Steering wheel sticky from oil based cedar stain, I drive my truck north. In the air is the mix of a vanilla pine tree hanging off the drink holder and the fishy smell from the motor oil stained life vest in the back seat.
As the mile markers pass, I am taken farther from home and my concerns slowly drift away just as the leaves blowing across the road in front of me. Mile by mile, each press of the gas pedal lifts the problems off my chest a little more, at least for a short while. My stress level lowers and in my mind, only the unnecessary worries of which swedish pimple to use with which glow hook takes my conscious away and busies my mind.
It is early in the morning so there are few other vehicles on the road, it is mainly my own. With the weather calm, motionless with the dead wind, it would feel as if time may be stopped if not for the sun slowly rising behind me as it begins to fill all of my mirrors with its intense rays. I have made this trip many times and appreciate this morning more than the others because there is a different tone in the air. A peaceful morning surrounds me.
I follow the highway as it rolls through the hills, through the failed attempts by people to make a town. Although Big Arm and Elmo are connected to the world by a road, they have fallen of old age. Houses that once stood with pride, built from sweat, are now weather stripped and nearly falling to the ground. One strong gust seems to be all that it would take to topple the structures upon themselves.
I crest the hill out of Elmo with the scenic overlook of Cromwell Island off to the right of the slow vehicle lane. While pulling my fourteen foot aluminum weather beaten boat, stripped of its paint showing bare metal, I find myself in no hurry to reach my destination.
With no set guidelines on time, I pull in the overlook to pour myself a cup of coffee. I open the door and an immediate wave of goose bumps covers my body from the brisk air. Taking off the lid to my travel mug, steam fills the air around me. I take a minute to walk to the edge of the parking lot to overlook the valley.
I notice how the lake has been rising in level from spring runoff. Worries of the lake not refilling itself grow absent each day the level crawls up the parched beaches a little more. Now that the lake is rising, currents are changing which stir up the bottom muck making the prime Mackinaw trolling location between Cromwell Island and Wild Horse Island a vast wasteland. Any time during the summer there is a boat cruising the fishing grounds; however, this time of year people are not willing to run their machines through the debris to catch a run of the mill fish.
There are no sounds around me, not even the morning peeps of birds. I finish my cup of coffee and get back in the truck. With goose bumps fading, I pull back on the highway to continue driving to Camp. My turn off the highway is coming close; it is just on the back side of the hill.
I see the yield light blinking over the center of the highway. Turn right and end up at the Idol Spur, the local watering hole. Drive straight and wind up going through Rolling, Lake Side, and Somers. I turn left, taking Lake Mary Ronan Highway headed west. Just over five miles away from Highway 93, I reach the town of Proctor.
Although being a very small town that you would miss if you blinked while driving, it has a cheery vibe with its combination post office and general store. The town is now surrounded by brilliant green farms. With the ending of winter, Mother Nature has forgotten about spring and jumped straight into summer. The land owner’s hard work shows with men already working in the fields. The farms fade into forest and the growing crops dwindle into luscious dark green pines.
With the surroundings closing in on the road ahead, the morning show turns into static. I turn off the radio while I come up to the turn off into Camp. The freshly grated dirt road is beginning to turn washboardy already and Camp has only been open for one week. The bouncing gets to be too rough on my trailer so I throw it into low gear, slowly but steadily climbing up the hill.
The forest near camp was thinned out by loggers just two years ago so I am now able to see glimpses of Camp. The green tin roofs, weathered logs, and campfire come into sight. I launch the boat in a hurry for there is only a single dirt ramp. After tying the boat to the dock and parking the truck and trailers I go to the store counter to pay my three dollar launching fee.
If there is a heaven, it is right here, a safe place, and a welcoming place. Without a care in the world I can finally relax at my home away from home.
As the mile markers pass, I am taken farther from home and my concerns slowly drift away just as the leaves blowing across the road in front of me. Mile by mile, each press of the gas pedal lifts the problems off my chest a little more, at least for a short while. My stress level lowers and in my mind, only the unnecessary worries of which swedish pimple to use with which glow hook takes my conscious away and busies my mind.
It is early in the morning so there are few other vehicles on the road, it is mainly my own. With the weather calm, motionless with the dead wind, it would feel as if time may be stopped if not for the sun slowly rising behind me as it begins to fill all of my mirrors with its intense rays. I have made this trip many times and appreciate this morning more than the others because there is a different tone in the air. A peaceful morning surrounds me.
I follow the highway as it rolls through the hills, through the failed attempts by people to make a town. Although Big Arm and Elmo are connected to the world by a road, they have fallen of old age. Houses that once stood with pride, built from sweat, are now weather stripped and nearly falling to the ground. One strong gust seems to be all that it would take to topple the structures upon themselves.
I crest the hill out of Elmo with the scenic overlook of Cromwell Island off to the right of the slow vehicle lane. While pulling my fourteen foot aluminum weather beaten boat, stripped of its paint showing bare metal, I find myself in no hurry to reach my destination.
With no set guidelines on time, I pull in the overlook to pour myself a cup of coffee. I open the door and an immediate wave of goose bumps covers my body from the brisk air. Taking off the lid to my travel mug, steam fills the air around me. I take a minute to walk to the edge of the parking lot to overlook the valley.
I notice how the lake has been rising in level from spring runoff. Worries of the lake not refilling itself grow absent each day the level crawls up the parched beaches a little more. Now that the lake is rising, currents are changing which stir up the bottom muck making the prime Mackinaw trolling location between Cromwell Island and Wild Horse Island a vast wasteland. Any time during the summer there is a boat cruising the fishing grounds; however, this time of year people are not willing to run their machines through the debris to catch a run of the mill fish.
There are no sounds around me, not even the morning peeps of birds. I finish my cup of coffee and get back in the truck. With goose bumps fading, I pull back on the highway to continue driving to Camp. My turn off the highway is coming close; it is just on the back side of the hill.
I see the yield light blinking over the center of the highway. Turn right and end up at the Idol Spur, the local watering hole. Drive straight and wind up going through Rolling, Lake Side, and Somers. I turn left, taking Lake Mary Ronan Highway headed west. Just over five miles away from Highway 93, I reach the town of Proctor.
Although being a very small town that you would miss if you blinked while driving, it has a cheery vibe with its combination post office and general store. The town is now surrounded by brilliant green farms. With the ending of winter, Mother Nature has forgotten about spring and jumped straight into summer. The land owner’s hard work shows with men already working in the fields. The farms fade into forest and the growing crops dwindle into luscious dark green pines.
With the surroundings closing in on the road ahead, the morning show turns into static. I turn off the radio while I come up to the turn off into Camp. The freshly grated dirt road is beginning to turn washboardy already and Camp has only been open for one week. The bouncing gets to be too rough on my trailer so I throw it into low gear, slowly but steadily climbing up the hill.
The forest near camp was thinned out by loggers just two years ago so I am now able to see glimpses of Camp. The green tin roofs, weathered logs, and campfire come into sight. I launch the boat in a hurry for there is only a single dirt ramp. After tying the boat to the dock and parking the truck and trailers I go to the store counter to pay my three dollar launching fee.
If there is a heaven, it is right here, a safe place, and a welcoming place. Without a care in the world I can finally relax at my home away from home.
