Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

The Duluth Denfeld High School clock tower

Yesterday. I sat on the stage of Denfeld High School along with 19 other Denfeld High School alumni and former educators (or their proxies) as inductees into the Denfeld Hall of Fame. For me, the last time I was on that stage was in January of 1999 when I insisted upon holding my investiture (swearing in) ceremony as I took on the role of District Court Judge. I insisted upon having a ceremony normally confined to a courtroom in our local courthouse because of the impact the school had on me during my three year stint as a Denfeld student. I was about to write, “as a Denfeld Hunter”, but those of us who graduated from Denfeld know that, “once a Hunter, always a Hunter”: In essence, the impact of the school on our lives doesn’t end on graduation day.

Originally founded in 1966 as a way to honor male athletes from the school’s past, the Hall of Fame has expanded over time to include both male and female alumni and folks who have succeeded in business, art, music, literature, commerce, and a host of other disciplines beyond athletics. In all, 59 folks (at the conclusion of yesterday’s program) have been inducted. I am one of the lucky 59. You might ask, “Who cares? High School was three years of a (hopefully) long, long life. It wasn’t anything special. In fact, I don’t even go to my reunions.” I understand that sentiment. Life is a long road and indeed, high school is a very short rest stop along the way. But, as I said yesterday in my very brief speech (supposed to be a minute but I think I kept it to two), there’s something different about the vibe and history and impact of Duluth’s western high school upon it’s graduates. Many of the industries that existed when I was a student there, including the U.S. Steel Plant, Atlas Cement, Diamond Tool, National Iron, American Hoist and Derrick, and a whole host of others; places that allowed honest working men (and a few women) good wages with which to raise their children and offer those children a chance at a different life through higher education; are long shuttered. But the history of the sons and daughters of railroad men and steel workers and tool cutters and dock workers and plant secretaries achieving the American dream is still what Denfeld is all about. More so than any of the other high schools in the city. There’s a slight edge, a chip on the shoulder of a Denfeld graduate, if you will, that seems to advertise to the world “Get out of the way because I’m coming through.” And despite the fact that my parents were both professionals, because my best friends for those three years of high school generally came from large families whose parents (usually the dad but sometimes the mom) graduated from high school (usually Denfeld!) and then went right into the work force, I couldn’t help but be affected by that history.

I once gave a speech at Denfeld after I’d graduated. I was asked to talk to the entire student body, over 1,000 kids strong, about my life experiences and how even someone like me, a kid who had his fair share of visits with Principal Samskar, could make a difference in the world. During a tour of the newly remodeled school, a Denfeld administrator commented that, “for a trade school (meaning the students were generally fated for blue color jobs and not college), the new computer lab might be overkill.” I bristled at the comment but held my tongue. I knew then, as I know now, that Duluth Denfeld High School’s unique legacy of academic success, close ties to the community, and common roots and values, has and will continue to change the lives of the students who leave its doors with a high school diploma. They say that the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Here are the folks who were inducted yesterday and brief snapshots of their lives. The thing is: these folks are not the exception, they are the rule. There are tens of thousands more where they came from.

Peace.

Mark

The 2012 Denfeld Hall of Fame Inductees

Greg Anderson (Class of 1979): Professional drag racer. Winner of 73 National Hot Rod races and NHRA World Champion.

Peter Bergman (Class of 1959): Lifelong educator and principal in the Duluth Schools, Peter holds both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in education. He was the principal of the first magnet school in Minnesota.

Tyrone Bujold (Class of 1955): Noted trial lawyer for over 40 years, Ty is a member of four prestigious legal societies that are limited to less than 1% of all practicing trial attorneys. He declined a full scholarship at Harvard to attend Marquette. He holds a B.S. from Marquette and a J.D. from Minnesota.

George Dell Daedo (Denfeld Educator): Principal of Denfeld from 1948-1963. Active community member, sitting on the boards of the United Way, the Red Cross, and Rotary. Bequeathed $40,000 to the Denfeld Scholarship Fund.

M. George Downs (Class of 1946): 38 years on DM&IR RR, working up the ladder from laborer to Assn. Manager of the Ore Docks. Served ten years on the Duluth School Board. Served 12 years on the Duluth City Council.

Edgar “Father” Felton (Denfeld Educator): A professional musician who taught in the Duluth Public Schools from 1930-1966, exclusively at Denfeld and Lincoln Jr. High.

Pat Francisco (Class of 1963): Played all sports at Denfeld and was All City in football and hockey. Attended UMD and played college hockey. Taught at Silver Bay and Duluth Cathedral before founding Patrick Francisco Financial Advisors. On many, many boards and commissions and a driving force behind reclaiming and reusing the old Clyde Iron Words as the Heritage Center (hockey and indoor soccer arenas; Boys and Girls Club; Children’s Museum; and retail facilities).

