You know that really, really, REALLY great feeling you get after you finish teaching your last student for the year before it's time to fly home to Utah and family and mountains and snow and CHRISTMAS? I don't know how it is for you, but for me, the Hallelujah chorus suddenly begins to play in my head, and I start spontaneously leaping about my living room, deliriously overcome with blissful ecstasy.
Having taught over one thousand piano lessons this year, I thought it would be fun to compile a list of a few of my favorite piano student quotes (oh, that I had written more of them down!). Because, you know, why not?
So here they are, organized in a somewhat chronological fashion.
Me: How was your summer?
Little piano student: Good!
Me: Did you travel anywhere?
Little piano student: Yeah. I went to Singapore.
Me: You went to Singapore?!!
Little piano student: Oh, wait...I think it was called Seattle.
10-year-old piano student: But playing hands together is so harrrrd!!! It's like...it's like...trying to eat pizza and play a video game at the same time!
9-year-old student: I couldn't practice this week.
Me: Why?
Student: I hurt my pinky.
Me: Uh-oh! Can I see your finger?
Student: Well, I hurt my pinky...toe.
Me: Your pinky *toe?* How does that prevent you from practicing piano?
Student [in a rather indignant tone, as if the answer is quite obvious]: I can't walk to the piano.
Me: "Be sure to play those notes evenly."
11-year-old piano student: "I don't think I can. The impatience of my left forefinger is far too great."
Me: Your new piece this week is called "Clog Dance." Do you know what clogging is?
6-year-old piano student: Yeah--like clogging the toilet? My brother does that all the time.
5-year-old piano student: "For my job when I grow up, I'm going to be Santa Claus. And on the weekends, I'm going to be a piano teacher."
Me: "That rhythm is incorrect. Why aren't you counting out loud like I asked you to?"
9-year-old piano student: "I need time to get my salivary glands working!" [proceeds to rub cheeks vigorously]
8-year-old student: "Why is this cord hooking the piano bench to the piano?"
Me: "So people don't move the bench out of the room or steal it, I guess."
Student [in a very self-assured tone of voice]: "Um, all someone has to do is bring a pair of scissors and a suitcase. Then they could just cut the cord and put the piano bench in their suitcase. Nobody would even know."
During the middle of her lesson, my 8-year-old student suddenly let out a burp and then said with a satisfied sigh, "Mmmm, sushi tastes soooo good."
My 9-year-old student had just arrived for her lesson and was taking off her jacket.
“Me: “That’s a nice jacket! Is it new?”
Student: “Yes!!! I love it because it’s sooooo soft—it’s like I’m wearing a puppy dog!”
Much to his distaste, I required my 11-year-old student today to complete his entire Hanon exercise without letting his wrists sag. As he was playing, he gave a dramatic groan and said, “This is like trying to ride a unicycle on top of a car that’s going 30 miles per hour!”
My 6-year-old student had just finished his lesson. He walked to a nearby table to play with some toys while his mother got out her calendar to mark the dates I will be out of town for Christmas.
Me: “I’ll be flying home on the 15th.”
6-year-old, looking up from his action figures and staring at me incredulously: “Nuh-uh! You don’t have wings!”
10-year-old student: “Do you know why Michigan and Ohio hate each other so much?”
Me: “Why?”
Student: “Because they’re the only states who have ever fought a war against each other.”**
Me: “What about the Civil War?”
Student: “That doesn’t count.”
**Sidenote: Come to find out, there actually was a war between Michigan and Ohio, known as the Toledo War, which occurred in 1835-36. (????!!!) If you care to do so, you can read more about it here. And to give my student the credit he deserves, he said the Civil War didn't count because it involved multiple states fighting against multiple states.
My 6-year-old piano student looked me in the eye today and earnestly informed me, “Raccoons are secret ninjas of the jungle.”
Showing posts with label The Mitten State. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Mitten State. Show all posts
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
A squirrelly situation
The day had been hot and humid--a rather regular occurrence for a mid-summer's day in Ann Arbor. The evening sun was beginning to set at just the right angle so as to
make driving a car both pleasant and dangerous: pleasant, because the mixture
of colors in the sky as I looked through the windshield was like a painter’s palette; dangerous, because the sun
was at the perfect angle so as to blind all drivers of vehicles on roadways, including myself.
