Transfer #2 from Blogspot

Entry for August 30, 2005


For whatever reason, during our last trip of the summer to our family cabin in Montmorency county, I couldn't sleep.  This has never happened to me before.  Always, the cabin has been refuge and solace, but this trip I simply could not fall asleep.  Perhaps it didn't help that I chose to read The Alienest while there.  And the story of the two missing boaters haunted me as well.  Just two downtown Detroit lawyers away for a long weekend, both well-versed in watercraft, and their boat just found in Lake Huron, drifting, the radio on and the life preservers in place.

What happend? What happened?

In the little stores we frequent theories abounded: murder suicide, freak riptide, even pirates. I mean, honest to pete. Pirates.  But it of course it set my mind spinning back to the place I go when stories like this occur – a man and a woman alone together, and nobody ever knowing the true, real story. I hope what I imagine is much worse than what occured.

Sam and I aren't truly good cabin people either because we always forget the shotgun my father gave us, and while that's never bothered me before either, all around us people talked about bears.  Everybody had a black bear story to share, because the bears are growing braver, walking past outhouses, taking over roadside blackberry patches.  And unlike so many people I know, I do not want to see a bear, have no desire to witness one from near or far, because I am pretty sure it would kill me.

So for the whole long weekend our cabin creaked and groaned, mice scampering around the ceiling and underneath the floor, the wind causing the doors to rattle, and me,waking my husband up in the middle of the night to walk me to the outhouse.  Which he did. With kindness.

I admire a graduate school friend of mine, who is throwing herself into the Alaskan wilderness with abandon, ready for whatever the glaciers throw her way. People like her are the reason books like Pilgrim At Tinker Creek are written.  I hate my wusiness in the woods, and I don't remember being this way before.

Tonight I am comforted by Richard Rodriguez, who wrote a beautiful paragraph about craving the feel of cement beneath his feet.  After this last weekend, he rendered beautifully exactly how I feel.

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