The Lake Where You Live

Grandson Tucker insists that Noelle and I live in paradise here on Birch Lake. We’re so used to it that usually it doesn’t feel that way — it’s just home.

Then comes October, and we’re reminded how special it is to live here on the water and in the woods. I’m reminded all the more when life takes me elsewhere for a spell just as autumn’s color nears its peak.

I had to be in Chicago October 1-4, spending the days at an international trade show housed in a large hall, barely a window in sight. Each day I rode a shuttle bus through downtown traffic between the convention center and my hotel. 

Evenings I walked a few blocks to a restaurant, standing in crowds at corners waiting for the WALK light, hearing the sirens of police cars, smelling car exhaust and diesel fumes from buses. 

The Chicago River, its water a pleasant blue-green, cruise boats lined up like toys along the bordering walls, actually looked inviting, though not nearly as appealing as Birch Lake seen from the bench on our pier.

The pedestrians I met mostly wore stoic faces and resolutely avoided eye contact. They struck me as unhappy, though I’d bet most are content living and working where they do; I was probably just projecting my discontent onto them.

Anyway each evening, leg-weary from walking the exhibit floor, I found an eatery not too far away, took my meal, and went back to the hotel, where my window overlooked the next-door building’s rooftop and, in the remote distance, Lake Michigan, and a Ferris wheel that after dark lit up in a circular rainbow.

All the while I wondered what I was missing back home. In the last days of September the maples were peaking in brilliant oranges and yellows and numerous tones and shades of red. In the middle of the big city, all I saw were a few scrawny street trees, leaves yellowing sadly. 

I had driven to Milwaukee and had taken the Amtrak from there to Chicago’s Union Station. 

On the return train trip, longing as I was for Northwoods, the line’s bleakness struck me. Inter-urban commuter trains don’t run scenic routes.

Warehouses. Semi-trailer staging lots. Graffiti-covered nether sides of old brick buildings. Forlorn expanses of marsh. Fields of corn turned brown. Long strands of telephone lines strung on ancient gray poles. Gravel pits. 

Automobile boneyards. And then finally the Milwaukee intermodal station.

I joined the line of disembarking passengers, made my way across the street to the parking lot, climbed into the car and drove north. 

Four-and-a-half hours later I made it home, after dark. The brown oak leaves on the driveway hinted at what I had missed. In the morning I saw that the tree foliage all around had thinned. 

The maple seen from my office window that days ago flamed dazzling yellow now stood utterly bare.

In my few days away the always-fleeting crescendo of color had come and gone. Now the oaks still holding their leaves will turn their more muted shades of orange and russet and purple. At least I still have that to look forward to.

Ted Rulseh is a writer, author and lake advocate who lives on Birch Lake in Oneida County. His new book, “Ripple Effects,” has been released by UW Press. You can learn about it by visiting his website at https://thelakeguy.net.