: Jon C. Stott
: Summers at the Lake Upper Michigan Moments and Memories
: Modern History Press
: 9781615996711
: 1
: CHF 5.20
:
: Reiseführer
: English
: 142
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB

Paddling a canoe into sunrise on the longest day of the year... watching a child take her first kayak ride with her father... gazing at a bald eagle, riding air currents high above the lake... chuckling as a hummingbird defends his feeder against intruders... dodging campfire smoke while burning marshmallows and telling scary stories to wide-eyed kids. These are some of the moments and memories depicted inSummers at the Lake. The essays-often humorous; sometimes tinged with a sweet melancholy--celebrate the people and events marking the progress of the seasons--from the budding of the first green leaves of May to their falling, gold and scarlet, in September. These prose poems capture the joy of simple, lake-side living and quiet reflection.
'Jon Stott is a masterful storyteller. InSummers at the Lake, he shares memories that read like prose poetry. Each story takes us to a place of solitude and beauty and will stir pleasant memories of our own.'
--Sharon Kennedy, author ofThe Sideroad Kids: Tales from Chippewa County
'This gentle book by a gentle man is the kind that grows on you. Reading it will give you the same benefits as meditating in lovely surroundings in peace and calmness.'
--Bob Rich, author ofFrom Depression to Contentment
'InSummers at the Lake, much can be learned about life in the U.P. and its enjoyable places. You can explore the wonders of the U.P. while dipping your toes into the everyday experiences of life near Crooked Lake.'
--Sharon Brunner,U.P. Book Review
'Jon C. Stott delightfully describes the many joys of lakeside living with the unchanging activities of summer. Deb Le Blanc's photos will make readers feel as if they are right there at the cabin, next to the author.'
--Carolyn Wilhelm, MA,Midwest Book Review

1

Dreaming and Arriving

In autumn and early winter, after I’ve closed up camp and returned to Albuquerque, the city of the pavements gray, the lake seems incredibly distant in both time and space, seems almost to be unreal. But in mid-winter, as the days gradually lengthen and the sun’s warmth increases, I find myself thinking about the place where I’ll be arriving when the snows have melted and the white petals of the service berries have floated gently to the ground. As the countdown to the time of departure begins, I begin planning and preparation. The journey is a happy one, filled with the pleasures of anticipation. The incidents of travel and arrival may vary in details, but emotions stirred are always similar: an increasing excitement of returning to and reconnecting with the life of a place I have loved for so many decades.

Dreaming of Trails

Last night, I sat before a small winter fire watching the flames flicker and then turn into glowing coals. I’d been reading one of my Christmas gifts, Robert Moor’sOn Trails: an Exploration, an interesting collection of autobiographical, historical, descriptive, philosophical and meditative essays structured around an account of his hiking the 2,193 mile Appalachian Trail.

My mind wandered to the Little Cabin in the Big Woods, and I started to doze, dreaming of trails. It frequently happens sometime in January when I realize that in four or five months, I’ll be arriving back at Crooked Lake. Then I start envisioning the trails I’ll be walking, pedaling, or paddling along when I get there. These won’t be major expeditions, just short excursions along familiar paths.

The first path will be down to and then along the lakeshore. I think about the excitement I’ll feel as I reach the dock and see how high or low the water level is. Then I’ll stroll along the shore noticing where the long green blades of the iris plants will soon thrust above the water, bringing their promise of blue flowers to come. I’ll check to see if the wild rose bush has made it through the winter, remembering how, many springs ago, I’d go early each morning to pick a bud, bring it home, put it in a brandy snifter, and place it on the table where Carol and I would sit, sipping our coffee and looking out the window at the light of the rising sun playing on the trees across the lake.

Fig. 1-1: Wild Rose

Later in the day, I’ll pedal my old bike along two different trails. On the first, a two track behind our place, I’ll go very slowly, casting my eyes right and left, looking for clumps of blueberry bushes. If I arrive earlier in the season, there will be little white blossoms; if it’s later, there will be young berries, hard little green bbs. But I’ll be able to forecast how bountiful the harvest will be in late July.

Late in the afternoon, I’ll put on my bright yellow safety vest and pedal out to the highway to pick up theMining Journal. If there’s not too much traffic and I’m fortunate, I may see reminders I’m biking through a wild forest: a deer bounding across the road ahead of me before crashing through the underbrush; a snapping