Cherry Lake in the morning
I’m sitting on a hard bench seat, being jostled uncomfortably against the side of a man I’ve only met a few times. I’m nervous. Correction—I’m terrified. We’re on the turnpike on our way to Hiram College’s Northwoods Campus for a weeklong course on “The Creative Life.” How did I get here? I don’t know a single person in this crowded van. I’m vaguely acquainted with the lanky, good-natured guy next to me from a previous class, but that’s it.
The van is noisy with conversation and laughter. Am I the only one who’s miserable? I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the twelve hour ride ahead of us. As a card-carrying introvert, having pegged the “I” end of the scale on the Myers-Briggs Personality Inventory, I’m not at my best in large groups. Parties exhaust me, and even good friends tire me after a while. This trip is a huge leap out of my comfort zone, and right now, it’s a leap that I’m wishing I wouldn’t have made.
I look out at the northwest Ohio farmland rolling by and am glad that at least I have a window seat, but my rump is hanging over its edge, so I’m physically uncomfortable in addition to being tense and anxious. I’m unable to avoid physical contact with the guy next to me. There isn’t room for me to get away from him. The best I can do is to move my knee away from his. I feel like I’m being forced to be physically intimate with a stranger.
I try to calm myself by remembering why I’d signed up for this course in the first place. I’d been told about Northwoods during my first advising appointment at Hiram, and it had sounded like heaven to me—a lodge and cabins way up in the piney woods of Michigan, no cell phone service, no TV, no Internet, no noise, a lake clean enough to bathe in. A chance to see bears, bald eagles, and maybe even the Northern Lights. An opportunity to put down my busy everyday life for a week and spend time in the wilderness, away from civilization. I’d never done that—never been camping, never gone into the backcountry—my “wilderness” experiences had been limited to local “hikes” in the woods and scenic drives along paved roads in a couple of national parks. I’d thought it might be a chance to “get away from it all” and get college credit to boot, if I could overcome my apprehension about traveling with strangers.
One Saturday, there was an information table set up on campus, about an upcoming course at Northwoods. I hadn’t been able to resist the lure of the beautiful photographs on display—of a rustic lodge on a sparkling lake, cozy log cabins, a thick green forest, a glowing campfire. I was entranced, but felt certain that I could never go away for a week with a group of unfamiliar people. The teacher for the course noticed me looking longingly at the posters, and introduced herself to me. She was kind and gentle. I told her I was afraid and she didn’t laugh at me or make me feel small. She said, “We create a completely safe space for everyone. I think you would love it.” Enticed by the photos and the promise of a week spent in what looked to me like Paradise, I’d agreed to sign up for the course.
Now that I’m actually on my way, remembering how I’d felt about the prospect of a week in the deep woods is the only thing that’s keeping me sane. I’m hanging on to my vision of a little log cabin surrounded by towering pines as if it’s a magical amulet that can protect me from my fears. How many people will I have to share that cabin with? What if we don’t get along? What are we going to do about bathrooms? We’ll have to bathe in the lake—how will we have any privacy? I have no idea how these things work. I’ve always liked the notion of “roughing it,” but I’ve never done it, and the thought of doing it for the first time in the company of people I don’t know is terrifying. I’m hoping that we’ll have lots of free time so I’ll be able to get away from everyone and just enjoy Nature on my own. I picture myself hiking alone along beautiful trails, hearing nothing but the wind in the treetops and the music of forest birds. It helps a little.
∞
We’ve been in Michigan for several hours now. The landscape hasn’t changed all that much, but I’m seeing road signs that tell me we’re entering another environment. I jot them down in my little Molskine® notebook: “Welcome to the 45th Parallel.” “Bear Bait.” “Elk Herd Info.” I’m starting to appreciate that the climate here must be very different from the one at home, and I wish I would have done a little research on it ahead of time.
I’m feeling much better as I begin to enjoy the excitement of visiting a part of the country I’ve never seen before. I’ve managed to join in some of the conversations and almost feel like I’m making friends. Everyone is caught up in the anticipation of crossing the Mackinac Bridge. I love bridges. I can’t wait to see this one.
