To the end of the Earth

OLD MISSION, Mich. – Today is cold, wet, gray.  The Great Lakes have done their duty – given the clouds needed moisture as the cold front rolled through like a slow-chugging train.

The corn farmers wanted these clouds; they said the crops were looking good, but ….

“But if we don’t get some rain soon, who knows?”

Farmers, never quite satisfied with how things are, depend a lot on the word “but” ... because things can always get worse.

I’ve always thought I’d enjoy farming but for the required uncertainty.

We watched this storm build yesterday as we reached the tip of Old Mission Peninsula. We had hiked to the peninsula’s end, and we could see the thick, dark-blue clouds mounting to the northwest. Low rumbles of thunder confirmed the approach.

And yet we lingered.  There was much to see, where this land-patch meets water.  The waters of all of the Great Lakes are still many inches below normal, and Lake Michigan is no exception.  And so the very tip of Old Mission Peninsula not only juts out like a stern finger into the lake’s Grand Traverse Bay, but the absent waters reveal the peninsula’s intricate muscle and bone.

It’s a mix of sand and wave-polished stone, of course.  But it’s also a vast, low-lying plain, with pockets of sticky marsh, thin puddles and scrappy vegetation.

Mission Point Lighthouse.

The tip of the peninsula is also a stealthy threat to passing ships.  And so the Mission Point Lighthouse was constructed in 1870 to alert the ships’ pilots.  The lighthouse is positioned almost exactly halfway between the equator and the North Pole, and it has done its job well.  The only major casualty has been the loss of the schooner Metropolis, heavy with pig iron and lumber as it ran aground just south of the point in a November 1886 snowstorm.

Remnants of the mighty ship can still be viewed by small boat or kayak. Something to add to our to-do list.

Daughter Meghan, son-in-law Eric and son Zach are visiting this week. And so we hiked to the very tip because that seemed the natural thing to do.  It wasn’t a long hike, and certainly multitudes had been there before us.  But there was adventure still.

I don’t know why humans are drawn to the ends of the Earth, but we are, and once there, we always leave satisfied that we have accomplished some kind of primal goal.

Such visits are instructive. Where else but at the tip’s point can you see the simple-yet-complicated play of wind and water?  Turn to the port side, and the waters from the northwest rhythmically, heavily splash ashore, a low drumbeat of the approaching storm.

Turn starboard only a foot or two, and the waters are still, flat like glass – the peninsula tip’s slight vegetation forming a formidable wall against the stout breeze.

All of this is fine.  Much of life's consequences seem a matter of inches. 

There also is much history here.

During our visit, there was the joy of our family reunited, with joking, laughter and shared wonder.  But such a spot must have been a lonely place for other families.  At least sometimes. 

Lighthouse keeper John Lane, who stood watch at Mission Point during that November snowstorm, probably had the cheer of a wood stove.  But in 1886, the 19-mile trek to Traverse City by horse and wagon would have been treacherous.

And so Lane and his wife Sarah would bring in provisions and many books to read to endure the long winter.  Plus paper and pen, because the keeper’s other job, beyond ensuring that the lighthouse light remained ablaze, was to log the weather, wind direction, the number of ships and type of ships that passed each day.

Even in July, as the cold dark of the storm approached, that solitude was felt.  I mentioned to the others that the spot would be a remarkable place to see a raging thunderstorm arrive. Lighthouses, by definition, are thrust outward to absorb the elements – from crashing waves, gale winds, a summer storm’s lethal lightning.  And inside each resides the keeper and family, alone, the lighthouse their armor as they safeguard the ships passing by.

We will return here in winter, after the snows arrive, the 19-mile trek made safe by all-wheel-drive.  And we’ll view the stark contrast of land and water – pine-green and deep-water blue today, thickly white and deep-water blue then ... if the blue is not tightly sealed in ice.

We'll see the steadfast lighthouse.

And we’ll imagine John and wife Sarah, warm by the fire, doing their duty at their end of the Earth. 

The Mission Point Lighthouse in winter.  To see the 360 view, click here.

The challenge of up

“You can do it, Howard,” I muttered to myself.  “You've got to.”

It’d be like a Navy pilot landing his jet atop an aircraft carrier, I reckoned – a speedy arrival, then a whiplash stop, on a small piece of real estate.

It seemed so slight at first.

The real estate was a small clearing near the top of our driveway, to the left.  The clearing leads to our fire ring, which sits among the tall pines on the north side of the house.

The plan would take courage … speeds of 30 mph, a sharp left turn, another sharp left, flying gravel, massive clouds of dust, then a heavy, instant push on the brake pedal just feet from the tall pines.

