NOVEMBER 26, 2022 – The last leg of your journey to the Red Cabin leads down Williams Road, a twisting, undulating passage through woods that crowd the edge of the pavement. The posted speed limit—40—is for your safety, especially in winter. Along this magical route, you pass a cabin or two tucked back in the woods, a few turn-offs, and multiple ponds and small lakes, each its own gallery of visual delights.
At the dirt road turn-off marked, “Yopps Road,” you’re closing on your destination. Immediately after the turn you pass the Norways that Cory, two of his friends and I planted 30 years ago. You then glide past a marsh visible through the trees on your left, where, if you’re the observant sort you might see a troll or two. You then proceed due south through a cathedral of trees arched over the road. Until you reach our narrow, dirt drive hidden on your left, you’re driving past the Grindstone Woods Conservancy on your right (acreage that neighbors and we secured for permanent preservation) and on your left, the home and hunting grounds of “Grizzly Adams.” If you’re lucky, as you plunge down the incline past our “BOGER/NILSSON” sign nailed to a birch, you won’t see a grizzly bear, but you might see a black bruin cross the two-tire lane.
After twisting and turning down our drive until you think you’re lost, the woods give way to a marshy area (more trolls!) on your right, and after squeezing between the Big-Daddy white pine trees, you arrive at . . . the Red Cabin.
Through the woods on the left, you catch a tantalizing glimpse of the lake. As you edge your way around, Grindstone comes into fuller view, though guarded by a row of stalwart oak and pine out front. Another few paces take you to the berm ridge along the shore. There you’re awarded an unobstructed view of one of the largest lakes in the area; one that’s afforded a noticeable blue dot on a modestly-sized map of the U.S.
The lake has many moods, but whether you find it roaring with the wind or as still as the trees when Aeolus sleeps, your gaze upon this gem stirs imagination . . .
When I awoke this morning and looked out from our second story bedroom, I saw a sea of whitecaps, as the shoreline arbors—like stately masts of a sailing ship—swayed in the breeze. The Big Water was wide awake and, it seemed, far from ice-bound hibernation.
Like the captain of a great vessel, I donned my uniform and left my cabin to walk the bow deck—the berm above the waves crashing onto the stones. The air was already mild, as if overnight we’d crossed into warmer latitudes. I removed my cap to feel the wind on my ocean-going pate and took a deep breath to refresh my lungs.
Clear sailing today, I thought. And it was, all the way to port where I watched the sun slip into Williams Bay behind the silhouetted western shoreline. On the swing bench atop the berm—out on the bow deck—I watched the lunar crescent drift westward. As light around me dimmed, the moon against heaven’s velvet grew brighter—in the rays of the sun, now off-stage but still playing a central role. The wind had spent its fury and was now a whimper. Bold whitecaps had receded into innocent ripples moving shyly across the water’s surface. The liquid moonlight was a shoulder duster earring, its diamonds glistening as it dangled at my feet hanging over the wharf.
What masters of the stage—sun, moon and . . . Big Water! (Cont.)
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