I gawk like a tourist as we cross, mesmerized by the view of two Great Lakes, swooping gulls and cormorants, and the beautiful shorelines, crowded with tall trees. The colors are striking—blues and greens and whites—with the sun sparkling merrily off the water all around us. As we leave the bridge and enter the Upper Peninsula, it feels like we’re going into another country.
Now things do look different. There are conifers everywhere, standing tall and narrow, arrow-straight. The ground is sandy, pebbled with rocks and gravel. The evergreens remind me of the Pacific Northwest, but there are no mountains here. This terrain is flat. I note more signs: “Pasties. Smoked Fish. Cheese Curds.” “Dogsled Rides – U Drive.” Everywhere I look, I glimpse mysterious waterways and ponds, shimmering between clumps of thick grasses and clusters of what I’m told are wild blueberry bushes.
We stop for one last break. I climb stiffly down out of the van, take a few steps toward the restrooms, and stop, dazzled by the feel and smell of the air. It’s late July, and not cold, yet the air is crisp, and clean, and smells wonderfully piney. I’m enchanted. I stand there for a minute, just taking it in. Someone says to me, with a smile, “Smells good, doesn’t it?”
“My God,” I reply, “It’s fantastic.” The purity of this Upper Peninsula air is zinging through my entire body. By the time we clamber back into the van for the last leg of the trip, I’m refreshed. I forget to be uncomfortable.
∞
We got here Sunday night. It’s Tuesday evening, after dinner. I’m at the lodge, sitting on the big open porch with the others. I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying being in the company of these people, all of whom I now consider friends after only two days. Perhaps being in this beautiful place is allowing me to open up. I’m so happy to be here, in this moment, with nothing to do but rock gently on this swing and look out over Cherry Lake. I watch lightning flickering over the tops of the magnificent pines. There are long, low rumblings of thunder in the distance. I have no sense of direction in this unfamiliar location. I don’t know which way bad weather usually tracks here. I have no idea if the storm I’m hearing is getting closer or not. Still, I’m at peace.
The elfin woman who has been cooking for us has just returned from a trip into town. She has the answer to my unspoken question about the weather. There are violent storms developing. Tornado watches and warnings are popping up all around us. Those who have brought their own tents must take them down, quickly, and shelter in the lodge or in cabins tonight—it won’t be safe to be outside. The wind is already getting stronger. The people who have tents to take down hurry away. For a minute I think, “I hope the power doesn’t go out,” and then I laugh to myself. We don’t have power other than what the windmill and solar panels have generated during the day, for the lodge—we’re better off than folks “on the grid” in this weather. In our cabins, we rely on oil lamps and flashlights. There’s no reason to fear a power outage.
It’s starting to rain, and it’s really dark now, except when lightning throws its sizzling glare over the landscape. I decide to go back to the cabin. It’s not far, but I don’t want to get soaked. The wind is getting wild, too. I don’t want to get my head bashed in by a falling branch. I say goodnight to the card-players on the porch and begin to pick my way along the carpet of pine needles that is the trail to the cabins. I’m laughing to myself again. I love storms, and this is beginning to feel like a good one.
I get to shelter just in time. The rain is coming down harder and is being driven sideways by the wind. I can’t sit on the porch to watch the storm or I’ll get drenched. Lightning is streaking the sky every few seconds, radiating flashes of brilliant white light over everything, which are followed immediately by towering explosions of thunder. This is intense. I realize that if I were at home, I’d be glued to the National Weather Service website, watching the radar, knowing exactly what was coming and how bad it would be. I’d be tuned into every watch and warning. If there were a tornado approaching, I’d know it. Here, I have none of that. I feel helpless and completely at the mercy of this storm—and I like it. I don’t have to fear a power failure. I’m not worried about a tree falling on the cabin. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do but enjoy the show. The sky lights up with an ear-splitting crack as a tree is struck on the far side of the lake. I wonder if I should be afraid. I’m not.
