on building new things

Is being in the midst of construction ever pleasant? It’s not as tedious as going to the dentist, or maybe it is because I wake up to the sound of drilling upstairs in the unit above me and I think, oh my, that is one unpleasant sound.

The thing is, the unit was finished many many months ago. So why the pounding and sawing again? And will it ever stop? Wanting an image of an end date, I go upstairs, only to find that the sound is really coming from the unit two doors down. That one is nowhere near done. Sound travels in odd ways.


Late in the morning I try out the new bike path that connects the VA hospital with campus. Since it is easy for me to use only bike paths and parking lots to get to the VA hospital from my condo, I welcome this addition. It’s no looker, but it's hugely convenient. Speed. It offers speed.



Purchase photo 1905


Except that the path has trucks on it and it dead ends suddenly and it’s all because of construction and I sigh in resignation and go back to the lake path. Pretty, here, by the lake. A little out of my way, but today I am in no hurry.



Purchase photo 1904


But wait. After leaving the lake path, as always I cut through the Shorewood neighborhood. Except I cannot, because the road is ripped up and I have to toddle back and weave in and out until I end up adding miles and dirt to my bike tires.

The last stretch is up the steep hill to my condo. I pass a block of dusty pits and pools of water that will never dry of their own accord and I long for construction to move the project of building the new Whole Foods forward. It’s been a deconstructed mess far too long and I can hardly stand looking at the abandoned nothingness.

Upstairs, I settle in to work on my lectures until the sound of the sawing and hammering drives me outside to pace the streets and curse the sound of construction.

I would bike to Ed’s, but there I am reminded that we haven’t done much with the construction of the writer’s shed (even as Amos is moving ahead with his part of the work). My greatest effort has been mowing the lawn around the site. A nothing step, taken by a person who knows next to nothing about construction. Except that it takes time and it requires tools that make noise.

on the hill

It’s time to reacquaint myself with my office again. I start a summer schedule of teaching this week and even though I try hard to take most of my work as far as possible from my official work space, sometimes I need to lock myself in and keep my focus.

Except when my gaze wanders outside to Bascom Hill, that place of hurried academic movement, year round, up and down and across the green, they march and sit and throw Frisbees and think academic thoughts. Maybe.



Purchase photo 1903


In moments when I am not writing a lecture, I think about photography. I’ve received a handful of helpful comments from readers who know more about art shows than I do. And also from readers with questions. Many ask which photos I’ve selected for my October show. I’ll be more forthcoming later, but I pass to you this invitation:

…if you remember any photo on Ocean that you especially liked, send me a note. I’ve already revamped the portfolio with work that others have pushed to the front and I’ll happily do it again.


In the early evening (or, if the sun has not dipped yet, is it the late afternoon?), Ed and I take a walk along the fields that border his land. Hills, but not of the Bascom sort. Hills of labor, ones requiring stamina. And resilience. Heat, bugs, tough soil. We watch a neighbor ride his tractor between rows of saplings and exchange comments on the weather with the farmers taking a break at the side of the road.



Purchase photo 1902





Purchase photo 1901



It matters here, on the hill. Weather matters. Much more so than on Bascom Hill.

On other hills, children play and fawns romp.



Purchase photo 1900





Purchase photo 1899

celebrating

I’ve got a few good things to cheer about. Today marks a year in the condo. I noticed a wasp nest on the balcony. Celebrate!

More important: today is my daughter’s 23.5 birthday. We used to be into half birthdays. When she was, maybe, three. It brings back memories. Have a beautiful day!

Then there is the market.


The end of the week. It’s Friday evening. Another segment of the Tour de France. Men biking very very fast – it’s a good backdrop to getting projects done. Speed. No laughter though. Jon Stewart takes Fridays off so the TV fizzles into nothing and I switch to music.

And now here it is: Saturday morning. I take out my Pierrerue basket and cross the street.

Food wise, there’s nothing so totally satisfying as having the Westside Commounity Market just across the street. Open the door, step out, climb the little hill and there it you have it.

The market is celebrating its third birthday today. Such energy! A three year old, plunging forward with zip and spirit!

Ed is with me and so we pick up the freebies – delicious pain au chocolat, a gift from Madison Sourdough. And cheese curds. And then we buy. Tomatoes, cucumbers, yogurt (Only ten? Why only ten? Isn’t ten enough? You’re not thinking of me!), milk, curds, blueberries, flowers, etc.