I had loaned my sole pair of sunglasses to someone at the church picnic a few
days previous, and so I drove
along South Division and over the bridge near the train station squinting my
eyes almost shut in an attempt to avoid being blinded by the sudden appearance of
the setting sun as the clusters of trees that had been blocking it from view
abruptly ended. I coasted down the hill and came to a stop at the light where
Maiden Lane and Moore intersect Broadway; the light turned green and I
proceeded forward, leading the line of traffic. I drove for a block until I
reached the next intersection where Broadway turned into Plymouth [Michigan’s streets
have a habit of changing names suddenly and unexpectedly, for no other reason
than to confuse and bewilder drivers, aiding and abetting the likelihood
that those unfamiliar with the mitten state's clandestine street-naming practices will become utterly and hopelessly lost],
and at last, I was back in the protection of the shade, cast by the
shadows of a new group of towering trees at the edge of the road.
As I gave my Mazda a little gas to send it up the long hill, I could see the silhouette of a small animal up ahead, crouched next to the gutter on the far side of the wide, five-lane road. I immediately recognized the creature for what it was, as its species is without doubt far more abundant in the state of Michigan than all other living creatures combined. As if Sciurus carolinensis could hear my thoughts, it turned and looked at me, seemingly cocking its head, the cogs of its tiny brain whirring.
As I gave my Mazda a little gas to send it up the long hill, I could see the silhouette of a small animal up ahead, crouched next to the gutter on the far side of the wide, five-lane road. I immediately recognized the creature for what it was, as its species is without doubt far more abundant in the state of Michigan than all other living creatures combined. As if Sciurus carolinensis could hear my thoughts, it turned and looked at me, seemingly cocking its head, the cogs of its tiny brain whirring.
“Shall I scamper
across the street?” it thought. “Now
that there are at least a dozen 2000-pound death darts headed my way, wouldn't this moment be an optimal time for me to get to the other side?”
I stared the squirrel in the eye as best I could from a distance inside of the moving car.
I stared the squirrel in the eye as best I could from a distance inside of the moving car.
“Don’t do it,”
I thought. “Stay where you are. Do
not cross the street.”
The squirrel rudely ignored me and continued its inward debate.
“Yes, yes—I know that the
tragic deaths of Mother, my twin brothers Larry and Harry, dear old Aunt Mabel,
Great Uncle Ted, five of my cousins, and my best friend Phinneus have all occurred
under the rubber wheels of these great and terrible vehicles of doom…but that
doesn't necessarily mean my fate will be the same, does it? After all, I was
born for greater things than to be ground into the asphalt.”
“Don’t do it,
little squirrel,” I silently willed.
Ahead, I could see some oncoming traffic beginning to trickle
down the hill, headed straight for the ambivalent squirrel.
“Quick, while you’ve
still got time! Jump back to the side of the road!” I soundlessly shouted at
it.
But my pleas were ignored, and then contradicted.
“Yes, I am going to
cross!” it seemed to decide. “For
Mother! For Larry and Harry! For Phinneus! For Aunt Mabel and Great Uncle Ted!”
And with a defiant twitch of its tail, it began its journey across five lanes of traffic.
Lanes one and two were still empty; the oncoming traffic
had not yet arrived. The squirrel triumphantly completed two-fifths of its journey.
The turn lane was also safe, as no one was in it;
swiftly, the squirrel continued its dash.
But then it reached the fourth lane. My lane.
“What shall I do?!”
I thought in a panic, vividly remembering my experience last summer on Geddes
Road involving the exploding bunnyrabbit.
As the squirrel scurried in front of me, I hit my brakes.
But it was too late.
Thunk went my
Mazda.
Horrified, I gazed into my rearview mirror and saw a feebly-quivering
fluffy tail, attached to what was now a squirrel pancake. There was no explosion
of fur as there had been with the bunnyrabbit; but alas, the results were the
same.
Friday, June 29, 2012
In which I have a sudden epiphany
100°F in Ann Arbor today with 63% humidity. According to the heat index calculator, I am living in what feels like a 133°F tropical rain forest.* (High humidity slows down the evaporation of perspiration that our bodies produce to cool off, thus making high temperatures feel much higher when humidity is added to the equation.)
