John Pepin

“No particular place to go, so we parked way out on the Kokomo. The night was young, and the moon was gold.”

— Chuck Berry

With the sun setting quickly off to my left, we followed the serpentine road north through the heart of this monstrous watershed.

We were headed to a cabin along the river to spend a couple days unwinding.

Over the past several minutes, as we negotiated the turns on this blacktopped road, we could see moonlight filtered through the trees casting a dim, yellow glow over the landscape.

But now, coming around a bend in the road, we saw the brightening, orangey-golden glow of a supermoon rising in a wide-open sky, its reflection floating on the rippled waters of a reeds-rimmed pond alongside the road.

I immediately pulled off onto the shoulder so we could soak in the beauty of the scene. I reached toward the back seat to grab my camera and got out of the car.

I crossed the road. My wife stayed in the car, opting to try to get a couple of pictures on her cellphone.

I snapped some quick pictures with my camera, but as I expected, the images I collected paled greatly in comparison to the glorious sight in front of us.

The moon was gigantic and enchanting.

I got back in the vehicle and started the car. I slowly pulled over the crunching gravel back onto the road and we continued into the gathering darkness.

My wife – the Queen of Shebis – said that no matter how often she sees the moon, she finds it to be incredible and she enjoys looking at it. I agreed.

As we passed through the outskirts of a small town, a gray-black-white nightbird of some sort, dove toward the passenger-side headlight chasing a bug or a bird out of the bright beam into the blackness.

In my quick view of this winged thing, I noticed it had the markings of either an owl or a nighthawk. Its swoop and wing motions reminded me more of the latter option, but I thought the nighthawks had already all gone south almost a month ago.

If it was an owl, it was likely a boreal owl or a northern saw-whet owl, it being rather small compared to the other owl options for this region.

Over the next twenty minutes or so, we passed through a lonely intersection at the edge of town, several small shops, including a gas station, restaurant and a few places to book a room for the night.

We continued past a wetland area with the wide and slow watercourse on one side of the road and the shores of Lake Superior on the other.

After we rounded a couple more turns and crossed a bridge over the river, we turned down a dirt road to find our dark and welcoming cabin.

We quickly unloaded the car and unpacked inside.

Coming back out, we stood listening to the quiet throbbing of the big river passing by in the darkness. The moon now high above us was partially eclipsed with the Earth’s shadow taking a green-cheese nip out of the top of the cookie-shaped moon.

After seeing that the shadow was not going to spread any wider, we went back inside to crawl under the divine darkness of the cabin and the sheet and blankets on the bed.

Fresh air and good sleep will always remain a winning combination for me.

The next morning, we were up early, finding the river as still and reflective as if it was made of mercury. Despite this appearance, it was clear that a determined current was at work beneath the surface.

I watched a few ducks fly over and admired the tall pines that towered over the roof of our cabin. The morning sunshine bathed their branches.

After a fine egg scramble breakfast, we headed back upstream along the blacktopped road to walk along other sections of the river.

These places were home to powerful waterfalls and rapids now diminished by the lateness of the season and a recent lack of rainfall.

Still, these were beautiful and tremendous places to be. We hiked down and up and down and up and back again. Afternoon found us trading the riverside for the lakeshore.

We stuck our feet and then our legs up past the knees in Lake Superior. Even though the big lake was often its warmest at the end of summertime, the icy chill of the water stabbed right through us – strong and sudden.

However, after just a couple of minutes, we became acclimated to the cold water and stayed in it, looking through the clear view to thousands and thousands of colorful and water-worn rocks on the lake bottom.

We reached to grab several small stones we each considered beautiful to look at. We showed each other our finds, but ultimately didn’t take any rocks home with us.

In all, we hiked a little over five miles during the day.

After we enjoyed some bratwursts we grilled back at the cabin, with darkness falling again, we decided to drive up to the point.

The beach sand had cooled, and it felt good on my bare feet. The supermoon was on the rise again. We had walked out to the beach to see it.

We looked across the water to find a curious sight.

On the Canadian shore, very low in the sky, we saw dozens and dozens of red lights glimmering in the darkness within the vague outline of a shadowed coastline. This was a night view of one of Canada’s biggest wind farms.

I thought about the unfortunate juxtaposition between the wind farm and the important bird migration route designated on this side of the international border – another head scratcher.

We stood at the rim of a swale as very cool air drifted in from somewhere and enveloped us. The change from warm air temperature to this very noticeably colder condition was unexpected, but it felt good.

We could hear the waves rolling in to the shore, even from this spot.

Back at the cabin, we lit a campfire and sat alongside it for a couple of hours, burning down the one bundle of wood we had. It was a beautiful night to be outside. We stared up at the tree canopy that was lit up in firelight.

We could see a few stars. There was a reported chance to see the northern lights, but I think the light of the supermoon significantly challenged that idea where we were.

We enjoyed talking and just being there with no particular place to go or have to be.

We hadn’t brought fishing poles or bikes or our inflatable boat or any of our camping gear. The only thing I had with me was my camera. We were on a getaway to get away and that was all we needed and wanted.

It was a wonderful respite.

At about 3 a.m., I stood silently outside at a wooden fence rail listening to fish jumping in the river. I don’t know what kind they were, but they were big. The sound continued for a long while.

I also heard the bird-like sounds of spring peeper frogs singing from the wetlands on the other side of the river, seemingly started up by the warmer than usual autumn temperatures.

Perhaps in response, there were a few occasional peeps from chickadees or sparrows coming from the bushes and the trees surrounding our cabin.

I enjoyed being out there with most of the rest of this part of the world likely in bed asleep. Once in a great while, I heard a car running up along the blacktopped roadway crossing the river bridge.

Like various seasons or times of the year or days of the week have an individual feel, the hours of the day can be felt in much the same way. Among the differences, 3 a.m. usually has a quiet, sleepy welcoming way about it – it’s a special time to experience outdoors.

In just a few short hours, we would be packing up to head back home again.

At that time, the river would look like mercury again with kayakers cutting their paddles through the silvery surface of the water to move upstream. There would be anglers on the water hoping to hook into one of those big jumpers.

Our plan was to take the scenic route back along our way, over dirt roads rather than the blacktop we rode in on. We’d find more opportunities to get out of the car to look over the woods and waters that initially drew us here.

As getaways go, this one had been a great one.

We were all but gone.

Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.