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What Used to Be

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There is always an interplay between change and holding steady. Not only does it play out in the overarching culture of the world but also in smaller community and relationship entities. But the most personal, most impactful, and most difficult interaction between change and holding steady happens inside each one of us. We have a desire for learning, a curiosity of the world around us, and an innate drive for ‘something new’—except when we don’t feel safe. Safety is our default system—our primitive brain takes over when we are threatened by anything—real or imagined. When that happens, curiosity, compassion for others, learning, and openness get shut out from our brain and body until we feel safe again. So what happens when the people around us and the media we consume continuously stoke our fears?

I am already a month behind in my posts—it used to be the beginning of June, and it used to be Spring. On our way home from our Duluth wedding weekend at the beginning of June, we stopped at Banning State Park. We didn’t have a great amount of time, Chris was still on ‘no hiking’ status from his hip surgery, and the mosquitoes were ravenous. But Emily and I braved a one and a half mile hike on the Quarry Loop trail that followed the beautiful Kettle River. The trail used to be a railroad.

There used to be a forest of towering Red and White Pines in this area that was logged in the mid-1800’s. The Kettle River was used to move logs to the St. Croix River and to mills. In 1892, the Hinkley Sandstone of the area began to be quarried, thus the railroad to haul it away to the Twin Cities and Duluth for building blocks and road pavers. Then the enormous Hinkley fire in 1894 took trees, lives, and losses for the railroad and quarry. What used to be.

Long before enormous trees and logging, desirable sandstone and quarrying, there used to be a sea here hundreds of millions of years ago. The silica and sand formed the rock that is now called Hinkley Sandstone. There used to be a glacier here tens of thousands of years ago that upon melting created Lake Superior and the Kettle River that formed along a fault line. What used to be.

But in the here and now, the Kettle River is a favorite place for experienced whitewater paddlers with Class III-V rapids named Blueberry Slide, Dragon’s Tooth, and Hell’s Gate.

Bunchberry Dogwood

What used to be—the quarry and railroad—is being taken over by Nature. Ferns, trees, grasses, and wildflowers have incorporated into the sandstone boulders and cliffs once again.

But there are ruins and remains of the Quarry still evident and still standing—the Rock Crusher and the Power House which contained a coal-fired steam generator and interestingly, an artesian well where ‘Sandstone’ water was bottled and sold as a side business to the quarry. What used to be.

Above the Hell’s Gate rapids on a level area once stood the town of Banning, established in 1896 and abandoned in 1912 when the quarrying boom was over. The town site is no longer visible—Mother Nature has covered up what used to be.

Precisely-spaced drill holes remain on this sandstone wall where black powder and slow-burning fuses would simultaneously blast a section of rock off the cliff.

This section of smooth rock wall was not quarried—it is called a ‘horst’ where a section of the earth’s crust is lifted along a fault line.

Strange Liverworts, like plastered fallen leaves, grow on the horst, and water drips from the cracks to nourish the plant life that found their unlikely place to grow.

While reading about the history of the Park, I was amazed that railroads, a town, hundreds of quarrymen, and numerous businesses had occupied the trails we were hiking and the forest that had re-grown. There is value in what used to be—many buildings still stand with foundations and walls made from Hinkley Sandstone. There is also value in looking back at what used to be—how it was accomplished, what mistakes were made, what the unacceptable costs were—in order to move forward in a different and better way. Holding steady is a form of safety, as are ‘the law of the land,’ guardrails, rules and norms, order, and peace. They help us get our bearings and feel safe, so we can be in the here and now with those around us. Change and holding steady are not opposable values and actions. Holding steady—safety—is the foundation from which we can be compassionate, be curious, learn and do new things. Do you know what makes you feel steady, open, and peaceful? Do that. Are you aware of who or what brings unfounded fear and stress to your life? Purge them. Fear is being used as a tool to manipulate people for political and financial purposes—one of the oldest tricks in the book. Don’t fall for it. In the ruins and remains of what used to be—in our collective past or our individual past—there is space for peace and renewal and a place to grow.

