A little night music

A tent is a marvelous thing.

When you’re on the trail, or in a campground, it does the obvious – keeps out rain and thirsty mosquitoes.

I tested my tent in the living room. Easy peasy.

And yet it does much more. Offers privacy. Suggests “home” when the house is so far away. Provides helpful structure to one’s outdoor existence, because it forces you to live small and tidy.

Yep, small is beautiful when you backpack. The goal always is to stuff your pack with as much comfort as space and weight allow.

So you wouldn’t haul your Sleep Number Bed into your tent. No plug-in, anyway. But you would a down-filled sleeping bag, self-inflatable mattress and super-lightweight pop-up pillow.

Oh, some things a tent doesn’t do well. Burps, snorts, snores and farts all will resonate from a tent faster and louder than a ricochet off a canyon wall. I know this. I once camped with a dozen older Scouts and three Scoutmasters. It was like a gaggle of off-tune trombones, bassoons and plugged-up French Horns playing Aaron Copeland’s Appalachian Spring. 

Ffffittt! Braaap! Schhhhanuck! Errp!

Even the hungry bear took flight.

One or two millimeters of fabric, though, create an illusion of sound barrier and shelter  … of home. And I now have mine.

It’s a Microlight FS 2, manufactured by L.L. Bean. It weighs a mere 3 pounds 14 ounces. When packed, the roll measures but 16.5 x 7 inches. Not much wider than my dog Nellie’s rawhide bones.

Just a bit wider than a bone!

Unwrapped, though, is when marvelous becomes a miracle.

First there are the poles. I’ve been around long enough to know that tent poles usually require the genius of Buckminster Fuller to assemble. (For those who don’t recall Fuller, he was the proponent of the geodesic dome. If you don’t recall the geodesic dome, Google it.)

It wasn’t always this way. Early man, 40,000 years ago, created tents from the stretched hides of woolly mammoths and kept them up with simple tree-poles.

Boy Scout tents in my day were also simple but rectangular – basically a heavy tarp shaped into a steepled structure with vertical poles at each end, a horizontal pole along the top, and lots of stakes in the ground to keep it upright and steady.

For Neanderthals and Boy Scouts alike, though, tents and tent flaps barely kept out the rain, while insects had carte blanche.

So modern tents became more complicated. Cindy and I received a two-man tent as a wedding gift in the early ‘80s. We still have it. Its poles are many, and when assembling them, they must be arched and crossed with each other and plugged into retaining spikes at the corners. 

Sounds easy, but it was always like playing a game of Twister with yourself. At any time, the thing could go sproing! like a giant mousetrap and send an errant pole up your nose.

Not my Microlight FS 2. Its poles are many, too – the bundle measuring, again, just 16.5 inches wide – but they’re interconnected by shock cords that guide you in the assembly.

It’s the ultimate Idiot’s Guide to Pole Erection. It’s not easy to screw this up. Each pole is tethered to its mate(s), and your job is to simply guide them to the right resting spot. No pressure.

The tent is a wonder in other ways:

-       It sleeps two – amazing, given its weight.

-       Instead of the usual tunnel entrance at one end, there are zipped entrances on both sides. Handy if you or your tent compatriot needs to visit Nature in the night. (Dimmed flashlight, please.)

-       Each side also has a vestibule. Yes, a vestibule, an antechamber, a grand entrance commonly found in stately buildings of palace size. These vestibules are created when the tent’s fly is stretched and secured above the tent itself, then staked wide of the entrances. Sure, my vestibules are just big enough to shelter a backpack – 6.8 square feet, to be exact. But in the condensed world of living outdoors, this is luxury.

-       And, it’s definitely insect proof. “Breathable no-see-um mesh tent body offers great ventilation and protection from bugs,” says L.L. Bean.

I’ve not camped out in it yet. We plan to test our equipment overnight before the big hike.

I’m confident, though, given the on-line reviews, that I’ll like the FS 2 each and every night.

