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Post by clemiethedog on Jul 7, 2009 13:24:25 GMT
Vacations vary, often synonymous with visiting relatives, sightseeing, traveling far and abroad, catching up on chores, but mostly doing whatever one wants restrained only by economy and time. For me there was one destination, an emotional attachment as well as a place, northern Michigan. From the age of nine I spent one to two weeks every summer there for ten consecutive years, staying with my family at a remote and rustic cottage that a friend lent us. During my twentieth year, the cottage was sold and the area temporarily vanished into the mists of my distant memory. I ventured back a few times in the ensuing years, but never for an extended interval.
Three years ago, I returned to capture some nostalgia and alleviate the strain I was under at the time. Clementine, my golden retriever companion of ten years, accompanied me on that trip and it became one of the best vacations of my life. In August 2006 Clementine was robust and healthy, with only the grey hairs exposing her true age. She ran and swam and played, never betraying for a moment that a disease had infected her, a disease that would sap her strength six months later and take her life in twelve. Perhaps it was remembrance of that vacation, just so recent, that made Clementine’s ultimate demise incomprehensible.
one year later, with Clementine’s infirmities taking hold, no trip was possible. This past year, however, I became the human companion to Blondie, a beautiful and bouncy five year old Golden Retriever rescued by the generous folks of Golden Retriever Rescue of Michigan (GRRoM). With Blondie’s initial fidgeting finally manageable, I returned, again for the same reasons, though this time the pangs of nostalgia augmented by my previous visit. The logistics were simple; the resort was perfect, set off of the expansive Otsego Lake, complete with no telephone connection, but equipped with cable television. The proprietors were dog people, moreover, and I knew we were welcome.
As before the worst part of the trip was emerging from mass suburbia, navigating through the traffic congested tri-county mega-metropolis known as Metropolitan Detroit. Having cleared that cluster, my anxiety gave way to calmness inasmuch as the scenery changed from parking lots and cars to trees, farms, and rolling hills. Before checking in, I drove down some wilderness roads, parked at a desired location, and Blondie and I cleared the confines of the car and explored the north woods of Michigan. On our way to the resort, a fawn, very young, was spotted by the side of the road. We locked eyes for a while, Blondie unsure what to make of it, until the deer sprinted off to the dark reaches of the forest. We are home.
Also as before, I had a basic routine in mind, grounded upon practical weather patterns and my desired pace: long hikes in the morning, the beach in the early afternoon followed by a leisurely drive, and ending with a stroll to walk off the evening’s consumption. The main portion of the trip, of course, was the morning excursions on foot into the wilderness. This is where all one can hear are the song birds, no starlings in these parts, and the rustling of tree leaves, punctuated with an occasional crackle in the brush when a white tail is intruded upon and gallops away with its graceful stride.
We literally spent hours walking, or more pointedly, I walked while Blondie raced ahead, doubled back, plowed into the woods, and treed innumerable wildlife. Until now, to the best of my knowledge, Blondie has been a suburban inhabitant, her quests limited to assorted squirrels and rabbits, all the while restrained by tether. Here in the wilderness, she reveled with the discovery of her inner wolf. At one point she ran towards me and jumped up, as if warning me of an unidentified predator she had detected. At 60 pounds of solid muscle, she is dominant of the predatory species found in these parts, inhabited by fox, coyote, and perhaps a rare and secreted bobcat*. Michigan is home to bears, approximately 19 thousand, but the omnivorous and reticent black bear poses no threat to live or limb; however, at 300+ pounds, its presence discourages nighttime walks. As it is, my primary concerns are skunks and porcupines, each an extreme nuisance for a curious dog.
We trekked through abandoned, at least unoccupied until fall, hunting trails that led deep into the wilderness, some branching off to ancillary paths that nobody had set foot upon in years, literally miles and metaphorically light years from any human being. Some were on public lands or part of some sportsman’s association, while others belonged to private clubs, legally making me a trespasser. I encountered one member along a private roadway, perhaps an official, but was seen as just some guy out walking his dog, greeted not with inquisition but rather a friendly wave and a smile. Their paramount interests are vandals, poachers, or thieves, of which I am none.
