Readers have spoken.  Apparently, I’ve confused some of you. 

Sometimes I refer to Awanabatch and sometimes I refer to Batchawana. So, before we go any further, perhaps I should explain.   

Awanabatch is the name Thurston’s grandfather gave the family camp – a simple play on its location – Batchawana Bay. 

Easily found on a google map, the property sits near where the Batchawana River meets Lake Superior.

In person, it’s marked by a ramshackle little old boathouse clearly displaying the family-given name of Awanabatch.  I’m not sure whether the boards are missing due to age or if they were strategically removed by teenaged boys to spy on girls without being caught. 

Currently a storage area for broken lawn furniture and deflated beach toys, it’s seen better days.  Still, the family can’t decide what to do with the old structure. Fix it? Tear it down? Turn it into a screen house?

Chad and I have spent considerable time coming up with options.  We’ve even incorporated the old wooden boat in of the remodel ideas. Unfortunately, neither one of us gets a vote.

There may have been a time, many years ago, when someone with considerably more authority than the family expressed an opinion on the matter.

Apparently, we weren’t ready to decide then either.

Twenty years later, it still stands.  With nine people making the decision, my money is on the boathouse standing for twenty more years. It’s probably eligible for historic landmark status by now.

Attached to the corner is the platform for the aging rope swing.  Still capable of holding two hundred pounds or more, it presents a challenge that most people can’t resist – and another opportunity for the rest of us to question their judgment. 

Eagles and loons are common sights from our viewpoint.  Recently, family members even spotted a moose. Occasionally, you see a little more wildlife than you bargained for.

Some sightings are probably best left out of print. 

Others have become something of a local tradition.    

Over the years, the mouth of the river has gotten shallow, with rock piles, sandbars and sunken trees creating some pretty good fishing.  Twenty-inch smallmouth bass aren’t unheard of. 

Rock piles and sunken logs, however, aren’t the only things you want to avoid at the mouth of the river. 

Opposite our property, where the river meets the lake, sits another beautiful property.  Seemingly owned by the same family for many years, it has a tradition of its own.  For as long as Thurston and his family can remember, individuals have enjoyed a little steam, followed by a naked run into Lake Superior.

Some traditions really do stand the test of time. Thurston’s generation remembers the same gentleman making that run when they were all considerably younger. Apparently, they’ve all aged right along with Awanabatch. 

I have to say that at this point in my life, Thurston is the only old man I really need to see naked. 

We have our traditions; the nudie can have his.

My problem is with our boat captain. 

Thurston tends to fish considerably closer to their shoreline than I consider necessary. Not only does the proximity make casting difficult, it’s hard to concentrate on your bait when you’re also keeping one eye out for a naked man.   

At least there’s usually some warning that they’re there. They seem to enjoy their steam accompanied by opera.

Loud opera. 

Whether it’s intended to warn off would-be lookers or simply enhance the experience, I can’t say. 

This year the fish have done a pretty good job at eluding us.  Thankfully, so have the nudies.

For annual visitors to Awanabatch, the nudies with their opera drifting across the river are as much a part of the tradition as the old boathouse, the rope swing, and the fishing. 

Batchawana is the place you’ll find on the map.

Awanabatch is everything that comes with it.