Within milliseconds of walking outside this afternoon and attempting to breathe the impossibly thick air, I began to feel an incessant biological urge to sprint to the nearest enclosed, humidity-regulated structure I could find. Of course, this would have involved turning around and heading straight back into my apartment building. As this was not an option (due to the fact that I had eager young minds awaiting their weekly dose of instructional musical brilliance), I proceeded to battle my instinct of self-preservation and traverse the steaming parking lot as quickly as I--one who was under the immense pressure of looming suffocation--possibly could.
As I climbed into my car and a rush of endorphins congratulated me on my narrow escape from asphyxiation, I began to wonder what temperature the thermometer is required to reach before people actually do become physically unable to tolerate such heatwaves...
And so, after concluding my duties of musical knowledge bestowal several hours later, I returned home and thought to myself, "well now, what better way to spend a Thursday night than reading about hygrometers, humiture, and thermoregulation!"
Which is what I did.
Below, I quote a couple of interesting facts I learned from the "How Stuff Works" website, which you can find here (yes, yes, please abate your mockery at my choice of sources--I am working on a master's degree, but my MM will stand for Master of Music, not Master of Meteorology).
Humidity can be measured in several ways, but relative humidity is the most common. In order to understand relative humidity, it is helpful to first understand absolute humidity.
Absolute humidity is the mass of water vapor divided by the mass of dry air in a volume of air at a given temperature. The hotter the air is, the more water it can contain.
Relative humidity is the ratio of the current absolute humidity to the highest possible absolute humidity (which depends on the current air temperature). A reading of 100 percent relative humidity means that the air is totally saturated with water vapor and cannot hold any more, creating the possibility of rain. This doesn't mean that the relative humidity must be 100 percent in order for it to rain--it must be 100 percent where the clouds are forming, but the relative humidity near the ground could be much less.
Humans are very sensitive to humidity, as the skin relies on the air to get rid of moisture. The process of sweating is your body's attempt to keep cool and maintain its current temperature. If the air is at 100-percent relative humidity, sweat will not evaporate into the air. As a result, we feel much hotter than the actual temperature when the relative humidity is high. If the relative humidity is low, we can feel much cooler than the actual temperature because our sweat evaporates easily, cooling us off. For example, if the air temperature is 75 degrees Fahrenheit (24 degrees Celsius) and the relative humidity is zero percent, the air temperature feels like 69 degrees Fahrenheit (21 C) to our bodies. If the air temperature is 75 degrees Fahrenheit (24 C) and the relative humidity is 100 percent, we feel like it's 80 degrees (27 C) out.
People tend to feel most comfortable at a relative humidity of about 45 percent.
Is it weird that I find this stuff fascinating?
...okay, maybe a little.
I might add to the above commentary that high humidity in combination with low temperatures creates a very biting, bone-chilling effect. When combined with wind, this may cause even the fiercest and loyalest of flip-flop wearers to ponder their choice in foot adornment.
But let's not get off topic here.
Eager for another fact to log away? Did you know: pianos are built and designed to remain at 42% relative humidity, with an 8% moisture content in the wood. In a nutshell, treat your piano to the same living conditions you would a dearly beloved child.
Now that I have completely exhausted your interest in humidity, I shall go to bed.
From the mitten, over and out.
Bahaha.
Haha.
Ha.
It just dawned on me...I live in a mitten. Mittens are designed to retain heat.
No wonder it's so hot.
*I do technically live closer to the equator than I do the North Pole, but only by a couple hundred miles--we passed the 45th parallel in northern Michigan on our way up to the UP during our most excellent vacation a couple of weeks ago.
Within milliseconds of walking outside this afternoon and attempting to breathe the impossibly thick air, I began to feel an incessant biological urge to sprint to the nearest enclosed, humidity-regulated structure I could find. Of course, this would have involved turning around and heading straight back into my apartment building. As this was not an option (due to the fact that I had eager young minds awaiting their weekly dose of instructional musical brilliance), I proceeded to battle my instinct of self-preservation and traverse the steaming parking lot as quickly as I--one who was under the immense pressure of looming suffocation--possibly could.
As I climbed into my car and a rush of endorphins congratulated me on my narrow escape from asphyxiation, I began to wonder what temperature the thermometer is required to reach before people actually do become physically unable to tolerate such heatwaves...
