nature

A Little Help Would Be Nice

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After telling Thurston we needed to stop spending money, I happened upon a 22-foot Smoker Craft pontoon on Facebook Marketplace at a great price.

It wouldn’t hurt to go look, would it?

Better take a trailer. Just in case.

Of course, it was exactly what we were looking for. The seller asked Thurston how he was at backing a trailer. No worries. He’s a retired farmer. Backing a trailer is second nature.

After backing down what seemed like a quarter mile of narrow, winding, tree-lined trail, we loaded the pontoon onto our way-too-small trailer.

We pumped up the tires, crossed our fingers and headed down the road. The boat was sitting a little crooked, which actually helped because one of the trailer glides was broken and rubbing against a tire. If we could just make it to our friends’ house across town, we’d call it a win.

We made it.

Yesterday, Thurston rented a much bigger trailer for four hours. Plenty of time to transfer the boat, get it home, unload it into the barn for winter and return the rental.

Shouldn’t it be?

Our carefully devised plan involved taking the pontoon to a nearby lake, launching it, and leaving me with the boat while Thurston exchanged trailers. He’d return, we’d take a little joyride, reload the pontoon onto the safe trailer and haul it home.

All within four hours.

On the way, we were laughing about how much effort it had taken the two of us to formulate this plan. I suggested that perhaps we should consider adding a third person to our relationship.

Not for romance. For additional brainpower.

Thurston had checked out the boat launch beforehand, so we knew it wasn’t far. Unfortunately, the GPS took us to the lake but not the launch. After turning an eight-mile trip into a twenty-minute drive, we headed back the other way.

Our next road was closed. Bridge out.

Forty-five minutes into what should have been a ten-minute trip, we finally arrived, with the questionable trailer tires somehow still intact.

We unloaded the pontoon, and I prepared to wait at the dock. I’d swapped phones with Thurston because mine was nearly dead. Again. As usual.

Almost immediately, another boater needed the ramp, so I decided to motor out a little way and enjoy the beautiful afternoon. Wish I had at least grabbed some sunglasses.

I put the boat in neutral, shut off the motor and even pulled the key to make sure I wouldn’t accidentally run down the battery.

Pretty proud of myself.

Nearly an hour later, I’d drifted considerably farther into the lake. Time to start the motor and head back.

I turned the key.

Nothing.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

The fuel gauge moved when I turned the key, so I knew there was some electrical power. Maybe there was a trick to starting it. A button? A special throttle position?

I moved the throttle up and down, searching for that sweet spot.

Nothing.

There I sat, alone in the middle of a good-sized lake, in a 22-foot pontoon. I hadn’t just forgotten to grab my sunglasses; I had no ID, no ownership papers, no proof of insurance, no life jackets and, worst of all, no paddle.

Thank goodness for Thurston’s phone, which still had 25% battery.

He was just pulling into the parking lot when I called him. Thankfully, he had my phone charging in the truck. It took some convincing before he believed I wasn’t joking.

“Let me think, and I’ll call you back.”

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking on our four-hour trailer rental. Sitting in the middle of the lake waiting for someone to rescue me wasn’t going to get that trailer returned on time.

Being the resourceful woman I am, I began searching the boat for something I could use as a paddle.

The only thing I could find was the plastic battery cover.

Basically, a glorified Tupperware lid.

Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I stretched out on my belly across the front of the pontoon, hung over the edge and started paddling.

Once I got the boat moving, I was afraid to stop and lose my momentum. I could see Thurston standing on the distant dock and one fishing boat on the other side of the lake.

Neither appeared particularly concerned about my situation.

So I paddled.

And paddled.

Occasionally, I’d lift my head to check my progress. I was making headway. At this rate, I figured I’d reach shore by nightfall.

I kept a death grip on that plastic lid. If it slipped out of my hands, I was really going to be in trouble.

After about twenty minutes of paddling, I glanced up to discover the fishermen approaching.

They pulled alongside and looked down at me, lying on my belly like a porpoise, paddling a pontoon with a piece of plastic.

Not a smile. Not a chuckle.

“We can tow you in if you want.”

It took everything I had to keep a straight face.

“Sure. That would be great.”

