The early August sun beat down on us as we made our way through the beautiful landscape of the Pierce Stocking Scenic Drive through the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes. It was her first visit, if you didn’t count the trip when she was a squishy two-week-old wrapped snugly like a burrito in a soft pink blanket. She has seen photos of that trip; she has heard the story of how her nine-year-old brother went all the way down to Lake Michigan and back up the enormous dune all by himself and how terrified I was that he wouldn’t make it back up to the top. He made it with a huge smile and a rock he carried back up from the cold, blue waters of Lake Michigan.
“Hey guys, smile!” she commanded yet again as she pointed her selfie stick toward the blue sky and snapped picture after picture of our goofy faces with the gorgeous views seemingly wrapping their arms around us.
We wound our way through the Beech-Maple forest on the steel grey asphalt ribbon in a parade of cars and trucks, stopped to appreciate the beauty of the view of Big Glen and Little Glen Lakes, read each sign along the way telling the history of the land spread before us.
“This is it,” I told her as we followed the sandy path that was shaded by trees. Our view was filled with light brown sand leading to the body of blue and green that stretched to the horizon.
There were people with one eye pressed to the viewfinder of their Nikons, right hand turning the long lens, trying to capture the beauty of the dune.
“OMG! This is amazing!” she exclaimed as she made her way toward the wooden sign that was poking out of the sand, warning visitors not to risk injury or rescue fees by descending the dune. She stopped when the view opened up to the vast bluff that angles down to the shores of Lake Michigan.
She plopped down in the sand and tugged her shoes and socks off, “I’m going down,” she said to me with an enormous smile on her face. Her brown eyes were dancing with excitement.
Oh, shit, I thought to myself. No way she is going to do it.
I’m watching my daughter, who doesn’t have a rugged, athletic bone in her body, start to descend the mountain of sand. The impossibly steep incline was dotted with colored specks, some moving quickly toward the water and some moving slowly back to the top.
“The easy part is going down! You have to come back up!” I yelled to her as I’m glancing back up at my husband standing safely at the top of the bluff, gazing out over the horizon.
“Come on, mom, this is fun,” she calls over her shoulder as she takes a few more steps down, her feet sinking to her ankles with each step.
To my horror, she kept going. I kicked off my shoes, tucked my phone into my bra, looked back at my husband, and gestured that I was going down. She saw I was coming and stopped to wait for me.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” I smiled at her. “Coming back up is not easy.”
“I will be fine,” she assured me as she tucked her phone into the little pouch around her waist, then turned to face the lake and headed down.
Every 10 feet or so, I asked her if she wanted to turn around. “Look back up there,” I said, pointing to the top of the bluff. “See that red dot? That is your dad.”
She waved her hand feverishly in the air like Forrest Gump. “Dad,” she called. The red dot did not wave back. We were too far away.
The whole way to the bottom was a chorus of me reminding her we could still turn around and her assuring me that she could do it. I knew better. I had no idea how we were going to get back up to the top.
It took us 10 minutes to get to the bottom, where we put our hot feet into the chilly waters of Lake Michigan. We got our phones out and snapped a bunch of pictures. I kept looking back up to the top of the bluff. It seemed to reach the puffy white clouds that sparsely dotted the sky.
After finding the perfect rock to be her treasure to take back to the top, I asked her if she was ready.
“Yup, let’s go.”
About ten steps up the sandy dune, she sat in the hot sand, panting. “I’m tired,” she complained.
“Ha! You better get it together because it is a long way up, and the only way to get there is to climb.”
“It’s hot.”
“Yup, it’s hot, so the sooner we get back to the top, the sooner we can get a drink,” I urged her, trying not to lose my shit.
We tried again; it seemed we only made it about three feet in the loose, rocky sand before she sat in the sand again. This time she was crying. There were real tears. This wasn’t unusual for her.
“I can’t do it,” she cried.
“Stop crying!” I said to her between clenched teeth. “You will get dehydrated if you cry; we don’t have any water.”
“But I can’t do this!”
“You don’t have a choice; your dad will not be happy if we have to be rescued by helicopter!”
“Get up; we have to keep going. Tell you what, let’s take ten steps, then rest for a minute, you can do ten steps, come on.” I began moving at what seemed like a turtle’s pace counting each step loudly as my feet sank into the hot sand; the rocks that were hiding beneath the grains of sand were chipping my toenails. So much for a fresh paint job, I thought to myself.”
When I got to 10, I stopped and turned to see where she was; she was only a few steps behind me. When she made it to me, she collapsed into the sand while I remained standing. No way was I getting sand on my sweaty arms and legs.
“Can you block the sun? I’m getting a headache,” she said. I positioned myself so that my body blocked the sun from touching most of her delicate body. We stayed there for what seemed like forever before I said, “Let’s go, ten more.”
“I can’t.”
“You HAVE TO. This was your idea. Remember, you said it was going to be easy.”
“It looked easy, mom.”
The next 45 minutes consisted of counting ten steps, me shading her from the sun, her saying she can’t do it, me hissing that we have no choice.
“Look, I can see your dad! We are almost there! Come on; you can do this!”
She collapsed into the sand after gratefully accepting a bottle of water from her dad when we made it to the top. I could not believe we made it back to the top without being rescued by the National Guard. I’m no athlete, I can run a 5k in 30 minutes, but when I got to the bottom and looked back up to the top, I thought there was no way we were getting there. As I looked at my delicate flower of a daughter collapsed in the sand, I smiled. She is tougher than she thinks she is. She made the climb back up to the top of the monstrous, very steep dune. Victory for both of us! I didn’t lose my shit, and we both made it back to the top alive.
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