Here is a portion of a day, the third, of my family's recent vacation in the backcountry of the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (just three short hours from Duluth).
From our remote rustic cabin, we hiked one mile to the mouth of the Big Carp River and crossed into the Eastern Time Zone in doing so (as if time really matters there). We enjoyed a picnic, and my wife and kids spent an hour and a half playing in the river and Lake Superior while I enjoyed an outstanding trail run inland.
I went nice and slow at a grandfather's pace while continually being enthralled by the size of the hemlock trees, especially, many of which are several hundred years old. I was also enchanted by Shining Cloud Falls.
At a 20-foot drop, it is not impressive compared to our waterfalls in Northeastern Minnesota, but it possesses a magic all its own.
The waters divide around a large rock and descend from ledge rock in such a way that it casts the appearance of cascading diamonds. The large rock in the middle is festooned with ancient moss that looks like a green brooch at its base, so the waterfall rings it in the splendor of a diamond necklace as the diamonds are cast into a clear deep pool of shimmering water.
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Ancient virgin timber stand as sentinels as the water cuts through the steep gorge. It is magical.
Throughout the run I was transfixed by the ever-changing forest. There were plenty of the massive hemlock that I love so much about the Porkies, but occasionally I'd be among old-growth maple, basswood and birch. Then it would change to younger specimens with a diameter of a foot or less. Even among the smaller trees the forest felt clear, wide-open and uncluttered by the scrappy brush that litters our forests so much. I have also observed no buckthorn in the park yet, which unfortunately is wreaking havoc in our neck of the woods. In places, my gaze peered through the forest to a depth of a quarter- to even a half-mile, much like a bullet might pass between the trees unobstructed.
Eventually I stopped to grab my bearings in a lower muddy area. Many large dead hemlocks lay on the ground as they have since perhaps WWII, completely covered in moss, and some being little more than a large hump in the ground continuing to give life these many years after having fallen.
I was struck by the eerie silence in this graveyard.
The trail had veered quite a distance from the river at this point. There was absolutely no wind, and not a creature stirred. For several moments there was absolute silence, and then a squirrel or chipmunk took to chewing on something to try and break the awkwardness.
Still, this felt like the part in the movie where a cougar was stalking its prey. I carefully tiptoed through this burial ground of trees out of respect and was a bit wary of the large burl on one of the trees that was three times as big around as me. It was like an all-seeing eye spying on me that kept its eye shut to avoid detection. Still, however, I was lured deeper into the forest, much like the fly that lusts after the pleasures within the Venus flytrap or the aptly named corpse flower.
I was compelled to keep going and experience the multifaceted splendors of the forest and its many attitudes. Eventually I would come back to the river where the wind stirred, the birds sang and the many waters babbled. The silence deep inside the untouched forest is what seduced me, though.
Our cabin was within earshot of the river and loud waves of Lake Superior, so the silence was quite striking and welcome.
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When I nearly reached the spot where I was to meet my family, I slowed to a walk to climb a steep hill. So entranced had I become by the forest that I hadn't felt my usual aches and pains from recent injuries until that moment. It was awesome. More than a memory, the experience imprinted onto my muscles, bones and soul.
Monthly Budgeteer columnist Eddy Gilmore is a freelance writer, father of twins and husband of one. He can be reached via e-mail at eddyg_123@yahoo.com .
