John Pepin, Michigan Department of Natural Resources, Journal columnist

“One more cup of coffee ‘fore I go to the valley below.” — Bob Dylan

And so, I again return to the sound of the creek tumbling over the black, silent rocks and the brilliant, green mosses. This is a quiet corner of the world you wouldn’t likely find without a map.

I was first here years ago. I recall walking down the leaf-covered trail through clouds of mosquitoes and blackflies. It was an evening walk and the valley below seemed like a long way down from this high country.

From a stand of northern hardwoods, the dirt, and eventually muddy, trail descends along a ridge line. Soon after beginning the walk, you find yourself looking up the face of a slope whose trajectory is pointed right at you.

The slope is off to the left as you wind down and is characterized by fallen trees among those still standing, along with rocky alcoves where hermit thrushes sing their ebullient and mysterious songs.

Water seeps from the ledges and drops into these places tucked into the hillside.

The walk is a mile or so, but it feels like more, especially on the hike back up, when the steepness of the trail becomes more apparent. At the bottom of the canyon, the trail hopscotches back and forth, over logs and rocks.

In between, are muddy and wet areas. The creek is running not far from here past a thigh-high stand of lush green grasses. To get to this place, there is a last small leap or two to get across some of the wider expanses of wet, black bog peat.

Entry to the scene where the waterfalls are staged is from the right. The path of the trail leads you directly in front of the cascade tumbling over the rocks. This waterfall is wider than it is tall, and its height is only a matter of a few feet.

Nonetheless, this is a pleasant place to stop to rest and perhaps cool your feet in the chilly waters. I brought my fishing pole down here once and made a few casts. I found the plunge pool underneath the waterfall, and the creek in the outflow area, to be shallow, though deep enough to support trout.

I know I didn’t land any fish here and I don’t recall getting any bites.

In the springtime, these bottomlands are covered in marsh marigolds, those brilliant yellow-flowered and green-leafed plants some folks call “cowslips.”

There are deer here and other creatures. The habitat tells me this would be a good place for barred owls. A couple miles downstream from here, I did hear a long-eared owl hooting one night as I fished along the river.

A wide variety of warblers inhabits this area. Warblers are insect eaters, often marked with colorful facial markings, that feed at varying heights in the tree canopy, depending on species.

In the very tops of the swaying maples, oaks and beeches, an observer with a good set of binoculars and a bit of patience might catch a glimpse of the beautiful orange throat, chest and partially face of a Blackburnian warbler.

Lower in the trees, you can find yellow-rumped warblers and American redstarts, while nearest the ground is home to mourning warblers and ovenbirds, which build nests on the ground shaped like dutch ovens.

This is a pretty place to visit, but in this grand countryside, there are many, many more offering equal beauty.

For me, as it is with a lot of places people seem to return to, there are recollections and remembrances of previous visits that draw me back here. This place is set in my memory for that first evening hike here as I dipped down into the canyon on a late afternoon jaunt, full of discoverer’s excitement. I recall that later I returned on an evening in spring when the thrushes of at least three varieties were singing.

I also remember this as a place I sat against an old metal guardrail in the forest at the head of the trail, where the woods caught me pensive and cautionary.

As I have now, I know I will again return another day. But if history is a guide, it might not be for several years. I have been here on only a handful of occasions, with at least a couple of years in between each visit.

So, I move on to another place, this one much closer to home.

I walk the blacktop road barefoot. The day is hot, with a breeze that doesn’t quench. My feet are warm, and it feels good to stroll.

For the most part, the woods are quiet these days compared to a few weeks ago, when all the birds were setting up nesting territories, singing from dawn even into the night, in some cases.

As I approach the edge of a rocky, and moss-covered, cliff, the warm wind hits me directly in the face with strong, steady force. There are small waves pushed up on the surface of the lake.

Instead of the placid mirror I often find this water to be, the lake is churned up, with the drink stained with a cast of browns, blues and greens.

I look down the face of the cliff. At the bottom, there is a shipwrecked old log washed ashore long ago. It has dried up, turned gray and is stranded here for the foreseeable future.

A few feet away, there sits a massive snapping turtle balanced on a boulder. The turtle is sunning. It doesn’t see me. I say a few words of hello to the turtle. It is clear now it hears me as its head tilts a bit and moves from side to side.

The turtle looks as though it will turn and scoot from the rock at any moment, but instead it stays put. That warm sun must be feeling good to the turtle too.

I’m distracted out here today, as I have been the past few times I’ve been out in the beauty of nature. It’s been harder to put aside the craziness of the world and the things people are thinking, saying and doing.

It’s not that I am directly contemplating these things, but more so, it’s a nagging kind of uneasiness that I am feeling that keeps tugging at my mind and heart on an almost subliminal level.

It’s soft, but it’s clearly there. It brings me an ill feeling. It’s like hearing the drone of a chainsaw in the distance that runs all day.

Sometimes I worry that the precipice is closer than we realize and we’re dancing out at the crumbly edge of the rocks.

The dancers aren’t wearing blindfolds. Why don’t they stop?

Meantime, the continued warmth of most of these days has brought a pleasant comfort. The forecast is for more of the same heading down the road.

That’s good news. More barefoot days to walk in the cool grass, the beach sand and on the warm rocks.

My window faces the south, where the sun shines on the back door most any day. Stormy or sunny skies, the clouds keep rolling on by.

I imagine that will remain the case, until the world stops turning.

Editor’s note: 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.