06/05/2007

Generation Why

Benzie County summers are best

The ride

By ANDREA NELSON

Special to the Record-Eagle

As an 11-year-old growing up in Benzie County, I looked forward to the summer months when I would be able to ride my horse, Dennis, every day. The favorite destination of our horseback rides brought us through the forest into a large field that was owned by our neighbors.

It was a scorching summer day, and I could feel the heat of the sun creeping upon my body as Dennis and I stepped out of the barn. The gravel of the driveway crushed under his footsteps as we began our short walk to the field. I rode Dennis without a saddle, for his comfort and for mine. His soft fur rubbed against my bare legs, and I could feel sweat beginning to accumulate on his skin.

The sun disappeared behind the pine trees as we entered the forest, and I could feel my body cool down. Immediately, we were attacked by a combination of pesky flies and mosquitoes. They buzzed around us, looking for a prime place to land. I picked up the reins of Dennis' bridle and felt the soft leather between my hands as I urged him to outrun the swarm of bugs that surrounded us. His mane blew into my face as he began to run, and I could feel its coarse texture against my cheeks. The fresh smell of the trees and blossoms disappeared as we finally entered the clearing.

The green grass covered the field of hills that lay before us, and it was surrounded on all sides by the dense forest. I was overwhelmed by the aroma of the grass and wildflowers, and also by the sight of the vast blue sky that closely resembled Crystal Lake.

We sliced through the crisp air as we raced down the first hill. A cool breeze tore by my face and I felt like I was flying. Our movements were fluid as if we were one. Then he froze in his tracks. He stopped so suddenly that I was almost catapulted over his head to the hard ground below. The muscles in my legs burned as they fought to hold me upright. Over the years I have learned to trust the instincts of my faithful horse, so I knew that his behavior indicated that something was terribly wrong. Then I heard the vicious, high-pitched howl that could only belong to one animal in Benzie County — the coyote.

I could hear a pack of them in the valley of the hill that stood before us. Dennis stood perfectly still and alert with his ears facing forward, focused on the sounds of the coyotes. Without thinking, I quickly turned Dennis around and we fled in the direction of the barn. His hooves pounded against the ground as I yelled for him to run faster.

As we raced along the tree line, I heard the sound of branches snapping and leaves crushing under the weight of the coyotes as they ran parallel to us. Panic and fear rushed through my body, and Dennis did not hesitate as we reached the edge of the field.

We flew down the two-tracks, ignoring the low-hanging branches that slapped across our faces and bodies. I could feel his muscles contracting under my legs with every step he took. My hands ached from holding a tight grip on the reins and his mane.

It seemed like an eternity before we made it to the safety of the barn. Everything was quiet, except for the labored breathing of Dennis and the frantic beating of my heart. The coyotes had vanished into the forest just as swiftly as they had appeared.

I fed Dennis an apple to ease his nerves before I released him to the safety of the fenced-in pasture. Walking out of the barn, I looked toward the forest, wondering what other surprises it held for me in the future.

The feeling of summer

By SARAH CRUIKSHANK

Special to the Record-Eagle

Every summer, beginning when I was 5 years old, I would travel from my home in Oregon to Frankfort, Michigan, to stay at the old family cottage. The first couple of years I stayed there, the wood siding was painted white and peeling, the front porch's sturdiness was questionable, the couch was a dirty turquoise and everything else in the house followed in the same rundown manner.

It was the place of any kid's dreams. One of my greatest memories is that which could be anyone's, and although it may be pedestrian, I will always remember it as my favorite pastime.

I had come out of the house having just eaten lunch, feeling content with the day's work being done. As I stepped over the threshold, the sun lit upon my face. I could feel the screen door pushing against my palm and the difference between the smooth wood of the shed and the rough warmed concrete on the porch outside.

Book in hand, I stepped out and emerged into full sunlight. The feeling of warmth bathed my face and arms, my jean overalls started to collect the heat, and my black AC/DC shirt warmed my skin after the shade of the tool shed. My bare toes wriggled against the feel of the warm, sand-papery texture underneath.

Stepping off the porch, I felt the breeze ruffle my hair and the hard grass poke at my feet with each step. My callous-covered soles crushed the meadow grass, but it was not uncomfortable. It was the feeling of summer.

I walked out to the big climbing tree, set off a little way from the house, passing under the big oaks shading the house and our old, blue Ford farm truck. Suddenly, the old tree was looming above me and I was sheltered in its dark cooling shade. Reaching out with my free hand, I touched the large tree. The bark was coarse and stuck out at odd angles under my hand. I could see the little ants crawling along the surface, looking incredibly busy.

