Family Camping at The Straits

For the past week I have returned to Michigan's Upper Peninsula, but this camping trip has been drastically different, because my family came with me.  I had been excited for this trip ever since my husband, Steve, suggested a family camping trip, but it was also something I had to completely prepare myself for mentally.  Camping alone in the woods in my beloved tin can is what I do; camping with 7 people in the tiny Twinkie is another thing all together!

I have camped with Steve before, so I knew what to expect.  We would spend very little time at the campsite, instead spending our days driving to a crowded tourist destination, then walking like cattle being herded into chutes to catch a brief glimpse of something spectacular, then back in the car to drive somewhere else.  Steve loves tourist attractions!  Don't get me wrong, tourist attractions are crowded for a reason.  They are very interesting and nifty places, they are just chock-full of people, which is not where I like to be.  Crowds make me nervous.  But I made up my mind to really enjoy this trip, it being a special treat to have my kids carve time out of their busy work and sports schedules to join us, a time for reconnecting with my college sophomore Max and his girlfriend Lauren, and my high school senior Keely and her boyfriend Connor, and of course, my 11 year old, Nina.

I arrived at Straits State Campground in St. Ignace, with it's stunning views of the Bridge, on Wednesday.  I set up camp, including two tents and a tin can, and waited impatiently for Steve and Nina to arrive on Thursday.  Once they did, we took off on our bicycles to explore the park.

We came upon this intriguing and lovely path through the woods.  I was rather dismayed to see a sign prohibiting bikes.  What?  No bikes?  Sure, there were jagged boulders jutting out at eye level, and the tree roots created Mother Nature's inspiration for obstacle courses, but I would have been up for the challenge.  Sadly, I am a rule follower, so we abandoned the bikes and set off on foot.  Tripping over roots, breathing hard on the uphill climbs, we wove through trees and around rocks, enjoying the silence and peaceful experience of walking in the woods, when Nina turned around to say something to me and stopped in her tracks, eyes frozen.  I looked behind me, and in a narrow break through the trees, we had a stunning vision of the Mackinac Bridge.  If she hadn't turned around, we never would have seen it!

The Straits is a typical State campground, but as each park has something unique to offer, here it is the breathtaking views of Lake Huron melding with Lake Michigan under a 5-mile long  bridge connecting lower and upper Michigan.  Steve, Nina and I walked the shoreline of the blue water lake, with it's desolate beauty and captivating view of Mackinac Island, the Grand Hotel seen far off as a sentinel watching over the water.  Because of the tannic acid leeching from the trees, rivulets of orange, oily water run from the shore to Lake Huron, giving new meaning to the term "mineral water".

Straits State Park was built in 1924 as a simple day use park, but in the 1940's tent sites were cleared along the shoreline.  The booming travel trailer industry in the 1950's, combined with the construction of the Mackinac Bridge, led the state to expand Straits, adding 130 campsites in the lower campground and developing the upper campground with 145 sites in the 70's.

The history of the Straits is colorful and rich.  In 1634, Jean Nicolet traveled through here seeking a passage to China.  He didn't find it, but found instead a lot of animals with fur!  He began the Fur Trading Industry between the French and American Indians.  1723 marked the construction of Fort Michilimackinac for the French to conduct their fur trading.  For several years after, the British and French fought over the fort and fur, but in 1781, Fort Michilimackinac was moved to Mackinac Island.  It bounced between the French, British, and American soldiers for control, but by the 1860's, the fur trade had died and fishing became the major industry in the Straits.  Tourism was born at this time on Mackinac Island, and in 1887, the Grand Hotel was built on the island in just 4 months, with only 300 construction workers!  The bridge was completed in 1957, and the rest, as they say, is history. Now a major tourist destination, St. Ignace offers ferry service to the island, and boasts a quaint town of shops, restaurants, and motels.  The Straits campground, conveniently located 2 minutes from downtown, is a very popular campground, with a feeling of remoteness but close proximity to tourist attractions.