Fellow hiker Bill Stott also bought a new tent. We compared notes via shared photos. His tent seems to measure up just fine. I’m sure the third traveler in our little band – friend Bruce Kaldahl from Kansas City – has a good one as well.

Hoping he prefers Top 40.

Yes ... there likely will be a little night music from these tents, for all the woods to hear. Can't be helped. 

But that's okay. The beauty of our trip is that after 15 miles of lugging 30 or 35 pounds apiece each day, we’ll sleep like babies at night ... and hardly notice.

Not so, we hope, the bear.  

Take flight, my Osprey

 

Would you like to swing on a star?
Carry moonbeams home in a jar?
And be better off than you are?
Or would you rather be a mule?

- Swinging on a Star by Johnny Burke

If God wanted us to be pack mules, we’d have four feet and a tail to swat flies.

We don’t, of course. But I still felt a bit muleish during our test hike on that recent Saturday. Not stubborn. Just burdened by a 25-pound load of miscellaneous stuff strapped to my waist and shoulders as we hiked a portion of the North Country Trail.

The sign that inspired.

It had been 45 years since I’d donned a backpack. Not the flimsy daypacks we all have in our closets. Or even the stouter packs – the kind poor students must carry as they haul half a library’s holdings from class to class.

I’ve worn both kinds, a number of times, since I was 15.

But this was a backpack in the traditional, but also contemporary, sense – an Osprey Aether 70. A state-of-the-art model with removable hip belt, dual density foam harness, spacer-mesh airflow that wicks away moisture on warm days, and a break-away lumbar pack. Interior frame, of course.

It can haul 50 pounds … probably more … and do so, says the company, in perfect comfort.

The pack’s product description makes the nerd inside me blush.

“Suspension features a peripheral frame, a smooth, spacer-mesh back panel, single stay and an internal framesheet.”

Yep, you bet.

“Compression system with 3 horizontal straps and 1 internal strap lets you securely compress the contents whether full or nearly empty, and without sag or load distortion.”

Oh yeah ... nice.

“Hydration-compatible design features reservoir sleeve and dual drink tube exit ports for on-the-go hydration (reservoir sold separately).”

Atta boy! Is there more?!

“The Osprey Aether 70 pack shaves weight yet remains tough with a 210-denier double-ripstop nylon and 500-denier plain-weave oxford nylon bottom.”

Oh my gracious me!! My world for a plain-weave oxford nylon bottom.

Just $289.95, plus shipping.

“You know, Bill,” I yelled behind me as we walked, “I used to marvel at my backpack on my long hikes in Boy Scouts. It would squeak, but the sound comforted me.”

My Aether 70 and Oboz boots.

Bill, my hiking partner, chuckled. His pack was squeaking a bit, like a metronome with a bird-like peep rather than the usually soft tick-tock of shifting weight.

It was causing him consternation; he wondered if it bothered me, too.

“I found comfort,” I continued in response, “because I knew that everything I needed to survive and prosper on the trail was across my shoulders.”

Profound, I thought. Existential even. What’s the inconvenience of a small squeak when the tradeoff is total self-reliance?

Bill chuckled again. I'm sure he wanted to trade my jibber-jabber for a can of WD-40.

Bill and I will soon be walking more than 160 miles along the southern shores of Lake Superior. Ten days on the trail, planned for early October. A few overnights in motels, but mostly camping on the trail and relying on what we’re carrying.

The North Country Trail twists and turns its way across seven states, from New York to North Dakota. Some of its prettiest stretches are here in Michigan. It enters from Ohio near the town of Pittsford, at Michigan’s southeast corner. It follows a zigzag path north, across the Mackinaw Bridge, then along the northern edge of the Upper Peninsula.

It exits for Wisconsin near the community of Ironwood, at Michigan’s farthest northwest corner.

The path snakes immediately southeast and east of Traverse City, where I live. Which is what sparked my interest. Last year, Cindy and I were walking the trails of the nearby Sand Lakes Quiet Area; the NCT crosses through its middle. And there was a large, wooden sign at a key junction, with arrows pointing left and right:

NORTH COUNTRY TRAIL

“2400 mi. NEW YORK/NORTH DAKOTA 2100 mi.”

