What I Was Missing (11/12/2008)
Every time I go to Northern Michigan I am reminded why I love this state. And every time I see a deer lurking at the side of the road or leaping across it (5 deer this trip) and my heart stops for just a moment, I remember that we all only have so long to enjoy it. Heart-stopping moments aside, my recent foray into the Great North was wonderful. You might think that a trip up to Grand Traverse in November would be silly—you can't swim in a lake, lie on the beach, or cross country ski. You could hunt the aforementioned deer (if you really wanted to) but that's not why I was there. Still, November in Northern Michigan is actually perfect and I'll tell you why.
As I looked over this rugged land, austere in its clothing of subtle browns and grays, my heart ached with love and admiration for the one who spoke it into existence. My soul felt peaceful as I took in the dead grasses, the naked skeletons of trees stark against a flat gray sky, a tired moth fluttering soundlessly through an old growth pine forest. Up north there are still plenty of white paper bark birches. There are still crystal clear lakes edged with pines that steam in the chilled air. There are still bald eagles surveying their territory with keen eyes. Hills and valleys of muted tones blend with the still waters of inland lakes. Even the bay was calm—no boats or jet-skis to disturb its slumber.
On the way home today I stopped by Hartwick Pines near Grayling, home to the one of the last stands of old growth pine forests in Michigan. Somehow this patch of land persevered through the lumber years, escaping the ax and saw. I imagine it is a busy place in the summertime. But today it was completely silent save the sound of snow melting off the branches and dropping to the forest floor below. Some of the trees in this forest are more than 325 years old. That means that some of the trees that I looked at and touched today were saplings when Europeans were exploring the state and trapping animals for the fur trade in the 1600s .
As I drove down 127 from the hilly north to the flat central part of the state, where the rolling terrain gives way to fields and wetlands, I felt a pang of grief. If I had the means, I would buy up every little bit of land that is for sale up there (and there is a lot of it). I would buy it all and then let it sit there and just be. There is value in land, even in the parts that look unremarkable to our glitter-stunned eyes, apart from what you can build on it. I have a terrible fear that the beauty I love will all be sold off to developers who will build cheap, boring condos on it; a fear that every bit of shore on every lake and stream will eventually be pockmarked by houses. And our wild places will be a thing of memory by the time my son grows up. I pray these fears are unfounded, but I can't shake a feeling of sadness about it all.
Despite the somber tone of my thoughts as I drove home, I had a wonderful, relaxing time the past two days. You just don't quite value your freedom enough until you have another little life to be responsible for. I am so grateful for my incredible husband for surprising me with this much-needed reprieve from the needy little creatures at home, furry or no. And I think this little reminder of the very important world beyond my little sphere of home and family will have great significance to me in the years to come.
