travel

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.

The Waiting List

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It didn’t take long for the secret to get out. Tal and his mother were the first friend visitors of ours to visit Awanabatch but word spread fast. Thurston and his family own an amazing, one-of-a-kind property on Lake Superior in Canada.

Hints became commonplace at get-togethers—some subtle and some not so subtle. Adding one more thing for me to stress over: keeping peace among the ranks.

It’s not just about managing the growing list of people who would love to come up; it’s also about working around the family’s shared calendar. You can’t simply call your friends and ask, “What week works for you?”

(Thanks Clipart Library for the image)

With nine owners, we drew numbers to determine who got first choice of dates. As luck would have it, we drew number seven, meaning six others chose their weeks before us. By the time our turn comes around, most of the peak weather weeks are gone.

You get what you get and hope for the best. Two things you can’t depend on are the fish and the weather. The guys hope the fish are biting, while the ladies hope for some sun. I prefer it to be hot enough to get in the water. Even in August, we can’t guarantee a week of fun in the sun; it might be summer in Michigan and early fall in Batchawana.

If you invite X, then you must invite Y and Z. You don’t want to invite two alphas at the same time, nor do you want too many planners in the same group. I find myself thinking through the dynamics and second-guessing who will get along with whom. You know—the self-appointed activity director in me kicking in.

While many people think they want to come, I know some of them wouldn’t really enjoy the slow pace, the critters or the lack of modern conveniences like Wi-Fi, television and stores within minutes. This isn’t an all-inclusive resort. On the flip side, some haven’t been invited because we’re afraid; they might like it so much they wouldn’t want to leave!

Several people have been invited, but the timing didn’t work out. You can hear the fear in their voices when they decline, worried that they’ll never be given another opportunity.

Some friends have gone to extraordinary lengths to earn an invitation, including donating an entire kitchen and then coming to Awanabatch to help install it. Sadly, they are so busy that they haven’t been able to return. Some have already earned return invitations, while others are still waiting for their first visit. Who would have thought that being blessed with so many good friends could be a curse?

Back in the day, Thurston and all his cousins would pile into one room and sleep on any surface available – chaise lounges, couches or the floor. Now we expect everyone to have their own bed, preferably nothing smaller than a queen-size bed.

Recently, we invited a carefully selected group of friends, and I realized that at least one of the couples would need to stay in the upstairs bedroom of the old cabin. Having not grown up sleeping there, I don’t have fond memories of staying up all night catching up with my cousins. I find it just plain creepy.

Not to mention that the last time we assigned someone to the upstairs bedroom, they came to us the next morning wondering if there was anywhere else they could sleep for the rest of the weekend. It seems the bed had developed such a deep sag in the middle that it was impossible for two people not to roll together. Add a small dog to the mix, and you have a recipe for disaster.

Thurston loves making everyone breakfast

To avoid a repeat of that, our last-minute solution was to hook up the camper and bring it with us. It solved our sleeping problem – while creating an entirely different problem before we ever reached Awanabatch. But that’s a story of its own.

Provided you make it onto the list and through the border crossing, we have very few rules—other than enjoying yourself. You will, however, be expected to contribute something to the bar: a fifth of liquor or a case of your preferred beverage, whether you drink or not. Alcohol is not readily available up there, and it comes at a high price. (Even higher when there’s seizure and penalties involved!)

I create a spreadsheet outlining the meal plan, and everyone brings their assigned food—along with enough extra to feed us for another week if we get stranded. Everyone is overly generous with their contributions of food and drink, sometimes to a fault, since taking most of it back across the border is a no-no.

While Thurston and I enjoy inviting people back, there’s something special about first timers. We love watching their reactions to the property, introducing them to our traditions and listening as Thurston shares the history of Awanabatch. Our goal is always to leave them wanting to return—even though the waiting list for a second visit is long.

As much as we enjoy sharing Awanabatch, we’ve discovered that we like it best when it’s just the two of us. I’m happy to wear my hostess hat for most of the week, but I need at least a couple of days simply to be there.

