The Porcupine Mountains Series Part 1: Hallowed Hollow Ground

I like trees.  This is a bit of an ongoing argument at my house, because Scuba likes to cut down trees.  I understand his concern with things like pine needles and leaves clogging eaves troughs, and roots
infringing on the driveway.  However, I always point out the trees were here first, so I win.

If I could get Scuba to take a day-long hike through the Porcupine Mountains, I might be able to change his way of thinking.  A long time ago, before settlers arrived in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, those lands contained 81 million acres of undisturbed, closed-canopy forest.  About half of this land consisted of forests of sugar maple, eastern hemlock, yellow birch, American basswood, northern red oak, and eastern white pine.  Today, less than 0.2% of these hardwood-hemlock forests survive as virgin (never been logged) forests.  The largest of these virgin forests is in the Porcupine Mountains, with 35,000 acres of relatively undisturbed hardwoods and hemlocks.*

I only saw a fraction of that while hiking the Porkies, but it is really something to see.

It's not that portions of the Porcupine Wilderness has never been logged.  In the late 1800's, tracts of land were purchased to log the white pine and cedar stands.  Sadly, remnants of the logging era still remain today, where century-old pine stumps can be seen all along the Lake Superior shoreline.*  But the difficulties of logging in this wilderness area pushed the logging barons to other places by the early 1900's.  As technology advanced, some logging activity took place until the early 1940's.  The last logging operations in the Porcupine Mountains occurred in 1953-1954, after a wind storm left a blowdown of centuries-old trees between the mouth of the Big Carp River and Summit Peak.  After the storm, park officials contracted with Connor Lumber and Land Company to salvage the timber in exchange for land the park wanted.  When the salvage of the timber was complete in 1954, the Michigan Conservation Commission declared the Porcupine Mountains a Nature Reserve, thereby protecting the remaining virgin stands from further logging.*

Darkness in Daylight

My favorite tree is the Hemlock.  When hiking on Government Peak trail to the top of a
mountain is halted by a majestic 400 year old tree, I can't just walk around it.  I must take a moment to study its solidity, its gnarled roots visible below my feet, yet stretching deep into the mountain rock for stability.  Standing under its branches, I am awed by the darkness at the height of day, the mighty Hemlock blocking the warmth of the sun, yet radiating its own heat down on the earth.  I am humbled by its strength, inspired by its endurance, and joyful at its beauty.

As I hiked, I noticed from time to time my footsteps made a hollow sound, like I was walking on a drum, and I wondered about it.
Later, a visit with Bob Wild of the DNR shed some light on this phenomenon.  The mountains are a result of millions of years of volcanic eruptions and tetonic plates moving around, and have a strong foundation of rock.  The Hemlocks traveled through pollination and took root in the glacial deposits and rock, but the roots necessarily grow down through the earth.  In various places, especially where the virgin Hemlocks stand, the root formations under the rock have created pockets of air, or hollow places.  At first I found this unsettling, but Bob explained that the roots serve to strengthen the framework under the ground.  He pointed out that the "hollow" ground on which I walked felt very hard and solid.  As my time progressed in the mountains, I came to think of these areas as walking on hallowed, hollow ground.  Bob liked my description.

Those same roots, exposed above the crust of the mountain, act like fingers, reaching out to claw and grab.  It is entirely possible that a lone hiker could find herself having some difficulty navigating the Hemlock roots, which brings up the age old question; if a hiker stumbles and trips her way up (and occasionally, back down) a trail, but no one is there to see it, did it really happen?  So I found myself being quick and light of foot, following in the steps of my American Indian ancestors with speed and agility on my hike.  That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The entire 7.3 mile hike up Government Trail was made worth it by the rest stop I took at Trap Falls.  Stumbling…um, I mean, gracefully stepping, into a designated backcountry campsite, complete with a bear pole, and finding a rustic outpost of the most delightful design, was a much welcome respite from the hike.  Many others who had traveled this way before me had created an outdoor home complete with chairs, tables, fire pit, and the soothing sound of Trap Falls cascading into the Carp River.

