Weeknotes: June 22–26, 2026
Monday, June 22 – Friday, June 26
Last Saturday, after not very much deliberation, I bought yet another tent, a nice one with enough room for my cot. At Ossineke State Forest, just above the 45th parallel, I fall asleep to the music of wind and surf, practically alone at this remote, rustic campground.
A morning paddle on Lake Huron through brown shallows with fierce little wavelets converging around a sandy spit. Gulls and terns complain at my arrival. On the other side is a calm bay which I explore on foot, sinking to my ankles in the soft silt of its freshwater tidepools.
Two hours later I'm examining cement dinosaurs at a roadside attraction I have a faint memory of visiting as a child. This Jurassic paradise of cedars and ferns was conceived 90 years ago by an enthusiastic paleontologist with creationist views. A dinosaur-sized Christ welcomes visitors at the front gate. The statues are well-maintained and I’m unexpectedly moved by the La Brea Tar Pit exhibit with its sinking direwolves and mortally wounded mammoth. Throughout the park, fastened to tree trunks, are speakers playing dynamic new age jungle music with sound effects. Every now and then, the loop ends and a woman with a Japanese accent announces "played by USB," breaking the spell.
I put-in at the Black River boat launch in Alcona County. A half hour upriver, I beach my kayak on a sandy bank and wade knee deep in the dark tea-colored current. On my return voyage, a quintet of beagles appears atop the tall grassy riverbank. As I slip by their kingdom, they hail me with sharp beagle questions: "Who are you? Why are you on our river?" Among them is a slower, gray-muzzled lady who reminds me of Islay. "I love you," I shout, "but I have to move on!"
Later, a visit to Sturgeon Point Lighthouse, then an evening swim in the big lake at lonesome Negwegon State Park. It took several miles of rutty two-track driving in my little Hyundai to get here. Submerged to my neck, I'm reminded of 2021, the year I swam in all five Great Lakes. At each lake I recited a stream-of-consciousness list of gratitude, an exercise I repeat here. Maybe this is the start of a new five year, five lake tradition. I'll be at Lake Michigan next week and Superior in August. Erie is closest to home — that one is easy. Ontario will be the challenge.
Driving back downstate, the lake is an unyielding gray canvas. Out beyond Tawas Bay, the sky and water mesh at an invisible horizon, indicated only by a distant shadowy freighter.
At home I set a note, folded like a dinner place card, next to my electric kettle. Raspberries, written with a calligraphy pen, to remind me they are ripe and ready to eat. The next morning, I commute barefoot through wet grass to pick a handful for my oatmeal.
After work, I visit a new mechanic who comes highly recommended by friends. Their tiny garage, attached to a Sunoco station, is a hub of activity. I drive around the block three times waiting for a spot to open. When none does, I pull up to a pump to fill my tank as an excuse to ask about a repair. There are at least nine or ten cars already here, with a noisy tow truck delivering another. There's no way they'll have time for me.
Both lifts are occupied when I pop my head into the garage. "Come over here," shouts one of the mechanics, greased hands raised into an empty wheel well. Two minutes later, Pete is driving my car around the neighborhood, listening to the rattle that persisted all through my camping trip. "Those are definitely sway bar links. Can you leave it overnight?" Hell yes, I can.