So, who will make next year’s invitation list? I’m thinking I may need another spreadsheet – perhaps with separate columns for Invited, Invited Back and Still Waiting.

The views were amazing from the camper dinette.

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.

Self-Appointed Activity Director

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If regular maintenance concerns, family differences, scheduling and trespassers of all species aren’t enough to worry about, I’ve created another problem for myself. Somewhere along the way, I appointed myself Activity Director, a position no one asked me to fill. I find myself feeling responsible for making sure everyone has the time of their life.

We all know that a great time comes from the perfect blend of where you are and who you are with. Dealing with the occasional jabs about not being invited and weighing our options when trying to put together a group that will mesh well is a thing. The label on the pontoon says eight people and 1,500 pounds, but we take that merely as a suggestion. The dining table in the upper cabin seats 14, so that’s where we draw the hard line.

No matter who visits us, I like to operate under three rules. First, no one does anything they don’t want to. Secondly, time permitting, everyone gets to do the one thing they hoped to do while here. Thirdly, everyone chips in. There are no free rides.

I learned early on that as much as I like playing hostess and cooking, good friends want to pitch in. Each friend’s trip comes complete with an Excel spreadsheet detailing who’s bringing what for which night. Some administrative duties are hard to walk away from.

Thurston and I make breakfast. Biscuits and gravy, fried potatoes, blueberry pancakes, apple fritter French toast and scrambled eggs are just a few of our favorites on the menu.

Evening meals are divided up and, most importantly, if you cook, you clean. You can dirty every dish we have if you don’t mind washing them. We have finally convinced Thurston that paper plates are the only way to go with a large group and no dishwasher. Some guests cook from scratch and some shop at Costco, but we’ve never had a bad meal. If you go hungry, it’s your own fault.

My job as Activity Director was considerably easier before grandchildren entered the picture.

Inviting our grown children to vacation with our friends was easy in the beginning. If you haven’t let your hair down with your grown children, you are really missing out. It gives everyone a whole new appreciation for each other.

One year, our friend brought an alcoholic version of root beer that Thurston’s daughter took right to. Next thing we knew, she was declaring her love for her dad, adding that she never knew he was so much fun. The morning after, however, wasn’t as cheery.

Somewhere along the way, late nights, crazy laughter and our own version of dizzy bat on the beach have given way to diapers, sippy cups and puff snacks.

While we love watching our grandchildren’s every move, we highly doubt toddler-watching for hours on end would be high on our friends’ bucket lists. Nor would waiting until 2 p.m. each day for the stars to align and make a boat ride possible.

Rather than gather at the big table for cards or games, we currently enjoy evenings out by the fire so that our laughter doesn’t wake the children from their much-needed sleep.

So, these days, family trips tend to be family trips and friend trips are planned separately. Either way, the planner in me still feels the pressure to make sure everyone enjoys being there.

It’s always fun to see guests’ reactions the first time they come. I secretly hope they feel the same magic we do. As much as we love it, there are still some who would prefer a week at a nice resort. That’s fine; fewer people to worry about.

On our most recent trip, we invited a couple for their first visit. My role as Activity Director, sometimes means Cruise Director too. I decided they needed to see the sandstone rocks and the underground road to the lost city. I’m sure you know I had built it up pretty good by this point.

We layered up our clothing, overloaded the pontoon and headed out around the island. Convinced I knew where it was, we kept going. And going. The waves got higher as we went.

It wasn’t long before Thurston was hinting that maybe we should try again on their next visit—code for, “This is a bad idea.”

I responded with my own code: “We’re not going back until we’ve accomplished our objective.”

Eventually, common sense – or Thurston – won out, and we turned around before finding the rocks.  Everyone else seemed perfectly capable of handling the disappointment. The Cruise Director may have pouted a little. Apparently, toddlers aren’t the only ones who struggle when things don’t go according to plan.

Our boat captain tends to believe safety should come before entertainment. I’m more of a “what’s the worst that could happen?” person. Lately, life has been answering that question a little too often.

Thurston can sit back and replay memories of his childhood and those made here with his own children. Meanwhile, I’m scanning the crowd with one question running through my head:

Is everyone having a great time?

