Binderama60for60

I woke up this morning to wind and rain pounding on the windows. The gray skies hovered low over the big waves roaring from the north. It’s cold. None of this was expected.

Every morning at the Lake is a blessing and a revelation. Each sunrise reveals a new landscape, a new world. The horizon between sky and water sometimes melts into one. Other times it’s as distinct as a razor blade. Ever-changing stripes of blue, green, brown and every hue in-between run parallel from the along the shoreline to the horizon. The Lake surface can be smooth as glass, as serene as stopped time. Some days it pitches forward with wicked waves and white caps, winds whipping at near-hurricane force, sometimes from the north, sometimes the south, and sometimes right through you.

The shoreline itself changes from day to day, growing outward and inward. Sandbars and tide pools appear and disappear. Algae blooms explode and dissipate. Walking the beach, the sand might be soft or firm, the texture and patterns are always moving, even within a single day. Yesterday’s footprints are gone, providing a clean canvas to trace fresh quests and discoveries.

The sounds of howling winds and relentless crashing of the waves is inescapable but it becomes background static. On still days and nights, the silence has a different effect: it’s hard to sleep when there is complete silence in the world. The gentle chirping of birds at dawn is reassuring.

Any given day might be bitter cold or sultry warm, windy or still, wet or arid. Trying to predict it is folly. Mortals and technology stand no chance. Apps and TV people have an abysmally losing record.

Two true constants: On clear days when the afternoon sun reflects off the water, it is the brightest thing you will ever see in your life. The cold tap water from the well is the coldest thing that isn’t actual ice. No exaggeration.

Outside the front windows of our two-story A-frame, families of deer cross between us and the Lake, often pausing to admire their reflection in the glass. Squirrels and bunnies hop. Hawks and gulls soar overhead. Tankers pass slowly in the distance, ferrying loads between ports down around Chicago and destinations all over the Great Lakes. On thick, misty days, fog horns moan from ships and sources unseen.

In high season, tourists in ultra-lights and bi-planes buzz along the coast, sometimes right at dune level, about 30 feet off the water. Kite surfers, sail boats, jet-skis and fishing boats dot the water, all the way to the horizon, starting before dawn. A Coast Guard chopper passes over a few times a week, protecting us, I suppose, from Wisconsin. Sheboygan is 60 miles across the Lake; you cannot see it except on very rare occasions when the city lights are refracted along the horizon. At least that’s the story they sold me.

Terra Celestial

Those big windows on the front of the house face just a few degrees north of due west. So sunsets are a thing. We’ve become connoisseurs, and snobbish ones at that. In the course of a year–and a season–the location of the event changes noticeably from south to north and back again. I’d say that 40% of the time, there is no visible sunset, due to weather; 35% are forgettable; 23% are impressive; 1% are spectacular; and less than that remaining 1% are life-affirming, like unlocking secrets of the universe, seeing through time, winning the intergalactic lottery.

A quality sunset needs a few things: a variety of clouds at various altitudes and distances, a bit of humidity to hold the light and make it feel immersive, a recent rainstorm for clarity. And a cocktail. This time of year, the sun meets the horizon about a quarter past 9:00, so by dinnertime folks begin conjecturing on the potential for that night’s display. But, because like everything else up here, change is constant, you really don’t know until you see it unfolding in real time. Neighbors gather on their decks, tourists on the public beach south of us.

An epic sunset comes in three or more acts: before, during and after. Before, rays of light emanate from behind the beefy clouds closest to the horizon; the higher cirrus clouds catch the light and carry it overhead. During, the water reflects the sun’s hot white brilliance and draws it into the foreground with an intense golden sheen, all the way to the coastline; the surface of the Lake adds texture and life. In the third act, the colors change again, softening into deeper reds, blues and purples. Stars appear in the darkness overhead. The whole experience can last over an hour.

That’s one scenario. Nature delivers millions of variations on the sunset. And we are here for it.

We have very little light pollution around here. On a clear night the term “celestial” comes to mind. It’s simply heavenly, in a Sistine sort of way. At first, the eye recognizes gradations of light: it’s like you can see the whole Milky Way swirling all around from this little perch in Michigan. You feel small. So small. And full of awe. Once the iris adapts to the darkness, single stars and planets emerge with sharp contrast. Don’t get me started on full moons, meteor showers and the aurora borealis. Too bad we rarely stay up past 10.

Behind the house is a dense forest with steep hills and craggy climbs. More deer are ever-present when we hike down our sandy gravel driveway to the mailbox. We walk further, crossing the bridge that spans the channel, which was dug during the lumbering days to connect an in-land lake–Silver Lake–with the big Lake. The lighthouse is a little bit further along, built back in the mid-1800s.

