It Always Rains, Part 4

The sweatshirts Mike and I have on in the photo below had some kind of little pictures all over them, and they came with markers so you could color the pictures. They must be brand-new here, as it doesn’t look like anything is colored in yet! NOTE: I have included minor edits (punctuation, mainly), but the text mostly remains as it appears in Mom’s original. The boldfaced subheadings/intros are mine.

Lessons and Adventures

We learned to carry a change of shoes for everyone when camping. It’s very discouraging to have to tromp around in feet wet from a rain or a morning dew. One of the important reasons for a change of footwear was Gail’s tendency to fall into any available puddle, no matter how miniscule. It was almost as though each and every puddle reached out and grabbed her. One day we hiked extensively through the woods at Europe Bay State Park (in Door County), then under development. On the way back, we took the shore route. So far, everyone was dry.

Then, Al helped both children jump from one rock to another across a little finger of lake. Guess who fell in, taking Gail with him? A very soggy, cold father drove back to the campsite and chopped firewood to dry off and warm up. We also rapidly learned never to touch the walls of the tent in the rain, or the water would just run right in. The Labor Day weekend of that first summer, we also learned to camp with someone else. We found the best way is for each family to do its own “thing,” coming together when they wish but being free as they wish also.

That Christmas I surprised Al with a gas lantern, which meant we would no longer have to go to bed at sunset. The following summer, we bought a large “real” cooler. After the raccoon had chewed the lid of the Styrofoam one, it was never quite the same. We felt super brave and knowledgeable and decided to venture into Canada.

That was the summer I started to keep a diary for each of our long camping trips. They serve several purposes. We keep track of absolutely every cent we spend, whether as cash or charged. We keep track of meals served—a good guide to planning the next trip. All sorts of other odd things go into the diary: birds, flowers, funny signs, places we like or not, suggestions for changes, such as the one to take along a rake. Someone must have slept on a rock one night. Rereading them brings back all kinds of memories—almost as good as the trip itself.

We decided to spend the first couple of nights in northwestern Wisconsin and were fascinated by the log circle and pulpwood we saw at Ashland on Lake Superior. We found a fantastic place in Chequamegon National Forest to camp. The campground was very small and secluded, and we fell instantly in love. Our site was a large meadow with trees all around it. We did not utilize the site correctly, as it was enroute to tiny Lake Wanoka, and people kept walking through the site despite a path just next to us. That is a camping courtesy; you no more walk through another person’s site than you would through his house if there is any way to avoid it.

We ate teeny wild strawberries, sandy but good. We caught umpteen pan fish faster than we could keep our hooks baited and quit in boredom. None of the fish were keepers. We never have seen so many butterflies—little fritillaries that came and sat on us tamely. I saw my first Cedar Waxwing one morning perched in the tree above the picnic table as I reached for the coffeepot. One of the very few times I’ve ever screamed happened at Lake Wanoka. We’d been playing in the little lake and had returned to the tent to change our clothes. I reached down to brush off a piece of grass stuck on my ankle. When it didn’t brush, I yelled bloody murder for Al. what I had thought was a piece of grass was a leech. I’m glad medicine has changed!

While we were camped there, we had the opportunity to get to know a great forest ranger/naturalist. He taught biology in a nearby town during the school year. He could not have been more considerate or patient both with us and our children. The impression he made is best expressed in the fact I remember his name, and he’s the only ranger I can say that about. The ranger provided us with one of our favorite camp stories. We knew where we were but were really stymied by the pronunciation of “Chequamegon.” His explanation: During the winter Lake Superior freezes over. In the early spring, the Indians would gather along the lake edge and await the ice breakup. As the ice would go out, they would chant “she-wam-again.”