After exploring the many natural beauties the park has to offer, we spend a restful night at the campsite.  Well, Steve and Nina had a restful night in the tin can.  I was forced to sleep in the tent, and while I normally sleep well outside, the pack of dogs, or possibly coyotes, that fought for whatever they fight for at night kept me wide awake.  That, coupled with my excitement for Friday, kept me from sleeping much, but no worries; I was too pumped up to grab a lifelong dream the next morning to feel tired.

Friday morning found us in the car, driving north, to Tahquamenon State Park.  As a young child, my parents had taken me to the general area, but I never saw the falls, and I have waited since then for the opportunity to return there.  It was worth the wait!  The weather was a little chilly and rainy, so not as many tourists as usual were there, and once the sun broke through the clouds we ended up with a nice day to row a boat over the river to explore the lower falls on foot.  I highly recommend this, since you can only see all 5 lower falls by rowing over to the other side.

I don't know if the falls are always like this, or if the recent drought has dropped the water levels, but we could walk right out onto the rock slabs and actually become one with the falls.  We picked our way over rocks and viewed the lower falls from underneath them; it was inspiring and awesome and surreal.  Who can beat being romantically rowed through the Tahquamenon River by your husband to embark on a journey to see one of God's miracles?  As we continued to walk the path along the river to the next falls, the crowd thinned out (wimps!) and we found ourselves alone for a time, just me, Steve and Nina and the river.  I was overcome with emotion, at finally being here, being a part of it, and for once, I was grateful not to be experiencing it alone.  I turned to Steve with tears streaming down my face.  He knew, I didn't have to say a word.

The upper falls are more spectacular, and it is a simple walk down a paved path to see them.  Again, Nina and I walked right out to the top of the falls and looked over.  But I found myself liking the lower falls better.  The twisting trees in the water, the constant current swirling around rocks and roots, the new surprise around every bend, the walk on a dirt path through the woods were all a part of exploring the way the first people who ever saw the falls explored them.  I felt very native, going back in time and feeling my Native American ancestry and wondering if I love it so much because they, the Indians, loved it so.  

Once we returned to the campsite that evening, I only had a moment to bask in the glory of the falls before a flurry of activity.  We had to hurry up and wait for Max, Lauren, Keely and Connor to get here!  I had their tent all ready, with cots and mattresses, sleeping bags, extra blankets, and a roaring campfire to greet them.  Seven camp chairs were set in a close circle around the fire, with errant embers burning small holes in the seats, so that upon their arrival we could just be together.  The brief fall of rain just prior to their getting here couldn't dampen my fire, and it was perfect.

However, the kids, as Nina calls them, came rolling in at 11:30pm, exhausted from working all day and driving 5 hours, so we did not linger around the fire.  The kids crawled into the tent, Nina and Steve went inside Twinkie, and I retired to my tent cot.  Putting my shoes underneath the cot and zipping myself into my little cocoon, I looked up through the peep hole and saw stars, millions of stars, and fell into a deep sleep.

It had to happen though.  I've been lucky this summer, having spent much time in snake infested habitats all by myself, but not actually seeing one.  Waking at 3:00am, I had to pee.  I stayed put for a while, hoping I could just fall back to sleep, but by 3:30 I knew I had to get up.  Unzipping the tent, I reached underneath for my shoes when my hand felt something thick and slimy.  Of course, I screamed and zipped up the tent.  Forcing myself, out of bladder necessity, to peek out the opening with a flashlight, I saw a round sleek body curled over the top of my shoe, with its head inside.  In one jump, I made it into the tin can, where I used the bathroom and then pushed Nina over in her bed to join her.

It doesn't matter that, in retrospect, I realized it wasn't a snake, it was a slug.  But give me some credit, the slugs up here are really, really big.  I was awake the rest of the night, trying to remind myself to breathe.

