Andy Steiner

Resolution: Spend more time with family.
Destination: Grand Marais, Minnesota

EveryDay With Rachael Ray, December/January 2008

By Andy Steiner

Not so long ago, I realized that my largest chunk of uninterrupted time with my 7-year-old daughter was our daily five-minute walk home from the bus stop. She’s usually too distracted to even hold my hand. And I don’t get much more time alone with my 3-year-old girl or my husband: Our quality time comes in all-too-brief bursts interrupted by pre-school, homework, soccer, deadlines and errands.

So one sunny, cold weekend, we pack the car and head north, six hours past our home in Minneapolis to Gunflint Lodge, just across a lake from Canada. You can’t go here and not get away from it all—there’s no cell service for miles, and although our cabin has a kitchen, hot tub and fireplace, it’s missing a television. On cue, my older daughter whines, “What if we get bored?” I reassure her we won’t, but inside I worry, “What if they get bored?”

Turns out there’s no time for boredom here. Determined to have to have fun the old fashioned way, my husband promptly signs us up for a cross-country ski excursion on flat, frozen Gunflint Lake. The lodge’s outfitters even have a pair of skis small enough for our preschooler, so we all set off. Not too long into the trek, we feel we’re being watched, and we are—by a friendly herd of deer. My daughters grab dried corn from the bins set up in the lodge’s entryway; the deer swarm my generous girls like hungry cats. This is better than any zoo at home: In our short après-ski walk between lodge and cabin, my daughters spy cardinals big enough to eat city birds for lunch and a small fox basking in the sun. Other guests also enjoy animal watching: The front desk log notes recent sightings of moose and even wolves. (Multitasker’s note: “Reconnect with nature”—another resolution—is now crossed off my list.)

But there’s such a thing as being too close to nature. I, for one, am glad to learn that the howling I’d heard when we arrived at the lodge comes from sled dogs—not wolves. Gunflint employs mushers who offer sled-dog rides for guests, so first thing the next morning we sign up for a jaunt.

At the noisy dog yard, my still-sleepy daughters watch in wide-eyed wonder while our musher straps eight yipping, yelping canines to a small sled. We’re zipped tightly (taking the concept of family togetherness literally, I figure) into warm blankets, and, cuddling close for courage, we ride up and down hills of sparkling snow and between tall pines.

When it’s over, my husband wipes snow off our three-year-old’s rosy cheeks. “She won’t forget that,” he says.

My oldest isn’t so easily impressed, so that evening after dinner I sign us up for a nighttime “wolf howl” walk. I point out the warning—no flashlights allowed—and she laughs nervously.

The sun is long down when my daughter and I bundle up in our warmest clothes and join the small group gathered near a snow bank. A mild-mannered naturalist named John leads us up a steep hill, away from the lodge lights and into the darkness. We stop at the top, look up at the bright stars, and at John’s signal begin howling like wolves. We get a response—not from wolves but from sled dogs, whose enthusiastic howls float across the valley. My daughter laughs. There’s enough moonlight for me to see the huge smile on her face.

“This is the best,” she says, giving my hand a squeeze. I couldn’t agree more.