Scott Gernander (Class of 1965): All City, All Tri-State, and All State as a Denfeld athlete, including selection in basketball to Parade Magazine’s All Prep Team. Obtained a BA and masters from UMD, taught in Tower before moving to Texas where he coached and taught in high schools and at San Jacinto Junior College, where he led the men’s basketball team to 3 national championships.

Marguerite Gilmore (Class of 1924 and Denfeld Educator): Taught English at Denfeld and Lincoln Jr. from 1947-1970. Upon the deaths of her brothers, she established a scholarship fund for Duluth high school graduates that gives out 25 $10,000 scholarships per year.

Roger Grimsby (Class of 1946): Graduate of St. Olaf, a lifelong broadcaster. Was the first television news man to earn more than $1,000,000 salary per year and the anchor of ABC’s weekend news. Winner of 6 Emmys.

Gary Harker (Class of 1962): A stellar athlete at Denfeld, Harker went on to play and coach college hockey at UWS. He achieved a B.S. and a Masters from UWS and was the head hockey coach at UWS from 1977-1986. Currently a scout for the Toronto Maple Leafs. 3 time NAIA Coach of the Year.

Dr. Roger Kerin (Class of 1965): Received his BA from UMD, Masters and Ph.D from Minnesota. Presently a college educator at SMU, he is the author of five books in marketing, his field of expertise. Holds the Harold C. Simmons distinguished Professorship of Marketing at SMU.

Joyce Lamont (Class of 1934): Used her BA in English and journalism to become a radio pioneer. First woman on the air for WCCO in 1950. Moved from WCCO to KLBB in 1989 and is a charter inductee into the Broadcasters Hall of Fame.

Doug MacIver (Denfeld Educator): Began his career at Denfeld as a coach and educator in 1970. Head boys’ basketball coach from 1974-1984. Also coached boys and girls cross country. 25 Year Service Award from the Minnesota Coaches Assn. Was Denfeld’s Athletic/Activities Director  and a promoter of Title IX opportunities for female athletes.

Jack McKenna (McNulty) (Class of 1940): Served in the Air Force during WWII after graduation. Became a broadcaster and spent his lifetime as a radio and television personality in the Twin Ports. Can still be heard on KUWS, 91.3 on Fridays after 5:30pm as one of the hosts of “Radio Superior”, an award winning program.

Dick Palmer (Class of 1948): Was the editor and owner of the Duluth Budgeteer, a local newspaper, beginning his career in journalism in 1950. Served on the Proctor Village Council for two terms and served a term in the Minnesota Senate as an Independent. Chair of the Denfeld All Class Reunion in 1976 and the Duluth All Class Reunion in 1986. Retired from the Army and Air Guard with 20 years of service.

Janet Peterson (Denfeld Educator): Mrs. “Pete” began her stay as a teacher and mentor to young women at Denfeld in 1958. Taught phy ed and was the cheerleading advisor and Power Club advisor, retiring from Denfeld in 1976.

Robb Stauber (Class of 1986): Stellar hockey goalie, Stauber led the Hunters to their first ever (single bracket) Minnesota High School Hockey Tournament. Played at the U of M. Hobie Baker Award winner and went on to a ten year professional career, playing for various NHL teams. After retirement, he’s coached and trained hockey goalies, both men and women, and been the goalie coach for teams that won NCAA titles.

Bill Westholm (Class of 1966): Three year letter winner in track and football at Denfeld. Graduated from UMD, received a Masters from Minnesota, and a law degree from William Mitchell. Taught and coached at Duluth East. Was Assistant Principal and Principal of all three Duluth public high schools. Currently serving on the Duluth School Board. Chair of the Greater Denfeld Foundation which administers over $6,500,000 in assets for scholarships given to Denfeld students.

Mark Munger (Class of 1973): You can read the plaque now hanging in the halls of Denfeld!

Mark-circa 1973

PS Thanks to all my family and friends who attended. I love you guys!