It was on private property when Blondie and I came across a stray dog that had been following us at an undetermined distance. He was a big guy, definitely male with his maleness apparently intact, a mix of retriever, not aggressive but aloof to a certain extent. He seemed playful and he and Blondie greeted each other with the prerequisite sniffing. Since we were in proximity to the main lake, I assumed he had come from one of the surrounding properties.
The first place I inquired was, coincidently, at the same address where I had spent many parts of my summers growing up, though of course with different ownership. The cottage itself had undergone a transformation from a primitive dwelling to something of a chalet. I was greeted most warmly by the lady in residence and she believed the dog belonged to her neighbor. She indicated that I could reach her neighbor’s by taking a path through the woods, the same path I had first explored when I was nine years old. After a friendly chat (they’d purchased the property post renovation, but she seemed genuinely interested in its history), we went ‘next door’ (which translates to over a 200-yard trek through the woods) to find that cottage empty.
In sight, however, was the next cottage and it was occupied, once owned by a man named Miller, and remains in the family to this day. After another especially warm welcome, the man was able to identify the dog and knew its owners, a few properties down, just past the Sportsman’s Association, about a half-mile by shoreline. It turned out that Miller was the man’s late father-in-law and he inherited the property along with Miller’s son. Taking the continuous wooded path to the dog’s owners, we stopped by the shoreline and the dogs cooled themselves off in the lake, the lake of my youth, the lake of effortless days of yore, the lake where I spent the happiest days of my childhood.
The lake, such a central part of my existence, lay before me. I’ve seen it a few times in adulthood peering through the brush, but this was the first time I could really absorb it. Since my first visit, the number of developments has doubled, from seven to 14. Considering the lot sizes, it’s doubtful if another property could squeeze itself in, and therefore the lake retains much of its rustic charm. Most of the abodes are modest, save for the newest ones, which take on the modern grandiose appearance of opulence.
Harkening back to my somewhat spoiled yet innocent youth, I vividly recall the times spent on these waters. Fishing was never really my scene, lacking the requisite patience, but I enjoyed the boat rides and sense of discovery, of skipping stones and catching frogs, of swimming and getting bitten by a leach, for there are no beaches at this lake, only the uncultivated shores. Today the lake appears enviable and even idyllic, but somehow tamed. To the succeeding generations who frolic in those waters, this is certainly the wilderness, all reality being perceptive.
I return my uninvited guest, the aforementioned stray, to his relieved owner, who had walked him along the road, as she does every morning, allowing him to dash in and out of the woods free of molestation, when he undoubtedly caught Blondie’s scent and gender and went searching for its source. She had been calling out repeatedly to no avail and, distraught, she was about to hop in the SUV and start looking when I approached. She was pleasant and grateful and joyful, as was I, for we both felt a sense of relief: her for having her beloved pet returned unharmed; I no longer burdened with a stray canine of uncertain temperament.
As I left I could surmise by the surroundings that she was one of the year round residents of the newer houses, not to be mistaken for a vacation cottage. The property has an element of seclusion and its design is tasteful, unlike the hulking McMansion of today’s sprawl. Yet with the attached garage, manicured lawns, white fence, and lavish gardens, it seems out of place among the more Spartan domiciles. Returning to my hike and my carefree position, I reflected in wonderment whether I would have been greeted as amiably if I looked less like Bill Clinton and more like Barrack Obama.
Inconclusive and speculative racial politics aside, these encounters left me with the satisfaction that very little has changed. One defining feature of this area wasn’t so much the scarcity of people, but rather the cordial respect they extend one another. When I encountered a power company employee servicing the station where I parked, I inquired if parking was permissible. He replied bearing a cheerful smile, “No problem, you have a wonderful dog; I love goldens, they are so happy.”
At the end of one rather long trail, over a mile in distance, I discovered evidence of a dangerous species. This class, unfortunately, is the lowest life form on earth and apparently, as with any invasive species, stubborn in its existence. There was an unused encampment, and surrounding the old fire pit were dozens of discarded beer cans, many ripped or burned, broken glass, candy wrappers, bottle containers, energy drink cans, newspapers (latest dated December 1, 2007), an old tee shirt, a pair of undergarments, spent fireworks (in a wooded setting!), etc. Nine months after their invasion, elements of their wanton destruction remain unadulterated. That this devastation is contained to this single site is hardly assuring, as their offense is hardly trivial. As a part of nature, we use and consume resources, but to the enlightened, we choose to leave the smallest footprint possible, thereby enabling others to satisfy the same enjoyment. These creatures, in contrast, deliberately ruin a pristine environment because of capricious indolence and callous indifference, unpardonable sins against nature and humanity.
