Higgins Lake Ice
Most people understand the basic rules about ice: Coaches teach hockey players to keep their sticks on the ice. People who live on lakes know that when the hues of water under the ice begin resembling summer colors to stay off of the ice. Ice fishermen allowing their fishing shanties to partially sink during weather warmups should rethink their hobby. Drivers quickly learn that black ice on roads can cause a carousel of spinning cars and trucks and swiftly bury them in snow-filled ditches. Signs remind us that bridges freeze before roads. Our mothers tell us early on to stop chewing ice or our teeth will start to look like craters on the moon. When we are older, wizened drinkers advise us to avoid ice when drinking red wine or scotch. A friend recently told me that ice cube balls are better than cubes in beverages, and bigger is better. I am ashamed to say that I did not know this rule, but I will abide by it as soon as I receive my new ice cube trays. Last week, I learned another new ice rule, and I feel the need to share this with the world: Do not be a giggling gallivanter strutting across wet sand on a beach along Lake Michigan in March. Wet sand sometimes masquerades as very, very slippery ice.
When I was much younger and discovering the rules of the world in Kansas, my mother often said to me, “You are walking on thin ice, young lady,” when I would inform her and my father of some new adventure I had decided I needed to embark on. After being told no, I often swore. Since my father had a habit of swearing, it’s something I grew up with, kind of like having our own secret language. My mom, famous for her downward-head-tilt and dagger-like-mom-glare, frequently warned me to watch my language. Rebuttal time existed in the confines of my room or down by the dam where I complained to my dog, the cottonwood trees, and the Arkansas River. Thin ice! Language usage! It was a lot to learn for a teenager who was mostly interested in music, dogs, and boys.
In western Kansas, we really didn’t have much ice other than the ice my mother made in silver ice cube trays to fuel our passion for very cold iced tea. If only my mom had known about ice cube balls, but maybe no one had invented them yet. When the irrigation ditch running parallel to the road in front of our house froze over one winter, I put on a pair of ill-fitting ice skates. I skated down towards the Wilroads Gardens Elementary School, about a half a mile away, on the skinniest ice rink in the world. This wasn’t the Netherlands, and I was no Gretel. Ice wasn’t really something I learned to negotiate.
At the age of 21, I left Kansas for California where I discovered earthquakes and traffic. I quickly learned that pulling out in front of oncoming traffic was a requirement if a person wanted to get anywhere. I moved to Michigan a few years later, and I learned an entirely new set of rules for winter driving. I landed a job with a construction company rebuilding the downtown fire station in Ann Arbor. We worked out of a trailer on-site, and I was the office manager which basically meant that I typed reports on an ancient blue typewriter, fielded phone calls for my boss, and listened to grown men swearing about everything from the weather to the ups and downs of the Michigan Wolverines. I was hired because my future boss asked me if I minded people swearing. Seriously. I told him I was perfect for the job, and I called my father that night to thank him for all the years he had prepared me for this decent-paying job.
I had lived in Michigan for a few weeks, when I got my first taste of a Michigan blizzard. Since the fire chief and my boss said that the weather was going to be bad, I decided to park my four-speed Toyota station wagon in a garage underground. As I left the garage that day, I started up the ramp, and my car slid right back down and into the spare tire on the back end of a pickup truck. The following “BOOM” provided me more attention than walking down the street in a mini-skirt. My next stop was at my new car insurance agency where the confused agent asked me to repeat the story about five times. Even after I showed him the blown out rear window, he still asked me for the umpteenth time how I managed to blow out the window and not cause any damage to the pickup truck. Didn’t he believe me? Did he want to go to the scene of the accident? I was freezing! He told me I ought to cover up the gaping hole in the back of my car until I got it fixed. No s*#t, Sherlock?
