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In Tribute to Shawn: Part 3
Eternal Echoes
Sensing Shawn’s Guiding Presence
By Eric Chandler
After Shawn’s surgery, my wife Shelley made him some food. We brought it to his mom’s house in Duluth where he was staying. We talked in the kitchen and I stole glances at the scar on the side of his head. He said the doctors were optimistic. When I think of that moment, I realize I only saw Shawn in person a handful of times over the 17 years I knew him.
When you’re near the ocean (or in our case, Lake Superior) you might not be able to see it, but you can sense where it is. I always knew Shawn was up there in the Arrowhead, just like you know the big lake is there through the trees, even when it’s out of sight.
Northern Wilds had a 10th anniversary celebration in Grand Marais in 2014. I had already been writing for them for seven years and it was the first time I met him. I stopped by the Northern Wilds office a few times on my way to some outdoor activity and saw him. He convinced me to join the Outdoor Writers Association of America. I hung around with him for a few days at the OWAA annual conference that was in Duluth in 2017. I went to a couple editorial calendar planning meetings where his team treated me like a family member, even as a freelancer. Those were all the times I looked him in the eye. The rest of the time, he was like a voice in my head emanating from somewhere in the woods.
Shawn and Amber got ahold of me when I only had a dozen articles to my name. Since 2007, they’ve published around 100 of my pieces in Northern Wilds. They gave me room to grow and become a better writer. Shawn challenged me to learn new things, like how to write journalistic pieces in the third person, where the story was more important than my presence in it. He let me write a beer review column for a year. (I wrote off beer on my taxes. Ha!) I learned how to interview people by talking to the brewers. He asked me to write a column for Veterans Day, which was a little out of the box for his publication. They let me write a piece that teased the reader for being an “industrial tourist” in a magazine designed to be read by tourists. I once read that writing can’t be taught, but it can be learned. Shawn and everybody at Northern Wilds let me learn for almost two decades.
By some miracle, three years ago, I was wise enough to thank Shawn directly for everything he’s done for me. It was via email, so yet another time where I didn’t see him in person. But now, as before, he will be a presence like Lake Superior out of view past the trees. I can’t see him, but I can sense he’s there.
Minnesota Dreams:
A Journey Inspired by Shawn Perich’s Words
By Chris Pascone
I first got my hands on Shawn Perich’s books through interlibrary loan. I was 13, maybe 14 years old. Minnesota was a long way away from my tiny western Massachusetts town, and I was going through a wicked phase of fantasizing about cold-water lakes, snow-covered backcountry ski routes, and sublime North Shore brook trout that could be found precisely in Shawn Perich’s world. I had Minnesota Fever, and Shawn was to blame.
Shawn’s books kindled my deep interest in all-things Minnesota when worn-out New England just wasn’t cutting it for me. His writing brought me to a place where wilderness was real, where fish and game were a part of daily living, and a person could thrive in tune with wild nature.
First it was his The North Shore: A Four-Season Guide to Minnesota’s Favorite Destination, published in 1992. I was determined to learn more about this idyllic midwestern place, and Shawn’s writing beckoned me with his realistic descriptions of gigantic Lake Superior, its oversized fish, and the adjacent wilderness. I was longing for a place where life could unfold in wild places, and Shawn had my number. He made good outdoor living so real, so tangible, so worthwhile. Shawn’s writing, along with the Piragis mail-order catalog, and the Twins’ two World Series victories, got me through some tough teenage years. There was something different out there in Minnesota that I could hope for, strive for, and dream about.
As the years went by, Shawn kept writing more books that transported me to these better, wilder places. His Fishing Lake Superior: A complete guide to stream, shoreline, and open-water angling had me drooling on every page. Coho salmon? Steelhead trout? Shawn knew all about how to catch them, and I was a wannabe. His vivid descriptions made catching these rare fish seem downright likely. I was hooked.
Then came his seminal Backroads of Minnesota, with stunning photography by Gary Alan Nelson. The book literally made the entire state seem like an endless adventure waiting to happen, a land of milk and honey where getting lost in the middle of nowhere was a worthy goal.
Then the poor Minnesota librarians shipped a copy of Shawn’s Wild Minnesota to my hometown library. It was another Perich bullseye fired at my East Coast disillusionment.
