Long, thick icicles stuck like barnacles to the sides of formidable rocks. Fresh, fluffy snow squeaked underfoot. A radiant, full moon beamed over the towering pines like a flashlight.

The North Shore in December was a sight to behold. Justin and I recently traveled with our dogs, Finn and Maeve, to a cabin on Caribou Lake just outside Lutsen, Minnesota. I’ve visited the region at various times of the year but never before during the coldest and darkest of seasons.

It was majestic. We were there for three days; one was gray and snowy and two were sunny and bright.

Each morning, afternoon and evening, we wandered around the property with the pups. They generally relish any opportunity to discover animal tracks and scat, and there were plenty of both to be found around the cabin.

Darkness fell early each evening, and the silence of the nighttime walks, under a sky full of stars, was astonishing. I don’t remember the last time I encountered that level of quiet. We’d walk to the end of the lane and then pause looking in all directions. The absence of external noise seemed to inspire a grounding, inner quietude in the pups and in us, too.

We drove into Grand Marais the first day and stopped at a few spots including Artist’s Point. The gray, basalt rocks of the point are, for me, one of our planet’s “thin places.” Writer Eric Weiner describes such spots, saying, “They are locales where the distance between heaven and earth collapses and we’re able to catch glimpses of the divine, or the transcendent or, as I like to think of it, the Infinite Whatever.”

Visiting this sacred location in December, as snow was actively falling from the sky, revealed details I hadn’t experienced before. The rocks were extremely slippery with frozen pools of water between the stones being hidden by inches of snow. The wind was sharp and brisk. Icicles were attached to giant, craggy rocks in mesmerizing formations.

Every time I travel north and sit in proximity to Lake Superior, I feel born anew. Nearness to that body of water is mystical. It’s there I am reminded of my place in the order of things, interconnected — alive — small.

The lake, without any formal instruction, teaches me how to breathe. The waves come close and then pull away. Back and forth, forever. The eternal dance of the waves is ours, too — inhaling and exhaling, again and again.

With snow pants on and a new pair of Stormy Kromer mittens from the local Benjamin Franklin, I sat beside the lake on two occasions during our visit. Both times, I felt awe and bliss. “Ten out of 10,” I said to Justin, as I do whenever I’m experiencing a perfect moment. "This is absolutely a 10 out of 10.”

The sun was bright on Thursday morning as we packed up the van to head home. I took the pups for one last stroll through the quiet woods as Justin loaded up the kennel and enough bags that you’d think we’d been gone for a month. We took a few last photos and then piled in.

As we turned right onto U.S. Highway 61 in Lutsen, I said goodbye to Lake Superior. “Until next time,” I whispered, full of all-surpassing gratitude for a few days of northwoods wonder.

“I’ll be here,” the lake whispered back.