the White Hurricane

100 years ago today a storm swept through the Great Lakes, a storm out of some epic poem, a "White Hurricane" as they called it. They say the winds roared at 95 mph and the waves grew to 35 feet tall. They say ships were paralyzed in the whiteout conditions with frozen navigation tools.

Over 250 people died during the course of the White Hurricane. 12 ships sank and many more were destroyed or stranded. 4 ships were never found. NEVER FOUND. 100 years later. Still lost.

I love the Great Lakes. I love those wide, deep, cold Great Lakes. I love that freshwater and their slow, strong march to the Atlantic through the Saint Lawrence. And I love their shores, the dunes, the cherry trees, the aching cracks of the shelf ice in winter.

But lying in bed at night thinking of those lost ships at the bottom of a lake is what truly keeps my fascination alive.  It's the idea that a thing so big could slip away, could disappear under the water line, and leave not a sound behind. Where once was a ship, a moment later, silence. It isn't those ships in particular. It isn't really ships at all. It's more about that before and after. Something lonely about those Native Americans and those voyageurs in their canoes and those moose. Have you ever seen a moose? So big and lanky and intimidating, but when he slips back into the trees, through the foliage, it takes only a moment to return to silence and then it is as if he was never there. It leaves you wondering as to what is lurking just through the trees. A ship sitting below you; you have no idea. A woman could have stood on the shore where you now stand 150 years ago or yesterday, but there's nothing left to tell you. A moment passes, and then, silence. A sobering reminder of your size and place in the scope of all this.

Isle Royale Light from our honeymoon