And that’s when my imagination soared. It was such a powerful thing to know that we could simply walk to the right and we’d eventually land in North Dakota, or go left and stride into the Empire State.

And not by highway, of course. But by a wooded, sometimes rugged, usually narrow trail that snakes through national and state forests, along rivers and lakeshores, over mountains and across immense, flat prairies.

So, yes, the decision to turn right or left would have been a simple one. But not simple in its consequences … more than 4,000 miles of complex terrain to choose from.

We’ve all heard of the book Wild by Cheryl Strayed and the movie with Reese Witherspoon that followed. Backpacking has surged because of it.

Cindy knows two folks here in Traverse City who are now hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, the same, unforgiving path that Strayed used to cast out her demons. We’re unsure how they’re doing week to week because it's hard to communicate out.

We also know of two guys from T.C. who vowed to walk the entire NCT this spring, summer and fall. They started in snow-clad North Dakota knowing they were on a race before heavy snows would fall later this year in New York.

They gave up in Minnesota. The math had been easy. To complete the entire trail, they would need to average 25 miles of walking per day packing 50 pounds of supplies each. Over seven months.

The work was not. How much is 50 pounds? Go to Ask.com to get an answer:

“Examples of items that weigh 50 pounds: a small bale of hay or a border collie and house cat combined; 5 medium-sized bowling balls; 5 house cats; two car tires and a large bag of sugar; a microwave oven and two bags of flour; 10 average sized table lamps and 10 Chihuahua dogs.”

So, a lot.

One of the guys was interviewed on the local radio after his return.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Depression,” he said, his voice flat.

“Would you do it again?”

“Not sure … (pause) … probably not.”

I can imagine why. The endless pace, the five-bowling-ball loads. Clouds of mosquitoes as thick as morning fog. Black flies that rip your skin and your soul. Freezing nights. Scorching days.

Not that what Bill and I are planning even compares to their efforts, or that of Strayed. For starters, neither of us is using the trail to cast out demons. Don’t think, so, anyway. And we’re planning to conquer

Witherspoon as Strayed.

just 167 miles, much of which is along a beautiful Great Lake. So “conquer” seems overstated.

Sure, we might encounter snow in early October. I’m betting, too, that we’ll swat at some die-hard mosquitoes and black flies. And it’ll be bow-hunting season, so there’s a risk of wayward arrows. Oh ... and bears also are on the move then, packing in pounds before hibernation.

But it won't be like Strayed's trek, or the T.C. pair's. Not close.

Sure, we'll need to feel comfortable with 30 or 35 pounds on our backs, not just 25.

But Bill’s there already. He walked with ease that day. 

I’m not. Those 25 pounds felt mighty heavy on my hips. Just two and a half bowling balls. 

Wimp.

So it’s not a bad thing right now to want to feel muleish.

A stout mule can carry, with ease, 200 pounds. I guarantee there will be times in October, when the load seems heaviest and bugs the thickest, that I’ll yearn to be a mule ... to have four legs and a tail that swats.

And why not? 

Heck, you can swing on a star anytime. 

Next: My marvelous, magical, new tent.

A lake's gift

Cindy kayaks Chandler Lake ... counting cottages.

It’s mid June now … the first day of summer. The trees along the lake’s edge are done filling in their leaves. Dark and light shades of green cast their colors on the water like Monet brush strokes.

The fish seem everywhere. Off our shore, just a few yards distance and 2 feet down, are tight circles of cleared sand. They seem other worldly, like arms-wide crop circles. My first thought was that water from springs, shooting up, formed them. But I learned later that this is where bluegill hatchlings are born.

It must have been a good crop. Bluegill scurry around our dock like busy travelers in a train station. Bigger fish, bass mainly, also occasionally saunter by. They say the fishing is good. I’ve not yet tried it, but I must.

Top of the drive.

