About
“Last Known Surroundings” by Jeff Gaydash
Several years ago, I was in Marquette, Michigan, on a writing assignment. I had some time to take a walk to the waterfront on a late summer afternoon. I stood looking out into Lake Superior. And saw nothing but a blue expanse with a sharp sun angling over my shoulder.
I have found myself gazing out on the Great Lakes in a similar way — from Milwaukee, Chicago, along the coast of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula, to Cleveland. I’ve sailed the lakes, taken ferries to islands, and rowed — even survived a shipwreck in a squall on Lake St. Clair. I find myself coming back to these shores, looking out at nothing.
I learned about an audio theatre production in Chicago that appropriated the “Third Coast” name. A friend of mine and I began talking about the shared sense of experience along the coastline, influenced by a culture driven by the inland “Rust Belt.” There are plenty of lakes in North America, but Midwestern Americans bordering the lakes share an experience with these large bodies of water where you can’t see the other side. Even Lake St. Clair, which technically isn’t a “great” lake, is too large to see beyond the horizon in most places. It’s not the Atlantic, or the Pacific. Or the Gulf. It’s a very long stretch of fresh water — a third of the American coastline, 10,000 miles.
In 2008, Ted McClelland published The Third Coast, which in the American tradition of taking the road less travelled — or in this case, a shoreline less travelled — to find the soul of this place. I was struck by a comment by Bill Rossberger, who grew up in Chicago and always dreamed of living by the lake. He achieved his dream, becoming Commodore of the Chicago Corinthian Yacht Club. Bill has a telescope set up in his house where he said, “I look out on that lake every day… It gets into your spirit.”
This great nothingness was visualized brilliantly in the movie, “Stranger than Paradise,” in which the primary characters on a their American odyssey find themselves on the Cleveland waterfront during a whiteout in winter. The shore was indistinguishable from the frozen lake and sky. Jim Harrison found meaning while lost on the ice about an hour out from Escanaba on Bay de Noc.
Freighters cut through this space reminding us that the Great Lakes coast is a passage of raw materials, agriculture, and products. In most recent decades transit from foreign waters has brought invasive species. This coast has become a frontier of environmental stewardship.
It is less a romantic space than tourist publicity may suggest. Much of the shorelines have been destroyed, wetlands lost, water quality constantly at risk, and fishing advisories now the norm. The lesser told story is that there is hope with all of those conditions.
And during the pandemic summer people have gone to the great water, some properly distanced and many not, because that’s what we do.
Several years ago, I was in Marquette, Michigan, on a writing assignment. I had some time to take a walk to the waterfront on a late summer afternoon. I stood looking out into Lake Superior. And saw nothing but a blue expanse with a sharp sun angling over my shoulder.
I have found myself gazing out on the Great Lakes in a similar way — from Milwaukee, Chicago, along the coast of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula, to Cleveland. I’ve sailed the lakes, taken ferries to islands, and rowed — even survived a shipwreck in a squall on Lake St. Clair. I find myself coming back to these shores, looking out at nothing.
I learned about an audio theatre production in Chicago that appropriated the “Third Coast” name. A friend of mine and I began talking about the shared sense of experience along the coastline, influenced by a culture driven by the inland “Rust Belt.” There are plenty of lakes in North America, but Midwestern Americans bordering the lakes share an experience with these large bodies of water where you can’t see the other side. Even Lake St. Clair, which technically isn’t a “great” lake, is too large to see beyond the horizon in most places.
In 2008, Ted McClelland published The Third Coast, which in the American tradition of taking the road less travelled — or in this case, a shoreline less travelled — to find the soul of this place. I was struck by a comment by Bill Rossberger, who grew up in Chicago and always dreamed of living by the lake. He achieved his dream, becoming Commodore of the Chicago Corinthian Yacht Club. Bill has a telescope set up in his house where he said, “I look out on that lake every day… It gets into your spirit.”
This great nothingness was visualized brilliantly in the movie Stranger than Paradise, in which the primary characters on a their American odyssey find themselves on the Cleveland waterfront during a whiteout in winter. The shore was indistinguishable from the frozen lake and sky. Jim Harrison found meaning while lost on the ice about an hour out from Escanaba on Bay de Noc.
Freighters cut through this space reminding us that the Great Lakes coast is a passage of raw materials, agriculture, and products. In most recent decades transit from foreign waters has brought invasive species. This coast has become a frontier of environmental stewardship.
It is less a romantic space than tourist publicity may suggest. Much of the shorelines have been destroyed, wetlands lost, water quality constantly at risk, and fishing advisories now the norm. The lesser told story is that there is hope with all of those conditions.
And during the pandemic summer people have gone to the great water, some properly distanced and many not, because that’s what we do.
“For A Moment…” by Jeff Gaydash
Writer | Blogger
Dennis Archambault is a writer based in Detroit. His interests include health, religious culture, historic preservation, and the natural environment. He lives in Detroit. You can reach him at dennisa645@gmail.com.
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