They towed me to the dock, unhooked and went on their way. Neither one cracked a smile or made a joke about what they’d just witnessed.

I don’t know how they managed it.

Thurston climbed aboard, moved the throttle around, turned the key and the motor fired right up without a hiccup.

Just like that.

Gassed after twenty minutes of paddling a 22-foot pontoon with my glorified Tupperware lid, I was speechless.

Somehow, we still managed to get the pontoon home, unload it and return the trailer at five minutes after six. Since we’d picked it up late, nobody seemed to mind.

What should have been an hour’s job had taken us four. Pretty typical for us.

But at least I had a story.

We ended our day with a peaceful backyard fire with friends. Life is good.

Anything to Declare?

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Awanabatch started out as a magical place to visit. A place where I could relax and unwind from the busy pace at home.

Over time, I’ve somehow managed to turn it into another source of stress. I’ve already shared my angst over the waiting list and my overwhelming desire to make sure our guests have the time of their lives. I’ve gotten to the point where I occasionally need a vacation from my vacation.

Thurston is in Batchawana this week with his brother. They went up to work on cabin projects, do some fishing and, supposedly, take the boat out for the winter.

Then he called yesterday to check our calendar.

Maybe they won’t take the boat out after all. Maybe we could go up just one more time.

I should be excited. Fall in Ontario is beautiful, and so are pontoon rides on the river—as long as you’re bundled up.

Unfortunately, I’m still suffering a little PTSD from one particular trip earlier this summer.

After realizing we were going to be short on comfortable beds for our friends, we made a last-minute decision to pull the camper up with us. I was a little nervous about Thurston towing it over the Mackinac Bridge and dealing with traffic.

Turns out that would be the least of my worries.

Having used the camper for other trips this year, I knew it was pretty well stocked. We loaded our clothes and headed out, making our usual stop at Meijer for perishables and alcohol. I grabbed Thurston’s bottle of tequila, but I couldn’t decide what I wanted. Eventually, I bought two smaller bottles—one blueberry vodka and one plain vodka.

I’ve never spent much time studying the fine print on a liquor bottle. Pints, fifths, liters; I know these measurements exist. I just don’t generally involve myself with them. Two little bottles equal one big bottle. That was the extent of my international customs calculations.

As we approached the Canadian checkpoint with our passports and receipts in hand, we chose a line. Immediately, we knew it was the wrong one.

The other lines were clearing at warp speed while ours moved at a snail’s pace. When we finally reached the window, our officer appeared to be new. She asked a million questions and reviewed our passports like she’d never seen one before.

Then she asked about alcohol.

I confidently explained that while I had purchased three bottles, two were small and together were about the equivalent of the bottle of tequila we always bought.

“How many ounces are they?”

Well.

I had no idea. They were in the camper with all the groceries. The receipt didn’t say.

She handed us a yellow slip and directed us to the search lane.

Now Thurston was fuming.

“Why did you buy three bottles? You know two is the limit.”

Because I couldn’t make up my mind. Besides, they were small. We were fine.

I got out of the truck, intending to retrieve the bottles and prove my point.

I never made it.

Three officers and a dog approached the truck.

“Step in front of the vehicle, ma’am.”

I was still remarkably confident. Until the officer emerged from the camper with an armload of partial bottles of alcohol.  Yup – we were hauling a bar on wheels.

Suddenly, the exact size of my blueberry vodka seemed considerably less important.

I’ve said that chemo brain not only affects the patient but also the caregiver. If I’d forgotten about all that alcohol, what else had I forgotten?

Granddaughter Camp. Friends Camp. People brought things. People might have left things. What else did I forget to declare?

They went through the truck, my purse and even our groceries. When one of the officers asked who had packed the camper, Thurston whipped his head around to look at me so fast I’m surprised he didn’t hurt himself.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His deer-in-the-headlights expression said it all. He was innocent. And willing to cooperate fully with authorities.

In a real-life case of good cop, bad cop; one officer was pretty scary while the other seemed to find humor in the situation. Grama inadvertently trying to cross the border with her bar on wheels.

I was far too busy being terrified to appreciate the joke.

Eventually, an officer told us his supervisor had instructed him to send us back to the United States, but he didn’t believe that was necessary.

“Have a seat and we’ll get back to you.”

