Slow, unchanging. Apart from a few exceptions, the road leads through beautiful deciduous forests covering most of northern Michigan. Forests in the embrace of darkness, expressionless, anonymous, lost in a monolith of dark green. The morning highway is deserted, and tomorrow, tomorrow, at the beginning of the fourth of July, it will be the weekend. Tomorrow, the residents of Michigan. Congested highway with an uninterrupted stream of cars. Driven by the need to travel somewhere, mainly north. Crazy people rush along a river of cars, trailers, boats, and motorcycles. Bumper-to-bumper traffic. A caravan is eager for rest, armed with camping trailers, tents, motorhomes, and, above all, hotel reservations, camping cabins, and a large group of lucky people with keys to their summer residences. On the road, in the water, and in the air flows a constant stream of lunatics driven by the need for self-torture. Children, women, senior citizens,
dogs, cats, horses, and the occasional parrot or snake. Swear to God, A pimply teenager with an ugly, green boa wrapped across his chest with an idiotic smile celebrates his originality. Most of the youth, carefree and with a broad, fresh smile on their faces, unlike their parents with the stigma of martyrdom in their tired eyes, sentenced to hours of torment, locked in a car cage with three unruly teenagers. From time to time, a hat barely visible behind the wheel, an old couple rushes at a dizzying speed of thirty miles per hour, unaware of the regulations and danger, risking their lives and the lives of others, locked in a world that has long since passed A bright, timid line on the horizon was approaching dawn. Timidly delicately painted the navy blue sky, steel gray, adding a bit of purple after a while and covering the sky with a golden cloak. The rainbow dance of dawn slowly retreated from the approaching blue. Just a few more minutes until the beginning of the eternal spectacle, until sunrise. Which infallibly fills me with admiration that borders on adoration. The sun, still hidden behind the horizon, gives back the remnants of the colors stolen from the previous evening. An intense burst of red, scattered amber flames across the surface of Lake Charlevoix, waking from sleep. I brake abruptly with a screech of tires and the smell of burning rubber; I turn and unceremoniously park on private property. Basia, without blinking an eye, without a word of protest, gets out of the car. Morning wakes up in the haze of fog. Crouched like ghosts, anchored sailboats and a forest of masts make an incredible impression. On the deck of the nearest boat, black as pitch, a lonely Loon spreads its wings towards the benevolent sun. The horizon, swollen with energy, bursts from the madness of red, and the ruby face of the sun grows, heated, then with blood and steam. I stand speechless at the splendor of the spectacle. With the idolatrous delight of this earth with pagan adoration, I think, Oh God, and I am not sure that my "Oh God" is not directed towards the fiery, excellent life-giving disc of the sun. In my mind's eye, I see this shore, this bay teeming with the life of the ancient inhabitants of this land; my ears hear the clatter of horses, the clang of tomahawks, and the swish of lassoes, and I understand their true, indisputable faith, and how genuine their God was to them. With a note of uncertainty in my heart, without a word, I return to the car with the tormenting awareness that only a thin layer of accretions, called culture, separates me from these people, and we are connected, encoded in genes, by thousands of years of idolatrous faith. Once again, I take in the lake with my gaze. The amber flames scattered on the waves have disappeared, and the now golden sun, with a benevolent hand, has scattered myriads of petals picked from golden marigolds.