Tales from Beaver Island

The Beaver Moon, the Beav, and the Magic of Ruby's Chalet

Linda J Sack

Nov 19, 2024

November 17, 2024

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Dear Friend,

After an arduous four-hour drive yesterday from Detroit to Charlevoix, Michigan, my bestie, Ruby, and I boarded a small plane heading for Beaver Island. The flight, lasting just about 12 minutes, takes you over 32 miles of spectacular Lake Michigan. Eight adults and two pups did what we always do while being air lifted across that lake: stared out the windows, mesmerized at the beauty of that vast inland sea.

As we disembarked, a long-time island resident asked me, “Did you hear about the Three Sisters forcing the Emerald Isle ferry to reroute and return to shore?”

Not sure whose sisters she was referring to, I shook my head. “No—what happened?”

“The boat headed out into rough waters that day—nothing unusual. A pretty choppy ride. Then out of no where, a giant wave lifted them sideways. They changed course to get out of the path of the monster wave, but another one reared up before them from that direction. They were damn lucky to have avoided a third. They actually turned back to shore. They call those waves the Three Sisters. These were at least ten feet high.” Maybe higher.

Rogue waves rise to a height more than double that of other waves around them. Legend has it that “three sisters” likely contributed to the terrible shipwreck in Lake Superior that drowned twenty-nine crew members in 1975. You may know of the story. Gordon Lightfoot wrote about it in his famous song. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

“Those Three Sisters waves caused many of the shipwrecks around this island,” my island friend said. “You know what prevents them today? Technology.”

“That’s one of many reasons why I don’t ride the ferry anymore,” I confessed. “Big waves—no thanks.” (It took but one bout of seasickness to make me a semi-frequent flyer on Beaver Island’s Fresh Air planes.)

In contrast to the ferry’s voyage days earlier, our flight over was just perfect. No turbulence. We flew over a sea of glassy turquoise, just under puffy clouds. Here’s a three second clip from my window seat.

Ruby and I then walked to my old 2004 Chevy Blazer parked along the edge of the small airport’s grassy lot. I’m crossing my fingers as I pull out my keys, since “The Beav” hasn’t been driven since June and, well, he’s old.

The Beav’s name came from Theodore “Beaver” Cleaver’s nickname from the 1957-63 television series, “Leave it to Beaver.” His crunched bumper corner is a battle wound from a “Boodle” on Beaver Island. More on that later!

He starts right up, proving my doubts wrong, and I shift him into first gear to pull forward. His transmission has seen better days. As we all do in our elder years, he needs special care to get us where we need to go. We have to start in first gear to get going, then gradually move through second and third in order to make it into “drive.” And he makes it. Good ol’ boy!

I’d received a text upon landing from one of my dearest friends, Becca. She was heading to the north shore to capture a photograph of the rising full moon rising, as the sun was setting. Somehow, our paths crossed at exactly the right moment, because the next thing I know, Becca’s navy blue truck all “browned” from Beaver Island’s dirt roads is right in front of me. I follow her as she turns onto Lake Street, our brown trucks crunching down the stony dirt road to the shore.

I hop out, lifting Ruby gently to the ground. Becca comes to greet us with a great hug and a sweet scrub of Ruby’s sides, setting her tail a-wagging. Ruby adores Becca—and she’s so happy to be at the beach. Becca’s already scanning the sky in search of the moon, but this November Beaver Moon is playing hard to get.

Meanwhile, the first thing I notice upon getting out of my old clunker car is the smell of burning something. I pop the hood and start pulling out dipsticks and checking fluid levels. Oil is okay. Transmission fluid is not.

For the last few years, the Beav’s transmission has been developing rheumatism, shall we say. Really having trouble shifting gears, leaking fluid like Henry’s bucket, and making horrible grinding noises. Many trips to the island mechanics for various repairs have left the Beav functioning, but quite disabled. So, I’ve had to fill up those fluids over the years. Thank God I had a bottle or two handy in the car for just this occasion. My first visit to the beach was spent playing Mrs. Goodwrench.

The Beaver Moon Appears

The full moon did not expose itself last night, but tonight, what a glorious sight. Becca’s talent for capturing stunning displays of nature does not disappoint. The Beaver Moon happened to fall on my mother’s 87th birthday this year. So I celebrate her as I behold Beaver Island’s annual namesake moon.

Photo by Becca Foli. You must check out Becca Foli Photos Instagram Page to see her extraordinary work. And to meet her woodland creature pals.

As I awoke this morning after a tumultuous night, up and down for hours trying to settle my over-stressed puppy after a drive she hated, my heart was full of excitement to be on the island and at my beautiful little home, but also full of sadness. Exhaustion from no rest contributed to my weary state.

In that emotional overwhelm, I found myself pensive, mug o’ tea in hand. The drive up has been increasingly difficult for Ruby in recent years, stressing her immensely, in spite of my many efforts to make it relaxing for her. Seeing her suffering causes me much sorrow.

In the fresh and undeniable fatigue of this turbulent transport to the island, I am forced to reckon with this reality: it is all just simply too much for Ruby and I on our own.

The demands required to prepare for time away from work seem immense for me. Having to haul supplies and maintain the house for guest rental (Ruby’s Chalet is listed on AirBnB at Beaver Island Artists Retreat) overwhelms me. Driving four hours with my panicked, weary puppy is physically and emotionally draining. And then, having to spend my visit working—it all dampens the joy of my magical island experience.

This island holds extraordinary wonders within its sandy borders. Treasures within its shorelines. I’ve never experienced such a pristine, unexploited place on earth. Part of it is the islanders’ determination to preserve its simplicity. They will not allow the commercialism that exploits many vacation destinations to ruin the island’s natural beauty and historic charm.

I come here to escape the vacuousness created by developers as they replace Michigan’s rich forests, marshes, and wildlife habitats with architecturally characterless sprawling suburbs. I come here for the heavenly quiet of my forested neighborhood, currently surrounded only by winter-hardy creatures like squirrels, deer, and a few remaining birds. I come here to notice things I miss when I’m in the city. Like the calls and peeps of these guys:

The Golden-crowned Kinglet and Downy Woodpecker sang to me this morning.

Today, it is sunny, and the bright shafts of light stream through the wall of windows stretching across the back of the chalet. The forested hillside just beyond the campfire pit is glowing with golden auburn maple and oak leaves. And the evergreens — they surround the front of the lot near the road, providing such shelter, privacy and safety.

The house is set so perfectly in a little cove surrounded by fern, maple, oak and beech-covered ridges.

In my remaining time here, I’ll be preparing for winterizing the house, painting a wooden picture frame, heading out with Ruby for a walk on the beach, and savoring a slow hike in the golden leaves on one of the many historic, wooded trails of Beaver Island.

I hope you’ve enjoyed coming along with me, glimpsing just a wee bit of the magic of this precious place. Would you drop a like heart or a comment in the chat? It would mean so much to me.

Excerpts from Wonderworld

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