A Spoonful of Imagination Makes Travel Magical
Why introspection and flexibility are the best things to take on a trip
It was the winter break of 2019. My husband, Hussain, and I sat in a stilt house on the island of Hilton Head in South Carolina, rain gently drumming this Air B’n’B as a flamboyance of flamingoes preened themselves outside the window. Surrounded by gargantuan plants and a temperature that didn’t feel very “December” to us (we live in good, cold Michigan) we were making travel plans for the summer of 2020.
Since Thanksgiving, we were sifting through itineraries designed by fellow travelers who had done what we were still daydreaming about: be in the intimidating presence of the Chinese terracotta army; take in the sights of verdant paddy fields in rural China; hop over to the land of the rising sun to explore the temples of Kyoto; walk in the morning light around the largest religious monument in the world, the mysterious Angkor Wat in Cambodia; and kayak along the fascinating limestone islands of Halong Bay, sculpted by wind and water over centuries.
But as we read books and blogs and scoured the internet to plan our summer of 2020 in East Asia, we were also closely following the news coming out of Wuhan. It seemed like some bizarre disease, unbeknownst to the world as yet, was wreaking havoc in this city of 11 million that lay at the heart of China in the central province of Hubei. The images of healthcare workers emerging out of sealed buildings, dressed in snowy white astronaut-like gear spoke of tragedy (in 2019 PPE was not an acronym that had as yet acquired its present colloquial status). While most Americans, and I suppose most of the world at this point, viewed this catastrophe as a local outbreak, Wuhan news articles taking up minuscule space on their computer screens, for us, personally, it meant we had to tweak our itinerary. We made a Plan B by tentatively switching some of our China days to Vietnam and Cambodia, deep down believing that the outbreak would probably be long forgotten by summer.
Oh boy, were we wrong! To make a long story short, our heavily edited travel itinerary took on the same pattern that the spread of coronavirus did. Wherever we’d plan to go, it seemed like the virus was sure to follow: if we were Mary, covid-19 seemed to follow us around like a lamb.
When Plans Go Awry, Make New Ones
And so, the summer of 2020 was not spent on the eastern part of the globe or in Italy or Russia, but very much within the confines of our home state of Michigan. Lathered in sanitizing gel and looking like doctors stepping out of an operation theatre in surgical masks, we combed this state of a thousand lakes.
Yet again, I realized that space is not merely a physical thing. But like imagination, where one can reach the hitherto dark recesses of the mind, bringing to light a thousand new epiphanies through quiet pondering, exploration too is about slowing down, pausing to notice the black-capped chickadee expertly hammering a seed. Traveling then becomes not only about exploring frontiers where few humans have set foot before, but about breaking your own frontiers, daring yourself to notice the details you would have missed during the daily grind.
We hashed out a seemingly humbler travel plan, devoid of long-haul flights and crash courses in Mandarin, but rich with local knowledge about the best pasty in a small Michigan town. And so, Hussain and I, with our three tots in toe, packed essentials in our beloved SUV, put our senses in top gear, and set out of our home in the small Midwestern town of Plymouth, ready for Michigan to unburden its secrets to us.
The Great Lakes State
The state of Michigan is essentially divided into two: the Lower Peninsula and the Upper Peninsula (locally referred to as the “Mitten” and the “Rabbit” on account of their shapes. Yes, you should look ’em up on a map). Our covid-restricted summer travel had given us the chance to rediscover what had been in plain sight: the beauty of Pure Michigan. From the wind-swept sand dunes and cobalt blue lakes to roaring waterfalls and quiet forests where one is happy to get lost, the state has it all. The beauty of our proverbial backyard, at times set aside because it was so easy to get to while we vacationed in sunny Mexico or fascinating Andalusia, beckoned us.
We visited the charming town of Petoskey where once young Ernest Hemingway roamed, visiting the local train station, library, and restaurants that later became inspirations for his The Torrents of Spring, a parody set in Petoskey itself.
We climbed the sand dunes of the Sleeping Bear Dunes Park overlooking the gleaming blue Lake Michigan, drove from Traverse City to Charlevoix, hugging the famous shoreline circling Lake Michigan, our journey halted every few minutes to take in the stunning views.
Looking Inwards while Enjoying the Outdoors
A special moment was spent outside a little white cottage to pay tribute to Margaret Mitchell where she wrote parts of Gone with the Wind; bringing back sweet memories of a summer that I spent in my childhood house in Islamabad, my teenage nose buried in the thick novel, steaming with the controversial love of Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler. Personally, it was a moment when I felt so many worlds colliding: a girl from Pakistan, immersing herself in the complexities of an American society struggling with issues of slavery and the Civil War while savoring the work of a literary genius, now standing as a mother of three at the edge of a midwestern town, old Bollywood songs by Lata jee sweetening the evening breeze. I looked at the kids, dozing in their car seats, the engine humming them to sleep, and then to Hussain, a boy from Lahore, that city’s vibrancy twinkling in his eyes, the dimple in his cheek just the way it was when our 16-year-old selves met. Here we both were, holding on to a moment that spoke of a lifetime.