Saturday dawned, and this was the day Steve and Max had so been looking forward to.  After a quick breakfast and showers, we loaded up and drove to Hessel, Michigan for the Les Cheneaux Historical Society Antique Wooden Boat Show.  What an amazing day it turned out to be.  First, though, it must be said:  the crowd was huge.  We shuffled through roped off docks one by one, hemmed in on all sides by others spectators, looking down at the lower docks where the boats were moored.  While it made me long for wide open spaces, and at times I heard myself screaming in my head to get out of there, I was at least momentarily distracted from the humanity by the boats themselves.  They were gorgeous, and the time, effort, blood, sweat and tears it must have taken for their owners to restore them was impressive.  A few were even for sale, and as soon as I win the lottery I am going to buy one for Steve.

My husband was in seventh heaven.  We lost him in the crowd as he lingered over each boat, asking the owners all about their history and restoration process.  Once the kids and I had enough, we left him behind and entered the very long line to buy fresh made kettle corn, which turned out to be quite possibly the best kettle corn ever made.  My second favorite part of the day was seeing the boats that had that extra little touch, a bit of decorating.  This made me ponder; if adding a bit of glamour to a campsite is called "glamping", then is adding glamour to your boat called "gloating"?  Hmmmm…


The kids took off before Steve and I, to stop at Castle Rock.  After climbing countless steps, they were rewarded by standing atop a huge rock to see for miles and miles.  











As Steve and I drove back to the campground, he was lost in thought, dreaming, I suppose, of building a pole barn and equipping it with boat restoration tools.  At the campsite, he asked me to pull up the internet on my computer.  I wandered around the campsite with my cell phone, trying to find that one spot where I could get a signal, then propped the phone on a tree branch and activated my mobile hot spot.  Steve happily searched for antique wooden boats for sale on the internet while Max made us dinner.  All in all, a great day, despite the crowds, ending with a rainbow on the beach that evening.

I didn't even try to sleep in the tent cot Saturday night.  Connor took possession of it, and I once again crammed myself in a bed in the tin can that is meant for one, which I shared with Nina.  Nina, the talks-in-her-sleep, elbow-jabbing, feet-kicking, restless sleeper.  No rest for the weary, eh?

Sunday morning was again rushed as we prepared breakfast and headed to Mackinac Island on the ferry to go to Mass.  Steve insisted on renting bikes for all of us (really, Steve?  I haven't slept for days and you want me to ride a bike 7 miles around the island?)  then took us up to the Grand Hotel for lunch.  The idea of being at the Grand Hotel was a little intimidating to me, but it seemed really important to Steve that we eat there.  Boy, did we eat!  The lunch buffet that is open to the public is outstanding, with table after table of food.  It was positively decadent.  Also not very smart to eat that much food before we biked around the island.  I spent the entire ride staring longingly at the beach, where I am quite sure I could have napped.  

Even though there were signs posted along the ride warning tourists not to climb the stone outcroppings, the boys and Nina did it anyway.  Steve and I fretted, took pictures, fretted some more, and were relieved when their feet safely touched the ground below.  I wasn't mad though.  What child (or child at heart) could resist?

We bought fudge, ate ice cream, then took the ferry back to St. Ignace.  I was sad to see the kids leave, but they all have jobs they had to get home to, so as they drove off at 7:00pm after lots of hugs and reluctant waves, it was time for Steve, Nina, and me to take down the tents, perform some housekeeping duties with Twinkie, and settle in for another night of Steve and Nina sleeping, and me falling off the edge of the bed in an attempt to escape Nina's kicks.

Steve and Nina packed up their stuff Monday morning, ate a leisurely breakfast by the fire, then took off for home.  I spent the next two delightful hours putting the tin can back to the way she should be, after having 7 people in and out of her all weekend.  But once I had everything "just so", the way I like it, I found myself lonely, wishing Steve and the kids were still here.  Whoa, where did that come from? I assumed that once everyone left, I would be relieved to return to some solitary camping in the woods for a couple of days.  Not so.  I had such a wonderful time with them here, enjoying the kids laughter and all the private jokes we inspired, seeing my husband relaxed and fun, full of love and generosity towards us all, that I wasn't quite ready for it to be over.  Our family needed this vacation together.  With two older teenagers who have separate, busy lives, and Steve stressing over work, and me missing my job, Nina caught somewhere in the middle of it, we were able to put everything aside and just enjoy being together.  It was nice.