Rooney ran down the steep bank to drink from the cool, clear water, while I sat on a log and drank my bottled water.  I looked up, at the mighty Hemlocks.  I looked over, at the bear pole where countless hikers have hung their food.  I looked around, at the natural impression in the mountain that gives a small but flat place to set up camp.  I looked down, at the water flowing over and around ancient rocks, and I thought "God is good, and Michigan's DNR is awesome."

I stayed longer than I should have, but found it difficult to leave this magical speck of earth.  As I climbed up the steep bank back to the trail, a Hemlock branch was there to give me a hand up.  In gratitude, I saluted the tree, and envied its post.  To be a sentinel over this beautiful mountain, and this very spot where people seek shelter, is a duty that can only be given by God.

Eastern Hemlock can be found throughout the park.  They can live 500 years or more, and reach 100 feet in height.


Arriving here from the eastern Allegheny forests 3,000 years ago, their thick canopy of needles provides not just shade from the sun, but shelter in the winter, attracting deer in the snowy months.  Hemlock stands become deer yards during the winter, where the deer feed on buds and needles.  The tannins in the needles and bark of the Hemlocks also creates the reddish-brown color of the streams and rivers in the park through runoff.*  All through my hike up to Government Peak, I marveled at the Hemlocks, seeing the effects of them everywhere I looked.  They are a living, dynamic presence which urged me to keep going, even as I tired.

Root growing over Rock

I found a sense of inspiration in the woods.  The Hemlock will not be daunted, giving me the idea that the next time someone challenges me to a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, I want to be a Tree!

Throughout my hikes up the mountains, I forged ahead, I reached the top, and I came back down.  I followed the rules, carrying out my empty water bottles and granola bar wrappers.  Because God has given us this amazing place, but the DNR, hikers, and nature lovers are bestowed with the responsibility of keeping it amazing, I was careful not to disturb the balance or leave anything but footprints, and possibly a little bit of flesh and blood from my leg, but that's a story for another time.  I hope that someday, my husband will walk the mountains with me, and see what I've seen, and never cut down another healthy tree again.  Then again, he usually cuts them down when I'm not home, so if I'm not there to see the tree fall, did he really fell the tree?  That's his story, and he's sticking to it.

*All of the historical and environmental information in this post comes from The Last Porcupine Mountains Companion, Fifth Edition, by Michael Rafferty and Robert Sprague, published by Nequaker Natural History Associates, 2012.   I strongly recommend reading this book prior to a visit to the Porcupine Mountains.  It will not only give you helpful tips for exploring the park, but will also enhance your understanding of what you will experience here.

"It Wasn't My Line"

I came across An Inspirational Video by Sebastien Montaz-Rosset the other day, called "Revelation: A Visual Poem"  In a rare moment of quiet in my home, I was able to sit back and really take it in, the words and images which are so inspiring.  My favorite line came early in the clip, "I towed the line, it wasn't my line".

It wasn't my line.

Ah, how many times have I felt that way?  How many times have you?  As a wife and mother, I have always felt that my family is perfect just the way it is.  We each have our separate personalities which I have made a point to glorify.  I have spent my entire adult life supporting and promoting the dreams of my husband and my children because, without even being conscious of this desire, it is very much my desire to help them become who they are; not someone else's idea of who they are.

Somewhere in all of that, though, I got lost.  There are only so many hours in a day, and most moms devote so much of their time to the family (as it should be) that little time is left for anything else.  At times, I think to myself, rather selfishly, "Who will I be, when the kids are grown up?"

Once I get over myself and think rationally again, it occurs to me that the choices I have made were mine.  I do not regret them.  Now that the kids are growing older and need less of me, I am faced with the question of who I will be when they go away.  I will always be their mom.  I just won't always devote all of my time to their needs because they will be doing what I have raised them to do; making their own choices and being responsible for their own lives.

What will be my line?

Gathering strength from the deep philosophical views on Pinterest, I've been thinking about my future.

I just like this one!

Yada, yada, yada.  Where does my heart lead me?  What is fun for me?  What do I dream about with passion?  Whatever the question, the answer is always the same.  I must be in my beloved woods.  How do I turn my walks in the woods into a career?  Therein lies the problem.  But then I receive inspiration from a random video, and with it comes the hope that someday, a long time from now, I can tow my own line.