And so, after concluding my duties of musical knowledge bestowal several hours later, I returned home and thought to myself, "well now, what better way to spend a Thursday night than reading about hygrometers, humiture, and thermoregulation!"
Which is what I did.
Below, I quote a couple of interesting facts I learned from the "How Stuff Works" website, which you can find here (yes, yes, please abate your mockery at my choice of sources--I am working on a master's degree, but my MM will stand for Master of Music, not Master of Meteorology).
Humidity can be measured in several ways, but relative humidity is the most common. In order to understand relative humidity, it is helpful to first understand absolute humidity.
Absolute humidity is the mass of water vapor divided by the mass of dry air in a volume of air at a given temperature. The hotter the air is, the more water it can contain.
Relative humidity is the ratio of the current absolute humidity to the highest possible absolute humidity (which depends on the current air temperature). A reading of 100 percent relative humidity means that the air is totally saturated with water vapor and cannot hold any more, creating the possibility of rain. This doesn't mean that the relative humidity must be 100 percent in order for it to rain--it must be 100 percent where the clouds are forming, but the relative humidity near the ground could be much less.
Humans are very sensitive to humidity, as the skin relies on the air to get rid of moisture. The process of sweating is your body's attempt to keep cool and maintain its current temperature. If the air is at 100-percent relative humidity, sweat will not evaporate into the air. As a result, we feel much hotter than the actual temperature when the relative humidity is high. If the relative humidity is low, we can feel much cooler than the actual temperature because our sweat evaporates easily, cooling us off. For example, if the air temperature is 75 degrees Fahrenheit (24 degrees Celsius) and the relative humidity is zero percent, the air temperature feels like 69 degrees Fahrenheit (21 C) to our bodies. If the air temperature is 75 degrees Fahrenheit (24 C) and the relative humidity is 100 percent, we feel like it's 80 degrees (27 C) out.
People tend to feel most comfortable at a relative humidity of about 45 percent.
Is it weird that I find this stuff fascinating?
...okay, maybe a little.
I might add to the above commentary that high humidity in combination with low temperatures creates a very biting, bone-chilling effect. When combined with wind, this may cause even the fiercest and loyalest of flip-flop wearers to ponder their choice in foot adornment.
But let's not get off topic here.
Eager for another fact to log away? Did you know: pianos are built and designed to remain at 42% relative humidity, with an 8% moisture content in the wood. In a nutshell, treat your piano to the same living conditions you would a dearly beloved child.
Now that I have completely exhausted your interest in humidity, I shall go to bed.
From the mitten, over and out.
Bahaha.
Haha.
Ha.
It just dawned on me...I live in a mitten. Mittens are designed to retain heat.
No wonder it's so hot.
*I do technically live closer to the equator than I do the North Pole, but only by a couple hundred miles--we passed the 45th parallel in northern Michigan on our way up to the UP during our most excellent vacation a couple of weeks ago.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Pure Michigan
You know how sometimes you get together with friends and fantasize about an amazing trip you all want to take? Everyone is gung-ho, and the anticipation and excitement spreads like wildfire, with a culmination of someone proclaiming, "Yes! Let's really do this!"
And so everyone stands up, and the party dissolves as people chatter about the plans they're going to make and they put on their coats and shoes and proceed to the door.
Unfortunately, however, as the evening air fills their lungs and they proceed down the porch steps, the Real World with jobs and school and lack of funds knowingly smirks at them. After giving them a few last moments to relish and revel in their dreams and high hopes, it maliciously pounces, feeding ravenously on their eager enthusiasm, until, by the time they turn the key in the car's ignition and pull out of the driveway, all that is left of the original spark is a small ember of a memory of a discussion that was...well...what was all that insensible talk about, anyhow?
Days, weeks--even months--pass by.
Time and again, another gathering comes, another gathering goes. The vicious cycle repeats.
But.
No matter how hard the Real World tries, there seems to always be that tiny remaining ember in the back corner that is left smoldering, threatening to flare up at any instant.
Simply awaiting the perfect moment to catch fire.
After a few minutes, we headed back to the dock to wait for our ferry.
Our ferry was a Cadillac, because, yeah, we're awesome like that.
The ferry spurted out quite an incredible tail of water.
We got a pretty expansive view of the five-mile long Mackinac Bridge, which connects mainland Michigan to the UP.
