Great clouds of dust billowed above the Arrowhead Trail, compliments of Harriet Quarles' shuttle van. As she raced up the gravel road leading to the Otter Lake trailhead, with me in her wake, tears blurred my vision. Clumsily wiping them away with my hand, I willed myself to focus on the dust clouds, which were all I could see of Harriet.
I was two days out from finishing the Superior Hiking Trail. The plan was to drop my car at Otter Lake, where a 1.2-mile trail and spur led to the northern terminus at a point called the 270 Degree Overlook, a rocky outcrop facing the Canadian border. Then Harriet would ferry me back to Camp 20 Road and the beginning of the end.
I was ready to be finished with my thru-hike, so why the tears? Sometimes on a long-distance hike, you don't want the trek to end. Other times you can't wait to get off the trail and back home. On this hike, the trail and I were in sync. Just as I was feeling like it was time to say adieu, the trail appeared to be bidding me a fond farewell. And it was touching.
Yesterday, my hike had begun with a lake walk along a remote stretch of Superior's shoreline. I wobbled and bobbled along the smooth stones, marveling at the pristine beach and the lake's crystal-clear waters. Lake Superior was impressive when viewed from aeries like Pincushion Mountain and Carlton Peak, to be sure. But walking on these stones, touching the cold water, was an intimate experience. And it hearkened back to Day 3, the only other time the trail unspooled along the lakeshore. That day, walking amid crowds of happy beachgoers in Duluth, the feeling was celebratory — a cheery "welcome to the trail" vibe. Here, stumbling along in solitude and peace, it felt like the trail's namesake body of water was giving me a warm, goodbye embrace.
After my wistful parting from Lake Superior, the path turned inland, nudging me away from the water and into the woods. Just as my start at the trail's southern terminus was a do-si-do to Wisconsin, Minnesota's neighbor to the east, my arrival at the opposing terminus would involve a salute to our Canadian neighbors to the north. The perfect bookend to my hike.
I'd dried my tears by the time Harriet and I hugged goodbye on Camp 20 Road. As her van disappeared in another dusty swirl, I turned and stepped onto the trail.
Soldiering on
After yesterday's tender farewell, I wasn't prepared for brutality. But that's what I got. The mosquitoes were unrelenting. An ungroomed trail detour masquerading as the real thing confounded me for about 20 minutes. So did a logging area, where the blazes played hide-and-seek. When I finally reached my Jackson Creek campsite and shook my tent from its nylon bag, it plopped out along with a gallon of water — I'd never dried it out after the rainy morning at Gooseberry Falls.
The following day, the guidebook said I'd hit the trail's highest point, 1,829-foot Rosebush Ridge, then be treated to a "predominantly flat" section of trail that wound through open meadows. It sounded lovely. But climbing the ridge was hard. There was no view at the top. The open meadows may have been flat, but they were also overgrown, deeply potholed and difficult to traverse. The mosquitoes continued to attack, necessitating full-body netting. A mother grouse threatened me.
