It was the kind of day where nothing escaped the wetness. A fine mist hung in the cold air and coated everything it contacted with tiny beads of moisture. Intermittently heavier rain fell, making it difficult to adjust the wiper blades to any consistent setting. The temperature at 48 degrees, had not budged in several hours.

It was late September in northern Minnesota, and a not so subtle reminder of the type of weather one should expect in another month. I hoped the fall would be more than a blip this year, not wanting the warmth of summer to fade too quickly. The drive up from the cities had been unremarkable, and I was looking forward to getting to Duluth and on up the north shore of Lake Superior before nightfall.

Duluth, on the most western, shore of the lake, is built on steep inclines rising from the shoreline. The approach from the south on Interstate 35 normally provides a panoramic view of the city with the majestic lake as a backdrop. But today, the mist and rain decreased visibility to a point where both the city and the world’s largest freshwater lake were virtually invisible.

There has always been something magical about Lake Superior for me, a magnetic pull, bringing me back to stand along its rugged shores. Ever since I was a small child, when I first witnessed its wild power and magnificence, the lake became a part of me. In my teenage years, its primitive beauty and unfathomed size helped put problems into perspective. It is a place where what you see is the same as what the Native Indians or earliest explorers saw hundreds of years ago.

Lake Superior carved out by Ice Age glaciers over 14,000 years ago, can be a hard and unforgiving environment. Too massive, primitive, and wild for man to tame. It is a lake that can charm you with placid waters, stunning beauty, and gentle breezes, and a lake that can hypnotize your senses when displaying its true power. Even on the calmest of days, I sensed its potential power and believed its containment was by choice.

Navigating through Duluth, I continued onto highway 61 and started up the shore. In my estimation, the drive from Duluth to the border of Canada is one of the most scenic drives in the country and one in which a person can get a feel for the immense size of Lake Superior.

My destination is a small cabin on the lakeside of 61 between Tofte and Lutzen. The cabin only sits back ten feet or so from the lakes rocky shoreline. The rock outcropping in front of the cabin drops  20 feet in varying levels like giant steps until meeting the surface of the water. Just to the right of the outcropping, a cove formed by thousands of years of pounding waves wore the rugged rock into smooth-sided cliffs that drop straight down into the water. There are huge boulders strewn across the bottom of the cove, and waves hitting the back wall, make a walloping noise amplified throughout the space.

I was nearing the completion of my book, and my writing coach suggested a retreat might help me push through to the finish line. A place unencumbered by the interruptions of daily life. I could not think of a better place to disconnect then on the North Shore. Here, time has a different meaning, and connected is about being observant of your surroundings.

The mist and intermittent rain had persisted on the drive up the shore, and I was disappointed in not being able to see the lake for most of the drive. It is a weird feeling traveling down a road knowing there is a body of water the size of Superior just below the highway, and you are unable to see it.

Arriving at the cabin just before nightfall, I unloaded my supplies and started a fire in the wood-burning stove. The owner had provided a pile of split birch wood, and before long, the stove’s soapstone panels removed the chill from the space. Ever so often I could hear the familiar wallop from the cove as a wave hit the cliff face, and was pushed back toward the lake. I was tired from the drive but had planned to spend some of the first evening writing. Going to all of the trouble of finding an out of the way place to write, creates anxiety to be productive when you get there.  

I had not been to the shore in a couple of years and had forgotten about the complete darkness of a north shore night. Light pollution in the cities was so prevalent I had forgotten there were still places where one could experience real darkness. The only benchmark I can compare it to is the inside of the cave I visited near the Mississippi river one night. When there is a complete absence of light, you cannot see anything, even if it is an inch from your face.

I had left my writing journal in the front seat of the car; I was in the habit of writing long-hand for the initial pass on new writing. The method allowed me to quell my internal editor and dump words and ideas quicky from my mind onto the page. I did not realize as I settled in, that outside, the mist and rain had lifted, replaced by clear skies. I opened the door to go out to my car and was instantly taken aback by the sight of the night sky and the millions of illuminated stars across the heavens.

Never in my life before or since have I witnessed a sky so brilliant, and with such depth and dimension as what I saw that night. Standing on the edge of Superior under such an extraordinary night sky, for one fleeting moment, I was allowed insight into the incomprehensible vastness and grandeur of the world in which we live.

