Hiking Lake Lansing

Chris had been gone an entire week building up his store, which meant I had the house to myself! That was only cool for about eight hours. I missed him terribly and our pets have this stressful habit of acting out when there’s a long-term change. Daddy’s missing, and I’m not cool with it. And so, over one of our late-night phone calls, we planned to have a day to ourselves when he got back, and take our next hike.

The drive to the lake was my favorite. We headed out on an early Sunday morning, when many homes were still sleeping or getting around for church service. With a coffee to-go, we had the roads to ourselves as it curved around the lake, passing only active adults and moms running solo or with partners in fun neon fitwear. 

We parked the car by the lake, and walked to other side of the road for the trailhead. A young couple headed out in front of us, in cozy warm sweats and a thermos of coffee. They had brought their silky golden retriever and cocker spaniel with them, and I was jumping inside to be sharing the trail. They soon lost us, however. They knew these trails, and knew them well.

The preserve was 530 acres, giving our minds an easy escape. The trail was mild, but winding, and we stopped frequently to read the interpretive signs. We learned the patches of tall grasses in marshes aren’t tall grasses at all, but invasive phragmites threatening the health of wetlands.

A runner went by, with her unleashed dog running behind her. I love that—dogs so loyal and trained they're rockstars off the leash. He (or she) went right by the two of us as if we weren't there, totally undistracted by all the sights and smells. Chris and I gawked at each other, wondering what that life's like. Our dog adopts anyone as her own. You run by? She'll turn right around and run along with you, excited by her new pal.

Along the way, we spotted squirrels, chipmunks, and an awesome wood pecker tapping a tree for breakfast. We also crossed paths with an arborist, who told us he loved walking through here seasonally, just to observe change in the trees. He said there would be a crown gall coming up ahead, so big it's hard to miss. I felt like a child on a scavenger hunt the moment we spotted it. The growth was huge, and equally mystifying as it was sad.

At one point, we realized we missed our original turn-off! Every lost-in-the-woods joke started rolling out, and we laughed about starving, looping the same path until dark.

Everything was cool though, and we soon hit our turn-off and came across a deer bed near the end of the trail. Growing up in a northern forest, I was used to finding them when we'd play, and deer alone wasn't rare as you can imagine. In fact, it was so ordinary, we all grew up subconsciously driving with our eyes peeled so as not to hit any leaping into the road. Now after several years of city living, looking at that bed brought me such peace, such a warm, fuzzy feeling, and I was excited to show Chris who hadn't seen one before.

I’m finding a major draw to hiking is the act of being submerged in a natural area. With nothing to do but watch your footing and look in every direction around you, there’s a mental freedom I wasn't expecting. I simply wasn’t tuning in to the insane agenda that was on my desk back at home. Again, you don't need any hiking gear to get out in the wild. Heck, I was hiking in the coziest Uggs I own. The gear will come with time, so right now it's about being alone together—getting away from our current overcrowded life and reconnecting with each other.

Read more about why we started hiking here.

A Weekend Retreat in Alpena, Michigan

During the same trip as my time in Ossineke earlier this month, I spent most of my stay out around town with Chris and my parents. I had packed light, only bringing pieces I could walk in, lounge in, and shop in all on the same day. 

We spent our morning at the harbor. Among other favorite places around town, it’s become a given that we’ll wind up out on the breakwater any time I’m home. It’s one of those spots in a city everyone makes their own—dog owners, runners, boaters from the yacht club, angsty teens, and businessmen lunching from their cars. 

This time the lake was covered in ice, slowly thawing itself out, and in the coolest shades of slate and green, sometimes almost sea-glass green. Every once in a while we could hear the ice crackle apart and see tiny bubbles rising beneath the thin sheets of ice. 

I’ve been coming here since I was very little, climbing out over the rocks with my sister. Now that I think of that, good grief Mom! You must have been worried out of your mind!  But then again, maybe she had that mysterious mother’s sense and trust. Whatever it was, it taught me how to move on my feet and trust my footing, and connect with the earth beneath me. As a result, I grew up a little fearless around similar terrain. Several years ago while visiting my sister in Colorado, I decided to yolo and climb a waterfall barefoot, despite the explicit warning signs not to. Another time I took a series of photographs of my dress in the wind on the coastal breakwater in Southern France. When I got back down to the beach, one of the men we were traveling with was shocked at my gumption to climb up there, barefoot. I remember thinking, You kidding me? That was nothing. 

