of us on a budget look to our old friends: the parks, the mom-and-pop motels, the environmental centers, the hostels, the outdoors clubs.
When country artists hang an "Open'' sign on their studios, it's time for seasoned shoppers to hit the road.
Around the region, art-studio tours have been springing up, beckoning art patrons into the countryside just as fall leaves change color.
It's the perfect meeting of minds and pocketbooks — shoppers get to chat with the artists, and artists get to sell right out of their studios.
The skies were leaden and forbidding as Lake Superior slid into view and we descended into Duluth. The wind mauled our hair as we stood alongside the harbor canal, waving to the crew of the Sea Pearl II as it pushed toward Malta with a load of grain.
Driving up the shore, we listened to taped stories of shipwrecks: The sidewheeler Lotta Bernard, pummeled into pieces off Gooseberry Falls on Oct. 29, 1874.
The steamer Edenborn, hurled into the mouth of Split Rock River and broken in two on Nov. 28, 1905. The Lafayette, pulverized against a cliff near Encampment Island on the same day.
As anyone who’s ever planned a fall trip knows, peak leaf color can be elusive.
Betting on a burst of spectacular color is like plugging nickels into a slot machine. To win, all of the figures have to line up: the right number of warm days and cool nights, the right levels of sugar produced, the right amounts of moisture.
In 2012, drought stressed many trees, causing early leaf fall. Much of the north woods got too much rain in early summer, then too little. Meanwhile, southern Wisconsin and northern Illinois dried up.
In fall, we all love to get out and see the colors on a good tramp through the woods.
But why not let a horse do the walking?
I don’t ride much, but when I do, it’s always autumn. Crisp air and colorful forests call for a trail ride, and the view is always better on a horse.
An autumn Saturday dawns, sunny and mild. It’s a perfect day for hiking — but where?
This time of year, you could walk down the street and see something nice.
But if you're looking for the kind of hike that makes you marvel at nature and feel glad to be alive, you'll probably have to look a little farther afield.
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, such as those at Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park in the Upper Peninsula.
It was a classic fall weekend when we rode the Willard Munger State Trail in eastern Minnesota.
It's a peaceful corridor through forest that, on the second weekend of October, surrounded us with a warm palette of honey
and cinnamon, mixed with evergreens and the white of birch trunks and milkweed pods. From time to time, we went through one
of the small towns on Highway 61, immortalized by Bob Dylan.
But we were among the few bicyclists on the trail. Where was everybody? Probably on I-35, rushing to and from the North Shore.
In autumn, the pilgrims head for Holy Hill.
Some want to pay homage to the Blessed Virgin Mary, for whom the basilica was built in 1930. But many others just want to see the amazing view, which includes the Milwaukee skyline and surrounding Kettle Moraine State Forest, dappled with colors.
The basilica was built atop a kame — a mound filled with glacial rubble — that has one of the highest elevations in southeast Wisconsin and the highest in the 120-mile-long kettle moraine, where two lobes of the last glacier collided.
In this part of the world, fall is sweet, but way too short.
All of the quaint little towns along rivers and in the bluffs have to pack their autumn festivals into the same six weekends, rolling out parades, pumpkin contests and oompah bands for all the leaf-peeping tourists.
The choices are paralyzing. Flea market or scarecrow contest? Pumpkin regatta or studio tour? Yodeling contest or dachshund
It was a warm, sunny fall day in the heart of Minnesota. The woods were aglow with color, and there were many ways to wallow in it — on trails for hiking, paved paths for biking, lakes for boating.
But something was missing. Where were all the people?
Apparently, they were on the North Shore, fighting for space amid crowds that arrive as reliably as spawning salmon.
I always get a little frantic in fall, trying to make the most of a too-brief window of opportunity.
Fall is the best time for a lot of things: hiking, after frost has knocked off the bugs; road trips, when the countryside is at its loveliest; and wildlife-watching, when birds and beasts are on the move.
Plus, it's gorgeous. Most people try to catch the reds and oranges of maples at peak, but tamaracks, oaks and tallgrass keep
things glowing through October.
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.
By the start of September, temperatures cool down and everyone starts thinking the same thing: Time to plan a weekend bike trip.
Autumn is a great time to try out a new bike trail, not only because of fall colors and invigorating weather but because so
many small towns throw harvest festivals in September and October.
Since trails go right through towns, bicycle tourists are right in the middle of the action.
During harvest time in a vineyard, turning purple has nothing to do with the Minnesota Vikings.
Purple is what you'll be if you get into a wooden tub of grapes and try to turn them into juice with your bare feet. Vineyards don't get their juice that way anymore, but many still offer a grape stomp, and there's nothing goofier to do on an autumn day.
There are prizes for those who extract the most juice and those who show the most "style,'' so wearing a creative costume
In late summer and early fall, bicycle trails burst with blooms.
They're a favorite habitat for wildflowers because they’re on disturbed ground and have open, sunny edges. Many trails skirt lakes and bogs, but since most are on old rail lines, fires sparked by passing trains created openings for prairie species, too.
Take the Paul Bunyan State Trail past Lake Bemidji in northern Minnesota. One side is lined with water-loving plants — Joe-Pye weed, jewelweed and swamp milkweed, beloved by butterflies and bees (pictured).
Every year, it happens like magic: In September, the uniform green of the hardwood forests starts morphing into a rolling wave of reds, russets, golds and orange.
Often, the colors are glowing, as if lit from within, but sometimes they're dull and faded. Some years, the maple color is
spotty, turning here and there over several weeks, and there's no real peak.
In a bad year, there's barely any color at all, just mousy yellows on leaves that drop in the first stiff wind.
On Duluth's Hawk Ridge, a bird in the hand is worth at least two in the sky.
They're impressive when spotted overhead. But up close, it's easier to get to know a bird — say, the northern goshawk, a fierce predator whose image once adorned the helmet of Attila the Hun.
As she held a young goshawk by the legs, naturalist Willow Maser struggled to make herself heard above its high-pitched screeches.