I stood under the lowest branch and tucked my book into the front pocket of my overalls. Reaching up towards the lowest limb, I jumped to take hold of it. The weight of my hand scraped my palms against the top of the branch and I let myself hang for a minute, just to feel it. I felt childish, playful. My leg wrapped around the same limb my hands were on, and I hauled myself up.

Sitting there, I felt the breeze against my face, the bark at my back. It felt as if the tree were urging me to make a home for myself under its concealing leaves. I could see out over the field and hear the grasses rustling together. The bright purple and yellow wildflowers complemented the grass, the woods, the old orchard trees, and even the weeds. The few peach trees were left huddled together as if for safety.

Taking a deep breath of fresh air, I stood up and crossed over to a slightly bowed branch. It was as though it were made just for me, molded to my body. I settled myself into the little nook, lying back and bracing the souls of my feet against the tree trunk. Feeling content, I took out my book, leafed through the dry pages to find my book mark, and started to read.

This is my paradise. This is my tree, my summer, my Michigan.

Sailing in the mists of Crystal Lake

By AARON WILLS

Special to the Record-Eagle

After I heard the obnoxious sound of the alarm, I scrambled to the phone to call my friend and wake him up.

I called him to double-check that I had a ride to the Crystal Lake Yacht Club. I quickly put on my swimming suit, grabbed my life jacket that was still damp from the day before, and took off running down the hill to my friend's house. While I was running, I realized that it was very damp, and that led me to believe we were going to have a storm. We got in the car for a quick ten-minute drive over to the west side of Crystal Lake.

Arriving at the yacht club, I realized that I had arrived sooner than my skipper. That meant that I had to rig most of the boat by myself. Most crews don't rig their boats by themselves because they don't know how to or they are too inexperienced.

The small sailboats were lined up in a row on the beach near the dock.

The halyards were banging on the masts; the sound of sails flapping in the wind grew louder as the wind picked up. I raced to the sail shed, grabbed the sail and took off in a hurry to take it to the boat.

My feet were in pain and were going to get sorer, as I had yet to make another trip over the gravel road that divided the boats and the shed. Once I retrieved the tiller, rudder and mainsheet, I busily started rigging the boat.

While I was busy with that, my skipper showed up, just in time to take over the rigging responsibilities. He was probably one of the best sailors in the junior fleet and definitely the tallest, standing at six feet six inches at only 16 years old.

Over-worried parents of the other sailors in the race started to complain as they saw very dark, threatening black clouds coming over the horizon. A gust of cool wind, which brought the scent of rain into the air, was another warning of the weather that was fast approaching.

Parents generally become filled with anxiety about their kids' safety on the water with all the potential dangers lurking. A drop of rain struck my face, and then a couple more, and pretty soon the moisture built up on my face. The rain had begun to trickle from my hair down my neck, giving me the chills. The storm had officially started.

The fleet commodore said that he thought we should be able to sail at least one race and maybe even squeak in a quick second race. Normally, there were two races twice a week. We sailed to the buoys at the starting line with the wind roaring and water splashing into our faces.

On the starting line, boats were coming into position; the five-minute warning horn was blown and then the minutes were seemingly disappearing as the one-minute flag went down.

Tempers flared and skippers yelled, as everyone jockeyed for the best position on the starting line. All of a sudden there was a thundering boom from the shotgun and the race was on. No one seemed to realize that it was pouring down rain until after the start because of the big adrenaline rush sailors get from the hectic start.

My skipper and I rounded the first buoy in first place with a generous lead. On our way downwind, some boats caught up to us, but they were unable to pass us. On the second leg of the race going upwind, my skipper and I crossed the finish in first place, which astonished both of us. We were amazed that nobody had passed us because we were the lightest boat out there.

Very soon after we finished, there was a loud echoing crack of thunder that made almost everyone on the lake jump; the bright flashes of lighting lit up the sky as if it were sunny.

The races were over and the mad dash into shore was on.

Spectating parents drove frantically around on motorboats to warn the junior fleet to get off the water as quickly as they possibly could.

All sailors, crewmembers, parents and the race committee safely arrived on the beach, and enjoyed warm hot chocolate in the yacht club. I will always cherish the memories of the boating and sailing adventures that I've experienced in Benzie County, a wonderful place for a young man to learn about life.