I am TTOOTT (The Teller of Oft Told Tales). I am not a reporter with a phalanx of fact-checkers ferreting out fake news. I am a simple storyteller, addicted to alliteration, enthusiastic elder and embellisher of entertaining events. My goal is to ground, to stop the static, to hear and to really listen, to witness without judging. And so we begin…..
Rootbeer River Romance
It was dark, very, very dark. The edge of the blanket lifted. In the silence, a soft, cold, wet marshmallow-sized something slithered under my wrist, paused and then flipped my hand into the air. I cracked one eyelid open a millimeter and through the curtain saw the first hint of morning light. The hand-flip thing happened again. A secretive glance at the clock showed 6:15 AM. I faked slumber rolling onto my side. This time the icy intruder found the back of my left knee and I spasmed, choking back a scream. Sixty-five pounds of black Labrador retriever landed on my back, started a morning tongue bath; tail beating a joyful cadence on the aluminum wall of our tiny Airstream Flying Cloud. Axel was awake and so now was the rest of the world.
In the spring of 2019, my wife Kathy and I were unexpectedly able to fulfill a long-held dream, buying a “silver bullet”, a small, gently used, Airstream travel trailer. We added a weight equalization hitch and sway bars manufactured by Blue Ox to reduce the effects of wind gusts and passing big-rigs. That became the inspiration for our trailer’s name: Babe.
Over the Memorial Day weekend we set out on a shake-down cruise to learn Babe’s numerous systems and develop procedures and checklists for towing and making and breaking a campsite. Our destination; Paradise, a small hamlet on Whitefish point on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, 35 miles northwest of Sault Ste Marie across Lake Superior’s Whitefish Bay.
If the name rings a memory, think Gordon Lightfoot. On November 10, 1975, The Edmund Fitzgerald, a great lakes freighter running before a freak storm and making for the relative safety of Whitefish Bay, foundered and sank with her veteran crew.
We camped in Tahquamenon Falls State Park, 52,000 acres of forest and wetlands, almost twice the size of Minnesota’s largest park, St. Croix. The Tahquamenon River (rhymes with phenomenon) is an 89 mile-long blackwater river that flows eastward towards the bay and drains more than 800 square miles of the Upper Peninsula. The water is golden brown in color from the tannins leached from the cedar swamps through which the river flows, earning it the nickname “The Root Beer River”.
One of the many benefits of travel is living light; leaving behind many things that are ordinarily considered essential, heaviest among them your dualistic sense of self. When no one knows you or cares, you no longer have to shoulder the personality puppet you’ve created. With anonymity comes time to listen, to see, to observe without all the filters and disguises we erect to protect the self-image we’ve created in our mind. Special moments stand out that would have been lost in the din of daily life. We were lucky enough to share this journey with our mindfulness mentor, Axel. A non-dualistic witness to the present, he shares his joy, energy, compassion and forgiveness with all the creatures he encounters.
As he and I started our walk, we were alone, the woods quiet except for the distant murmur of the falls and the sharp scold of a red squirrel sensing Axel. The soft light of early morning barely kissed the treetops, tendrils of fog ghosted among the branches. We stopped often to read the p-mail, our breath marking exclamation points in the chilly air. The path degraded as we walked, from pavers to asphalt, from gravel to bark mulch and finally shattered shale and tangled tamarack roots underfoot as we climbed towards the upper falls.
A steep stairway spiraled down a chimney in the cliff wall to an observation platform at the lip of the cataract. Ninety-four wedge-shaped grated stair treads, steel faces glistening with dew, switch-backed down the gorge, weaving around trees stubbornly clinging to the rockface. Cold, weathered cedar handrails were slippery with the mist rising from the falls.
For a change, Axel sat silently beside me at the railing, contemplating the power and beauty before us. Gigantic golden puffballs of foam glided silently toward the brink on honey-colored water rich with memories, then falling, erupting with a restrained thunder felt viscerally as much as heard, disintegrating into the fury of light and sound on the fractured rock far below. Gulls floated in the mist above the roiling, boiling outflow, searching for stunned prey.
We sat there alone for several minutes, mesmerized. When we heard footsteps ringing on the stairs above, we moved down the deck-way parallel to the river’s edge, giving the new arrivals some privacy. The couple, in their sixties, didn’t seem to see us off to the side. They didn’t speak, just stared at the sight, his arm around her waist.
After a few more moments of peace, Axel and I headed for the base of the stairs. He stopped, sat, and stared at the pair and the falls. I don’t know whether he was “in the moment” or dreading the serrations of the steps on his paws. The couple turned and noticed us. Without thinking, I approached and asked if they’d like me to take a picture of them together. They hesitated for a moment, turned to each other, unsure what to make of this bearded old gent and his wiggling companion appearing out of the dawn. Eventually, they agreed and I shot a couple of pictures of the two of with the falls as a backdrop. As I returned his phone, the woman leaned into her husband and said, “The last time we were here, it was 46 years ago and we were on our honeymoon. We carved our initials into the railing and they’re still here.”
We left them to their decades of memories amid the thunderous silence. Axel and I resumed our measured climb, slowly, breathing hard but joyful at having been present and open at such a special moment.
It happened again the next day, at Crisp Point Lighthouse, a U.S. Life-Saving Service Station. Removed from service, remote, far from human habitation, it stands silent on the rocky, windswept shore, west of Whitefish Point. That triangular land mass separates the rolling vastness of Lake Superior from the relative shelter of Whitefish Bay
This day had dawned cold, clear, and windy. We’d trekked 25 miles along a barely visible single track, through old-growth forest, clear cuts, and swamp. Initially, we had the place to ourselves except for a couple who monitored the site in exchange for long-term camping privileges. They told us the light was open if we had the energy to climb.
I made my way, round and round up the tower, 62 steps to the light room. Canada to the north and eastward across the point, Sault St Marie, a beautiful view. On my way down, I had to pause to let a young couple pass. Below, Kathy wandered the rugged shore, stalking the perfect rock for her collection back home.
Axel and I meandered east along the shore, composing photos as we went. As we turned to head back, Axel froze, staring at the lighthouse. He wouldn’t move. We were a hundred yards away but as I watched, the young couple clambered through the hatch in the light room windows and onto the catwalk that circled the light. They stood there, his arm around her waist, and then turned, embraced, then kissed. For Axel, the spell was broken and he again began interrogating every piece of driftwood we passed.
As the three of us met up, Kathy had a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. She had gone into the keeper’s house at the base of the light to sign the registration log. On the entry above she read the following, “I just asked the woman I love more than anything else in this world to marry me, and she said yes”.
As we were about to get in the truck we saw the young couple enter the tiny souvenir shop managed by the caretakers. Kathy and I looked at each other and followed. We caught the eye of the manager and his wife, told them the story and bought memorial sweatshirts for the love-struck kids. Our truck and theirs were parked side by side. We waited until they came out, gave them our congratulations and the sweats.
It’s not often you get to see the beginning of a loving relationship and the fruits of that long-standing practice years down the road. Two days, two couples, one black lab who taught me to present, at least for a little while.
Axel slept all the way back to our campsite. Being present, in the moment and teaching mere humans is a tiring business. Besides there all those bushes, all that driftwood, the rocks….