Bass Lake, Michigan

Bass Lake

We rented a cabin on Bass Lake, just outside of Traverse City. On the internet, the cabin was beautiful. It was the pictures that drew me-in. I was brimming with romanticized visions of relaxing in a tube on the lake, fishing, and making s’mores by a campfire. Of course, the pics only portrayed the exceptional aspects of what was otherwise a rustic little heap held together with cobblestones and tape. No—literally—blue painter’s tape. 

Cabin on Bass Lake

It wasn’t exactly advertised that the cabin has large bay windows all the way around the house, in every bedroom and bath, and that there are no coverings on any of them. You’re surrounded by woods; it’s a little creepy at night. Or, that the knotty pine staircase is natural and attractive but functionally awkward. (I banged the backs of my heels every morning.) Or, that the tap water is so coppery that you’d have thought—with your eyes closed—that you were washing your face with blood. There’s a hornet nest just off the patio, and your 9-year-old girl is deathly afraid of any bug that flies, let alone ones that can actually sting. She spent a lot of time running to and fro. 

I remember we booked a cabin in South Haven once. Well, it wasn’t so much a cabin as it was a mobile home that hadn’t gone anywhere in a long time. The orange carpet, red-check furniture, and dark-paneled walls, offered all the charm of a serial killer’s hideaway. What was worse was that it was crawling with tiny red ants. The owners chalked it up to “cabin living.” Others, like myself, were not so agreeable. We left a couple days early. 

There were no bugs at our Bass Lake cabin, at least. We tried to make the best of it....

The clouds over the lake were slow-moving and stubborn. They covered the sky like cheap polyester batting and refused to let the sun shine through. Not a single boat or jet ski was stirring on the narrow channel in front of the cabin, nor anywhere else on the lake. If there was a good time going on, we couldn’t see it from where we were sitting. 

It takes time for city-folk like me to warm up to cabins or any type of camping. I’m more inclined to it’s less-rugged cousin, “glamping,” but it’s just as easy to have a drink and get languid. It’s not so easy to thread a rod, tie a hook, then traverse mucky grass in flip flops, headed for the dock; my kid wants to fish. 

Bass Lake, Michigan 

“Give me the bait,” I say. 

“We didn’t bring any,” she says. 

Back across the mucky grass. The mud grabs one of my flip flops, I grab another drink. What can I use for bait? Rip open the pack of hotdogs. 

I know I’ve only had a couple beers but can I cast this reel without falling off the little dock? Better not chance it. 

“Why don’t you handle this, honey, while daddy goes and helps mommy make dinner.” 

She tosses it in, leaves it for 5 minutes, reels it back in. “What happened to the bait? And the sinker? And the hook?”

Dinner was nice. It only took an hour to get the fire going; the rain helped to cool things off, and make everything soaking wet. You notice how much harder it is to see in the dark as you get older. Every shadowy lump outside looks like an animal. Some of them actually are. The mosquitos are relentless. Time to douse yourself with chemicals that have been outlawed in other countries. A few times a year won’t hurt. Of course, you could use an “all natural” repellant, instead. It doesn’t work, but you could use it. Pretty soon, you’re feeling too good to care anyway. 

After you finally get to bed, there’s only one incessant thing on your mind: what was that weird noise? 

In the morning, you guess you had a good time because all the bourbon is gone and your phone has 500 new photos taking-up memory. 100 of them are of a fish, a bunch are of a bug, some are the stars. None of those objects can actually be seen in the pics....