The Hunter’s Cottage
A cool breeze shudders across the midnight blue lake. A brown tailed jet-black squirrel digs in the mulch for last winter’s buried treasures, a blue heron lumbers easily across the sky and a long-necked swan comes in for a splash less landing right in front of my eyes as a dozen barn swallows dip and dart amongst the boat canopies. The windows are open and the morning candles flicker swirling their vanilla and lavender scents across the room. Bob Marley wails “Lets give thanks and praise to the Lord, and I will feel all right”. I ponder Gone with the Winnie and my thoughts trail to stories with Dad, he would have loved this trip!
I drift back…..to the last real camping trip I took with Dad and Eleanore, his wife after my parents divorced, up the west coast of Michigan, destination Sleeping Bear Dunes and Traverse City. Our full-sized White Ford Van easily trailing dad’s aqua blue striped pop-up camper. The girls, 5, 8 and 10 belted and bouncing in the back seats reminiscent of my childhood. Stopping along the pristine sand dune coastline of lake Michigan enjoying the squeals of delight as the girls jumped out at each new vista for a run around and snacks.
Sleeping Bear Dunes does not disappoint, rolling hills of sand, expansive views, swimming along the beaches dotting the coastline, dune buggy rides, and the visit was not complete without a walk along the Platt River in search of the infamous Petosky rocks. Ready to explore we set up camp late in the afternoon. Dad and Eleanore in the pop-up camper, the girls and me in a brand-new tent! The campground was beautiful with a jump in the pool the first order of business. After a long drive, a quick diner dinner, and smores around the fire, we settle into our portable homes adjacent to each other. The girls are tickled with flashlight tag, and we all cozy into our sleeping bags for the night.
Long about 6:00 am, I realized it had rained all night as I sat up in a dampness reminding me of my youth, when my sister would climb in bed with me and wet it while asleep. As I felt around the tent floor, dampness became puddles oozing between all four of us. The girls were all soaked crying dramatically each yelling their woes, “I hate camping”, “I want to sleep in grandpa’s camper”, and “yuk, there’s sand on everything”. I knew instantly what had happened. In my fervor to hit the road, I had neglected to seem-seal the brand-new tent resulting in water streaming through the stitched seems all night long. Simultaneously, I knew this was the last time I would be able to talk these children, or myself, into tent camping!
Quickly moving to plan B, Eleanore took the girls back to their happy place in the swimming pool while Dad and me took off in search of a warm, dry rental cottage. With cell phones not yet in circulation, we managed to find a hunter’s cottage in the local paper and headed off to find it. The owner had left the door open. Van still running to head off the hot August sun, we dashed inside to look, not realizing dad had accidently hit the power lock on the van door.
An adorable roomy and dry cottage at first glance, peeking around the corners, stuffed birds donned every wall, living room, bedrooms, and kitchen. My animal loving daughters would quite literally freak out at this sight! Not many choices at hand, Dad and me quickly & carefully removed all the hunting prizes stuffing them temporarily into empty closets. Decision done. Heading out to our cooling ride, a flick up on the handle and much to my growing angst we were locked out of our ride. No phones, out in the middle of nowhere land, stuck.
Plan C, in full swing…. find a house with a phone to call a locksmith. Next door the logical choice, a knock produced a gnarly looking bearded character inviting me into his den to make a call. Gingerly I stepped around a big black Labrador Retriever avoiding all flat surfaces an inch thick in dust and dog hair to an old-fashioned black phone. Dad had agreed to stand guard outside as I dialed the one locksmith’s number in town. Of course the weekend produced a voicemail message, “Sorry, gone fishin’….call back later”. My last resort, I called the owner of the hunter’s cottage who it turns out, knew the locksmith, and was able to have him come unlock the Ford. Whew, crisis averted, temporarily.
Back to the campground to gather the troops for a return to our new dry digs. The girls of course dashing out to see the cottage ahead of us while we began unpacking belongings. Suddenly shrieks of frightening screams bellow from inside. Dropping everything, I ran inside to find the girls curiously opening all the closets as stuffed birds flew out at them all! Rolling in laughter all I could do was break out the cupcakes I had hidden to celebrate Rachel’s 8th birthday, crisis three, turned around by a ruckus birthday song and cake for lunch.
Laughter followed the rest of the trip as we continued to revel in that day’s events. A walk about through the Platt River did in fact turn up dozens of the cherished Petosky rocks, well earned prizes for all. Although Dad continued to take random trips with us over the years to follow, from then on, vetted hotels with full showers, pools, and restaurants became the stay of choice. I don’t know if the girls ever fully recovered from our days in the hunter’s cottage. In fact, I occasionally had dreams myself of the gnarly bearded neighbor turned axe murderer breaking into the house next door, with the girls and me all screaming and clamoring inside grandpa’s safe camper with no flying ducks!
Only one day left before my departure, a kind of melancholy setting in as I bask in memories gone by and dry my eyes. My spirit is lifted some knowing Dad will be with Sami and me along the scenic route, his ‘go-to’ road to travel. I will watch for signs, butterflies, old VW campers, or a random old car show. Maybe I’ll even pop in a McDonald’s for one of grandpa’s favorite treats, a hot fudge Sunday in his memory along the road.