The interlibrary loan folks were racking up the miles on these cross-country book deliveries. Finally, I released them from their misery and moved my whole family to Duluth in 2014. We hit an incredible jackpot here—it was just the way Perich wrote it up. I’m proud to say I eventually got to meet my literary hero in person, and even got the pleasure of visiting him at his home in Hovland.
Shawn showed me his canoe that day, and discussed with me the rowing mechanism he had installed to make it easier for him to handle the canoe solo while fishing. I couldn’t believe I was standing there in his driveway, talking canoeing with the man himself, observing the very writer who had done so much to give me a dream to follow in life.
Thank you, Shawn.
A Principal of Journalistic Principle
By Staci Drouillard
Shawn Perich and I were on opposite “sides” of the debate about copper nickel mining in the Lake Superior watershed— at least that’s what I suspected. And when that argument was fresh and emotions were raw, it seemed that everyone was taking sides. But Shawn never used his Northern Wilds forum to influence public opinion on that issue. If he had, we might never have become friends, and I might never have met with him in his office to discuss the precarious nature of writing local history and the complex nature of tribal sovereignty—a topic that he knew a lot about.
We talked for two hours that day, and afterwards, he wrote some of the earliest analysis of Walking the Old Road. He also broke the story when a portion of Chippewa City beachfront was returned to the Grand Portage Band.
Shawn knew that great journalists don’t ever place themselves inside a story, regardless of the topic or degree of contentiousness. And yet, he was completely generous with his personal insights, observations, and sharing of outdoor adventures set in our beloved Northwoods. Our community is stronger and more cohesive today, because Shawn always knew how to keep himself out of the story.
Reflections on Shawn Perich
By Joe Friedrichs
Shawn Perich thought I was a bit of a prick. It was part of our professional relationship, you might say.
I would brag about all the big fish I’d been catching, or how I scooped Minnesota Public Radio or the Duluth News Tribune on an important story “once again,” and Shawn would typically respond with either a blank stare or a causal shrug of his shoulders. “Okay,” he would nonchalantly say.
Perich and I didn’t always see eye to eye on a variety of issues, but I wouldn’t be fishing across the Northern Wilds, or a journalist and writer making a living here, without his help. He gave me an opportunity when I had little credibility to lean on in this region, at least in terms of knowledge of the area. In 2013, I showed up on the Gunflint Trail with few connections. I knew how to fish and I’d published some newspaper articles in Montana and Oregon. That was it. That’s what I arrived with.
During the winter of 2014-15, Perich asked me to write an article about the dwindling moose population in Minnesota. It was to be a cover story of sorts, a 2,000-word news feature that took time to research and put together. “This won’t be easy,” Perich told me.
He gave me a chance on a big story and I delivered the goods. About a month later, a woman named Deb Benedict sent me an email. She was the station manager at WTIP at the time and was looking for a news reporter to join the station. It was the article about moose that Perich assigned me that put me on WTIP’s radar. I was hired at WTIP a couple months later. I’ve been making a living as a journalist here ever since. It all ties together.
I only went fishing with Perich a few times over the years. Fishing alone is something we both found rewarding. The act of going fishing—loading up the gear, driving to the spot, walking in, listening, casting, hoping—is more important than catching fish most of the time. It is for us, anyway. You don’t need others around, rambling on. And you don’t always have to bring home fish. Perich understood this.
When it came to his writing and reporting, I appreciated Perich’s use of the short quote. He knew how to keep things sharp on the page. Narrate, report, explain, drop a short quote. He was brilliant with this technique.
About two years before he passed away, Perich walked over from the Northern Wilds building to the community garden at WTIP. That afternoon, I was tending to (stealing) some tomatoes from a friend’s plot in the garden. Shawn and I talked some local politics, and then the conversation changed to fishing.
“I’ve been nailing them at this lake,” I told him, naming the body of water.
“You talk too much, Joe,” he said. And then he walked away.
Lessons from the Land
A Tribute to Shawn Perich
By Julia Prinselaar
I caught my first brook trout with Shawn at the granite-slabbed mouth of the Mackenzie River. I’ll never forget that day, but I wouldn’t call myself a natural angler.
After a half hour of practice casting on the beach, Shawn deemed me “ready” to try fly fishing farther upstream. No later than my second cast did I get a bite.
“Fish on!” I exclaimed, struck with that instant rush of adrenaline that all anglers know and love. By then I was so focussed that everything beyond my immediate surroundings had completely dissolved. Shawn was somewhere in the background watching, observing.