Sunday, highway drivin’
It all looks about the same
Nowhere, just arrivin’
Still I play the game, yeah yeah

I’m home, grown, growin’ my own and I need ya
Need ya to beg my pardon, to tend my garden

((c) Joe Walsh)

Here I am…after tending my garden

Gotta love the James Gang. For my money, Joe Walsh, one fine guitar player, has never achieved the same level of musical success with the Eagles that he achieved as the center man for the power trio from Cleveland. Ah, the creativity of youth. Anyway, That’s me in the picture above after working four hours in our family vegetable garden, pulling eight wheelbarrows of weeds from a jungly mess.  It was over ninety degrees and the sun was high and hot as I sat on an upside down plastic five gallon bucket and pulled and tossed weeds in the sweltering heat. There’s a word we don’t often use even during the height of summer up here in the northland. It’s a rare experience for a northeastern Minnesota boy like me to experience a day of sweltering in my own backyard. Well, Sunday met the definition: high heat, blazing sun, and over powering humidity. The thermometer on the garage wall said 93 degrees in the shade. But weeding wasn’t my only task while AWOL from church.

On Saturday, Rene’ had discovered that our outdoor hot tub wouldn’t turn on. After a couple of futile attempts to clean the filter and re-set the GFI breaker, she called her brother, Greg, an electrician by trade.

“Maybe it’s another snake,” he offered.

I was listening in to the telephone conversation.

“I doubt that,” I’d said with some authority. “It’s nearly 100 degrees out. There’s no reason for a snake to crawl into a motor to stay warm.”

Just to dispel his theory, I opened up the cover to the hot tub motor and pump, stuck my nose down by the motor, and sniffed.

Nothing.

The thing is, about five or six years ago, a big bull garter snake did take up residence inside the motor housing. The serpent coiled itself around the warm windings of the motor and was snug and safe until the pump called for the motor. Yup. Instantly fried garter snake. We didn’t discover the dead reptile for a week or so. I’ll spare you the details of what we found. Suffice it to say, you don’t forget the stench of a week-old dead garter snake in a confined space. Rene’ conveyed my opinion. Greg said he’d stop by on Sunday.

True to his word, my brother-in-law pulled in as I was pulling weeds. The two of us explored the possibilities of why the hot tub wasn’t staying on.

“I smell something,” Greg opined, his long, pointed French-Canadian nose inspecting the air around the pump motor like Inspector Clouseau on a murder case. “I think you might have a dead mouse in there.”

“Or a snake,” I offered, as if I’d come up with the idea.

Sure enough, when I pointed a halogen beam flashlight into the space behind the air vents at the front of the motor housing, I saw the familiar black and yellow stripes of a coiled garter snake. After debating the wisdom of trying to tear the motor down, evict the serpent, clean the motor out, dry it, and rebuild it, Greg and I took the thing apart.

“Well,” Greg said as the motor sat on a low brick wall drying in the sun, “maybe you’re right. Maybe we can save you six hundred and fifty bucks.”

That’s what a new motor and installation had set us back the last time a snake decided to call our hot tub home.

“At least it’s fresh,” I said as I tossed the mangled reptile into tall grass.

We took Greg to breakfast at the nearby Blue Max Resort for his trouble. After a hearty meal of eggs, toast, and hot coffee, Greg took the motor back to his cabin to blast water from the coils with compressed air. I went back to my garden.

“It’s working,” Greg called out later, rising from his knees as he listened to the motor purr. “Seems to be running just fine.”

I didn’t stop what I was doing. I simply waved goodbye as my brother-in-law put away his tools and drove off in his truck.

By 2:30pm, the garden was free of weeds and in need of a good soaking. After the great deluge of June, we hadn’t had rain in weeks. The ground was as hard as iron and the newly revealed corn stalks, potatoes, melon vines, bean bushes, and carrot sprouts were thirsty. I set up a new 360 degree tripod sprinkler I’d bought at Menards and opened the hose. You could almost hear the plants sing.

A flat of raspberries from the Munger veggie garden. The plants are a combination of shoots given us by Rene’s late mother, Merc, and a few taken from our old Sears farm house located upriver from the new place.

Peace.

Mark

PS If you want to hear Joe and his mates sing the song that inspired the title to this blog, go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqeErugWXZ4. Be patient: It takes a few moments for the organ to key up…

Lisa, A.J., and Matt at Dinner in Montreal

We went back to Canada, back across the border once again. Our route, such as it was, took us through the State of Maine with much of the journey alongside the very same river that Benedict Arnold followed when he moved his Continental forces north, to attack British Canada, during the Revolutionary War.

The Kennebec River, Maine

This time, our destination was Quebec City, the provincial capital of Quebec and the former capital city of French Canada. Once again, I relied upon trusty Maggie, my Pacifica’s built-in GPS, for directions to our hotel, the Sheraton Four Points. Once again, I was disappointed.

“Maggie wouldn’t take the address for the hotel,” I finally disclosed as we crossed the mighty St. Lawrence River into the city.

“Not this again,” Jack moaned.

Before Rene’ could offer advice, I quickly stepped in to quell the rebellion I sensed brewing.

