Perhaps we should have known that a place called Witch Bay would have a few tricks up its sleeve.
Mike had been looking forward to this one.
It started innocently enough. Mike had spotted a waterfall on our charts, tucked into a small cove along the shore of Pipestone Peninsula, and that was all the motivation we needed. We wound our way along the peninsula, through Andrew Bay, and dropped anchor with the quiet anticipation of people who have earned a dramatic natural wonder or two. We loaded Sierra and ourselves into the dinghy, and we puttered around the point — and then we searched. And searched.
Someone, it seemed, had tampered with the map.
We found it eventually — a proud one-foot drop, with a modest trickle of water making its way over the rocks and into the lake. We climbed the stair-stepped granite beside it, certain that this was merely the bottom of something grander, that the full magnificent cascade was waiting just above.
It was not. The forest just got thicker.
We have now noticed a pattern developing up here in the north country. The marina that turned out to be a convenience store. The waterfall that turned out to be a trickle. Whether it is the remoteness, the charm of the place, or something more mysterious at work, things are simply described differently up here — and we are learning to recalibrate our expectations accordingly.
But Witch Bay was not finished with us yet.
On the climb back down through the boulders, I spotted something tucked into the cracks of the rock — a small patch of wild strawberries, tiny and sun-warmed, glowing red against the grey granite. They were perfect. Sweet in the way that only something found rather than bought can be sweet, as though they had been left there on purpose, a little gift hidden in the rocks by whoever looks after such things in these northern woods. We ate them on the spot and decided the waterfall was forgiven.
Back aboard Bearcruzer, we traveled on to Witch Bay for the evening — and this time, the spell took a decidedly more magnificent form. As we eased into our anchorage, two swans appeared from nowhere, sweeping in low and slow overhead, their great wings barely moving against the afternoon sky. In Celtic legend, swans are shape-shifters and messengers, creatures that move between worlds. Two of them arriving over a place called Witch Bay felt less like a coincidence and more like a sign — though of what, exactly, we couldn’t say.
Majestic is the only word for it.
They also made us a little homesick. Back in Pagosa Springs, Colorado — our home base when we’re not living aboard — there is a swan who has claimed the local pond as his own personal kingdom. His name is Swan Solo. He is singular, he is imperious, and he is, in his way, irreplaceable. We hope he is having a lovely summer without us and that someone is giving him the attention he clearly feels he deserves.
Whatever spell Witch Bay cast over us that evening, we weren’t complaining. Wild strawberries in the rocks, swans at dusk, a waterfall that kept us humble — it was, in its own quietly magical way, another lovely day on the water.
We are learning to trust the enchantment up here.
Living the Dream 