It was dark when we pulled into our campground at Mackinaw City. We could make out the blacker shapes of trees looming above, and the chilly voice of wind blowing over water identified Lake Huron. Promising, but for the moment we just wanted fuzzy socks and beds.

When I pushed up the RV window shade the next morning, I gasped at the view. And I started crying, of course. (Jane said it made her want to cry, too, but she had better self-control than me.) We bundled up and scrambled out to see it closer. That’s when we realized it takes feeling the lakes in order to see them properly. The wind pushed on us from above, it seemed, from clouds that hung down low and fat. I just knew there had to be someone big up there, doing it on purpose. No wonder gods are depicted riding on clouds and poking supernatural fingers down at little humans. The water was blue, like on a peacock feather, and it had a busy, rhythmic motion punctuated by little silver wakes. It stretched out from my feet as far forward and left and right as I could see. It was noisy, but not roaring like the ocean.

Tears and worship seemed like the only reasonable response. In between crying jags, I sputtered out lines of psalms and hymns like this one from Isaac Watts:

I sing the mighty power of God, that made the mountains rise;                                                        That spread the flowing seas abroad, and built the lofty skies.

I sing the wisdom that ordained the sun to rule the day;
The moon shines full at His command, and all the stars obey.

I sing the goodness of the Lord, who filled the earth with food,
Who formed the creatures through the Word, and then pronounced them good.

Lord, how Thy wonders are displayed, where’ er I turn my eye,
If I survey the ground I tread, or gaze upon the sky;

There’s not a plant or flow’r below, but makes Thy glories known,                                                    And clouds arise, and tempests blow, by order from Thy throne;

While all that borrows life from Thee is ever in Thy care;                                                                    And everywhere that we can be, Thou, God, art present there.

 

 

We caught a ferry ride over to Mackinac Island. I have been daydreaming about Mackinac ever since I had a middle school crush on Christopher Reeve.

Grand Hotel where Jane Seymour (the actress, not the queen) emoted in Somewhere in Time.

I was not disappointed. We hopped off the ferry and into the arms of bike rental agents, who equipped us with our wheels for the day (horses, bicycles, and feet are the only forms of transportation allowed on the island). It was a bit of a wobbly, worrisome start trying to ride through downtown without running over other tourists (Nan had just learned to ride a bike, and she insisted on piloting with her handle bars backwards), but soon we were out on the main road around the island, sun in our faces and breeze at our backs. It was pretty idyllic.

When we stopped for lunch, we starting reading Once on this Island by Gloria Whelan. It’s about teenagers in the early 1800’s who run the family farm on Mackinac while their father is off fighting. (The island was ceded to the United States by the British after the American Revolution, but they reclaimed the fort and occupied the island during the War of 1812.) Riding through the battlefield, fort, and cemetery and exploring the woods and waterfronts of the island was like jumping into the story.

The island’s whole named used to be Michilimackinac, which means “great turtle”. The island has that shape, and there’s a legend about the island being built on the shell of a turtle with a runaway appetite.

Sipping tea as he bikes

Inside the crack in the island

Evidence of fairies and elves in this wood

Tandem bike was so popular, we had to ride it in shifts.

We were still pink-cheeked and bubbling with uncapped energy following a day outdoors and in-motion when we loaded up in a shuttle to catch a ride back to our campground. A worn, but sturdy-looking older woman sat behind the wheel. We sat in silence for awhile waiting for other campers as the ferry emptied. The younger kids couldn’t stand the sudden stillness and began reporting on their day. When they finally quieted she answered, “Huh. I haven’t been out there in thirty years.” That should have killed the conversation, but they blithely moved on, finding out what she had been doing (overland truck driving), and before we knew it, she’d warmed up and started playing a “mind-reading” game with the children. They were still debating how she did it when we disembarked at the campground. We could hear her throaty laughter as she drove off.