Chandler Lake, where we reside, is a gift. Soon we will have witnessed a full year of seasons here. We’ve seen the summer green yield to reds and yellows, then to frigid white and spring’s messy melt, and back to green. Already I claim the lake as a friend. Sure, it’s a friend I’m still getting to know … e.g., the bluegill spawn. But a friend nonetheless. And teacher, too.

Geologically, this is considered a kettle lake, as most of Michigan’s other lakes are. They were formed during the glacial retreat when huge chunks of ice broke away and were left to sit. Debris – soil and rock – would fill in around the ice chunks as they melted, creating a bowl effect.

For our house and land, it’s a fairly steep bowl – basically a five-level descent. At the top is the public road out to the city where our mailbox sits. A steep driveway takes you down to Level 4 – the house’s main level with garage. The house’s lower level is Level 3, where my office resides. And below that rests the wooded slope with a garden and a brick patio (Level 2). Then, at last, the shore – Level 1.

Stairs up from shore.

The kettle actually continues its rise above the road. There, on the other side of a dense and fat lip of trees and sandy bluff, is a thick, 60-acre stand of forest that boasts a narrow trail and a half-dozen miniature kettle lakes. Nellie loves this trail, as do I, because of its seclusion and earthy smells.

The way the house hugs our land is nearly perfect, especially for anyone who aspires to be an orinthologist. We have arena seating on our main-floor deck, high among the trees. Here we’re on the birds’ highway. Yellow Finches, Northern Cardinals, Robins, Baltimore Orioles, Pileated Woodpeckers, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds and more all dash back and forth in a blur.

Below, at shore level, there are the expected ducks … Mallards and others. But also Great Blue Herons, Loons and Canada Geese. 

Yellow Finch.

And high above – the Bald Eagle.

The one obvious thing missing on the house’s lake side was a second deck, below the main one, just outside my office windows. It seemed natural to fill this gap, and I built it with the help of my neighbor and another friend. 

Living a tiered existence is so different from our Kansas experience, where flatlands rule. Let’s say you’re on the dock but want to check the mail. First you take the stairs from the shore and dock to the brick patio on Level 2, then up the garden path to Level 3, then up a long flight of wooden exterior stairs to the driveway and Level 4, then up the driveway to Chandler Road and Level 5. Go left to find the mailbox.

The long stairway down.

The trip causes some huffing and puffing, but there’s always the positive that the downhill trek will be easier. (I won’t share the hazards of navigating any of this in the deep snow. Let’s enjoy summer, after all. But I promise in late fall to recount how Cindy almost lost control of the garbage bin halfway up the drive, save for a head block.)

I’m told there’s considerable history here at the lake.

The area was heavily logged at one point, and a logging road and perhaps even rails once stretched across our property. Trees were cut and the logs sent west and then north to the shores of Traverse City, where they were put on ships destined for Chicago and other points along Lake Michigan.

Pictures provided by neighbors whose grandparents first built here show scalped shores. It’s testament to Nature’s resilience that she deftly filled in behind the loggers with thick stands of red pines, birches, oaks and maples.

The new deck.

During a recent kayak trip, we counted 53 houses and cottages around the lake. They come in all sorts and sizes. Ours is a fully appointed house. But it’s easy to spot the rustic pine-paneled cabins that originally were built here as Chandler evolved from its logging past. Indeed, Chandler and the other lakes that are nestled nearby, southeast of Traverse City – Arbutus, High, Tibbets, Spider, Indian, Rene – were the ideal locations for Michigan auto workers and other downstaters to build their cottages.

Today our house is but a 15-minute drive from downtown Traverse City. And yet it still seems a world away. Right now, as I’m writing, the winds have come up. The blue on the lake is spotted with light shadows of clouds, full of fluff. A hummingbird zips by, abuzz – a noisy contrast to the soft flick and flitter of three Yellow Finches at the feeder.

Yes, there’s a lot to learn about this lake and the natural world that lies around and below it.

And it’s summer, so school’s in session. That I now have time to be the student adds much more to the blessing.

A pelican, I am

 

SURFSIDE BEACH, Texas - There's something instructive in the pelican's dance.

