jumpingfish › version 3.0

Two of a Kind

Sun, 13 Jul 2025, 10:36 AM (-06:00)

When we pulled up to the entrance of Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park at the western edge of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (where the sun lies to you about bedtime), the rangers said that they thought we had already arrived since there was someone in our campsite. One of them went dashing off in a pickup truck to reconnoiter the situation, and in the end, they took care of it.

As we were watching the folks who were in our spot pack up and move to a new spot, there was a knock on the car window. I rolled it down, and a woman with a smile on her face said, “Hi! We’re the other Vistabule.”

This was only momentarily confusing, as I followed where she was pointing (to the site immediately adjacent to the one being evacuated for us), and there was another silver teardrop just like ours, although their Outback was blue to our white.

Two of a kind right next to each other there in the Porkies. Who would’ve thunk it?

The Blue Kayaks

Sun, 13 Jul 2025, 08:11 AM (-06:00)

1.

It was a gray cloudy day. Dark skies hung over the forest on the western shore of the lake. There were two people in white shirts standing alone on the beach of the camp over there. They were taller than campers — must have been counselors. They stood on the sand without moving, then approached each other, and then disappeared up a hill behind a shed.

Use your imagination if you wish, but moments later one of them emerged carrying a blue kayak down to the waterfront. Then the other carrying another blue kayak. They set them on the sand by the water perpendicular to the waterline about ten feet apart from one another. And then they disappeared again, only to emerge with two more blue kayaks which they deployed in like fashion.

This repeated until there were eight evenly spaced blue kayaks on the sand, by which time campers had begun arriving.

2.

Soon the beach was mobbed with campers lining up in groups behind the blue kayaks. Each group seemed to have what was an orange-pink traffic cone. They milled around for a few minutes, and then the groups turned into lines of kids standing behind the kayaks. And then there was silence soon followed by cheering and screaming.

From this distance it was hard to see exactly what was going on. Amid the screaming it seemed one kid from each group would put the traffic cone on their heads and race to the water, plowing headlong into the lake. There was much splashing amid the cheering. Evidently the rules required them to keep the cones on their heads as they swam away from the shore to the dock out deep and then back, where they ran up the shore to the back of their kayak and handed off the cone to the next camper.

The shouting got louder. The sky darkened. A gentle rain began to fall. The campers paid no mind, and the chaos continued: kids splashing and screaming, running and swimming, tripping and handing off the cone to the next in line. The rain began to fall harder, but the relay race continued. And then everything went quiet. The campers lined up along the hill behind the beach. Passing out awards perhaps?

3.

After a few minutes, the campers left the beach in groups, winding their way up the stairs, disappearing into the woods at the top of the hill. And then, as the rain let up, all was quiet, and the lake water turned to mirror-glass with only two people in white shirts standing alone on the beach slowly carrying the blue kayaks off one-by-one.

Little Things

Sat, 12 Jul 2025, 06:47 PM (-06:00)

There is a strip of little stones along the walkway beside the cottage in the woods on the hill by the lake. Michigan stones with reds, grays, and blues; pinks, greens, and whites. The stuff of grinding glaciers and rushing streams. Stones smoothed by the years, gathered with care, intentionally set along the walk to accentuate it with some geology of this place, or perhaps just because they’re nice.

Recent years have had their way. Sand and leaves and pine needles and other flimflam had filled in the gaps, covered some of the rocks, muted their accentuation, diminished their niceness. And so it was time to dig in the dirt to clear the debris of those years. I suspect that in years past my mother likely tended to the stones, but she is not here to continue that work. So this year I assumed the flimflam-clearing role, taking sand and needles and leaves away one handful at a time now and then over several days — a project that terminated today.

At the end of the line where the stones stop, as I cleared the last handful, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little something slithering. A dark wiggling thing working its way between the stones. Too short for a snake, too long for a worm, it was a super slender salamander with a shiny brown body and tiny little legs.

A reward for tending to little things.

