“Roughin’ It” in the Sleeping Bear Dunes

By Torin Yeager
Sun staff writer
There are times in one’s life when a sudden thirst for adventure arises from deep down in one’s soul. This is generally known as a mid-life crisis, but at age 15, I certainly do not feel middle-aged. I haven’t been lacking for adventure lately, but a little more excitement wouldn’t hurt, so I decide to go on a trek through the shifting sands of Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. I stow my camera in my pack, as adventures must always be recorded, and set off on an epic journey, sure to be retold for at least a day or two.

My travels begin at the foot of the Sleeping Bear Dune Climb just a few miles west of Glen Arbor. License plates from New York to Oregon fill the sprawling parking lot while voices speaking languages other than English (German, for sure, and another so exotic that I don’t recognize it) are audible, evidence of the lure of this massive pile of sand. If I had a map I would plot my course from the steaming parking filled with lounging picnickers to the shores of Lake Michigan, but who needs maps when there’s a whole wave of people making their way up the first dune? Many climbers jettison their footwear at the base, but I opt to retain my sturdy sandals, which won’t collect heavy sand like ordinary shoes. I join a crowd that follows another group up the main dune climb, much like a flock of sheep. The sight of throngs of kids running down the slope while their parents attempt to keep up proves very amusing. The hill is quite steep, and the climb’s summit leaves a few people panting, but most continue on. After trudging past the first blue-tipped wooden marker buried in the sand just a hundred yards from the parking lot, my spirits are up, but the scent of over-applied sunscreen reminds me that I neglected to bring any Ultraviolet protection of my own. No problem though, as the lake is just over the next hill.
But as I crest this mound of granulated minerals and prickly dune grass I see… more hills, and more. A collective groan comes from my fellow hikers as the realization hits them like a tidal wave from the lake that our oasis is much further ahead. A few of the weak-at-heart turn back, but the story for me is not over yet.
After two more hills and countless blue-tipped posts, I begin to wonder why I hadn’t just turned around earlier, like most of the other travelers. My view from one of the hills offers no sign of any lake, or anything nourishing for that matter. Instead I see more hills covered with endless grass and scraggly trees. My desperate mind begins to drift as if I were in a desert even though the trees and other plants are the typical flora of Leelanau County. Sand is no stranger to the soil in these parts, but this lonely place in the middle of the dunes certainly contains more than I’ve bargained for. Soil drainage is so efficient here that all the plants I see are stunted from lack of water. Their trauma inspires me to reach into my pack for water, only to find that I forgot to pack any kind of food or refreshment for my trip. I am startled out of my reverie by a man hiking in the opposite direction who tells me, “There are only six more hills to go!” Despair often hits people in the middle of nowhere, but I am determined to reach the lake at all costs, so I run to catch up with the remaining people in the crowd, although our ranks are so thin that we hardly qualify as a crowd anymore.
As we tread slowly across the desert wastelands, I spot yet another blue-tipped post, although this one is lying at an angle, like a forlorn cross. One hill later, I see a post that is almost completely buried in the sand. Apparently all signs of civilization are growing more and more faint the further into this shifting landscape I go. But I move on, in hopes of someday reaching the lake. At this point only a few members of the original group are still standing, some in front, some behind me, while fewer still are returning from the beach. All of those returning travelers speak of the cool waters just over the next few hills, and I sincerely hope they tell the truth.
After treading carefully along the path as it winds through a particularly lush patch of poison ivy, which I have learned to avoid from a previous article in the Glen Arbor Sun, I make my way up another rise. The cool breeze at the top brings a different smell to my nose. It is salty like the sea, but I remember that the Great Lakes are filled with fresh water, and the salt is from my sweat. But what of the cool breeze? … A lake!
It’s true. The vast blue expanse of Lake Michigan stretches out in front of me as I run down the last slope to the beach. The man miscounted the number of hills between myself and victory; there were only three! I dash a few yards into the refreshing surf before remembering that cameras like mine do not fare well when submerged. Then, while standing knee-deep in the cold water, I notice the staggering difference in numbers between the masses of tourists climbing the first dune by the parking lot and the dwindling adventurers resting on the beach. Our elite group made it through everything the Sleeping Bear could throw at us. We’re the few, the proud… and the ones with the longest hike back … You just can’t win out here.
When all attempts to see through the haze for a glimpse of the Manitou Islands prove futile, I succumb in defeat, and realize the only adventure left is the long march back to the trailhead, where civilization and air conditioning await my return. I am regretting not bringing any water with me, and most of my fellow hikers have already used up their small supplies of bottled H2O. As I slog back in the humid air, my heat-addled brain ponders in confusion why all of the memorable landmarks that I had followed, such as the half-buried and forgotten trail marker posts, are now found on the opposite side of the path. What was once on the right going one way is now on the left going the other direction. Strange.
Each step I take and every hill I climb brings more people attempting to make the very same journey that I just survived. I make out the phrase, “Just one more hill,” uttered by more than a few weary travelers. I can only speculate as to how many of these poor souls will actually reach their destination before turning back.
Barely noticing the passing scenery, I finally make my way back to the flat, sandy plateau overlooking the main steep slope of the dune climb. Now all that is left for me to do is get down this last hill and out to the parking lot teeming with visitors. However, there are many different ways for me to do this. I could take the traditional long-strides down in a slow, stately fashion, or I could dash headlong into the weeds at the bottom of the hill. Better yet, I could roll all the way down like most of the six-year-olds visiting the park. Or, how about cartwheels? The method I choose, of course, is a crazy half-running, half-falling tumble to the end of my trek.
I savor a cool drink at the fountain before looking back at the majestic giants of sand behind me. I have conquered them today. Gloating over my latest accomplishment, I check a map in the National Park Service building at the base of the Dune Climb to view my path from beginning to end. As it turns out, the trail does not cover the shortest distance to the lake, as a crow would fly, but angles northward. Is this an attempt at humor by some Park Ranger? The truth is that a steep bluff stands at the shore directly west of the main Dune Climb. To enable hikers to reach the water’s edge, the longer northern route must be traveled. Still, my journey has taken me over seven hills for a round-trip distance of a mere 2.5 miles, over a time period of an hour and a half. There’s nothing like the harsh facts to spoil a truly fantastic story. Until next time, Sleeping Bear.