Summers at the Lake E-Book

Jon C. Stott

• Herausgeber: Modern History Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 231

Beschreibung

Paddling a canoe into sunrise on the longest day of the year... watching a child take her first kayak ride with her father... gazing at a bald eagle, riding air currents high above the lake... chuckling as a hummingbird defends his feeder against intruders... dodging campfire smoke while burning marshmallows and telling scary stories to wide-eyed kids. These are some of the moments and memories depicted in Summers at the Lake. The essays-often humorous; sometimes tinged with a sweet melancholy--celebrate the people and events marking the progress of the seasons--from the budding of the first green leaves of May to their falling, gold and scarlet, in September. These prose poems capture the joy of simple, lake-side living and quiet reflection.
"Jon Stott is a masterful storyteller. In Summers at the Lake, he shares memories that read like prose poetry. Each story takes us to a place of solitude and beauty and will stir pleasant memories of our own."
--Sharon Kennedy, author of The Sideroad Kids: Tales from Chippewa County
"This gentle book by a gentle man is the kind that grows on you. Reading it will give you the same benefits as meditating in lovely surroundings in peace and calmness."
--Bob Rich, author of From Depression to Contentment
"In Summers at the Lake, much can be learned about life in the U.P. and its enjoyable places. You can explore the wonders of the U.P. while dipping your toes into the everyday experiences of life near Crooked Lake."
--Sharon Brunner, U.P. Book Review
"Jon C. Stott delightfully describes the many joys of lakeside living with the unchanging activities of summer. Deb Le Blanc's photos will make readers feel as if they are right there at the cabin, next to the author."
--Carolyn Wilhelm, MA, Midwest Book Review

Leseprobe

Summers at the Lake: Upper Michigan Moments and Memories

Copyright © 2022 by Jon C. Stott. All Rights Reserved

Photography by Deb Le Blanc

ISBN 978-1-61599-669-8 paperback

ISBN 978-1-61599-670-4 hardcover

ISBN 978-1-61599-671-1 eBook

Published by

Modern History Press

5145 Pontiac Trail

Ann Arbor, MI 48105

www.ModernHistoryPress.com

[email protected]

Tollfree 888-761-6268

FAX [phone]

Distributed by Ingram (USA/CAN/AU), Bertram’s Books (UK/EU)

Audiobook available Audible.com and iTunes

Dedication

To the memory of my father and Carol, who both loved “our” lakes—JCS

To the memory of my parents, Ralph and Coral, who loved the Upper Peninsula—DKL

Contents

Table of Figures

Summers at the Lake Points of Interest Map

Key to Summers at the Lake Points of Interest Map

Preface – The Little Cabin in the Big Woods

Introduction – Rainy Day Magic

Chapter 1 - Dreaming and Arriving

Chapter 2 - Right Around Home ... Work and Play

Chapter 3 - Avian Encounters

Chapter 4 - The Great Indoors

Chapter 5 - Flowers, Trees, and Stumps

Chapter 6 - Day Tripper

Chapter 7 - On the Dock of the Bay

Chapter 8 - September Songs

Afterword

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Photographer

Index

Table of Figures

Fig. 1-1: Wild Rose

Fig. 1-2: Another picture-perfect sunset over Crooked Lake

Fig. 2-1: Unripe blueberries

Fig. 2-2: White Tailed Deer

Fig. 2-3: Blue Iris

Fig. 3-1: Ruby-throated Hummingbird

Fig. 3-2: The Common Loon

Fig. 3-3: The Great Blue Heron takes flight

Fig. 4-1: The Shelf: matchbox motorhome at right

Fig. 5-1: Forget-Me-Nots

Fig. 5-2: “The Graveyard of Trees”