I am wrapping up my time here at Straits State Park.  Today I wandered the campground where buying wood is left to the honor system (does my kids' generation even know what that is?) and paths are not for bikes.  I walked to the end of the road in the lower campground, curious about what might be behind the fence marking state property.  I snuck through to find myself standing in a cemetary, and decided that when I die, I want to be buried here.  What an eternal view!



It has been a great trip, the end to a great summer spent exploring Michigan's State Parks.  I suppose the time has come for me to return home, to the real world, with a renewed sense of self to help me tackle life's every day problems with confidence and clarity.  Tonight I will sleep alone in the tin can, missing Nina's warm breath on my face, but at least I will be sleeping and dreaming of waterfalls and my family's smiles.

Future Olympian?

I love watching the Olympics.  Seeing young people from all over the world succeed as a result of incredible determination, focus, and discipline is inspiring.  It also leaves me a little sad that I never had the drive to accomplish something on any platform, let alone a world stage.  (I feel the same way when I watch the Oscars).  The Olympic athletes are all heroes, even those who never stand on the podium and receive a medal.  Just getting there is really something, and I am proud of all the athletes.

Today, I watched the Women's Kayaking.  I love kayaking, though I don't get to do it often enough.  The course was challenging, and I saw several women struggle to get their head inside the red pole, and fight their way up the mechanical current to pass through the green poles that eluded them on the pass down.  I got to thinking, "I could do that.  I could be an Olympian!"  Then I remembered I am old and have a shoulder issue, so the dream quickly died along with the many other dreams I had.

It's probably not the best time for me to watch the Olympics, since I am going through a mid-life crisis of identity.  I never thought I would have a mid-life crisis.  I used to be so together.  For 20 years I was perfectly content to stay at home and raise my family.  But when my son came home from his freshman year of college in May, and we began the typical fight between parents who want some respect from the 19 year old who wants to be an adult (i.e., no rules, no responsibilities, it's summer) it occurred to me that my children are going to leave me.  Eventually, they will do what I have taught them to do; go out in the world and make their own way.  The mid-life crisis hit me right where it hurts.  Where does that leave me?  What am I going to do?  Obviously, because I'm OCD, I will continue to clean my house, because no one else can clean it as well as I, and I will do laundry every day, though less of it.  I suppose I will even cook an occasional meal.  But is that it?  I want a paycheck!  I want to do something that earns the respect of my grown children and my husband, something that speaks of who I am beyond a mom.  The problem is, I got nothin'.

In a rare moment of open and honest discussion, I brought this very topic up with my 19 year old son, Max, last night.  He came home early, which immediately made me suspect that something was wrong, and joined me by the campfire I was enjoying.  We had a nice long talk after he assured me that no, nothing was wrong, he was just tired and wanted to come home (Gasp!).  It was the best night I have had with Max this summer, talking about life, working out a few issues we've had, speaking of youth and adulthood and balance.  I apologized to Max for not being much fun to be around lately, and tried to explain a little bit about my personal identity crisis, because he is old enough now to hear his mother speak as a person, not just his mom.  I told him that I just want to find something I am very good at, that I love doing.  Quietly, Max said,

"You already have."  Thinking that my son was about to tell me I am a good mom, instead he surprised me by saying, "You build a great campfire".

It took me a minute to let that sink in, but he was right.  I do build a great campfire, and I love doing it.  If it were an Olympic sport, I would be on that podium, with my national anthem playing and a gold medal around my neck.  I have trained 25 years building campfires, and they bring people joy and comfort.  Yeah, I'm that good.

