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...

Les Cheneaux Islands: arrival

420 miles later, we are ordering pizza at Ang-Gio’s in Cedarville, Michigan. You could look upon Cedarville as the gateway to Les Cheneaux Islands (on Lake Huron). But that makes it seems big and grand. Cedarville is small and homey. And that’s a good thing.

We have driven through great heat, followed by low-lying clouds. Dark ones that almost touch the road. It's dusk now, at 9 (we’re on Eastern time now), and Ed wants to search out a place to put down the tent. I’m thinking the first night should be in a motel, with a shower, but this is really Ed’s call. I’m way too bossy about where we stay in France. This time, I tell myself to shut up and go along.

We’re looking for a small stretch of National Forest along Lake Huron. Of course, we turn into the wrong dirt road. Gordon, a local resident, is out and about (sign says: Gordon and Eleanor’s house) and so we pull up to get our bearings.

The Hiawatha Forest? Next road. Nice beachfront, put down your tent anywhere. Just up a mile or so.
And the mosquitoes?
Worst ever.

But Gordon doesn’t live in Madison. He’s hanging out by his mailbox at dusk. Worst is relative. Where do you like to eat in Cedarville? – we ask Gordon. He shrugs. All three are the same. Try the one left of the blinking light. We thank him and head out.

It’s pretty here.



Purchase photo 1860



We find the dirt road, the coastline – empty here except for one couple who appear to be settled in for the long haul. We turn away from them, and drive along the rutted lane looking for a good spot where we can return and set camp after supper.


Purchase photo 1859


Late suppers, after a day without proper meals, are always special. I'm totally taken with the freshness of the onion, the tomato, the mushrooms on a thick crust pizza. (I ignore the salad bar which, as so many up north, should never be called that; when carbs outnumber veggies, change the name!)




And now we head back to our chosen camp spot. The night is dark. And it’s starting to rain again. We wait it out. Putting up a tent in the rain is miserable and you never quite recover until the sun dries things out again.

Miraculously, the rain stops. Or at least pauses. We hurry. It’s rocky, and there are bugs, but Ed’s quick and we’re inside the tent, gear and all, within minutes.



I wake up at dawn and find a nice blanket of mosquitoes clinging to the netting. A welcoming committee. (Sorry to have doubted you, Gordon.)

But it is a sunny morning (caveat: weather changes very quickly here; very very quickly) and with each hour, their numbers diminish. By 8, I leave our tent and stroll down to the banks of Lake Huron, where I wash off the day of travel. With very cold water. If any part of me was sleeping still, it got a healthy wake up slap now.



the tent, the grasses, the water





Purchase photo 1858



We drive to the villages of Hessel and Cedarville to find a possible put in point. Before the clouds take over again. They will, I can tell, but for now, we can contemplate the utter loveliness of the simple harbor, the lake, the few boats, the place with the good pizza and the shop with the not so good coffee and the even less great Internet. It's all as it should be.



in the village of Hessel
Purchase photo 1857




Purchase photo 1856

Les Cheneaux Islands: departure

I was, in more youthful times, an enthusiastic camper. In Poland, the minute my parents gave permission (and they did this very early; tormented by their own lives, they hardly knew my age or whereabouts during high school and university years) for me to go on long kayak trips, I went. Again and again. Down rivers linked by lakes. In small groups and large kayak clubs, sharing a tent most often with strangers. We pulled up on shores and asked farmers for bread and cheese and opened cans that smelled of grease, with chunks of something I would never before or after consider eating.

That was then. So what’s changed? Two things, really. Moving here, I noticed that American streets may not be paved in gold, but her skies, come summertime, are indeed filled to overflowing. With mosquitoes. On our mountain hiking trip two years back, the bugs were so bad, that we could not eat outside. Or stand still. Or sit down. Of course, that was Canada, but I think they cross the border freely.

And I have weather issues. This I carry over from Poland and my country summers with my grandparents. After storms, we’d bike to the village to see whose barn had been struck and what the damage was. Lightening was no joke. And I still find it somewhat terrifying if I am outdoors. I have been studying the ten day forecast for Les Cheneaux for a long time, and I swear, there has not been a stretch without scattered storms all summer long.

These issues notwithstanding, Les Cheneaux Islands, to me, are like a mystical dream. We watched a slide show this last winter, during the paddling convention here, in Madison, and maybe it was that we were in the middle of a deep freeze, with no spring in sight, or maybe I was in some weepy vulnerable moment, but the images from Les Cheneaux stuck with me. We have to go there, I said to Ed.