From then on, I realized that ice rules were strictly followed in Michigan. When playing hockey or ice skating, one should always have sharp blades, or a person might lose an edge and fall down. The Great Lakes freeze over some years, but people should only drive across them on snowmobiles along a tree-lined path if they don’t want to die. Inland lakes claim a few bodies, people, and vehicles, every year because someone drank too much red wine or scotch with incorrectly-sized ice and decided to go for a joy ride. Chewing ice is only allowed if someone is a patient in a hospital and not allowed to eat edible food. When driving on snow-covered roads, drive like a person with a brain and not a death wish. I suppose I should stay off of the ice, but since I live in Northern Michigan, I don’t have a choice.
Sinking Shanty and Ice Fisherman
So far this year, I have willingly placed myself on ice for a variety of reasons and I managed to injure myself each time. In December, as I cross-country skied in the woods, I hit a patch of ice. My rear end hit the ground like a meteor dropping from the sky without any media coverage or fanfare. After a few choice swear words for no one but myself, I thrust myself upright, and I skied off to search for someone to feel sorry for me. At Cross-Country Ski Headquarters, I walked to my car, loaded my gear, and waited for my son to arrive after his much longer and more difficult ski journey. He was fine. Me? My left elbow still vibrated (California-shake style), and my neck seemed to be bit more compact as if I were a bobble head doll stuck in an awkward position.
In February, my son played in a pond hockey tournament in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Near the downtown of St. Ignace, I ventured out onto East Moran Bay (Lake Huron) to watch his team play hockey and shoot photographs. After trying a variety of footwear the day before, ice clamps on my tennis shoes and snow boots, I decided on my brand new boots with special technology geared just for walking on ice. I quickly learned that if snow fills in the spaces between all of this “special technology,” then I could perform a combination of those wild sixties dance moves, the mashed potato, the jerk, and the pony, all at once. My spectacular landing didn’t really hurt, because I had three layers of clothing on. I managed to save my camera, swear in front of a group of small children (What boots were THEY wearing?), and, along with my husband in his regular winter shoes, to watch the game and shoot pictures without further incident.
Tree Bridge: St. Ignace to Mackinac Island
Having survived February mostly unscathed, I decided to go on an adventure with my photography pals, Sandi and Jo. I felt confident about starting out at Esch Beach, south of Empire and near Sleeping Bear Dunes along Lake Michigan. We had already stopped along our route to shoot pictures of sheep and eagles (not together!), now we were ready to shoot pictures of the water and the beach. I headed north walking along the shore towards Otter Creek. Waves rolled slowly towards the shore. I had on hiking boots and carried my camera in my left hand, the camera strap snug around my neck. One minute I was up, and the next minute I was down. What appeared to be wet sand was actually a thin layer of ice along the shore. I fell on my left side, clutching the camera so hard that my hand hurt much worse than my leg, which suffered a nasty little bruise below my knee. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Eagles near 72 and 669–Photo by Jo MacLaughlin Przygocki
Esch Beach Ice
When I hit the ground with my camera, my lens shot into the sky like a fat pop bottle rocket before it began its first and last swim in Lake Michigan. Jo saw me pop up off of the ground and immediately jumped into the water to save my lens, thoroughly soaking her Converse tennis shoes. Sandi, watching the scene play out before her, attempted to help both of us at once. She later said she felt a bit “dazed and confused” by all of the action playing out on the beach. Although I was dirty, bruised, and angry at my own stupidity, I swear I heard my mother’s voice say, “See! I told you that you were walking on thin ice!” Even though she passed away in 2008, those words rang in my ears like church bells. After drying off, cleaning off, and pondering the fate of my lens, we continued our photo journey to Glen Haven and Glen Arbor. We ate lunch at Art’s Tavern where I ordered a nice cold beer to soothe my ego. After a brief rest, we headed to the camera shop in Traverse City. The shop’s employee Molly cleaned all of the sand out of my camera, and my bruised but functional camera survived my attempt at killing it by the icy shores of Lake Michigan.
