My wife and I drive north along the interstate, through Duluth, and onward until the roads turn to dirt. Inland from Lake Superior, in what is now forgotten forest, is a place I call New Finland. That is not its true name, but I have been asked to keep it private. The locals, the few who remain, get tense around tourists.
My wife screams suddenly. Or is it me? It is difficult to tell in this darkness. We stand on the edge of a one-hundred and ten year old farmyard, originally homesteaded by Finnish immigrants, and are haunted by silence. The stars feel too close. Have we been in the city too long? Is that a large being watching us from the swamp? We cannot tell.
In the deep distance, from time to time, the trains roll out of the iron ranges and rattle like the energy of old ghosts. This territory was built on lumbering and mining, but some of the first Europeans, in this case the Fins, broke sod on this rock infested wetland, this sub-zero degree bog, and made a go of it. In the morning, we walk to the settler children’s cemetery, a clearing mowed out of the forest, and try not to step where we do not belong.
My first instinct was to write about New Finland; use it as the setting for a story. I may do that. But first I must warn you. Do not come near here. This is a private place with bear and ravens. When you hear the wolves cry out at the moon by the dozens, you will wish you had stayed home with the television and comforter. My wife and I are no fools but we have been lucky so far. If the insects do not drive you blind, then that creature stalking out from the swamp might.
Thank you for reading.