The sun on the water is sparkling. The sky is pure blue, cloudless. It was in the mid-eighties when we departed shore. A light breeze is coming from the south.
Robyn has wisely brought along a sweater today, ready for the changing weather conditions one encounters on the water. However, no sweater is needed for the forty-five-minute water-crossing. In fact, we are enjoying unusual and superb weather.
Undoubtedly, the big lake affects climate, plus, we’re already several hundred miles north of home. Although it’s only mid-July, I don’t presume to take our recent run of great weather and warm temps for granted. I’ve visited in summer when it’s been grey and overcast, or rainy, the bad weather sometimes made worse by blustery cold winds that blow inland off the water.
***
We dock with no time to linger. We take off in Robyn’s vehicle across the large island, looking for the pier where a waiting smaller ferry will transport us over the last stretch of water to our real destination, a place known as Rock Island. Unfortunately, here on the large island, only select businesses and residents have access to the internet. On this island, both our car and mobile telephone GPS systems are non-functioning and completely useless. For visitors, the place is a throwback to a time when people still relied on maps and compasses to get about their business.
I listen as Robyn periodically implores her vehicle to grant us GPS access. Eventually, I give up piping in that a GPS system can’t work without an internet connection, and that we won’t have a good signal until we’re back on the mainland.
Meanwhile, we seem to be driving in circles. We make a series of wrong turns on lovely country roads that abruptly dead end or take us in the opposite direction from the destination pier. By the time we arrive there, the waiting ferry is long gone.
Despite our mishaps, there are two saving graces: First, we’re able to seize control of the last available picnic table where we feast on a luncheon that consists of some items I had packed away for our hike: a tasty trail mix of raisins, several types of nuts and a few sweet yogurt balls that could almost pass for chocolate; a honey crisp apple; a small piece from a brick of Gouda cheese; an unopened sleeve of water crackers, and several unopened bottles of drinking water that still feel cold. Second, while nibbling this impromptu luncheon we observe that approximately six to ten other individuals have gathered on or near the boat dock, some with camping equipment. It feels oddly comforting to know that we weren’t the only travelers to miss the connecting ferry.
Glancing at the piles of camping equipment being strewn haphazardly on the dock, to my practiced eye –not only have I camped for much of my life, but I’ve camped multiple times on the island we are heading to today—these piles seem to be excessive for the type of easy island camping their owners will encounter. Immediately, I suspect the people who own this stuff are camping novices, maybe someone here is heading out today for their first real taste of adventure.
***
I chuckle thinking about my first time camping here with my second wife, Jane, and our close friends, Craig and Donna. This happened so long ago that Craig and Donna only had two kids at the time, beautiful Jennifer, born old, and her goofy, good-natured kid brother, James. James couldn’t have been more than five or six.
During one hike Craig and I concocted the legend of the Red Mole, a resident creature of the island, ever on the lookout for unsuspecting or careless campers. James’ eyes grow and grow, filling with amazement at the telling. Late one night, either Craig or me, I no longer recall our precise roles, struck off into the darkness, cupping one hand around a flashlight so that its light only shone red. Meanwhile, the other remained back in camp to point out the sudden appearance of a red light in the distance while shouting excitedly, “Red Mole, Red Mole!” James was stunned, his mouth agape. For a moment even stolid Jennifer appeared jolted, despite being several years James’ senior.
Whomever had been handling the flashlight would eventually make his way back to camp, duly amazed but also disappointed to have missed a rare sighting of the Mole. Soon enough, peace has been restored and we share in hearty laughter. Sparks and embers from our glowing campfire flicker occasionally in the darkness.
***
These days I walk, well, like an old man walks. I can feel that my gait is off. Sometimes I can even hear my shuffling feet. Today I’m concerned that if we try to tackle the complete loop trail around the island, we might not finish in time to meet the last ferry back to the mainland. We aren’t prepared to stay overnight on the island.
However, the camping sites here are both picturesque and comfortable. Many years back Lee and I were camping here atop a sandy bluff covered with beach grass, high above and overlooking the great lake, when we noticed off in the distance a mighty storm, which had formed on the mainland, rolling fast across the water. This storm rushed towards us like a pyroclastic flow from a volcanic eruption.
We sat mesmerized as the rushing storm overtook and swallowed us in what seemed like a matter of seconds. There was no time to escape nor any place to hide from this storm. It took dead aim and exploded, nearly washing away our campsite.
***
Just this past spring, after providing me with decades of excellent service, I finally ditched my sturdy hiking boots. Today, I’m looking forward to testing out my new hiking boots from Robyn against a real trail after one or two practice runs in the city. We decide on an uphill path to the old lighthouse and from there we’ll duck into the forest via a different trail that eventually circles back to the boat dock.
Quickly I realized that I am the slowest hiker on the whole island. Everyone passes me, including one or two folks wearing sandals or flip-flops. As they speed by, I am secretly hoping they stub a toe on a stone or thick tree root. I’m moving so slowly that eventually even Robyn leaves me in her dust.
When I finally catch up to her, I observe Robyn standing off to one on the side of the trail, flailing with both arms to fight off a horde of biting flies. Later, we’ll meet a park ranger who apologetically explains that an explosion of biting flies has occurred due to the recent spate of above-normal temperatures. And, it’s not only Robyn who has come under siege. Many of the same people who earlier had sped by on their way up to the lighthouse are now speeding downhill to escape the relentless flies. I am relieved, almost happy, because my slow walking gait has spared me the worst of this insect barrage.
***
Because I have no memory of ever taking a car ferry to an island, on our return trip to the mainland I inquire of one youthful-appearing crew member, whatever happened to the ferry that used to go directly from the mainland to the small camping island? He seems puzzled by my question. An older crew member must overhear me because he interrupts, “there used to be a ferry like you’re describing but it’s been gone more than thirty years. Heck, I was still just a kid!”
His remarks make me think of the many times I have visited this place over the years. I also recall the important people in my life with whom I had the chance to share such wonderful adventures. Then I glance over at Robyn, standing nearby, and am glad to be with her today. It’s quite possible this could be my last visit to this place.
