The Porcupine Mountains Series Part 3: We All Need Something To Hang On To

burberry.com

Boots.  Tall, rubber, waterproof boots.  That was what I needed.

About three years ago, I saw a picture of my beautiful and very fashionable niece wearing a pair of Burberry boots at a tailgate party.  I was fascinated with her boots.  They looked so…safe.

muckboots.com

Then last summer my nephew, who had been pouring concrete, dropped by my house wearing tall rubber Muck boots.  I kept staring at his feet, thinking they looked so safe.

Do you ever get an idea in your head that has no basis for credibility but you believe it anyway?  You believe it because you have to?  This is what happened to me with the tall rubber boots.  I got this idea in my head that if I wore tall rubber boots, the snakes couldn't get me.  I came to believe that if I wore those boots while hiking, the appearance of a reptile with no legs would not throw me into a complete panic, because my boots would protect me.  Snakes can't suddenly cross over your foot and climb up your pant leg when you're wearing tall rubber boots.  They can't strike at you through thick rubber.  The boots would keep me safe.  I believed it, I needed that thought to hold onto, and I knew I would never experience a completely peaceful hike without those boots.

But the boots are not cheap, and since I am always stockpiling my money for gas to take my trips to the U.P. of Michigan, boots were not in the budget.  At least, not until my compassionate husband surprised me with a pair of Hunter boots, complete with fleece liners.  They…are…awesome, as is my husband.

Armed with my tall rubber boots, I headed into the Porcupine Mountains with confidence.

Since I spent my first day in the mountains not hiking while I dealt with a shredded tire on the tin can, I had ample opportunity to meet other hikers in the campground.  Asking each of them where they had hiked so far was always accompanied with an inquiry into the snake population out there on the trails.  The 4 Guys had hiked the entire 17 miles of the Lake Superior Trail in one day, and saw two snakes.  The hunter had just emerged from several days of backcountry camping; he saw lots of snakes.  When I asked the couple next to me if they saw any snakes on the Presque Isle trails, they casually replied "oh, just a few".

The freakishly warm weather in October was keeping the snakes of the Porkies active.  No worries; I had my boots.

The next morning, after the sudden storm of the night before, I walked Rooney early.  Wearing my Hunter boots, I headed up the drive through the campground to a field where Rooney could sniff all the bushes.  Along the way, there was a short stretch of road that had deep brush on either side, with tall grasses and wild flowers.  As I strolled through this wild alley, I saw something on the ground.  Upon

closer inspection, I realized it was a snake, which had come out of the weeds seeking the heat of the asphalt after the storm, only to be flattened by a late night arrival of an RV to the campground.  I'll be honest; my heart did that little skip-a-beat thing it does, but I stayed calm.  I had my boots to protect me in the unlikely event that the early morning sunshine would breathe life back into the flat snake.  I kept going, with even breaths and a new-found confidence.

However, stepping foot on the Presque Isle trail gave me pause.  I mean, these snakes would be alive.  I pulled myself up by my boot straps - quite literally - and hiked with confidence.  Over the next several days I hiked many miles on
many trails.  The only time I took my boots off was when I went to bed each night.  They were comfortable, kept my feet dry in muddy areas, and warm.  Most important, my boots removed my fear.  I didn't want to see a snake, but I didn't worry about it either.

Google Images

The funny thing is, I never saw a single snake, except for the dead one in the drive of the campground. I think I am the only hiker that was in the Porcupine Mountains that week who never came across a snake, which leads me to believe my boots have magical powers.  They don't just protect me from snakes, they scare them away!  Hey, we all need something to hang on to.


I love my Hunter boots, and I love my husband for getting them for me.  Next year, I might even hike the Cedar Swamps.  Okay, no I won't.  I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid!

Cedar Swamp, Porcupine Mountains
Courtesy of Google Images

Can I Have A Moment, Please?

Lake Superior at Crisp Point

Sometimes, I just need a moment.  Maybe I need that moment to take a deep breath before I say something I shouldn't, or a moment to have a hissy fit wile I rant and rage and let out my frustration.  Most times, though, I need a moment to just be silent.  This usually involves sitting on a high bluff at the edge of the woods overlooking Lake Superior, which is where I plan to someday build my stone cottage and live out my days sitting on my bluff overlooking Lake Superior. And chopping firewood.

