Seized by the day at Empire Bluff Trail
Photo courtesy of National Park Service
By Tim Mulherin
Sun contributor
In the 1989 film Dead Poets Society, new English teacher John Keating, memorably played by Robin Williams, introduces the Latin term carpe diem or “seize the day,” attributed to the Roman poet Horace, to his all-male New England college prep boarding school students. Profoundly influenced by Keating’s embodiment of this life-affirming outlook, his pupils would never be the same.
Similarly, there are days that do the seizing, manifesting a startling beauty that grips your attention and encourages you to set aside concerns, take a timeout from distractedness, and immerse yourself in an encounter with the sublime. That happened to me on the afternoon of Monday, May 11, when I received an irresistible, wordless invitation to head for a certain cherished spot at Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore.
After visiting my friends at Cottage Book Shop in Glen Arbor, purchasing some sea salt bark dark chocolate from Grocer’s Daughter Chocolate in Empire for my wife, Janet (hoping she would open it soon after; sharing is caring), and unexpectedly meeting Glen Arbor Sun editor Norm Wheeler for the first time as he refilled the Sun newspaper box outside the chocolatier (he’s the spitting image of his son and editor-in-chief Jacob), I paused to look skyward while getting in my truck. Above me, an infinite affinity of blue. So, I accepted the call of the wild and drove two minutes or so crosstown to Empire Bluff Trail.
It was about 2 p.m. and Empire was sleepy, the way I remember it years ago, even during summertime, before northern Michigan was discovered by so many mostly Midwesterners. Before the sea changes engendered by the Covid-19 pandemic. Before the pronounced inflow of new folks from across the country to this must-see and, understandably, why-not-stay slice of heaven on Earth.
The tourist season would launch in a few weeks with the onset of the Memorial Day weekend. Like a massive bison herd approaching at a gallop in the distance in days of yore, I could almost feel the ground beginning to shake. I realized I was being offered a gift – to be opened right then and there.
This would not be my first ascent of the three-quarter-mile trail to the unforgettable Lake Michigan overlook encompassing Platte Bay, South Manitou Island, Empire, South Bar Lake, and the fabled Sleeping Bear Dune, with Point Betsie about 10 miles to the south. My last visit occurred on Memorial Day Weekend in 2020. That sunny Saturday, I drove a couple from Indy who were spending the long weekend with my wife and me up the steep stretch of Wilco Road to share the picture-perfect postcard view with them. When our SUV crested the hill, we were ambushed by the sight of a mass of vehicles overflowing from the small gravel parking lot and lining the road.
My morale crushed by the unanticipated swarm of humanity, I unilaterally called off our hike. The couple, avid national park and international hikers, nodded in agreement. Janet, however, did not. “We’re here, we’re going. So, make the best of it.” (Translation: Seize the day.) Our guests nodded affirmatively again, trying to avoid being caught in any marital crossfire. Reluctantly, yet wisely, I parked the vehicle, and we disembarked as advised.
Early on, the people descending the moderate trail were taken as we by the magnificence surrounding us. “See?” Janet whispered soothingly to me.
Yet, as I anticipated, we soon passed some boisterous visitors who were unable to appreciate their unique location. Instead, they broadcasted their inane personal soap operas, which reverberated throughout the woods. I silently fumed, allowing myself to be victimized by their time banditry.
Today, however, that experience seemed light years ago. Now, I had my choice of spots in the lot. Tranquility was back on the menu.
Exhilarated, as I strode uphill, a man about my age (70, and holding) was standing at the trailhead waiting for his wife, who was using the facilities.
“Ten years ago, I’d come here on a mid-May Day just like this and be the only person in sight,” I wistfully announced.
“Did you hear that, honey?” he said to his now relieved wife. “Just like we were saying earlier. He remembers a quieter time here, too.”
Bonded by our romanticized memory of the way things were, we chatted as we started up the trail. He’s a local winery owner; she’s a retired magazine editor. They shared that they would be taking it slowly, savoring each step. My kind of hikers. Nonetheless, I moved along, respecting their privacy while my enthusiasm spurred me onward.