I find it rather uplifting that Max, a college sophomore, still sees me as a hero, even in the smallest way.  It may be difficult for him to adjust to being home again for the summer, and it is certainly difficult for me to adjust to a son who doesn't need me much anymore.  But in the middle of my very adult issues, he finds a way to make me a hero.  I love that kid.  Umm, man.  Boy.  Whatever.

Max doesn't realize it, but he helped me find a new and better way of thinking about my mid-life crisis. If I can be a Gold-Medal campfire builder, what else can I do?  Can I grow to be a serious blogger?  Can I find a job with the Department of Natural Resources and spend my time doing something I love? Can I travel more often in a tin can and meet people and change their lives in small but significant ways?  Maybe.

Max gave me hope.  He planted the seed of thought that even though my children will leave me, they will still love me as I love them so very much.  He made me believe that I have done something right, which means I still have time to do more things and eventually find the thing that will define me.

As my fire burned down last night, I impulsively added one more log, trying to prolong this newly found connection with my son where we can both act like adults and enjoy something simple together.  But as the log sparked and the flame took flight, Max stood up and said, "Night, mom".  I finished the bonfire alone, but that's okay.  I do most things alone anyway, which made my brief time with Max that much sweeter.  I may not be an Olympian, but I am a mom, a hero, and a person who is ready to let my kids go and always be ready to welcome them back.  I am ready to be more.  Doesn't that deserve a medal?  Or at least a hug from my son, which is even better.

War and Peace

Woodstock.  Vietnam.  Make love, not war.  These are a few of the topics discussed with my temporary neighbors on a recent camping trip to the U.P. of Michigan.  And that was just the first night.  Subsequent nights led to conversations about Jesus, doing Acid in the 60's, (them, not me) veterans, Agent Orange, naughty neighbors, helping people, religion, faith, flower power, and handguns.  And dogs.

My new friends were interesting, to say the least.  But Al and Terri are also the most open, generous, kind, and giving people I've met in a long time.  They are one of the things I love most about camping.  You get to meet real, honest-to-goodness hippies.

The trip began as a campus visit to Northern Michigan University for my daughter, but in usual Kiki fashion I extended my stay to include camping on the shores of Lake Superior, some nights alone, and a couple of nights with my girls.  Another mom, Dinah, and her daughter joined us as well for the campus tour.  Dinah had never camped, and I'm not entirely sure she liked it, but never once did she complain and we had a really good time.  I love introducing people to "living in God's country", taking in the beautiful nature around us and meeting other people of like minds.  Or, in the case of Al and Terri, people of slightly different minds.

After a very long drive, pulling an ancient tin can that is still making a horrible racket under the hubcap,   I arrived at my destination, Gitche Gummi Campground on Lake Superior.  Upon pulling in, the first thing I saw was a rather old man jogging down the drive, wearing running shoes, a speedo swimsuit, and nothing else, unless you count the white zinc covering his nose and lips.  It was a startling sight.  Even more startling was when he stopped at my car, asked who I was, and told me to drive down the hill and find my site, he'd check on me after his run.  I had just met the campground owner, Jeff. He makes a helluva first impression.


First impressions are important.  They are also often wrong.  The big picture in my head as I drove through the campground looking for my site was that of a run-down ugly mess.  But as I continued to circle the campsites, four times because I couldn't find my site, I realized that the dirt and gravel road was rather smooth.  I would later discover that the road was in such good condition because every evening Jeff hooked an ancient grader up to his ancient Chevy and pulled it through the campground several times, leveling the bumps and filling the holes to keep it smooth.  What I first thought was junk piled everywhere was actually art, metal sculptures and displays made by none other than Jeff to depict the history of tools used in the area long ago, tools that defined the way of life in the U.P.  The dark buildings obscured by trees were actually stunning log structures, again all built by Jeff, that housed the showers and restrooms, a fudge factory, library, and billiards hall.