Walking Across the Mississippi River

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On the spectrum of safety, I know I fall on the ‘safety first’ side. The implication of safety first is not only for that person individually but also for all persons who may be impacted by the situation. On the other side of the spectrum is the risk-taker—gamblers, innovators, extreme sports and ‘roll-of-the-dice’ people. Often their risk-taking is centered on themselves—rarely do they consider the consequences of their actions on those around them, particularly those who are most vulnerable.

Our son worked for Will Steger at Steger Wilderness Center one summer in Ely, Minnesota. Steger is an arctic explorer, educator, and author who has witnessed the effects of climate change on the arctic regions. He has dog-sledded to the North Pole, across Greenland, and across Antarctica. He also does yearly solo expeditions in Northern Minnesota and Canada—the last two years have been in the Barren Lands in northern Canada. Did I mention he’s over seventy years old? Clearly a risk-taker in my mind. And yet, I heard him a couple years ago in an interview about his ice-out trip in early spring, when the weather is warming, the ice is melting, and he is navigating that dangerous terrain—he said that he is not a risk-taker. He said that he is in prime physical condition with sharp mental acuity when on these solo expeditions. He is experienced, prepared, educated, and working for a purpose beyond himself, and therefore, he does not take risks—for he clearly understands the consequences.

Yesterday morning Chris and I went to Bend in the River Regional Park. We had been there a year ago in October on a warm, fall day. Yesterday was warm (for late February), sunny, and calm. We walked the trail from the old farmplace along the top of the bluff above the Mississippi River.

The River was covered in ice and snow, but I never once thought about walking out on it because it just seemed too….dangerous. After all, it was a big river—a big river that was flowing freely below the dam a couple miles away.

At one of the overlooks on the bluff, we talked to a guy who was on a solo hike from across the River—wait, what? He had started his hike at the Mississippi River County Park which is on the opposite side of the Mississippi from Bend in the River Park. I had questions! He said the ice was solid and safe, that he lived nearby and many times had snowmobiled down the River in years past but now enjoyed walking it.

After he walked on, I told Chris maybe we should do it! If he made it across the ice just fine, we should be fine, too!

So we left the bluff trail and went down to the River’s edge. I wasn’t comforted by what I saw: ice collars around the trees that had broken away from the rest of the frozen water and streams of running water that were flowing under the ice into the Big River. I began to doubt our decision.

But we tentatively walked on and found the footprints of the solo hiker. We stepped out onto the River.

It was easy walking in the inch or so of snow that covered the ice—the rest of our deep snow must have incorporated into the ice as it formed. We weren’t the only creatures that had crossed the River.

The ice felt solid and safe—we saw no heaves or cracks or thin spots—just a tree stump that interrupted the white expanse between the banks. But it was still kind of freaky knowing we were walking across the Mississippi River.

There was only one place where the sun had melted away the snow cover to reveal the ice below it. I wondered how thick it was…

My safety-first mentality didn’t even entertain the thought of walking across the River, but after we talked to the man who had done it, who had experience with the River and its ice, it became the highlight of our day. We still reassured ourselves about the eighteen below zero night we had earlier in the week and how just last night was five degrees. (Surely we will be okay.) Like Will, we were not treading on thin ice, we weren’t gambling with our lives, we weren’t out on a limb or playing with fire. Will Steger has had amazing, incredible adventures in his life and has educated the rest of us with his knowledge, experience, and purpose. As we walk on into our own adventures, it behooves us to listen to those who have walked before us, to those who know first-hand the struggles, perils, and pathways, and to those who have a vision larger than themselves, including for those who are most vulnerable. Walk on!

Risk and Reward

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What would compel you to jump off a cliff? I mean literally jump off a cliff. Where on the risk scale are you, if 1 is ‘safety first and always’ and 10 is ‘extreme adventure is just a way of life?’ After leaving KoWaKan, Aaron asked if we wanted to stop at Thirteen Corners. That pulled me up short! I had heard the stories, even seen the take-your-breath-away video. My first thought was ‘no way do I want to see where my son and others I care for risked their lives,’ but I also knew it was a beautiful, intriguing place. So I said yes.

