“Blue autumn, there’s a rainbow in the sky, but no matter how hard I try, I still see only shades of blue.” — Bobby Goldsboro

Not long after the sound of my car door shutting stopped reverberating through the quiet woods, I heard a light tapping sound off to my left as I began climbing the cold, black rocks to a peaceful lookout I’ve come to love.

There’s a wide expanse of water to see here, blue and pooled around the green shores of small islands. Dead stumps, waterlogged branches and jagged rocks are scattered across the lake bottom.

This is a contemplative place that holds a raw and stark wildness that recalls the oldest of days. The skies here can bring the warm, buggy evenings and jumping fish of summer or the shocking and slashing winds, howling out of the dark boreal woods north of the Canadian border.

Being here makes me feel like I’m thousands of miles from civilization, though that would be a good long stretch from the truth.

I often see the cars of anglers parked where mine is now. They amble down the short, crooked path to the water’s edge where they toss their plugs, spoons and worms after mighty sportfish.

For me, the best part of this place is its ability to stop my rambling mind like a clock.

I can arrive tense and frenzied, tired and worn out, full of the worries of the world. Then, from the first glance over the edge of those mighty boulders to the waters beneath, I begin to feel relief.

I sit atop this altar made from monolithic boulders on a fine blanket fashioned from green sphagnum moss and its allies. There are brown, white pine needles here too, among small pieces of old branches, busted, cracked and fallen.

A round section of stone, covered in greenish-colored lichen warts, pokes through the blanket of moss here, like a bald spot on the top of an old man’s head. Nearby, there are other open places in the blanket of various shapes.

One day, they will all be gone. The green mosses and the tiny plants, with waxy burgundy leaves, will completely cover and help protect the rocks from the assaults of changing winds, rain, snow and ice.

As on other days and nights, I had waited too long to get outdoors. I was tense, a lot more than was comfortable. I came here hoping to feel the biting rope around my throat cut loose. I wanted peace, the kind you have trouble finding with people around.

After climbing the first flight of rocky steps to the altar, I stopped and turned to look over my shoulder, spotting a hairy woodpecker just a few feet away. Unconcerned with my presence, he continued making his tapping sound on the trunk of a cedar tree.

It was cold here tonight, the kind of cold that makes me glad I took the thicker jacket, stiffens my fingers, makes me sniffle and reddens my face, but not the kind of cold that will keep me in the house.

The wind had roughed up the water here, with gray clouds overhead reflected below. The colors of summer and fall had faded, producing a vista almost devoid of any hue at all, a stark landscape virtually black, white and a million shades of gray.

After more than a little time spent opening-up to the moment, I was disappointed to sense that something was wrong. For the first time, I had failed to connect with the magic of this place.

My heart was churning, while the chilled water seemed to be flowing through me. The woodpecker was gone. Not another creature was heard or seen. The only sound in my ears was the crunching and grinding of the gears in my brain.

I decided to leave. I needed to leave.

This was so strange. I could not plug in.

I got back in the car, the sound of the door shutting was a little louder this time.

I wanted to move quickly, to just drive — anywhere.

The road wound and twisted in front of me.

A few turns down the road, I couldn’t believe what I saw.

The lake here was as still as a graveyard.

So different, same lake.

I found a place to park.

A few cars passed by along the road, their headlights already on, casting a yellowish glow. I grabbed my camera and moved toward the lakeshore.

The scene was no longer monochrome. Though it remained stark, there was like a blue filter over everything I saw, the sky, the water, the road and the rocks.

The water looked like a mirror. The images cast atop the water were crystal clear, no doubt aided by the cold air, which now felt refreshing.

I could feel my heart begin to pound.

A sandpiper fluttered up from along the shore, taking a short flight before landing again, scolding me for being there. In the dirt along the road, there was the broken shell and visible bones of a baby painted turtle, its shell scraped and scuffed.

The clarity of the reflections on the lake invited me in — step through the looking glass. Some folks might have thrown rocks. I was mesmerized and enchanted.

Across the road, the sun was sinking over the bright white lines of birch trunks painted vertically on the horizon, reminding me of a beautiful watercolor, one with incredible detail.

I took a few pictures and then worked to move closer, down the embankment into the soft brown mud along the shoreline. There were clam shells there, empty and broken. A few steps and a few more photos closer, I came to a place where I could see the birches even better now.

This was amazing. The clouds were several shades of blue as the muted sunlight sank down low. There were tremendously big boulders here too, but these were colored green, reminding me of the emerald schist we found in college along the San Andreas Fault in California.

Cracked and gigantic, these frost-shattered rocks looked like the teeth of a tyrannosaurus rex. Down near the water’s edge, the rocks were stained from old high-water lines. It looked as though the dinosaur had closed its mouth, with the two rows of sharp teeth visible, separated by the dark waterline.

The blue of everything around me seemed like a strange illusion. I was having trouble believing my eyes. Could this be really happening? I kept snapping pictures, looking each time afterward at the image I had caught.

I was in awe. The camera had captured the blue too. It was stunning.

At a couple of instances, I had to stop shooting pictures and just look around. My head was swimming. I was whirling around inside and out. My heart was soaring so high, while my soul stood solemnly still.

I began to think how this was such a lesson for me. Had I remained with the familiar, the thing I had always done, I would have missed seeing and experiencing this true, divine wonder.

I returned home, barely able to speak. This had been the kind of experience that had struck me hard and deep. I think I was still taking in stimuli somehow or still revving on the rush I’d felt.

Sitting in a comfortable chair in the corner of the house we call the “Blue Room,” I was asked to show a few of the photos I had taken, as I typically offer.

I quietly worked the buttons and moved the images to those of the lake scenes. Then I handed her my camera.

“Everything looks blue,” she said.

Still not able to say much of anything, I just glanced back and leaned farther into the cushions of the chair. Outside the little windows of the room, the dazzling blue colors had by now all faded to black.

Nighttime had fallen.

Editor’s note: John Pepin is the deputy public information officer for the Michigan Department of Natural Resources. Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula. Send correspondence to pepinj@michigan.gov or 1990 U.S. 41 South, Marquette, MI 49855.