Locations in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, known for their huge amount of snowfall every winter, have over 300 inches of snow. The snow seems bent on never releasing its wintry grip on the landscape. Even in Northern Michigan’s lower peninsula where I live, people have built snow-lined labyrinths in their yards as a way to escape their houses. Mangled mailboxes, many with their doors bent open, poke upwards through roadside drifts along our main road as if waiting to be fed. The journey from our home by the lake requires some climbing skills when we venture up our own personal ski hill. After about a 150-foot trek up our twisted driveway, we can catch sight of the main road at the top of the hill. Once there, we begin a fairly easy descent of about 300 feet towards the main road through a maze of maples, oaks, and pine trees. If I had actually understood geometry in high school and college, I would be able to figure out the icy slope of the line.
Despite slippery roads and bone-chilling cold weather, winter in Northern Michigan continues to create one of the most beautiful landscapes I have ever seen. Although the cycle of plowing, shoveling, salting, and waiting to see what Mother Nature has in mind for the ten-day forecast can be a bit tedious, I am always fascinated by the daily changes. Recently, I power-walked four miles on the road knowing that yet another storm was headed our way. Bomb cyclone, anyone? Peaceful in my solitude, I admired the woods and the secrets the trees held close, the crows seemingly warning me to watch my step as I dodged icy areas on my journey, and the occasional presence of a vehicle approaching me reminded me that I was not alone in the world. Despite seeing others, I did not wish for conversation. A simple wave of acknowledgement was sufficient.
As I return home after my walks, the birds seem to welcome me before I step inside the house. If I do not replenish the feeders with seed or suet fast enough, the birds become gangs of gangly children squibbling (a new word I accidentally came up with), letting me know I need to get my act in gear. Pileated, red-headed, red-bellied, downy, and hairy woodpeckers all move to their own beat, so to speak. Chickadees, nuthatches, finches, sparrows, blue jays, and mourning doves all join in on the festivities with their various coos, chipper calls, and beautiful whistles. A cardinal couple shows up almost daily, and I always try to sneak a shot of them with my camera. Sometimes I am stealthy enough, and I capture a shot, but I do not want to disturb them when they are dining. My husband and I call out to each other when we spot the cardinals in the woods. Our affection for this couple seems to grow every year. Each morning before sunrise, I make my way outside to shoot sunrise photographs, and I listen carefully for a cheery greeting from a chickadee or blue jay.
Since December 31st, 2017, I have taken a photograph of the sunrise no matter where I am or what the weather conditions are like. Probably about 85% of my sunrise shots have been taken at Higgins Lake. Each one of them is different. Although some of my favorite sunrise shots have been taken in places such as Whitefish Point, Marquette, or the mountains in Colorado, there is something quite magical about my mornings at Higgins Lake. The landscape provides a vista for introspection or meditation. To borrow from Dorothy and her oft-quoted line, there truly is no place like home.
One morning recently the moon and stars lit up the pre-sunrise sky. The day before I had put on my knee-high winter boots and waded through about six new inches of snow in our yard so that I could head out onto the solidly frozen Higgins Lake. I held onto the branches of a huge pine tree growing near the shoreline and stepped down over the ridges of ice and layers of snow. Once again, I created a large heart-shaped path in the snow along the shoreline. I am working on my third one since January. I am rather proud of my work of art on the lake. Creating this heart makes me feel like a kid again. Although my landscape in Michigan is quite different than where I grew up along the Arkansas River in Dodge City, Kansas, the connection for me is still the same: nature and my desire to explore the world on my own. I suppose this stems from being an only child, and my parents allowing me to figure things out on my own. My late mother was a talented artist, a jokester, and someone who loved me despite my terrible teenage years. She would have loved seeing this enormous heart on the lake. Knowing her and her sense of humor, she would have asked to be photographed while standing in the middle of the heart with a red-feather boa wrapped around her winter coat.
My mother passed away on March 22nd in 2008 after a battle with Alzheimer’s disease. She was born in 1918, and she lived an imaginative and very creative life. My father died in August of 2012 at the age of 92. He loved my mother’s decorated eggs, artwork, whimsical designs (she even decorated Quaker Oats containers in order to fill them with gifts), and he tolerated my guitar playing. He dedicated himself to hard work as he ran both a restaurant and our small farm. In retrospect, it seems as if my mother was always indoors creating artwork somewhere in the house, and my father was always outside working somewhere in the yard or the field or tending to the various livestock we had. If I had completed my chores, I was allowed to explore whenever I wanted to. I realize that the sense of wonderment I felt as a child is even stronger now that I am older. I wish my parents were still alive, and I could have a conversation with them about what I have learned as I embrace these moments of solitude.
This quiet time for reflection will change as spring moves us forward and people begin to return to Higgins Lake. Warmer temperatures will allow to the lake to thaw, and it will reward us with its groans and cracks as it begins to shake loose the layers of ice. Fishermen will head out towards their favorite fishing spots as they catch the sunlight in the wakes of their small boats. Early morning water skiers will glide through the smooth water and create small waves that roll towards the shore. Robins will call as they forage the lawn for insects. I will edge closer to the water, careful to protect my camera from harm, so that I can try and capture the sun’s reflection upon the water. Perhaps this will be yet another slope of the line I do not fully understand how to calculate, but it won’t matter. My moments of solitude will be all I need.