Changes
An overnight mist had drifted away with the arrival of a new day and its transitions. Beginning with the feathered fringes of first light, returning sunshine replenished the July warmth. A gentle yet intermittent breeze—arrhythmic puffs of air that had continued sweeping easily from the east all morning and even occasionally felt refreshing in the noonday heat—still created thin lines of white foam forming at the water’s edge in irregular intervals. The surroundings seemed saturated by the early afternoon’s unusually nourishing humidity. This morning, the whole landscape came into focus like a sheet of vintage film photographic paper gradually beginning to reveal its details when placed in the chemical bath of a developing tank. The rich green scenery that had been slumbering under faint pre-dawn fog preceding strengthening sunlight now appeared to be lush and flourishing when seen on my camera’s digital screen.
* * *
Temperatures stayed somewhat steady once they’d peaked at noon, and the wind’s velocity hadn’t escalated as the day progressed. However, dark lines of nearby shadows sketched by the bent limbs in those slim shoreline pines, as if arms akimbo, intensified when this summer sun rose fully overhead and then continued its daily passage above everyone. Brilliant sashes of sand uncovered by the filter of these beach trees seemed to gleam under slashing streaks of sunbeams leaning between the deepening shade beneath the branches. Nevertheless, tapered green blades of marram grass sporadically quivered among the foredunes, and all these tall leaves stirred in synchronized waves whenever a stray lake breeze advanced onshore.
* * *
A number of sunbathers lay under bright light on comfortable blankets or more lightweight sheets scattered across the slender stretch of public beach. Nearly every reclining figure appeared motionless, as though asleep or lost in meditation, eyes shut or shaded by dark-lensed glasses. But their exposed flesh, wet with sweat, glistened with an almost lustrous sparkle. Many that had still been basking in the late-afternoon warmth, lolling in the soothing lull of this season, also seemed cautious, slick from the protection of suntan lotion mixed with perspiration to absorb the summer sun’s intense rays before permanent damage to their skin could occur.
* * *
One old man, a sole figure silhouetted almost black by the bright backlight, stood looking out at the expanse of lake from its margin, facing away from the oncoming shift in weather beginning inland. Bent forward, his feet were steadily sinking in damp sand under the soft swash and backwash of small waves. Shirtless and wearing olive green shorts, with hands clasped behind his back, he seemed to be continually and sadly absorbed in deep contemplation, or so I thought as I created fictional scenarios for him. With head bowed and nodding a bit as if in prayer, perhaps he’d been reminded of some wistful moment of nostalgia, a memory from his youth inspired by the glee seen and heard in the laughter of two little children bouncing joyfully in the shallow water around him. Or one might imagine to have caught him in an act of mourning some lost love like a speaker in T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets: “What might have been and what has been / Point to one end, which is always present.” Indeed, maybe even more sorrowfully, neither option applied; becoming a tragic character in my mind, he was realizing the changes that have happened during his many years, and he’d finally decided not to lie to himself any longer about a life he had forgotten to live. Obviously, he could more likely be simply relishing the soothing water swirling around his feet.
* * *
Here and there, visitors prepared with extra weather protection stayed hidden and sheltered by shade inside a couple of triangular pup tents or one domed enclosure from which the muffled percussive sound of salsa music seeped, providing a dampened background soundtrack. Each person within those temporary sanctuaries remained shielded from direct heat of the sun under slumping nylon sides tentatively staked into the loose sand. A slender portion of the wide sky suddenly started to close over the coastal cliffs. There, the first narrow patches of drab clouds shifting from the south looked as if they had been latched to that crooked ridge line of far dune hills wedged toward the southwest and set back several hundred yards from the shore. All those people sprawled along the waterfront were apparently unaware of the incoming storm that soon would be arriving behind them. Even the old man standing by the lake, now with eyes closed, did not notice the changes about to occur.