A couple of years ago, when I was going through a rough time, I started this blog as a catharsis of sorts, where I shared my moments of peace found while traveling in a vintage Airstream.  My tin can let me go places I had dreamed of my whole life.  I enjoyed sharing my stories so much, that I want to do more.  But life still intervenes and keeps me from traveling often enough to write about it full time.  I spent a considerable amount of time this summer thinking about how I could develop my blog when I only travel a few times a year.  I also spent a considerable amount of time this summer not writing, because the two dogs, two cats, husband, kids, and all their friends were a constant energy in the house that prevented me from writing.

I may have spent the first month of summer feeling frustrated and wishing more than anything that I could have just one hour to write, except I had nothing but my frustration to write about, and who wants to read that?  I may have let that feeling go on, except that I really enjoy being a positive person more than a negative one.  My good friend, Debbie, who shares so many of my adventures, reminded me, "it is what it is".  It was summer, and everyone was home.  I gave up trying to write (which also goes against my nature)  and started looking for the positive.  I found it.

Gotcha, Suzy!

In each day, somewhere in the chaos and noise and demands, I had a moment.  Suzy the Cat began a habit of climbing up the ladder to my daughter's bunk bed and stealing her stuffed frog animal.  I would find that frog in the oddest places, pick it up and return it to the bed, only to find it again in a new place the next day.  It became a game with me and my daughters.
Where would Suzy put the frog today?

There was a moment each morning, when my youngest daughter, The Wise One, would walk into the kitchen while I was having my second pot of coffee and sleepily murmur, "Good morning, Mom" followed by a hug.  It's always good to start your day with a fond greeting and a warm hug.  We would then proceed to place our bets for what item my older daughter, Birdie, would announce she needed to get from Target that day.  Birdie went to Target almost every day.  It's a disease, as is spending her paycheck before she gets another one.  We're working on that.

The couch is NOT for you, Rooney!

I had other moments, as well.  I rarely left the house this summer.  Why would I, when Birdie would be going to Target anyway and could pick up what I needed?  But a few times we met up with friends for an evening, giving me moments of laughter and companionship.  I watched my son, Fun Boy, growing into a fine young man this summer, who worked hard at his job all day and cheerfully helped out around the house.  I had many moments with Rooney the Newfoundland, but those are best left
unmentioned in my efforts to remain positive.  I settled in this summer, and while I admit I still had day after day of being frustrated with no peace, no time, and no privacy, I embraced that moment each day when my heart would warm with delight over my family and friends.

The Tin Can at Muskallonge Lake

This new-found emphasis on finding the good each day, taking the moments that were given to me and holding them, gave me some ideas on the direction my blog might take once school started and I had time again to write.  I have stories from a few trips I took this summer, but I need more.  Perhaps, instead of only writing periodically about my adventures in the tin can, I could fill my time with sharing the moments I find each and every day that give me peace beyond of the tin can.

Stop spinning, Rooney!

I already had one of those moments this morning.  In preparing for my upcoming escape to the mountains, I have been brushing Rooney's thick and unruly fur every morning, trying to loosen as much hair as possible before we go so my tin can doesn't accumulate an entirely new floor covering.  Rooney is pretty tolerant of being groomed, usually standing still until I tell him he can go.  However, this morning, I wanted to focus on his enormous tail, and he didn't like that so much.  I had to hold him by the collar with one hand and try to brush his tail with the other, while he kept spinning away from me.  He would spin, I would follow, he would spin again, I would follow again.  Long before I even made a dent in the massive amounts of hair on his tail, I became dizzy until I finally fell down and gave up.  See?  I told you moments with Rooney detract from my personal goal of being positive.  But at least these days, my house is quieter and I am finding time to think, write, and dream.

My son has returned to the University and is contemplating changing his major during his 3rd year.  I'm sure several moments will result from that.  The Wise One has entered Middle School and taken up running, following in the footsteps of her older sister.  Cross Country Meets are a great place for peaceful moments.  Birdie has moved to the big city to begin her Freshman year of nursing school, and gave me a really nice moment last week.  She called home and asked me if I had ever taken a Philosophy course in college.  I told her not only had I taken several, I taught Philosophy for many years at the college level.  She was surprised and duly impressed.  It's not often I can impress my children.  It was a really good moment.

Starting today, I plan to write often about my moments, good and bad, at home and in the tin can.  My goal is to connect with readers on a most basic level.  There are good days and bad days, ups and downs, and within each day is a moment to remember.  Sharing my moments with you will hopefully touch you so that you know you are not alone.  We can all love those peaceful moments together, and learn to laugh at ourselves during those not-so-peaceful moments.  Never forget, Rooney will be laughing at all of us during every moment.  He's good at that.

Have a spectacular day, and thanks for reading my blog!  