Melissa, Sandi, and Jo (The F-Stops) at the Robert H. Manning Memorial Lighthouse in Empire, Michigan
We made it safely back to Higgins Lake, munching on exquisite brownies Jo had made and tasty treats Sandi brought along, before parting ways. After Jo and Sandi headed back to Midland, I realized that I was really sore and still very dirty. I thought about how my mom and dad would have been proud of me for picking myself up after yet another huge error in judgment. I guess that’s something they always knew about me: I’ve always been willing to walk on thin ice, because I like the danger.
Diamond Ice near Glen Haven–Photo by Sandi Beaudoin
Lake Michigan near Glen Haven–Photo by Sandi Beaudoin
Sandhill Cranes near Sleeping Bear Dunes–Photo by Jo MacLaughlin Przygocki
Photo of Jerry and the F-Stops at the Log Slide Cove by Sandi Beaudoin
We are not a rock band, but we could be. Collectively, we are four women who love taking photographs. Sandi Beaudoin, Jeannie Dow, Jo Przygocki, and I have all taken photography classes from Jerry Meier of Meier Camera in Midland, Michigan, so that we can improve as photographers. After six years of asking, Jo finally convinced Jerry to take a class on the road to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Our first stop was Mackinaw City, where we lined up along the shore, set up our tripods, and began shooting pictures. From the challenge of photographing a lit-up Mackinac Bridge while a freighter slid magnificently underneath, to the gentle morning fog and mist percolating above the Upper Tahquamenon Falls, we were focused. I, however, felt like my camera and I were on two different planets. Suddenly, it was exam time, and my brain decided to take a vacation.
Besides my brain being on a separate vacation than my body, I was in pain. I had received two steroid shots the day before, one in my leg and one in my groin, for a nagging injury that is now celebrating its one-year anniversary. I only have myself to blame. Trying to run through an injury is a very bad idea. Since I haven’t been able to run a road race for months now, or even run on the road, my endorphins are at an all-time low. Somehow this lack of a natural high has also affected just about everything else I do. While I stood on the beach with four fabulous photographers attempting to take a shot of the freighter American Integrity going under the bridge as the sky began to darken, I had a case of brain freeze and fumble fingers. Shutter speed? Aperture? Manual? Program? Define those terms! Use in a sentence! By the time I figured out what I should do, the sky was dark, and the freighter was halfway to Gary, Indiana. We packed up our gear and moved on.
Photo of the Mackinac Bridge and the American Integrity by Joann Przygocki
Our next stop was the Headlands International Dark Sky Park. After a short four-mile drive, we parked, loaded up our gear, and walked a mile along a spacious path to the shoreline along Lake Michigan. We quickly learned that we should not leave a lantern on, because a voice from the dark will shout “turn your light off.” We also discovered that setting up our tripods while it was still light out would have been very advantageous, because the dark sky park is really, really, dark, and you can use only the tiny red lights on your headlamp. Later, Jeannie said that “learning the relationship between the shutter speed, ISO, and aperture in order to achieve the star trails” from Jerry was crucial in being able to get the shot she wanted. Once again, I learned that I tend to panic when under pressure. The clouds moved in, we packed up our gear, and walked back to the van. It was time to take off our Troll hats (people living south of the Mackinac Bridge) and journey to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and join the Yoopers.
Photo of the Headlands International Dark Sky Park by Sandi Beaudoin
Jo drove us through the night as we made our way towards Paradise, and we began to wonder if “Almost Paradise” was more than just a song. We made our turn and headed to Tahquamenon Falls. We arrived shortly after midnight and settled into the cabin Jo had rented for us near the Upper Falls. With no television or Wi-Fi, we enjoyed the sound of our own laughter and stories.
The next morning, we headed towards Munising for our first attempt at shooting waterfalls. Although all of us had taken photos of waterfalls, Jerry was with us, and we would be able to ask questions and make the necessary adjustments to our camera settings on the spot. Since it was a Saturday, the Munising Falls area was filled with photographers and sightseers. After deciding we had the shots we wanted, we headed to the parking area. Park Ranger Cheryl Debelak provided us with some wonderful suggestions as to where we might want to go next. We explained that I was injured, and so long hikes were out of the question. After brief stops at Miners Falls, Miners Castle Overlook, and Chapel Falls, we worked our way to the Log Slide Overlook, one of my favorite places in Michigan’s UP.
