AUGUST 19, 2026 – Yesterday I joined the plan to take our visitors north to Bayfield, WI on the south shore of Lake Superior, a 90-minute drive from the Red Cabin. We left Grindstone Lake at 9:30 in the morning and returned 10 hours later after a magnificent outing.
Among Twin Citians, Bayfield enjoys a reputation as a tourist destination that far outweighs its population of only 574. The town is a gateway for sailing around the beautiful Apostle Islands; the location of a seasonal ferry to nearby picturesque Madeline Island; site of the fall apple festival featuring many local orchards in the heights outside the town; one of the most popular stops along the scenic southern shoreline of Lake Superior. Bayfield also boasts many fine eating establishments and tourist shops featuring all sorts of arts and crafts. And, we noticed, it’s home to a few . . . homegrown Democrats, as evidenced by yard signs and a conversation I enjoyed with a couple from Madeline Island, who, in a small dinghy, had motored over to the wharf in Bayfield to stock up on groceries at half the price they’d cost back on the island.
After a delectable whitefish lunch at the famous “Greunke’s First Street Inn and Dining” in the center of town, our crew strolled down to the wharf for a close-up look at Gitchi Gumi, “the big sea water,” as Longfellow highlighted Lake Superior in his Song of Hiawatha, parts of which most Minnesota school kids back in the day had to memorize. On our way back up to the center of town, I espied an older gentleman lifting grocery bags down to his dinghy. I reached him as he was transferring perishables to an on-board cooler.
He saw me as I approached and waved, which was all I needed to stop and greet him. Soon we were chatting away, as I asked questions and he answered them cheerfully, even joyfully. It was one of those “one thing leads to another” conversations, mostly about how he’d wound up with a place on Madeline Island and his multiple careers as a farmer in southwestern Minnesota, an automotive worker in Detroit, an industrial arts teacher in St. Louis Park, Minnesota, a licensed specialty welder in Colorado, and what he called his favorite job, an auto parts delivery driver in Arizona, where he and his wife still maintain a winter home, in Scottsdale.
“What made that your favorite job?” I asked.
“Oh, everyone loved me! They were so happy to have their car parts arrive. When I pulled up, they were so cheerful and glad to see me. Plus, I was reliable. I never missed a day of work, which wasn’t the case with any of the rest of the employees. In fact,” he laughed, “most of the delivery people often had trouble showing up for work two days in a row.”
Several times during the conversation, he complained about inflation—specifically, the high cost of groceries. “Here in Bayfield,” he said, “bread is five bucks a loaf. On the island, it’s ten. Can you believe that? Ten bucks for a loaf of bread.” (I’d noticed that at the general store we’d stopped at in the unincorporated hamlet of Drummond on the way up to Bayfield, a medium bag of potato chips was over six bucks.) He was a good-natured guy and articulate, and after hearing much of his work story, I was curious what he thought about the direction of the country.
“Given all that you’ve seen and experienced in life,” I said, “I just have to ask you what you think of the state of the country, the state of the world, and where it’s all headed over the next couple, five years.”
“Oh, don’t get me started,” he said. “The first thing that’s got to happen is we’ve got to get this maniac Trump under control before he starts yet another dumb war. He’s nothing but deep trouble for this country.”
I affirmed his attitude with a bit of my own. Just then his wife appeared with another couple of bags of groceries. She’d heard just enough of our exchange to ring the bell again for “our side.”
“Well,” she said with a laugh, stepping down the wharf ladder to the dinghy, “as you can see by our big beautiful boat here, we’re Democrats.”
“You wanna help us cast off?” her cheerful husband called out to me.
Just then my wife summoned me by phone. Even before answering I knew what the question would be.
“I’m on my way. I’ll catch up in a minute. I’m helping a couple get underway here from the wharf.” I figured helping others would buy me a couple of credits, despite the added delay. Quickly, I helped the gentleman uncleat his lines. As he and his wife waved good-bye, I returned the gesture while I took two or three steps backward, then pivoted and power-walked up the street. Soon my wife called again. “We’ve decided you can stay in town for an hour or so while the rest of us go on the hike.” My first reaction was, Thank goodness there’s an independent bookstore in town. That should be good for at least an hour, I thought.
Only later did I realize my wife had been joking. She never jokes about punctuality, but it was our son, I would learn, who told her to call me with the “funny” threat that I would be left behind.
“No!” I protested, despite the existence of the bookstore. “I’m only about 150 feet from the car.”
“Okay.”
After hanging up I realized that my “150 feet” were more like 150 meters. I opened the throttle on my stride all the way to the corner at the next intersection, then jogged down to the car (one of two that our crew had driven from the Red Cabin) parked along the street. Our daughter-in-law was still fitting our granddaughter into the car seat, which reminded me of a human-occupied spacecraft that requires an aide with an engineering degree to strap in the astronaut. If I’d caused some delay in our crew’s departure for the next destination, at least now I wasn’t responsible for the immediate delay.
“Byron and the others are already on their way to the hiking area,” said Beth, as we waited for completion of the final steps to the “astronaut strap-in” procedure. “It’s pretty close—just a few miles north of here.”
“Good,” I said. My race-walk pace from the wharf had been a good warm-up. (Cont.)
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