2) The fudge. Oooooh, the fudge.
We bought five kinds to try: german chocolate, chocolate walnut, chocolate cherry, chocolate chip vanilla, and butter pecan. Drooling yet? Pretty much everyone who walked past us did an envious double-take. ;)
As we walked around town, we decided to be adventurous. What better way to explore than by...tandem bikes?
We decided to pedal around the 8-mile perimeter of the island. It is safe to say that this was the most enjoyable, beautiful path I have ever had the pleasure of riding. Unfortunately, I didn't take many pictures at the beginning of the ride because I was too busy drinking it all in. Gorgeous greenery, old houses, cottages, lakeside mansions, the rocky shore...
We stopped about three-quarters of the way around the island at a beautiful, rocky beach and dipped our feet in Lake Huron. It was the cleanest, clearest lake I had ever seen in my life:
The 8-mile ride ended all too soon, and before we knew it, we were back downtown where we had started. We returned our beloved tandem bikes and did some more exploring as pedestrians.
After having our fill of Mackinac Island, we boarded the ferry for a return trip to Mackinac City on the mainland. We then hopped in the trusty Honda and drove to our campsite.
Our first night of camping was quite an enormous success, if I do say so myself. Our tent was pitched in no time flat, our fire was lit without a hitch, and our hotdogs, baked beans, and s'mores were eaten with a satisfaction that only food cooked over a campfire can give.
After dinner, we visited the beach near our campsite and did some relaxing and meditating.
Saturday morning, our alarms went off at the ripe old hour of 5am, and we drug ourselves out of our sleeping bags, knowing that we had a three-and-a-half hour drive ahead before arriving at our kayaking destination on Lake Superior in the Upper Peninsula. I got ready in true camping style, pumping water to wash my face. However, I then succumbed and walked to the bathrooms to use a toilet. In the bathroom, minding my own business, a lady with purple hair suddenly interjected as I was at the sink: "Are you Mormon?" Completely taken aback, I replied that yes, I was. She said, "Me too!" and explained that she had guessed that I was such from the "We are Honor" BYU shirt I was wearing. We proceeded to have a lovely conversation--she was a convert of approximately one year from Saginaw, Michigan, and a hairstylist (hence the choice of hair color, I suppose?). After finishing my conversation detour, I hurried back to the campsite and hopped in the waiting car, after which we officially began Day 2.
Of course, the three-and-a-half hour drive was so beautiful, we hardly noticed the length of time at all. Our timing was perfect, so we crossed Mackinac Bridge just as the sun was rising.
As soon as we entered the UP, we were surprised by how different the scenery suddenly became--many new kinds of vegetation and particularly an abundance of spruce trees.
We found our destination, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, with little difficulty and with time to spare, so, after checking in with one of the kayak guides, we packed our lunches and then broke out the fudge and sunscreen, helping ourselves to gobs of both (one ingested, the other absorbed--I'll leave you to decide which was which).
After receiving some brief paddle training on the beach and being shown how to don our classy spray skirts, we each claimed a kayak (my group continuing our tandem theme), and pushed off into the water, ready for our 12-mile adventure. We were paddling in Lake Superior, which holds an astonishing 2% of the world's fresh water! In some places, it is more than 300 feet deep. Because of its depth and sheer enormity in size, the water temperature is never warm. Right now, it is approximately 49 degrees Fahrenheit. The water is extremely clean and clear--because of this, we were able to paddle a little way out from the cliffs and see a shipwreck on the lake bottom, which has been there since the 1800s, preserved due to the cold temperature of the water.
After kayaking, which was an all-day venture (we stopped halfway through to have lunch on a beach, which was invaded by a billion nasty black flies that bit us endlessly. Most of us ended up wading out into the water and carrying our lunch with us to eat standing there. My legs are now covered in a bunch of tiny black bruises where I was bitten...), we headed to our next campsite, owned by a Native American family headed by a woman with the longest hair I have ever seen (almost to her ankles, and it was braided). With one night already under our belt, we practically felt like pros setting up camp and making a fire.
After cooking our soup and devouring another delicious dinner, we went out on the lake next to where we were camped (Otter Lake) in paddleboats.
We had a little race.
Yeah, I'm pretty sure ours was broken... ;)
There was a small playground.