It is always cooler on the water. I had heard that phrase a hundred times but still could not imagine putting on a sweater on a sticky Minnesota summer day. Now, as our small fishing boat skimmed the smooth surface of Detroit Lake, goosebumps raised on my arms from the chilled air hovering above the water. It was 1969, I was eleven years old, and sitting in the bow of a fishing boat. The small seat doubled as storage for the boat anchor and forced the occupant to face the rear. In rough water, the bow was prone to spray from waves as the boat bottom slapped down between swells. Today, I was thankful the water was calm.

My brother Mike, piloting the boat, had charge of the 5 ½ horsepower Evinrude motor. The motor running wide open could only achieve a speed of 10 to 12 mph, but on the water, it felt faster. I had twisted in my seat and watched our progress toward a distant shore. I could tell we were near the center of the lake because all the surrounding shoreline was the same distance from our boat. I was unsure of our destination but knew our mission when we arrived.

We were looking for a secluded area, one with shallow waters and heavily wooded shoreline. In these types of coves, the density of the trees only allowed you to see a few feet inland, and often, it felt like something or someone watched our boat as we prowled the shallow waters.

Ten minutes later, I heard the motor ease off as Mike scanned the shoreline. Swinging the boat to the left, he headed for an area where he had spotted fallen trees with their trunks partially submerged, extending into the water.

Leaning over the bow, I stared into the water, looking for the bottom. The motor now throttled back to a trolling speed, slowed our forward progress to a speed equivalent to a slow walk. The bottom suddenly appeared as a tangle of weeds, old leaves, tree limbs, and muck. Still 25 feet from the shore, I estimated our depth to be around three feet. The sunlight streaming through the water illuminated the bottom and provided a clear view for dozens of feet in all directions.

Sitting on one of the larger tree trunks all in a line were eight turtles of varying sizes, and were the reason for our boat being in the cove. There is a specific distance; a turtle will accept as an object approaches. When that line is crossed, it is like a signal is broadcast simultaneously, and each turtle dives into the water with the precision of a synchronized swimming team. In the clear shallow water, they can easily be seen scattering in every direction.

My job as a spotter was to guide the the boat in following one of the turtles while trying to avoid getting our motor entangled in any underwater obstacles. My brother Pete in the center of the boat held a large landing net, and his job was to scoop the turtle up if and when we could get close enough.

The hunt was an intricate dance of hand signals, turning, slowing down, speeding up, and reversing course as we tried to follow the turtle through the shallows. Most of the time, with its superior knowledge of the underwater habitat and hiding places, the turtle won the contest. Every so often, though, as we honed our skills, we were able to scoop one into our boat. The adventure was in the chase, and after landing one in the net, it was satisfying to return it to its habitat and watch it swim away. I imagine in short order it would find its way back to the tree trunk, climb back up and get into the single file line in which we had found it.  

There was something different about today, the air, colors, movement, everything was slightly off, like the present had slipped a fraction of a frame causing Joel to be out of sync with his world. He could feel a heaviness in his chest where he could find no relief. Was it anxiety, 48 hours without sleep, or a self-imposed deadline he had been dreading?

Sound and motion anywhere near him grated his nerves and enhanced the on-edge feeling. Joel had prided himself on being calm in all situations, and his jumpiness was unfamiliar territory, in fact, if he were truthful, his whole existence had been cast into unfamiliar territory. Gone were methodology and investigative techniques; replaced with haunting visions, fitful sleep and torment. A silent plea for help, somehow channeling through him.

Joel was afraid, not for the first time in his life, but never before at this level. He could feel himself slipping, like he was on an incline covered in ice, his footholds temporary, and each slip built momentum, moving him closer to an unknown abyss where forces beyond his  comprehension tested his sanity.

Rational thought and reasoning attempted to surface, only to be lost again in the swirl of chaos within his visions and dreams. He no longer knew if he was moving of his own accord or being pushed along by events from the past and his only choice was to claw at the hard slick surface to slow his decent or give in to the controlling forces and hope he would survive.

During the last six months of my life, I have learned one simple truth which has set me free as a writer. “Writers Write.” On the surface this may not seem like a profound statement but the power of those two words has completely changed my thought process and production as a writer.