A Navigator Error

Mon, 7 Jul 2025, 05:32 PM (-06:00)

from Argyle Lake State Park, Illinois to Devil’s Lake State Park, Wisconsin

…

1. Park Entry

The day was sunny. The sky was a brilliant blue. There were white clouds floating by. We were arriving at the park early, but as we climbed the hills on the western boundary of the park, severe thunderstorm warnings flashed on the Fair and Industrious Trudy’s ever-monitoring phone. Dark black clouds were right behind us.

“It’s about to get bad,” I said to the woman at the check-in window.

“Oh really?” she said leaning out and peered up at a blue, sunny sky.

“It’s coming from the west,” I said, pointing at the hill behind us.

She glanced up, but there the storm wasn’t visible, yet.

2. Site Arrival

An error lead to our early arrival. We had originally intended to take a scenic route between Davenport and Dubuque. But with Trudy at the wheel, her navigator got confused and directed her to the direct route to Dubuque, a “shortcut” that likely saved an hour. We pulled in mere minutes ahead of the storm.

Once in our campsite on the north side of Devil’s Lake, Trudy rushed to the kitchen, and I hooked up the electricity and fed the hound. We snarfed down grilled sausage and zucchini and closed the galley door just as a fierce wind began to blow. It kicked up dust. It whipped the trees violently back and forth.

But before the rains began to fall, we climbed into the teardrop — fed, dry, and happy.

3. The Storm

The forest howled. Rain pelted the window. Branches fell from the canopy, smashing to the ground about us, crashing on the roof of our trailer.

“I saw a log fall out of the air,” a woman at the nearby campsite said the next morning as we all surveyed the mess. As we left the park, we took the road around to the south side of the lake. The mess was far worse there.

“You’ll have to drive in that way,” the woman at the south entrance said. “We’re still clearing the road.” She pointed behind her, where a tractor was cleaning up the mess. Trees had been uprooted. Trunks were splintered. Large branches lay in the roads. Part of the park concessions building was torn up and tossed on its side.

Yes, that was the storm we beat the night before, thanks to that navigator error north of Davenport.

Collecting Kindling

Sat, 5 Jul 2025, 03:23 PM (-06:00)

When collecting kindling, it is important to properly calibrate the sticks.

A Down Day

Sat, 5 Jul 2025, 02:30 PM (-06:00)

Argyle Lake State Park, Illinois

…

There was the requisite morning coffee (full disclosure: coffee for us while camping is instant, which honestly does the job admirably). There were eggs and bacon. And unlike many mornings on these north-south treks, we had no need to immediately pack up for another day on the road, since the Fair and Industrious Trudy had booked a two-nighter.

The idea is this: instead of exclusively using the teardrop as a motel on wheels, instead of the usual arrive-unpack-eat-sleep-eat-pack-depart cycle which leaves no down-time at all these parks, instead of that, a two-nighter once in a while makes getting there indeed feel like part of the vacation. That was the idea, at least.

But in this case the park had little going for it, and our reserved site was soul- and shadeless, making two days in the summer heat under the direct sun seem more like punishment than relaxation. When making these reservations, sometimes you have photos of the sites to help you, and sometimes you just have to trust your luck. This time we drew the short straw. As we ate our breakfast, we discussed skipping the second night.

In the event, we stayed. Trudy walked down to the park host and got us a new site away from other campers (including the one with a continually-running diesel pickup next to the trailer). We set up under the canopy of a medium-sized Bur Oak that promised to shade us nicely all the next day. And so day-2 be a down-day.

Indeed, the day was so down that even sitting in the folding chairs on the green sward of grass and blooming clover with bees buzzing around was too strenuous. And there came a time when we returned to the trailer under the shade of the young tree. In that shade, with blue sky all around us, white clouds floating by, and sunlight dancing on the lawn, we crawled in and left the doors open wide. Izzy curled up between us. There, having absolutely nothing else to do, we fell gloriously asleep.

And it was only just after breakfast.

Life on the Mississippi

Fri, 4 Jul 2025, 11:30 AM (-06:00)

Traveling from Pomme de Terre State Park in Missouri to Argyle Lake State Park in Illinois

…

1.

En route to Illinois, we chose a “scenic route” along the western shore of the Mississippi River. There were green dots along the road in our (yes) paper atlas. The narrow road twisted and turned. It passed thru green bottomlands of soybean and corn. It climbed up and down rolling hills — unexpectedly steep for our poor knowledge of eastern Missouri.

