Skydiving, Skinny-Dipping

by Sarah Zolton Arthur

  I put my sandals in the boot box and after waiting for Len to find a pair, try them on and decide to buy, we checked out and headed back to the truck.

  An hour later, he turned into a gravel parking lot out in the middle of nowhere.

  “I’m not skinny-dipping again,” I said, something he had to be well aware of. The last time hadn’t ended too well for us. Though I wouldn’t be on this adventure with Len if not for taking that plunge (pun intended), so I didn’t hold too much animosity in my heart over the fiasco.

  He laughed. “No. We’re not skinny-dipping. Just going on a hike.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “A hike? That seems a bit tame for you.”

  Slinging the backpack over his shoulders, he exited the cab, so I did too. Len met me at the front of the truck and took my hand, leading me up to where a dirt trail started.

  “This is just practice. It’s a beautiful day and we were cooped up all day yesterday packing.”

  “Wait—practice for what?” I stopped walking, tugging on his hand to stop him.

  “Oh, did I forget to tell you? We’re going camping.”

  “Camping? No… no.” I vigorously shook my head. “I don’t camp.”

  Len swatted my butt to get me moving again, so I swatted his back.

  He chuckled. “You didn’t climb rock walls, hold pythons, or walk hot coals before either.”

  Well, shoot. He had a really good point.

  “Okay, I guess we’re going camping. But please tell me there’s at least a tent.”

  “Yes, baby, I have a tent.”

  We spent the rest of the day hiking the trails and getting lost when we wanted to. Every so often, Len or I would snap a picture, not really for anyone else’s benefit like the videos, for our own enjoyment to look back on.

  Both of us were so tired and sweaty after our time outdoors that we ordered sub sandwiches, chips, and pickles from a local sub shop and crashed, watching movies until we fell asleep.

  This time Len made sure to pull out a comedy, so no tears. Well, I’ll amend. There were tears, but only the laughing kind.

  We got up extra early the next morning and drove to the truck rental place. One of us probably should’ve looked up the hours of business first because we spent twenty-five minutes waiting for the place to open just so we could rent a stupid truck. Then, just the two of us, we spent the whole day loading up boxes at my apartment and unloading them either into Len’s condo or his storage unit. Some things we donated to a second-hand store.

  He’d decided we were taking off to camp for the week, come first light.

  I insisted we needed time to plan and prepare.

  “If we forget it, then we don’t need it,” he argued.

  In the battle between Kami and Len, Kami lost.

  Come first light, true to his word, the alarm clock buzzed too loud to be allowed to survive, and I chucked a pillow at it.

  My body was sore from all the physical activity yesterday.

  “Come on, lazy bones. Shower, dress. We got us a camping trip to go on.”

  I showered, brushed my teeth, dressed in a pair of pink cotton shorts, white tank, and my sandals—making sure to pack my new boots and plenty of socks.

  Forty-five minutes later, we were on the road because he promised me a greasy, so-bad-for-you fast food breakfast if I hurried.

  And the place we were headed to offered cheesy hash brown bites. One moved with lightning quickness for cheesy hash brown bites.

  That’s all I’m saying.

  Eleven:

  “We’re going where?” I was not nearly greasy-food drunk enough to learn that we’d be spending the next eight hours in a truck driving up to the Upper Peninsula, or what we Michiganders have affectionately nicknamed the UP.

  “Relax, Kam. You’ll love it.”

  “I’d love a three-hour drive better.” I protested by folding my arms across my boobs and raising an eyebrow, trying for intimidating.

  But I guessed my intimidating needed more practice because he chuckled, reached over to wrap his hand around the back of my neck, and pulled me closer to him so he could kiss me.

  Mmm-hmm. Kiss me.

  This fake relationship would never work if he didn’t take my objections into consideration.

  Though I loved the way he kissed. And I supposed it wouldn’t be so bad to spend the day driving up north with Len.

  So yes, I relented. Is that not the worst? I wussed out… because of a kiss.