“I’ll pull off at the first tourist information center I see. I’m not about to get lost in a place where they only speak French.”

“Very easy to find,” the lovely young Quebecois who assisted me said, batting her clarion blue eyes, pressing the blond bangs of her hair in place as she drew the route out for me on a tourist map. “Very easy.”

Why don’t you live in Duluth? I asked silently. My third son, Chris would love to take you to dinner…

Of course, I only said, “merci”, one of about a half dozen words in her native tongue I can manage. We parted. The map proved solid. We loved the hotel. Matt and Lisa arrived an hour or so behind us. After they settled in and A.J. ate dinner (his mommy calls him “Snack Pack” because of his propensity to want to eat), we made the executive decision to take a ride into Old Quebec City in Matt’s Suburban.

Now, understand this. Apparently very few folks in Quebec drive big SUVs. Oh, they drive Porches, and Maseratis, and Lamborghinis, and many other exotic, expensive cars. But they apparently don’t, at least in the core city, drive big, boat-like vehicles. How do I know this? Well, once we made it downtown and into the old city on the hill, we had to find a place to park. A brief exchange in halting English with a policeman led us to an underground parking garage. There, with A.J. squalling and the women clasping their hands, Matt negotiated his way down, down, down: through a maze of passages that allowed, and this is no joke, no more than an inch or two of clearance on each side of the car. Talk about intense.

The Mungers in Quebec City

“Excuse me, sir,” my wife asked a nice young man on the street as we exited the parking garage into a mass of humanity. “Why are there so many people out tonight?”

“Ah, it is zee celebration, for ten days,” the young man advised. “Music, and art, and vendors, up and down zee Old City. Next week, Bon Jovi and Aerosmith are coming…” he concluded, his voice trailing as he walked away.

Once again, as in Montreal, we’d landed smack dab in the middle of one of Quebec City’s biggest celebrations. The streets were filled with revelers and partying Quebecois and tourists from both Canada and the States. After a meal of calzones at a local Italian eatery and a quick tour of the area, we returned to the Suburban, closed our eyes (everyone except Matt), extricated the car without incident, and made it safely back to the hotel.

“I think we should can Ottawa and stay another day in Quebec,” I suggested to Rene’ upon our return to the Sheraton. “We’ve not much time to see Quebec if we push on to Ottawa and we really won’t have time to see Ottawa either.”

Rene’ agreed with my suggestion. So did the other Mungers. The women cancelled our hotel reservations in Ottawa and booked another night in the Sheraton. I was feeling pretty good about myself, I must say.

Quebec City

The next morning, after a lovely breakfast on the terrace of the hotel overlooking the Sheraton golf course, the sky open and the air humid and steamy, we headed into town.

The St. Lawrence River, Quebec

“Let’s not park in an underground garage,” I suggested. Matt agreed. We found an open metered spot on a street not too far from the Plains of Abraham, the battlefield that, during the

French and Indian War, sealed the fate of New France. Matt pulled his big rig into the space. Jack and Rene’ plugged the meter with as many Canadian coins as they could muster. Things seemed to be coming together for a great day in the city. But, as I looked at the sign attached to the meter, a sign written, of course, only in French, a thought percolated:

Does that say parking is only until 3:00pm today and after that, you will be towed? I studied the picture of the tow truck and the cryptic words. The time was written military style so I

was pretty sure I understood that part of the warning. But the rest? Instead of calling it to Matt’s attention (which would have been the smart thing to do) I simply shrugged my

shoulders and joined the crew.

We had a lovely day in the city despite the fact that, somewhere along the way, Lisa revealed that A.J. was now solely “au natural”… meaning the breast pump used to fill his bottles had ceased to function. Calls to the maker of the device had resulted in instructions to find a Wal-Mart or a Babies are Us or some such store, buy a replacement, and mail in the receipt for a refund. Easier said than done. We never found a store in Quebec City that fit the bill so A.J. had to be content with more Mommy time than anticipated.

Main Gate, Quebec City Fortress

Matt, Jack, and I took a side trip to spend an hour or so in the fortress that stands atop the hill overlooking the city and the river. It was a muggy day and the walk to and from the fort left me drained. We rejoined the girls for dinner at a small French restaurant near the old Anglican cathedral. Before eating, Matt nearly came to blows with the waiter: He mistook the man’s French-style aloofness towards his wife and son as an insult. His mom and I calmed him down enough to avoid an international incident. But, given the food wasn’t all that great, no tip was left by the nasty Americans as they wandered back out into the city.