Fig. 6-1: Au Sable Light Station

Fig. 7-1: This dock was made for sitting

Fig. 7-2: Sand Hill Crane

Fig. 8-1: The ubiquitous Purple Aster: a harbinger of Fall

Fig. 8-2: The Magnificent Monarch Butterfly

Fig. 8-3: Final farewells

Key to Summers at the Lake Points of Interest Map

1. Colwell Lake (Introduction; Chapters 1, 2, 4, 5, 8)

2. Crooked Lake (Introduction; Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8)

3. Seney: Seney National Wildlife Refuge (Chapter 6)

4. Grand Marais: Lake Superior Brewing Company at Dunes Saloon, Pickle Barrel Museum (Chapter 6)

5. Au Sable Point: Au Sable Light Station (Chapter 6)

6. Munising: Sand Point Marsh Trail, East Channel Brewing Company, ByGeorge Brewing Company (Chapters 1, 6, 7, 8)

7. Lakenenland (Chapter 6)

8. Marquette: Snow Bound Books, Lake Superior Smokehouse and Brewpub, Drifa Brewery, Vierling Restaurant and Marquette Harbor Brewing, Ore Dock Brewery, Blackrocks Brewery, Barrel + Beam Brewery (Chapters 4, 6, 8)

9. Escanaba: Hereford and Hops Steak House and BrewPub, Upper Hand Brewery (Chapter 6)

10. Peninsula Point (Chapter 8)

11. Fayette Historical Village (Chapters 6, 8)

12. Cooks: LaTulip Brewery (Chapter 6)

Preface – The Little Cabin in the Big Woods

In 1985, Carol and I bought a cabin beside Crooked Lake in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. We called it “The Little Cabin in the Big Woods.” Since then, I, along with family members and close friends, have spent all or parts of extended summers at the cabin. We have enjoyed being on the lake and by its shore, have visited nearby towns, immersed ourselves in the scenery, and benefited from learning about history through the many historic sites.

Most of the essays in Summers at the Lake are presentations of memories, moments, and musings of and about people, places, and events that have made Crooked Lake summers so special to me and my family. There are also some comparisons between times at Crooked Lake and the years of my boyhood when summers were spent at Shawnigan Lake on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. I have also included a few of the pieces that my father, Art Stott, a columnist for the Victoria Daily Times, wrote about those childhood summers.

No two summers at a lake are the same: the weather can be blisteringly hot one year or miserably moist another; the blueberry crop, a bonanza one year and non-existent another. Old neighbors leave and new ones move in. Children grow up, their youthful enthusiasms replaced by those of their own children. A loon family may survive intact one year, while in another an adult, a chick, or both may be killed. But, underlying these variables, there is an enduring rhythm to a lakeside summer. I have tried to evoke this rhythm in individual pieces and have arranged essays from different years in a way that suggests the natural progression of the seasons. The moments and memories presented here are my own. But I hope that they will evoke for readers memories of similar incidents and feelings at other lakes and at other times.

Introduction – Rainy Day Magic

For the third straight day, it’s cold, rainy, and windy at the lake. Only the dogs want to go outside—they are anxious to splash through the puddles that are growing larger on the path to the dock. In spite of the weather, I don’t feel grumpy; I recall the old saying that every cloud has a silver lining, and I remember two wonderful times when that saying came true for us.

In late June 1971, we rented a tent trailer and spent our first night camping at a State Park on the Lower Peninsula of Michigan. The weather was fine; we established a very close relationship with our neighbors, whose tent was pitched only a few feet from our trailer; and we increased our stamina by hiking and pushing Clare’s overloaded stroller along the bumpy path to the beach, which was over a quarter of a mile away.

That night, Carol brought out a very thick Michigan camping guide she’d bought. “Here’s something interesting,” she said and then read a short paragraph about a primitive campground at Colwell Lake in an Upper Peninsula National Forest. There were pit toilets and no electricity, but each site fronted onto the water.

The next morning, the weather had turned cold and rainy as we pulled off M-94 and a vigorous north wind was churning Colwell Lake into whitecaps. I stopped in front of a vacant campsite and Carol got out to look around. She walked through the trees toward the lake and when she returned, she was smiling. “We’ve been looking for this kind of place for years.”

The weather didn’t improve very much over the next few days, but we knew we’d found our spot. Even when we moved from Kalamazoo to Edmonton, Canada, and the drive to Colwell Lake became two-and-a-half days instead of eight hours, we never wanted to camp anywhere else.

In 1985, we rediscovered the truth about rainy days and silver linings. We’d made the long drive from Western Canada to Colwell Lake where we were meeting up with very close friends—Bob, Barb, and Diane from Kalamazoo and Jan and Craig from Kingston, Ontario.