Maybe that’s one of the things I’m still learning. I can invite the people, plan and pack the food, organize a boat ride and even insist we keep going long after Thurston has decided it’s a bad idea. What I can’t do is guarantee anyone the time of their life.

Maybe it’s time to let that job go in retirement too. Besides, our friends may remember the morning we couldn’t find the rocks longer than they would have remembered the rocks. I may retire as Activity Director, but I’m keeping the spreadsheet. It tells everyone what we need. What they bring because it just wouldn’t be vacation without it is entirely up to them.

Messy House Guests

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If you’ve ever wondered what mice, squirrels, spiders and a long Canadian winter can do to a cabin, I can assure you they aren’t worrying about making a good impression on the next guests.

Despite what some people think, the Awanabatch cabins don’t stay clean all winter, and they certainly don’t clean themselves. Thurston and I have been the first ones up the last couple of years, which means we spend the first day or two sweeping, dusting, and cleaning up the remnants our furry winter tenants left behind.

Particularly before we re-did the shower house.  With no interior wall coverings, critters moved in for the winter, and it was obviously party central. Apparently, none of them saw any reason to use the outdoor outhouse either. After needing a hazmat suit to clean up that spring, we spent a few days that fall making sure that didn’t happen again.   

To complicate matters even further, it seems we all have a different idea of what cleanliness is.   You might not mind living in a flurry of dog hair but most of us only like wearing our own dogs’ hair. It’s everyone else’s that seems to be the problem. When we had a dog, we wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving him behind. He loved being there as much as we did. Yet now that he’s gone, we no longer enjoy dealing with dog hair.

I know I keep a clean house, yet I still panic when I leave. Not because I’m worried about what I’ll find when I come back but more about what the next family will think when they arrive.  I’m convinced someone will report that the toilet seat was left up or that they found dust on the windowsill.  I haven’t dusted at home in years but feel the need to dust and wash windows on every trip to Awanabatch. Just so no one says anything bad about how we left the cabin.

We’ve discussed having a cleaning person on call to clean the cabins each time someone leaves.  However, when it comes right down to it, being cheap rates even higher on the scale for all of us.   

We’ve also learned that what one family leaves behind in the refrigerator is rarely appreciated by the next.  Now we leave the refrigerator totally bare. There’s even politics in the condiments.  Some insist on Heinz ketchup.  Others can’t agree on mayonnaise versus Miracle Whip.

Cleaning out the refrigerator becomes a gut-wrenching exercise for those of us raised not to waste. Before Thurston and I toss anything, I review the border rules, calculate cooler space and deliver whatever we can’t take home to our friends who have no problem eating our leftovers or mayonnaise.  God bless them for easing my conscience about throwing away perfectly good food. 

After all these years, I’ve realized mice are the least of our cleaning problems. The real challenge isn’t keeping a cabin clean – it’s remembering that every family arrives with different habits, different expectations, and different definitions of “clean.” Somewhere between the dog hair, the ketchup debates, and the refrigerator politics, we’ve learned that a little grace is every bit as important as a good broom. 

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

Friend or Foe?

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The living room where unsuspecting guests are often greeted by mice.

Mice have always been part of life at Awanabatch.  The difference is they live there year-round; while we only get to visit.  Over the years they’ve sampled our food, nested in the furniture and even raised families inside George the moose.  Unfortunately, they don’t clean up after themselves.  They’ve left enough “historical evidence” to convince me that they should start paying property taxes. 

One of three sections of the bench emptied out.

A couple of summers ago we removed a twelve-foot storage bench that had become prime mouse real estate. It was packed with old magazines, comic books, toys…and enough droppings to form archaeological layers. Nearly every paper item was soaked in mouse urine and had to be burned. Two antique bottles on the top shelf above it each contained a mummified mouse. I’m sure I inhaled enough dust that day to put me at risk for some lung disease I can’t pronounce.

Thurston’s favorite mouse story involves George, our stuffed moose. A family of mice moved into George’s head. During one family vacation, his former mother-in-law was sitting beneath George when a baby mouse suddenly fell out of George’s ear…and landed in her hair.

