Behind us, the town of Grand Marais sprawls beneath the green outline of the Sawtooth Mountains. My daughter, granddaughter and I are sitting on the beach, skipping rocks in the cold still waters of Lake Superior.
But 6-year-old Natalie becomes restless. She’d done this yesterday. I consider taking her out to the lighthouse, but she’d also done that. An inspiration hits.
“I’ve got a special place I’ll take you to.” I announce. “You’ll like it.”
I tell my daughter and she agrees. We hop into the car and soon reach a nearby stretch of Lake Superior.
The beach, neither sandy nor pebbly, is filled with large, sometimes gigantic rocks, which frequently drop to the lake in small cliffs or jut out in rocky peninsulas. Small mossy water pools fill rock hollows. Orange lichen and green moss dapple the large slabs.
Today, Lake Superior shows her placid side. Calm waters reflect the robin egg blue of the sky. The horizon glows with an incandescent pearly white.
But a 6-year-old doesn’t stop to admire the view for very long.
“Come on Grandma. Let’s go over there.” She points to an intriguing pool of shining water mirroring the sky. Getting there involves an up and down climb over several large rocks and crossing a small crevice.
“Umm.” I had planned to sit on a rock and admire the view, but my inner self scoffs Quit acting like an old lady—and I answer, “Okay, but stay away from the edge of the lake.”
“And don’t jump,” my daughter instructs. “Okay,” says Natalie as she jumps. But she does stay away from the rocks that plunge into the water.
“I’ll lead the way,” I feel it necessary to maintain some control by picking the safest route.
We clamber over the rocks. My daughter remembers doing this when she was growing up. She recalls picnics and beach rambles as a child and family outings on Lake Superior when our huge Labrador retriever swam through the waves as if he were in a swimming pool.
We climb up and down, around and about. Over small crevices and around seemingly impassable rock outcroppings.
We sit on bench-like rock formations and plunge our feet into warm water pools. All the while, the sun shines benevolently above and the lake shines with a crystalline smile. We travel much, much, farther than I planned. It’s difficult to stop. Around every bend, Natalie exclaims over another delight— sometimes an especially deep brilliant orange lichen splotch or the flock of seagulls anxiously circling a large-island like rock. She’s charmed by the bluebells and tiny white flowers that sprout from rock crevices.
But finally, I glance at my watch and realize we must turn back.
This time, Natalie leads the way. My daughter follows and I lag behind. Although my knees feel a bit rusty and I know my legs will stiffen tomorrow, I’m thankful that, once again, I’ve been able to enjoy the world through the unjaded eyes of a child.
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