(No less an authority than the National Geographic pronounced Torch the second most beautiful lake in the world).

My eyes blinked open around 0600 this morning, and I briefly considered what bed I might be in. It seemed familiar enough, and then I realized I was actually in my own bed, and safe and sound after a 1,500 epic land cruise from Your Nation’s Capital to the stunning beauty of Up North Michigan.

I recalled that I was actually unpacked, though the Panzer is going to need a thorough vacuuming after the crumbly disaster of that tasty baguette I got at Carlson’s in Fishtown on the shore of the Big Lake.

There were a couple hundred emails I probably had to deal with, though I could barely get my interest engaged. It had been nearly a week without opening the laptop, and between the fatigue, sun-burn and mild case of alcohol saturation. Many faithful correspondents had become concerned as to my whereabouts and/or safety. I hasten to assure you that it was mostly safe, only involved a handful of high-performance jets and high explosives, and the most challenging bit might have been the dismount from the outdoor shower with the panoramic view of the Manitou Islands off Leeland.

And a panoramic view of me, too, I suppose, though I did not notice anyone looking.

This morning, I blinked in the comforting darkness and considered how the whole kaleidoscopic trip had gone down. What saved the frustration of the drive was the serene distraction of two distinctly good audio books. The one that occupied me on the stultifying drive across Pennsylvania and Ohio was “The Likeness,” by Tana French and narrated by a young Irish woman named Heather O’Neill. Her lilting voice was captivating, and quite made me forget the fact that everything on the major highways to the Northland was under construction.

In general chaos, it was a delayed departure from Big Pink on Friday DC to Elyria, OH, then a 0500 early launch to Bellaire, MI, two days on Torch Lake with a cast of visiting Swedish lovelies, fighter pilots and Frontier Rangers, the grandson (of course) and conversations that started out with bon mots like “My pilots didn’t like my last jet.”

The highlight of the journey was, of course, the sight of a very happy 19-month-old lad at our visit on the compound at the foot of the lake, and his girlfriend, the three year old who refused to keep her clothes on. The hosts sighed looking at the little girl, and said they had the same problem with their daughter. I asked how old she was to see when the tyke would grow out of this phase. They said their daughter was 46.

As a proud grandfather, I could smother you with pictures of the lad, but in light of the vulnerabilities of social media, all concerned have agreed not to give him a web-presence until he wants to do it himself.

There was food in abundance- the breakfast on Saturday was a feast beyond belief and started the adult beverage hour on that day, and there were private fireworks back at Dee’s place at Torch in a volume that rivaled that of a moderate Midwestern town. There was a sea of vodka, with the conclusion of the Irish murder mystery, another chilling account of a serial killer on the loose in Stalin’s paranoid last days in the USSR. “Child 44,” is the name of it, written by Tom Rob Smith and narrated by a personable fellow named Dennis Boutsikaris. I could swear, I got so wrapped up in the story that FBI Director Comey’s bizarre press conference quite slipped by me.

Then a drive to Traverse City punctuated with the Blue Angel’s final show of the holiday visit, the Big Lake, old pals, crowded drive to Detroit with everything under construction, and 531 miles yesterday after reading two simple books to the grandson (“Moon!” “Cloud!”) and then the final dash across MI, OH, PA, MD and home. The 1,500 miles well and truly kicked my butt.

Looking at the hundreds of unread emails stacked up, I realized that I never did unpack the laptop. You know, I could get to like that as a lifestyle.

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com