Every summer the kids competed to see who could catch the most mice. Their names were proudly recorded on the wall like Olympic champions. Brother Steve still holds the title.

Even removal of pesky rodents in the cabin can be a source of disagreement.  Thurston and I are all for elimination. Not everyone is in favor of poison, finding it inhumane and fearing that their pets could be poisoned as well.  Some don’t think we have a mouse problem.  I happen to disagree. 

The master bedroom in the new cabin is the prime spot with the sliding glass door providing a view of the Lake Superior shoreline.  We’ve spent time hanging the ceiling fan and new curtains; making it all cozy.  Thurston and I settle into bed, each of us with a good book. It isn’t long before the quiet of the cabin signals time for the critters to start moving about.

We can’t seem to eliminate them, but plastic does help keep the mice off the beds while we are away.

Sleeping on the right side of the bed puts me nearest the corner of the room.  The exterior walls are made of rough sawn logs.  Where the slightly uneven logs meet the straight interior walls, tiny gaps create the perfect mouse highway. 

I’m trying to read my book, but my eyes keep going back to that corner where I occasionally see big beady eyes giving me the once over.  Only to run back in when I wave the fly swatter at them.  Thurston, of course, is unfazed.  He finishes the next chapter and decides it’s lights out for him. 

I finished my chapter.  I had just turned out my light when I heard scratching.  Then footsteps.  Then something racing across the headboard.   Then…bonk.  Something lands between us.  I panic and immediately fan the bedspread into the air.  Yup – thump…goes the mouse onto the floor.

After slipping on my sandals – afraid I might step on him barefoot – I head for the kitchen.  Armed with a flashlight, fly swatter and rolls of aluminum foil, I return; determined to seal them out for the night.  I wad up sections of foil and fill all the corner cracks – ceiling to floor.  Naturally, Thurston slept through the whole thing.   

I spent the next day with expanding spray foam and caulk, hoping to permanently defend my territory.

In case you were wondering, the old wives’ tale that claims mice hate aluminum foil is wrong. Or perhaps the mice at Awanabatch never got that memo. The spray foam and caulk, however, sent a much clearer message.  Since then, I’ve slept much better. Thurston still just smiles; giving me the impression he thinks I overreacted. I’ve learned over the years that every marriage needs both personalities.  One person who sleeps through the mice…and the other armed with spray foam. 

One of my favorite shots of us together at Awanabatch

Drive Down Memory Lane

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Thurston and I are famous for turning a six-hour drive into a nine-hour adventure.

Although it never changes, I always feel the need to take another picture of the Mighty Mac.

We stop for coffee, lunch, building supplies, groceries and whatever else catches our attention along the way. By the time we reach Canada, we are exhausted from a trip that previous generations would have considered remarkably easy.

Every drive to Awanabatch eventually becomes a trip down memory lane.

As we cruise north in an air-conditioned pickup truck, it’s impossible not to think about Thurston’s grandfather making the 400-mile journey in his car. Was it a Buick? A Packard Eight, or a Ford pickup? A successful attorney from Rochester, Michigan, born in 1878, he traveled north in search of relief from severe allergies and discovered a place that would become part of our family’s story.

Imagine…in the 1930s they weren’t stopping at Weinerlicious or Clyde’s for lunch on the way up. The Mackinac Bridge didn’t open for business until November of 1957. The International Bridge opened on October 31, 1962. The road ended just past the Batchawana River back then as well, so there weren’t a lot of people on Highway 17 if you found yourself in need of fuel or roadside assistance. What feels like a long drive to us would have been a genuine expedition for him – yet somehow, he made the trip that started a legacy that still brings us across the border nearly a century later.

Coffee and muffins are a staple when visiting our friends, this time it was a birthday butter tart.

After purchasing the former logging camp, Grandfather needed the help of locals to clear trees, move buildings and construct the original cabin. The son of one of those helpers remains part of the story. He and his wife became lifelong friends of Thurston’s parents, and no visit is complete without spending time with them. Always sending us home with our favorite – butter tarts.

