Hiding Rocks; A Personal Essay

Every Memorial Day weekend at the end of May my family drives three hours to get to Castle Haven Cabins in Two Harbors, Minnesota. These cabins are located about thirty minutes outside of Duluth, and if you take a right at East Castle Danger Rd, and drive a half a mile down the bumpy gravel road, you will stumble upon a row of yellow cabins all facing the great Lake Superior. Each cabin has two bedrooms, a kitchen equipped with cups and plates and utensils, a ‘living room’ that consists of a couch and a rocking chair that creaks, and a kitchen table that has a great view of the ever-stretching water. I could walk around these cabins with my eyes closed, knowing exactly where I might stub my toe.

The tradition began with five. My mother Kim and my father Pete, my aunt, Tami, and my uncle, Mike, and last but not least, my grandpa (we call him Gpa). In the beginning, they rented two cabins, more than enough room for five people. They would make meals together, read books by the water, go hiking when it was sunny, and play card games at night. It was peaceful. It was easy. But, as the years went on, bellies got bigger and new feet learned the layout. My brother Henry was first. He was the lone grandchild, getting carried during the hikes and playing by himself in the grass. Next came me, in April of 1999. Then came my cousin Sydney a few months later in September. Then cousin Sam in July 2001, and finally my sister Tessa in 2002. The whole crew made it up to Castle Haven by the spring of 2002. As you could imagine, the bedrooms started to fill up.

This tradition has continued for over twenty years, some of us participating longer than others. The cabins are squished, to put it lightly. We still rent just the two, but it’s ten people instead of five. For years, Henry slept on an air mattress that took up one entire living room and Sam did the same in the other cabin. Now the owners installed futons in the living rooms. According to Henry, the futon is comfortable when you initially lay down, but your back will be paying for it in the morning. As for my sister Tessa and I, we have claimed the same bedroom year after year. The knots of the wooden walls and ceilings still make faces at us. We bring our own pillows and blankets because the quilt on the bed is paper-thin.

In order to eat together and play board games at night, we have to carry chairs from one cabin to the next and even then, eight out of ten can be seated. The rubber leg stoppers on the chairs often fall off during the journey and we find them in the morning discarded next to car tires and yellow dandelions. Lunch and dinner require mass amounts of food when you’re cooking for ten. Breakfast is less of an issue since us ‘kids’ don’t wake up until 12:00 PM these days. In the past, there were many years in a row where miniature cereal boxes were all the rage. My siblings and I fought over the CoCo Puffs and Rice Krispies, usually leaving the Pops to be fed to the seagulls. Auntie Tami always brings her famous homemade Chex Mix to snack on. Grandpa always makes the Saturday morning pancakes.

The cabins are right down the road from Gooseberry Falls State Park, known for it’s rushing waterfalls and hiking trails. Our family has been walking the same route for as long as I can remember. Around age 10, I found a rock that looked like the head of a duck. Henry found one that resembled a large bazooka gun. We hid them under the roots of a tree at the end of our hiking trail. Every year we would hike to the same spot to eat lunch by the river and Henry and I would dig through the dirt to find our oddly-shaped rocks. Smiling, our aunt would snap a picture of us holding the annual tradition, and we would hide them away once our ham sandwiches were finished. Every year the hiking trail seems to get shorter and easier. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up. The spots that once required a walking stick, I could now do with only one eye open. The scary cliffs that made me grab for my mother’s hand, I now peer over to gauge how far the fall would really be.

Last year was my first year, in twenty years, that I could not attend. The flights from Denver to Minneapolis were too expensive and the dates were too close to finals week.

Knowing that everyone was carrying on without me was a bummer. I wanted to play games, eat hamburgers, and go hiking, but instead, I was stuck at school, prepping for finals week and eating the quesadillas from Nagel dining hall. Even from hundreds of miles away, I could still smell the lake, hear the laughs, and feel the love from the previous year. The memories were all I had in those moments. I tried to face-time my family to say hello but it was brief and I almost think it made things worse, hearing the excitement and joy in their voices. I was told over the phone that Henry looked for our rocks in the tree but they were nowhere to be found. The one year I miss, our rocks are suddenly gone. It seemed fitting.

Fast forward to this year, May 2020, with Coronavirus in full swing. Somehow the regulations eased up just in time for us to head up north for our annual cabin weekend. Of course, things were different this year. My grandpa and his companion, Carol, went up early in the week with plans to avoid all contact with the rest of my family. They left on Friday morning, so I only saw them for about 30 before they left to head home. We stayed six feet away and gave air hugs. There would be no Saturday morning pancakes from Grandpa. As for Tessa, she had a major surgery coming up on Tuesday, so to minimize contact and to get prepared for the knife, she left with my mom on Saturday evening. I slept alone on Saturday and Sunday night. No sharing blankets or whispering goodnight.

We didn’t go hiking this year. We wanted to avoid all of the people, plus the forecast looked ominous. My Aunt brought her Chex Mix and my dad made pancakes on Sunday. We played Hammerschlagen, an intense drinking game that involved a heavy hammer and lots of nails. Thank god nobody got hurt. We didn’t make a bonfire or s’mores- it didn’t seem like anyone was interested in buying the lumber. We did eat hamburgers but they were not grilled. We forgot to buy charcoal to start the fire. We ate spaghetti and drank wine, something I was really looking forward to. And last but not least, we laughed and smiled and sang and danced. The most important things of them all.

Three days out of three hundred and sixty-five. That’s it. Just three days of fresh air, seas gulls, and sweatpants. Only a slice of time, just a sliver. Yet, every year I wish it was longer. Every May I look forward to the small bedrooms and the creaky rocking chair. The way the lake numbs your fingers and sits still in the morning sun. It’s a feeling. The feeling of tradition. It’s familiarity and comfort. It’s the same smells and the same smiles. It teaches you how to look forward because you know there is always another.

Our traditions differed this year- some were canceled and some stayed alive. My rock shaped like a duck head is still missing in action. The pancakes my dad made were not nearly as good as Gpa’s (he even admitted it). We played the same games and ate similar foods. We were lucky to be able to continue the tradition this year, despite how skewed it may have been. As the years continue to pass and new bellies grow new babies, our traditions will continue to change and evolve. These cabins barely have space for ten. However, I must learn to be okay with the prospect of new family members and tighter spaces. Things change and rocks go missing.