We’d planned very carefully and, to make the week somewhat luxurious, we rented a motor home from a guy in Marquette. But things didn’t work out as smoothly as scheduled. The motor home was a piece of junk: the generator wouldn’t hold a charge and so the fridge didn’t work, and you need a screwdriver to open the door from the inside. At least it didn’t leak. The friend Clare had brought along from Edmonton was not a happy camper, especially when she discovered that there was no electricity for her hair dryer. Then the two of them had a falling out when both developed crushes on the teenage boy camping next door.

And so, on a day like today—cold, rainy and windy—Clare, Craig and Jan, and I decided to take a walk to Crooked Lake, the next one over from the campground. On earlier camping trips, when it was too cold to be at the beach, we’d often walked there and fantasized about how nice it would be to have one of the cabins. We never thought that could happen.

Just as we were about to turn around and head back to the campground, we saw a for-sale sign at the end of a driveway. We knocked on the door of the cabin, asked the owner the price, and, when we found out how low it was, I made an offer on the spot. Our cloud that day did have a silver lining.

Now, I try never to complain about wet, windy weather. Because of two rainy days, we’ve had countless golden moments that have been transmuted into priceless memories.

1

Dreaming and Arriving

In autumn and early winter, after I’ve closed up camp and returned to Albuquerque, the city of the pavements gray, the lake seems incredibly distant in both time and space, seems almost to be unreal. But in mid-winter, as the days gradually lengthen and the sun’s warmth increases, I find myself thinking about the place where I’ll be arriving when the snows have melted and the white petals of the service berries have floated gently to the ground. As the countdown to the time of departure begins, I begin planning and preparation. The journey is a happy one, filled with the pleasures of anticipation. The incidents of travel and arrival may vary in details, but emotions stirred are always similar: an increasing excitement of returning to and reconnecting with the life of a place I have loved for so many decades.

Dreaming of Trails

Last night, I sat before a small winter fire watching the flames flicker and then turn into glowing coals. I’d been reading one of my Christmas gifts, Robert Moor’s On Trails: an Exploration, an interesting collection of autobiographical, historical, descriptive, philosophical and meditative essays structured around an account of his hiking the 2,193 mile Appalachian Trail.

My mind wandered to the Little Cabin in the Big Woods, and I started to doze, dreaming of trails. It frequently happens sometime in January when I realize that in four or five months, I’ll be arriving back at Crooked Lake. Then I start envisioning the trails I’ll be walking, pedaling, or paddling along when I get there. These won’t be major expeditions, just short excursions along familiar paths.

The first path will be down to and then along the lakeshore. I think about the excitement I’ll feel as I reach the dock and see how high or low the water level is. Then I’ll stroll along the shore noticing where the long green blades of the iris plants will soon thrust above the water, bringing their promise of blue flowers to come. I’ll check to see if the wild rose bush has made it through the winter, remembering how, many springs ago, I’d go early each morning to pick a bud, bring it home, put it in a brandy snifter, and place it on the table where Carol and I would sit, sipping our coffee and looking out the window at the light of the rising sun playing on the trees across the lake.

Fig. 1-1: Wild Rose

Later in the day, I’ll pedal my old bike along two different trails. On the first, a two track behind our place, I’ll go very slowly, casting my eyes right and left, looking for clumps of blueberry bushes. If I arrive earlier in the season, there will be little white blossoms; if it’s later, there will be young berries, hard little green bbs. But I’ll be able to forecast how bountiful the harvest will be in late July.

Late in the afternoon, I’ll put on my bright yellow safety vest and pedal out to the highway to pick up the Mining Journal. If there’s not too much traffic and I’m fortunate, I may see reminders I’m biking through a wild forest: a deer bounding across the road ahead of me before crashing through the underbrush; a snapping turtle planting itself defiantly in the middle of the road, glaring angrily as if daring me to pass; a small owl on a branch twisting its head to get a better look at the strange wheeled creature who’s going “whoo, whoo” at it.