Photo of Jerry, Jo, and Jean at Miners Falls by Sandi Beaudoin
Photo of Miners Castle by Jeannie Dow
The Pictured Rocks area along Lake Superior is difficult to describe because it is so beautiful, and depending on where you stand, hike, sit, or camp, the terrain can be spectacularly different. At the small overlook above Lake Superior, you can see Au Sable Point and its lighthouse off to your left, and the Grand Sable Banks to your right. At one spot along the trail, the dunes seem to drop off right into Lake Superior. Hiking down to Lake Superior at this point is not for the faint of heart.
Photo of Sandi and Jerry at Log Slide Cove by Jeannie Dow
Photo of Sandi, Jeannie, Jerry, and Jo setting up their cameras at the Log Slide by Melissa Seitz
Photo of Au Sable Point Lighthouse by Joann Przygocki
As we headed away from the Log Slide, and off towards Grand Marais along H-58, we continued our discussion of what worked and what didn’t work for our photos, referenced songs we liked, and told stories. At some point during our adventure, Jeannie had referred to us as “Jerry and the F-Stops,” and the name fit us like a lens cap. After taking a few shots of the lighthouse in Grand Marais, and, once again, me listening to a complete stranger telling me what I should be doing (How do I attract these people?), we headed to the Lake Superior Brewing Company for dinner and drinks.
Although the place was packed and out of whitefish (WHAT?), we had a great meal and adult beverage of our choice. We also wrote our names on the bathroom door, all with the assistance of our waitress who provided us with a Sharpie. I have never seen a bathroom and its door covered in so many names! If you are ever at the restaurant, look for our names. We are famous now. We went to the gas station across the street where the attendant seemed unaware of the old adage that one should never smoke a cigarette next to someone gassing up a vehicle. Apparently he hasn’t blown anyone up yet. We drove back to our cabin at Taquamenon Falls and relaxed. We had an early photo shoot planned for the morning.
Photo by Sandi Beaudoin
Our last morning in the UP proved to be cloudy and misty. We headed to the falls. We were the first vehicle in the parking lot, and as we walked along the path, we began to hear the sweet sounding roar of the falls. I set up my tripod from above the falls while the rest of the group headed down about 100 stairs to shoot closer to the falls. I was jealous. I cursed my leg, my stupidity, and my stubbornness, and then I attempted to photograph the falls.
While alone, the more pictures I tried to shoot, the more frustrated I became. I got out my notes, and I tried to get my brain to work. When the group came up from the falls, I complained that I absolutely could not get a good shot. Jerry immediately looked at my camera settings and explained what I needed to do. I breathed a sigh of relief, and we headed to another part of the falls.
While the group, once again, climbed down to another vantage point below the falls, I focused my camera from an overlook facing the top of the falls. This time I got the shot I wanted. Although I have yet to get one of those dreamy waterfall pictures that Jeannie, Jo, and Sandi are so good at taking, I know that I will get one eventually. As Sandi said during one of our discussions on the trip, learning to “take my time and do the math,” is essential to taking a good shot. Clearly this is something that I need to work on.
We stopped briefly at Whitefish Point and shot a few photos before beginning our drive home. Our conversations in the car were also instructive as we reflected on what we learned. We also pondered non-photographic knowledge such as the amazing number of songs that have the words “sunshine” or “rain” in them, the five things men and women should never say to each other, and we discussed our plans for the immediate future after our weekend.
