My favorite place to exist

You’re never that far from the road in Grand Marais, Minnesota.

You might think this would detract from the meditative scenery of the North Shore, being so close to such a stark indicator of civilization, but in reality so few cars pass by that the road blends in to the trees around it that stand close together, like bristles on an old-fashioned hairbrush. In this setting the road becomes a reminder of the space between you and other towns, towns with no lake air and people who’ve never even heard of this place.

Not that I would boast to have discovered some hidden phenomenon in Grand Marais, as the town itself is anything but undiscovered. It’s pretty much a tourist town, a quaint gathering of shops and locally famous eateries, its one lighthouse stretching out into the cold, clear waters of Lake Superior, tethered to the rest of the world by a thin strip of algae-skirted boulders.

Venture out onto this man-made peninsula, braving the playful lake spray as it threatens to soak your ankles. Stand facing the horizon, where on a good day the shore opposite you is hidden by a bank of low-hanging clouds, and a brisk wind will flap the unzipped corners of your jacket. The air smells like the cold fog on a metal spoon just removed from the freezer. You can almost forget you’re a part of the world, so far out on the water.

My favorite place to exist is a few miles past the town’s nucleus, on a stretch of rock-strewn beach where a driftwood log sits halfway between the shoreline and the road. I close my eyes and I’m there again, the sun filtering through the clouds to gild the surface of the lake. To either side of me the corners of the beach curve inward, grass and evergreens tapering down to thin points, like the flourishing ends of a grandmother’s cursive script.

If I were blind I could be perfectly content right here, cradled by the stolidly paternal waves, almost still in their ancient rhythm, like the breath that flows in and out of your lungs whether or not you acknowledge it. It’s hard to imagine feeling dissatisfied in a place so serene.

On my desk is a small ovular stone. Its black color has a richness to it I can’t really describe, and it’s so smooth, like polished marble without all the pomp. I like to hold it in my hand and imagine I’m there on the beach I took it from, a little chilly in an overgrown sweater, watching the morning mist dissolve into sunlight. It’s like receiving a postcard from an old friend.

Wish I were there.