The Skiff, the Steamer, and the 18-Mile Christmas Walk Home TLWH 09/18/26

In the early nineties of the last millennium, we purchased a small townhome at what was once Lockport, now part of Lutsen. It was the site of an operation to get logs on the water to be rafted up and sailed to the civilization rising south and east. When the water was calm and the sun just right, you could plant your behind on the ground and see the remains of the pilings and rails that made things work, and sit in awe of the skill and hard work of previous generations.

The first year of owning our piece of the shore, we made 26 trips from suburban Bloomington. Between raising teenagers and running a business, I always carried stress in my shoulders and neck as we began the five-hour drive into 35W traffic. Once we crested Thompson Hill and saw Duluth and the big lake ahead, I could feel the stress leave my body. I’m certain many others have the same experience.

As much as the beauty and serenity of the scenery soothed my capitalist-addled mind, getting to know the people who lived on the shore was equally important. I thought of that the other day when I had the honor of talking with someone who has lived near Silver Bay for almost 60 years. Unlike the usual conversation I have with people my age, we didn’t speak of deteriorating eyesight, aggravating prostates, or aching joints; instead, we reminisced about the people we know, or had the pleasure of knowing, who lived on the North Shore when it was hard to do and lamented the loss of their stories.

In 1888, two carpenters from Duluth, Ole Brunes and Nels Ludwig Eliasen, sailed into Chicago Bay and settled the area that became Hovland. In the 1950s, Ole’s eldest son, August, wrote down his memories of life in Hovland. He played a key role in delivering goods and people by dinghy between steamers traveling between Duluth and Grand Portage and the growing settlements and lumber camps popping up along the shore. 

August Brunes wrote, “The Steamer America stopped about December first, and the Steamer Moor, which was smaller, took over the hauling until the ice froze too thick to navigate. Christmas Eve, the Moor tooted for me to come out. There was a northwest storm brewing, colder weather, and they had a load of supplies for a lumber camp 5 miles east of Hovland. 

“They pulled my skiff aboard and when we got to the camp we used their 18 foot skiff and the Moor's skiff to deliver the freight. This was done for about two hours until the storm got too rough. I was the last load in and the Moor was drifting out where it was really rough. They threw the line to me, pulled my boat up in the first deck, closed the heavy gangway doors and started for Grand Marais. The captain said he could not stop at Hovland, as it was getting too rough. The water splashed way up to the pilot house and froze ice. 

“Captain Smith was a small man. The first mate was half Indian, a big, husky fellow. These men had a big job on their hands. The wind was strong and a thick fog was created by that cold wind over the warmer lake water. It took us many hours to make those 25 miles. The windows in the lounge were broken by flying ice, so we nailed canvas over them. About an hour before we got to Grand Marais, 

the captain came in from the pilot house to warm up. When he went out, he could not shut the heavy door. The door flapped back and forth until we got hold of the handle. One hinge was broken so the deckhands got a rope tied to the door handle, Then the other hinge broke and the wind flapped the door around like a piece of paper until we finally got it inside. We nailed it in place with boards. We did not see the captain or first mate again until we were safely into the harbor. It was pitch dark. As we listened to the storm outside, the steamer gave a lurch, the keel scraped bottom, and the next thing we knew, there was a crash. Our steamer was pushed over against another steamer that had pulled in 

earlier in the evening. The crew told me my skiff was gone. The wind and ice had broken open the gangway doors, and my skiff blew out and broke when it hit the waves. 

“We all turned in to the bunks for a well-earned rest. 

“The next morning (Christmas Day), what a sight! The Moor looked more like an iceberg than a ship. The sun came up nice and clear; the wind has subsided; and it was a quiet beautiful day. We had our breakfast. The captain said I should stay with them, and as soon as they got loose from the ice, they would continue down to Duluth. I could come back with them on their next trip. However, I knew the folks at home would worry about me, so I thanked him and said I would head home at once. The steamboat company paid me well for my skiff and my time. Glad I got home early in the afternoon on Christmas Day, and the folks were happy to see me. They had given me up as lost when the steamer Moor did not stop to let me off at Hovland; they figured I had started to row home. Father searched for me along the shore until dark, then gave it up as a hopeless job.”

August didn't wait for the ice to thaw. He set out on foot on Christmas Day, walking nearly twenty wintry miles from Grand Marais back to Hovland.

People like August were who my new friend and I talked about. His generation is long gone, but many  who grew up on the shore before satellite television, reliable phone service, and modern highways are still with us. The local historical societies are great places to find their stories.