When I envision who I will be, it falls under the category of part-time semi-adventurer.

It most certainly will not include yoga on a tightrope between mountain peaks.  It won't include running through the woods; I walk briskly, at best.  It won't include mountain climbing or off-road cycling or jumping off a cliff with a parachute.  But I think that maybe, just maybe, the line I tow might include inspiration.  Possibly, I can experience the outdoors with less adventure and inspire others to do the same.  I don't know if I can make a career out of it, but according to Pinterest, I can.

I spend what amounts to too much time, according to my family, alone in the woods.  From my perspective, I don't go there often enough.  We're working on finding that balance.  In the meantime, I take what I can get with the family's support, using each experience as a lesson for the future.

People have asked me why I want to leave my family to go off alone in the middle of nowhere.  My answer is simple.  From time to time, I briefly leave my family, but my family never leaves me.

Last February when I was walking Drummond Island alone, at the sight of a massive 14pt Buck I instinctively pointed it out to my son, only to remember he wasn't at my side.  Hiking the woods near the Two Hearted River by myself, I exclaimed over a pretty wildflower that my little Bean would love, had she been walking with me.  Out in the middle of nowhere, I think of all the things I want to tell my daughter who is soon to leave for college.  I walk alone, but I feel my kids and my husband in my heart, I silently speak to them, and I take lots of pictures to share with them later.

I travel alone because it is only in solitude that I can open myself up to being nothing.  I don't need to be in a role in the wilderness.  I belong to no one but God.  It is this time alone, a time of being nothing, that allows me to come home and be everything my family needs.  I go alone and empty myself so I can come home and be filled up again by the people I love most.  Put that on Pinterest!

I don't know yet what my line is.  I'm okay with it.  There is time yet for me, the right time is just ahead.  And the woods will be there waiting for me, while the mountains call to the real adventurers.  For now, I will focus on my family, taking a few days here and there to self impose a time-out while I live in a tin can, push myself to my physical unpotential, search for my elusive wolf, and walk alone in the woods.  The time alone is my line reconnecting me to the rest of my heart.  If I walk that line very carefully, keep it delicately balanced between home and the wilderness, it will never break.  

The Gift from the Gods

Earth.  Wind.  Water.  Fire.  The Four Elements.  I am particular to wind, because my American Indian ancestors believed wind is the whispers of all the souls who have gone before us.  There is wisdom in the wind.  But my favorite element is fire, because it is the only one I can create.

I can't make dirt, nor would I want to.  I suppose I could blow air out of my lungs and create wind, but it would be a pathetic attempt to mimic God.  I can't make water either.  I've never figured out how to combine hydrogen with oxygen at home.  I don't even know what hydrogen looks like, but I'm pretty sure it's not in my kitchen cupboards.

But fire is the one element I can create.  All I need is oxygen - hey, isn't there lots of that in the air? - heat, and fuel.  The fuel is the key to my bonfires, because cut firewood is expensive, so I have to get creative in finding wood.  I love my bonfires.  They bring to me a sense of peace, of everything being right, and warmth on a cold day so I can still be outside.

Ancient people believed that fire is a gift from the Gods.  I feel the same way.  God provides me with the other elements, but He lets me share His power to create fire.  It brings me closer to God.  As always, with power comes responsibility, and I am aware of this as I worry about setting the garage roof on fire.  It's a little close to my bonfire pit, so I monitor my fires very closely.  I really do not want to set my house on fire.

I take comfort in the routine of starting a bonfire.  Starting with dryer lint packed tightly in an empty toilet paper roll, I build a tepee out of twigs, then use my ax to split a piece of wood into kindling, add it to the tepee, and put two pieces of split wood over the structure.  I have two of the three ingredients needed now; oxygen and fuel.  I just have to create heat.

Courtesy Google Images

Courtesy Google Images

I know how to use a bow drill to create a spark.  But at home, I cheat with a Scripto clicker lighter, because who has time to make a bow drill and patiently wait for enough heat to generate to cause a spark?  If I were lost in the wilderness for days with no provisions, I could start a fire.  I choose to be prepared by always carrying a Scripto and a box of wooden matches when I hike.