The Frontenac Hotel, Old Quebec

There was more to see, and, of course for the women, more places to shop. Matt insisted on finding a jersey of some sort or another. Jack wanted yet another soccer ball. I had no interest in buying anything and, in the back of my mind, as we made our way slowly back uphill, grandpa pushing a slumbering A.J. in his stroller, I was beginning to feel troubled.

I hope the car is still there.

The Mungers Shopping in Quebec City

Of course, it wasn’t. When we rounded the corner and entered the open space where the car had once been parked alongside a small city park, there was no Suburban in sight.

“Matt,” I called out as I stopped across the street from the very vacant meter space, “they towed your car.”

My eldest son hustled up the street, his wife by his side. It was true. Where once there had been a full curb of parked cars, now only buses sat idling, waiting for the after work crowd. Rene’ and Jack joined us. A.J. slept on, oblivious to the distress that was building inside his old man.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

I could tell Matt was on the verge of irrationality. What I said next was likely unwise.

“I sort of suspected there might be a limit on how long we could park here,” I offered meekly.

“What?”

“When you parked this morning,” I said quietly. “I thought it said something about being towed after three o’clock.”

Matt glanced at his watch. It was after five.

Things were ready to escalate when both Rene’ and I suggested that Jack, A.J., and I stay in the park and the others find a policeman.

“They speak English,” I said even more meekly. “They should be able to find your car.”

Matt muttered. The three of them headed off, Matt and Lisa in one direction, Rene’ in another. A.J. and I took a spin around the park which had an interesting exhibit of weather resistant photographs of the impact of global warming displayed along the footpath. Jack contented himself with dribbling his new Montreal Impact soccer ball in the long grass.

Twenty minutes later, Rene’ came back.

“They found it. We flagged down a police car and Matt was able to describe the car to the cops. It’s only a few blocks away.”

My heart stopped pounding.

“We’ll pay half the ticket,” I said. Maybe, given my suspicions, I should have offered to pay it all. But Matt, Lisa, and Rene’: a computer specialist, a doctor of psychology, and a master’s degree holder all read the same signs I did and didn’t sound the alarm. I thought it was fair. I’ll leave it for you to decide.

The next day, it was back to the road. Our return route was pretty much a reverse of what we’d done on the way to Maine. We sped through Montreal. Skirted Ottawa (some day I hope to stay there) and finally made it back to Terrace Bay Suites on Lake Nippissing just outside of North Bay, ON. Racing through Montreal on the freeway, Rene’ spied a baby supply store and called Lisa with the location. Lisa didn’t pick up so we had no idea whether Matt stopped to pick up a replacement pump or not. I smiled as my wife left the message for my daughter-in-law. I had visions of Lisa standing in the store, trying to explain, in gestures and pigeon English to native French speakers, what she needed. I’ll leave it to your imagination how that discussion went.

It was another hot, still day. The fire danger signs along the highway (you know, the ones with the little needle showing how bad conditions are) indicated that Eastern Canada was in a severe drought: Conditions were ripe for a fire. So, when we pulled into our hotel, with the sun still high and the air very still, I convinced Jack we needed to check out Lake Nippissing.

Mark and Jack in Lake Nippissing, Ontario

The public beach in Calendar, a small village on the outskirts of North Bay, was well maintained. The water was refreshing and stayed waist deep far out into the big lake. Jack and I dove and frolicked and had a whale of a good time. I almost forgot about Matt’s car being towed.

Then, after another night at the KOA in Sault Ste. Marie, we were on the final leg of A.J.’s Big Adventure. It wasn’t long before we were back at home, along the Cloquet River, unpacking the car and our memories.

Hey, son, daughter-in-law, and grandson: It was a great trip. And Matt, like all good lawyers, I have only one thing to say: The check is in the mail!

Love,

Grandpa Mark

Uncle Jack and A.J. in Montreal

Leave it to me to find a bookstore in the middle of rural Vermont. Really, it wasn’t intentional. It’s just that, well, when Rene’, Jack, and I stopped for lunch in tiny Lyndonville, Vermont (population 1,227), Green Mountain Books and Prints (http://www.greenmtnbooks.com/), the old retail space crammed to the ceiling with used and select new books from the region, well, I just had to stop.

“Mark, where were you?”

Rene’ had wandered off down the street looking for food. Now, to be clear, I did tell her I was going to “check out” the store. So you would have thought she understood that meant, “browse long enough to buy a book or two.’ Apparently there was a miscommunication.

“At the bookstore,” I said, holding up a paper sack with two new regional novels I’d just purchased from the store’s owner. “I told you…”

“There’s a restaurant across the street,” my wife said with disdain. “I’m hungry.”

Jack shook his head when I looked to him for help. He’d been in the store too but hadn’t bought a thing. I was looking for backup. I got nothing.