Photo of Tahquamenon Falls by Jo Przygocki
Photo of Tahquamenon Falls by Jeannie Dow
Photo of Tahquamenon Falls by Sandi Beaudoin
Photo of Tahquamenon Falls by Melissa Seitz
There is something to be said for taking the show on the road, and the benefit of having the teacher along to guide you on your way. Being with friends I happened to meet along my journey into photography was the best part of all. This made me think of the creative writing classes I used to teach at Saginaw Valley State University, and the connection between nature and writing. I tried to take my classes outside at least once a semester, and I wish I had done this more. The similarities to taking photographs are quite apparent. For me, the creative process works best, despite repeated failures in taking photographs or receiving rejections on poems or essays I have submitted for publication, when I am living and breathing my subject matter. When Jerry taught our classes in Midland, we did not spend all of our time in the classroom and talk about pictures. Instead, we were out in the field shooting pictures of a full moon rising, car lights, sunsets, people, and buildings with unique architecture. What is it about the interaction between nature and humans that subconsciously forces us to get our creative juices flowing?
I imagine most of us have pored over photographs remembering the people in the photos, reminiscing about the landscape, and telling stories about the time someone did something memorable enough to warrant bringing out the camera to shoot a picture. What if you are in the photograph? How does that alter your perception of the moment? Do your memories instantly trigger at the moment of recognition? What if you were not in the photo, but, instead, were the photographer? How will your memory store the moment? After three days of shooting photographs with this group of photographers, not only do I have photographic evidence of my trip, but I also have a new appreciation for the art of photography. Sandi said it best: “The more you learn, the more you realize what you don’t know.” My learning curve has been as steep as a Sleeping Bear Dunes Climb.
Ten years from now, I can only imagine what my memories will be of this particular moment, or the stories I will tell about my weekend with Jerry and the F-Stops. In the song “Photograph,” by Ringo Starr, he suggests that “all I’ve got is this photograph.” Sometimes that can be a beautiful thing. Freeze Frame.
Alden Run
In the classic movie Animal House, Bluto, portrayed by the late John Belushi, rallies his fraternity brothers to stand up for themselves after they are kicked out of Faber College. Recently, I felt a little Bluto-ish as I neared the finish line of the Alden 10K road race in Alden, Michigan, on July 25th. After one of the toughest 10Ks I had ever participated in, I was thrilled to finally see the end. Oh, the heat! Oh, the humidity! Oh, the three killer hills in the first two miles! As Bluto says towards the end of his speech, “When the goin’ gets tough…the tough get going.” I knew I would have to dig deep to cross the finish line. “Wait for me,” I yelled to no one in particular. It was my first time being last in a road race.
Alden is a gorgeous village along the border of Torch Lake in Northern Michigan. Lush rolling hills compliment the woods and open fields. As my son Matt and I arrived in Alden from Higgins Lake that morning, we noticed the pressing dark blue skies. Despite hoping for a short downpour before the race to cool things off, the sky held its steady gaze. Shortly before the race began, the sun burst through the clouds like a one-eyed panther staring down at a group of slowly roasting runners and walkers: 260 for the 5K and 92 for the 10K. We were off.
After a short uphill segment, the 5K runners and walkers split off to the left. Silently congratulating myself for being tough enough to tackle a 10K on a nasty summer day, I looked ahead at the hills ahead of me and told myself I could do it. By the time I approached the final hill in the first two miles of the race, I wondered if I should turn around and join those much wiser 5Kers. A woman pushing a child in a stroller passed me and said, “Only one more hill to go.” Why was she so perky when I was miserable? Perhaps she didn’t get out much. Was I even sure there was a child in the stroller? Was it a gallon of water? A keg of beer? Focus, Melissa, focus.
I tried to think positive thoughts, but it was useless. My calves felt like two sets of bad dentures. My hamstrings hummed like an out-of-tune guitar. I knew I would die of thirst before I reached the finish line. Skeletons danced before my eyes. Poor, poor, pitiful me. By the time I got to the top of the last hill and made the turn onto a dirt road, I realized there was only one woman behind me. She looked determined to beat me.
At the first of two water stops, I ran through a sprinkler, sucked down some water, and poured the rest of it on top of my head. Hot and smelling like last week’s roadkill, I had 4.2 miles to go. At least the dirt road went downhill. The reds, blues, and yellows of the runners far ahead of me flashed before me as they turned right and headed into the wooded area of the race. As I thanked the volunteer at the turn, I quickly turned my head. The woman behind me had gained on me.