And we even played croquet.
Sarah made friends with a nice Sri Lankan family near our campsite who gave us some sort of spicy coconut pancake.
After dark, we lit the lanterns and climbed into the tent. Michal put on a shadow puppet show for us, and then we fell asleep to the persistent call of a whippoorwill.
The next morning, we slept in and leisurely made breakfast. The girls made coffee for themselves (I of course stuck with water):
We had an incredibly beautiful campsite.
After packing up camp, we decided to visit a nearby waterfall. Once again, the drive was incredibly gorgeous. I felt like a hobbit:
We arrived at Laughing Whitefish Falls and, after hiking a small portion of the North Country National Scenic Trail through a forest with the ground covered in ferns, we arrived at the actual 100-foot waterfall.
After exploring the waterfall, we took a long drive (Michal chose some excellent Sunday music--hymns--some I was familiar with, some not--improvised upon by a pianist) back to mainland Michigan and headed to a place on the western side of the state called Traverse City. After eating dinner, we explored the town a bit and then took a lovely walk along the beach of Lake Michigan. We met a woman with a three-legged dog named Snowball who was from Germany but has spent the past 23 years living in Kentucky. Imagine a German Southern accent. Yup.
That night, we camped just outside of Traverse City. Jong Sun and Sarah did a little firedance:
The next day, we woke in the wee hours of the morning to drive to Sleeping Bear Dunes. Just after we left our campsite, it began to rain, with accompanying lightning and thunder. It was quite a splendid show. After a half hour's drive, we arrived at Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park, amidst quite the downpour. We entered the park and drove through a scenic route that made us feel like we were in the middle of Jurassic Park and that dinosaurs might burst out of the woods in front of or behind our vehicle at any moment. The woods grew darker as we got further in and reminded me of a dark, enchanted forest.
When we arrived at the scenic overlooks, I decided to get out of the car and see the views, even though I had to fight the pouring rain and the highspeed winds. I was very glad I did:
At a different overlook, the storm was beginning to clear. I felt like I was standing at the edge of the world, just like CS Lewis described it in the Chronicles of Narnia:
At another overlook, we thought we could see the Platte River (which it turned out not to be, but oh well), so we decided to drive and try and find it:
Instead of the Platte River, what we did find was an unbelievably warm lake, just off the beach of Lake Michigan (in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the two connect at high tide).
One last stop at a different beach, and then it was time to head home to Ann Arbor.
With a total of approximately 1200 miles and $221, I must say: I had a pretty spanking good vacation. My ember is officially an undying flame.
And so everyone stands up, and the party dissolves as people chatter about the plans they're going to make and they put on their coats and shoes and proceed to the door.
Unfortunately, however, as the evening air fills their lungs and they proceed down the porch steps, the Real World with jobs and school and lack of funds knowingly smirks at them. After giving them a few last moments to relish and revel in their dreams and high hopes, it maliciously pounces, feeding ravenously on their eager enthusiasm, until, by the time they turn the key in the car's ignition and pull out of the driveway, all that is left of the original spark is a small ember of a memory of a discussion that was...well...what was all that insensible talk about, anyhow?
Days, weeks--even months--pass by.
Time and again, another gathering comes, another gathering goes. The vicious cycle repeats.
But.
No matter how hard the Real World tries, there seems to always be that tiny remaining ember in the back corner that is left smoldering, threatening to flare up at any instant.
Simply awaiting the perfect moment to catch fire.
******************
This past weekend, I and three lovely ladies took quite a fabulous vacation to northern Michigan and the Upper Peninsula (known amongst Michiganders and other in-the-loop folk as the "U" "P").
 |
| (Remember when I discovered that Michigan had another whole landmass aside from the mitten? hehe) |
Three pianists, one speech pathologist, and nearly zero camping experience--what could possibly go wrong, thought we.
Early Friday morning, we packed up the Honda CRV. With 296,273 miles on it, our trusty periwinkle automobile had more than enough experience to make up for our lack thereof.
We packed it up with just enough equipment to survive an apocalypse,
and off we went.