Purchase photo 1898





Purchase photo 1897





Purchase photo 1896



Celebrations are fleeting. The day progresses. I push a lawnmower over mosquito homes, then watch the evening sun play with the willow.



Purchase photo 1895

update

Whereas in spring, I had two ongoing sagas that I monitored here, on Ocean, now I have three. To the building of the writer’s shed, and the progress of the farmers planting their veggies next to Ed’s place, I now add the art show as a project that started little and may turn out to be, well, huge. Because you have no idea how much you don’t know about the things you don’t usually do in life.

Let me catch you up on all three.

The farmers next door. That one’s easy. I take out my camera, I go out on the road and I take a few shots and occasionally wave to the various family members as they look up from their work. Several times I have felt that I should go out and help. It is such grueling work in this buggy heat (we are near marshlands and it is impossible to be outside without protective gear and lots of bug spray – neither of which I ever have on me and so I rarely stick around for more than a minute).

Progress report? Stuff’s growing.



Publish photo 1894



The writer’s shed. This one is a tough little number. Why can’t building a house be as simple as slapping a few boards together and putting in a stove for the winter? Ed is mostly done leveling the land, but we are nowhere near having a shed in place.

Still, Amos drove up today to claim the insulation and windows and it could be that in a couple of weeks we’ll see something standing in the spot designated as the place where one day I’ll churn out manuscripts.





And finally, the art show. Several of you have asked what that’s all about. I’m participating in the annual Madison Area Open Art Studio the first weekend of October. You know about it? Over 100 local artists open their studios to visitors that week-end. Me, I don’t have a studio and I hesitate in applying a term that grandiose to what I do. In my younger times, artists were people who either had elaborate studios and sold stuff to wealthy people or hung out in places like Chelsea (NY) and pierced body parts that even immodest me prefers to keep covered.

But, I live in a building where a handful of others do art full time and we are grouping together to display our stuff in the cavernous and unused office space on the ground floor. Very industrial looking. More on that later.

The goal is to get at least two dozen pieces ready for the show. There are two other “surprise” elements to my “presentation,” but you really have to come and see this for yourself because I am keeping quiet about it for now.

Oh, but it is difficult it is to learn the art of presenting art to the public!

color

My man Jason, the color expert (in the hair department) must be wondering what the hell has happened to me. I haven’t seen him in months.

It’s not that I haven’t thought about color. I have. Continuously. But all tint and tone speculations have had to do with photography. I am absolutely swamped with work in preparation for my photo showing in October. You may feel that this is a distant deadline. And that a Jason cut and color could fit within the busiest of schedules.

Sure. But the reality is that one Jason visit can pay for the printing and framing of two large photos. So there’s that. And, timewise – I start teaching next week and pretty much keep at it until December. I am in a pocket of quiet and I need to use it wisely.

What about the book, you ask? Oh, I’ve been thinking a lot about that as well. How, for example, I haven’t written a single word since I left Paris in June.

This morning, I sat with my cup of homemade cappuccino on the balcony and I looked at the colors of the flowers I have planted in big clay pots (or, in some instances, cheated and bought in ready-planted big plastic pots). So many appear to be purple and yellow.



Purchase photo 1893


And this is my life right now. Avoiding color, thinking about color, and watching an ant lug something across the concrete, feeling great relief that my load isn’t nearly as big as hers.






On a side note, I have been needing an official photo which depicts a person who likes the outdoors and is the out-and-about-in-her-home-town type. Ed took this one as I was setting out to buy groceries. I especially like the devilish flares coming out of my shoulders.

on the beauty of peas

Early in May, I helped Ed plant peas. Or, you could say that he helped me. Because really, I don’t know much about growing peas. Flowers, herbs – yes. I’ve planted my share over the decades. Peas? No.

Even though I have picked many a growing pea in my life. My grandmother’s garden in Poland had lots of peas, beans, and other climbers and periodically she would send me out before supper to pick her a handful. Loved that job. Tak, Babciu, oczywiscie, tak, od razu (yes, grandma, of course, yes, right away).

I so wish she had lived long enough that I could have told her how much I enjoyed picking peas for her. Kind of silly, I suppose. She probably knew.

And here I am, growing peas.

So often these simple acts become disproportionately important for reasons that have little to do with the final outcome. Peas. Big deal. I mean, it’s just peas.

