Blueberry Harvest by John L. Peyton (18x24 Oil)

The sun had gone down, a cold wind was piling up my surf against the stony shore, and my wife and I were trying to find a landing while there was still little daylight.  According to the map, the Willow River should, along about here, come through the boulders and palisades that form the northeast coast of Lake Superior.

And suddenly there it was, an opening shining out of the dark mass of spruce and rock.  We sung into it, riding down the front of a wave like surfers, watching for any rocks that might show in the gleaming trough ahead.  Then we were floating peacefully, protected by rock walls and by the sandbar across the river mouth.

We made camp in the dark.  Next morning we found ourselves in the sheltered meadow shown above.  The wind was still howling over the lake, but it was warm and sunny here.  The ground was covered with white blossoms and ripe blueberries, a welcome treat when you’ve been living on beans, biscuits, and bacon.

River openings in the rock hills provide the few good landing places and campsites along this shore.  I suppose that canoeists were stopping here in Caesar's day.  If you root around under the berry bushes you may find articles left by earlier campers.

Places like this are still visited regularly by the Ojibwe.  Blueberries are important in their industrial year.  I can remember seeing women and older children picking them into birch bark baskets.  Later they were dried on mats made of rushes and packed for storage.

Blueberry Harvest by John L. Peyton (18x24 Oil)

The sun had gone down, a cold wind was piling up my surf against the stony shore, and my wife and I were trying to find a landing while there was still little daylight.  According to the map, the Willow River should, along about here, come through the boulders and palisades that form the northeast coast of Lake Superior.

And suddenly there it was, an opening shining out of the dark mass of spruce and rock.  We sung into it, riding down the front of a wave like surfers, watching for any rocks that might show in the gleaming trough ahead.  Then we were floating peacefully, protected by rock walls and by the sandbar across the river mouth.

We made camp in the dark.  Next morning we found ourselves in the sheltered meadow shown above.  The wind was still howling over the lake, but it was warm and sunny here.  The ground was covered with white blossoms and ripe blueberries, a welcome treat when you’ve been living on beans, biscuits, and bacon.

River openings in the rock hills provide the few good landing places and campsites along this shore.  I suppose that canoeists were stopping here in Caesar's day.  If you root around under the berry bushes you may find articles left by earlier campers.

Places like this are still visited regularly by the Ojibwe.  Blueberries are important in their industrial year.  I can remember seeing women and older children picking them into birch bark baskets.  Later they were dried on mats made of rushes and packed for storage.