Being touristy in Vermont requires at least one stop at a covered bridge. After connecting with Matt and Lisa in the Suburban (their GPS took them through New Hampshire on the way to Maine; Maggie insisted we drive through Vermont), we found a bridge just outside of Lyndonville and snapped a few quick photos.

Covered Bridge, Lyndonville, VT

The drive south took us over two-lanes that wove in and out of the peaks of the Green Mountains and into the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Along the way, we slowed for towns, villages, the occasional small city. We crossed streams, and creeks, and, on occasion, rivers. The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful and the day was clear and bright: A great day to be on the open road in America.

Rene’ in the White Mountain

Jack and a very big oak, Androscoggin River, NH

“Where are you guys?” Lisa asked over the cell phone as we were tooling south, on the only patch of freeway on the drive between the border and Bar Harbor.

“Somewhere between Bangor and Bar Harbor,” Rene’ replied. “Where are you guys?”

“At the KOA.”

My wife turned to me with a puzzled look, as if to say, How did they make it there before us? After all, they have a baby to contend with and you, Mark, you have your beloved GPS paramour, Maggie, to guide and direct you. How is it they beat us to the campground?

Rene’ didn’t really say those things, but, after nearly thirty-four years of marriage, I knew what she was thinking.

“Tell them we’ll be there in a half-hour,” was all I said.

The Kamping Kabins at the Bar Harbor KOA were definately top of the line. Matt and Lisa’s Kabin was equipped with a full kitchen, bath, living room, and front porch. Ours didn’t have a full kitchen but did have a full bath, a bunkroom for Jack, a main room with a king sized bed, and a screen porch. Even better, both came with their own fire rings and picnic tables overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Though not in the town of Bar Harbor, we soon learned, after trying to park Matt’s Suburban in the tiny oceanside resort town full of Independence Day revelers, that the good folks of Bar Harbor supply free bus service to town from all the area motels, inns, and campgrounds. Driving into town became obsolete.

That night, Matt and Lisa treated us to a meal of grill cooked steaks, fresh corn on the cob, cold Maine beer (soda for Jack, of course!), and baked beans. I bought firewood from the KOA store and stoked the fire as the sun set right in front of our cabins over the receding tide of the sea.

Where to start. Over the next few days, we ate great food (Matt found the lobster he’d been craving at Lobster Fest on the 4th of July in downtown Bar Harbor and even photographed the unfortunate crustacean for posterity!), hiked Acadia National Park, went whale watching (spying a beautiful finback whale, dolphins, seals, and assorted sea birds: Matt and Lisa (with A.J. in our charge) took a separate boat and also saw a humpback whale display its tail), played miniature golf (Dad won, though Jack gave it a go), and took in the beauty of the Maine coastline.

Finback Whale, Atlantic Ocean

“Why are you going this way?” Rene’ asked on the day we drove into Acadia National Park. “The signs for Cadillac Mountain point the other direction.”

I had a plan. I always have a plan. Sometimes I share my plans with my wife and kids; sometimes not. I drove on, remaining silent, which, of course, didn’t end the questions.

“Ya, Dad. The road to the top of the mountain goes the other way,” Jack added, his ability to read roadsigns confirmed in his insistence.

I kept driving.

Jack and Mark at Sand Beach, Acadia National Park

Like I said: I had a plan. I wasn’t lost or confused. I wanted to check out Sand Beach, which, in all the brochures was labeled as a “don’t miss” attraction of the park. The brochures were right. On a foggy, cool, misty day, walking the moist sand of the beach was indeed well worth the detour.

“See?” I said to the skeptics in my Pacifica as we walked past two college aged kids sweeping sand off the stairway to the beach. “Isn’t this cool?” My wife and son didn’t disagree. After a half hour studying the beach and the surrounding hills, it was off to Cadillac Mountain. We took a long hike along the precipice of the peak through barren, rocky terrain, the sun hidden behind thick fog and ponderous clouds until, just as we labored our way back to the car after a four mile trek, the sky began to break and the sun began to assert its power.

Rene’ and Jack, Cadillac Mountain, Acadia

That evening, Matt and Lisa and A.J. opted to watch the 4th of July fireworks from a boat out in Bar Harbor. Rene’, Jack, and I chose to dine at a little bakery and coffee shop off the beaten path before making our way to Bar Harbor’s town square to watch the display. There was a very real possibility that, given the return of the fog, the fireworks would be cancelled. But, in the end, though there was a thin veil surrounding the town, the show did go on. And, with the fog defusing the exploding rockets, what a show it was.