But, the sweet pea -- it’s my birth month flower (do people still pay attention to birth month flowers?) and then there’s my grandmother…



Purchase photo 1892


So wonderful, so truly wonderful that we can make a big deal of these very small events.

from the Sugar River Dairy

Several weeks ago, we were just finishing up our veggie hunt at the Westside Community Market. I looked at my still not too full basket. Potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes, peas… what’s missing? Yogurt. I like it with dill on a baked potato. Or with sliced cucumbers. It’s a very Polish thing – sour milk, yogurt, kefir – ubiquitous products in the old country. We drank them for supper, with potatoes on the side, or mixed with fruit, as an afternoon pick-me-up.

The vendors at the Sugar River Dairy stand were selling containers of plain yogurt and ones with fruit. We purchased both, polishing off the blueberry one right there on the spot. It stopped me short.

Pretty much the best I have ever tasted. This is no hyperbole. This is a fact.



The sun is still warm as we bike past the Sugar River. We paddled here once, before all the flooding spilled the Sugar waters beyond the river banks, creating green ponds around trees used to drier meadows.







Purchase photo 1891


This is farming country. Cornfields. Dairy farms. We see hints of family pride in doing things well.



Purchase photo 1890


We’re close to Albany, Wisconsin and the hills are something else. Our water bottles are almost empty by the time we reach 7346 County D – the address we picked off the Sugar River Dairy yogurt container.

We hadn’t announced our visit. Asking for an appointment is like asking for a commitment of someone’s time. I’d be happy just to see the place. And at this point, we would be happy to simply dump some more water into our empty bottles.

But, are we at the right place? There’s no huge building announcing production of anything. Yes, yes – there are some cooler trucks in the yard. This must be it.

It’s 5:30 and Ron, Chris and their oldest son are finishing the clean up for the day. And they are so welcoming! Would you like to look around? See how we do things?


Small. Yes. The whole operation could fit into a garage! But what care is taken into the making of this most wonderful, tangy, creamy yogurt!

Milk, brought in by Ron in his own milk-carrying truck. Three times a week, from just one farm twelve miles away, where they pasture graze their cows.










Heated (to pasteurize it), then cooled to introduce the culture. And then it all goes to this adorable machine which adds fruit and seals the containers.





Lids are placed by hand and then away it goes, to incubate, and finally cool off.



Buy photo 1889



So it’s a no-sweat operation, right?

No, not right. We’re a dairy state, correct? We produce milk, cream, butter, cheese. More and more, we note the appearance of wonderful artisanal cheeses, made right here, in Wisconsin. Small, family-owned businesses. Emphasis on quality. Last I counted, there were some five dozen artisanal and homestead cheesemakers in our state. What a nice support network!

How about homestead yogurt? I’m told we’re down to two – one near Green Bay and Sugar River Dairy.

Dannon, Yoplait (General Mills in the US) – they are the big players. Dannon has maybe three plants in the entire country. These spit out millions of little tins of yogurt that fill grocery shelves.

But wait, if Ron and Chris can do such a superior yogurt, where are the other local yogurt makers? Why aren’t they buying up machines that throw fruit into that heavenly, creamy, cultured milk?

We had to go to Israel to get this machine. None here for the little guy. And the fruit? Blueberries, peaches – you think we get them locally, right? Wrong. Michigan, right next door, producing all the fruit we could use, but they don’t prepare it for the little guys, in the quality way that we want. So we have to go to California for fruit!

Oh, but there’s moral and technical support for what you’re doing, no? I mean, we're so proud of what's happening here! Our state should throw accolades and awards your way!

No. It’s lonely out there, at the helm. Homestead production is so rare, so rare, that it’s one uphill struggle just dealing with bureaucracies and inspectors and agencies that cannot work out between themselves what it is that they hope to accomplish.

And still, The Sugar River Dairy continues to make the very best yogurt I have ever tasted. Why do they do it? Oh, that’s the wrong question to ask. The real puzzle? Why isn’t it easier for more farmers to do the same, so that our pasture grazed cows get to show off their milk and our dairy farmers can shove the giants to the side and place their own product out there, with the quality that they are so capable of producing?


We fill our jugs with cool well water. Delicious. We’re refreshed. We pedal home past many sad (in my estimation) cows standing in mud, waiting for their feed, primed to pump milk like robots for the big guys, and just one or two pastures of happy cows, grazing. Happy cows and great yogurt, supported by happy eaters like me.