* * *
By the time I first spotted the storm’s approach, I noticed more of the beachgoers were sitting up and also facing the lake, a number of them partially shaded under multicolored umbrellas, maybe eating sandwiches, snacking on crackers or cookies, and apparently sipping soft drinks drawn from blue and white Styrofoam coolers, since alcohol is prohibited in this location. A few adults stared intently toward the water, probably parents or grandparents attentively watching the smaller children remaining in the shallow depths. The children chased one another and waded knee deep among those little ripples of waves subtly slapping at the shore and dissipating in a softly breaking surf near an old man who still posed alone, stooped and again staring longingly into the distance. Others, mostly high school or college age kids who had just finished swimming, stood soaked and dripping, hovering near their own colorful beach blankets strewn on the tan sand like vibrant islands of fabric. Some of these artificial oases harbored volleyballs and beachballs or plump sport bags stuffed with all sorts of other paraphernalia for games to be played. Leisurely, the teenagers dried themselves with cotton towels strikingly dyed in bright primary colors, speaking animatedly with each other, and I noticed an oddity: nobody was staring at a phone’s digital screen.
* * *
A pair of young girls, late-elementary or maybe early middle-school age, knelt and began raking the beach sand with plastic hand shovels, the strong sun further tanning their already brown shoulders. Apparently on a treasure hunt, they were seeking eye-catching pebbles, some the color of coal and rounded like dark marbles, or those pale beige shells that perhaps had been brought ashore in a previous season, swept by waves from quicker winter gusts or during lingering spring storms. But those multihued remnants of the past were now settled close by, suddenly revealed following a retreating surf sloshing around their knees. Like relics that had been left on this shoreline shelf stretched beside the lake, the naturally created jewelry lay just beneath the thin strip of smoothed sand awaiting discovery as trinkets for a homemade necklace or bracelet. Now and then, joggers in loose t-shirts and lightweight shorts ran beside the surf, each hurrying around the two girls. One runner was accompanied by an energetic dog, a Labrador Retriever, leaping waves lapping at the beach, darting in and out of the shallow water, and racing ahead or lingering behind the pace to pick up a tossed stick of driftwood. Still, nobody at the water’s edge seemed to notice the approaching overcast, a succession of ominous clouds now looking like compact black boulders rolling slowly toward the coast, starting to encroach over a large part of the inland dune hills.
* * *
As I walked past, a small mass of smoke billowed from a portable charcoal grill with about a half-dozen hot dogs and some sausage links sizzling on it, each spreading its seductive scent. Laughter rose from a quartet of men playing poker, Texas Hold’em, each bent over a blue tablecloth for displaying dealt hands and red betting chips, their cards weighted from any stray wind by small smooth stones. Listening to a Chicago Classic Rock station, they nodded their heads as David Bowie sang “Changes.” Beyond them, the lean shape of an old motorboat, flickering green under the sun, reminding me of the light at the end of Daisy’s dock in The Great Gatsby, moved in the near distance, powered by a sputtering outboard that sounded at first like soft coughing. Its passing initiated a pale tail trailing behind like an imaginary line of thick rope untied and extending from a nonexistent sail. Eventually, a muffled purring of the powerboat increased as it contentedly crossed the calm waters, its figure slowly but steadily growing smaller when it moved more offshore. As the boat’s profile became distant, waves now fanned farther out from its stern in a slightly widening and whitening wake.
* * *
Casually causing a bit of turbulence, sending some of those ripples toward the shore along an otherwise mostly calm surface, the vessel crossed Lake Michigan westward under sharply slanting light from an afternoon sun starting to settle lower in the sky. Its angled rays sparkled like star-shine on spots at the edges of any undulating water. The short form of this rundown boat, a runabout with exposed cockpit, also appeared to be dragging a flat black shadow behind it. Far off, only a narrow shroud of soot and a few stubby stacks of gray haze, collected closely together in a cluster like clumps of windblown chimney smoke, floated above that Chicago skyline spread along the more northwestern horizon on the opposite side of the lake.
