OK, I'm back but I don't know for how long.

Central Minnesota is pretty flat. At one time it was probably covered with trees and here and there the farmers have left large groves of them, tall, tightly-packed, sometimes acting as natural snow fences around isolated farmhouses. There are rolling hills here, part of the prairie landscape, but they'd scarcely make a blip on an altimeter.

But as you approach Duluth, you begin to notice that the cruise control has gotten thirstier, is fairly consistently demanding more gasoline. And it seems your head has swung up slightly to see the horizon. By the time you reach the bluff overlooking Duluth, you know you've been going uphill for a least 15 miles. Then, finally, you reach that point, that spot where the vista of the steep, winding road down opens before you.

If you're in my car, at that moment, you hear the famous four words. Issuing from my wife's lips, as sure as Old Faithful's eruption they come, followed immediately by four more, even more famous - "I love the lake." These last are softly spoken, slightly drawn out, said with feeling that is only approached when she's talking about me instead of a flat piece of water.

The bluff continues around the city to the west, creating a natural amphitheater. Built into the side of this bluff, Duluth's east-west streets put San Francisco' s to shame. Each street north-south is a small plateau moving the traffic along that has either fought its way up the hill or dropped recklessly down it.

The way through town used to be just that - right through town, though the traffic lights and main city traffic. In the last few years, they've opened up a freeway running right along the waterfront, one of the nicest stretch of freeway I've seen anywhere, complete with several tunnels when there just was not enough room for 4 lanes.

But the freeway only runs to just past the main business districts. It stops when it comes to the big, mansion-like houses along the lake to the north of town. I really don't think there'll ever be a freeway cutting a swathe through that neighborhood. Nope, the Glensheen mansion is safe. If ever they continue the freeway to connect to the one on the far side of town, it'll cut up the hill about six blocks before continuing north.

All this time, my wife's face has been pressed up against the car window, with small sighs of "I love the lake" escaping occasionally as it becomes visible. Then the freeway pulls away from the lake (we don't take the "scenic" old road, too many souvenir shops along there) and after a little while we pull into Two Harbors.

Two Harbors offers us a chance for our second rest stop of the trip. We always stop at one particular service station there where they don't mind tourists stopping in to use the rest rooms. This is the official start of vacation. It is here that we both look for something to "snack" on as we continue. My wife may choose a number of things, but I always get a big bag of beef jerky, the only time in the year I have it.

It's also here that the freeway ends. From here on, with the exception of a few spots of truck lanes, scenic attraction turn-offs, and newly constructed tunnels, the road is two-lane. North of here, too, the land become more "mountainous." I put that in quotes because, coming from the southwest as I do, it is obvious that these "mountains" are no Rockies, but they do provide a good backdrop as one looks inward from the lake.

Finally we reach Silver Bay. But before we continue from here, let's drop back about 10 years. It was about then that we had to change our traditions some. Before that time we didn't stop at Silver Bay, hopefully not even having to slow down for the single traffic light at the edge of town. Here's what would have happened at this point if we were in those past days.

We continued on, passing through small towns, most of them too small for you to realize that you had passed through a populated area without the warning of the city limits sign and the decrease in speed limit for about half a mile. And eventually we reached the hub of the North Shore, Grand Marais. Think of a town of about ten thousand and you've got a pretty good image.

By the way, it's "KC and the Sunshine Band" today, currently "Play That Funky Music, White Boy." Well, we loaded up with groceries here and continued on, for another SEVENTEEN miles. That's emphasized because by the time you go 17 miles past Grand Marais, you can almost hear the "eh?"'s drifting through the trees from Canada.

Almost pass the turn down the hill toward the lake into the Northwind Cabins because it is such a small dirt path, poorly marked. Every time, even though you know by now exactly what your trip odometer should read when the turn looms up suddenly. Down the steep path through the trees and finally there's a small assortment of about 6 cabins buried there by the lake. Everybody together now, "I love the lake."

We liked to reserve the Honeymoon cabin if we could. It was the smallest one, just big enough for two people who didn't mind having someone else in their way all the time. It was also down the hill a ways from the other cabins, close enough to the water so that if you took a step in the wrong direction from the door you'd be wading.

Funny thing, though, since it was right on the water, there was a worn (well, almost worn) path along the side of the cabin where those occupying the less than optimum cabins would take their romantic walks along the lake. Which meant that for true privacy you had to keep your curtains closed, and that, I suppose, is a perfectly logical condition for them in the "Honeymoon" cabin.

Most of the cabins here were built in the 30's or 40's and the Honeymoon cabin, I believe, was the oldest. It certainly seemed to be, with most of the furnishing from that same era. Ever used a toaster from the 30's, a lamp from the 40's. The place was almost a museum, what we'd have called a "groove" in the 60's.

The Northwinds are no more. Because they were as old as they were, their rates were some of the lowest on the North Shore. Then the government set their sights on them. One year they had to redo their septic system (too close to the lake), the next it was handicap access to the cabins, then fire codes. They just couldn't keep up with the imposed costs, so they gave up.

They stayed open, although I don't know how long, but only by stopping serving the public. They offered their cabins to selected clientele (friends, family, those who had been coming there for 30 or 40 years) for free. Unfortunately, we fit none of these categories.

So came the hard job of finding another place to plant ourselves beside the lake for one week a year. You see, such locations are in abundance on the North Shore but there is also an abundance of people seeking them, and we have very particular demands. No condominium among a hundred others for us, nothing up the hill from the lake, don't want a hotel room in town. If it's not within a few feet of the lake it's useless. No "I love the lake"'s can be spoken if it's not within a short eyefall.

In order to get one of these cabins you have to make a reservation for the following year while you're there. That's how loyal those are who manage to get into these places. We were lucky to work our way into a place because someone decided to wait until the end of their visit to renew their reservation. You can't do that and be assured of anything, you've got to do it right when you check in.

Death or leaving the state. That's about the only reasons why cabin rental openings come about. For the truly loyal, of course, even one of these two conditions may not be enough. These reservations frequently pass down through the generations, just like the ownership of the resorts do. And there's an airstrip in Grand Marais and Twin Harbor, so moving out of state is really not a good excuse.

We found a place near Little Marais, about 70 miles south of the Northwinds. Not as prime, 45 miles from Grand Marais, which means we don't go into town as often, can't even catch a wiff of Canadian air, but it's an hour less driving to get there and the cabins, although mostly old, are more modern and have been kept up-to-date. The place's called Fensted's and they're working on about the third generation of family running the place.

Tomorrow we'll get back to Silver Bay and Zup's market, the Dairy Queen, and finally, our favorite cabin. "I love the lake."