Big Water

For the beauty of the earth;
For the glory of the skies;
For the love that from our birth,
Over and around us lies,
Lord of all, to Thee I raise
This my hymn of grateful praise.

The hymn needs a line about big water. I have made my annual trip north to meet with the caregivers for my ward and uncle Robert. When my guardianship of him began nineteen years ago, I would make the four hour drive to Iron River, have the meeting and then make the four hour drive back. The main reason for that marathon was that I did not want to leave my mother and brother Mike home alone overnight in case she had an emergency. After her passing, I found it much easier to take a motel room for a night. Unfortunately, the motels in Iron River are not particularly nice. Oh, there are some fantastic resort cabins, but those are way beyond my budget.So I stay in Ashland, within sight and sound of Lake Superior. My brother Mike used to come with me, but then the kennel we relied on closed. The one night became two nights so we could enjoy the swimming pool. With no place to board Mike’s dog, the trips once more became a solo excursion.

I miss big water. I grew up just a few blocks from Lake Michigan. The sound of wind and waves and foghorns is imprinted onto the depths of my soul. Unfortunately, where I live now, the biggest water is a four acre pond. So I come here to this inland sea both to do my duty by my Uncle but also to feed my soul.

I arrived yesterday. Stiff and sore from the journey, I merely parked at the beach on the western edge of Ashland. I was astonished by how much of it is no longer there and the sandy shore I walked just last year is now a row of boulders struggling to hold Gitchee Gumie within its bounds. The weather was perfect. I had driven through several showers on my way north, but last evening, the sky was a pellucid blue and the waters ultramarine. The water’s surface was dimpled with small wavelets. Further up the shoreline, where the Lake had not eaten away the beach, a handful of hardy bathers were enjoying the chill waters. A light breeze ruffled the trees. I should have liked to stay for the sunset, but the ache in my bones drove me to seek the comfort of my motel room.

This morning, I briefly walked the Main street of Ashland’s historic downtown and marveled at the artistry of the century old, three and four story buildings sculpted out of the area’s deep red sandstone. I also took the opportunity to stop at Gabrielle’s German Bakery and purchase some spaetzle, a gift for my Pastor’s wife, and some cookies. Rats! She didn’t have pfeffernusse! Then this afternoon, I made the drive west to visit with my Uncle. For being 85 years old, he is doing well. He has now lived longer than any of four brothers. I stopped to pick up a souvenir for my brother.

This evening I picked up a sandwich for supper and went to the park on the east side of Ashland. Overhead was a mackerel sky interspersed with mares tails…cirrus clouds. The maritime proverb came to mind. Mackerel sky and mares tails make the ship lower lofty sails. It seemed appropriate as I was sitting in front of a placard describing a shipwreck that occurred just a short ways offshore in the 1880s.

To the northwest, a cloud bank climbed about 30 degrees above the horizon. The sun was no longer a disk, but a bright smudge flirting with the top of the clouds. To the east, the sky paled from an ethereal blue overhead to the palest aquamarine where it met the headlands of Long Island. When I first arrived, the water was a sheet of aquamarine satin with hardly a ripple. The westering sun cast a silver path on its surface. My vision is not what it once was. Kayakers appeared as little more than dark lines slowly traversing the bay.

I was loath to close my eyes to such beauty, but shutting out the visual brings the aural into focus. The constant traffic along Highway 2 surged and faded without ever going completely silent. Shrieks of laughter resounded from the pier at the very end of the park. A dozen young people were cannonballing off the pier’s railing, some eight feet above the water’s surface. These northerners are a hardy breed. I had been hearing all day complaints about how hot it was. The high temperature was 82. The water temperature could not have been more than 65. But there were other sounds, if one had the ears to hear. Robins chirrupped, sparrows chirped, and redwing blackbirds trilled their “conk-a-ree”. The atmosphere was holding its breath and the only movement in the trees was when starlings landed in the branches or took flight. The whine of a motorboat carried across the distance. I opened my eyes to breathe in once more the beauty and the peace, and softly sang the hymn.

The sun finally dipped beneath the cloud bank. To the east, cloud tops were dusted with the palest rose. The water now took on the texture of moire silk and turned to dull silver. The temperature dropped though there was still no wind. It was time for me to go, until, Lord willing, next year. There will be storms as I head home tomorrow. The Weather Channel has confirmed the ancient mariners’ wisdom. I hope they won’t be too severe. But I am ready.