After four hours of driving and a couple of bathroom breaks, we arrived at our first destination: Mackinac City (pronounced and sometimes spelled "Mackinaw"). We bought our ferry tickets to Mackinac Island, and then decided to grab some lunch. We proceeded to find a parking spot downtown and then visited a small restaurant where everyone but myself tried the famous Michigan "pasties," a northern Michigan/UP delicacy very much akin to shepherd's pie. (I went with a nice cheesy pizza instead, party pooper that I am.)
We then visited a small shop across the street, run by a group of newly-immigrated Russians, which had every flavor of popcorn imaginable, and then some:
I even found a shoutout to BYU on the top shelf:
After being offered enough popcorn and ice cream samples to feed a third-world country, we paused a moment to watch the art of fudge-making before exiting the store:
We walked around town a bit, admiring the beautiful architecture and often feeling like we were exploring a city full of life-sized dollhouses.
After a few minutes, we headed back to the dock to wait for our ferry.
Our ferry was a Cadillac, because, yeah, we're awesome like that.
We rode on the semi-open-air level of the ferry so we could see the views and get the full ferry-riding experience. It was definitely a bit windy.
The ferry spurted out quite an incredible tail of water.
We got a pretty expansive view of the five-mile long Mackinac Bridge, which connects mainland Michigan to the UP.
We also got a nice view of Mackinac Island as we drew closer: the long white building is the Grand Hotel--a pricey place where they expect you to don formals for dinner, and where the movie "Somewhere in Time" was filmed.
There are two reasons Mackinac Island is famous:
1) No automobiles are allowed on the island. Everyone who lives there gets around by foot, bike, or horse-drawn carriage (no kidding). Hence, all the pedestrians in the streets:
We bought five kinds to try: german chocolate, chocolate walnut, chocolate cherry, chocolate chip vanilla, and butter pecan. Drooling yet? Pretty much everyone who walked past us did an envious double-take. ;)
As we walked around town, we decided to be adventurous. What better way to explore than by...tandem bikes?
We decided to pedal around the 8-mile perimeter of the island. It is safe to say that this was the most enjoyable, beautiful path I have ever had the pleasure of riding. Unfortunately, I didn't take many pictures at the beginning of the ride because I was too busy drinking it all in. Gorgeous greenery, old houses, cottages, lakeside mansions, the rocky shore...
We stopped about three-quarters of the way around the island at a beautiful, rocky beach and dipped our feet in Lake Huron. It was the cleanest, clearest lake I had ever seen in my life:
The 8-mile ride ended all too soon, and before we knew it, we were back downtown where we had started. We returned our beloved tandem bikes and did some more exploring as pedestrians.
 |
| The harbor |
 |
| Inside the church |
 |
| How many little boys must this sign tempt? ;) |
 |
| Stilettos made of chocolate |
Our first night of camping was quite an enormous success, if I do say so myself. Our tent was pitched in no time flat, our fire was lit without a hitch, and our hotdogs, baked beans, and s'mores were eaten with a satisfaction that only food cooked over a campfire can give.
After dinner, we visited the beach near our campsite and did some relaxing and meditating.
Saturday morning, our alarms went off at the ripe old hour of 5am, and we drug ourselves out of our sleeping bags, knowing that we had a three-and-a-half hour drive ahead before arriving at our kayaking destination on Lake Superior in the Upper Peninsula. I got ready in true camping style, pumping water to wash my face. However, I then succumbed and walked to the bathrooms to use a toilet. In the bathroom, minding my own business, a lady with purple hair suddenly interjected as I was at the sink: "Are you Mormon?" Completely taken aback, I replied that yes, I was. She said, "Me too!" and explained that she had guessed that I was such from the "We are Honor" BYU shirt I was wearing. We proceeded to have a lovely conversation--she was a convert of approximately one year from Saginaw, Michigan, and a hairstylist (hence the choice of hair color, I suppose?). After finishing my conversation detour, I hurried back to the campsite and hopped in the waiting car, after which we officially began Day 2.
Of course, the three-and-a-half hour drive was so beautiful, we hardly noticed the length of time at all. Our timing was perfect, so we crossed Mackinac Bridge just as the sun was rising.
We found our destination, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, with little difficulty and with time to spare, so, after checking in with one of the kayak guides, we packed our lunches and then broke out the fudge and sunscreen, helping ourselves to gobs of both (one ingested, the other absorbed--I'll leave you to decide which was which).