When we walk north along the shore, we are just a few steps from 20-plus miles of sand dunes. Endlessly hikeable but also host to the main tourist draw around here: dune buggies.

Out here, nature has its way with us, whenever it wants. To experience a serious thunderstorm way out here is to kneel before the humbling majesty of nature: violent, relentless and scary as hell. But also life-affirming. Lightning-streaked clouds roar from the west over the Lake and push us back against the forest like a bully. As disruptive as it is, I always want more. We might see water spouts out on the Lake but tornados don’t happen here, thanks to the high dune we live on. And power rarely goes out since they buried the cables a while back. When it did during one massive storm last year, we learned that our well runs on electricity. So, I guess we need to buy a few gallons of water for the toilets?

City folk.

Our place is a couple miles from a tourist town, 10 minutes from where my Folks are buried, 15 minutes from the nearest decent market, 40 minutes from a real supermarket or Walmart, two hours from a regional airport. When we tried to get insurance, we learned the nearest fire house–even fire hydrant– is more than 10 miles away. On the bright side, the closest soft-serve is at the Whippy Dip about five minutes away, though the wait can be ten times that long.

Folks who know me are likely wondering how I can live with such remoteness: No urban condos with elevators, Doordash and Uber. Well, to be honest, it’s paradise for half the year, bolstered by the kindness of neighbors, some with really cool power tools and superior fishing and hunting skills. We mail-order sushi from New York, pizzas from St, Louis, oysters from Virginia, fish from Seattle. And we have three grilling devices. There are also a few lovely though rustic restaurants nearby. We manage.

How we got here

Back in 1951, when the state put about 30 lots up for sale, my Gramma Essie purchased four of them–on a nurse’s salary. They’re on a big dune overlooking Lake Michigan. a quarter mile north of the Little Sable Point Lighthouse and a quarter mile south of the Silver Lake sand dunes. She built a home in the middle and gifted the lot south of hers to my Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Larry, the Lawlers. The lot to the north changed hands from my Aunt Dorothy (Dort) to my Parents, who built this house in the mid-1980s to be their summer retirement home.

I spent a few days each summer up here, starting in the early 1970s, visiting Gramma and her husband Carter–Uncle Al. I can still smell his apple-flavored pipe tobacco over at Gramma’s house (that’s probably in my imagination). I also met my cousins here when I was about seven; we’re now neighbors, 50 years later. As an adult, I spent a bit more time here, helping with some deferred maintenance and other chores, and spending time with the Folks and extended Family. Mary started joining me about 20 years ago.

To be clear, this is a less-than-half-a-year residence for us. Very few people have attempted to stay on the dune all year, for reasons and seasons stated above and depicted in these photos below.

Gramma’s cottage is now owned by my cousin Beth. The Lawlers’ house to the south is owned by my cousin Jaine. We’ve all been good family for 50+ years, and we’re growing closer on this dune.

Back in 2019, Mom expressed that that would be her last season in this beloved place. The rugged lifestyle was no longer workable for her: the elevation and stairs, the distance from services and assistance. When I suggested to Mary that we purchase it, she rightly noted how impractical it was for two professionals living the Northern California (with two aging dogs who hadn’t seen a set of stairs in years) to deal. It would be years before we could spend a summer here.

Then the pandemic hit. That changed everything: values, priorities, wanting for a sense of place and family.

Mary and I bought the place, closing on it a week before Mom died. Our dogs passed within the year.

And since we were both working remotely, we could spend the next season at the Lake. Amazing to think that when I visited Gramma, she had a tiny black and white TV connected to an aerial that needed to be manually turned to find one of the distant broadcasters on both sides of the Lake. Now, we have fast internet, wifi and a big-ass flat screen. For better or worse.

Family Forward

We don’t have kids, nor do we have big families. The kin we still have are in far-flung places up and down the east and west coasts, and sprinkled around the midwest. To us (me in particular) this place represents Family. Thankfully, this place draws Family together, like a pilgrimage, and not an easy one to make.

As for generations of the Lake, we are now the elders, passed down from Gramma to our parents and now us and the cousins. And now a new generation. Jaine became a Gramma a few months ago. Evan made his first visit just last week. He has no idea what this place will mean to him and the role it will play in his life, just like it did for generations that came before.

When he’s old enough, he’ll make his first visit to the Whippy Dip. I’d like to think that his first taste of a Turtle Sundae will be a revelation indeed.