And then there was a blue sign by the side of the road.

It announced a scenic overlook. We slowed and turned into the forest to the right onto a two-rut road that climbed up the hillside. We muttered hopes that there would be a place at the top to turn around with the trailer, which of course there was. But there was in fact no scene to look out over. The forest had long since overgrown, and there was no hint of a valley, much less the mighty Mississippi. So without stopping, we drove around the loop, descended back thru the forest, turned back onto the road and continued on to Hannibal.

2.

Then we can to another blue sign with a right-pointing arrow, this one advertising a scenic overlook and a picnic table. So we slowed and again turned onto a two-rut road into the forest to the right.

We drove up the hill, this time confident of a turn-around. And indeed, at the top, there was a loop encircling a grassy knoll with a lone picnic table in the shade of two large Oaks. But again, there was no scene to see thru the overgrowth.

Strike two. We continued on to Hannibal.

3.

Yes. There was a third blue sign. I consulted with the Fair and Industrious Trudy, who said no, because by this time she had located Becky’s Ice Cream Shop and Emporium along the main drag in old town Hannibal. We continued on the road past the sign and descended into the Mississippi valley into Hannibal, Missouri, where there was a parking lot big enough for us and the trailer just off the main street.

Izzy and I found a bench in the shade across the street from the shop. Trudy walked over and got a cup of Huckleberry Chocolate ice cream. (This was Mark Twain’s Hannial, after all.)

Twenty minutes later, we were travelling northward again. But here’s the thing of it. Our scenic overlook and ice cream detours had put us sufficiently behind schedule that we really wanted to get going (never wanting to arrive after sunset to back in the trailer). And so although life on mainstream Hannibal a block away from the Mississippi River was thriving, we never did walk that one block over. And we never did go down to the river. And so while in Hannibal, we completely missed life on the Mississippi.

Fruiting Body

Fri, 4 Jul 2025, 10:53 AM (-06:00)

In Michigan. On the hill. By the lake. In front of the cottage. The size of two softballs. Emerging from the ground where another fruiting body stood last year.

What a “great” way to celebrate the fourth of July!

Tyler State Park

Fri, 4 Jul 2025, 09:46 AM (-06:00)

At Tyler State Park in North Texas on the first overnight on our northward trek.

…

Ants and Bee

I was sitting in a folding camp chair. On the ground in the dappled sun nearby, there was a flash of some sort. A fly or maybe a solitary bee was flopping in the dirt. Wait… that wasn’t it — the flopping bee was in a struggle with (I could barely see it from this distance) an ant. No… two ants. Make that three. Was the number of ants growing? Were others joining the melee?

To answer this pressing question, I continued to sit in that folding chair and watched a fourth ant wandering nearby the others. It seemed to be heading toward them, but then it passed the insectoidal struggle — missed it by that much. So no. Ants were not joining forces. But wait… the passer-by ant stopped, turned, and headed back. It missed the brawl again. Then stopped, turned back and forth in several directions, and headed directly into the fray.

So yes, the ant kingdom was indeed descending upon that hapless bee, whose flailing and flashing was by now slowing. The ants were getting the upper hand, and I couldn’t stay to watch the rest.

I stood up and walked away

Summer Breeze

Some time later, I somehow found myself in that folding camp chair again — viewing the land, enjoying the summer breeze. (This camp chair thing certain is a thing.)

A hummingbird was buzzing in the canopy of Oaks and alighted on a dead branch. It swiped its beak on its perch, first one way then the other. And then it came to attention. At guard, scanning the air in the distance. On guard for rivals.

Suddenly it swopped down from its perch, flying across the campsite to inspect a red bulb in the camp lights strung between two trees. It inspected the light closely, and then finding no nectar moved on to the next red bulbs down the line. Again finding no nectar and having exhausted the possibilities (as our string of lights is mercifully short), the hummingbird flew onto a nearby perch.

And after a few moments, it flew off into the forest.

Silent Sunday

Sun, 18 May 2025, 05:05 PM (-06:00)

#silentsunday