Grandmother and Goldie, the family’s live-in assistant, would bring young Bonnie (Thurston’s mother) and Henry junior north after school let out and return just before it started again. Their father often stayed until after the first frost. Even then, when the trip could take a day or more depending on ferry schedules, friends would make the trek to join in the fishing, dancing, and summer festivities.

Fast forward a generation to Bonnie bringing up her own family. Heaps of luggage and no car seats. Somehow Thurston’s parents managed to pack five children, a babysitter, the family dog, and everything needed for the vacation into a station wagon. Eventually replacing the luggage roof rack for a trailer for the migration north. Riders in the back seat traveling backwards, inhaling a little car exhaust and other bodily fumes. Brother Steve, always seeming to threaten car sickness to get a ride in the front seat. Dad, never needing to say much when things got out of hand, simply reached into the back seat and placed his hand just above your kneecap—a move we called his “hawker grip.” It was his way of letting you know he’d had enough.

Now we stop at Meijer for gas, groceries, and spirits before crossing the border. After crossing, we stop for fishing licenses and latest lure that promises to catch fish bigger than ever before. Back then, they stopped at Duty Free for their spirits. Planning for cocktails with friends on the deck overlooking the river was a thing even then.

After crossing the border, they filed into Canadian Tire, where the kids all got new shoes for the summer. Followed by a stop at Ontario’s Rone’s Market for groceries, including peameal bacon.

With the driveway just past the mouth of the river, you hope to be greeted by cabin guests waiting on the dock. After a quick honk and wave, you signal your turn into the private drive.

For nearly a century, family and friends have been making that same final turn. The vehicles have changed. The roads have changed. The trip itself has become easier with every generation.

What hasn’t changed is the feeling that comes when the river comes into view and you know you have arrived.

Likewise, saying goodbye never gets easier. After group photos, hugs and promises to see each other again soon, departing guests wave sadly from their cars to those lucky enough to be staying a little longer.

The drive has always been part of the experience. The anticipation on the way up. The stories that are born in route. The reluctance to leave when it’s over.

Some trips simply take you somewhere. This one brings us to our home away from home.

Becoming our Parents

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Progressive Insurance commercials about turning into your parents are pretty darn funny — until one day you realize you’re living inside one.     

We had barely stepped out of our cabin on a Rhine River cruise when it began. A fellow passenger emerged from two doors down, made eye contact, and proceeded down the hallway at a snail’s pace; kept upright with the use of his walking sticks. Leaving us stuck behind him like a slow-moving vehicle during planting season.

Our fellow travelers were mostly of the “mature” variety, and it never failed — every time we turned a corner, it was another version of the infamous commercials.    

There were helpful repeaters. The ones who loudly restated every instruction as if the rest of us hadn’t heard it the first time. And, of course, the occasional passenger who felt it necessary to critique the entire experience out loud for everyone within earshot.

On one walking tour in Germany, one particularly vocal traveler pushed things a little too far. After several failed attempts by others to quiet her, my husband — the least confrontational person I know — finally spoke up. Not “please be quiet.” But “please shut up.” I was both shocked… and proud.

With five days of rain, we had no shortage of weather conversations. Traveling with a group of older people also means a lot of noise – grunts, groans and unsolicited commentary.

The funny thing is that it’s easy to spot these habits in other people. The harder part is recognizing them in ourselves.  Because if I’m being honest, the signs are already there.

It starts with desiring a routine.  We typically plan dinner around Wheel of Fortune. Then we switch channels to The Big Bang Theory. Slightly neurotic, the characters seem like they would be fun to hang out with; unlike the brainiacs on Jeopardy.  Oddly, I feel like enjoying Jeopardy would be a step on a very slippery slope.

Thurston might be up before the sun but after considering the time spent napping in his recliner, our days end up even.  We all know that if someone is bragging about how early they get up, they also are sure to be the ones taking naps and falling asleep before 8 p.m.  

For years, I swore we’d never become those people.

Turns out, it’s not something you decide.

It just… happens.

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

— Nora

Naps are the best at Awanabatch

As published in The County Journal on June 6, 2026