During the summer months it’s not unusual to see a visitor enraptured watching Lake Superior exclaim in all sincerity, “Oh, I always wanted to see a storm on the big lake. It is fantastic.” I lack the meanness of spirit to tell them that the “rollers” coming ashore are barely enough to daunt a canoe. Of course, they are quite sizable compared to inland lake waves, but they are by no stretch storm quality. Living on the shore of the big lake for as long as I’ve done I forget it is not a commonplace for others as it is for me. Quite often I hardly give the “bit wet place” more than a glance. “Yup, there it is doing water stuff.” Frankly, it can get boring. I express this to wonder struck guests by saying, “Well, at night the lake is awfully dark.” Generally speaking, they see neither the humor nor truth of this, I think because for many people the big lake is a sort of animated calendar picture seen in a glow of emotion.

Perhaps my lake emotions come from a different direction. As a kid I played along the shore because it was a grand place to jump and run. Best of all I could reasonably claim not being able to hear mother’s call over the sound of the lake. Once I was out of eye shot I was safe. When I was eleven that was paradise; one I used and enjoyed for all my four and a half feet were worth. My first summer I destroyed a pair of shoes; worn to bare soles by the sandpaper roughness of the shore rocks. I also tested my physical mettle (common sense set aside) by seeing how deep I dared go in the chilling water and how long I could endure the freezing feel. Proving the insanity of my age I managed numerous full immersions followed by quickly leaving the water to hug the sun warmed rock to restore me to life. For me, then, the big lake had different roles; those of challenger and of fellow conspirator. The lake dared me to do crazy things I knew it would never tell except when my body was found. Oh yes, I knew the lake was dangerous; possibly deadly. Risk made for all the more delight.

More than a decade passed before I moved into my first lake shore home, a small “pioneer” structure of hewn dovetailed log set about 200 feet from the water. The whole place was barely 600 square feet and proved to be nearly uninhabitable in winter. I discovered much later that the main insulation was bat guano, which I’d guess has negative insulating qualities along with aesthetic ones. The first “real” storm of November I experienced there made the front windows rattle and the curtains wave with each new gust. It was almost as breezy inside as out but I stayed in because I was sure the kerosene lamp wouldn’t stay lit in the turmoil outside. At that time it didn’t take much of a blow for the power to go out. The kerosene lamps I had throughout the house were necessary a good half dozen times a year. Service is infinitely more reliable these days, but I feel some fondness for the days when I was forced back in time to read by lamp light in a drafty out house hazy inside from the shaking it took from nature’s hand. The entire place rattled, and with that came a fine haze of dust I sincerely hope was not composed of bat dung.

My next place on Superior moved from 200 feet from the water to twenty. I can say with certainty twenty feet can be far too close for comfort. Over the years before my time it suffered numerous defeats when the lake took out windows, destroyed the porch, and wiped away the kitchen. I knew better than try to beat the lake so I gave up on the front porch and gave the lakeside a barrier or thrust foundation to disturb waves before they reached the log walls. The addition of storm shutters with port holes was another feature along with angled plates to deflect and break wave action. Once those things were done I was relatively safe. Before these improvements a good storm would drive the oakum from between the logs. That ensured the floors got a good washing, but this was not a handy thing to wake up to if you’d left your clothes on the bedroom floor before falling exhausted into bed from attending minor problems into the wee hours. It takes days to dry out a lake-soaked house, but fortunately this is made easier because with oakum removed (there were oakum snakes all over the bedroom floor) the house was much breezier inside and aired out more quickly.

My current place is fifty feet from the wet and elevated above the water by a good ten feet along a small bay protected on each side from easterly or westerly assault. The easterly (by far the more important) defense is the best so unless a blow comes almost due south I won’t feel the worst of it. One thing the house lacks is a picture window or window wall. I leave those things for newcomers and tourists. For one, I’ve ZERO interest in washing windows extending from floor to peak, not to mention their ferocious heat loss in winter. The lake isn’t a pretty ornament for the front yard and I refuse to treat it as such. Guests look confused and doubtful when I respond to their asking why I don’t have a picture window by saying “Put your jacket on. The lake is more real in person.” After having played along the shore as a kid, having set nets with an old timer, and  spending a good part of my life guiding on inland lakes I have considerable respect for water, too much to treat the entity rumbling in November fury as if it were a photo.