Flashbacks. Minneapolis, MN

(Camping trip, UP Michigan)

I’m walking towards a wooden shack that’s positioned on the edge of the lake. The road is a combination of gravel and sand granules that have been dragged from the shoreline repeatedly by boats and children longing for fireside sandcastles. The tiresome building is being held together by the paint of the season, this year’s color being a thick brown coating attempting to hide the beige of ’08. I open the outhouse door and immediately my mind fills with what’s to become the mantra of the day, Don’t look down.

Ask the locals. Don’t let language or instinct deter you, ask the locals. We’re thigh deep in water, making our way from the shoreline towards an island where we’ve been made to believe there is some excellent climbing. We laugh aside the idea that this could be one of the greatest goose chases, having trudged through dense woods to meet the beach and examine the coastline, only half assured that this was the island the stoutly balding man was referring to.
“If the water touches my balls I’m done.” He’s pants are rolled up revealing traces of skin normally out of reach to the sun, tiptoeing as higher waves roll towards us.
“Yep, I’m done,” his body jerks upwards straining to escape the cold water and I giggle. Our feet search out the long flat rocks on the lake floor to lower the water to calf levels.

We hike through denser wood, following the beaten path of locals and adventurists until the brush parts aside and piles of 2.3 billion year old rock are exposed overlooking Superior. Don’t look down. I’m pushing aside thoughts of my mother’s chiding voice. I can hear her repeat my first and middle name each time I lean over the rock’s edge.