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A Weekend in the Northwoods: Winter, Boulder Junction, the Birkie, and an Elk

Two couples. A cabin in Winter, Wisconsin. Boulder Junction. The Birkie. And an elk that changed the whole weekend.

Words by Jake ZukeMarch 20267 min read

We were about 20 minutes outside of Hayward, driving back to the cabin after the Birkie, when I said it. "Alright this is our last chance, keep your eyes open."

We'd been half-watching the tree line all weekend. 'Elk crossing area' signs are everywhere up here — on 77, on 70, on GG, along basically every stretch of two-lane road between our Airbnb in Winter and anywhere else we were trying to go. We'd done some reading. Turns out Wisconsin reintroduced elk to the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest back in 1995. Started with 25 animals from Michigan, released near Clam Lake. The herd's over 500 now, making it one of the best-kept wildlife stories in the Great Lakes. Signs everywhere. Elk on the tourism brochures. But we'd seen none. Maybe it was all just folklore.

Not even a minute later, a massive bull elk (or what I assumed was a bull elk) came crashing through the trees about 40 yards off the road. I yelled. It sprinted. Full panic. Us and the elk. It was absolutely enormous. The car was silent, then loud, and then silent again. That set the tone for the whole weekend — the Northwoods just kept being more than we expected.

The Cabin

Two couples. An Airbnb in Winter, Wisconsin — which, for the record, is both the name of the town and an accurate description of what was happening outside. Winter sits in Sawyer County about 45 minutes east of Hayward — and during winter, Winter felt like a secluded wonderland. Outside of the tiny downtown, we may have seen two cars the whole weekend.

The cabin was our base for the weekend. No particular agenda beyond two things: check out Boulder Junction and go to the Birkie. Everything else was just seeing what the Northwoods had for us in February.

Boulder Junction

We drove up to Boulder Junction on our first full day, partly because we'd heard the town was worth seeing and partly because we wanted to check out The Glide — a 0.8-mile ice skating ribbon that winds through the Northern Highland-American Legion State Forest. Spoiler: it was closed. Missed it by one day. The kind of thing that would be annoying anywhere else but somehow felt right for a winter trip to the Northwoods — where 'winter' is increasingly unpredictable. You work with what's open.

First stop was Old Abe's, a quick coffee pit-stop on the way up. Good coffee, good vibes, but the real unexpected treat was the Nintendo set up with Duck Hunt and the original Super Mario Bros. Four coffees, and a 20-minute competition hunting virtual ducks in the woods of Wisconsin. Turns out we were pretty rusty.

Since The Glide was a no-go, once we got to Boulder Junction we walked into Coontail — an outdoor shop that's been around since 1991 — and grabbed some stuff for the hike we had planned. Then a quick lunch at Aqualand Ale House before heading out to Winter Park for the Lumberjack Trail. A good, snowy hike through the kind of quiet forest that makes you forget the internet exists, even if just for an afternoon.

That evening we hit Boulder Beer Bar for a pre-dinner drink. Snowmobiles outnumbered cars as we were making our way through town — and it turns out this must be their local haunt because we barely got a seat. After that, we found our way to Guide's Inn for dinner. A true Wisconsin supper club. Guide's Inn has been running since 1984 and operates the way supper clubs are supposed to operate. The kind of place where the Wisco Old Fashioneds run smooth and more food comes out than you know what to do with.

The thing about Boulder Junction in February is that it's a snowmobile town. At every stop — coffee shop, restaurant, bar — there were more snowmobilers than anything else. Sleds parked out front, helmets on the bar, trail maps being consulted over beers. It's a whole parallel outdoor culture that exists up here in winter, and if you're not on a sled, you're a little bit of an outsider. But only a little. People were friendly. That's how it works up here.

The Birkie

Race day. We drove the 45 minutes from Winter to Hayward, parked in the spectator lot, and caught a shuttle to Main Street. If you've never been to the American Birkebeiner, here's what you need to know: it's the largest cross-country ski race in North America. About 12,000 participants across Birkie Week, skiing from Cable to Hayward — 50K for skate, 55K for classic. It's been running since 1973, and Hayward basically shuts down and becomes a ski town for the weekend.

Main Street was packed. There's a massive beer tent right near the finish, crowds lining both sides of the road, and cowbells. A lot of cowbells. The energy is somewhere between a marathon finish line and a college football tailgate — people losing their marbles cheering on strangers and friends alike.

We walked the length of the spectator stretch and crossed the international bridge, where you could watch racers coming up the final hill before the descent into the finish. This is where you see what 50 kilometers of skiing does to a body. Frozen beards. Bloody noses. Outrageous outfits. Smiles. Some racers are flying. Others are surviving. The bibs are color-coded by wave, with a sticker showing how many years they've participated. So you get this incredible stream of different colors coming through. A mix of skate skiing and classic. First-timers and people who've been doing this for decades. Teenagers and 70-year-olds. All finishing the same race on the same trail.

Firepits were scattered along the route for spectators, which feels like a small thing until you've been standing outside in northern Wisconsin in February for two hours. They were lifelines.

Toward the end of the afternoon, a guy near us started asking people to cheer for his brother, Tommy. His brother had been racing the Birkie for over 40 years. Forty years of skiing from Cable to Hayward. Everyone around us just started screaming for this person none of us had ever met. Then we got pulled into cheering for another racer. Then another. That's the thing about the Birkie that I don't think you can fully understand until you're standing on Main Street. The race isn't just for the racers. The whole town is in on it.

The Walk Back

On the walk from Main Street back to the shuttle parking, we passed the National Fresh Water Fishing Hall of Fame — home of the world's largest muskie sculpture. 143 feet long. Four and a half stories tall. Just sitting there in Hayward, Wisconsin like it's a normal thing to have in your town. You can apparently climb up inside it and stand in its mouth, but it was closed for the season. We stared at it from the sidewalk, which felt like enough.

The world's largest muskie sculpture in Hayward

A little further down the road we walked past the Lumberjack World Championships grounds. Hayward has the fishing hall of fame, the lumberjack championships, and the Birkie. For a town of 2,400 people, that's an absurd concentration of niche cultural institutions.

What We Didn't Expect

I went into this weekend thinking the Birkie was the main event. And it was — it's one of the most electric sporting events I've ever been to, and I've only been cross country skiing twice. But the Birkie was one day out of three. The rest of the weekend — the cabin, Boulder Junction, the quiet of the Northwoods in winter, Guide's Inn, the outdoor culture, the elk — that's what stuck.

There's something about the Northwoods in February that doesn't translate through a screen. It's cold. It's dark early. Half the things you want to do are closed for the season. And none of that matters because the stuff that is happening — the skiing, the snowmobiling, the small-town restaurants still serving the people who live here year-round and those brave enough to make the trip out — is more than enough.

We're training for the Birkie in 2027. Full steam ahead. But we're also coming back for the Northwoods. The part without 10,000+ skiers. The part where you drive through the Chequamegon at dusk and an elk decides to show up.

That elk has stuck with me. More to come on that soon.