The Vagabond Kitchen: Mosquito Song And Hard Ground

6-23-15

Even inside the car and tent, the no-see-ums still bit me. Their little bodies are so tiny they’re barely detectable amongst the freckles and moles peppering my body like constellations in a clear night sky. Mosquitoes hummed, swarming tenderest bits of skin every time I exposed myself to pee. Blackflies attacked my ankles, leaving dark bruised hickies and bright blood trickles.

Evening, ducks in front of the home-tent.

Orson, Gus and I lumbered into the river-side camping spot. The normally resilient 2008 Rav 4 felt cumbersome, unyielding on the bumpy, rutted gravel two-track. The camping area, flat and pine-needle-padded, is a water-fall crowned and hemlock roofed peninsula. An ethereal space. A place to rest after five days of AuthorQuest children’s writing camp, only one night in the home-tent, and cooking two Father’s Day meals in one day.

Father’s day dinner at the Mills household: grilled venison tenderloin, fresh-herbed rice, and mixed salad with garlicky homemade croutons.

As the Rav negotiated the sandy, steep, blind corner we came face to face with a full encampment in our desired destination. A screen tent, regular tent, and blue jeep blocked our path. But it was the fishing line strung across the trail that arrested our attention.

“What the hell!” Orson and I exclaimed in unison. He slammed on the brakes, thumping Gus, sleeping soundly in the back of the car, against the rear seat.
An androgynous figure garbed in motocross racing gear and flanked by two large dogs, started towards us. Orson reversed up the sandy hill, a vehicular feat that left me marveling as he deftly negotiated a car-limit-testing turn.
We were frustrated and more than a bit pissed at the intrusion into what we had begun to feel was our special place. Other than a few passing fishermen we hadn’t seen anyone out there, making the sense of privacy a fragile, false cocoon.

We’ve chosen to live in the Upper Peninsula partly because of the sense of isolation and privacy available in the deep stretches of woods, rock, and lake that make up the U.P. However, seclusion can be difficult to attain. Many times we’ve gone to great trouble, seeking out the most isolated destination we can think of to claim a few quiet moments away from humanity, only to cross paths with other humans. Solitude, in our crowded world, is an indulgence difficult to attain.

We turned the car for plan B—a camping spot at the base of the climbing area.
By now it was 10 pm at night. We were both hungry, exhausted, and impatient for a place to sleep.

Gus and Sneak: Climbing dogs!

Sometimes the vagabond lifestyle is eating a decadent and easy meal, cooked on the Camp Chef propane stove. Sometimes vagabonding is artisan bread and gourmet cheese when there’s no flame to cook with. Sometimes vagabonding is bug bites and no time or energy to cook.

We set up camp in the dark. Road-travel-tense we munched trail mix, read a few pages and snuggled into down blankets, trying to ignore how much each muscle and bone sensed each inch of ground.

by Rachel Mills

Rachel Mills is a professor of English at Northern Michigan University where she received her BS in English, MA in Creative Writing, and MFA in Creative Nonfiction. Her current writing focus revolves around looking at food from a universal perspective-- the history, culture, and traditions surrounding both her family's food traditions, and those of other cultures.

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