I slid into the front seat, the rosy pink clouds flitting in the twilit sky. I sighed a thousand sighs. Much as I had sighed while watching a sunset quite like this one, many years ago with my siblings from our rooftop, the blazing orange ball rapidly disappearing behind the Margalla Hills in beautiful Islamabad. I sipped milk tea much like I had sipped the same from a different cup last summer while sitting in the veranda, watching the dahlias in my mother’s garden as she bickered with my father who was nibbling on barfi, Itna meetha na khayein na aap please!(Don’t eat so many sweets please!). Her voice echoed in my heart, and I sighed a thousand sighs.
All of us are essentially traveling through space and time, carrying within us a thousand versions of ourselves, and every time we access a memory in a different place, it morphs a little bit. The new place enters the sanctuary of the old memory but as a welcome visitor. This sunset in Michigan got tied with the sunsets I witnessed as a much younger self in Islamabad with my siblings. The Yorkshire tea I drank that evening flowed seamlessly into the many memories of afternoon teatime I had at my parents’ house. Nostalgia of the senses. Longing of the heart. Joy of the moment and an intense sadness for what has come to pass. We carry in our hearts our old selves, our younger parents, our innocent childhood, a 16-year-old boy, even when we experience new things with newer people in ever newer places.
That is what travel sometimes reminds us: that we belong elsewhere but we are here. That the familiarity of home is far. That life is fleeting. Today we are here, making footprints in the sand. But tomorrow we will be somewhere else. And someone else will be leaving their mark on this sand, strangers watching this sunset, but a day later, remembering home, yet savoring being far from home; sharing the human experience of being a fascinated wanderer on this little rock we call Earth, hurtling through space and time.
We continue our journey onwards to Mackinaw City to catch the ferry to Mackinac Island. As we sit atop the deck, the untamed wind whipping my hair with force, my son nuzzling his head in my lap, I look over to the west toward the grand Mackinac bridge. In my mind, I picture the straits beneath it from a bird’s eye view, separating the Great Lakes of Huron and Michigan like two lovers torn apart. Once on the island, we make our way to the Grand Hotel for some old-world charm regaling in its green and red decor but mindful of the troubling colonial past that accompanies such opulence. It doesn’t help that the service staff at the hotel is largely, if not exclusively, African American sporting long-tailed coats for waiters and black aprons and white caps for waitresses. Celebrating history is of course admirable but preserving remnants of prejudice is infuriating.
Love in the Time of Autumn
Michigan had us hooked. We took another trip as fall burst open its palette of blazing colors, this time crossing the straits of Mackinac to hop onto the Rabbit to see the locks of St Sault Marie at the Canadian border. We stood at the shores of Lake Superior in Munising, its expanse defying its geographical categorization as a “lake”, the waves lapping to lick our toes as Zara, our 2-year-old attempted to catch the foam and sand in her stubby fingers.
In the Palm Brooks State Park we stood gaping at the Kitch-iti-kipi spring, its emerald green water mesmerizing us as tamarack trees stood in reverence around this oval gem. The legends of the Ojibwe tribe that I had read in Carole Lynn Hare’s book, seem to come to life in this “Mirror of Heaven”. Ayra (7) and Zak (6) took turns operating the raft built by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources, turning the wooden wheel with all their might while squealing at the sight of trout and yellow perches they could see through the raft’s glass bottom.
We then hiked through the spruce, pine and tamarack forest to reach the Upper Tahquamenon Falls, the largest waterfalls in the States east of the Mississippi River. The unique rusty brown color of the water, stained by the cedars that crowd around the river, was instantly noticeable.
We also hiked to the Lower Tahquamenon Falls and to the kids’ delight, we rented a rowboat and took it across the river to a small island. A short climb brought us closer to the cascading waters, and we stripped off our socks and shoes to step into the knee-high cold, cold water till our toes went numb.