So, we sat. And waited. Like children sent to the principal’s office; they gave us plenty of time to think about what we had done.

Several dollars and a couple nerve-racking hours later, we were finally allowed to continue into Canada with our camper, groceries and what remained of our dignity. Minus our alcohol. And notified that our little adventure would mean automatic searches on future trips. Apparently, I will be guilty until the search dog declares me innocent.

Which brings me back to Thurston’s phone call.

The boat is still in the water. The fall colors are beautiful. The fishing might be good. There’s still time for one more trip to Awanabatch.

I’ve thought about it.

I’ll go.

But there are conditions.

We can take his truck. We’ll even make that trip to Meijer for groceries; but Thurston will be in charge of buying the alcohol.

And the camper stays home.

Yes – Thurston has proven that he can successfully tow it. Sadly, it seems that I can’t be trusted to remember what I put in it.

Just to Clarify

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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. 

The old boathouse has clearly seen better days.

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. 

Just one of the ideas Chad and I have for the boathouse reno.

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.

Still Exploring

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Thurston and I just returned home after 10 days in Alaska.  Every breathtaking view reminded us that we already have a place that stirs the same sense of wonder.  Awanabatch isn’t ours alone, but every visit lets us unplug from the rest of the world.  It feels like returning to a place that’s become part of who we are.    

In Alaska we were two of more than 4,700 people on a cruise ship. At Awanabatch, we can spend an afternoon without seeing another soul. Somewhere between the first verse of Gordon Lightfoot’s The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald and the last, I’m no longer riding in a pontoon. I’m a weary fur trader crossing these same waters, wondering what waits beyond the next point.   

One of the best things about Awanabatch is that it sits at the doorstep of adventure. From the dock, we can head in any direction.  Up the river or across Lake Superior; but for reasons none of us can explain, the family has always spent most of its time exploring the north side of Batchawana Island.

Looking to expand my explorer fantasy, I convinced Thurston to take a walk on the wild  side – of the Island.  It was time to see what was around the next point.   

It was there that we were welcomed by a pair of eagles perched high up in the trees.  Then a unique rock formation on the island’s edge that teased us by looking like a bear.  It wasn’t, but it drew us in even closer to get a better look.  From there, we could see a tiny waterfall trickling into the Lake. 

We soon found ourselves in very shallow water.  Beneath us, large boulders as large as cars began to show through the cool, clear blue water. Creating what appears to look like a long-lost road to a land now covered by water.  Of course, that all might just be my imagination, but that’s what comes to mind when you see it.

Carefully making our way through the shallow area, we started to see the rock formations changing to a variegated floor of red and white sand stones.  Huge slabs of colorful rock.  I climbed out just so I could run my hand across what looked like giant pieces of pumice.  Even more, I couldn’t wait to share this incredible spot with my fellow rock-hound friends. Apparently, I’ve turned into a rock nerd.

Anyone listening to me ramble about the sandstone colors and layers would’ve assumed I’d recently discovered something besides rocks…perhaps a dispensary.  

People who knew Thurston before we met often joke that he’d probably still be on the farm if it weren’t for me. They might be onto something. We’ve wandered through Europe, cruised Alaska and now spend our summers wondering what’s around the next point on Batchawana Island. The funny thing is, after all these adventures, I still get the biggest smile when he says, “Let’s see what’s over there.” 

That’s why we love Awanabatch so much. It still gives us permission to wander.   To imagine.  To believe there’s always something waiting just around the next bend.  We’re still willing to turn the boat toward the unknown instead of heading back to the dock. It makes us feel young. 

Turns out I never needed to be a fur trader to satisfy my urge to explore. I just needed to marry someone willing to drive the boat toward the next bend with me.   Willing to be adventurous. 

Eagle sightings are a regular thing at Awanabatch

One More Hour

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This Fourth of July, America celebrates its 250th birthday. That’s a remarkable milestone for a country that has survived generations of hardship, disagreement, celebration and change.

For me, Independence Day doesn’t begin with history books. It begins with an hour-long drive to my great-uncle’s cottage that, as a child, felt more like a cross-country expedition.

