Which lake? Witch Lake!

To learn about Witch Lake is to learn what makes my mom's family, the Wises, tick, what runs through our collective Wise-ness. At one time or another, everyone in the family--from my grandfather to my cousins' newborns--have visited the cabin. Some make it more than others, and I for one don't go up as often as I'd like (about every other year). It provides a shared history between everyone in the family, and eventually gets mentioned at each family gathering. It's what makes us us, and one reason I think my mom's side is closer than my dad's. We all have the same thing to love.

There's history behind Witch Lake that never tires in the re-telling and explains how a Central Illinois farm family came to know about a lake in the remote Upper Peninsula of Michigan. My grandpa's sister married into the Wescott clan, who were original settlers around Witch Lake. The old forge used by Cassius and Vergil Wecott still stands on the Wescott property among the many log buildings slowly sinking into the ground in a state of romantic decay.

When my mom was a young teenager, Great-Aunt Zell (a Wescott aunt) took a liking to her and her younger sister, inviting them up for two summers running so they could play with their Wescott cousins. Great-Aunt Zell was a real character--a fiery, independent woman who wore vivid red lipstick every day and took a boat to her home on the island. The island is a source of frustrated romance for the Wises. Halfway between our cabin and the Wescotts', it's the only one on the lake and has a house and a boathouse that have, over the past 30 years, fallen into decay. The boathouse and other outbuildings have finally been stabilized, but the house is a mere shell and breaks my mother's heart to think about. I grew up hearing stories of the summers on the island, how my mom slept in the second story of the boathouse, how the 'boys from Bat Lake' (the next one over) would swim the 3/4 of a mile from the shore to the island to visit if the girls had done their chores.

One summer, the Wescotts invited my mom's family up for a visit. This was a real feat: a 10-hour drive in an enormous station wagon with my two grandparents, Corky, Kathy, Karen, Chris, Cindy, Kevin, Connie, Charlotte and Craig all crammed inside. Sometime after, Great-Aunt Zell offered my grandfather a piece of property on the peninsula to build a cabin. (At the bottom of the map here. The Wescotts are on the other side of the 10' bay.) My father remembers going up to visit Witch Lake when he was first dating my mom, even before the cabin was completed in the early 70s. It's a litmus test for me: I imagine bringing up a fiance to the lake. If he doesn't like it--wham!--the wedding's off. It's that important to me.

My family has all sorts of traditions, some exclusive to us and some done by most of the Wises. Everyone goes to Marquette; everyone eats Finnish pasties (said with a short 'a'); everyone visits the Bluff. We always do a twilight drive along Fence River Road, looking for deer but hoping for 'meese' (as we semi-jokingly call moose). Each small tradition, from the time we roll the windows down to smell the North Woods as we inch our way long the drive--to putting out popcorn for the 'chippies' (chipmunks) to eat--to taking our shoes off and standing in the squishy sphaghnum moss, is tinged with sadness. We're never sure when we'll be back up. Writing this now is actually making tears come to my eyes. I can never get enough of it, of the silence of the wilderness that's not silence at all. There a loon calls its wild cry, there a woodpecker works, there the lake laps against the rocky shore.

When the car is all packed and we're ready to go, I have to make one last pilgrimage down to the lake, putting my hand in to say goodbye.

I think that everyone feels this way. It doesn't matter if you were there a week (as I always have been), or the entire summer (which my second cousin Matt gets to do). He spends his winters teaching in California, and although his aunt lives year-round at the lake he admitted to me he's never quite certain when he'll be back.

"There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about Witch Lake," he confided. That's what it does to you. It gets in your soul and you're never happy unless you're able to go back--knowing each time how precious a time it is.

-----------------------------------------------------
PHOTOJOURNAL:

As my brother started law school, it was me, my folks, and my friend Michelle (whom some of you may recall I went to Eastern Europe with in the winter). We were up Aug. 13--19, and you can view all the photos here by clicking 'View Pictures' and then the 'Slideshow' icon on the next page.