The Stories We Carry
After goofing around with the kids and climbing the terraces of moss-stained rocks, I pause to take a moment. Sitting at the edge of a boulder, my feet caressing the water below, Zara giggling in my lap, my heart felt full — like how one feels after a long conversation with a dear friend. All our hikes made me think about those who had walked them before, beating the grass, baring the earth beneath, kicking the pebbles aside, leading the way and beckoning us to partake in this adventure. These were not hard, concrete pavements one follows around in the city. They have a different feel. They make one feel that if today we didn’t walk this path, it will disappear a little, and the connection I felt with those who were here before, will sever. Of course, these are trails in a state park that are maintained by the wonderful rangers who work here but the romantic in me likes to think that others have a role to play too. Those who sauntered here with their old college friends; little ones who held onto their parents’ hands, their vantage point just three feet above the ground; sisters who observed a red-winged blackbird in a grove as they walked in unison; a mother who paused to let a squirrel pass; little boys, much like my own Zak, expertly swinging a driftwood branch in his hand, pretending to be a swordsman — their stories, their presence is somehow captured in these paths, witnessed by these old forests, the sentry trees, the crouching bushes, the whispering grasses, the patient rocks. If we pause to imagine, we can catch fleeting images of these characters and their stories still floating in the woods around us.
On our walk back to the car, I look at my family, each individual carrying along a story of their own with experiences that are unique to them. It sometimes bothers me that I can’t fully experience the life of those who are so close to me. It fills me with this eerie feeling, the realization itself putting a distance between us. My three little darlings, my children, who have been in my care since they took their first breaths, now have a vast universe of experiences inside their heads, each experience unique to them, an entire ocean of almost-unknowns to me. The older they grow, the larger this ocean becomes. I glance at my husband who is walking beside me, keeping a watchful eye on Ayra and Zak running ahead of us. I think about when he was our kids’ age, a skinny 6-year-old boy running ahead of his own parents, keeping up with his older brother, their little feet pounding the earth below. This man I have known intimately for years, has a childhood that I can only glimpse through his own recollections and my mother-in-law’s delightful stories. I wonder if we can ever really, fully understand the lives of others… As a cultural anthropologist, I ask myself this question interminably, struggling to truly understand those I seek to write about. As a fiction writer, when I try to weave together a world for each character, I feel at a loss, as if some threads in my own tapestry have escaped my attention.
These thoughts, like most deep thoughts if we think them long enough, are soon interrupted by the demands of little tummies. We whip up our pasty restaurant list and embark upon a culinary exploration of a hearty meal that was preferred by the miners living in this area almost a century ago.
Our foray into the Upper Peninsula of Michigan continues. We drive past Marquette to the Presque Isle Park where the kids get a serious lesson on stone-skipping. Armed with the flattest stones we can find on the rocky shore, we pelt the pristine waters of Lake Superior, forming ripples near and far.
On a particularly cold fall day, we attempt to decipher the Pictured Rocks, the sandstone formations morphed into shapes and characters that are only limited by one’s own imagination. I find myself even more drawn to the trees that stand at the edge of these high cliffs, their roots dug deep into the unforgiving soil beneath as they brave the cutting winds.
We study the shoreline from the water and on foot as we hike through the coniferous forests lining it. Yet again the hikes along the Copper Harbor, amidst trees and woodland creatures bring us together in quiet reverence (Zara is asleep in Hussain’s arms so this reverie can last for more than a few minutes). Every now and then the forest opens up to reveal a waterfall or an expansive view of a lake from a precipice.
The Tales to Remember
Ayra and Zak, each searching for just the right walking stick, discover a particularly large fallen tree. Its core has rotted to create a hollow for animals such as foxes to take shelter. Its body, now decayed and frayed, has leeched essential nutrients to those around it: plants, earthworms, slugs, beetles, fungi and other detritivores. We enact some rather epic sword (stick) fights on the fallen trunk. As family tradition dictates, we then challenge each other to walk across the length of the trunk like acrobats balancing on a beam. Like a loving family, there is ample cheap talk and mudslinging as each contestant takes his/her best shot. I have to step in when even Zara is not spared and officially ranked at the bottom. The reverence of the forest is momentarily forsaken. While the die-hard competitors beg for one last attempt, I sit beside Zara who is now piling up sticks like her hominid ancestors.
I am reminded of how this fallen tree, once tall, healthy and beautiful, providing shade, shelter, oxygen and sustenance to those close and far, now lies on the forest floor. It may be lifeless itself but even in its death, it continues its legacy. It is a reminder to build a life that supports those around you long after the last breath escapes us. I sigh one of those thousand sighs, thinking about all those passed souls who have made my life more meaningful. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, nephew, and neighbors, who continue to bring warmth in my life as I remember the words they spoke, the kindness they showed, the simple gifts they gave and above all, the love they showed to those around them. Deep in the forest, somewhere in Michigan, those who passed away years ago, bring a smile and tear to a girl who keeps them alive in her stories.
I gently stroke the tree’s trunk and say my goodbye as the kids race with Hussain down the muddy trail.
And so, life goes on. The journey continues.
If you are happy with what you read above, you might like this gratitude piece I wrote, Thanks for the Bread or visit my profile here. Thanks for reading.
Pomegranates, With Love. A Portrait of my Father | by Maria H. Khan | ILLUMINATION | Medium