So this is it: one kayak on the car roof, the other, inflatable, in the trunk. Packets of freezedried chili, bags of trail mix. Deet. A new tent that, to our knowledge, will keep rain out. What am I forgetting? Too late. Off we go.

stormy skies

Late on my last DC day, it rained. And I thought, how cool is that! All week-end, the weather did us the favor of holding steady until we were safely indoors.


Purchase photo 1855


Sometimes, the skies are indeed very friendly.

Thank you, skies, for also pushing the storms away when my little plane landed in Madison today.

And can we strike a bargain? I wont complain about the threatening way you, stormy skies, took over my home town tonight, if only you stay away from me for the next five days or so. Okay?




NOTE: After the terrifying climb up in the Canadian Rockies two years ago, I resisted all suggestions from Ed that “we should go camping again.” It seemed to me that anything that takes more than a day’s hike to get to, is not worth seeing, unless there is a b&b nearby. And yet…

BOTTOM LINE: We are heading north tomorrow. To Lake Huron and Les Cheneaux islands. Where we will kayak and yes, camp. (I am such a pushover.) Needless to say, Ocean will take a nap until we pull into places with Internet access. I expect that there will be a three day lull in there, somewhere. For a person who has posted 99.99% of the days since she started 4.5 years back, this is somewhat traumatic.

And, in addition to Ocean silence, I have other reasons to sweat. Bears. Gusty winds and stormy skies. Bad food (we bought packaged organic stuff, but it really is sketchy looking). No rose wine or baked goat cheese on a bed of greens. No espresso. No shower, no music, no outlet to recharge camera batteries, no Yogato tangy yogurt with mango and star fruit, no baguettes.

I can’t believe I’m doing this again.

To calm waters and blue skies and a quick return.



Purchase photo 1854

fields of war, fields of peace

You could have an entire dinner discussion about whether DC is in the American south or somewhere on the fence.

You could do an entire vacation touring the sites of the battles that ultimately kept the south linked to the northern states.

The first significant Civil War battle, fought at Bull Run 147 years ago, was a Union defeat. The second battle at Bull Run, coming a year later and resulting in some 14,000 casualties for the Union and (at some estimates) 8,500 casualties for the Confederacy was also a win for the south.


We walk the fields at Bull Run (a two day march from DC for the soldiers, a one hour drive for us) and try to think 147 years back.


Imagine, such a short while back, we were at war with each other. Stonewall Jackson, Beauregard, Robert E. Lee, all fought here, at Bull Run. Strong willed, stubborn. And victorious on these battlefields.


Purchase photo 1853


We hike the trail of the First Battle of Bull Run. A quiet path, meandering for six miles through the woods, up the golden hills of Virginia grasses.



Purchase photo 1852





Purchase photo 1851





Purchase photo 1850


The air is sticky warm. We hadn’t packed water. Was it sticky warm in July 147 years ago? Fields of blood, fields of war. So blissfully quiet now here, in Virginia.



Purchase photo 1849





Purchase photo 1848



The next morning I eat a breakfast of fried green tomatoes and eggs, with cheese grits on the side and watch people walk home from church.



Purchase photo 1847

tomorrow

I'll post in a few hours. First, some sleep.

Independence

I tell friends burdened with caring for young children – at some point you and they will be independent of each other and I guess that’s a good thing (sniffle)…


Independence Day. The Fourth of July and I have been trying to find a celebratory middle ground for years. While I truly appreciate the historic events that lead to the day’s glory, I’m not quite sure how we should conduct ourselves now to show our respect. And I say this not only as a newcomer to this country.


When the kids were little, we could have wound red, white and blue streamers around their bikes and had them join the neighborhood parade of little tykes doing the same, but I could never work up enthusiasm for the project. It seemed far and removed from the congressional approval of a document centuries ago.

Besides, whatever fun elements may have been had in biking with dozens of honking kids around the block, evaporated in a sea of mosquitoes and hot sticky air.


When holiday pomp eludes me, I compensate by cooking. I once made a splendid Fourth of July tart with “white” crème patisserie, blueberries and strawberries, and that worked, until someone noted that it was an excellent French tart.

Grilling was okay for a while, but now I live in a condo and frankly, there’s no one worth grilling for. I can’t see Ed taking enthusiastically to flipping seared meats of fish on a Weber. A llittle reminiscent of this kind of set up:





Last year, I decided to prolong my stay in France until the day after the Fourth of July. Expats in Paris tend not to put red white and blue streamers into their velos and so the holiday came and went and I relaxed.