There is something satisfying about the initial whoosh! of fuel catching fire.  Standing over the fire, waiting for more wood to catch so the heat intensifies and spreads out.  Heat from a bonfire is more encompassing than an electric heater.  Food cooked on an open fire tastes better than that which is prepared in my kitchen oven.  Sitting on a log, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, and staring at the flames evens my breathing, slows my heart rate, and lets stress melt away in the heat of the flames.  It is my ahhhhhh moment.

What fire gives, fire can take away.  In Spring 2012, the Duck Lake fire in Michigan's Upper Peninsula devastated a once dense forest area, destroyed homes, and handed the area is most crushing blow by burning down the Rainbow Lodge.  An icon for decades, the Lodge was the only stopping point for fishermen and snowmobilers in the U.P.'s northeastern quarter.

I hiked the entire Duck Lake Fire grounds in October 2012.  The silence was complete.  No birds chirped, no animals skittered in the undergrowth.  There were no places for creatures to find shelter or food.  It was eerie and it made me sad.  The cost of a forest fire is enormous, not just to the wildlife, but in the form of dollars spent fighting it.  The following link explains the hidden costs of wildfires:
http://wildfire.blog.nfpa.org/2013/01/sticker-shock-the-hidden-costs-of-wildfire-and-who-gets-stuck-with-the-tab.html

The Duck Lake Fire also will result in a blow to the area's already struggling economy.  Without the Rainbow Lodge, where will visitors go?

My Bonfire

Whether at home, a campground, or in the wilderness, I am always very careful with a fire.  I have tremendous respect for its power and the responsibility that comes with unleashing its energy.  But I also am mesmerized by it.  As my fire dies down, the coals glow white hot.  The energy shifts and darts like a living thing.  A bonfire has a distinct personality which taunts me into believing I have power, then laughs at me for the foolish notion.

I find any excuse to start a bonfire.  As these winter days stretch on and on, my fires keep me outside, swinging an ax and hauling split wood up the hill to the courtyard outside my kitchen, where the fire is usually burning and guests are always welcome.  It is a gift from God.

The Map On My Windshield

Happy New Year!  I'm starting out right in 2013, writing on my blog for the first time since November. The holiday season is just too busy!  I suppose one of my New Year's Resolutions should be to simplify Christmas, but I do not make New Year's Resolutions; I don't need any more reasons to fail.

But I have learned much this past year, which I plan on using to make 2013 a much, much better time for me and my family.  The year 2012 was rough, and at times I wanted to give up.  Ending it was symbolic for me as new doors are opening and fresh possibilities are waiting.  As always, while searching for signs of where I should go from here, I have several plans to travel, meet people, and learn.

When I travel, I seek people who have stories to tell.  Everyone, everywhere, has a reason for why they are in a certain place at a certain time.  Sometimes the reasons are exciting and fun, sometimes heartwarming, and once in a while the story is a sad one.  But the best stories have a little bit of everything.

In October, after my dear friend Debbie and I had spent most of our camping trip lost in the wilderness, we decided to visit the Upper Tahquamenon Falls on her last full day before going home.  As we walked the path back after exploring the falls, my dog Rooney attracted a lot of attention, like he always does.  A woman approached us to greet Rooney, and as we exchanged pleasantries, she mentioned she was from Toronto, Canada.  We asked what brought her here, and she replied,

"The map on my windshield."

This is her story.

Betty didn't get along well with her mother for many years, but had recently reconciled with her and the two became the best of companions.  Taking her mother everywhere, Betty learned to appreciate a mature, honest relationship while discovering that her mom was a fascinating person.  They traveled extensively, but had never been to Michigan, so last summer they planned a trip to cross the bridge into Detroit, and drive north to the wine country of the Leelanau peninsula.  Betty had heard great things about the area, and she and her mom were very excited.

Then Betty's mom died peacefully one night in her sleep.  Devastated at the loss, so soon after Betty had come to a wonderful relationship with her mother, she ultimately decided to go ahead with the trip to Michigan.  She felt her mom would have wanted that.