The Spirit of Spider Wort

My flower gardens have no weeds.  People assume I spend time every day plucking the pesky weeds from the stones and mulch, but the truth is, I use a product called Preen, which I spread on all my flower beds in early Spring before any weeds start growing.  It works like a charm, and other than an occasional weed popping up here and there, which I pull while watering my flowers, I do not get many weeds in my gardens.

It's not that I don't like weeds.  When I travel in the tin can, I always come upon fields of wild things growing, most of which are weeds.  I find these landscapes breathtaking in their beauty, because who but Mother Nature could design such beauty with such perfection?  Sometimes I will even pull over to the side of the road, grab my camera, and attempt to capture the feeling that washes over me as I look out to the horizon and see the wild grasses and flowering weeds swaying in the wind, with such asymmetry that a natural balance results.

But lets not forget that I have OCD.  I have often dreamed of achieving that perfect landscape in my own backyard, but every attempt falls short, and usually ends up looking like an abandoned parking lot.
So I ditched my efforts to play Mother Nature, and created carefully sculpted flower gardens with pretty mulch covering the base, and the weeds that crop up are ugly, life-sucking, choking plants that propagate faster than an Irish Catholic mother and, left alone, would destroy all the beautiful flowers around them.  So I use Preen, and I pluck daily, and my flower beds look neat and clean, the way the flower beds of an obsessive compulsive gardener should look.


One of my favorite times of each day is early in the morning, when the sun is just peeking over the horizon and the dew begins to glisten.  The birds are waking up, singing their joyous songs, while the nocturnal animals are bedding down.  It is a quiet time, a time to pour a comforting cup of fresh coffee, and water my flowers.  As I water, I keep a keen eye out for an errant weed, promptly plucked and thrown in the mulch pile, which has become less of a mulch pile and more of a weed pile, because weeds will grow anywhere, even after being plucked.  This morning, though, my usual optimism at the dawning of a new day was hampered by some nagging worries.

My family is going through when of those times
when things just aren't going right, and little
problems keep popping up.  I thought,

"Wouldn't it be awesome if I could write a blog post with a mind blowing metaphor for the weeds in my garden and the weeds in my life?"

But I can't.  The fact is, there is no Preen for life.  There is no magic dust we can sprinkle around us to prevent chocking, life-sucking, messy, ugly things from popping up.  Oh sure, we can take steps to simplify our lives, we can build a rainy day fund for unexpected bills.  We can fill our lives with positive, caring people, avoid those who would bring us down, and help those we are capable of lifting up.  We can plan, organize, keep calendars, and be on top of things, but still, the weeds will pop up.  We really cannot control (even when we have OCD) the things that happen to us.  Job stress, busy family schedules, accidents, gas prices going up, a friend who is in trouble but can't see it, and appliances breaking down are all attempts to ruin our day, if we let them.  I'm pretty sure no one plans to end up in the ER with a sick or broken child, we don't hope for drains to back up, and we don't anticipate opening the mail to find a bill we had no idea was coming.  We didn't mean to leave the car windows down overnight when the sprinklers would run the next morning, or find a stain on our shirt after we're half-way to work.  We certainly don't intend to get cancer, have heart attacks, or develop dementia.  But all these things happen, all the time.  The weeds just keep popping up, distracting us from the beauty and purity of a perfect life.

I don't have a great solution for this.  All I know is, when the ugly, messy, choking problems pop up, I like to pluck them right away.  If I ignore them, they get bigger, they spread, and suddenly I've got a major problem.

Spider Wort at 7:00am

Spider Wort at 3:00pm

Several years ago, my sister-in-law suggested I plant a flower in my garden called Spider Wort.  It has multiplied and become one of my favorite plants.  Not only is it beautiful, but it has the most fascinating habit.  When I wake up in the morning, I am greeted with hundreds of small, yet stunning, blue-purple blooms, but by 3:00 every afternoon, they are gone.  Next morning, they are there, next afternoon, they are gone.  The blooming season for Spider Wort is quite long, and for several weeks each summer, I eagerly watch for the flowers to disappear and reappear, fascinated with the precise timing and coordination of it.  Every day, the Spider Wort gives me a brand new gift.  It is beautiful.

I don't need to employ weed control around the Spider Wort, because it spreads so profusely that it's roots choke out the weeds.  Unlike other flowers, like the delicate lily, the Spider Wort is too beautiful to be bothered by weeds.  So I guess we have a choice in life; do we want to be a delicate lily that needs to be tended to in order to save it from the choking weeds, or do we want to be the Spider Wort, that is so strong and beautiful that it won't allow itself to be diminished by the weeds?

