Spirits in the Sky
Telling spooky stories around a popping, crackling fire has been a tradition with my family and friends for as long as I can remember.
I still remember tales narrated by the Camp-master of Hardy Dam in Newaygo County, Michigan, that met with my parents, my sister, myself, and several other friends and family when I was under the age of five. He intended to scare us with his frightening tales, and it worked, as it cut our sleeping hours short. Scars dominated one entire side of his face, the result of a Coleman lantern exploding after he tumbled down a steep riverbank beside the Muskegon River. Even at four, he looked terrifying to me. Looking back, I think he understood children remember stories better when they are just a little frightened. Plus, he had accepted his unusual appearance and learned to use it to practice the art of storytelling. He was a large man and resembled someone who’d lead a cattle drive on the classic television show “Rawhide”. Popular with everyone, he also played guitar, and would bring out his six-string acoustic when he finished weaving his tales. The entire camp would sit, mesmerized, while he sang simple folk songs as the coals burned down to a bright orange. Sometimes, the entire crowd would join in to sing along.
Yet the story I’ve never forgotten wasn’t one he told. This night was eerier than any I’ve experienced over many camping years.
During my college days, my friend group numbered around fifteen to twenty people, most of whom worked together at different restaurants as servers and bartenders. Every year, we came together in the summer to camp at the same rustic spot in the Manistee National Forest. The site overlooked a lovely, meandering section of the south fork of the Pere Marquette River in Branch Township, Michigan, and it featured a long stretch of sandy bottom. We used the water to cook and swim; it was crystal clear and swift-flowing.
Nearing the end of the annual celebratory weekend, only three campers remained: myself, my son, and my best friend. The river represented moments of peace in our busy lives, and we were always the last to give up that serenity. That night, as we sat around a dying fire, we commented on the sound from stately white pine branches swishing in the wind, how the tiny young apples that grew on the wild and twisted tree in camp would be ready to eat by the fall, and how much we appreciated the fresh scent of the red pines that grew in great numbers all around.
Sitting on this open grassy plateau that bordered the river, we watched the last of the sunlight slip from the sky and discussed the emergence of a deep indigo blue filling the atmosphere above our heads. The moon, in an early phase, cast no shadow of light, so the first stars twinkled as brightly as individual sparklers.
In tune with the mellow atmosphere, our talk turned to speculation. We had hunted for arrowheads and artifacts from the early settlers of this land, but had found nothing. A discussion about Native Americans began, and we imagined that this beautiful opening at the riverbank may have been a spot where men fished while women cared for the young and worked on preserving food. What kind of shelter had been there? Did the Odawa or Potawatomi build a lovely wigwam or longhouse nearby? Were there racks of salmon smoking over a fire in the very spot where our embers burned?
We spoke in lowered voices about how the ancient peoples had cared for and preserved the land now available for our use. Our group respected the beauty and made sure the land looked the same when we left, with as little trace of our presence as possible.
As the three of us sat around the minimalist flames that had been an enormous bonfire earlier in the day, we listened to music from a portable CD player that used batteries as its power supply. It had been dying, so the volume was low. This was a time before cell phones or portable power packs. Eight D cells provided the juice, and we had no replacements, as they were expensive.
My son decided that the haunting Native American flute music of Carlos Nakai would be appropriate for this revelation of the evening sky. The player was nearly dead, so we ended our conversation to listen to the lovely flute music. Looking back, it was almost as though an enchantment settled upon us as we immersed ourselves in the placid environment.
Suddenly, the volume on the player increased to a level that had never been possible, and chants and music filled the surrounding air, echoing across the riverbank and in the space above us. In confusion, our bodies froze in place, incapable of moving as if the magic of the moment had trapped us. The music sounded like a choir of angels directly above our heads.
I’d like to say that we enjoyed the concert. But the impossibility of what was happening scared us. My son finally jumped up and turned off the player. The experience interfered with our extra night at the gurgling Pere Marquette River. We quickly packed up and raced back to the main road.
The next day, we discussed theories about what had happened. None made sense. In the end, we let go of any explanation.
After that, our lives took us in different directions for over two decades. Ten years ago, I returned to the area, and my son followed with his new family about five years ago. Last year, he suggested we hike into the old spot. The Forest Service had closed it a few years back.
It was so overgrown, the hike was difficult. Treading on a dirt path towards the sacred riverbank, I wondered if any aspect would look the same. The environment has returned to nature, and we had been told that a lot of black bears now inhabit the area.
As we made our way to the spot, the trees gave way to the pleasant grassy plateau directly in front of our old campsite, where it had always stood.
My heart filled with gratitude to see the old gathering place. There was no evidence of human presence. No old fire pit or burned pieces of charcoal, no trampled grasses, or path to the river’s edge. Just the peaceful water flowing by. My son and I brought up the incident that had occurred on that night so long ago. We agreed there was no answer to what happened and there never would be.
When we left, we felt satisfied that the place of so many memories had returned to its natural state. It seemed a fitting end to the story of our friend reunions.
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Campfire Prompts
Is there a place from your past that still feels almost sacred to you? Maybe it’s a campsite, a lake, a favorite fishing hole, or a quiet patch of woods. There are no right or wrong answers. Pull up a chair and tell us your story. Tell us why it has stayed with you over the years.
Kathleen Lynn 