A sense of awe

“Sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can’t take it and my heart is just going to cave in.” This line from the film American Beauty has always resonated with me–it’s exactly how I feel sometimes when I witness natural splendor–an overwhelming sense of awe at the beauty, perfection, and power of nature. I wonder how many people get to experience this feeling–seeing something so sublime that it brings you to tears, whether it is an amazing canyon view, or the perfect whorl of a new fiddlehead fern.

Last year, on one of the hiking trips I guided for a local summer camp, a 13-year old boy from Ann Arbor commented to me that he had never seen the stars like this. Our group was camped at Pinney Bridge along the North Country Scenic Trail in northwestern lower Michigan, near East Jordan, and we were laying out on our sleeping mats looking at the stars, hoping to see some of the Perseid meteor shower. When Kevin made this comment about the stars, his voice choked up. We laid out there for about an hour, the kids oohing and aaahing at the meteors and the view of the Milky Way, and I considered how many of the city kids in the group were experiencing this for the first time–something that I had enjoyed too many times to count. 

Yesterday, I returned from a similar trip, this time to Beaver Island, which is located in Lake Michigan near Petoskey and Charlevoix–it’s about a two-hour trip by ferry. Our group camped for three nights on the island, spending two nights dispersed camping in state forests near the shore, and one night on the property of an old lighthouse now owned by the local township, which had granted us permission to stay there. 

From our first evening, as we rehydrated our meals on the beach, swam, and then watched the stars emerge, I was again struck by how new all of this was to my campers–the vastness of Lake Michigan, and how blue the water is, and the wave patterns in the sand. I visited this island many times as a kid, sailing Lake Michigan with my parents. My brother and I had explored it by mountain bike as teenagers, and I had spent at least a few dewy nights sleeping in the cockpit of the boat so I could see the stars, not just here, but at many of the locations we had sailed to. I had never really thought about the fact that most kids don’t experience this kind of thing.

The following morning, we discussed what we had heard in the night–coyotes, an owl, mice or something rustling in the leaves. We watched the mist burn off as we drank hot cocoa and ate oatmeal from packets. A bald eagle flew over on its morning hunt. One of my campers, a quiet boy from Philadelphia named Owen, said softly, “This is amazing,” as he looked out onto the Lake Michigan horizon, and I felt tears gather in my eyes. 

As we hiked across the island, on trails that had been turned muddy and rutted by side-by-side off road vehicles, and the air grew steamy, I was a little worried about my group’s morale, but even then, they were struck by the newness of things–raspberries growing wild along the trail, perfectly ripe and sweet; trees so large they could not be encircled in a hug, butterflies on the milkweed, and cedar forests that looked as though they could be home to elves and fairies. 

When we made camp at the lighthouse, we walked down to the beach to collect water to filter, and the kids examined the old water station building, and then the lighthouse. We were lucky that the lighthouse tower was unlocked for tourists to explore, and we took turns taking the spiral staircase up to the top, checking out the view. Later that evening, we were treated to clear skies as the sun set, and the stars came out. “Let’s tell ghost stories inside the lighthouse” one of the kids suggested, and off we went, taking our headlamps and camp chairs into the base of the lighthouse tower. 

When we emerged a bit later, the sky was completely dark and the Milky Way was easily visible. Within seconds, we saw a meteor shoot across the sky. And then another! And another! We sat in our camp chairs watching the meteor shower as the night became colder and a little dewy, and finally decided to head to the warmth of our tents. After “lights out,” I could hear the kids chatting in their tents, and smiled at their take on the day’s highlights. 

When we returned to the mainland by ferry the next day, the kids were dirty from three days with no shower, tired of eating dehydrated meals, and exhausted from staying up too late in their tents, but also bubbling over with good things to share when camp staff picked us up from the ferry docks, and took us to Depot Beach for a pizza lunch. “What was the best part of the trip?” one of the drivers asked, and it was hard to hear each kid’s response as their enthusiasm took over. 

Returning from these trips, I am always exhausted. Being responsible for the safety of a dozen kids in the wilderness, when they think they are invincible, is a mental strain. The physical strain of our activities, and the lack of sleep that comes with chaperoning teenagers on an overnight trip also takes its toll. But I am also grateful that I get to lead them into some of my favorite places, and witness the awe they feel at the wildlife, starry nights, and turquoise waters.