Dispatch from a Lonely Beach in Michigan
The expected loneliness and surprising companionship on a dark and quiet beach
There’s still a lot going on the world, isn’t there? Earlier in the week Maggie texted to ask if I’d heard about the second assassination attempt. She had to ask because I spent most of the week camping in northern Michigan, unaware of the daily barrage of events. Given my (blissful) disconnection, this week’s newsletter is a dispatch from a dark, quiet beach in northern Michigan, about as unrelated to current events as possible.
I think I’m alone on the beach, unlike last night when there were a few distant campfires and muffled voices. But tonight I am alone which is OK; I expected it. I read under the canopy of a bright moon, not quite full, and within earshot of the waves very quietly lapping the sandy shore. I’m sharing the beach with a few small nocturnal bugs, one or two which are attracted to the pages illuminated by my small reading light.
I brought my binoculars from the campsite to get a better view of the harvest moon climbing slowly into the sky. The craters and seas come clearly into view: Tranquility, Serenity, Crises, and others. The bright white and shadows of grey and black send a shiver across my arms. I’m warm enough in my sweatpants and fleece but chilled by the severity and distance lighting up my eyes through the lenses.
Despite the beauty of the moon and stars – so many more, despite the brilliance of the moon, than we can see in the city – I find myself lowering the binoculars to the horizon line. I’m looking for a distant ship, sailing north or south through the passage between the mainland, where I sit in my folding chair, and South and North Manitou Islands. Seeing nothing, I lift them slightly, looking for one of the airplanes that pass very occasionally over the lake this time of night. Nothing.
And then a flicker in my peripheral vision. I aim the binoculars left, south along the sandbar, and see not one campfire but two. Through the miracle of magnification I can also see a few shadowy figures around the nearest fire, maybe toasting marshmallows for s’mores.
I’ve come camping alone. I walk to this beach each night expecting to be alone. Am I disappointed now, discovering that a few other campers share the beach with me? I am not. I am not alone, and this is satisfying in a manner which allows me settle into the night scenery and sounds more fully than I could when it just me and the moon.
Also, a couple of hours ago at dusk, I walk onto two yellow-rumped warblers foraging for berries in a small tree growing from a dune. One of the birds flew close, perched on small branch jutting in my direction, and looked me over. If it was a staring context, I lost. I didn’t have the nerve not to look away from that searching and feathery gaze, taking me in for some reason unknown to my non-bird self. Returning to my campsite, I begin to split kindling for the fire which will warm my simple dinner. As I do, a flutter and a chirp. A black-capped chickadee sits within an arm-length, watching my work curiously.
Again, not alone.
Plundered Events
The Chicago book launch is coming up next Sunday, September. You can find more info and purchase tickets here. I hope you can make it!
Do you live in Portland or will you be there for the CCDA conference? If so, please join my good friends Dominique Gilliard and Jim Sequeira on Wednesday, October 2 for a conversation about the book. Dominique and I will each have a handful of our books for sale.
The View From Here
The harvest moon on Tuesday as seen from my lakeside perch at Sleeping Bear Dunes.