Walking On Water

Walking On Water

“We need matches, go get some from the cottage” came the instructions from one of my brothers. I knew just where to look. The hollowed out small birch log container hanging next to the stove. As I hustle in from the gathering darkness I wonder where that peculiar hanging container came from and why it came to find a permanent place on the wall next to the stove. I suppose it was bought on a trip to the Soo, as it’s known around here. Officially known as Sault St. Marie, it is the nearest city for shopping, or at least was, when the adults got tired of the water, trails, trees and sand of the island. It seems pretty obvious that it found its home on the wall next to the stove because of its handy location, back when the wooden matches it held were used to start the pilot light in the oven when cottage cooking was done by propane. It seems to me that the pilot light had to be relit on a fairly regular basis. I can still remember the burning sulphur smell when a match was struck, although now that I think of it, that could have come from many other instances requiring a small flame such as the lighting of the fireplace, kerosene lamps or even the aromatic tobacco in a pipe about to be puffed upon. Now that we have an electric stove, the container holds matches for other important purposes, this particular one being a campfire on the beach.

It’s almost a perfect night for a fire on the beach. The only way it could be better would be if there were a slight easterly breeze. Any embers or sparks would not stand a chance once they got out over the water. There’s always the terrifying thought of an ember blowing into the woods and landing in the dry cedar underbrush. Tonight they would go straight up and extinguish before they could do any harm, so still the night. The last glowing remnants from the day’s sun have almost disappeared from out over the bay. The warm southwesterly breeze of the day has given up. The waves they stirred all afternoon have lain down. The bay is glass.

Distant familiar voices and the bang of a screen door piercing through the trees break the silence. Laughter is heard heading this way. Out past the drop-off a flailing fin spreads water drops across the glass. They were big drops. “That must have been a big one” a voice nearby the fire pit observes dryly. There now are bobbing lights accompanying the voices as they approach from down the beach. A match is struck on one of the chalky-white rocks that ring the fire pit. The dry kindling is lit easily. Soon there is a small roar of crackles and pops as the cedar catches and in turn lights the larger birch logs. Their papery bark sends up billows of thick, black smoke until burned away.

To be honest, there is another thing that would make this night even more perfect for a beach campfire. Or, more accurately I should say the lack of a certain other thing. That thing is the very unpopular but ubiquitous mosquito. It just takes one. Then you’re itching for the next two days, usually in the most inopportune spot. What is it about the back of the knees, behind the ear, the ankles? It’s becoming obvious that these mosquitoes are not at all that choosy, however. And there’s way more than one. Everyone gathering for the fire knows the mosquito factor will be very evident this evening. That accounts for the long pants and long-sleeved shirts worn on this otherwise warm night and the faint smell of bug repellant in the air. A shifting column of smoke is almost appreciated on buggy nights at the beach campfire when it comes your way, providing a brief sanctuary from the pests. “Let’s find more birch bark!” Pesky stingers aside, the heat from the fire is very much welcomed. Even though a warm evening, there’s a bit of a dampness hanging in the still Lake Huron air.

Conversation moves from one topic to the next usually punctuated by short bursts of youthful teen-aged laughter and then still periods of silence except for the occasional pop or a short lived hiss from a damp log. On these types of evenings, sometimes the fire does more talking than those enjoying its warmth around it. Its mesmerizing glow reflects off faces. There’s always a stick poking in on one side or the other. Better get another piece of cedar wood.

Actually, the sky could be clearer this night also. Annoyingly slow-moving, huge rafts of clouds obscure the normally brilliant show of stars above and the occasional perfectly straight moving satellites. Through the gaps we catch glimpses of the canopy of ever-present points of light. Unfortunately, this calm and warm summer night would not be one for star gazing and enjoying the Milky Way or Northern Lights.

Staying near the fire or as one walks the paths through the trees between cottages on a starry night, all that can be enjoyed looking heavenward are the stately black spires of the pines as they poke up into the illuminated haze of stars which, indeed, surely has a simple beauty of its own. Out on the dock, however, away from the flickering light of the fire and the dark towering trees, the true splendor of the Milky Way becomes vastly apparent. Above the clouds this night, like it has and will every night, the Milky Way spreads along an uneven and broken corridor from the direction of the Lonesome Pine behind Cedar Haven across the sky to the northern horizon towards the mainland, just to the right of where the lights of Hessel dimly lighten the sky. The Milky Way looks as if God Himself had taken a bucket full of stars and splashed them in an arc across the heavens where they’ve now stayed in place for all time.

The Northern Lights, a phenomenon also known as Aurora Borealis, is difficult to describe in a way to do it justice. The Northern Lights resemble curtains of pale pastels, or sometimes just faint white, seeming as to be blowing in the solar breezes that swirl past and around our planet much like how water from the open lake swirls past the boulders in the currents that flow through the cut between our island and Long Island. These silent elusive lacy curtains of glowing galactic plasma can be substantial enough to engulf and illuminate the sky over the entire bay stretched out before us or minimal enough to hardly be noticed as they momentarily unfurl across the sky north over the mainland and are then gone as swiftly as they are noticed. If one happens to catch it just right on a moonless, still night and a full sky-filling display, the experience is greatly enhanced as the glass-calm water of Wilderness Bay in effect doubles the size of the show. Experiencing the Aurora Borealis on Marquette Island is quite the special thing and doesn’t happen often. It’s unfortunate that the frequency of shows is markedly less during the summer months as compared to the winter months when mostly only vacant, boarded up cottages are able to witness its grandeur.