         

Gitche Gummi campground was, at one time, a thriving and beautiful oasis on the shores of an unforgiving lake.  I'm told that ten years ago, you had to make your reservations there a year in advance in order to get in.  Jeff had the financial means to keep up with the many, many updates and repairs continually needed in a campground.  Then the economy tanked, the weather didn't cooperate, and now Jeff is a solitary old man just trying to get by and do the best he can.  He works so hard!  From early morning to late evening, every day, Jeff does what he can to keep his campground running.  Before my time there ended, I came to appreciate all that Jeff does, rather than all that he needs to do.  I also came to love Gitche Gummi campground and the people I met there, planning to return next year for an even longer stay.

First things first, though.  I couldn't find my campsite.  I saw little wooden posts with the site number carved into the sides.  I saw #39, #43, #44, #45 and so on, but where was #41?  Finally, on my fourth pass, I stopped in front of a Van/RV covered in flower power and peace decals, and asked the woman outside if she knew where my site was.  She pointed to the site right next to hers and said,

"It's right there!  Didn't you see the sign?"  She then proceeded to crawl under a very large bush, part the branches, and reveal the post that said #41.  Ah.

Once I went through the ritual of setting up camp, I took a moment to look around and realized my site was absolutely perfect!  When I had originally contacted Jeff for a reservation, he asked me what kind of site I like, saying it is very important to match the right guest with the right site.  He could not have been more spot-on with what I wanted.  The site was small and secluded, tucked into a corner.  I had a level high-rise on which to park my camper, hook-ups were conveniently placed close to the trailer but out of sight, and Jeff had piled wood chips in the corner where I would put the girls' tent.  The site then dropped off sharply to a depression of thick undergrowth and towering pine trees.  It was lovely and private.  A large boulder sat near the firepit, providing a natural table between two camp chairs.  The ground was soft enough near the tent to spear my Spirit Pole into the earth, protecting the entrance to the tent and calling to the elusive wolf that I have yet to see.

Jeff had told me if I needed any help, ask the couple right behind me in the hippie van.  I hated to intrude, but I could not get the awning over the tent by myself, it takes 2 people.  I asked, and Al jumped right up to help.  We put the awning up, set it in place, and chatted for a bit.  He was very friendly, couldn't wait to introduce me to his "beautiful wife", and invited me to their site later to enjoy a fire.

Because Dinah and the three girls would be arriving the following day, it took me five hot and sweaty hours to get everything set up.  In the evening I finally showered and felt somewhat human again, so I built a small fire and settled in to sew little plastic tabs on my new curtains, wanting to get them hung before the girls came.  As I sat and sewed, (if you know me at all, you know I do not sew!) I became aware of a melody drifting through the air, a voice that seemed to come from the heavens and still my heart.  This beautiful voice sang hymns of joy and praise, filling me with peace.  Walking around my camper, I was surprised that the singing came not from a stereo, but from Al's wife, Terri.  It was beautiful and uplifting, and as I thanked Terri for sharing her lovely voice, she blushed and shrugged her shoulders.  A gift of song, accompanied by humbleness.

The more I learned about Al and Terri, the more I looked forward to our next conversation.  They have lived through much, and still are fighting an unacknowledged war with the V.A.  They survived the 60's , Al returned from Vietnam with lifelong nightmares and the effects of Agent Orange, Terri went through a time of ill health, in addition to the many difficulties we all share of making a living and raising a family.  But their laughter is quick to come and lasts long, their smiles are bright and frequent, and their love of God and country is strong.

Terri led me to the field of wildflowers from which I cut a beautiful bouquet to brighten my campsite.  Al told me how to find the giant sand dune well behind the campground.  They introduced me to Tippy, the golden retriever who loves to play catch, and White Paw, the little puppy of undetermined breeding who only wants to be loved.  When the dogs barked, Terri would tell them no, then count, as if a parent to a child, 1…2…3…don't make me say 4!  and the dogs would stop.  Al and Terri dressed in matching outfits, happily walked their dogs, swam in Lake Superior, picked wild blueberries, and relaxed in the Flower Power RV.  They cooked outside, took the time to look around them, met and helped other campers, and laughed a lot.  They were great camping neighbors.