And finally, I’ll imagine a morning when the lake is calm and, for the first time of the season, I’ll follow its invisible trails, paddling a few strokes and then gliding through the mist rising from the water, enjoying the aroma of someone’s breakfast bacon carried by the slight breeze, feeling the thrill of the sudden and brief appearance of a loon’s head, or smiling at the harsh squawks of a far-off sand hill crane, whose laryngitis-like calls belie its stately nature.

My head drops to my chest, my book falls from my hands onto the floor. I snap awake. The fire has turned into embers. I pick up the book, turn out the lights, and head to bed, thinking that in several weeks, these reveries will be realities.

Sounds in the Night

Last night, I was awakened by the piercing and angry snarl of a motorcycle as it jack-rabbited out from a stop sign onto a main Albuquerque street not far away. Had the cyclist many miles to go before he could sleep? Or was he taking joy at killing the peaceful slumbers of people living close to the stop sign?

Twenty minutes later, the mournful wail of a police siren filled the night. Had there been a serious, even fatal auto accident? Had there been yet another murder in this large southwestern city?

And then, not long after, came the POP, POP, POP of gunfire from the place, a few blocks to the east, that the locals call the “War Zone.” Had angry words been exchanged in the parking lot of a bar, and had someone tried to punctuate the words of the argument with a Saturday night special? Or had a driver slowed down to fire at the front windows of what he thought was the home of an enemy?

When the quiet returned, I thought about what sounds I might hear if it were late spring and I were awake at a lake so far away.

Perhaps the haunting ululations of a loon would float across the water, as a partner signaled to its mate that all was well and that it would soon be back at the nest to warm the eggs that would crack open with new life in a few days.

Perhaps the leaves of the popple outside my window rustle in the predawn breeze or a pine cone hits the roof with a soft thud and rolls across the shingles and lands on the ground where a few of its seeds might sprout into tiny young trees.

Or perhaps the scolding of a squirrel who is not really scolding, but announcing to whomever it has awakened that the new day was coming and that it was great to be noisily alive.

And, with these sounds in my mind, I drifted back to sleep.

Counting Sleeps

When we were kids, our parents taught us counting songs so that we could learn our numbers – “One, two, buckle my shoe; three, four, shut the door.” Then, when Andrew and Clare were little, we used to all chant the ditty from “Sesame Street” – “One, two, three, four, five, watch the bees go in the hive.” Over six decades ago, my sisters and I amused ourselves in the car by tallying out-of-state license plates. Most were from Washington, Oregon, and California, but once I proudly spotted one from some place called Michigan.

Now that I’m entering my second childhood, I’m reverting to counting games. I’ve invented one called “Counting Sleeps.” That’s not a typo. I’m like an impatient, excited little kid calculating how long it will be until Santa arrives.

My count doesn’t begin in November and it’s not about Christmas. It usually begins in very early spring, as the days are getting longer and warmer, and it’s about arriving back at the lake that I’d left many long months ago. By the end of September it seemed like I’ve been gone forever and that my return was ice ages away. In March, there may be ice on the lake, but I can already imagine it when the sun is glinting off the water and the fishermen are casting from boats, not huddling in fishing shanties around holes cut in the ice.

I try to be patient and usually start by counting the sleeps left only once a week. But when the anticipation is too great, I drift to sleep imagining that there are no sleeps left and that I’m passing through Green Bay for the last four hours of a drive that began three days earlier. I see us putting into Jack’s Market in Manistique, buying just enough supplies to last for the days I’ll be recovering from the trek. I see the turnoff from M-94 to the road winding through the forest toward the cabin.

Hankie is leaning his labradoodle head out the car window, sniffing intently. I park behind the cabin and open the car door. He leaps out and tears around in circles, releasing energy pent up during the long trip. I pause, listening to hear if there’s a nasty mosquito buzzing next to my ear.

Even before unpacking, I head down to the lake to see how well the dock has weathered the winter and how high the water level is. Then I unlock the door and smell the mustiness of the long-closed interior and begin to unpack the supplies of summer: clothes, books, notes, paper, writing supplies, food, and some craft beer from New Mexico or that I’ve picked up along the way.

The images in my head can’t change the fact that it’s still March and that there’s still ice on the lake. I’ve got lots to get done and miles to drive before I have my first sleep at the cabin. But sometimes the reveries of anticipation get me so excited that I have trouble getting to sleep.

