Marcus Olson

Ore boat coming in under the lift bridge at sunset. Long-short horn, answered, and the whole canal waving.

Five stories of stone on the hill. The harbor, both bridges, and Wisconsin across the water.

Lake Superior at 58°F is refreshing, and by refreshing I mean painful.

Fog on the water, a cow moose and her calf on the far shore. Didn't breathe for five minutes.

First night out. Loons calling across the lake till midnight.

Permit picked up, wolves visited, last real coffee for a week.

Fireworks over the harbor. Four ships blew their horns at the end.

Tourist season is officially open: fudge, ice cream, and both canal lighthouses.

Ice fishing with my dad. Twenty-two inches of ice, zero walleye, one thermos. Perfect day.

Deep, narrow, loud. Elk grazing in town on the walk back.

Walked on a glacier that's shrinking every year. The markers for where it reached in 1908 are a long walk back.

Rented a canoe on my holiday. Glacier at the far end. Felt like work, but prettier.

First shuttle up — no private cars anymore. That blue isn't edited. I checked with my own eyes twice.