Up North

And always capitalized, as every good Michigander knows.  Where Up North begins is a matter of some conjecture.  For some, it's hard and fast - the 45th parallel of latitude, which cuts through Michigan at the tip of the ring finger.  The line runs through Sutton's Bay on the west shore of the Grand Traverse, reportedly bisecting the griddle at the 45th Parallel Cafe.  For others, it's the Mackinac Bridge, another seventy-odd miles to the north.  But for Pat and me, Up North is more a state of mind than a line on a map.  And states of mind - especially at my age - can be a little fuzzy.  There's a point on M-127 north of St. Johns where the road narrows and you come to Uncle John's Cider Mill and maybe stop for a break.  If you get out of the car when the wind is blowing just right (by which I mean due south from the Straits of Mackinac, still 200 miles away) you may sense something different in the air: a molecule or two of something tangy and fresh mixed in there with the stale coffee and the diesel fumes.  You're not quite Up North, but you're getting close.  And so you keep driving and you notice - actually, now you're looking for it - that there's pines, and spruce and junipers lurking around in the oaks and maples on the side of the road.  You are definitely closer.  You pull off onto M-115 for the diagonal 50 mile shot into Cadillac, and then somewhere on that two (occasionally three) lane road as you close in on the Manistee National Forest, you sense that you've crossed the divide.  Your breath comes easier.  Your heart rate goes down.  That tang in the air is palpable.
You pop some oldies into the Malibu's CD player and sing along with Don and Carol and Carley and if you can find it, Revolver.  Then you turn north at Mesick and 15 minutes later you're driving through Buckley, and you turn in your seat to tell Pat about the twin sisters from Buckley who won a trip to Shanghai for a modeling competition and got so drunk on the plane that it turned around in the middle of the north Pacific and the crew kicked them off in Fairbanks, and Pat just listens and smiles even though she's heard the same exact story every single trip for the past ten years, both on the way up and on the way down.
Another thirty minutes and you hit the far south end of Traverse City and continue on until you bump into the Bay and you 'oooh' and 'aaah' at the blue water for five minutes while you turn left and left again at Tom's Market and then start the mile drive uphill, and you don't even remember to curse the fact that Pat talked you into a ridiculous little four cylinder engine, which presently sounds like it's tearing itself apart while every other car on the road, and a guy on a bicycle, passes you by.  You head west, past a few gas stations, and developments that - thank God - never ever got developed, and the lone home of the proud mother of three Marines with a flag pole for each and then, if it's spring, you look into the ditches and the shade at the side of the road, and there's the trillium - first dozens, then hundreds of them, delicate white flowers growing in the grass and weeds.  If by now you're totally in the Up North zone you miss the abrupt turn that points you to Glen Arbor, but if you're truly in The Zone, you don't care 'cause it's a state of mind - not a state of miles - and you keep going straight because you know the sand dunes are somewhere ahead of you and they will be glorious because they're always glorious.  If you made the turn, though, then it's up the hill, past the scenic turnoff that hasn't had a decent view in 50 years because of the riot of trees, then up and down and down some more until the stop sign, then the right and immediate left across the bridge that separates the two Glen lakes, then through the woods next to Glen Lake and past the houses - some from the turn of the last century, some from the mid - until the road opens and Anderson's Market appears, along with - if you're lucky, a fox or a deer.  You catch a glimpse of Lake Michigan as you turn left, but it disappears in the trees as you take M-22 west, not certain whether you want to speed up and get there ten seconds sooner, of just enjoy the ride.  Then you see the sign on the side of the road.  It doesn't say Up North.  It doesn't need to.  You slow down and take the winding, quarter mile drive through the tamarack.  You get out of the car.  You breathe.  You smell pine needles, bark, water.  You stretch.  If you are not completely in The Zone, you unpack the car.  But if you are, you leave the car - unlocked! - and run to the front of the house and then down through the dune grass and the sand to the narrow wooden walkway past the fire pit almost to the beach.  You may find you have your camera in your hand.  If you do, you take a picture.  If you don't, it doesn't matter.  Nothing matters.   For a week, nothing will matter.  You're Up North. 

Glen Arbor, MI.  November 2012.  Late Afternoon