After a while we left for caffeine to Cabin Creek Coffee, which is my favorite coffee shop in the area. The menu is huge—HUGE—and they’ll still make you something you’re craving off-menu. Like a mocha chai. Which was out of this world. Thank you ladies. They also offer an original, full menu of Shakeology shakes. I immediately saw myself moving back, running every morning in some vibrant, kickass Nikes, and ending downtown for a protein shake. Dangerous, is what that is.

We ended up near the north end of town, taking a walk along the river where a brave soul was still ice fishing. The path takes you behind the old brewery, where I hold ten million and one memories. After things hit the fan in 2008, the brewery changed, and then eventually closed its doors. I can never walk past it without getting incredibly sappy and quiet and my heart just chokes itself out. You know something? And this is going to sound a little bit selfish, but, a part of me is at peace that it’s closed. Don’t get me wrong, the building is gorgeous and it’s on AMAZING real estate where tall ships dock, historic train tracks run through, and the summertime vibe has never been so killer… But it’s a place that was mine, and left when I left. It didn’t live on to become someone else’s, passing hands and bartenders and fresh 21-year-olds, then 22-year-olds… it closed. Sealing it’s last years inside that I was a part of. 

Anyway. 

I pulled myself away and after a couple of days we loaded up the car and headed back downstate. Looking around our home, I know now I'm ready to move. I'm ready for our next stop. I think I'm learning how restless my nature is, a bit rebellious and a bit headstrong. And until I find what's calling for me, we're ready to shake off the rugs, find new ground, see what else we're made of, and hit the road north whenever we feel like a Shakeology on the beach.

An Evening Walk in Ossineke

Last week we packed our suitcases and headed for my parents’ home up north. Ossineke (pronounced by locals, aw-seh-neek) is just south of Alpena, and holds some of my younger memories. As a family, we’d always drive through Ossineke en route to Harrisville to visit relatives—another northern village on the lake filled with charm (which I highly recommend you visiting for an ice cream and a trip to Modern Craft Winery’s tasting room).

I pulled a wool sweater from my mom’s drawer—something my grandmother gifted her when she was a teenager. It was the perfect layer for an evening on the beach. 

When we reached the water, the sand was dense from the rain and the air was filled with moisture. There was no longer an icy chill, and with the occasional light breeze, I was finally feeling spring. It was that feeling of everything slowly awakening and coming out from the heavy, cold winter, including our own senses.

We walked and combed the beach, and I found a shimmery, intact clam. One of my favorite things about beaches on the east side of the state is the color palette and textures found in the sand.

On our way back, we met a father who was out near the bank with his little girl. They were looking for minnows for her turtle who had slept all winter. Her dad said something like, “I’m not seeing any, babe,” and she shrieked in this tiny, adorable voice, “Where are all the minnows!?” I laughed right out loud. She’s going to be a good, concerned mama.

Hiking Grand Ledge

A few weeks ago, Chris and I had a wake-up call. After taking a promotion, he’d begun a two-hour commute to work and I, of course, would be stuck in the studio at the university during the rare hours he was home. Quite suddenly, we weren''t seeing each other. We felt blindsided. It was a thunderous shock to our companionship. 

I remember one afternoon, crazy enough, we happened to be home briefly at the same time. We passed each other in the kitchen, so I grabbed him; looked deeply up into his eyes for the connection. To just look at him. Grinning, we kept saying over and over, “Hi, hello,” while we just held each other, acknowledging one another's presence before breaking away—I, madly gathering my bag for class; Chris running downstairs to pull out a laundry load before his shift.

And just like that, it was time to readjust. We needed to find a balance.

We were both yearning to reconnect, to have some us time, to run away unplugged. So we started hiking. Without any specific gear, without true hiking boots, or poles, or body-temp regulated clothing, we just went. We didn’t need any of those things. All we needed was each other and the earth.

Excitedly, we drove out to Grand Ledge to kick off our newfound recreation.

The ledges were beautiful. We kept laughing at ourselves; why didn’t we do this sooner? The rock formations and cliffs broke the mold of our city dweller view. The sights were so out of the ordinary we felt like we had traversed hours away. It was a beautiful gift—our mad, individual agendas. We wouldn’t have ever known what we were missing.

These trips have become sacred. Our second hike was closer to home, and we’re adamantly planning our third. Chris has since purchased a pair of boots (as I will be shortly), but we didn’t need a thing to begin. Very slowly, our hikes will become longer, the locations more remote, and we may even carry our beds on our backs one day (I'm loving the sound of that!).

We’re still adjusting to this new schedule of ours, but it’s getting easier, as everything does over time. It makes the moments we do share all the more gratifying, all the more profound.