* * *
Some ring-billed gulls skirmished among themselves next to a toppled trash can beside the park’s cinnamon tinted brick pavilion now nearly one hundred years old. Those scrambling birds were scattered among the bin’s spilled contents of paper plates and transparent plastic cups a few yards outside a seasonal eatery’s open take-out slot. Members of the flock squawked loudly as they competed and poked at pizza crust slivers or burger bun bits. Ignoring this chaos, a slim middle-aged waitress wearing a gray apron and awaiting arrival of another customer bent her dark-scarfed head at an open window of the diner, looking like an Edward Hopper model as she absentmindedly flipped pages of a People magazine. On this issue’s cover, a posed portrait pictured a smiling Taylor Swift, situated in a similar position by her photographer but now peeking between the splayed fingers of the woman’s ringless left hand. A lone sliding glass divider that was yet closed on one end glittered under the bright sunlight. Next to the big building a pair of older folks sitting on a cement bench with wooden slats for backing witnessed with amusement the resulting tussle taking place amid a commotion of white wings. The man and woman leaned closely toward one another—a tremendously tender gesture suggesting intimacy—and whispered a few personal words. Smiling at the entertainment in front of them, the duo also appeared as though posing for an evocative painting, perhaps a nostalgic photorealism artwork like those made popular by Norman Rockwell. If conjecturing, one might guess this couple had been married for forty years or more, and maybe they were currently engaged in a travel camping tour to places from past vacations, perhaps celebrating an anniversary.
* *
As though intentionally planned to match one another, the man and woman were dressed alike; both wore plain beige polo shirts and pressed tan pants cuffed above brown loafers. The wife had brushed her gray hair back into a ponytail held in place by a knotted red ribbon, while the husband sported a royal blue baseball cap displaying a bold gold “M” covering his bald head. Eating chocolate ice cream scooped from a disposable bowl, he carefully balanced each portion on a flat wooden spoon. Peering through round glasses with silver rims resting low on her nose, the woman sat beside him holding a trail map in her lap. The same midday sunshine that had illuminated the diner’s windows also reflected off the woman’s spectacles.
* * *
Both noticed those menacing clouds now clearing a distant ridge and hinting at a change in weather. Speculating, I imagined the two intended to take a stroll on the adjacent boardwalk path, a level and easy way through the thick woods that ran between sand hills along the border of Dunes Creek, perhaps heading to the park campground and their travel van waiting just a quarter mile away, hoping to return safely to their vehicle before the incoming storm arrived. Resting against the pavilion wall, feeling the rough texture of those coarse bricks with the heel of my hand, I leaned forward with my camera strapped around my neck to view the scenes around me. My backpack sat at my feet. I wondered what state is represented on their license plate; though noticing the man’s hat, my hunch suggested nearby Michigan, indicating they may have visited here on various occasions in the past and had opportunities to witness this landscape’s subtle alterations over time.
* * *
Reaching the lower ledge of a dune hill, I climbed the slight incline of its slope rising beyond the shore. The fine sand sounded a hiss at first and seemed to sing softly when I walked in it. Its silty texture slipped beneath my feet, millions of grains rearranged with each step. Earlier, walking the coastline, some damp clumps crunched under the ribbed rubber soles of my hiking boots. That audible crush of delicate wet sediment closer to the lake water appeared to whisper wordlessly with each step I took. Pausing, I peeked through the camera viewfinder at the magnified image from my telephoto lens. An easy curve of sand extending away from the public beach reached into the distance, its diminishing beige band bending gently with the shape of the lake like an arcing geometric figure swooping through an abstract artwork.
* * *
Hundreds of yards away, I could see three people hunched under the convex windscreen at the bow of that stuttering motorboat doubling back for another pass along the shoreline. From what I could discern through my camera’s zoom lens, two men and a woman appeared to be gazing at the empty space of lake opening in front of them, each staring forward as if scouting that enticing undisturbed surface still shimmering in spots. The dazzling circle of the sun exhibited a yellow glow and, just as at times earlier during late-morning hours when I walked along the water in an increasingly steamy summer heat, its light seemed blinding. Seeking something new from that vast expanse of sapphire blue plateau in front of them, the trio of sailors appeared to be urged forward by a certain sense of curiosity, as though metaphorically merely wandering forward and wondering about the future. I surmised perhaps they were even entertaining an attitude verging on suspicion—from their perspective peering at the sky above the inland hills, increasingly aware that the weather was about to change dramatically—realizing the way ahead could prove more precarious.
