I have friends who have spent sizable chunks of this winter in either Florida, Palm Springs, Mexico, Spain, or the Galapagos. My wife is presently in Thailand. I, on the other hand, am writing this blog from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
Two thoughts come to mind as I compare my travels to those of my friends and family. One, most of them must think that I am foolish to have gone to the UP in February. Two, just about everyone I know has both the time and the money to escape the cold temps of Wisconsin for up to a month. Even my daughter, limited time-wise by a full-time job, is using two weeks of vacation to join Manyu in Asia for Chinese New Year.
I know why I am here, even if others don’t. First of all, I wasn’t expecting to go anywhere this winter. My plan was to stay home with an old dog who was in no condition to travel or to be boarded. When Jack died three weeks ago, plans changed, and my sister’s cabin was an easy last minute option. Secondly, my sister and her husband invite me to use their cabin in the UP nearly every time I see them, but I’ve never taken them up on their offers in the wintertime. They know that I value solitude, and they have repeatedly told me that their lake, while busy in the summertime, is all but abandoned in the winter. They even mentioned that the only two permanent residents on the lake are no longer there (one moved away, and the other one died), so if I went this winter, I’d probably have a 100-acre lake to myself. Thirdly, my writing has been a struggle lately, and I hoped a change of venue might jumpstart my prose.
Most of my waking hours at the cabin have been spent writing in front of the wood stove, but every day I ice fish a little bit and go for a hike across the lake. There is only about six inches of snow atop the windswept ice, deep enough that I wish I had snowshoes, but not so deep that it forces me to turn around. Lifting my feet higher than the snowpack does, however, generate enough body heat that I have to unzip my coat and take off my mittens. I was expecting to be cold on this trip, not overheated.
As it turns out, I’m not entirely alone. My brother-in-law Paul has joined me at the cabin, but we are intentionally giving each other space. He goes to a nearby ski hill all day, and I stay within walking distance of the cabin. We have evening meals together, and one time he came with me when I went fishing. The only intrusion on my solitude, which now may be impossible to avoid, is the drone of airplanes. Even my backcountry trips in Canada’s Lake of the Woods have aircraft noise, and it is the same in the UP. On my walks across the lake, I hear the crunch of my boots breaking through the snow, the wind through the trees, an occasional crow, and small prop airplanes.* Still there are no people other than Paul and no traffic noise, so I am content.
I do not yet know if this trip has helped my writing. While at the cabin, I have finished a chapter that should have been done three weeks ago, and I started something new. I also wrote this blog. The real test will be whether I write well once I return home.
* Even designated wilderness has occasional airplane noise. The standards established by the original 1964 Wilderness Act do not ban aircraft from wilderness areas. Instead they prohibit planes from taking off and landing, and any aircraft flying directly over a designated wilderness area must maintain an altitude of at least 2,000 feet above ground level.
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