I'm pretty sure you know which one I choose, but just so you know, for years my husband gave me a lily plant for Mother's Day, and it always died.  I finally got up the courage to tell him I hate lilies.  He doesn't bring me a flowering plant on Mother's Day anymore, but he did plant of small field of wildflowers in the back yard.  They are the most beautiful weeds I've ever seen.  Which leads me to my metaphor.  (Geez, I'm on a roll today!)

Most people think weeds are undesirable.  But they really can be beautiful.  Maybe the weeds

that pop up in our lives are disguised as ugly, messy, choking problems, but in the solutions to those problems, do we not often find something better?  Just something to think about on this wonderful day.

Keep plucking.  You never know what you'll find when the weeds are gone
.

New Places, New Faces, Same Story…Awesome!

I am one of those annoying people who watched a movie a few years ago, jumped on the bandwagon, and wrote my own Bucket List.  It's a long one, with the top two lines reading "Alaska in the Tin Can",  and "Write A Story".  Further down the list is "Camp One Night in Each of Michigan's State Park Campgrounds".  To that end, I spent last weekend at Port Crescent State Park, at the tip of the thumb in Michigan, along the Great Lakes Bay Region.  I've never before gone east to camp in my great state, so I was apprehensive, mostly about the reported snake population that thrives in the reedy, marshy waters of Lake Huron's shoreline.

The day I left home was my favorite kind of summer day; hot, windy, sunny, but with storms threatening in the evening hours.  The iPod was on shuffle, the tin can was clean and packed, and Rooney was in the back seat looking out the window, with what I swear was a smile on his face.  Newfies are known for their solemn faces, but Rooney looked so happy.  Google Maps re-routed me away from the construction zone on M-25 to take me on a delightful, meandering voyage through farmland and wind turbine fields.  Stretched out in front of me were no less than 100 wind turbines, possibly more.  The majestic towers spun lazily in the breeze, waving to me and sending me along my way.  It was rather awesome.

I came upon a roadside rest stop, and discovered the first site of a natural disaster responded to by the Red Cross.  I then continued along M-25 to catch glimpses of Lake Huron, and storm clouds building in the sky far away over the cold water.  When I pulled into Port Crescent State Park, I knew I still had plenty of time to set up camp before the storms, yet I felt rushed to complete my camp so I could watch the storm approach while sitting on the beach.

The tin can was ready to be inhabited with 20 minutes to spare.  I walked Rooney while we could still stay dry, then settled into my camp chair under the awning and felt the wind shift as electricity filled the air.  I could actually smell the rain coming, and with the first distant rumble of thunder, I felt my surroundings change as the storm came upon me.

It was a lovely storm; not dangerous from where I was sitting, just a brilliant display of light and sound reminding me of how powerless we are to stop nature, and how lucky we are to experience it.

The storms came and went all weekend, but it didn't stop Rooney and me from exploring the park and meeting other campers.  I have always
found that each state park in Michigan attracts a certain "type" of camper, and at Port Crescent I found the best kind of people.  Every camper I met didn't care what the weather was doing, they had come to enjoy the peace of camping along the shoreline of a Great Lake, get outside to walk slowly and take in their surroundings, and share their stories over a fire.  They were a friendly bunch who respected each other's privacy.  And, of course, they all fell in love with Rooney.

Speaking of Rooney, he once again has a brown tail, instead of his usual black and white.  He really must learn not to back up to the bonfire.  While I appreciate torch light, the smell of burnt hair that still lingers in the tin can is unpleasant, at best, and downright sickening when a rainy day turns the odor to wet, burnt hair.  As with the other times, his hair is so thick he never even knew he was on fire until I tackled him to the ground at beat him with a blanket.  I assure you, his expression quickly reverted to the Newfie "sad look".



All in all, Port Crescent gave me exactly what I needed for this trip.  Sunny days, stormy nights, and wonderful campground hosts who were knowledgable about the area and gave good suggestions for things to do.  The campground is quite secluded, miles from the nearest town of Port Austin, and make sure you fill your gas tank in Caseville before you arrive.  Though the black flies were biting, and there are no trails within the campground, and dogs can't go anywhere near the beach without a DNR officer appearing out of nowhere, the campground was clean and my site was on the beach.  The sunsets were stunning, the driftwood was spectacular, and the staff, hosts, and campers were a friendly group, making my stay rather enjoyable.  For a quiet weekend, I would return there to regain peace and perspective in a busy life.  As a side note, I am most pleased to report that I didn't see a single snake.  They must not have known I was coming.

"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 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!

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!