Before she left, Betty went to dinner alone one night at a fancy restaurant.  There, she met a man.  He was very nice, and handsome, and they talked about life and dreams and plans.  Just when Betty thought this might be a man she could spend time with, his son arrived, and the man left.  But not before Betty had told him of her plans for the trip to Michigan.

She dined alone, then left the restaurant to go home to an empty house.  When Betty got to her car, there was a piece of paper on her windshield.  It was a crudely drawn map, with instructions to drive north and cross into Michigan to Sault St. Marie, in the Upper Peninsula.  From there, the instructions gave her many options of which places were a "must-see" in the U.P., where to stay, and so on.

The map was signed by her pre-dinner companion.  How he knew which car was hers, Betty did not understand.  But she took his advice, changed her plans, and a week later drove to the U.P.  She told us of an incredible journey, seeing places she had never dreamed could be so beautiful and meeting some lovely people.  She said it ended up being the trip of a lifetime, and even though she was alone, she felt her mother with her.  The map on Betty's windshield changed her life, gave her the strength to go on, and introduced her to the idea that she could go anywhere, see anything, be anyone.  It freed Betty, for the first time in her life.

I wish someone would put a map on my windshield.  I wish a stranger would tell me where to go and what to do once I arrived, because I've been trying to figure that out for a year now.

Courtesy Google Images

If I think about it, the map is on my windshield, I just can't quite see it clearly yet.  All these months,  there have been signs pointing me in a new direction.  I've just been too caught up in self pity to recognize the signs.  Time really does heal, though, and pity is turning to hope, despair is fading and excitement is building.  Like Betty, I can also now be free to become whoever I want to be.  I don't have to be defined by the job I lost, or the friends who faded away during my time of strife.  I can become someone better, someone who is passionate about life and eager to set goals.  I can finally, for the first time, be in control of the direction I take.  I can put my own map on the windshield.

I won't be making any resolutions, but I will be strengthening my resolve.  I can be more than I've been.  I can do it with the love and support of my husband and kids, and Debbie, the people who have never stopped believing in me even when I did.  I can do it with the fond memory of meeting Betty, whose story affected me more than she will ever know, and whose strength encourages me to be stronger, smarter, kinder, and forgiving.  Ooops, those sound like resolutions, don't they?

Thank you all for listening to my stories this year.  I hope you have a spectacular New Year, as I plan to.  I promise to keep writing if you will keep reading, and probably even if you won't!  Stay tuned for some exciting news in the next few months as I forge ahead, drawing my map and enjoying a few detours.  It's going to be a fun ride!

The End of The Story…But Not The Journey!

Even though this story is too long already, I will continue, because it's almost over, and I promised my readers I would finish it this time, so here we go…

After spending eleven hours in the wilderness, lost at times, and completely unprepared, we had finally returned to the old Airstream and settled in for the night.  However, when I turned the light off at midnight, I found that I couldn't sleep.  I could hear Debbie flipping and flopping in her bed, and I was suddenly wide awake.  Calling to the front of the tin can, I said,

"I'm wide awake."

Debbie replied,

"Bonfire?"

We jumped up, went outside, lit the torches again, stoked up the fire, and got our camp chairs out.  Rooney chose to stay in the camper, and I made hot chocolate which may or may not have had a little Peppermint Schnapps in it.  

Because we were now safely in familiar territory, we began recounting our day with a different spin on it.  Looking back, we found it to be rather hilarious.  I'm not sure if the memories we made that day were really that funny, or if the exhaustion had finally demented our minds, or if the alleged schnapps played a role, but we laughed hysterically for the next hour and a half.

During the course of this very long day, we hiked to Clark Lake, we saw Culhane Lake, we explored Crisp Point Lighthouse.  We saw bear tracks.  We walked the beach where my dog ran free.  We met an old and bitter woman, and saw a phone booth where no phone booth should be.  We searched for cell phone reception and forget about OnStar.  We never saw a snake, a bear, a moose, or a mountain lion, but we saw the effects of a recent forest fire, and walked on a bouncy bridge.  We breathed in the Two Hearted River.

It was a good day, the best kind of day, because very little went according to plan.  