* * *
Initially, the daylight turned a faded shade of gray, and then distant objects became vague beneath a wide line of increasingly bleak conditions. Soon, more elements of the scenery lost their definition, as if details in a dim memory, when shadows slowly crept across the beach. A couple of large black clouds crossed toward the lake and crowded the sky, blocking out the sun: “The black cloud carries the sun away,” T.S. Eliot tells us. A brief transitory chill filled the air. Fresh breezes moved through the foredunes, scuffing loose sand and bending the tall grass. With the growing cover of overcast sky, the surface of the water shifted to the color of pale silver or pewter. The precipitation took shape as not much more than a drizzle, then light rain fell continuously as if providing a rehearsal for the main event. Quickly, a downpour proceeded to overwhelm the landscape. The first large drops of harder rainfall felt invigorating. Every brisk rush of wind swept away more waves of loose sand like an invisible hand brushing a dusty surface. However, stronger gusts soon rustled the leaves of those summer trees I’d sought for shelter.
* * *
A rush of air pushed through trembling treetops of Eastern cottonwoods and shook slight vibrations among the needles in Jack pines climbing toward the sky along a lofty strip of trail between slopes rising high above the shoreline, as if a parapet, a spot where my camera could capture the whole scope of the landscape. One stunning burst of thunder lasted into another followed by a third, each extended echo like a sustained piano minor chord, as that run of loud sounds rolled around above me. A torrential rain moved through easily and steadily, seemingly unhurried and welcomed, as if this day’s clear sky had pleasantly consented to such a raucous intrusion providing a brief reprieve from the extreme heat. Like a contrasting scene in another narrative from some film with a different fictional existence, bright sunshine still flooded the other side of Lake Michigan, its far edges yet washed by yellow sunlight and marked overhead with the far pale scar of a sole contrail left by an airliner likely headed to O’Hare Airport.
* * *
For a while, a tension existed between the departure of clear calm air and the forceful arrival of stormy weather. From my perch high above the coastline, I witnessed this friction, the duality of nature. Such a transition is mystical in its shift from light to dark, stillness to turbulence, stifling heat to cool relief, and sere conditions to total saturation. Nevertheless, I felt the deluge and the strong gales of the storm represented a betrayal of expectations arriving from somewhere beyond that distant curvature of Earth. The sky had progressively filled, interspersed with patches of darker clouds like black and gray scraps of fabric slowly woven together into a somber quilt pattern closing overhead, threatening greater rain. I covered the camera with a plastic bag bearing an elastic opening I carry in my backpack with the rest of the photo gear for just such an occasion. The winds called through those full trees with a roughened voice, somewhat stifled but also more harsh, almost raspy, as though expressing temporary agitation at such an incursion in the middle of an otherwise plain and lazy day. Then I sensed an insertion of danger when lightning accompanied the thunder.
* * *
As the overcast had increased, I’d hiked the old Cabin Trail along an eroding slope linking a couple of the highest hills, an elevated space where the path grows narrow and a benign lake breeze usually murmurs through the ragged collection of ridge trees. Simple cabins and stark shacks once filled this landscape, though there have been no buildings here for more than half a century. At times nothing more than seedy settlements constructed from odds and ends of discarded lumber or found bits of driftwood, some structures were arranged on raised shelves of sand, others situated among the flatter recesses of foredunes. After waiting out the showers, I watched from under a sagging canopy of leaves and between wet thickets, suddenly struck once again by returning sunshine as the wall of pouring rain finally raced across the lakeshore toward the north and over the empty waters. Mud puddles had collected on the path where the top layer of sand had recently been worn away by hikers. A moist mound of dirt that lay beneath the nearest tree seemed as dark and settled as a heap of disposed coffee grounds.
