In the dead of summer I drove my truck north to Marquette. I spent the weekend with a wild group of individuals. Every day was a new hike, a new swimming hole, a new craft beer. There’s something about that place. It carries an energy all of its own.
A little green house on Fourth Street was home for those few perpetual days. Coffee and house- wide scrambles fueled our mornings. Jam sessions and beer and mad bikes to Superior tucked us in at night.
Though every day was a new adventure, one day in particular was burned into my memory. It had been showering rain and clapping thunder on and off that day and we roared down a puddle dirt road in Logan’s rattling Forester. We were told of this “Paradise Cove” by a fellow on a hike the previous day and quite honestly had no hopes of finding it. You can imagine our surprise as the thick pines revealed the untouched, raw coastline of Lake Superior—littered with caves and arches and cliffs. A steep muddy decent landed us here, soaked to the bone. We stripped bare and clambered around the drizzly coast. Not a soul in sight.