Purchase photo 1888


And you. People who eat the stuff should demand quality. Look for the Sugar River Dairy yogurt at Whole Foods, or Willie Street, or Metcalfe's Sentry, or Brennan’s, or the Westside Community Market (among other places) and if your store doesn’t carry it, ask them why not. And say thanks to Ron and Chris if you see them at the market. For doing it the good way. Leading to this, one of the very best yogurts you’ll ever eat, on either side of the ocean.

(For the curious: the yogurt is not YET for sale outside of Wisconsin. Don’t even ask why. A tale of further continued frustration.)

from Wisconsin: closer to Madison

In the late late afternoon, Ed and I shelved our ongoing discussion about the meaning of life (and really – all discussions can be condensed to this, right?) and went for a bike ride. 35 miles round trip from Oregon (WI). Where did we go? I’ll tell you tomorrow. For now, enjoy the ride. Sometimes, you just need to get off your own brain spin and take pleasure in the beauty of the landscape around you (however sad it may be; because really, the rampant flooding in Wisconsin is so sad).



Purchase photo 1887





Purchase photo 1886






Purchase photo 1885





Purchase photo 1884

from Wisconsin: coming home

It’s Saturday. We are on Drummond Island and by all accounts, the weather is unsteady. By some accounts, the waters may be choppy on this day and the next. At the same time and perhaps most significantly, if you haven’t realized this yet (let’s be honest): Ed’s comfort level with risk is huge, and mine vacillates. In the matter of storms and choppy waters, I am on the conservative side. Ed is looking at me with true puzzlement. I have never known anyone who is afraid of being outdoors during storms, he tells me.

It becomes a stalemate. Or, more to the point, in a potential further expedition, I have become a stale mate. I want a gentle run. Ed would go along, but the sense of adventure would be lost. It would be like wheeling your great grandmother to the rose garden for an afternoon snooze. Nice, but sort of tame. At the same time that I refuse to be regarded as a timid softee.

And so, in spite of the fantastically sunny skies that are due in the next days, we turn the car toward the ferry and head home.


Purchase photo 1883


But slowly.


Purchase photo 1882


Because sometimes you pull back too quickly in life and you wish you had hung around just a little longer.

Since it is Saturday (market day back home!), we stop at a road stand and buy cherries and peas from a local farmer. The cherries are really from around Traverse City, but the peas are his own. Organic! – he tells us proudly.



Purchase photo 1881


In Escanaba, we find a café with WiFi and we search for a place to stop for the night. So that we don’t return on the run, defensively.

We find a small b&b just outside of Marinette, across the Menominee River (separating Wisconsin from Michigan). The b&b is tranquil, secluded. We need that sense of peace tonight.



Purchase photo 1880


We eat at a laidback place by the river and watch the sun go down.



Purchase photo 1879


And in the morning, we take the dog, Murphy, for a walk around the fields and forests belonging to our innkeepers.



Purchase photo 1878









Purchase photo 1877


We talk more about risk and adventure. It’s a long discussion. It doesn’t end until we reach Madison late in the afternoon.

The drive itself has such memorable Wisconsin touches!

We pass through the town of Peshtigo, where we take the time to visit the Historical Museum of Peshtigo and the cemetery where victims of the 1871 great fire of Peshtigo are buried.










The fire happened on the same day as the great Chicago fire. The Peshtigo fire claimed more lives and took more property than the Chicago blaze, but the big city’s notoriety completely trumped the story of the Wisconsin tragedy.

Further south, on the shores of Lake Michigan, we look at the thin strip of Door County across Green Bay. Hard to believe that the winds blew the fire across the bay, but they did and Door County, too, experienced significant damage.





But let me end this post on a cheerful note, as the day itself ends on a cheerful note. Discussions can lead to good outcomes and drives on the backroads can lead you to scenes where families of sandhill cranes traipse through fields of flowers. Did I ever mention how pretty this state is?



Purchase photo 1876

from the four-corners wireless hotspot on Drummond Island, Michigan

Three beautiful camping spots in a row. Secluded, with views of flowers and lake ripples, and sounds of frogs, birds and crickets. We wanted a fourth. It was not to be.

Maybe we should have stayed in Hessel or Cedarville. In the ice cream shop, CC was there – the man with the pony tail and a generous heart toward hitchhikers. I admire what you’re doing in the kayaks. He tells us. These days, I don’t go out much. Listen, if you want to throw your tent in my place, you’re welcome.

