travel

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

Awanabatch

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When people imagine a writer retreating to a cabin on the shore of Lake Superior, they probably picture something far more glamorous than reality.

Case in point, I am not the thirty-something blonde in a string bikini we both picture in our daydreams. Instead, I’m sixty-two, wearing leggings, a flannel shirt and reading glasses, waiting for my morning coffee to do its job.

The view of Lake Superior, however, is exactly as advertised.

Purchased by Thurston’s grandfather in 1932 – or 1935, depending on who you ask – the property has breathtaking views and nearly a century of family memories. The second cabin on the property was Uncle Henry’s dream, and I think he would be pleased with what is finally nearing completion.    

Along with the work on the “new” cabin, we’ve been working on preserving the history of the original cabin.  We completed a half-baked attempt at a kitchen remodel a couple years ago but even with its inconvenient features and worn-out amenities, it’s still the preferred meal spot.  The walls are decorated with childhood artwork from Thurston’s generation; recently preserved by laminating.  The dining room table can sit about 14 uncomfortably.  Sit down suppers are tradition here, regardless of how little elbow room you have.  Family dogs find themselves under the table, anxiously awaiting table scraps.   

The first addition to the original cabin was built to accommodate guests.  Thurston’s mom remembers her parents having dances in that room when it was first built.  Now that room has been relocated and serves as the laundry and bath house.  Replaced by a bigger and better version in the nineties, it now doubles as another bedroom or a place for board games or cards. George, the stuffed moose, guards the original living room.  From the cathedral ceiling, model airplanes hang.  A favorite rainy-day past-time of years gone by.  There are shelves and shelves of books and with our family, it’s nothing to see everyone in the main room with the fireplace roaring and everyone with their noses buried in a book with a steaming cup of coffee next to them. 

We have a no television policy here.  Occasionally we have radio service but sometimes we just break out the old CD’s or records and fire up the record player.  Days begin with coffee and bacon and Batchawana fries.  Like his dad before him, Thurston loves making breakfast for the family. You never know what you will find in the scrambled eggs! Staples are housed in the tin lined closet.  A place where paper products and perishable food items are safe from sampling.  Mice and bats have been known to try and join the party.  

Kids anxiously await permission to play on the rope swing.  Those that dare can swing out from the roof of the dilapidated old boat house.  Fishing from the shore of the river has been very successful in the last few years.  It’s nothing to pull in an eighteen-inch, five-pound bass right from the dock.  There are pontoon rides to the party spot where the river narrows to a point that boats can’t pass through.  It’s a great place for fishing or treasure hunting for fellow rockhounds. 

Nearly a century after one man purchased a stretch of shoreline and started a family tradition, the cabins are full of stories.  And I’ve only scratched the surface. 

This cove is about 15
minutes away – a rock lover’s dream.

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. 

Trespassers

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We’ve been given an extraordinary gift, a stretch of Lake Superior shoreline on the Canadian side. A place so special that most people only get to visit. Which, apparently, also makes it irresistible.  It’s a delicate balance of being friendly or neighborly and protecting what’s yours.  Especially when people know we are Americans and there isn’t always someone on the property.  You don’t want to overreact, but you also don’t want to find your place has been “borrowed” when you next show up.    

Trespassers have always been part of the story, and for some in the family, a real source of stress.  Yes, people can legally walk the beach and swim, but they aren’t welcome to use the property as if it were an extension of the neighboring public park.  Thurston, for one, has taken this personally. 

In recent years, he’s seen to it that strategically placed signs dot the landscape – gentle but firm reminders that this is, in fact, private land. As you enter the property, a large private property sign greets you. You would think that might be enough to stop people from heading down the long single-lane drive to the cabins. But every so often, someone pulls in anyway—just curious, they say. Or hopeful. “Could we pay to camp here, just for the night?” Or my personal favorite: “Can we just cross over here to get over there?” Well… no. Because that’s private property too.

In effort to keep a clean shoreline, a local establishment recently started providing doggy waste bags.  Thoughtful gesture – until people began filling the bags and tossing them into our woods.  Which raises an important question: if you’re going to throw it into the bushes anyway, why use the bag?  At this point, we’re considering new signage.  Something along the lines of: Save the bag.  Send the dog to the woods.  The bears won’t mind.    

Those on foot are one thing but those of the 4-wheel variety are another.  The sound of 4-wheelers is sure to put everyone on alert.  And one evening, it pretty much ruined what was supposed to be our attempt at a romantic beach night.  The beach side is usually too windy for a fire, but on this rare, calm evening, we made multiple trips back and forth – chairs, wood, blankets, beverages – everything we needed for a perfect evening. 

We hadn’t even poured our first drink before we heard it.  Not the crackle of the fire, but the low hum of engines.  I told myself they were going to the public beach.  They were not.  They turned and headed straight toward us.  Thurston took off like a rocket.  Meanwhile, I stayed behind, mentally preparing to dial 911 for help and wondering – does 911 even work in Canada? 

There were only a few of them, but at that moment, it felt like a parade. My heart was pounding. Thurston—who is very much a lover, not a fighter—was suddenly prepared to defend the shoreline. They pulled up, shut off their machines, and explained.  Fireworks. In August. Apparently, their Canada Day celebration in July had been rained out… and this was the rescheduled event. Expecting not only to drive across our property with their quads and trailers but to shoot the fireworks off our point. They assured us they’d been doing this for over twenty years and had permission from the owner.  Which might have carried more weight… if that owner hadn’t passed away in 2018.

After a fairly-direct conversation about how this sort of thing might have been better handled — perhaps by stopping in during daylight hours and asking permission —we reached a compromise.

They could pass. One last time. As it turned out, the only fireworks that night were the ones in the sky.  They were amazing.  Our romantic beach evening? Slightly less spark. But hope springs eternal. Maybe this will be the year.

Stay tuned.