Five Seasons in the North Woods

Michigan, my love...

Pellston, a tiny airport with two gates whose log cabin decor scheme is dominated by plaid carpet, hand carved wooden signs, and taxidermy animals. Deer, black bears, a mountain lion, and an array of aquatic life. A very particular vibe. Beyond the snowshoes and antlers placed gingerly next to Delta signage or the close proximity to Pellston, it’s the take off that’s my main motivation for starting a journey from this airport and not the larger (six gates) Traverse City, 90 minutes away.

To fly out of Pellston means seeing the most familiar of places from the air, a splendid mess of trees and water. To look upon Little Traverse Bay and know somewhere in the elbow of the bay, tucked in amongst the dense forest, sits my home. The neighborhood’s architects knew what they were doing because you can’t spot a single house from the air. As much as I want to point and say to myself “there it is,” there’s comfort in only being able to wash my hand over a general area of treetops. Follow the shoreline northwest to the snug nook of downtown Harbor Springs and further west to see the bay open up into the mass of Lake Michigan.

Today the water is white. A thick sheet of ice has frozen over the bay, then been frosted with snow from a winter colder and more flush with snow than I’ve ever experienced. I was here for the entirely of last year’s excruciatingly long winter, but it never got cold enough to fully freeze the waters I swim in all summer. I’d walk the beach in January and witness true Michiganders taking cold plunges almost every single day. One burly neighbor would walk in and out of the frigid water in his swim trunks with the casual ease of someone taking a dip mid July. (For my neighbors reading this: yes, I’m talking about Lou. No one but Lou would approach mid winter swimming with such stoicism.)

This winter, the lake is a frozen tundra, barren but for the few ice fisherman who erect tiny metal structures that make me nervous for their trust in the ice’s stability. I know this body of water better than any other, have plunged in for countless swims, strolled the shoreline, sunbathed with friends, watched sailing regattas on the horizon, eaten chicken salad on paper plates with an Arnold Palmer by my side, danced at parties, posed for pictures in the dunes, sand sticking to my thighs, arms, neck every time. Driving into town the road hugs the shore, offering sights of water and sailboats throughout the journey. Summer things. To see white instead of blue left me bewildered weeks after the initial shock of encountering it for the first time. Then and each day that followed I wondered how far the ice extended. Now, from the air I could see it break just past Charlevoix in the south, but along the north shore the ice continues wide all the way to what I think is Good Hart. All the inland lakes are bloated white dots in the landscape.

I am leaving home. That slippery word: home. When I’m not in Michigan, I tell people I’m from Michigan. Technically, it’s not true. I was born in Ohio and spent the core of my teen years in Hong Kong. I’ve moved constantly as an adult. The one consistent throughout my life: summers Up North. A lifetime of running through the woods, laser focused on as much beach time as possible. Falling asleep under a riot of stars, waking to a canvas of trees out every window. The place that has always felt like home.

I first visited Harbor Springs at two months old, a baby in a basket carried through the woods to and from the beach and a rented cottage. We returned each summer, car packed to the brim, a large Igloo cooler separating Nick and I in the back seat. Eventually, my parents bought a cottage in the community that had become so cozy in its familiarity. Each summer I’d fly in or drive from wherever I was living at the time, inevitably changing my return date to stay a few days longer because I couldn’t bear to leave the woods. For reasons I’ve never quite figured out, whenever I do yoga, a film reel of driving along Little Traverse Bay runs through my mind the entire class. In my mind, the water is always sparkling on a summer’s day.

Always and forever this has been my summer oasis. Just after Thanksgiving 2023, I transitioned from living in Rome to an experiment I dreamt up in the heat of August: a winter alone in the north woods. I had been fantasizing about doing an artist residency in the winter, a cabin in the woods scenario when I realized I already had the framework at my disposal. My snowbird parents who flee the frigid north for Florida in mid October looked at me wide eyed but I convinced them I was game. It would be fun.

