John Pepin

“You belong among the wildflowers, you belong somewhere close to me, far away from trouble and worry, you belong somewhere you feel free.” — Tom Petty

Once the door of my Jeep shuts behind me, I can sense the pulse of this place.

There’s almost a heartbeat that I can feel or otherwise somehow sense. It’s like a clock ticking — continuous, deliberate, metered.

I’m on a green and grassy hillside that sits above the muddy shoreline of a quiet and serene inland lake.

As I start to approach the water, my footsteps fall into the rhythm.

I watch my footing heading down the hill, so I don’t slip on the grass and fall.

Ironically, this is a place where it feels as though time has stopped.

There is no wind. The only sounds I hear are those of nature, none of which are loud or otherwise intrusive. Part of the silence is probably this early hour. The world around the lake is just awakening.

This lake isn’t very big. It’s probably just a little bit bigger than a big pond.

I can see the opposite shore plainly. There are white pine trees growing on the hillside over there, with the ground covered in rusty brown-red needles.

If I close my eyes, I can smell the pines and the water. There’s a cool blanket of clean and damp air hanging over the scene to dry.

There are mats of lily pads positioned just beyond the tallish reeds, cattails and grasses growing up near the shoreline in that area inhabited most often by frogs and turtles, dragonflies and damselflies.

In between those lily pad islands, there are places of silent, flat and deep water, places where a young boy might cast a fishing line with a worm and a bobber to attract the interest of a bluegill or a perch.

I recall how I did that very thing in my childhood at a lake like this in a time now almost forgotten. I was a young Cub Scout with a blue uniform, a Wolf rank and merit badges achieved for things like camping and tracking.

It was my first group overnight outing and my first snipe hunt.

These snipe hunt outings, which have been taking place since the 1800s, occur usually after dark and are practical jokes played on newcomers to a group.

The snipe hunt I was on with other new Wolf scouts involved being led into the woods by older scouts who were hip to the gag. We were told to bring a flashlight and an empty paper bag and to wait in the woods for the snipe to come.

Some of us boys were told to make noises to attract the snipe.

Our hunt exploded into confusion, laughter and chaos as a few of the scouts became frightened or otherwise freaked out and began running through the woods yelling and screaming.

It wasn’t long before we were all back at camp in our tents for the night.

According to Wikipedia, snipe hunting is an American rite of passage often associated with summer camps and other, similar outdoor activities. In France, a similar joke is called “hunting the dahut.”

The next morning, we were teased by the older scouts for our willingness to fall for the prank. Meanwhile, they had once fallen for it themselves.

After cooking eggs for breakfast over a fire with our mess kits converted to frying pans, I headed down to the lake alone with my fishing rod, while the other Cub Scouts chased each other around the grounds, or sat in camp chairs, whittling pieces of wood.

The bluegills that were in this lake were powerful. They could easily pull a sizable bobber all the way under the surface of the water. I could see the red and white globe zigzagging beneath the surface as the fish made a hard run.

This may have been the first time I ever saw a bluegill in hand. I remember catching one and marveling at the striped markings, the big black “ear” and the sharp spines of its dorsal fin.

All these years later, I do not have a fishing rod with me today, but the morning is similar enough to call my mind back to that early time.

The water surface is completely still except for a few swirl lines made by the movements of water striders or the tips of frog noses that pierce the flatness of the surface to form a tiny ripple.

A blue jay begins loudly scolding me for being here. After a couple of minutes, he stops squawking, allowing the silence to once again envelop the scene.

Rays of sunlight poke through the pines along the edge of the lake to my left and they light up that area. There are blue skies punctuated by big cumulus clouds, the kind meant for summertime dreaming.

It looks like it might rain later, but overall, it appears as though it’s going to be a nice, warm day. We need all of those we can get.

Suddenly, a great blue heron clumsily crashes up from the far edge of the lake and flaps right over me. They are cool birds with a definite appetite for bluegills. They swallow them whole headfirst to avoid those spines on the top fins.

I take deep breaths of the morning air with my eyes closed. Each exhale is slow and intentionally long. I feel a surge of energy.

The longer I stay here, the less aware I am of the beating rhythm of this place. Instead, I seem to have fallen into it and perhaps become a part of it.

At first, the beat was an obvious direct pacing I could not ignore.

Now, I need to pause and listen intently to hear or feel it. I think my heart has synched its beating to the rhythm of this quiet place hidden among the pine trees.

I have an urge to get into the water to float out over the deep places or to dive into those waters to look for fish or maybe a snapping turtle.

Instead, I decided to remain here on the shore, knowing the water would be very cold. Besides, I don’t have dry clothes to change into.

A couple of tree swallows swerve to dip down over the lake for a drink on the wing. I watch them glide and twist in the sky. I have always been amazed by their flight.

There’s no real dry place to sit here by the lake edge, so I move back up the hillside. I find a fallen white pine trunk which serves me well as a makeshift bench.

I switch my focus more intently to inside listening to see what I can learn about myself in this place in this moment. Sometimes, it takes a while to hear something.

I have a sense that I am where I am supposed to be.

I’ve been afforded this peace, quiet and solitude, which all works to quench my thirst for moments like these — far removed from the dizzying pace, the noise, the demands, pressures and burdens of daily living.

I smile as I am reminded that my two eldest grandkids are just getting to be the age where they might be ready for their own snipe hunt experiences.

I walk down a gravel-covered, two-track road back toward my waiting vehicle.

The morning is warming up fast.

The world around me remains quiet, as the awakening continues.

Whatever I’ll need to do today or experience in that other world, I will likely be more relaxed and better served by having started my day this way — out here where the complicated natural world feels as comforting as a warm blanket.

It’s a place to take the knots out of my mental fishing line. It allows me to think, relax and grow on the inside.

A song sparrow flits across the road in front of me and lands at the top of a tangled bunch of bushes. He looks at me and sings loudly, his body shaking and tail twitching as he delivers his territorial pronouncement.

I tilt my head to nod toward him in acknowledgement as I pass.

My boots make a scuffing noise when I scrape my feet over the gravel.

I stop at my Jeep and fumble for my key to get the front door open.

Before I get in, I close my eyes and take a few more deep breaths.

It feels like out here is where I belong.

I start the vehicle and take that thought with me as I head slowly down the road.

In a moment or so, the noise and disruption I brought to this place will dissolve into the air and the forests and be gone.

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.