For the previous three years I have had a story within me waiting to be told. Sometimes I would attempt to write it when I felt inspired or if a convenient block of time opened up with nothing to interrupt my creative process.

I became frustrated and puzzled as to how I was able to write articles, ad copy, press releases, storyboards and blogs for my job and complete them on time, but could only manage a few thousand words in three years for what I believed to be a great story.

I had always accomplished writing for work with timeframes and deadlines. I did not have the luxury of waiting for inspiration or a perfect writing environment. The writing demanded time and place and was not connected to variables out of my control.

Key Yessaad, real estate trainer, coach and friend was able to point out the obvious problem I could not see. He told me my story would never be written if I waited for the right time, place and inspiration to write it. “Writers Write,” means writers write when they have nothing to say, they write when not inspired, they write when they do not feel like writing and they write every day.

There is nothing magical or easy about applying the concept of “Writers Write.” I followed Key’s advice and began the process of writing daily but did not initially schedule the writing. After a few weeks I found not having a scheduled, protected time to write allowed life’s problems and obligations an opening to encroach and steal away time I had planned to use for writing.

Finding arbitrary times during the day had not worked, so I scheduled early morning as my time to write. I would wake up, sit down at my writing desk and try to put words to paper. There were many mornings where the blank page would stare back at me and my internal critic would tell me to go back to bed, you have nothing to say. I pushed through and established the habit with encouragement from Key who told me to trust in the process.

At the same time I applied scheduled writing, I also began to write longhand. I have an internal editor who is looking at each sentence to see if there is a better way to structure it. It was too easy for me to make changes on a computer and my editor’s obsession interrupted my flow. Key suggested I write longhand in an effort to quiet the editor. After a little practice words streamed from my pen and I was able to switch focus to just telling my story.

There have been other important tweaks to my process suggested by Key, such as not to write sequentially and to have good organizational systems in place to capture ideas when and where they occur.

Today, I have a comprehensive outline of my book, a rough draft with 9 out of 15 scenes completed and over 175 pages of hand-written text. My goal is to have a completed rough draft by mid-October and a completed book by early 2017.

Joel opened his eyes and noticed something different about his room, he was lying on his side facing the heavily curtained windows and could only make out their vague shapes as  dark shadows against the wall. He brought his left arm up close to his face and could just make out the faint green luminescence of the hands indicating it was 7:38 am; he was one of a dying breed who still wore a physical watch. He looked back in the direction of the windows and realized the light which should have been around the edges of the curtains, was missing today.

Joel swung his legs out from under the covers and over the side and used their downward momentum as leverage to sit-up. He remembered when he was younger, hearing old people talk endlessly about their aches and pains, now in his fifties he understood. The last year he had played softball, just before his 50th birthday, he would pull something in his leg or arm and would feel the pain for months afterwards.

Joel stared straight ahead for a few minutes, still seated on the edge of his bed, he could feel the air around his exposed ankles and feet was colder than normal and he had a dull ache behind his eyes, a sure sign the atmospheric pressure had changed.

What Joel did not know, was that a large Canadian air mass had moved rapidly through the northern and mid-sections of the state during the night, dropping the mercury by 10 degrees in its wake. The mean temperature outside his hotel now stood at a frigid 9 degrees Fahrenheit.

There had been something gnawing at Joel all week and he had been trying to ignore it. He had a feeling there was something significant about the 100 year anniversary of Mary’s disappearance which was nine days away. Logically, he knew it was an arbitrary date on the calendar, but was it? Was there some unwritten statute of limitations in the spiritual world that cut you off from learning the truth at the 100 year mark? Joel’s investigative techniques were methodical and he did not like the idea of fighting a deadline on-top of having razor thin evidence to go on.

Joel had a dull memory of having had the dream again, the pretty face floating within a world of white, but it was all jumbled and incoherent like dreams can be. He shook his head and said, “man you are letting this case get to you, just relax.” The self-talk was falling on deaf ears though, five minutes later in the shower his strategy for solving the case now involved working within the context of an eminent deadline.

