– Random Writings: Column by Rebecca Lindquist – - Living to tell about it

– Random Writings: Column by Rebecca Lindquist –

Periodically, I reflect on things I have experienced in the past, and question the wisdom that prompted the undertaking of said venture.

One such occurrence was when I lived in Mellen. I worked at the Louisiana-Pacific veneer mill and always tried to plan an excursion on my long weekends. A “long weekend,” was when I worked a two-week rotating shift, which ended at 3 p.m., Friday, and didn’t resume again until 3 p.m., the following Monday.

My friend and co-worker, Charlotte “Charlie,” and I made plans to drive to Bayfield, and ride the ferry across Lake Superior to Madeline Island. Since it was a beautiful, sunny day in June, we decided to make a day of it.

I grabbed my picnic hamper and filled it with cold fried chicken, potato salad, bread and butter, and sliced watermelon, to eat somewhere along the way. Our first stop was the old iron ore dock in Ashland.

I had driven past it multiple times, but this time, we drove directly to the dock entrance. No Trespassing signs were posted, as well as a chain link fence, boldly proclaiming unauthorized personnel were not welcome, emphasized by the thick, sturdy padlock securing the gate.

This should have been a convincing deterrent, but since we weren’t there to vandalize and just wanted to snap some pictures, we blithely ignored the warnings and wriggled through a gap in the fence, hidden from view by brush, tangled vines and overgrown trees.

Keep in mind, Charlie was in her 50’s and I was 23. We were both old enough to know better, but Charlie had been there several times with her adult daughters and assured me it was worth seeing.

It was amazing! There were cement walkways, underneath the train trestle that loomed 80 feet overhead, traversing the length of the dock. It was eerily quiet, with the only sounds made by the lapping waves and the chirping of nesting birds, flitting in and out under the cathedral-like ceiling.

What gave me pause, were the seemingly bottomless, diamond-shaped pools, spanning roughly 15 feet across, spaced about four feet apart, the entire 1,800-foot length of the structure. It was irresistibly beautiful, with the sunlight filtering in through the trestle braces, glinting off the water in the pools, illuminating the interior with hundreds of rainbow prisms.

Thinking back, it could have ended differently. I have always been accident-prone and could easily have fallen into one of those pools. The cement was crumbling in places, with cracks making places on the walkway a potential tripping hazard. Charlie could swim, but I don’t, so, definitely a risk I should have taken into consideration. I still shudder, when I recall how deep and murky those pools were.

That being said, it was definitely worth the time and effort, and the risk of possible incarceration. By the time we reached the far end of the dock, we were basically standing over Lake Superior. It was somewhat intimidating, making me feel small and insignificant, not to mention isolated. There were boats farther out, but none in close proximity.

We sat and talked about the ore freighters, while we rested, listening to the seagulls scolding and calling to one another. What prompted our departure, was the darkening skies and the roiling waves crashing against the pilings. It looked suspiciously like a storm was rolling in.

I’m sure Charlie and I were perfectly safe. The trestle was built in 1915, and, more than likely, had weathered many storms, but it was still alarming enough to hasten us along.

The first drops of rain were starting to fall as we went back through the fence. It was a torrential downpour by the time we reached the car. We sat for several minutes, with the heat on full blast, to help dry our hair and clothes. Just as soon as the storm began, it stopped, and it was sunny and warm once again.

I survived that questionable journey, by a kindly providence, to participate in future ill-advised escapades. I’m embarrassed to admit, there are many more such tales.