I lived in the city for more years than I’ve lived anywhere else, but now I live in the country. Some say I live in the wilderness, but that’s an exaggeration. I live in a place where few people live, but it’s hardly unpopulated.
The city, such as it is, isn’t far away, but I go there only when I have to. I do this by choice, not because I dislike people but because I dislike crowds. I shy away from too much noise and find I think better without the distractions the city can’t help but drag in.
I’m not a hermit by any stretch, but when I think about the places I might want to revisit they’re the places my family and I have discovered and selfishly want to keep to ourselves.
In my secret places there are no campfires, no beer cans, no human-borne flotsam to spoil their beauty. There are some signs that humans have been there but nobody broadcasts them. We had to find them on our own.
I call this “Mossy Glade." It is a place here on our island, not far from a park trail, but you have to be looking for it in order to find it. I like to pretend that I discovered it, but of course it was there long before I came along.
This is a scene not unlike any you might have seen somewhere else, but from this vantage point, it’s a one-of-a-kind. This is the place, wide and open, from which we can watch Northern Lights.
This is a swimming hole on a river that flows into Lake Superior. It is one of those places that generations of people know about and come back to, but its location is guarded against outsiders. If you thought to look, you would see that the side of the road has been carved into a pull-off, and that every now and then a car is parked there. But nothing about it would make you curious enough to stop and check it out. Nothing to see here. Move along.
This is a boardwalk and beach at the mouth of the St. Mary’s River. It is early spring and there are still ice floes on the water. Nobody else was there. Guess who was happy about that?
This is what is left of an old cemetery in the Keweenaw Peninsula. It is near what was once a thriving turn-of-the-century mining community. The ground is almost totally covered with myrtle and thimbleberry bushes, and the narrow, winding path seems eons old. The few headstones still visible are for people who came to this place from western Europe and the British Isles to start a new life during the copper mining boom more than a hundred years ago.
There is a small sign at the edge of the road, but most people drive right by. That suits those of us who make the pilgrimage nearly every year. It appears untouched and mystical and in need of quiet, and we wander through quickly without speaking above a whisper.
These are just a few of my favorite secret places. I may come back and do this again sometime. I have a feeling I’m not the only one who treasures private, special places. I won’t ask you to tell if you don’t ask me.
But pictures would be nice.
(Note: This is yesterday's NaBloPoMo entry, cross-posted from my blog, Constant Commoner. I got it in to the list under the wire last night but was too tired to post it here. Pathetic, isn't it? But so far I've done a blog a day for November. Only four more to go. Yay!)
Join me at Constant Commoner - Life in the Midst of It
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