Chippewa Landing II

Friday, July 14, 2017

Chippewa Landing Campground

The beginning of the 4^th day of rain is running a stir-crazy edge. The tent walls arenae much of a climb, so climbing walls is a moot metaphor. With a token of gratitude to Mother Nature, it isnae much of a rain. It be a tease of gentle showers, coming and going at random intervals. Persilly and I have been able to stretch our over-rested limbs with short walks to the wetland bayou on the other side of the office compound, as well as beach walks at the opposite end of the campground. The beach walks have been a tad intimidating. I canae tell if it is a natural dune or a human made levee, but topping the side of the sand pile has been a shock to my senses each time as the wind off Lake Superior hit my face. As this rain system was blowing in, my first experience with topping that dune felt like a slap from a new found friend. Yowza! Doncha know it’s July? Where’d that chill bite come from? I retreated hastily with the reminder that I am in a sub-arctic region. Gordon Lightfoot’s fondly recorded voice floated through my head.

“The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call, ‘Gitchegoomie.’

“The lake it is said never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early.”

I was braced the next time I topped the dune. A closer look at the soft rippling across the water failed to support the imagery of Gordon Lightfoot’s song, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” which was still playing in my head, but it came much closer than any of the places I wore out Gordon Lightfoot’s one album as I plied my teenaged will to ignoring the mobile drama of my birth family’s rag-tag march across North America. The freighter heading from Sainte Marie River to the open water of Lake Superior looked too calm to imagine the captain making distress calls.

I am still placing my faith in the weather forecast I read yesterday that the rain should pass later today, leaving tomorrow to dry out the camp equipment for packing on Sunday morning. Meteorology has come a long way since I followed the drama of the contest between a local meteorologist and Missus O’Conner’s cow. The cow won. The meteorologist didnae look surprised. I suspect the contest was part of a campaign to get the station manager to invest in better equipment. That equipment has come a long way since that dimly remembered contest. What state was that in? I’m pretty sure it was somewhere in the heartland of North America. I seem to remember following the entire contest, so it was likely in one of the uncounted stream of rent houses.

What next, after I pack up the camp the day after tomorrow? The duty cape still tugs southward. Spa trip over. Time to get back to business as usual. I gots family dysfunctions to enable and middle-aged adults to treat like children. The senior child is showing physical symptoms. Here on the Geezer Train, those physical stress symptoms are far more likely to actually BE fatal, but the three near death experiences attached to the gall bladder drama are a potent proof that my presence isnae much of a preventative measure. It only gives him a more focused target to point his blame finger at, when his busy day permits. My beloved and I have come a long way on that score, but it be a complex dance. It takes time to lose old habits and learn new steps.

The road atlas perusals are still tugging toward the Mississippi headwaters in Northwest Minnesota. I am currently leaning toward abandoning the resort stretch along the lake and taking the most direct route out of smoke-free Michigan. Does Wisconsin have smoking rooms? Where is my internet connection? Never mind. It is still too soggy to make that long journey across the street.

The wandering doesnae feel quite aimless, but it be far from focused. Well, I tell myself, it be a journey of discernment, after all. How do I want to spend my remaining time, be it days or be it years? The Urban Homestead in Texas is a source of stability, love and pride for me, but it is an amazing world we live in. My place in that Urban Homestead feels outdated and fixed, whether I am physically there, or knot. I have dreams of being able to experience part of that amazing world with other family members. Idle dreams. It be as easy as falling off a log to imagine the GS as a first rate hockey player, his growing face flushed with activity in the frigid air.

Can I trust my memories of winter activities? They are child memories from an unstable childhood, seasoned by amnesia damage in addition 4+ decades in subtropical and tropical regions. When I do trust my memories of snow forts, toboggans, skating, etc., I feel as though my hubs, sons and significant others have been deprived of something important in their sub-tropical lives. Even the farm southwest of Fort Worth is too far north for their endurance.

Noon approaches. It feels like time to begin drying out the camp. I am trusting yesterday’s weather forecast far more than my senses on that score. My senses are still far more tuned to Central Texas than the south shore of Lake Superior. The blue patches amidst the clouds and other natural tells mean something far different here. Even the birds and bugs sing a different dialect. The construction crew on its way to the lakefront resort property down the road might have been the most reliable weather forecast of all. The rubber-footed stud on the hunt speaks a universal dialect. Zoom zoom. Baby needs formula, braces and tuition.

Maybe one more nap. . . The sleep has been welcome and easy during the rain, despite a couple of manageably restless rounds of tent fever. Some troublesome dreams which faded too quickly to remember and didnae keep me from falling back into sleep.