Here … and There

I’m watching a black-chinned hummingbird hovering in front of the flowers of the yellow bird-of-paradise shrub just outside my office window in Albuquerque. And I’m thinking of a ruby-throated hummingbird hovering in front of the screen porch at the lake, checking to see if I’ve refilled the feeder.

I see the tiny lavender-blue flowers of the Russian sage out by the sidewalk. And I’m thinking of the rich blue and purple irises that, in mid-June, will be in full bloom in the swamp beside the road.

Hankie and Trina are tearing around raising great clouds of dust in the backyard. Soon they’ll be water-buffaloing and water-gazelling in the shallows of Crooked Lake.

I can hear the chimneysweep on the roof getting the fireplace ready for late autumn in New Mexico when the cool evenings will be made cozy by the cheery flames and the crisp outside air will be scented by pinon smoke. Then I imagine an evening campfire by the lake, with maple and birch crackling and family and friends softly sharing stories and trying not to burn marshmallows while dodging the shifting smoke and slapping at mosquitoes.

Outside, a flock of pigeons (those sheep of the avian world) are lined up along the power cables and cooing. But, in my mind’s ear, I hear the early morning call of a loon as it searches for breakfast.

In the midst of a very large city in the high desert of the southwest, I think of a little northern fishing lake and the Little Cabin in the Big Woods. As it was for William Wordsworth when he remembered the fields of daffodils in his beloved Lake District of England, “my heart with pleasure fills.” I realize that ruby-throated hummingbirds, irises, campfires, splashing dogs, and loons will soon be a reality.

Preparations

Long ago, when our family lake place in western Canada was only one very long hour away from town, preparing to go to the cabin was a fairly simple matter. My mother would pack a box of groceries (most were canned or packaged) and a duffel bag of clothes (camp wear that included tired jeans, frayed tee shirts, and down-at-the-heel running shoes). We’d be responsible for whatever books or toys we wanted to bring along. There was no need to have the water system activated or the telephone and long distance. The water system was me and two buckets and there was no telephone and no electricity. If we’d left anything behind, our father would bring it with him next weekend.

Now that the lake I go to is a three-and-a-half day drive away and I spend all the summer there, the preparations are more detailed and careful. I begin them two or three weeks before departure: calls to the plumber and handyman to start the water system and remove the heavy shutters from the windows and screen porch, and notifications to the phone company to have the internet and long-distance plan activated and to Brenda at the Mining Journal to begin delivery on the day I arrive. I’ve been sorting and packing clothes, some well-on in years that will be used when I do some house painting, some for the really hot days (not many of those) and more for the damp, rainy ones and the chilly mornings. Then some food staples that are not available in the UP: Desert Seasonings, packets of New Mexico style spices for dips, and some Hatch chili (red and green). And I always take along a sampling of local craft brews to bring to our annual share-the-beers night.

But the most important preparation I begin when there are five days to go before I leave. I start growing my summer beard. I begin to look like someone you wouldn’t want to meet when you’re walking your dog by the dawn’s early light. I don’t try to look scruffy; it’s that I need to have a beard in a week.

That’s when I’ll be turning down the driveway to the Little Cabin in the Big Woods. There probably won’t be anyone around, but just in case there is, I don’t want to be mistaken for a prowler. The people at the lake have never seen me without a beard. After a few weeks, it begins to look pretty wild, like I’d been living too long in the wilderness. “Are there any birds nesting in there?” one of the lake’s self-styled humorists, who couldn’t grow a decent beard if he tried, asked snidely.

One year, near the end of the season, one of the neighbors came over and handed me a small package. “It’s a tee shirt I saw when I was down in Grand Rapids. The guy on the front of it reminded me of you,” he explained. The guy on the front had a big, floppy hat like the one I wear at the lake; his clothes looked the worse for wear and dirty, just like mine. He carried an ax over his shoulder—a huge, double bitted one, way bigger and more dangerous-looking than my camper’s one. And he had a big, wild, and very luxurious beard. Below this portrait was the name of the beer: “Founders Backwoods Bastard Ale.”

