Eighty-nine steps

How many times had my wife and I ventured onto these sections to contemplate our place in the world, our love, and our children? ... Over the course of fourteen years, I have taken hundreds of treks.

With a starry cloak above me I moved toward the lull of lapping waves and the dock that seemed to be waiting for me. After many years this ritual at our small lake front cabin in Upper Michigan was non-descript for my family.

Much like leaving for work every morning at a specified time, my journey to the end of the dock was a given with each nights stay at the cabin. This Saturday evening, as the early October winds began picking up, I wondered how much mileage the cedar dock sections had borne under my footsteps. How many trips had I made to the end? How many star-lit nights had I witnessed 100 feet out on the water? How many drops of rain had pelted me into submission? How many gusts had nearly toppled me into the turbulent waters? How many evenings had I held my children's hands as they walked with me cautiously, to view the aura of an August meteor shower?

How many times had my wife and I ventured onto these sections to contemplate our place in the world, our love, and our children? How many fish had I caught, landed, admired and released back into the cool waters? Over the course of fourteen years, I have taken hundreds of treks.

Eighty-nine steps out! Eighty-nine steps back! Tonight the weathered slabs creaked a bit as I started out. Armed with a dependable, but aging rod and reel, I flicked the switch on my headlamp and proceeded.

The fourteenth step sparked a memory. Were we ready for second home ownership? Could we afford it? With two young children, 3 and 1 should we try and afford it? From the third section of dock that first summer, my daughter landed her first bluegill. We gently released it and I held her hand till we reached the shoreline. With a burst of energy she raced to tell her mother. This defining moment confirmed our decision had been a good one.

Like a miner descending into the abyss of coal, my lamp illuminates the way as I move out further. At step thirty-three I pause, shut off my light and gaze upward. As I remember there were millions of lights flickering in the sky on our third July at the cabin. Our entire family was on the dock looking skyward at the IMAX Theater of the heavens.

Sue and I pointed out a few of the constellations, Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, the Seven Sisters. Suddenly we noticed movement to the north. The quickly moving object captured our attention for minutes before we realized what it was.

A satellite, programmed by man for a journey unknown to us was rapidly orbiting our section of the universe. To two young children and their parents it was a marvel.

The winds are getting brisker as I make my way along. At step seventy-seven, the cone of light my lamp threw out fell upon the snakelike form of a deadhead that had occupied this space next to the dock for years. It had been a night much like this. The fishing had been slow at the end and, since I had had no luck, I decided to make a cast and let the crawler rigged hook settle on the bottom.

I went back toward shore to see if I could finally remove the log firmly settled into the silty bottom. Gusts were causing some unbelievable wave action on this night wetting the cedar planks. My lesson in how slippery cedar can get when wet, happened suddenly.

I approached the log and began to reach down ward. Just then another strong burst of wind flung me backwards a bit. I overcompensated and with stumbling feet careened into the water belly-flop style. None the worse for wear, I heaved myself back up, retrieved my fishing rod and made my way back into the cabin. To my amazement the entire family was sleeping, thus saving me a bit of an embarrassing moment.

Step eighty-nine! I had a special spoon on tonight's menu, a colorful red and white daredevil. I unhooked it from the fourth eyelet, making sure there were no snags in the line, switched off the lamp and cast out into the jet-black waters. Slowly, methodically, I wind the line back onto the spool, and cast again. On the third, I feel tension.

One night in our tenth summer I had felt the same tension. Arriving at the cabin hours before, the winds had calmed. The lake was placid and splashed with a myriad of sunset colors. Outfitted with my ever-present rod and reel I baited the hook this night with a simple crawler and sinker combination and cast out to the South side where the reeds were elevated.

Within seconds the creature struck and the line became taut as the tension increased. The last glimpse of light melted behind the western sky and soon I was encased in darkness. With no light, I couldn't tell what manner of species I had hooked. With a battle that would have pleased a saltwater fisherman, I managed to get my foe to the dock.

It felt and had fought like a walleye, and in the obscure shadows I realized I was right. I put my catch into a creel, headed back to shore and burst into the cabin exclaiming, "Look at this monster!" Alas, again this night, everyone was sleeping. I weighed the fish in at six pounds and released him gently into the cool, wave less waters, secretly hoping to meet him again.

Tonight however, there would be no lunkers. The once brightly lit sky had given way to billowing clouds, and I noticed lightning in the distance. A similar light show was also evident one evening last summer when Sue and I walked out hand in hand, with lawn chairs in the other and proceeded to prop ourselves down at the end of the dock.

We marveled at the beauty of the evening sky, the approaching storm the rapid growth of our children, how thankful we were to have what we had, and relished in the decision we had made years earlier to purchase our cabin up north. Tonight, as the soft pellets of rain begin to fall I gather my gear and began to walk towards the dimly lit cabin eighty-nine steps away.