The northern Michigan spring had been decidedly cool, and this day was no exception, the temperature hovering around 50 degrees. The wind, though, was light, a gentle invisible touch. Sunshine painted the bare trees, the canopy on the cusp of emergence, illuminating the budding beech-maple hardwood forest and its greening understory. White-color-dominant spring ephemerals declared their annual glory. Dutchman’s breeches blanketed the ground amidst trillium, pink-streaked hepatica, and wide-leaved bloodroot. Each time the sight of occasional trout lilies, with their slender variegated leaves and elegant conical yellow blossoms, felt like being awarded a prize. I almost expected to see a fairy – it was that magical.
Halfway up the trail to the primary Lake Michigan scenic lookout, I heard my first American redstart of the spring, immediately recognizing its sweet, high-pitched trilling. Just ahead, a National Park Service interpretive ranger scanned the nearby trees for that same tiny traveler from Latin America.
“That’s my favorite warbler,” I volunteered, especially the mostly black males with their blaze of orange as if splashed on their chest, wing, and tail feathers.
“It’s one of mine, too,” he concurred, smiling broadly.
Just then I realized that I had left my iPhone in my truck. “Looks like I’m having an old school technology-free hike,” I revealed.
“Good for you,” he congratulated me. We chatted for a while, in no hurry to be anywhere else. About the always amazing songbird migration. The can-you-believe-this weather. And his work, for lack of a better word, without an office or a desk, hardly a deprivation, in helping park visitors to appreciate the flora and fauna they’re experiencing, often for the first time.
Two-hundred yards or so and uncounted minutes later, I came upon two female hikers watching something in the trees just north of us. A college-aged woman was preoccupied with taking photos through her space-age zoom lens. Her grandmotherly companion, pointing toward the object of their curiosity, asked me, “Is that a raccoon?”
The hunched-over creature was about 50 feet high in a maple tree, resting on a sturdy bough. Quills covered its body.
“That, my friends, is the largest porcupine I’ve ever seen,” I replied. The three of us stood there marveling at the hefty tree-climbing critter, which certainly took its time getting up there.
“That’s so cool,” the awestruck photographer whispered to me. Happiness was written all over her face.
“It sure is,” I seconded, happiness no doubt all over mine.
Perhaps halfway up the trail, I came upon a 30ish-looking couple standing next to the bench overlooking Platte Bay and Empire and points north, a dazzling preview of the more wide-angled trail’s end view. Their baby carriage was thoughtfully aimed northward. What a mindboggling sight it must have been for the impressionable new earthling.
“How ’bout that,” I remarked while slowing my pace. The Caribbean-like colors emanating from the shore, from the sandy-bottomed clarity of the shallows to the aquamarine transition to navy blue, stops everyone in their tracks.
“Oh, man,” the father said, saying it all.
As I stepped onto the wooden boardwalk leading to the dune-side lookout approximately 400 feet above Lake Michigan, I paused to register what lay before me. From this vantage point, Lake Michigan extended to an endless horizon. Western European explorers were enthralled by such breathtaking oceanic views, sparking an insatiable wanderlust that would transform the globe. Yet I was perfectly content to be right here, discovering beauty moment by unfolding moment.
That special day along the Empire Bluff Trail I met only “shiny happy people,” as the R.E.M. song goes, all of us on the same euphoric wavelength. The off-season harmony felt almost supernatural. Granted, some folks prefer to be a part of a crowd wherever they go. Even in the iconic Northwoods or along a Great Lake. They seem to confuse being alone with loneliness and require a noisy comfort, a sense of safety in numbers. Tomato, tomahto.
When it was time to retrace my steps, I inhaled deeply before pulling myself away from the scenic lookout. My time here belonged to the ever-occurring and vanishing now. Impermanence is the secret sauce of living. It’s what gives such priceless value to days like this.
So carpe diem, my friend. That’s what it’s there for. If you know what I mean.
Tim Mulherin is the author of This Magnetic North: Candid Conversations on a Changing Northern Michigan, a 2026 Michigan Notable Book.