It is a beautiful place. Located within both Superior National Forest and Bear Island State Forest is Section 30. One hundred years ago this was a working mine for iron ore, employing 140 men. A community, also named Section 30, had been built up around the mine. There was a post office, a school with 120 children, boarding houses, private homes, a dance hall, hospital, silent movie theater, and Oppel’s General Store! All work halted in 1921 due to financial problems of the mining company after 15 years and the removal of almost 1.5 million tons of iron ore. Bust!

Section 30 has returned to the wilderness with a permanent scar of the water-filled open pit mine. Trees grow on the ‘spoils’ piles of unwanted rock from the mining, and we stood high on the hill and spoils above the water.

My knees were weak just watching Aaron walk to the ‘leaping point’—a jutting rock that overlay the green water sixty or seventy feet (or more?) below.

Trees have grown to the edge of the ragged rock cliffs, and Aaron pointed out the smaller cliffs on the other side—the ten or twenty footers where it was more just ‘fun’ to jump from. He told me of the tunnel under the inclined ledge—‘see that bright spot?’

It was like an optical illusion to me, that bright spot, until finally I could discern that it was sunlit ground from the other side of the tunnel.

The rock is actually quite beautiful with its red, purple, orange, and rust colors. There are layers of iron ore and pockets of white quartz.

But back to jumping off a cliff—what does a person ‘need’ to take a risk like that? First, you would need some skills—swimming, how to control your body when jumping, holding your breath, etc. You wouldn’t jump off a 70 foot cliff without first jumping off smaller cliffs many times—so, practice. You would need confidence in your abilities. You would need support—many eyes and hands to help see the dangers, to navigate the correct path, and to give you encouragement or warnings. And finally, you would need courage. It would be a rare person who would be able to stand on the ‘leaping point’ with no fear or trepidation.

The only evidence I saw of the mine, besides the pit and the piles of overgrown spoils, was this iron spike drilled into a rock high above the water. It must have held cables that were used to hoist the rock from the bottom of the pit. It was used for support, safety, and protection for the miners. It was important. They relied on the strength and integrity of that support for their livelihood, their well-being, even their life. Safety matters, even in risky ventures.

As I looked down at the green water, the very best I could imagine myself doing was walking out on that ridge and sitting with my feet in the water. Maybe. Perhaps. I’m a one on the risk scale, if not a zero or a negative number.

Walking through the trees, it was hard to imagine a bustling little mining town with children walking to school past the open pit where their fathers worked one hundred years ago. It was a risky job taken by Finnish immigrants in order to make a better life for their families. Those families moved on to other mining jobs and other places when Section 30 slowly dissolved after the abrupt closing of the mine. The mining company took a ‘calculated risk,’ defined as ‘a chance of failure, the probability of which is estimated before some action is undertaken.’ All businesses and all individuals at some time in their lives, take calculated risks after looking at the pros and cons, running the numbers, and having trusted people ‘weigh in’ on the issue. It is intentional; it is a choice. There are other risks people embark on from a position of vulnerability because of age, finances, health, or status—these ‘decisions’ are often a reaction of survival instead of a calculated choice. Then there is the purely physiological reality that the ‘executive function’ part of the brain, the prefrontal cortex, does not fully develop until the age of twenty-six or so. This is the rational part of the brain that is responsible for planning and impulse control. So our relationship to risk and safety changes as we mature and age.

Wherever we fall on the risk scale and for whatever reason we may or may not literally jump off a cliff or do any other kind of risky business, we can appreciate the siren call of adventure, freedom, re-birth, and fresh starts. We do, however, need to be wary of the bright spots that blind us of the risks; we need to practice discernment. We need to remember that the strength and integrity of safety matters. I thank God for the safety of the young people I know who have jumped off the cliffs—not all have fared so well, and I hope they have moved a little more towards the center of the risk scale. As for me, I need to move the needle away from my cocoon of protection and safety towards the middle ground where the unknown can bring connection, joy, and fun. Hello to Courage, and hello to “So I said yes!”