We should have thrown our tent at his place. And learned more about the community – its history, for instance (American Indians, sure, and then boat trippers from Mackinaw and the mainland; no roads up here until after the second World War).

But, we waved a cheery hand and went on to eat a plateful of fried local yellow perch at Pammi’s. At least I did. Ed had just polished off a lot of icecream and so he opted for a spinach salad with turkey. We have such different eating habits.





The plan had been to paddle from Drummond Island further east (near Canada; indeed, if you weren’t careful, you’d paddle onto Canadian shores). But, I didn’t want to fret the weather issues. Ed distrusts forecasts -- not surprising, since they've been off -- but this one is in my face stubbornly telling me thundershowers all day Saturday. The distances between the little islands are long. I do not want the risk. (Ed sees little risk in being in a boat during a storm; we are different that way as well.)

Still, it could be that the skies will clear and the day would be brilliant and sunny. I’m okay with reconsidering on Saturday. And I’m okay with camping another night. I have never met a person who loved camping as much as Ed does! So we’ll camp.

But where?

Before you board the ferry for Drummond Island, you can detour toward the coast and find a state park with camping options. We did that. It was Disneyland on Lake Huron. Crowded and cramped. We left.

The ferry runs every hour. The boat fills with SUVs and summer people. Our little car with the kayak gets pushed to the side. A first sign that we are not Drummond people.





Our map and a friendly Ecotours person (she was the one who enticed me to this area back in March, in Madison) assure us that there is state land just up the road, by the shore. You can always camp on state land. But we can’t find it. All roads lead to private property and “no trespassing” signs. I convince Ed that we should give this up. It’s near 10, near dark, and almost certainly this swatch of state land has no land access. Frustrating, but there you have it. Private always trumps here. Step on someone’s land and you can have a shotgun pointed at your nose. And so reluctantly, we go to the official Island campground.

And this one is even more crowded and even more crazy-packed. Here, Ed and I would choose different paths. He would put the tent down anyway, even if the only spot appears to be next to the outhouse. I say no and this time, I stand firm. Ed had been willing before we left to do the occasional b&b on this trip and I wanted to cash in on the promise.

The trouble is that it is the week-end, it is late and we have no backup plan. Our list of inns, b&bs, cottages, resorts, soon runs thin. Cell reception is nonexistent and so we drive from one place to another, in a futile pursuit of a room. Most places are full and nearly all are shut down for the night.

Until finally, we step onto the grounds of a rustic resort type place. Even without words, you can feel the wall of resistance going up within my occasional traveling companion. A resort is like a condominium to him. It represents all that he would like to avoid in life, this man with a real big foot, but with the desire to leave a very small (carbon) print on the planet and live in quiet simplicity.

I wake up some person somewhere and she is willing to let us have a room for a small charge. As well she might, since the place is freaky empty. It’s not that it’s posh at all. But there seem to be no people of any yoke anywhere on the premises.

A less than optimal closure, to be sure, but now I wince when I hear Ed’s final verdict for the day: we should have stayed at the campground.

In the morning we cheer ourselves with a cinnamon roll and eggs over easy. Food so often soothes raw spirits.

from Les Cheneaux Islands, Michigan

It’s Wednesday afternoon. We’re at the Cedarville boat launch. Kayak properly inflated (I hope). I’m properly attired.




A push and we’re in Cedarville Bay. In the company of gulls, the rare swan, and the occasional, annoying motorboat (ban the wake!).



Purchase photo 1875




Purchase photo 1874


Sometimes passing a barge pushed by a tug. To get stuff to the islands.





Our goal is modest: paddle past big La Salle Island and set camp on the uninhabited Government Island (it’s part of the Hiawatha National Forest). But the wind! I raise the possibility of capsizing and drowning. The waves are bouncing us around relentlessly. But Ed can’t hear. The wind rips out my words and tears them to nothing.

As we get closer to our destination, Ed pulls up and shouts out – great wind, wasn’t it? He and I often regard acts of nature quite differently. Terrifying! I respond. Your boat’s like one big life preserver. You can’t sink in that thing. My imagination can concoct a number of scenarios in which Ed is dead wrong, but I choose to not go that route. We are safe, we are on land. From which, btw, the waves look fairly… modest.