The view of Witch Lake, with the island, that we see from our cabin's deck.












And the other view, from the island to the cabin. We're quite proud that, unlike many of the cabins on the lake, ours is screened by trees. Note the proximity of the cabin to the shore--since it was built before buildings codes were in place, the deck is literally about three feet above the edge of the shoreline. Cabins are now required to be a minimum of 200 feet away from the shore.












Trying to get rid of my farmer's tan on the deck.













Me and Michelle with my second cousins Brett and Matt, enjoying some wine before taking a sauna and swimming in the lake. They both grew up in California but spent their summers at Witch Lake with their aunt (my mom's cousin). Somehow we had never met until Colin and I were at the end of high school. I've actually only met Brett twice (the first time being the summer before last). Both guys are incredibly cool and ultra nice (in addition to being really cute!), and they feel more like cousins than some of the first cousins I have on my dad's side. I love my mom's side so much!

Enjoying fresh lake Superior trout with my parents, from the last remaining commercial fishery in Marquette.











Don't I have a good-looking family? My cousin Matt and I take a break from chainsawing logs on the island (him doing,
me and Michelle watching).
















A souvenir from the island: two pieces of red pine Matt cut for Michelle and me to turn into an end table or stool.











I swear, I'm not drunk (I was, after all, the designated driver). Matt gamely went on a mini barcrawl with the two of us girls, to the closest town of Republic. An old mining town, it now tenuously hangs on to economic viability with only its post office, canoe shop, and three bars to show it was once a vibrant town up until the 1970s.

This is us at the third bar, where Michelle and I dominated the jukebox and the dancefloor (okay, so we were the only ones dancing... and what dancing it was!). As Matt said the next day: "They didn't know what hit 'em."

Twice we made it into the 'capital' of the U.P., Marquette. We were fortunate enough to have glorious sunny weather while we visited Presque Isle. A peninsula (hence the French name of "almost an island"), it has beaches, picnicing areas, and a lovely drive with paths to hike. One of our many Wise family traditions involves making a pilgrimage to the Black Rocks, a geological rarity where basalt connects to granite.

Michelle sits precariously close to the sheer 80-foot dropoff above Lake Superior. It is, of course, the best of the Great Lakes: the largest, the cleanest, the wildest. It's so cold, as I never fail to tell people, that dead bodies don't even float, they just sink.

Behind her is the rare sight of an ore boat steaming away from the breakwaters of Marquette (the horizontal line near the boat is the barrier, on which a lighthouse sits. We used to walk out there when I was younger.)


Looking from Presque Isle off at the low-lying hills. Just beyond sight on the right we could see the Sandy Beach, where I would occasionally play as a child.










Look at what the lake did! We had to bathe our feet in the icy-cold water, the waves crashing up to our knees (and in my and Michelle's cases, halfway up our thighs). As I'm never near water with waves, it's always exhilarating to be near Lake Superior (and much better than salt water, since there's no brackish smell).

Every time we go to the Black Rocks, there are Yooper kids jumping off one of the outcroppings into the frigid water. I still don't know how they can do it--the few times I've swum in the lake have been at the height of summer during a heat wave. And even then it's damn cold.







One more view of the lake as we say goodbye. Someday I'd love to do the Great Lakes Circle tour and drive all the way around Lake Superior (and perhaps the other, lesser lakes).
















What a babe! Here is the first of many saunas in my mom's family, built when I was little by my dad and my favorite uncle. Since then, we have a total of six saunas in the family (among nine kids), and there will probably be a seventh when the same uncle builds his new cabin on Witch Lake. Pretty amazing for a family with not a drop of Scandinavian blood!

Poor Michelle didn't quite like saunaing as much as me and Matt. We relish breathing in the hot, humid air (150 degrees and 40% humidity is just about right). P.S. Say it like the Finns in the U.P. do--"sow-na"--and impress a Yooper!

And finally, at Da Yoopers' Tourist Trap, built by the one-and-only band from da U.P. Try saying it aloud in a Yooper-style accent (similar to that in the film Fargo):