Hard road to Eden or the easy road east?
My wife and I were poised for a hike in the Porkies, a small mountain range in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. We enjoy the outdoors, and this had the makings of an exciting adventure. The trail had two key aspects we look for in an outing: solitude and nature. Our research found a ‘13-mile’ loop that linked multiple trails and boasted a serene view of Lake Superior along the way. Off we went with smiles in our eyes. We were living.
Our gusto soon gave way to the sting of the first mosquito attack. Followed by the second, the third, and before long, I lost count. Deep Woods Deet didn’t stand a chance against this breed of monster. The only respite from their aerial assault was our near jog, combined with a slight breeze. There went our sightseeing plans. The forest path curved and ran alongside the river. We started to see why the trail was empty. Erosion had eaten away much of the bank, requiring a high-rise ledge maneuver with a wall of shrubs to our back and a rushing river below us. Our pace slowed, but the menacing mosquitoes persisted.
We edged our way along until the trail opened up again, but our reprieve was short-lived when a water crossing soon appeared. Fording this stream was difficult. The bed was covered with melon-sized rocks, and the current was swift enough to knock you over if you took it for granted. This only gave those viscous vectors more opportunity to feed. We proceeded slowly, constantly under threat of attack. My partner was becoming anxious and needed to get the lead out immediately. She was at her mosquito limit. The issue was that we were still in the water, and going any faster risked injuries like a broken ankle or worse. We swashed forward. After what felt like ages, we cleared the water and once again outran the insect cloud.
From that point on, it seemed like just a race to the finish. We didn’t stop to soak in the scenery or enjoy a snack break. Instead, it was ‘get us out of here’. The idea of turning back crossed our minds, but we knew what lay behind us, so we trudged ahead, hoping for something better. Exhaustion began tightening its grip. We were accustomed to miles, but not as runners.
To make matters worse, the harder we pushed, the more we would perspire. That’s sweet candy to those blood sucking vampires. And for the cherry on top, the landscape was turning swampy. Standing water and the smell of sweat, what more could a mosquito ask for?
Please take us home.
In the distance, a line of trees stretched left and right. The dense growth seemed like a deliberate barrier, preventing the surrounding marshy landscape from advancing further. The trail headed straight toward the tree line, but then veered 90 degrees just on our side. Although the view remained obstructed, we could hear a sloshing sound beyond the cover. Driven by curiosity, we had to look. Passing through this narrow gap felt like entering Narnia through the wardrobe. Beyond it lay a new world—a ten-foot-wide strip of rocky, driftwood-decorated beach. The air and water were fresh and pure, stretching as far as we could see. Lake Superior. One thing stood out above the rest: no mosquitoes. It was a little slice of heaven. A nearby log served as a perfect seat, and we sat watching the gentle ebbs and flows. Our prior disgust diminished, and our tension turned to tranquility. We sat peacefully.
Until that moment, the hike had been a disappointing experience, all bad and no good. However, crossing through the forest veil marked a turning point. The trip, which had been terrible, transformed into one of the most memorable I’ve had, even after several years, states, and hikes later. A single row of trees divided torment from paradise; all we had to do was step through.
What would you prefer: the difficult path to paradise or an easy road that bypasses it?