  Several hours into the trip, we stopped at a souvenir shop with a wooden pirate ship out front for kids to climb on. I didn’t think pirates were really a thing on the Great Lakes, but since we’d seen signs for the past ten miles telling us to make sure and stop here, we took the exit.

  Len, the big kid, climbed on the pirate ship, hanging off the mast. I laughed so hard, I thought I’d pee myself as he posed for me. My hands shook and the first several pics came out blurry. The two kids waiting to climb aboard and their mother weren’t too happy with us.

  Eventually, I had to drag him off.

  “Come on, big boy,” I cajoled. “I’ll buy you a souvenir inside.”

  His eyes, I kid not, lit up.

  He wanted a Mackinaw sweatshirt, but we weren’t in Mackinaw City yet. You can’t buy a sweatshirt of a place you aren’t in. It’s an unwritten rule. One doesn’t buy a Chicago shirt when in Winnetka. As the man was a seasoned, seasoned traveler, he should have known this. So we settled on a pirate hat and a promise that we’d stop in the city so he could get his sweatshirt.

  The breeze picked up the farther north we traveled. Hot temps but chilled breeze. Welcome to paradoxical Michigan. That should be our new slogan.

  I had to admit, you couldn’t beat the area for pretty. Trees, a whole lot of birch that I could see from the highway, with leaves in full forest-green grandeur.

  About five miles out from the straits, the top of the Mackinaw Bridge appeared. I hadn’t been here in years and the idea of being here again got me a bit giddy. The closer we drove, the bigger the bridge appeared. I turned off the air conditioning and rolled down the windows so we could smell the lake air of mostly Lake Huron, but as Huron and Michigan joined under the bridge, it was both.

  Len took the exit leading us into the downtown area of the city. Mackinaw, for those who’ve never been, is about as touristy as a city comes. But so worth it with the views of the bridge, the lakefront, the lighthouse and fort, and the port docks to take the ferry over to the island. Oh yeah, Michigan islands, especially Mackinac Island, could be considered some of the prettiest in the country.

  I made a mental note to beg for us to spend at least one day on the island on our drive back. But right now, we had a mission. Well, we had four. Len just didn’t know about three of them. One: Find a sweatshirt place. Two: Eat pancakes. I mean, he could eat anything he wanted, but I desired pancakes piled with fruit, dripping with syrup, and sprayed with whipped cream. My mouth watered and my stomach grumbled thinking about that. And if I remembered correctly, Mackinaw had some delicious pancake houses. Three: Find good coffee for the next leg of our drive. Four: FUDGE. Nobody, and I mean nobody, visited Mackinaw without partaking in their so-famous-it-was-made-into-an-ice-cream fudge.

  We parked in the center of the downtown and walked up one sidewalk and down the other, stopping in no less than five sweatshirt shops before he found the one. I mean, admittedly, it was a pretty kick-butt hoodie. Or pullover. It had this ombre effect to make it look like the sky turning from dusk to night.

  For mine, I picked a pretty lavender with white lettering. Both of ours had a picture of the bridge drawn and said Mackinaw City. But mine had the added design detail of a v-neckline instead of the traditional scoop and had fake lamb’s wool on the inside for extra insulation.

  That done, I dragged him to the pancake house that I remembered eating at as a kid.

  And this really was why we clicked so well, when I couldn’t decide between two specialty pancakes, Len ordered on
e and had me order the other (along with sausage and bacon for us to share) and when it came to the table, he split them between the two of us.

  “Best of both worlds,” he said.

  Major crush overload.

  He switched the last two missions. We found a fudge shop that smelled too good to walk away from first after spending some time walking down by the water’s edge and snapping pictures of the lighthouse and the bridge.

  Our last mission stop, we hit up a coffee shop. Our last stop stop he filled up the gas tank and then climbed back inside the truck to start our trek over the lakes.

  “Take the singing bridge side?” I asked.

  “Was hoping you’d say that,” he said. “It’s one of my favorite parts.”

  What made the bridge sing were the grates instead of pavement. That allowed the wind to move through so the road didn’t crack. You could see the water down below. It was so cool, but some people got scared and preferred the paved side.