Bar Harbor, ME 7/4/2012

Bar Harbor, ME 7/4/2012

The Author: Looking for Whales

In the morning, we loaded up our cars and began the long trek home by way of Quebec City, North Bay, and Sault Ste. Marie. But more on that in the last installment of “A.J.’s Big Adventure!”

Peace.

Mark

A.J. Gets Ready for his Big Adventure

That’s my grandson, Adrien James Munger, anticipating his first road trip beyond the limits of the state line. From the serious look on his face, he’s obviously worried about traveling with his parents, his paternal grandparents, and his Uncle Jack in two separate vehicles on a journey that will take him through two Canadian provinces and six American states. But, as it turns out, other than a little glitch in Quebec City, A.J.’s concerns proved unfounded.

When my wife Rene’ and my daughter-in-law Lisa came up with their “big idea” to take a road trip through Ontario and Quebec to Bar Harbor, Maine, well, I have to say, A.J. wasn’t the only one who viewed the adventure with a skeptic’s eye. In fact, given that the trip was being planned during the ugliness of this past winter and my grandson wasn’t even out of the womb, I believe that I, not my grandson, was the original critic of this planned excursion.

“Two cars.”

“How’s that?” my wife asked as we considered the route and the cities we’d visit on the trip.

“I will love my grandson or granddaughter to death in the confines of a rocking chair,” I advised, “but I am not driving three thousand miles in a car with an infant. Been there,” I asserted, referencing our own four boys and the countless road trips we’d taken as a family. “Done that.”

So it was that, with A.J. newly arrived and in the process of being breast fed, that the six of us began our journey north, towards Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. We were shooting for an early departure. There were two problems with our plan: A.J. was hungry and needed to be fed. And so did his dad, my eldest son Matt. So the first leg of our collected trip (Matt and Lisa and A.J. drove their first leg from Hibbing to Duluth) ended at the Duluth Grill in Duluth’s West End. Our tummies and gas tanks filled, we left town a few hours behind schedule.

Near Bruce Crossing, MI we chanced upon a tiny stream with a remarkable waterfall that begged inspection. Jack, never one to avoid the water, decided it was a great place to take a quick shower…with his clothes on!

Jack’s Unscheduled Shower

Lisa and Jack at a Bistro in Marquette, MI

We stopped again in Marquette and spent some time in the park along the waterfront before eating at a local bistro in the quaint old downtown. Then it was back into the Suburban (Matt’s car) and the Pacifica (mine) for the long drive to Sault Ste. Marie. After crossing the International Bridge in a line of cars composed mostly of Canadians returning home, we pulled into the KOA and our waiting Kamping Kabins three hours behind schedule. After a night of rest and a quick shower followed by a MacDonald’s breakfast, Rene’, Jack and I took in the Canadian locks on the St. Mary’s River and walked the adjacent Ojibwe wildlife sanctuary while Matt, Lisa, and A.J. got an early start on the drive to North Bay.

The Canadian Locks at the Soo

North Bay, Ontario proved to be surprising, both in its size and its beauty. I’d never been that far north in central Ontario, and certainly had never stopped at Lake Nippissing.

The town is built right up to the white sand shores of the lake, a body of water that, through the St. Francis River, empties into Lake Huron. We met Matt, Lisa, and A.J. at the Terrace Suites just east of town, our arrival delayed additionally by Maggie’s reluctance to cooperate.

Maggie? Who’s Maggie, you ask? Well, my Pacifica has a built-in GPS display which, in most situations, proves to be accurate. I’ve named this helpful tool, Maggie. Or, when she’s non-compliant and I want her attention, I’ve been known to be call her “Margaret”: As in, “Where the hell are you taking me, Margaret?” In any event, using a GPS that has 2007 data (I assume that’s the age of the information stored in the thing;the car is a 2008 model) doesn’t always jive with present reality. It took several cell phone calls to Matt to sort out just where the Terrace Suites of North Bay was actually located. In the interim, we had a lovely tour of North Bay following Maggie’s lead and Jack learned a few new words from his father.

Sunset over Lake Nippissing, Ontario

The next day we covered the remainder of north central Ontario and part of western Quebec before arriving in Montreal. Once situated at the Best Western on the outskirts of that truly international city, Rene’ talked to the desk clerk (thankfully, most folks speak passable English because none of our crew speaks French…a fact which will become important later on in this tale of adventure) and that helpful mademoiselle gave us directions to the nearest subway station.That evening, our third of the trip, while exploring Montreal, we learned the following: We had landed in one of the largest cities in Eastern Canada smack dab in the middle of preparations for Canada Day so there were hordes of people everywhere; and we also learned that Lisa isn’t all that fond of crepes.