Removed from its habitat, the brookie’s pink, orange and blue halos of skin caught flickers of sunshine as it danced above the water. Being so green I hadn’t rehearsed how to land this lively creature, so I simply started reaching for the end of the line to get after this fish. But this fly rod—it was so long, so delicate and flimsy that I was nowhere near the trout—it felt miles away. In desperation I began moving my arms along the length of the rod, going hand over hand until I finally reached my catch.
As it dangled from my line, I proudly turned toward Shawn, searching his face for a reaction. He was bright-eyed and smiling, and so I smiled back. Then both of us turned to the rest of the rod and reel which lay completely abandoned in an eddy, bumping between some rocks and swirling toward the rapids. My excitement switched to surprise and then sheer dismay as both of us tried to salvage his precious, eye-wateringly expensive gear. While I babysat my catch and fiddled with pliers to remove the hook, Shawn calmly waded into the water and retrieved his rod. He never did tell me what the damage was. And he didn’t scold me for my unwitting behaviour, either. Instead, he chuckled in a way that reassured me I hadn’t done anything wrong. In his mind perhaps I had done everything right.
Shawn probably enjoyed that day as much as I did. Not because he caught any fish, but because of the way I lit up with unbridled delight when I landed and later released that trout.
That is the way of mentors. They speak through their actions to the greater purpose of humanity’s existence, as people within place. When I ask myself, what is the older generation’s role for younger people? How must they carry the weight of their experience? It’s a complicated question considering the current state of our planet, but the answer can be simpler than we think.
Mentors like Shawn show us how to live with the land in a good and meaningful way. They pass down their skills and observations to those who come after them, in the hopes that we watch and listen and learn. They facilitate rites of passage that have become somewhat muddled and even forgotten in the context of our modern world, but are no less valuable than they’ve ever been. Together, we’ve inherited a duty to uphold the greatest law in nature: to live in reciprocity. For all that we take, we must give back.
As a devoted conservationist and advocate for public lands, Shawn understood the importance of being a set of eyes, ears, and a voice for the Northern Wilds. For its sake and for ours.
As David Suzuki puts it, “Without a sense of wonder, we don’t have that sense of obligation or responsibility” for the natural world. In turn, our species is culturally and spiritually richer for it. We have people like Shawn to thank for that.
A Story in Wood
By SAM ZIMMERMAN
Shawn and I first met sitting outside of Northern Wilds office with Amber and Breana, after my completion of a public art project for downtown Grand Marais. Our conversation that day was about art, authors, nature conservation, Indigenous representation, and the beauty of the North Shore. I shared my own experiences and what had brought me back to Minnesota after so much time away. What began as a conversation on a beautiful day led me to accept the invitation to contribute a monthly column, Following the Ancestor’s Steps, where I would share my paintings and the story alongside in English and Ojibwemowin.
I had only been home for about a year and a half when I decided to purchase a home and build a studio in Duluth. During the Covid pandemic, many people were doing home projects, leading lumber prices to soar. I posted on Facebook that I was looking to salvage wood from the North Shore that I could use to build my library and shelves in my home office. Not even an hour had passed before I got a call from Shawn, asking me if I would be interested in coming to his home to help him remove old shelving. He said that I was welcome to any wood that I wanted for my own renovation projects. I was grateful and appreciative of the offer.
A few weeks went by and I was finally able to assist him. As we worked side by side, we swapped stories and jokes. I shared what fish or animals I was currently painting, and we talked about the quality of craftsmanship that we were now dismantling. After several hours of work, we had the shelves down and disassembled, only to realize that the pieces were too long for my own vehicle. Shawn offered to bring them down the following week, as he was visiting his mother in Duluth.
Shawn was one of the first visitors to my new home. After we unloaded the wood, we toured the studio construction in progress and he offered me tips and recommendations as a new homeowner. He was generous with his time, stories, and friendship. After he left that day, I would keep him updated on the studio construction. When the bookshelves and cabinets were finally completed, I sent him pictures of the gifted wood, which had housed his own books and now housed my father’s books that I was gifted. Of course, he knew right away that I did not build them, but hired a master woodworker to get them just right.
In such a brief time—a matter of a year or so—Shawn shared so much without hesitation. His absence from the North Shore communities will be felt by so many who, I am sure, also enjoyed the gift of Shawn’s teachings.
Minawaa gigawaabmin Niiji.