As a bunch, they fly with discipline and rhythm, skirting the waves, one behind the other, in a long, majestic, aerial train.

Alone, at feeding time, they soar high, spy a fish, and plummet beak-first in an awkward fall, wings akimbo. It reminds me of my worst belly flops.

But there’s beauty in the plunge. Watching a large flock surprise the fish below is like watching giant raindrops fall.

We’re at the beach this week, southwest of Galveston. Much like Texas itself, the beach is a rough, raucous, proud place. 

Rough like the Northwest Pacific coast, with spots of timber rolling up on shore.

Raucous, because the white-capped waves generate a throbbing, growling din rather than the distinctive, successive “crack!” that I usually favor.

Proud, because here Texans are allowed to drive on the beach and pull their pickups right to the surf’s edge like it was a Sonic drive-in, then pop a beer and order seaside views sprinkled with salt air.

At this beach, the brown pelicans thrive. We counted nine in a row yesterday. On my walk today, I came upon a congregation of at least 20 resting on the beach, stretching their ungainly wings, their long faces looking nervously my way until I came too close.

And then they soared on, in a long row, undulating like a Chinese kite-and-tail, just missing the froth of the wave tops.

Odd, I know, but I feel a bit like a pelican these days. Just weeks ago, at my job, I was amid the work group, moving in harmony with my peers, creating something bigger than any one of us.

And today, after leaving my employer of 27 years, I’m on my on, eyes wide, searching for the next bit of business, taking the plunge when necessary.

A stretch, maybe. But even numbers guy Albert Einstein could appreciate nature as metaphor.

“Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better,” he said.

I think what I see most deeply now, on this beach this week, is time … time ticking away, of course, but also time’s broader context.

This beach and these pelicans existed long before we arrived, and will continue long after we’re gone. (The brown pelican …  Pelecanus occidentalis … stems from the 30-million-year-old Pelecanidae family of water birds.)

As probably will the bubbas, their beer and their pickups.

So I’ve decided it’s time to focus on things more important than work. Read more books. Write. Work hard to stay healthy. (Cindy and I have both pledged to do that one!) And more fully embrace the trinity at the top of this blog … live, laugh, love.   

Don’t laugh, but I’m starting with the basics. I’m now reading Harry Potter – specifically, the first book, Sorcerer’s Stone.

I downloaded the e-book versions of all seven of the Potter series last night.

It speaks poorly of me that the infamous first book was written in 1998, more than 16 years ago, and it’s taken me this long to get around to reading the series. Sure, I’ve seen all the movies – the easy path to literature (if you consider J.K. Rowling’s series literature). But the rest of my family has read each volume, word-by-word, front to back. In some cases, multiple times; in Cindy’s case, aloud to the kids.

I never had the time, I said. Which wasn’t true. I just didn’t take the time.

I’ve felt guilty about that. Not just in a family way, but as a book publisher. Now there are no excuses. 

So far it’s been great fun revisiting young Potter and the gang at Hogwarts. A real page-turner, as I knew it would be.

Which gets us back to pelicans … really! 

Interestingly, there are no pelicans in the Potter saga. But there is a white owl, Hedwig, one of Harry’s earliest friends. 

At a distant point down the road, Hedwig will sacrifice his life to save Harry’s.

Potter-series scholars, struggling to find in Rowling’s writing some key parallels to great religions, have searched for an owl analogy and noted that in medieval Christianity, pelicans also were said to sacrifice their lives for others.

I doubt Rowling had pelicans in mind when she concocted Hedwig. Owls are noble, sage and stately beasts. Seemingly brave, too. Pelicans? Given their gawky appearance, it’s hard to assume similar characteristics.  

But it does the mind good to consider such possibilities. Nobility, smarts and bravery are rarely tied to looks. I like to think so, anyway.

It’s a comforting thought, especially today, when I’ve forced on myself the attributes of a lumbering bird that falls like a fat rock, 20 feet into water.

That he invariably surfaces with the prize seems the most important.