Rene’ in Old Montreal at Night

Why is it that some big cities are smart enough to include rail service, either subways or trains, from the ‘burbs to the center city? My family, on various trips over the four decades we’ve been parents, has taken trains in Montreal, Chicago, Washington D.C., and, with the addition of the light rail in the Twin Cities, from Bloomington to the Dome for Twins games. It’s an easy way to avoid parking headaches and, as you’ll learn in part two of this travelogue, something that would have saved us grief in the capitol city of Quebec. Even traveling with a newborn, the subway in and out of downtown Montreal, on a night filled with drunk Canadians (including a group on the train who were downright obnoxious) getting tuned up to celebrate their nation’s freedom from the Queen, mass transit was definitely the way to travel.

In the morning, we went back into the city on Canada Day. There were mimes and characters on stilts and speeches and food covering every square inch of old downtown, all engaged in the festivities and open for business despite the fact it was Sunday. Taking a break along the harbor front, I had Rene’ snap a photo of me reading New World Finn, a great little newspaper that I just happened to have in my back pocket as we sat down for coffee. I gathered, as the photo will attest, quite a crowd as I perused the news.

Mark Reading “New World Finn” in Montreal

It was a hot, full day in the old city. Despite the still, heavy air and throngs of people, we managed to maintain our composure as a group and take it all in without incident. Of course, there were ample opportunities for Rene’ and Lisa to shop. In fact, there were so many shops lining the cobblestone streets that there was no way the women could visit them all, though they made the boldest of attempts to do just that! Jack was content to buy a couple of soccer balls, neither of which, by the way, had even the remotest connection to Canada or Montreal. Go figure.

The Mungers (minus the patriarch) in Montreal on Canada Day

The next morning, we were back in our cars, headed for Bar Harbor, Maine to spend three days and nights (including Independence Day) on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean. But that’s the subject of the second installment of this blog.

Peace.

Mark

If it keeps on rainin’, levee’s goin’ to break,

If it keeps on rainin’, levee’s goin’ to break,

When The Levee Breaks I’ll have no place to stay.

Mean old levee taught me to weep and moan, [X2]
Got what it takes to make a mountain man leave his home,
Oh, well, oh, well, oh, well.

((c) Led Zeppelin)

Canoe with Book Order (06/27/2012)

My distributor Partners wants copies of Laman’s River. An entire carton, which is a good thing. It’s 7:00am and Rene’ and I are once again on our way to work. It’s my wife’s 55th birthday and, because the water is finally receding from our road and the river is slowly going down, we can’t canoe to work today. We have to wade.

Rene' Munger's Birthday Bath in the Flood Waters of the Cloquet

As the title to this essay says, the Island Lake Dam held together during the 500 year storm. I didn’t coin that phrase: Someone else did. We thought, when we built our new home downriver from our old place on the river in 1999 that the water coming up to the top of the bank in front of the hole being dug for the new house’s foundation was the highest it would ever go. They (whoever “they” is) called that storm and resultant runoff, the “storm of the century”. Maybe it was the storm of the 20th century and the one we just experienced is the storm of the 21st century? Or maybe “they” are right and the past week’s diluvial onslaught was indeed the storm of this half of the millennium. Whatever. The point is, the levee (in this case, the Island Lake Dam) didn’t break and we were extremely lucky. Unlike thousands of other Northlanders, who suffered extreme damage to, or the total loss of, their homes and possessions, my family was merely inconvenienced by the weather and the our isolation.

In any event, we wade out to the borrowed van at the end of our road, books high and dry in the Coleman canoe; the water too high to drive through but too low to canoe.

“I’m out here to wish you a happy birthday, Mom, but there’s no one here to greet me except my wiener dog,” Chris, our third son says when he calls Rene’ as we’re driving home.

“We’ll be home soon,” Rene’ promises before hanging up the phone.

“Did you ask him if the water is low enough to drive in?”

“I forgot.”

I call Chris back on my iPhone and get the details.

“Sounds like we can drive in,” I say optimistically, spinning Chris’s more cautionary words into words of promise.

By the time Rene’, Jack, and I arrive home after a long day of work and a youth soccer game (Jack’s team won, by the way, showing some real mettle in the contest against a team that had beaten them handily a few weeks back), the water is indeed low enough for us to navigate safely in Pauline’s borrowed van.With Chris’s help, we get the canoes squared away, the paddles put back in the storage shed, and Jack tackles the push mowing while I climb on our rider and begin cutting grass that has had far too much time to grow.

It’s 9:30pm and nearly dark by the time I’m done and wander into the house for dinner. But it’s a sure bet that the Great Flood of 2012, though over, will live long in stories told by the Munger clan.

Peace.

Mark