In the spring of 2022, I ticked an item off my bucket list: taking a circle tour around Lake Superior—the wildest, most remote of the Great Lakes. I started my trip in Houghton, Michigan, and drove westward in a clockwise circle.

I know that Minnesota is the Land of 10,000 Lakes, but Minnesotans will have to forgive me. If I were to close my eyes and picture the state, I would describe a flat, open land—where the Great Plains start their westward march.

Or at least, that’s what I pictured until I visited Minnesota’s North Shore.

While planning my trip, I tried to space out “roughing it” with some urban accommodation that would allow wifi, a shower, laundry facilities, and easy access to a hot meal. After a rainy stay (besides that first, glorious night) in Bayfield, Wisconsin, I was ready to get a hot shower and sleep in a bed. But I had one more night off-grid in Hovland, near the Canadian border.

I made a few brief stops along the way: first, coffee at 190 Coffee and Tea in Duluth, then a pint at Castle Danger Brewery on the North Shore, and finally a quick detour at Split Rock Lighthouse. The lighthouse experience itself was brief and underwhelming, but it’s worth a stop to admire the rugged landscape.

At 47°N, the late spring days are long. But as is wont for me, I found myself racing against the sunset. I prefer to arrive in daylight if I can—especially somewhere remote where Google Maps may not be reliable or cell phone service available. I hurried through Grand Marais, the last real town before the border, and drove the extra 25 minutes to my Airbnb.

Turning off the main road, I drove down a small, unpaved drive with a few hard-to-discern homes tucked back in the woods. Then the road ended. This, friends, is precisely why you arrive before dark.

A two-track drive swung left, away from the final residence belonging to my hosts, and I drove through the edge of their yard, beginning a steady climb up a wooded hill that kept me guessing how high it would climb. At the top, I parked the car and walked up the short path to my cabin. I’m not even sure “cabin” is really the right word. To put it more accurately, it was a sort of shed with windows on each side and a futon and table inside.

But clearly, the cabin wasn’t the main attraction. It was the view. A view that defies just photographic or written representation. Emerging from the woods, the hill had a rocky bald spot in its otherwise thick forest cover that let you see for miles in a 180-degree radius, Lake Superior hundreds of feet below. I had planned to find my way back to Grand Marais for dinner, but the thought occurred to me to skip dinner and just bask in the day’s last light.

Reluctantly, I headed back to Grand Marais for dinner at the Voyageur Brewing Company (a highly satisfying decision in the end), only returning well after dark. I readied myself for bed by lantern while listening to Fathom, a terrifically tense podcast that will keep your headphones glued to your ears.

My phone battery is quite poor, so between podcasts and Google Maps, I found myself without a working phone. But surrounded by windows and not a curtain in sight, I hardly needed an alarm.

The morning was glorious in every possible sense. I flipped through the guestbook while I waited for my fire to gain enough strength to heat water for coffee. For me, guestbooks are only of a passing interest. I flip through to take a look at the hometowns and maybe find a funny anecdote. But the worn leather book with a Maya Angelou quote on the cover captivated my attention just as much as the view over Lake Superior.

The stories were moving, and I felt what I can only describe as a sense of kinship. Certainly, this affinity wasn’t only a credit to the stories, but also to my state of mind and spirit. Coming out on the other end of a terrible but transformative year, I craved the solidarity of like souls craving wholeness and peace.

One was particularly striking to me: “We are a gay Latino man and a gay white transgender man on the most epic love journey. What a glorious spot to be after quite a bumpy road. So much gratitude for this place’s reminders that there is immense joy to still be had.”

It filled me with delight and wonder. FIrst delight. In such a remote place, you don’t expect to encounter other queer people. Second wonder, because as much as the story tells me, it leaves me wanting to know more about this epic love journey and how it led two absolute strangers to this same place where I found myself waiting for my water to boil for coffee on a sunny morning in May.

There is immense joy to still be had.