The evening before we would spend the day at Northern Michigan University, I was informed by my daughter that we would all spend the next night in a nice hotel.  Worried about leaving my camper for a night, I was assured by Al and Terri that they would keep watch over the tin can.  Terri said,

"We've got The Judge on our side!"  Confused, Terri then reached into the van amid the Peace decals and produced a Taurus handgun called "The Judge".  Having recently completed a CPL course, I was fascinated to find that these people, who believe in peace, love, and happiness, had their own licenses to carry concealed handguns, and their "Make love, not war" RV contained an arsenal of weapons.  But based on their use of safe handling techniques, their knowledge of their guns, and their attitude toward life, I concluded that Al and Terri are responsible, legal gun owners.  Even though I have a CPL, I have yet to buy a handgun, so I was actually comforted by the fact that Al and Terri had my back.

After our campus tour (during which my daughter emphatically pronounced she would not go to a college so far away from…anything) and our night in the hotel, I bid my girls farewell and returned to the tin can and my new friends.  Because it was raining, I used Jeff's laundry room to wash and dry my bedding, cleaned the tin can, and settled in for a lovely rainy afternoon of reading and blogging, which was the precise moment the sun came out.  I abandoned my book and went for a bike ride, walked the shores of Lake Superior, and took in as much of the surrounding beauty as I could.  I settled up my bill with Jeff, told him I would be leaving in the morning, and Jeff then pronounced me his Camper of the Year and gave me a free Gitche Gummi coffee mug.  It's awesome.

My final evening of my first camping trip ever to Michigan's Upper Peninsula was spent sitting around a campfire with Al and Terri.  They entertained me with stories of  their wealthy yet greedy neighbor back home who intrudes on their land, the young veterans returning from war whom they have helped, and the permanent home they are looking for in the U.P.  We talked about music, faith, and people we have known.  We shared some laughs, enjoyed the quiet comfort of a fire, and hoped for a view of the Northern Lights.

In the midst of our good time, it occurred to me that Al and Terri are at war.  We all are, really.  Our enemies are divorce, addiction, the government, the economy, the loss of a job.  We arm ourselves with positive thoughts and prayers to conquer cancer, depression, or heart disease. We use words as weapons to fight our neighbors, an annoying relative, a boss who crosses the line.  Some are even at war with themselves.  We all fight to protect our feelings, our families, our choices, and our beliefs.  But we also pick our battles, because we know not every battle can be won.  We seek small victories while we keep moving forward, and count those victories as blessings.  And…we don't let the little wars consume us.

Al and Terri are at war, but they are also at peace.  They showed me that having the strength to fight comes with the strength to love and forgive.  Their weapon of choice is kindness, their strategy centered on giving, sharing, and helping.  When Terri sings and Al smiles, you momentarily forget your own battles while you remember what's good.

I met many other nice people at Gitche Gummi.  There was the retired Airstream Salesman, who toured my tin can and gave me some great ideas for further restoration.  I shared a few laughs with the retired couple who, on a whim, drove to Lake Superior without a plan to escape the heat, only to find it was every bit as warm here as it was below the bridge.  There were the homeless teenagers who were lost and didn't care, the man who had brought his 74 year old father-in-law to sleep in a tent for the first time.  Everyone at Gitche Gummi had a story, a smile, and something to share.

If you ever find yourself in the U.P. looking for a place to camp, I hope you'll find your way to Gitche Gummi.  But if you do, don't judge it by your first impression.  Rather, judge it by the impression it will forever stamp on your heart.  Beneath the clutter, beyond the Speedo, and above all else are good people who want to welcome you into their hearts at Gitche Gummi.  And who knows?  Maybe some day, when the economy turns around and things get better for everyone, you will need to reserve in advance, but for now, I like Gitche Gummi just the way it is, and I think you will, too.