PEPIN

“I was in your presence for an hour or so, or was it a day, I truly don’t know – where the sun never set, where the trees hung low, by that soft and shining sea,” – Bob Dylan

In that morning time, in those seemingly sacred hours, the lake was flat, stark and magnificent. There was no Canadian wildfire smoke today shrouding the forests or blanketing the lake to cloud the view.

With the keenest of its reflective powers engaged, this secluded, inland water body mirrored all the heavenly beauty above it and the spruce-lined and golden, mid-summer reeded rim around it.

With the imagery so clear and clean, the lake presented a shining vision of truth, beauty and unyielding grandeur.

Of course, it was an illusion, albeit not one created from smoke and mirrors.

Any attempt to step upon or touch the water’s surface would instantaneously rumple and mar its appearance, sending ripples across the scene ultimately disrupting the entire perspective.

That was something bound to happen anyway, by natural occurrence.

As the day warmed, the winds would emerge from their hiding places amid the trees to disfigure this incredible artistic imagery cast over the surface of the water.

So, for now, I tried my best to soak up as much of the moment as I could.

I took deep cleansing breaths and alternated between closing my eyes and opening them to again view the lacustrine masterpiece before me.

The ancient tremolo of a loon came across the water to meet my ears.

It was every bit as clear in an auditory sense as the reflective mind pictures I captured visually on the lake.

The striking difference was that there was no trace of illusion or deception in the voice of the loon. Its song was resoundingly true, voiced in a Pliocene code known for millions of years across this rugged and wild place.

Equally honest and true was the tree-topped old Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody song of a white-throated sparrow – a plaintively whistled tune that – like the voice of the loon and the howl of the wolf – helps define these Great North Woods.

From my viewpoint here on a rise above the lake, I spotted a doe not far down the shoreline from me. She sniffed the air and then lowered her head to sip a cool drink from the lake.

Her lapping of the water pierced the bubble of wonderment over the lake as her action created small ripples that began to distribute rhythmically across the surface of the water.

And so, it ends.

The illusion snaps and dissipates.

Meanwhile, an adult bald eagle floats silently across the sky with its massive wings laid flat, with wingtip feathers stretched out like long black fingers.

I watch him slowly banking to circle over the lake, likely looking for a pike or perch breakfast. I wait to see if he’ll dive toward the water. I see his rippled reflection on the lake.

Instead of diving, he continues to coast silently over a line of tall pines positioned on a ridge at the opposite side of the lake. After only a couple of moments, he’s gone.

I walk along a gray-graveled road, crunching the pebbles together under the heels and soles of my western boots.

The sides of the road are adorned in wild and overgrown displays of yellow daisies, purple thistle plants and stunningly beautiful blue vervain.

The ditches are wet from recent rains and there remain large, small and medium-sized mud puddles covering parts of the road ahead of me.

As the day lengthens, the temperature soars. In this part of the world, coupled with high relative humidity readings, that’s not a comfortable combination.

I won’t stay out under the hot sun for too long this morning, but long enough to get my batteries recharged and my spirits lifted.

The relative silence is a tremendous boost. Seeing animals and incredibly beautiful landscapes casts a satisfying feeling of peace and well-being within me. Even this old dirt road itself is a welcoming trait of this incredible place.

There are several small, brown cottontail rabbits standing intermittently alongside the road, seemingly to greet me. As I approach, they scamper into the tall grass and flowers edging the road.

Just like when I see them when I’m driving these deep woods backroads, some of the rabbits wait until the last seconds before making their dash for safety.

They seem quite ridiculous to me.

I think they freeze at first, thinking they can’t be seen, then they run as they realize that maybe that wasn’t the best plan after all.

I continue toward one of my favorite vistas in these woods. It’s a small, but quite prolific, wetland that produces a thick concentration of purple irises. Though it sits just a few feet off the road edge, it is among the most beautiful places I know.

I could sit staring into this setting for hours. The irises are various shades of blue and purple, and their elongated petals are drooping toward the wetland’s still waters where, like the woods in the lake surface, they are reflected to perfection.

The whole scene mirrors itself as though for the sole enjoyment and edification of the observer. The long and tapered stems and narrow and elongated leaves are all attractively colored green.

Like countless waterfalls, with their misting sprays and thunderous roar, this is a place among a storehouse of the forest’s treasures for the hopelessly contemplative – like me.

The solitude and beauty here are amplified by the absence of other people to encounter on my morning walk.

Humankind can be incredibly adaptive, creative, altruistic and intelligent and yet, too clever by half. It is often susceptible to avarice, pride, cruelty, deception, lust, egotism, envy and depravity.

In contrasting these negative human conditions with the peace, beauty and mathematical design and clear sense found in nature, it’s a wonder to me that the entire organization of life doesn’t just flip out of balance – upside down and backwards.

Perhaps the grand bald eagle I saw earlier might just fly itself into a granite cliff face.

Maybe the exquisite blue vervain may crumble entirely into ash and dust, or the irises here might spontaneously burst into flames at any second.

It does somehow seem possible – even as I am sitting here in silence.

These concerns dig into me like a thick, sharp thorn in the palm of my hand.

America’s “shining city on a hill” is burning, but the McRib is back, they’re still showing reruns of Happy Days and The Facts of Life on television and there’s only about 150 shopping days left until Christmas. Will any of us be ready?

Two turkey vultures drifting on morning thermals overhead seem to punctuate the sentiment and the possibilities I am envisioning. Given their taste for carrion, I wonder what they might know but are not telling.

These birds, like the eagle, are beautiful to watch twirling and coasting in the sky.

Around the corner, I begin to hear the rushing of the cold, fast creek. Even on these oppressively hot days, the creek has plenty of cold water.

At a corner, where the creek bends west, I kneel to lift two handfuls of water up to my face. I rinse the sweat and dust away. As the chilly water drips off me, I feel refreshed. I run my wet hands through my hair to help keep it back.

This is another place where I could spend a good deal of time.

I commit a few minutes to lay back in the tall grass and close my eyes, listening to the complicated but soothing sounds of the creek. A gray catbird skulking in the underbrush, calls out in kitten-like mewing intermittently.

Another couple of cold dips of water across my face and I have turned back toward the shady grove where my Jeep sits waiting.

It will be a good while before I get there – long enough to unwind the last few kinks I have in my hose before heading back into the fray.

White oxeye daisies and Queen Anne’s lace blossoms bob up and down on the wind.

There’s a dullness within the picture now as a light haze becomes visible in the distance at the back of this landscape panorama.

A warm wind whips up the road, stirring up dust in a whirl. I turn my head to the right to avoid getting sand blown into my face. Once I do, the wind gust blows on past me.

I picked up a water-worn, rounded chunk of pink and white granite from the road. With a couple of chipped and roughened edges, it glistens in the sunlight.

I drop it back down in the dirt.

I hope that I’m like that chunk of granite – still resilient, still shining, with inherent strength and structure, still able to weather many more storms and tribulations.

I hope all good people everywhere are.

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.