∞
The air is cool this morning. It’s early. In this place, I wake up naturally between 5 and 6 AM, as sunlight and birdsong enter gently into the cabin. No one else is around as I head to the lake for a bath. I set my biodegradable soap and my towel on the dock and walk slowly into the water, which is warmer than the air. The lake is completely still, surrounded by tall silent trees. Everything is calm. There’s a mist rising off the surface of the water, soft and mysterious. The other night, I heard loons calling. I wonder where they are now. Perhaps they are dreaming in the tall grasses along the foggy shoreline. I don’t want to splash or make any noise. I won’t disturb this profound peace. I’m chest deep in the pure, clear water, and as I look gratefully around me, I realize that I’m in beauty right now. I’m bathing in it. I’m part of it. I’m not in a car, speeding past it, looking longingly at it on my way to somewhere else, like I usually am in my busy life at home. I look up at the clear morning sky and whisper a prayer of thanks.
∞
On Friday afternoon, I’m walking to the lodge for supper, when I suddenly become aware of how slowly I’m moving. There is no hurry. I feel relaxed and loose in every part of me. I’m so used to carrying life’s tension around in my neck and shoulders –I can’t help but notice that it’s gone. My breathing is easy, and deeper. I am enjoying every leisurely step along this soft spongy path of pine needles, where ferns dance gently at my feet and trees murmur overhead. My mind feels open and free and I can’t for the life of me remember why I was so scared on the ride up here. I’m looking forward to sharing a meal with friends at the lodge. It seems as though being here in the woods and living in harmony with Nature’s rhythms has unwound the tight spring that’s usually quivering at my core.
I’ve long known that getting out into Nature is necessary and restorative for me. I’ve never experienced its full healing power until now. A couple of hours on a Saturday, in a Metropark, has always been enjoyable and refreshing, but has never had the same deep effect as being here has. Nights spent sleeping in complete darkness, soothed by the sound of the wind gently surfing the treetops, have been much more restful than nights at home. At home, the bedroom is never completely dark; the glow of the yard light next door always filters through the drapes. It is never quiet—too often, I’m assaulted by the pounding vibrations of a boom car thumping down the street, or the loud conversation and laughter of neighbors who are up late. Waking up to an alarm clock is always stressful and feels unnatural; waking up on my own when the sun begins to brighten the cabin, and the birds start to sing, feels joyous. Having classes outside, sitting on the ground in a clearing, being able at any moment to look up at a brilliant blue sky, take a deep breath of the clean woodsy air, or put my hand right down on the earth to feel its energy, makes me feel centered and alive.
What surprises me is how I’m feeling about the others here. Even though the majority of my time is being spent in their company, I don’t feel crowded or stressed, like I expected to. I’m not becoming exhausted by the persistent presence of these people. Something about being here in the woods has given me a sense of space that allows me to relax, to be myself, to enjoy kinship with these fellow human beings without ever feeling hostile or wanting to run away to some hiding place where I can be alone. In my usual life, I often feel harried and pressured, unable to escape from the noise and demands of everyone from strangers on the street who ask me for directions, to colleagues who seek my advice and loved ones who need my attention. It’s different here. I’m looking forward to sitting down with my new friends tonight, to eat together and talk about the day. After supper, and cleaning up, we’ll laze around the lodge, maybe swim, maybe go out in canoes. When it gets dark, we’ll have a campfire, and we’ll sit around it till late, telling stories and watching the flames. We’ll listen for the eerily beautiful calls of loons on the lake, watch the rise of the wise milky moon, and wonder if there are wolves roaming the nighttime woods around us.
∞
I’m not looking forward to going back to the life where I spend most of my time insulated from the earth and the sky by wheels, walls, and windows, where my footsteps mostly fall on unforgiving concrete and my ears are continually invaded by the noises of traffic, alarm clocks, pagers, and telephones. Where I spend hours staring at a computer screen instead of contemplating a sparkling blue lake framed by whispering trees. But, I realize, it’s all right. I’ve experienced something here, something huge, something I can take back to that hectic, unnatural life with me. It’s something I’ve always known in my mind, and now I’ve felt it in my heart and in my body. There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s a great deal wrong with a life lived under constant pressure and in a state of perpetual hurry, separated from the earth by pavement and buildings and gadgets. I’ll always be an introvert, but what I’ve learned here at Northwoods is that I don’t necessarily need solitude to refresh my spirit. Nature is powerful enough to do that even in the constant company of other human beings. Maybe, as a species, we need more contact with Nature in order to become more fully humane.