We learned to throw away the plan, and let the wilderness take us down a new path.  Debbie learned to trust me again, and I learned to trust her, to trust that she is stronger than she believes.  When I finally went to bed for the second time that night, I slept deeply.  I no longer dreamt of the Two Hearted River, because it was now a living thing inside of me, the river became part of me.  I was so filled with its delicate balance that I became balanced.  It is the reason I came to the U.P. and the reason for my memorable adventure with Debbie and Rooney.  I will hold on to that memory forever!

So this is the end of the story, but…we still had a few more days to go, and trust me (you really can you know) I have new stories to tell!

You've Got Four Wheel Drive, Right? - Part 3

On the brink of discovery, Debbie and I were poised to begin the final phase of our adventure.  Having roamed the back roads of the U.P. for the last six hours with purpose but no direction, we were finally armed with clear instructions on where to go.  But first, we had to make it through Rabbit Patch Road.

Apparently, the U.P. uses the term "road" loosely.  The path that lay ahead was most definitely not a road.  I could vaguely recognize two distinct tire tracks, though they were intermittent at best.  Mostly, the path ahead looked liked a trail.  I think I would have named it Rabbit Patch Trail with a big sign at the entrance,  "Drive At Your Own Risk".

I honestly don't remember much of the drive down Rabbit Patch Road.  I think I've blocked it out to protect my sanity.  I have blurry recollections of powering the Yukon through deep sand, eyes widening at the proximity of large trees in front of my vehicle, and Debbie calling out my name.  She didn't say much else, she just used my name as a blanket warning for whatever danger was imminent.

I wish I had a picture of Rabbit Patch Road to give you a visual account, but once we started rolling we were not about to stop for photos.  I searched the internet for a photo too, but I guess nobody out there stops on Rabbit Patch Road for photos.  With both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, steady pressure on the accelerator, and eyes focused ahead, I just kept going, wishing for the end of this road around every bend.

Finally, we shot out onto a packed sand road.  It's a good thing you never see any other vehicles when driving the back roads of the U.P., because one second we were on Rabbit Patch Road, and the next second we were perpendicular across 423.  I pointed the Yukon north, and even saw a sign for the Rainbow Lodge, which had burned down in the fire but was just up the road from the Two Hearted River.  This was it!  We were in the right place, aiming for my river!

My Memory of the Bridge. Courtesy Google Images

I was so excited.  I shared with Debbie my recollections of the brief glimpse I'd had of the Two Hearted River as a young child, the picture in my mind of a place that had so captivated me it never left my dreams.  I told her of the suspended rope bridge that I never walked across, high above the river, swaying with the weight of each footfall, weathered planks sewn together with thick nautical rope, and the same rope acting as a loose handrail.  The footbridge was so high over the river, you could get dizzy looking down!  Huge boulders dotted the water below, forming swirls in the current and shooting up drops of water that sparkle through the sunlight in the air.  It was magnificent!

My description was making Debbie a bit nervous; she was pretty sure she would not be walking over that bridge to the other side, where a pristine beach awaits, welcoming us to the shore of Lake Superior. Personally, I couldn't wait to walk over that bridge!

Courtesy Google Images

We came upon the Rainbow Lodge, or what little is left of it after the Duck Lake Fire.  Many locals had spoken to me of the Rainbow Lodge.  Located in the serious middle of nowhere, it was a dwelling with a gas pump, a store, motel, and campground.  Though a small venture, the owners stocked everything that could ever be needed out in the serious middle of nowhere.  They had canoes to rent, fishing poles, tackle, and bait.  They sold spark plugs, oil, gas, and thermal underwear to snowmobilers.    They had electric hookups and a water source for campers, and propane refill.  They were the be-all, end-all resting place for outdoorsmen (and women).  The locals are concerned because Rainbow Lodge's owners are not going to rebuild after the fire.  This could affect winter tourism all along the North Country Trail (which, incidentally, we had crossed a dozen times that day) because it was the only place for snowmobilers to refuel.  The Rainbow Lodge was an icon, and looking at the charred remains of it made me sad for the owners, the locals, and for myself, because I never got to stay there.

Rainbow Lodge after the Fire, Courtesy Google Images

The location of the Rainbow Lodge is just three short miles ahead of the Two Hearted River, and as we passed it to begin the final leg of this very long journey, I glanced back through the rearview mirror for a last look at the ruins, and it was then that I saw…it.