But this year, I am looking the Fourth squarely in the eye. I’m in DC, with my two independent daughters.


We start the day with Washington’s newest kick – tangy yogurt. Mine’s with star fruit. In celeration of stars.













We take the metro and we people watch. The subway car has the pulse of the Fourth. I'm mesmerized.





In Alexandria, we get off and head for the Potomac. We rent bikes and take the trail to Washington’s estate at Mt. Vernon. Along the river.





In the days of George W (oh, surely you know I mean Washington!), this same path must have felt swampy and wet. Now, it weaves over and under bridges, past recreational parks, through well tended woods.





Still, it’s a lovely stretch of green space.





Closer to the city, families spread blankets, light up the Weber, slice up the watermelon. It’s hot and there is a threat of storms, but no one seems to mind. A park of relaxed faces. In spite of it all, in spite of what takes place in this place of government, there is this: a day to sit on a blanket and watch the children drip juice on their ernest young faces.



The city and the Fourth – it’s all interconnected. I see people carrying brochures which explain how and where to celebrate it. The Metro is rerouted, schedules are changed. On the Mall there is a swelling mass that comes from every corner of the country, and from across the ocean, on a strong Euro and weak dollar. To see what all the fuss is about.






We avoid the crowds. We go to our own corner, our own rooftop and watch, enraptured. So beautiful.























































It's easier then, on the rooftop, watching the fireworks, isn't it? It makes sense, right?

blue skies

This evening I’m off. Flying the blue skies, heading east. Daughterland.

I leave you with a blue flower from my balcony. Or… is it purple?

lakeside

A law seminar on the Capitol Square placed me downtown this morning. Done by noon, I head for the Wednesday off-the-Square market.

Nostalgia. I used to live here. I was, until last year, a downtown returnee. This market was my market. I know you – a vendor greets me. Or, your face… your name, hmm… from l'Etoile... give me a minute now… I forgive him, especially since I cannot remember his either.





Move out and names scatter and fizzle.

I run into one of the owners of l’Etoile Restaurant, where I used to moonlight. The Square is being taken over by a developer, she tells me. Ah – the threat of the overzealous developer. L’Etoile is wary. Ed, with a developer hovering by his land, threatening to put in rows and rows of houses, is equally uneasy. Me, I want the developer to hurry up and finish the work next to my condo. The site of the future Whole Foods has been a Hole in the Ground for a year now.

Our lives are made crazy by developers.

In the meantime, the Farmers Market is thriving. I buy strawberries and nibble through the box as I walk up and down the two rows of stalls.





I turn toward the lake. I like this walk – a common one for me not too far back. From Monona Terrace, down John Nolan Drive.





Our skyline. Madison. Pretty, even if forever changing her face. The Capitol, with its golden statue (sculpted by the same artist who gave us the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC) and white dome creates stability. To an extent.





At the lakeside, I get caught up in watching swallows. Ever try to photograph a swallow in motion? It has to be the most skittish bird ever. Dart, glide, swoop, never predictable, changing directions, your friend for a nanosecond, then off elsewhere. (Like downtown Madison?)





I get so engrossed in watching these birds, and the fishing boat inching toward the skyline, and the big boat collecting lake algae (seems daunting; okay, honestly – hopeless), and so I don’t notice the sky. Suddenly I am getting wet. The lake is getting wet too, but it doesn’t mind. I mind.





I find a tree, but then hear rumble. Thunder. A cyclist, seeking the same cover, asks me: are you a visitor here? (Oh, that big camera!) Time to move on. I walk briskly to the Washington Hotel Café on Lakeside. There, I order a double shot latte and I look at a book of photos of old Madison. Of a time when the downtown buzzed with people not with cars, and when the train station was packed with travelers on their way to Chicago and beyond.

No trains now. No station. Lots of cars. And developers.


At my condo, someone has delivered a wonderfully fresh and crusty baguette. A gift from Max (of Stella’s), the number one vendor at the Farmers Market. Oh, Max! Oh Madison!





UPDATE: the comment tells it all. In our little town, the early get rich, the dallying get white bread. The vendor in the photo is indeed Bill. It all comes back. His wee little tomatoes later in the season are to die for. As for Max's (Stella's Bakery) baguette: I am on a campaign to make these available daily, to all of us, somewhere in town. I pledge 300 halves per year, on the conservative side. Tonight, Ed and I consumed, no, devoured one in its entirety. It's not 100% like what it may be elsewhere, but it is pretty darn close and it is superb and that's all that matters. Thanks to the fantastically knowledgeable delivery boy (Barry)!