After exhausting our collective strength, I more than Blondie, we retire to my favorite public access, a semi-private beach and boat launch, covering approximately 200’ of shoreline. Clean, seldom crowded (indeed vacant at this hour), and with plenty of shade and sun. I relax under a tree while Blondie soothes her paws in the cool, clear water. Recently introduced to water this summer, she ventures deeper with trepidation, unsure of her swimming prowess, and is more content to romp along the shoreline and around the park, investigating oddities with her nose to the ground. Clementine, naturally, would bolt from the confines of the car and into the water, swimming with the ease of waterfowl. On these cool early afternoons, I attempted to entice Blondie into deeper waters, only to discover that it’s too cold for my soft, suburban constitution. Some other time, perhaps; we are here to have fun and not work. The fetching stick never reaches the deeper waters.
Gazing out, I see fish jump and fishing birds scan the surface. On the second day, in the distance a gull is making noises, trying to distract the attention of a larger, more graceful bird. It’s clear that the larger bird has alpha status; its flight seems as purposeful as it is easy, simply gliding as it maintains pace. As it draws nearer, I detect the unmistakable white head and dark feathering. It continues in my direction, dropping to only 20’ directly overhead, majestically soaring with its massive wingspan, truly the ruler of the airwaves, the Bald Eagle, in all its grandeur and elegance. A camera would come in handy, I thought, but I’d probably capture the blue sky and perhaps a smidgeon of its bold tail feathers.
During the afternoon we visit the small towns, or more accurately, the farm markets of yesteryear, charming in their simplicity and apparently free of intense, angry curmudgeons. Nobody tailgates or honks his horn, cell phones are uncommon, nobody seems rushed or stressed out. The presence of a farmer meandering down the lane draws neither irritation nor obscene gestures. The big ball executives who inhabit the larger lakefront estates leave their boorish mannerisms behind in Detroit or Chicago.
I nap in the late afternoon, read, relax, while Blondie looks remarkably contented, as only a dog can, with her paws spread out, her snorts interrupted by an occasional sigh. The breeze from Otsego Lake provides sufficient air circulation, negating any need for fuel manufactured comfort.
The early evenings are spent taking Blondie for a walk on leash along the nearby trail and visiting dining and drinking establishments, feasting on the local specialties, Lake Superior Whitefish and Northern Pike, the co-owner of the inn having made impeccable recommendations. The first night was slightly overcast with a full moon and we drove down some more distant and unknown roads, searching for exotic wildlife. It’s a hit or miss endeavor, one I recall from childhood, and both times we came up empty, save for a porcupine scurrying into the woods as the car made its approach.
The final two nights were cloud free, however; and those nights were spent along the Otsego Lake coastline. I have only seen the Northern Lights in photographs, I and the land of the midnight sun are complete strangers, but the lower 48 there is no grander vista than the celestial masterpiece painted in the heavens above, the night sky awash in a dazzling display of the brilliant starlight, the tectonic constellations discernable to even the unpracticed eye.
I was never a resident of Otsego County, my extended visits seldom exceeded one week; indeed, as an adult, we remained apart for over a decade. Yet to this day it remains an indelible part of my life. If it is serenity and natural beauty that I seek, a system of value and trust that I most admire, it is there where I find it. Tranquility reigns supreme, triumphant in its enchanting splendor.
I was once asked if I’d want to live forever, and my answer was negative. I rue the day when my beloved Otsego County takes on the appearance, atheistically and socially, of sprawling Oakland County or the innumerous suburban quasi-communities that blight our natural habitat with dizzying speed. Whether I return or not in the near or distant future is immaterial, for my entire hopes and aspirations end where they began, in the north woods of Michigan.
*Years ago my parents were out walking with their dog and cat (yes the cat would follow) when suddenly both animals turned about face and ran in the opposite direction. Seconds later a fox appeared from the woods, noticed mom and dad, and scampered back. Apparently Dachshunds and felines are further down the predatory chain than Golden Retrievers.
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