Joel opened his eyes and the smooth ceiling which came into focus formed an appropriate transition from the swirling white of his recurring dream. He had to think for a few seconds about where he was while surfacing from the fog of sleep. The dream of the girl in the storm often proceeded waking up. It had been a brief encounter this time, with little detail surrounding the scene. Sometimes in his dreams, only her face was visible, floating within a sea of white. Other times he would see her whole form with the strange dark rounded shapes down low in the background. The one constant was the helplessness he felt when she disappears into the white-out. For Joel it feels like she has crossed a threshold where he is unable to reach her and there is no return.

Joel had been toying with the idea of having a sketch artist draw the scene from his description. He knew from experience that witnesses describing a scene in detail, often remembered things which were not readily apparent to them in an interview. Joel smiled at the thought of having the conversation with the artist. “Yes, I am having this recurring dream about a girl I believe disappeared 100 years ago in a snowstorm here in Detroit Lakes. I think she is trying to tell me something, can you help?

There was a police sketch artist in Minneapolis who Joel had worked with in the past, he figured once the artist finished giving him a hard time, he would eventually agree to help him. Joel hoped they would be able to use some type of Google collaboration tool to allow them to produce the sketch remotely. Not having to go back to the cities would save him valuable time.

The case was on Joel’s mind from the moment he woke up each morning until he collapsed into fitful sleep each night. It had a life of its own and he felt a deadline looming. The time constraint was not a tangible thing, it was a notion that circumstances and fate had conspired to place him here. The fact that the 100 year anniversary of her disappearance which was fast approaching was not lost on Joel and he believed there would be a small window of opportunity to learn the truth before her story was lost forever.

Timmy Williams was eight years old the night the snowstorm hit Detroit Minnesota in December of 1915. He lived in a small frame house on a quiet residential street several blocks up from the lake. Timmy did not really live in the house, he lived in one room of the house; his bedroom. For Timmy, his bedroom was his world, it was a place where his imagination could come to life, fueled by books about incredible adventures and magazine stories of American heroes.

Timmy’s mom had died when he was five and for the last three years the color and warmth had escaped from inside the home leaving only dim shades of grey and black in its place. His dad was either at work or at one of the Tavern’s in town and when he was home, it was as if his he had lost his ability to see Timmy. He was not a mean or violent man, he just did not have any life left in him.

Timmy had learned to take care of himself including getting up and making his way to school each day; he even made it on time most days. Peanut butter was a main stable of his diet and dressing and bathing was still a work in progress. He was currently struggling with his clothes, having out-grown everything except an old pair of Jeans and an oversized sweater that used to be his mothers.

Timmy felt it had been a fortunate coincidence when his teacher asked him to stay after class one day in the late fall. After the other kids had stampeded out of the classroom she pulled out a large bag from under her desk and handed it to Timmy. Inside Timmy found a new pair of boots and a winter jacket. He had no idea at the time that other adults worried about his welfare.

Timmy did not normally talk to anyone and did not have friends in school. He did have a rich fantasy life though and could slip into it whenever he felt uncomfortable with the real world around him. Tonight as he stood at his bedroom window watching the snow fall and the outside world being transformed, he knew there was an adventure waiting for him and his imagination was already conjuring up scenarios in which he would invariably be the hero who would save the town from certain disaster.

People began arriving at the Hotel Minnesota around 5:30 pm on the mid December night in 1914. The hotel sponsored holiday party was planned as a celebration for both guests and town’s people and Washington Street, in front of the hotel was bustling with horse and buggy vying for space near the front entrance. Other party goers arrived on foot from the direction of the business district as well as along the lakefront.

It was a perfect winter’s night; clear skies, invigorating cold air and calm winds. Some of the carriage operators had strapped bells to their horse’s harnesses and the jingling filled the night air with sounds of the season. By 6:00 pm 30 or more people had gathered inside the lobby and were sipping hot cider or something stronger ordered from the bar.

The hotel, with its electric lights ablaze, looked like a jewel poised on the edge of the frozen lake and could be seen for miles across the ice. The outside of the hotel was trimmed with pine garland intertwined with red ribbon and wrapped around the framework of the entrance along with the railings and steps of the expansive front porch.

The town’s people mingled with hotel guests and talked and laughed with a heightened sense of holiday spirit.

Mary had come down from her room and entered the lobby earlier, before the first guests had arrived. She was seated near the fireplace where  birch logs burned brightly casting reflections against the hardwood floor in front of the hearth. The crackling sound of the burning wood and warmth produced made a cozy setting for this winter’s night.