* * *
To accompany photographs taken beside Lake Michigan, especially on unique or tempestuous days, I have frequently written descriptive reflections or explanatory captions in my notebooks, periodically noting those images of impressive storm clouds I’ve witnessed gathering and approaching the coast of northern Indiana. Occasionally, I’ve commented about how such a situation might be among my favorite experiences when hiking ridges in the dune hills. However, perhaps the appearance of a quickly darkening squall line reaching over the lake, complete with thunder and lightning, seems more dramatic, even somewhat dangerous, in summer when viewed by clutches of vulnerable sunbathers or swimmers, many merely wading shallow water along the Indiana Dunes beaches, particularly during a busy holiday weekend. The great heat of an afternoon in June, July, or August builds, and the growing overcast becomes more ominous, thickening on the horizon with a growing row of distant rainfall evident in the stippling of water below as its column of cloud cover comes closer. Observed in contrast with the current calm and bright conditions along the shore, one senses that the surrounding scenery seems to exhibit an intensive element of tension in nature, especially when lingering sunshine reflects off the upper levels of a scudding cloud bank, distant and traversing the center of the lake.
* * *
The page from my end of day summary notes saved for later extension and revision changes: All morning the warm front seemed to be embracing Lake Michigan. A distinctive damp scent drifted leisurely onshore with each light breeze. Wrinkles of sand at the edge of the surf-stained shore were sprinkled with small shells and pebbles, many black and rounded like rosary beads loosened from their string. Nearing noon, I observe the flare from a yet rising sun, though now positioned high above the horizon, appearing as if pinned in place, perhaps like Tom Eliot’s light “at the still point of the turning world.” Eventually, I walked a trail coincidentally leading from the beach to Mt. Tom, and I paused at a slightly angled ledge to view the water below. In the first half of the twentieth century, the Governor of Indiana maintained a summer home only about two hundred feet east of here, a space that has become overgrown with trees. Like numerous other structures within the Indiana Dunes State Park property, that building was demolished in the mid-twentieth century to reclaim the natural landscape. All that remains today, hidden amid the woods, is a short stack of bricks that once supported steps to a porch overlooking the lake, a view screened today by overgrowth of green trees and shrubbery. However, whenever I snap a photograph in this setting, I always imagine how dignitaries and other visitors hoping to preserve this landscape so long ago viewed the scenery from that cottage’s front door.
* * *
When the hottest days of midsummer arrive, following trails along the Indiana Dunes requires planning in order to avoid more humid routes, as I sometimes feel like I’m breathing pure heat. Unlike the clear crisp air in winter’s faint light, this season’s humidity frequently, especially among wetlands, creates a haze partially obscuring distant objects even on bright days, an effect occasionally evident, particularly in photographs. Rather than traveling across swamps or marshes, I routinely seek wooded and shaded paths through the dune forest toward the shore, where the lake often offers cooling onshore air currents. I also like to hike narrow trails among higher ridges of the dunes, most of which extend parallel to the beach and offer a canopy just inside the first line of trees. Moreover, many spots on this walk present excellent vantage points overlooking Lake Michigan, providing me with wonderful vistas for panorama photography.
* * *
Not official trails nowadays, these paths were once a main way for residents of those fragile houses built on the coast to pass from one place toward another. In fact, in the first half of the twentieth century before the many makeshift buildings were razed within the property of the Indiana Dunes State Park, the passage popularly known as the Cabin Trail connected some of the better-known and more elaborate locations, such as the Governor’s summer cottage and artist Frank V. Dudley’s studio cabin nearby. In addition, the Prairie Club’s meeting place located somewhat farther east supplied artists and activists a gathering spot in the early twentieth century to plan acts for conservation of the landscape. Indeed, one of the club’s members, Stephen Mather, was appointed the initial director of the National Park Service upon its establishment in 1916. His selection further encouraged many to promote the Indiana Dunes as a national park, a step that became derailed when the United States was drawn into World War I soon afterwards. Consequently, the dream of designating sections of the Indiana Dunes parcels as a national park would take more than a hundred years to reach completion.
* * *
Although I decided to hike the old Cabin Trail, this path is unmarked and not included on state park maps because it only exists as remnant from a different era. About a century ago, when as many as 150 entities—cabins, shacks, and cottages—dotted the beachfront, this route riding a ridge through the dunes helped connect the residents and seemed essential. After all the private properties were consolidated into park grounds, each of the buildings was demolished and materials hauled off, leaving no trace of their existence, no visible evidence of that time period. Knowing that this faded trail snakes around mounds high above the coast, I could see the hillside facing Lake Michigan sloped to the sand with a ruffle of surf at the public beach. The incoming storm had quickly cleared waders, but the shore was again bathed in bright sunshine. Toward the inland direction, I observed a deep ravine, wooded and shaded by its steep inclines, still displayed damp pockets of darkest forest recesses.
