Heavy clouds hang low over Lake Superior. Colour, form, even the horizon itself dissolves into infinite grey. The lake is immense – holding ten per cent of the world’s surface freshwater. The Ojibwe people, its original inhabitants, called it Gitchi-Gami – the Great Sea. It stretches 560 kilometres long and 260 wide.
A massive cargo ship slides by, bound for the Atlantic via a network of rivers and inland waterways. My own boat turns towards Duluth, home to the largest inland port in the world. Not bad for a city of under 90,000 souls – founded in the 17th century as a fur-trading post, and by the late 19th the fastest-growing city in the United States, fuelled by copper and iron mines.
The boat trip is delightfully American: a running commentary of the biggest, oldest, fastest, and highest. Some of the old industrial warehouses along the docks have been abandoned, too costly to tear down, now standing as a kind of open-air museum. The 1929 steel lift bridge remains its icon.
Duluth’s boom days have long passed, yet the city has reinvented itself. The old Fitger’s Brewhouse is now a lively microbrewery with taproom, restaurants, and shops. It tells both Duluth’s current story and that of its wild frontier past, when 18 saloons served the miners, trappers, and dreamers who poured into this northern outpost.
Duluth is also the birthplace of Robert Allen Zimmerman – better known as Bob Dylan. He lived here until he was six. Years later, he returned to see Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens perform at the Armory, a theatre still standing and now under careful restoration. Dylan’s relationship with his hometown was, at best, complicated. As he once sang:
‘Thought I’d shaken the wonder and the phantoms of my youth / Rainy days on the Great Lakes, walkin’ the hills of old Duluth…’
Leaving the city behind, I join the Old Highway 61 – the beginning of the North Shore Scenic Drive. Beyond the last traffic lights, the view opens up to endless water, still cloaked in grey.
The beauty of the road lies in its vastness, the constant presence of the lake, and the stops along the way – like Gooseberry Falls, one of dozens of waterfalls spilling into Lake Superior. Thanks to days of rain, the cascades thunder over the cliffs in white foam.
It’s hard to imagine now, gazing at this still, silvery expanse, how brutal it can get when the wind rises. Dozens of ships have gone down here. The story of the Western Reserve mirrors that of the Titanic: a state-of-the-art steamship from 1890, declared unsinkable – until a storm proved otherwise. Only one passenger survived.
Perched on a cliff above the waves, I spot the most photogenic of all lighthouses: Split Rock. I park near Pebble Beach and hike in, the trail weaving through forest and rock until the tower suddenly rises into view – proud, lonely, and perfectly positioned above the lake. Built in 1910, before any road existed, every brick and beam was hauled here by boat, a process that took weeks.
Life as a lighthouse keeper must have been tough. Isolated from the world, the three men stationed here took turns watching the light while their families visited only in summer. With no village nearby, they were painters, plumbers, cooks, electricians, carpenters – everything at once. I climb the narrow stairs to the top. The view stretches forever; the far shore is lost in mist.
Like its famous sibling Route 66, Highway 61 once connected the heart of America – only this one ran north to south, from the Canadian border to New Orleans. Built in 1926, it spanned more than 2,400 kilometres. Modern interstates have since taken over most of its function but stretches like the North Shore Scenic Drive remain – full of memory, music, and myth.
Palisade Head looms next, a 100-metre basalt cliff rising sheer above the water. Then comes the ghost town of Taconite Harbor – remnants of a once-thriving mining settlement now reduced to a few street outlines, a lone lamppost, and an abandoned basketball court.
I pass through places with names like Tofte, Lutsen, Solbakken, and Timberlund – echoes of the Scandinavian settlers who made this wild land home. It’s no coincidence: the landscape feels like an XL version of Sweden or Norway, with vast forests, granite cliffs, and a thousand inland lakes.
I pull into Grand Marais, whose name hints at its French roots. In the 18th century, voyageurs – French-Canadian fur traders – paddled their canoes along these same shores, linking the interior of North America to Montreal. Today, Grand Marais has reinvented itself as a creative outpost, full of studios, murals, and small-town charm.
The legendary tackle shop Beaver House is closed – the owner, fittingly, has gone fishing. At Joynes Ben Franklin, a wonderfully chaotic general store, you can buy almost anything: aftershave, frying pans, warm hats, puzzles, plasters, and coffee for the long, dark nights.
Grand Marais makes a perfect overnight base, with cosy restaurants like Angry Trout Café, Blue Water Café, and Voyageur Brewing Company. For something simple and superbly local, head to North Superior Fishery for fried fish, fish cakes, or a hearty sandwich – as fresh as it gets.
The final stretch of the road leads to Grand Portage National Monument, just before the Canadian border. Here, the story of the Ojibwe and the voyageurs comes alive. In the 17th and 18th centuries, the French-Canadian traders worked hand in hand with local tribes, navigating vast networks of lakes and rivers by canoe to exchange furs for goods.
Grand Portage was once home to the North West Company’s biggest trading post, reconstructed here from archaeological finds. From this very bay, furs travelled east to Montreal – and on to Europe – while guns, textiles, silver, and tools came back in return.
I wander through bark wigwams, log cabins, and the stockaded depot where the goods were stored. Inside the main hall, long tables are laid as they once were: Wedgwood china for the bosses, tin mugs for the interpreters – a hierarchy written in porcelain.
Standing at the jetty, I look out across Lake Superior. Soon I’ll drive the same route back to Duluth. Normally, I’m not a fan of retracing my steps, but this time I’m looking forward to it – to a coffee stop in Grand Marais, and later, a burger at Grandma’s Saloon & Grill in Duluth, the deep blare of a ship’s horn echoing across the harbour as ice cubes clink in a glass of Coca-Cola.
An iconic road that ranks among America’s most breathtaking routes. From the harbour city of Duluth to the wild Canadian border, Lake Superior shimmers at your side while forests, waterfalls, and lighthouses line the way. It’s the North at its most untamed — vast, beautiful, and endlessly free.
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