Duluth, Minnesota was my chosen home and base of operations. This south-west Lake Superior city is said to have the third busiest port in the United States. Great steel cargo ships from across the planet enter, depart and shift around the harbor. Some arrive bearing oil sands refinery machinery, destined for the heart of Alberta, Canada. Some raise anchor with iron ore, destined to become new cars in Detroit, Michigan. The cold-water port sees small tour boats and massive commercial vessels day in and day out.
 
I had been there enough times to call myself a part-time native. Tourist spots no longer interested me and I began to spend my time at local hangouts. I also came to know the area intimately. During one of my numerous visits I decided to explore a new piece of geography. As I was adjacent to Wisconsin, I wanted to follow the northern-most highway across the top of the state. It ran along the Lake’s pristine shoreline. The plan was to land in the old fishing town of Bayfield for the afternoon. I’d then cut back westward through an immense, virgin forest to Duluth. It looked like a nice daytrip and, hopefully, a bit of adventure.
 
Driving conditions were fantastic with a glorious sun, quiet road and brilliant landscape. I was feeling great. The highway curved northward along the coast. It was tightly lined with thick stands of pines. At one point a gap broke in the trees and I saw just how close I was to Superior. It was suddenly next to me! I yelled in pretend shock and laughed. The Lake had jumped out from behind the trees and scared me. The ridiculousness made me laugh harder.
 
As I followed the isolated road it dropped to the south, heading in the direction of Bayfield. A small dirt road merged with my highway and at the fork, large sign announced, “Welcome to Red Cliff” with an arrow pointing up the road. In a flash my laughter evaporated and my jovial mood fell dark and heavy. Almost immediately I was terrified and consumed by an overwhelming sense of dread. I remained in such a state for the rest of the day. Neither Bayfield’s maritime beauty nor the ride back through the gigantic forest recovered me.
A shadow clung to the rest of the weekend in Duluth. It was an aftershock of the terror. Even returning to my life back in Iowa wasn’t enough to push it out of me. It was all horribly perplexing. I’d never heard of Red Cliff before, but there was something in the name that clearly sparked intense negative emotions. On the surface the sign appeared to have been the culprit, but that’s silly. It’s just wood with words painted on it. That fork in the road almost felt as if I crossed the border into a world of deep pain and confusion.