* * *
Each time I pass this way, despite a lack of lingering physical evidence, I recall how a residual of hope from those early days of enthusiasm remains for safeguarding this environment. In yesterday’s scribbled notebook entry, I indicated a personal attachment to the location where artist Frank V. Dudley maintained a beachfront art studio and entertained visitors, promoting protection of the lakeshore. As I have noted elsewhere in my writings, petitions pleading for conservation were completed and compiled by Frank and his wife Maida. Concerns about threats to the landscape were vigorously voiced during lectures at this lakeside site. Additionally, Dudley’s artworks energized group discussions that engaged everyone with the exceptional nature of the Indiana Dunes. He’d named his cottage “Duneland” after an early painting that had won enough prize money in a Chicago contest to support the cabin’s construction. Certainly, my knowledge of Dudley contributes to my interest in the Indiana Dunes, and his scenes on canvas serve as inspiration for my photography. From the 1920s to the 1960s, the Governor’s summer residence, known as Camp Indiana, stood just a short distance west of Dudley’s cottage and close to Mt. Tom along the narrow path of the Cabin Trail. I have seen a pair of Dudley’s paintings of that building, a tall pole standing adjacent, the stars and stripes of the U.S. flag over a blue Indiana state banner raised above green treetops, all appearing to wave easily in an onshore breeze. The proximity between these two locations might be viewed metaphorically to represent the closeness between the artist and the head of state government on an important issue to the people in the region.
* * *
When reviewing recent images captured of the Indiana Dunes on my computer screen, I often compare those photographs with Dudley’s paintings or pictures snapped by others with primitive cameras in similar locations perhaps a hundred years ago or more. Most noticeably, the landscape has changed dramatically and reclaimed many of the bare slopes of sandhills or dune ridges, filling them with woods displaying all sorts of lush foliage concealing unseen songbirds. Not only has the marram grass advanced widely throughout the foredunes, but numerous shrubs and trees, although some still small and isolated, now add greenery to where only tan sand had prevailed. In contrast with the quickly developing storm that traversed the coastline and temporarily transformed the surrounding scenery today, this more lasting transition to nature’s appearance has occurred gradually and incrementally over the course of a century. The clutter of cabins and shacks that once had marred the area has been cleared with almost all vestiges of their existence removed. Except for the popular short strip of public beach with its pavilion and parking lot, miles of shoreline have been restored to their natural state, completing the desired conservation intentions of those activists and artists among the Prairie Club members or advocates elsewhere, and fulfilling promises made when these tracts of wilderness land and lakefront beaches were converted to protected park grounds.
* * *
Only a half-hour before dusk, a collection of retreating clouds hung under the sun as it lowered toward the western edge of Lake Michigan. A continuing wind created breaking waves as white and frothy as the thick lather of shaving cream. Occasional gusts still whirred between those trees that could be seen in silhouette along dune ridges, some slimmer and lighter branches bending slightly. A flare of orange light was emitted from the setting sun, now positioned just above the horizon and appearing as if pinned in place. Upon the first blush of that stunning sunset, this evening seemed only the beginning of an end. However, as Eliot might aver: “What we call the beginning is often the end / And to make an end is to make a beginning.” Various pastel patches of color appeared scattered like loosely applied brushstrokes below those slowly passing clouds, and then their brilliant tints of reflection began to shimmer on the undulations of lake waves. At first, an overall widening light cast in a golden glow both the pale sand and those gray coastal stones strategically positioned over time to prevent erosion. But suddenly upper levels of the skies were richly lit once more, ignited by an array of red or yellow hues spread against the smattering of almost Prussian blue on that natural ceiling before the lake water started its fade back to nighttime black. A few sparse stars gradually emerged in the change taking place overhead, starting to illuminate a darkening eastern sky.