After receiving some brief paddle training on the beach and being shown how to don our classy spray skirts, we each claimed a kayak (my group continuing our tandem theme), and pushed off into the water, ready for our 12-mile adventure. We were paddling in Lake Superior, which holds an astonishing 2% of the world's fresh water! In some places, it is more than 300 feet deep. Because of its depth and sheer enormity in size, the water temperature is never warm. Right now, it is approximately 49 degrees Fahrenheit. The water is extremely clean and clear--because of this, we were able to paddle a little way out from the cliffs and see a shipwreck on the lake bottom, which has been there since the 1800s, preserved due to the cold temperature of the water.
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| Kissing Rock--the only place it actually touches is in the middle. |
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| Though it looks like paint, the rocks are actually colored by sediments and minerals. The white is calcium. |
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| Look how clear the water is! We could see right down to the bottom. |
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| Bucketlist: kayak in a cave. Check. |
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| The cliffs are constantly eroding, crumbling, and changing. The most recent collapse happened in February. |
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| The water here is much deeper than it looks. So clear! |
After kayaking, which was an all-day venture (we stopped halfway through to have lunch on a beach, which was invaded by a billion nasty black flies that bit us endlessly. Most of us ended up wading out into the water and carrying our lunch with us to eat standing there. My legs are now covered in a bunch of tiny black bruises where I was bitten...), we headed to our next campsite, owned by a Native American family headed by a woman with the longest hair I have ever seen (almost to her ankles, and it was braided). With one night already under our belt, we practically felt like pros setting up camp and making a fire.
After cooking our soup and devouring another delicious dinner, we went out on the lake next to where we were camped (Otter Lake) in paddleboats.
We had a little race.
Yeah, I'm pretty sure ours was broken... ;)
There was a small playground.
And we even played croquet.
Sarah made friends with a nice Sri Lankan family near our campsite who gave us some sort of spicy coconut pancake.
After dark, we lit the lanterns and climbed into the tent. Michal put on a shadow puppet show for us, and then we fell asleep to the persistent call of a whippoorwill.
The next morning, we slept in and leisurely made breakfast. The girls made coffee for themselves (I of course stuck with water):
We had an incredibly beautiful campsite.
After packing up camp, we decided to visit a nearby waterfall. Once again, the drive was incredibly gorgeous. I felt like a hobbit:
We arrived at Laughing Whitefish Falls and, after hiking a small portion of the North Country National Scenic Trail through a forest with the ground covered in ferns, we arrived at the actual 100-foot waterfall.
After exploring the waterfall, we took a long drive (Michal chose some excellent Sunday music--hymns--some I was familiar with, some not--improvised upon by a pianist) back to mainland Michigan and headed to a place on the western side of the state called Traverse City. After eating dinner, we explored the town a bit and then took a lovely walk along the beach of Lake Michigan. We met a woman with a three-legged dog named Snowball who was from Germany but has spent the past 23 years living in Kentucky. Imagine a German Southern accent. Yup.
That night, we camped just outside of Traverse City. Jong Sun and Sarah did a little firedance:
The next day, we woke in the wee hours of the morning to drive to Sleeping Bear Dunes. Just after we left our campsite, it began to rain, with accompanying lightning and thunder. It was quite a splendid show. After a half hour's drive, we arrived at Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park, amidst quite the downpour. We entered the park and drove through a scenic route that made us feel like we were in the middle of Jurassic Park and that dinosaurs might burst out of the woods in front of or behind our vehicle at any moment. The woods grew darker as we got further in and reminded me of a dark, enchanted forest.
When we arrived at the scenic overlooks, I decided to get out of the car and see the views, even though I had to fight the pouring rain and the highspeed winds. I was very glad I did:
At a different overlook, the storm was beginning to clear. I felt like I was standing at the edge of the world, just like CS Lewis described it in the Chronicles of Narnia:
At another overlook, we thought we could see the Platte River (which it turned out not to be, but oh well), so we decided to drive and try and find it:
Instead of the Platte River, what we did find was an unbelievably warm lake, just off the beach of Lake Michigan (in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the two connect at high tide).
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| Lake Michigan beach |
One last stop at a different beach, and then it was time to head home to Ann Arbor.
With a total of approximately 1200 miles and $221, I must say: I had a pretty spanking good vacation. My ember is officially an undying flame.
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