With a growing sense of complete and utter stupidity, I turned my eyes straight ahead and quietly spoke.

"Debbie?"  She looked at me as I continued,  "I've got OnStar".

In the silence that ensued, I could actually see Debbie putting the pieces of that simple statement together.

We were lost.  We had no cell phone signal. We couldn't access navigation.  We were lost.  We just passed the same place for the third time.  We were lost.  No cell phones.  OnStar.  Satellite.  Signal in any wide open space.  Duck Lake Fire.  No trees.  Wide open spaces.  Satellite.  OnStar.  Directions.

These thoughts went through her head quickly, and as she turned to look at me, I could see the fire in her eyes.  She said,

"Wait.  You've…got…OnStar?  Oh Kiki."

I pushed the little blue button on my rearview mirror, and a lovely voice filled the vehicle asking how she could help.  I disconnected.

This could have been a turning point in mine and Debbie's friendship.  

Though she stayed quiet, I pretty much knew what she was thinking.  We had just spent seven hungry, thirsty unprepared hours driving the same dirt roads over and over, looking for that one road that would lead us to Paradise.  She hadn't made it to the Tahquamenon Falls Brewery, she didn't have a glass of wine in her hand.  We had peed in the brush, our hair and skin were covered in dust, and Rooney was emitting an unusual odor.  We were tired, sick of being in the car, and anxious to return to camp before dark, and all this time I could have pushed that little blue button and saved us hours of searching.

All day long, even in my growing desperation to find my dream, it never occurred to me that I have OnStar.  I simply forgot.

So this could have been a turning point for us, and probably would have been, had I not at that moment turned the corner in the road that opened up to the entrance to the Two Hearted River Recreational Area.  We had arrived, and the view before us took our breath away.  No more words were spoken as we drove in to park.  Even Debbie got out of the car, drawn to what I was seeing.  Please, readers, feel free to take a moment of silence, to absorb the enormity of this pivotal moment in my life.

"The Journey to the Dream"

"Sweet" by The Dave Matthews Band Away From The World

Letting Rooney out of the backseat, I walked with purpose toward the rope bridge.  Except it wasn't a rope bridge anymore.  Still a suspension footbridge, it is now commonly called "Little Mac" with a nod to the big bridge that grants access to the U.P.   This new bridge still swayed and bounced, but had much firmer footing and an actual wood railing.  Despite its charm, I was devastated.

Debbie felt comfortable enough on this sturdier version of my memory to cross the bridge with me.  It wasn't very high, maybe 10 feet above the river.  It wasn't very long either.  And there were no boulders in the river, just a few rocks at the bottom.

It seems that the memories of a child are significantly larger than reality.

Yet we had traveled unnecessarily far today for this moment.  I was not about to hold on to my disappointment, instead I looked at the bridge and the river through the eyes of an adult, determining that Hemingway was right; the Big Two Hearted River is a spiritual renewal.  Looking out at the rivermouth and Lake Superior beyond, I felt that renewal.  Like God and Hemingway, I saw and I knew that it was good.

In this place, I was seeing nature in its purest form.  Everything worked the way it should.  In any direction I looked, I saw proof of the intricate balance of nature, the significance of it, and the power of an infinite will for life.  I saw God in the current of the river, I saw Him in the waves crashing onto the shoreline.  I felt His presence in the air around me, and I felt peace in this holy place.  Everything worked perfectly, in a way that man cannot recreate.  This was more powerful than the presence of every person who ever stood here.  This was living, breathing, moving life that cannot be fully extinguished.  The river embodied hope and faith.  It filled my spirit.

We stayed longer than we should have.  We crossed over the bridge, walked the beach on Gitche Gummi, watched some anglers heading back in the waning light of the day.  We hand-pumped drinking water, let Rooney drink from the river, and laughed at the warning signs posted for the bridge and the boat launch.

We sat on the bank of the Two Hearted River and watched the sun go down, staring out over the far bank to the powerful waters of Lake Superior.  We waved to the fishermen as they trolled past us in the river.  I said hello to the Two Hearted River, and then I said goodbye to it.