  I videoed us going up and over. For people who hadn’t been, it was hard to describe how breathtakingly beautiful the view. Once we reached the other side, we stopped at the toll to pay and continued on through. St. Ignace, the first city we traveled through on our way inland, owned the distinction of being the second oldest European settled city in Michigan.

  That fact fascinated me for some reason.

  The change in the land from one side of the straights to the other came on immediately. From rolling hills, maples, and birch to rocky terrain with conifers like spruce.

  “Keep your eye out for a moose,” I said.

  “Say again?”

  “A moose. They have them up here and I want to see one. So keep your eyes open.”

  “Who’s my fearless girl, wanting to see wild animals.”

  “Not wild animals, just a moose. It’s not like I’m actively seeking out a mountain lion.”

  “Would you prefer I not point out a mountain lion if I see one?”

  I thought about it. “Well, no. If you see a mountain lion, you’re morally obliged to point it out.”

  “Right. Look for moose. Point out mountain lions. Anything else?”

  “Well… if you’re going to point out a lion, you might as well point out a bear. Or a wolf.”

  “Got it,” he said. “Oh, if you see a deer, point it out for me, okay?”

  “Um… sure. But we have deer back home.”

  “Yeah, I know. I don’t want to hit one there either.”

  Cheeky.

  Well, as it turned out, we didn’t see any cool wild animals. Actually, the only ones we saw were mangled remains of roadkill. Some deer carcasses, but mostly that of racoons, skunk, muskrat, and opossums.

  Long stretches of barren land on each side of us made me think that there’d been a pretty significant forest fire not too far in the past. Maybe a couple of years judging from the new growth.

  It was getting late by the time we hit the outskirts of Marquette county. Up here, late meant dark. Way dark. Len decided to find us a hotel for the night and we’d set off for our camping adventure in the morning.

  What a difference it made to hit the city of Marquette. Lights lit up the front of us, while blackness swallowed up the road behind. Marquette, being home to a pretty large university, had everything anyone would need, but with that downhome feel from being tucked away in crook of Lake Superior’s shoreline.

  He found us a nice hotel and checked us in. I didn’t want to retire to our room just yet. We walked around. Took in the remains of a festival happening down by the marina, then walked to dinner.

  We stopped at a delicious little sushi joint. Yes, I know, sushi in the upper peninsula of Michigan? Well, Lake Superior had lots of fish and even if they flew it in frozen, it tasted freaking fantastic.

  After dinner, we strolled to a little bar that was having an open mic night. I sipped on a rum and diet coke while he drank a beer. Three singers later, we decided to check out the other nightlife, eventually making our way into a dive where a spoken-word poetry contest put on by the university was being held. Len and I stayed to the end of the contest to see who’d been picked the winner—a woman who used a sinking ship as a metaphor for her life after she started seeing her boyfriend, who’d turned violently abusive.

  She deserved to win for what she’d lived through, though she was also the best in my opinion, and that was saying something.

  After, with his arm slung around my waist, and my head on his shoulder, we slowly made our way back to the hotel, where I may or may not have gotten a little frisky with Len. And may or may not have taken advantage of him orally while he returned the favor.

  Our intensions of getting up bright and early went out the window as we stayed up later than intended—eh-hem—entertaining each other and thus checkout happened at about eleven. Still, we had plenty of time to drive up into the mountains and find our camping spot.

  Len pretty well knew where he wanted us to go. I forgot Michigan had mountains, living my life in the lower peninsula. Sure, they weren’t as tall as those out west or down south, but they were still good-sized mountains.

  Today I wore socks and hiking boots. Good thing, as there came a point where he had to park the truck because he couldn’t drive any farther. We loaded up our backpacks and this little camping wagon with a handle that hooked around Len’s waist so he could pull it behind him. The wheels, big enough to move easily over mountain terrain, made hiking with camping gear a piece of cake. At least Len made it look like a piece of cake.

  Before we left, he wrote on a piece of paper: Camping. Truck not abandoned.

  He stuck the paper in the front window for anyone who came upon the truck to read. He bleeped the locks and then we hiked.

