Sleeping Bear National Lake Shore - White Pine Campground

A surmountable trail in comfortable shoes by his reading of the map. Two miles only. He parked at Platte Lake Trail, shut the door, keys pocketed. Canvas shoes. Warm July weather. . Flat dirt at first, firm underfoot. Tall pines, trunks straight, bark scaled brown. A green roof of needles far above, whispering faintly in the wind. Low ferns, wide and damp, brushing his ankles. . A mosquito met him... A surmountable trail in comfortable shoes by his reading of the map. Two miles only. He parked at Platte Lake Trail, shut the door, keys pocketed. Canvas shoes. Warm July weather. . Flat dirt at first, firm underfoot. Tall pines, trunks straight, bark scaled brown. A green roof of needles far above, whispering faintly in the wind. Low ferns, wide and damp, brushing his ankles. . A mosquito met him. Thin hum by his ear. Shoo. Another. Shoo. The sting sharp on his wrist. Shoo. . ‘No spray. Should’ve thought. Didn’t.’ . Bite. Swat. Another. Bite at the neck. Swat. Another hum at his cheek. Shoo. . He slapped, wiped, shook them loose. Just a few minutes. The hum steady, growing, close in the ear, a high droning thread. Shoo. Swat. Shoo. Swat. . ‘Hands too slow. Need something. A little stick, like a wand. No. A fern.’ . He picked one. Wide fronds, green and wet. Swat. It thumped the air, fanned his face. Shoo. Swat. Another bite. Swat. . ‘Better. Fern’s better.’ Swat, swat. ‘Keep it moving.’ Shooing and swatting. A rhythm now. Shoo, swat. Shoo, swat. A drumbeat in the trees. . ‘Wear the fern. Mask. Can they get through? Over the head. No. Tuck it in the hat.’ . Two ferns. Like a veil. Shoo, swat. Shoo, swat. Constant. Bitten still, but slower. March and swat. March and swat. . ‘Don’t stop. They are waiting there.’ . Halfway, the trail bent right, and dirt gave way to sand—pale, shifting, soft. Canvas shoes floating above the sand. . ‘Same sand as the beach. The dunes. Left by glaciers, twelve thousand years retreating. Ancient ground. And me on it now, sweating, swatting, bit alive.’ . A rise ahead. Trail climbed to avoid low ground: swamp below, black pools rimmed by rushes. Still and quiet. Picturesque and foreboding both. . ‘Whose home is this? Not mine. Visitor? No. Intruder. A food supply.’ . Shoo, swat. Shoo, swat. He climbed. Breath ragged. Skin welted. Ferns on head and in hand, slapping, shooing. . At the top: swamp spread wide below, green basin, water dark as glass. Silent but for the drone, thin and unending. . The last stretch. Camp at last. A clearing ringed in pines, sandy ground. Two tents staked already. . “Welcome! How are you?” . “Good, thanks. What are you doing about the mosquitoes?” . A laugh. Short. Bitten raw. . “We brought bug spray,” the camper said. . “Does that work?” . “Ah. Sort of. We’ve an extra bottle. You can have it.” . Cool metal in his hand. Label blurred in the dim. . “Do I put it everywhere?” . “Pretty much. Eyes closed.” . He pressed the top. Hiss. Cold mist. Eyes shut. . ‘Poison for them. Not me. Bitter taste. Lips metallic. Drink, spit. Better bitter than bitten.’ . Two miles to the parking lot. Two miles of them.

A surmountable trail in comfortable shoes by his reading of the map. Two miles only. He parked at Platte Lake Trail, shut the door, keys pocketed. Canvas shoes. Warm July weather. . Flat dirt at first, firm underfoot. Tall pines, trunks straight, bark scaled brown. A green roof of needles far above, whispering faintly in the wind. Low ferns, wide and damp, brushing his ankles. . A mosquito met him... A surmountable trail in comfortable shoes by his reading of the map. Two miles only. He parked at Platte Lake Trail, shut the door, keys pocketed. Canvas shoes. Warm July weather. . Flat dirt at first, firm underfoot. Tall pines, trunks straight, bark scaled brown. A green roof of needles far above, whispering faintly in the wind. Low ferns, wide and damp, brushing his ankles. . A mosquito met him. Thin hum by his ear. Shoo. Another. Shoo. The sting sharp on his wrist. Shoo. . ‘No spray. Should’ve thought. Didn’t.’ . Bite. Swat. Another. Bite at the neck. Swat. Another hum at his cheek. Shoo. . He slapped, wiped, shook them loose. Just a few minutes. The hum steady, growing, close in the ear, a high droning thread. Shoo. Swat. Shoo. Swat. . ‘Hands too slow. Need something. A little stick, like a wand. No. A fern.’ . He picked one. Wide fronds, green and wet. Swat. It thumped the air, fanned his face. Shoo. Swat. Another bite. Swat. . ‘Better. Fern’s better.’ Swat, swat. ‘Keep it moving.’ Shooing and swatting. A rhythm now. Shoo, swat. Shoo, swat. A drumbeat in the trees. . ‘Wear the fern. Mask. Can they get through? Over the head. No. Tuck it in the hat.’ . Two ferns. Like a veil. Shoo, swat. Shoo, swat. Constant. Bitten still, but slower. March and swat. March and swat. . ‘Don’t stop. They are waiting there.’ . Halfway, the trail bent right, and dirt gave way to sand—pale, shifting, soft. Canvas shoes floating above the sand. . ‘Same sand as the beach. The dunes. Left by glaciers, twelve thousand years retreating. Ancient ground. And me on it now, sweating, swatting, bit alive.’ . A rise ahead. Trail climbed to avoid low ground: swamp below, black pools rimmed by rushes. Still and quiet. Picturesque and foreboding both. . ‘Whose home is this? Not mine. Visitor? No. Intruder. A food supply.’ . Shoo, swat. Shoo, swat. He climbed. Breath ragged. Skin welted. Ferns on head and in hand, slapping, shooing. . At the top: swamp spread wide below, green basin, water dark as glass. Silent but for the drone, thin and unending. . The last stretch. Camp at last. A clearing ringed in pines, sandy ground. Two tents staked already. . “Welcome! How are you?” . “Good, thanks. What are you doing about the mosquitoes?” . A laugh. Short. Bitten raw. . “We brought bug spray,” the camper said. . “Does that work?” . “Ah. Sort of. We’ve an extra bottle. You can have it.” . Cool metal in his hand. Label blurred in the dim. . “Do I put it everywhere?” . “Pretty much. Eyes closed.” . He pressed the top. Hiss. Cold mist. Eyes shut. . ‘Poison for them. Not me. Bitter taste. Lips metallic. Drink, spit. Better bitter than bitten.’ . Two miles to the parking lot. Two miles of them.