Purchase photo 1873


Our chosen site is so very pretty!



Purchase photo 1872





Purchase photo 1871


And quiet, except for the occasional boat putting along to who knows where. And here’s the upside of the strong wind: for this one night, there are no mosquitoes! They’ve been blown away, hopefully across Lake Huron to Ohio (but probably just to the next island).

We hike to the other coast admiring everything. It is the season for wildflowers, and their upturned faces surprise you in clearings and at the water’s edge.



Purchase photo 1870



In the evening, we sit down to a meal of organic freeze dried vegetarian Jambalaya. Mixed in a pouch, with boiling water – made possible by Ed’s archaic gas burner and enhanced by my cool bottle of La Vieille Ferme rosé (I believe in scaling down to meet the occasion). Possibly, the observant reader will have noticed the pink screwtop sticking out of the side of my kayak.





We sleep for upwards of ten hours. In my dreams I am the doomed explorer, the failed protector and the terrible parent. I wake up thinking I can do better. Waves? I’m up for you! (Taking a morning bath in the cold waters of the lake adds punch to my resolve.)



Purchase photo 1869


At first, it is smooth out there. The winds are clearly recharging and we are paddling with big smug grins. A piece of cake.

Our goals are loftier though. We want to head out on the open waters of Lake Huron and cut across to an island further down the chain: Marquette Island. Now, maybe you’ve paddled on the Great Lakes or even the open seas. I have not. It is an entirely different kettle of fish out there!

The waves roll in heaving masses of dark deep water, in a slower, mightier motion. You are but a drop of nothing out there. THE LAKE is in charge. In competition with the sky, which threatens to spill blood or at least water on top of water. So that everything is having, moving, threatening. And I have to remember that I am on a “life raft” (Ed’s term) and the wind is blowing me in, not out. And I do remember, when the brain takes over and the palms stop sweating.



Purchase photo 1868


Finally, we turn into Voight Bay and gradually, the waters settle. (As does my stomach. Eventually.) Indeed, the air here is quite still. We find yet another lovely, empty spot and set up tent. With the smell of juniper berries and the sight of flowers.



Purchase photo 1867





Purchase photo 1866


It’s not dusk yet and so we take a walk across the island. The forest has a powerful smell of cedar. And indeed – we cross one of the few remaining cedar swamps in the area. The mosquitoes are so pronounced that we walk slapping our legs in a nonstop windmill action. But it’s worth it. The woods offer occasional clearings of flowers, but mostly they are dense and wild.

And on the other side of the island, we come to the marshy bay where reeds give a different tone to the still waters.



Purchase photo 1865


At dusk, we are in our tent. I am just in awe of the technology that gives us this bug free and rain free existence. Oh, did I mention it? It's raining now. Hard. For hours, we listen to the heavy drops on rain fly. So steady is the rain that we almost give up on our organic freezedried vegetarian Bare Burito dinner. But we're lucky. The patter turns into a drip and Ed braves the bugs to boil the water for our pouches of food. I bring out the remains of the rosé and chocolate. I have camping skills, no?

And in the morning (Friday), the clouds are less threatening. Or at least, the threat is still to the south of us. Somewhere in Ohio.



Purchase photo 1864


I’m anxious to leave. Instant espresso, a bite of cereal, no lake bath, no no no, let’s GO before that cloud explodes on us.

We need to head back into Lake Huron to go around the island and I want that part behind us. My kayak bow is swept with waves again and again and even the skirt doesn’t keep the water from dripping in. I am sitting in a puddle, even as I know, I KNOW, that I am in a huge life preserver, right??

Finally we turn in, paddling through the gentle waters of the inlet leading toward the village of Hessel. It’s our longest trip yet, but it ends on a quiet, contemplative note. Ed is drifting, with an open bag of trail mix, I am closer to the shore, looking at flowers and driftwood.


Purchase photo 1863


Closer to Hessel, we admire the small and great boat houses – some with antique wooden runabouts inside, we pass an occasional fisherman, and we look at the distant regatta of sailboats.



Purchase photo 1862




Purchase photo 1861


We are in Hessel. At the Marina, I head for the shower. Warm, long, wonderful. A local resident with a bushy gray pony tail gives us a ride to Cedarville where we retrieve our car. At the library, I recharge my batteries and I post. Tomorrow, we paddle further east, by Drummond Island. Tonight? Unclear. Ed's hoping for a desolate campsite...