  As a jump instructor, Len kept one of those go-cameras strapped to a helmet in the backseat, so he could record the jumps for his clients. He fastened the helmet to his head and I couldn’t help but giggle. He kind of looked ridiculous hiking with a helmet cam on his head.

  Normally, he used his phone, but I understood why this would be more convenient.

  I guess I never realized how long it took to hike up a mountain. Hours we spent searching out the perfect camping spot, finally reaching a plateau clear enough to set up the tent. And his tent, it set itself up. Literally, it unfolded on its own into a dome once we pulled it from the thin, cylindrical bag. Refolding it would be the work.

  “Well, that went easy enough,” I said.

  He shoved my shoulder lightly. “Yeah… yeah.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant by the playful gesture. “It didn’t?” I asked.

  His face dropped to a stone-cold serious expression. “Oh, you were serious.”

  “Yes… did I say something wrong?”

  Len bent over and started clearing a spot close to the tent—but not too close—of debris such as leaves and sticks and twigs. “We have to make a firepit for warmth and protection that won’t burn down the forest.”

  Of course, a fire pit. Didn’t I feel stupid? “What do you need me to do?”

  “This is a natural place to camp, so it looks like people have made our job a bit easier.” With the last few leaves, sticks, and pieces of trash out of the way, a dirt circle surrounded by stones revealed itself. “See these stones, they’re the barrier. We just have to reinforce them and gather firewood.

  “That makes sense,” I said. “It’s just… I’ve never camped before. Roughing it for us as kids meant staying at my grandmother’s cabin. We never slept in tents and her firepit had been purchased from a home goods store.”

  I thought he’d make at least a little bit of fun of me for being a priss, but he didn’t. “No, I get it. Not everyone’s family camps. Mine didn’t either after my parents’ divorce. Mom never wanted to do any activities that reminded her of Dad. Now my brother and I would go every summer. Just he and I. It was our chance to catch up.”

  “Catch up?” I asked.

  Len stood on the end of one of the thicker sticks—
one might even call it a thin tree branch—and pulled up to break it in half. He did this several more times to several more sticks, then stacked them once he had enough, stuffing dried leaves and a paper cup that other campers had left behind into open spots between the sticks for kindling. Even I knew that much.

  Just because my grandmother’s firepit came from a box didn’t mean she’d neglected to teach me how to start a fire.

  “He told the judge that he wanted to live with my dad, thinking they’d give me the same choice.” He shrugged. “But I was four years younger and never got asked. My parents decided if he was staying with Dad, then I’d get sent to live with Mom.”

  Before he finished telling his story, a brilliant fire blazed in the pit. We’d have to hunt up more wood to keep it going, but at least we had a start and I could whip us up something to eat.

  I wanted to ask him more about his brother, but his whole demeanor changed. He seemed sad and we weren’t about sad, not today. That decided, I asked, what did we pack to eat?”

  “I have steaks in the cooler.” Lifting his finger and thumb in the shape of a gun, he flicked his wrist as if taking a shot, the ‘gun’ pointed at the cart, and he made a clicking noise with his mouth.

  “How do you eat your steaks?” I asked.

  Len stretched his arms up over his head, lifting the bottom of his T-shirt to show a strip of golden tanned skin. “With a knife and fork,” he said, winking at me.

  “So well done it is,” I teased back. I’d sooner bite a cow’s behind than condemn a beautiful sirloin to end its days as a dried-out piece of charcoal.

  The grimace he sent me was exactly the reaction I wanted.

  Point for Kami. Yes.

  Twelve:

  It had been an amazing night. Just Len and I. The weather, perfect. Warm with a slight breeze. While I fixed dinner, he gathered more branches that were close by. Then after dinner, we went on a broader search together.

  Once it started to get dark, he broke out the marshmallows, chocolate squares, and graham crackers for s’mores. I hadn’t eaten s’mores in years. And there was just something about eating sweets under the stars. In our little clearing, the canopy of trees opened up enough for us to see thousands of them. A star-studded extravaganza.