Most of how we got to this moment was covered in my prior post … how we moved to Michigan, that we own way too much stuff, that we found a welcoming-but-quirky house atop a wooded hill.

The hill is the key fact here.

Jean, the realtor, had warned us that our driveway was steep enough to cause problems in winter.  But who could know it would cause problems in June? 

Howard, the trucker who’d a day earlier delivered our first of two trailers successfully by backing the heavy load up the hill, had now come to retrieve the empty trailer so he could back in the second one.

It seemed simple enough: Back the cab up the hill, lower the trailer, drive away.

Except … each time Howard attempted to back up the drive, the wheels slipped on the gravel.  And each attempt churned the gravel and sand into an ever-deeper dry mush, making the problem worse.

Howard had warned me this could happen.  He’s pretty seasoned.  He’s long used to doing over-the-road trucking and backing up to truck docks. But since his company added “you-pack” hauling for homeowners like us, he can rattle off a vast list of cautions about residential delivery.

The drive's entrance.

The truck made it up the hill with a full trailer because the trailer’s weight pushed down on the wheels, guaranteeing traction, he said.  Now the wheels were bouncing like beach balls with each attempt. 

Howard thought speed might help.  But here you need an explanation of the driveway setup to appreciate the challenge.

Our house is on Five Mile Road.  It’s a relatively busy road … cars legally can go 55 miles an hour by our drive. So you enter and exit Five Mile with caution.

And to be accurate, it’s not really our drive.  We have a right-of-way to share the drive with our neighbor. 

So you enter the drive on the west side of Five Mile Road, travel about 50 feet, then make a sharp left to go up our hill.  To go straight would send you up the neighbor’s hill.

But to go faster, Howard would need to start at the driveway’s end, at the lip of Five Mile Road, put it in gear, release the brake, engage the clutch, then, turning around so he could see through the back window, put pedal to metal, make the sharp left, and hope that momentum would win the day. 

Each time he tried, beach balls.

There were 10 attempts in all, I think.  With each, the distance up the hill grew shorter while Howard’s maledictions from the cab window grew longer and stronger.  (I sympathized.  A good curse always bolsters the spirit.)  

Howard and I confer.

Before the 11^th time, though, Howard exited the cab, his voice under control despite his red complexion.

“She’s just not going to make it, Doug,” he said.  “I just can’t get the speed I need.” 

Sadly, we both looked up at the empty trailer. At worst, I thought, I could hang lights on it this Christmas.

Then the idea struck.

“Would it help if you drove forward up the hill rather than backing it up?”  I asked.

“Well,” he said. “I could get more speed, plus I won’t be trying to steer backwards.”

I then explained the idea – travel at high speed around the sharp left, up the hill, then yank the truck left into the clearing, and stop.  Then simply back the truck up the much shorter and more-level distance to the trailer.

He and I walked up to the clearing to scope it out.  “Not sure I’ll have enough room,” he said.  “Just don’t know.”

Then a pause as he looked around. 

“Let’s try it.”

The first left-hand turn.

This would be our last shot, I figured.  Otherwise, we’d be talking massive tow trucks with long cables and pulleys, deeper ruts in the drive – a real mess.

I stood at the bottom of the hill, way off the drive, away from flying gravel.

Howard drove the truck across Five Mile Road to the neighboring street, turned it around … and floored it.

The truck dashed across Five Mile and onto the bumpy drive, gaining mph’s by the second.  Howard, his hands firm on the wheel, careened around the first left.  The engine roared louder as he applied gas out of the turn.

This time, no beach balls.  The tires held firm. 

In three seconds, he was at the second left.  The engine louder still.

But now I could hardly see, the dust so thick. 

Abruptly, the roar stopped. 

And through the haze popped the red of the truck’s brake lights.  Howard was safely in the clearing, and just short of the pines.  He’d made it.

Turn Two ... the clearing.

I met him as he climbed down from the cab.  “Nice driving, Howard,” I said.

He nodded.

We checked the logistics of the final backup to the trailer, and he made short work of that.

Howard also made it clear he wasn’t backing the second trailer up the hill.  “No way,” he said. “Plus your drive wouldn’t take it.”

I concurred.  And so I called our moving guys who were coming the next day to help us unload Truck No. 2.  I explained the situation.

“No problem,” said the guy at the office.  “We’ll rent a ferry truck from U-Haul and we’ll just move the things from the big truck at the bottom of the hill to the U-Haul and do a few trips up the hill. 

“We do it all the time.  It’ll maybe cost another $100.”

A ferry truck.  Who’d have thought?

Life’s such a long lesson.  And Howard’s my hero.