The road morphed into a sandlot for grownups and off-road vehicles. What the hell? If I had wanted a beach run, I would have gone to Sleeping Bear Dunes. Step, slide, sink, step, slide, and sink. My ankles rolled to the left and right. Eventually the road became easier to navigate as it twisted through a tunnel of woods, ferns, and imaginary bears. In my nearly demented state, I believed that bears hiding in the woods were sucking up the runners who had once been in front of me. By this time, I saw only two runners ahead of me, and felt the hot breath of the woman behind me. I tried to run a little faster and catch up to the runners in front of me, but my body shouted no. I started walking. The woman who had been following my sorry butt for the first three miles passed me. We began battling back and forth for last place. I became insanely covetous of her purple tank top.
Before long, we were on paved road again. I spotted a few runners in front of me. I charged ahead and passed the woman in purple. It didn’t last long. I figured she was messing with me. She looked to be in her twenties. She probably kept saying to herself that she wasn’t going to let some AARP member beat her. At what I hoped was the final turn in the road, I thanked the volunteer sitting on the tailgate of his truck, and I confidently informed him that I was last. He said he would wait a few minutes to make sure. I hope he didn’t wait long.
As I hit the final stretch, a man on a bicycle rode up to me—the sweeper. Don’t fear the sweeper! Embrace the sweeper! I decided to chat. I learned that Dan rode his bike almost every day. I envied Dan on his shiny bike wearing a non-sweaty t-shirt. He looked clean. He smelled good. He promised to ride in the rest of the way with me. He probably wanted to make sure I would reach the finish line before sundown.
As I turned yet another corner, I saw my son in the distance near the finish line. He had finished the race far ahead of me, so he had been there a long time waiting for me. I turned to Dan and said: “He probably thinks I died somewhere on the course.” Dan laughed, sort of. A group of people sitting in their yard, presumably to cheer on the racers, seemed surprised when I ran by and bowed. I shouted, “I’m last,” and they clapped for me.
Near the finish line, I thanked Dan and said I had better give the last bit of the race my best kick. I nearly ran into a man picking up cones as I turned to approach the finish line. “Wait,” I yelled. “I’m still running.” At least the timer on the race clock was still running. Everyone else was gone. I ran to the water table. A volunteer told me they were out of cups. He handed me a jug of water. Ah, the nectar of the gods! I began searching for bananas, grapes, or any kind of food. I was starved. Matt told me that they had already hauled away the food. How could that be? I was less than two minutes behind runners 90 and 91. What the hell?
As Matt and I walked towards the awards area, we met up with my husband’s aunt, cousin, and some friends. Matt walked over to the results posted on the side of a building. Since I was starving, Aunt Barbara bought me a muffin from the Muffin Tin. It was better than the best steak in the world. I ate and drank from my jug of water. I would survive.
Matt soon discovered that he was fourth in his age group and had just missed out on an award. He wanted to stick around for the raffle to see if he had won anything. He walked over to the results again and came back with a smile on his face. “You aren’t going to believe this.” “What?” I said. “You were third in your age group. You get an award.” Apparently my age group, 60-69, only had three runners.
So there I was, outrun by 91 runners, two of which happened to be in my age group. No bears had attacked me. I had survived the hills. I had made it through the sand. The two women who finished in front of me both came up to me and wished me well. The woman with the stroller smiled and said she would see me next year. A cute little boy smiled at me. He had apparently enjoyed his ride in the stroller.
As we sat at the Alden Bar and Grille eating our post-race breakfast and drinking very tall beers, I realized that although exhausted, I was able to smile in a Bluto-ish goofy grin. Even though I looked like a squished snake who took a little too long to cross the road, I had completed another road race with my son. I had won an award. I also managed to win a free muffin and beverage in the raffle. It was a good day to be me. So what if I was last?