I still wear it proudly. In fact, it’s one of the first pieces of apparel I pack when I’m preparing to head to the lake.

On the Road Again

Early tomorrow morning, as I turn onto Interstate 25 heading north out of Albuquerque, I’ll do something I rarely do and object to when other drivers do it. I’ll play a song very loudly on the car stereo.

It will be Tom Cochrane’s 1991 hit, “Life Is a Highway,” and playing it has been part of the yearly trip to Crooked Lake for over a quarter-of-a-century. It began in 1992, when we left from Edmonton and headed eastward. The previous winter had been difficult. We’d spent several weeks in Los Angeles where Carol had been taking treatments for melanoma. They had not been successful.

But we sang along loudly and joyously as we drove out of town and Tom Cochrane’s words boomed from the speakers. In two-and-a-half days, we’d be at the place we loved, enjoying the semi-solitude and (usually) the quietness.

During our stay, our friends Jan and Craig would be coming from Ontario, and Clare would be flying in from Alberta. Sometimes the north wind would blow cold from Lake Superior and the mosquitoes might have us slavering bug juice on during the day and covering our heads with bed covers at night so that we won’t hear the whine of hundreds of them trying to get through the screens. But we’d have a great time.

Our excitement rose as we came down the hill into Duluth, Minnesota and caught our first glimpse of Lake Superior. Then, two more glimpses as we came down two more hills, into Marquette and then Munising. We were getting closer. And finally, we turned into the dirt driveway leading to the cabin.

This time, I’ll be taking a different route to Michigan—from Albuquerque, not Edmonton. There’ll be other landmarks to indicate that I’m getting closer to the dirt driveway: the bridges across the Missouri River in South Dakota and the Mississippi at the Minnesota-Wisconsin border. And when I see Lambeau Field looming to my right as I drive through Green Bay, I’ll know I’ve got only four hours to go.

Along the route, I’ll hum “Life is a Highway,” remembering with a sweet sadness the joys Carol and I experienced on our last drive together to Crooked Lake and the greater ones after we’d turned onto the dirt road.

The Stops Along the Way

When we were kids making the excruciatingly long one-hour trip to Shawnigan Lake, we enjoyed several ritual stops. While my father gassed up the car at the Five Points Service Station, we dashed across the street to Fosters’ Store. It had the best selection of comic books for miles around. We would buy one each, and, when one of us was at the counter, the other two would quickly read another while the owner was distracted. Forty minutes later, we’d stop at the Malahat Chalet to buy popsicles, which we’d try to make last for the remaining 15 minutes of the journey. They never did, although we’d each claim to have made ours last longer than the others’.

As we neared the south end of the lake, we’d compete with each other to see who would be the first to spot the lake. Like holding the last number of a rotary phone dial until the quiz question was announced on the radio, we would very slowly say, “I…..I….. s-e-e-e-e-e … the l-l-l” and then shriek out the last syllable: “AKE!” There’d be some more arguments, often very fierce ones, over who’d uttered “ake” first.

My father slowed down when we reached the rise that overlooked “our” bay. Sometimes we could see our cousins playing on the beach in front of the cabins. He would give a ritual tooting of the horn: one long, two short, one long, one short and one long to announce our imminent arrival. We’d turn off the main road, drive the half mile of what we called the “bumpity road,” with my father expertly navigating the exposed rocks that could have taken out the oil pan. As the car came to a stop, we flew out from the back seat and headed toward the lake. Then came the final part of the ritual. My father would call out firmly, “Stop! We still have to unpack the car and take stuff into the cabin.” We reluctantly trudged back, did our duty, and then raced to see our cousins.

Now the trip to the lake is longer—1917 miles and three-and-a-half days. But there are still rituals to be observed. We have favorite restaurants we patronize. We even have favorite rest areas: ones that have lots of shade to park the car and a place to walk the dogs that isn’t too close to other cars and semis: like the one outside of Lusk, Wyoming, which is reportedly the first rest area in the United States, or the one just after LaCrosse, Wisconsin, which is located where there was once a lake created by melting glaciers, or the one after Escanaba, Michigan, which has a great view of Lake Michigan and is just over an hour from our destination.