The people around Mary stood in groups and chatted about all manner of subjects. She could hear their optimism about the approaching New Year and silently wished she could share in their enthusiasm. Mary had wanted desperately to fit in here, and had hoped and prayed she could make it her home. But she did not fit in here, she had no family, no friends and could not even claim to be from anywhere. She was a stranger, and that fact was too large an obstacle in such a close knit community.

The pace of the festivities built as more guests arrived and the celebration swirled around her. Mary felt like an island in the midst of the celebration.

John David, watched Mary from the fringe of the gathering. He had spotted her the minute he arrived earlier with his wife. Her beautiful youthful face lit up when she smiled at a person who would greet her, but when the person walked away, her expression changed to sadness, and her eyes took on a faraway look which betrayed her vulnerability.

John felt a strong urge to walk across the room, take her hand and tell her things would be OK, but he did not know her, in fact he had never seen her before. To John, there was something about her sadness in the midst of the festive occasion which he found both interesting and attractive. He was unable to take his eyes off of her for fear she would disappear into the night.

My dad had a goal to be on the lake fishing by 5:00 am each morning of summer vacation. I do not remember ever getting started that early but several mornings it was still dark as we backed our small boat away from the dock. The smell of gasoline mixed with oil suspended in the still air and the muffled sound of our five and ½ Horse Power Evinrude motor along with the propeller churning just below the glass surface of the lake are memories I can recall with vivid clarity.

The lake would often have a mist rising from the surface during the early dawn and a boat leaving the shore would disappear into the mist within minutes. The only indication the boat ever existed came from the low throaty sound of the small motor or the shifting of tackle and feet on the aluminum bottom of the boat. The sound waves would travel unobstructed across the surface of the water confusing anybody along the shore as to where the sound was emanating from.

I never knew as a child what the formula might have been for picking just the right place to start fishing, but I am sure in my dad’s mind there was some logic or a gut feeling which would lead him to just the right spot. I remember the motor being throttled down in increments until we were barely idling when we were close to our stopping point. The last maneuver before shutting the motor off was turning the boat in the proper direction for drifting if we were fishing for walleye, and we usually were.

There was a sense of freedom in this style of fishing to me, just being adrift and letting the lake dictate your speed and direction. The scenery would change minute by minute and the distant shoreline would move in relation to our boats orientation, while mist and clouds changed the tone and color of the water and sky.

It was perfectly quiet on the water with our motor shut-off, except for the rhythmic lap of waves against the side of the boat. Watching the Minnesota sunrise from the middle of a lake is a spectacular site. I would scan the horizon looking for every subtle change in brightness and color as dawn unfolded in front of me. The extra warmth was welcome when the sun’s rays finally broke through the cold veil of the pre-dawn.

Joel walked along a residential sidewalk one block up from the lake. It was a pleasant middle class Detroit Lakes neighborhood where the homes were well maintained and the shady lots neatly groomed.

A small cottage up ahead with an open front porch flew an American flag from a support column near its front entry. The flag was back-lit in the morning sun and the white and red stripes looked electrified in their brilliance. The light breeze pushing the flag horizontal, flapped its edges momentarily before allowing it to fall gently back to its original position. The scene to Joel was reminiscent of a Norman Rockwell painting depicting small town America.

Joel had discovered earlier in his career that he did his best thinking while walking. There had been times when he would cover distances of several miles and not have any recollection of the surroundings in which he had passed. His concentration was such that the solution to a problem produced its own internal movie which  played in his head while the reality around him faded from view.

Walking did not normally produce direct breakthrough’s, it was more about clarity of vision, which helped Joel develop logical approaches to problems within a case.

Today, he mulled over possible sources of information about the missing girl. He knew when she disappeared all those years ago she had left an impression, however small. There was no such thing as a person existing and leaving nothing behind in which to connect their life. Because she had been a stranger in this town when she vanished it presented challenges, but Joel knew clues existed somewhere.

It was important for him to be able to establish her identity, her background and how she happened to end up in Detroit Lakes. Each bit and fragment about her life would give Joel a direction in which to pursue his investigation.

Joel knew he was becoming obsessed with the case, he could feel an injustice had taken place which had probably cost Mary her life. He also knew there was an inherent responsibility involved with the task of uncovering the truth and prayed he would be up to the task.