For the most part, it was not. I was one of six full time residents in a neighborhood of over a hundred summer homes living alone in a house built for a family. There were plenty of locals further afield, but I was self conscious about being a “summer person” infiltrating the off season. It was darker and quieter than I had ever imagined. I never skied because I don’t know how and late thirties is an idiotic time to learn, but I did walk through the snowy woods and along the lake nearly every day, my tomato red hat making me easy to spot for the same three people I’d cross paths with. I was awed by the winter silence on my walks, and entirely freaked out by it at night. I made a handful of new friends but spent the majority of those months alone in the woods working through my ambitions in life and how to run a better and more sustainable business. I wrote every week, stoked fires, pieced together jigsaw puzzles, and exchanged over a hundred hours worth of voice notes and phone calls with far away friends. Winter dragged on well into what everyone else called spring — fresh leaves, ferns, and flowers not appearing until mid-May. It nearly broke me, but a week’s escape to London in late April saved my spirit.

I ended up living the entirety of 2024 in the woods of Northern Michigan. In the summer my parents returned and I welcomed them to their own home. Twice a week my dad and I ventured to the farmer’s market, driving along the shore, swapping stories and recipe ideas. I made orzo salad and peach pound cake for my mom to take to book club. I went to countless dinner parties at Caroline and Noah’s, laughing late into the night. I watched boats be blessed, fireworks burst, sandcastles crumble, friends’ children grow, and dazzling sunsets still damp from an evening swim.

In autumn, I saw the Aurora and was equally stunned and disappointed. I was not prepared for my phone to capture something more dramatic than my own eyes. Each day more boats would disappear from the harbor, kayaks and paddleboards were pulled from the dunes, lounge chairs pilled up and packed away. The trees turned yellow and the woods quieted again. Vibrant to barren in a matter of weeks. The depth of winter was on the horizon and I was due for a second go at it. But first, I dashed off to Italy and returned to Michigan on the exact same day I had arrived a year earlier. Parallel scenarios with different attitudes. The previous year I pulled up to our cottage in the dismal grey of late November and immediately questioned if I had made a horrible decision. This time, I was excited to be back, sliding over ice in the Pellston parking lot, brushing six inches of snow off my car. I was back for only two weeks before leaving again but I kept paying attention to the deep comfort I now felt in the quiet north woods, void of the familiar summer buzz.

December found me in Florida, Lisbon, and Paris. A classic holiday itinerary. By January I was back in Harbor Springs for two months of deep winter hibernation. And I loved it. It snowed nearly every day and was laughably cold. A family of deer frequented the brush in front of the house, kicking up snow and digging through leaves to eat who knows what. I breezed through audiobooks on the history of France, tales of grand boulevards and barricades whilst piecing together puzzles depicting breakfast cereals and floral arrangements. Caroline and I met in town for lunch, panicking about politics and her dissertation over tuna melts and hash browns. I trudged through snow past my knees and was on a high after spending an hour digging my car out of the frozen flakes. I made an abundance of soups until I got tired of soft vegetables. I wrote each week and swapped voice notes a plenty. I sent a deposit for an apartment sublet and bought airfare to Paris.

A new chapter on the horizon, with an interlude visiting my parents in Florida because they’re nice people and let’s face it, March in Michigan is a downer and tropical foliage is a solid antidote. Harbor Springs has been my emotional home since I was a child, and it’s been my physical home base for the past fifteen months. To pack bags, turn off the water, and close the door behind me this morning knowing I won’t return until July was a strange experience. Like saying goodbye to a faithful sidekick. I’m thrilled for what’s ahead, but I can’t downplay my love for my home.

For two and a half years I’ve been working towards moving to Europe. And I’m just not there yet because Michigan has more of a hold on me than ever. I can’t quit her.

At six I was given an assignment somewhere that has since been framed and hangs in our home: “If I could leave my footprints anywhere in the world it would be Harbor Springs, Michigan because it is so pretty. I love the cold cold water. I love it at night it is so pretty with the stars and lights. I love the nature smell in the morning. I like the sound of the big waves crashing upon the shore. Bye bye for now.”

I still feel the same. The “nature smell” this morning was spectacular, and it will be again, come summertime. So, as I so eloquently said in 1993: my dearest Michigan, bye bye for now.