My memories of the 4th of July remain almost magical. Large gatherings at the family cottage owned by my grandfather’s brother. His siblings and their families all gathered at the old cottage and put on a spread fit for a king. We played with cousins and second cousins we only saw once a year. Whatever wonderful creations that made it to the table, the best of all was always the watermelon. I think my grandfather was the watermelon seed spitting champion. 

I’d wake up and drive my mother crazy, asking every ten minutes, “Is it time to leave yet?” She’d be busy packing the cooler with freshly made potato salad, brownies and sun tea while dad loaded the car with enough pool toys, towels and swimsuits to outfit a small beach. 

Once the feeding frenzy ended, there was yet another hurdle to overcome. Some of you know exactly what I’m talking about – that hour wait before we could go swimming. Grandmother was a stickler for that one. Back then, I was convinced that hour was an eternity.

Once we were finally allowed in the water, the day disappeared in a blur of paddleboats, floating rafts, catching minnows, searching for shells and snails. Staying in the water until our lips turned blue. Fireworks over the lake were the perfect ending to a perfect day. It’s funny how the waiting hours crawl by, while the ones you wish could last forever vanish in an instant. 

As with all good things, this all came to an end. The older generation passed away. The cottage was passed on and eventually sold. Leaving the rest of us with nothing but memories that somehow grow more valuable with each passing Fourth of July. It’s been years since and I’m still missing those days. Now, not so secretly longing to recreate those days with my children and grandchildren. 

Every Independence Day, while fireworks light the sky, I still find myself wishing I could spend one more afternoon spitting watermelon seeds with Grandpa and waiting an hour after lunch before Grandma would finally let us swim. 

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

Nora

*As published in The County Journal on July 4, 2026

Sights & Sounds

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Even something as special as owning a long stretch of Lake Superior shoreline comes with its own set of challenges.   For all its natural beauty, everyone still seems to find their own version of stress while “relaxing” there. For those that haven’t been there, the property faces Lake Superior on one side and borders a river on the other side. While the Superior side is very tranquil and undeveloped, the opposite side faces the river, and a fairly busy private campground.

As I already shared, unwelcome visitors stress some people out.  Trespassers.  ATVs are a constant source of headache whether they are on the beach or creating trenches from crossing the driveway.  Then there are the boaters and wave runners that fly in and out of the launch across the river, seemingly unconcerned about swimmers sharing those waters. 

For others like me; it’s the noise coming from across the river.  What they might consider the joyous sounds of children making memories, I hear something a little less charming.  For me, there’s nothing more annoying than teenage girls screaming to get the boys’ attention.  I can’t imagine any teenage boy gauges their attraction to a young girl in a skimpy bikini by how loud she can scream.  In my house, you had better be in real danger before you decide to start screaming.   I won’t even go into barking dogs.

While we think we are looking forward to the day when our grandchildren are all able to go with us, we might just find ourselves quietly escaping in the boat in search of a little peace and quiet.  Thankfully, the property offers both – space to gather and space to disappear.  Everyone has their favorite space. Some prefer the original cabin with its rustic feel while others gravitate toward the newer cabin with a few more comforts. 

Then there’s scheduling – or the inability to schedule I should say.  Something as simple as a pontoon ride can feel like herding cats.  What should take minutes often takes hours.  Mornings are no different.  Some are up at daybreak with coffee in hand, while others find sleeping in until noon more enjoyable. Add babies into the mix and you have a real scheduling nightmare on your hands!

Last year we learned that not only do the early birds get the worms, but they also enjoy the most spectacular sunrises and see bears!  After years of waiting to see a bear, last year we finally did.  Unfortunately, it was on the back of my son-in-law’s truck.  After a steady diet of discarded “world-famous” apple fritters scraps from the Voyageur this bear was probably just looking to cut carbs.  Broaden the menu.  In hindsight, storing our trash in the truck bed may not have been one of our best ideas.  We managed to scare him off before he ruined the truck’s tonneau cover.  I’m still not sure what possessed my husband to go out and poke a bear with a rake handle. Rather than question his judgement, I did what any reasonable person would do – I grabbed my phone and started filming.  Clearly, old age doesn’t mark the end of bad decision making.       

At the end of the day, these inconveniences are just small blemishes on something truly special.  I can’t let this place be defined by its challenges — because that’s not what keeps bringing us back.