Nothing that magnificent will be witnessed this evening, however. Instead, attention goes to the blinking red and green lights of the channel buoys far across the bay. “The green one there…that’s the point of Long Island buoy, off from the blockhouse.” After several cracks and a pop a revision is made. “Wouldn’t that be a red light, then?” No answer. In the silence it’s evident that each glowing face knows the answer. Each one has been around that point a hundred times but in the dark and across the glass, things can look a bit different.

In reality, the land across the bay is a land formation that juts out into Lake Huron known as Point Brulee. A tale ensues regarding the explorer for which the point of land is supposedly named, and I do mean supposedly. A Frenchman named Étienne Brûlé, it is said, is likely the first European man to experience the vast waters of the Great Lakes, establishing the settlement now known as Sault Saint Marie, just a stone’s throw north of our island getaway on the Canadian border. He could be found exploring these parts around the early to mid 1600’s which is during the same time as when the Ojibwa and Huron Indians lived here in large numbers. Legend has it that during his travels, he became a captive of the Iroquois Indians where he was tortured, almost to the point of death. Upon escape, he made it back to his friends, the Huron. Leary of his release, they surmised that he had to have made friends and even traded with their enemy, the Iroquois. For this, it is said, they tortured Brûlé as well. The outcome was most grim. According to legend, after killing him, the Huron buried his body. It is said the only time that tribe buried the dead was when the unfortunate soul met a gruesome and violent death. Silence, again, surrounded the scene of circular shadows as the words of the tale sunk in.

Five beams of light suddenly snap on and focus on five distinctly different places along the edge of the pines and cedars. One actually ends up fixated about forty feet above the ground on the dead branch of a dark looming aspen tree. “Did you hear that?” Nothing but pops and hisses. Everyone heard something, though. You could hear a pine needle drop. After a few moments of quiet comes the first uneasy observation. “Yeah…just something running along the ground, uh, breaking twigs.” No, they sounded like big twigs. “Must have been something big” came another dry observation. The intentional emphasis on “something big” leaves an insinuation hanging in the air of the mysterious unknown. Finally, the old stand-by is used: “Might have been Liberty.” Referring to the legendary recluse who supposedly lived in the middle of the island. Nothing further is said as minds race, engulfed in imagination. With nothing else to go on, the beams snap off, one by one, until the trees stand dark once again. Last to go dark is the aspen tree beam.

No one knows who had the idea. It seemed like a good one at the time. We all thought crayfish tails sautéed in butter would taste just like fresh Maine lobster. Who wouldn’t? We started with a few fresh crayfish – plucked straight from the minnow trap. The small but meaty tails were separated from their shells. They were spitting images of miniature lobster tails. It seemed like we were on to something. Maybe it was the uneven heat of the campfire. Maybe we didn’t use enough butter or should have used some seasonings. Maybe it was the baked bean can we used to do the cooking. There are probably many reasons, but this culinary exercise was a flop. The succulent, flavorful campfire snack turned out to be more like eating fish flavored rubber bands, the big wide ones. It was unanimous. Crayfish, no matter how fresh, was in no way as tasty as fresh Maine lobster. That’s quite a statement given that none of us had likely never even had fresh Maine lobster.

After the taste had worn off, more conversation and even more periods of quiet another flashlight beam snaps back on. This time it is aimed at no particular point of interest. It seems to be more interested in how it looks itself as it cuts back and forth through the smoke, then straight up to the sky, fading before it reaches the broken clouds. It holds there for a moment and then snaps off without comment. The mind behind each glowing face saw something different. A light saber from a current science fiction movie or maybe a spotlight beam in search of enemy planes over an embattled city during World War II. A splash of much less magnitude breaks the still water over towards the reeds just inside the sand bar. It’s the kind of little “plop” that doesn’t even deserve a comment, however. After more peace and quiet comes the customary and completely intentional flashlight beam blast in the face from one brother to another. So much for the silence and so much for gazing at the buoy lights across the glassy bay for the rest of the night.

The voices move away down the beach, flashlight beams prodding the sand ahead. The fading glow of the embers in the ring pull my attention back as I settle into a daze. I’m about to get up when from down the beach comes the sound of breaking water. A steady paced “ker-plop, ker-plop, ker-plop” turns into a quicker paced and full fledged “SPLASH … SPLASH … SPLASH” until all that is heard is laughing and snickering and wet shoes running on sand. The question arises after the quiet returns. Was he pushed or was it that he just couldn’t tell where the beach ended and the lake started? From the distance it is confirmed that he wasn’t pushed. He’s been down that stretch of beach a hundred times before, but in the dark and across the glass, things can look a bit different.