Our journey was not yet over.  We had to drive back to camp.

Chapel of the Two Hearts, Google Images

Debbie and I were both certain of our route home.  Actually, if you look at the map, which I really wish I'd had with me that day, it is a simple route.  South on 423, left on 414, right on 500, then left on the paved 123 to Tahquamenon.  When we drove past the ruins of the Rainbow Lodge again, I saw a sign for the Chapel.  If it hadn't burned down, I wanted to see it.  I asked Debbie if she would mind if I took a quick side trip.

I think at this point, Debbie's will had been broken.  Her belief that she would ever see the tin can waiting for us at the campsite was gone.  But her disillusionment had been replaced with something else.  She was learning to trust me again.  We may have been lost all day, but we saw things that she had never seen, and experienced things new to both of us, and we did eventually find my river, and by now we both knew these roads so well that she trusted me to get us where we needed to be.  I'm pretty sure she fully expected that we would sleep in the Yukon tonight, but at this point she had given herself over to our situation and simply didn't care anymore what happened.  So when I asked if I could drive down yet another dicey two track in search of something that I wasn't even sure was there, she said "Sure, why not?"

Duck Lake Fire, Google Images

The Chapel wasn't there.  I could not even find the precise location of where it had been.  We were in the heart of the Duck Lake Fire path, and everything had been obliterated.  I got out of the Yukon, asked Debbie to join me, she said no, then I walked up a steep hill to look out over the land.  In front of me was Lake Superior, behind me was a barren forest.  The loggers had not been here yet, and the trees, some with blackened pine cones still hanging from their branches, were charred.


It was getting dark, making the forest look ominous.  There was no sound at all.  The fire had taken away the habitats of every creature.  No birds called, no chipmunks scurried about, no leaves rustled, and no bugs buzzed.  There was absolute silence.  And yet, nature finds a way.  Looking closely at the ground, I saw green sprouts reaching up.  Ferns had already begun growing back.  Life goes on.  Always and everywhere, life goes on.

I made a couple of detours from 414 as well.  Debbie went with the flow.  I took a couple of two tracks in search of Moose feeding in the dusk, but saw nothing.  We approached the junction with 500, I slowed, then had to stop because we saw our first logging truck of the day, barreling toward us on 500 with a full load of black tree trunks.  Pulling out behind it, I was immediately enveloped in a cloud of dust so thick we couldn't see the truck in front of us, or the road.  Perfect.

Courtesy Google Images

We followed that logging truck all the way to 123.  Completely blind at this point, I just tried to stay in the center of the dust cloud and hope for the best.  Finally turning onto pavement, and the road home, was an iconic moment for us.  I looked at Debbie and said,

"See?  I told you I'd get us back.  Trust me!"  With a merry grin, I drove the final 20 minutes in the dark, relieved that I would soon be brewing a pot of coffee and building a fire.

Junction of County Road 500 and M-123 during the Duck Lake Fire.  Google Images

The campsite was a welcome sight, though very, very dark.  I lit the torches and unlocked the tin can, started the coffee brewing, fed Rooney real dog food, for which his digestive system was most grateful, gave him a bowl of water, gave him another bowl of water as soon as he finished the first one, and grabbed my stuff - what little I had - from the car.  Debbie started a fire.  Yes, Debbie actually started a fire, (she's getting really good at it!) while I grabbed all the fancy food she had brought and carried it out by the fire.  With a glass of wine in Debbie's hand and a cup of coffee in mine, we sat down by a roaring fire and devoured cold egg quiches and cold veggies and cold pasta.  It was 10:00pm, and we were too tired to talk.

Exhausted, we left the fire shortly after and prepared to sleep.  Once we were blissfully settled in our beds I grabbed a notepad and pen, and started writing down all the things I wanted to remember from our trip thus far.  I called out to Debbie, who was in the front bed, asking her what things she remembered.  We yelled back and forth for a while until we thought we had everything captured on paper, then turned out the lights.

It was midnight.  You'd think this is the end of my story.  But once again, you'd be wrong!

So with a thousand apologies to my biggest fan, Jo, I must end this for now because the kids are about to come home.  I will finish the story tomorrow…trust me!