“Down around the bend in the water, bring your fishing line.” – Gordon Lightfoot

As is not uncommon across this peninsula, nature has flipped the script in short order and delivered us from a brief series of cold and gray early mornings.

At least for now.

The days of summer – dog or otherwise – have arrived.

I marked the occasion of the first of these affairs – almost a full week before the astronomical arrival of summer – by taking in a visit to a place quite familiar to me though not visited as often as I would like.

Like many settings I have come to know, this vision before me now seems to change frequently and appears differently on each visit.

Sometimes, the changes are subtle, like a faint but visible rosy or purple tinge to the sky at its far edges in the evening time or a slightly lower or higher water level in the river as it makes its big turn just before the old dirt road.

Other times, the change can be dramatic, like after spring’s rushing snowmelt has begun. The river is then often high, raging and tumbling and twirling, rolling all the mud up from the stream bottom as it carries branches and sometimes even entire dead and fallen trees downstream.

The grand champion of chameleon-like scenes that exhibit these types of changing behavior is Lake Superior. For a few years, I had the good fortune of living along the shores of that incredible and mysterious inland sea.

I scarcely recall any two days strung together there when the look of the lake, its temperament or its colors appeared the same to me.

To me, it was like gazing into some incredible kind of mirror that not only showed me many things I never knew about myself, but also a great deal about the character, depth and surprising frailty and vulnerability of the lake.

So today, at this place where the river takes its big bent fish-hook-like turn, it is decidedly summertime. The temperature is in the mid-80s, but the breeze is light. It lifts me up inside after a period of shadows, foreboding and fog.

Though I can’t fully explain why, it is clear to me that this day will rest among the best of the summery days in my memory, which number only a handful.

It must be something in the air, like the light scent of the blackberry blossoms that are covering the brambles not only here along the riverbank, but across the countryside too.

I see blueberries, sugar plums and wild strawberries are also in bloom today. That sweet bouquet and its promise of fruits of the forest yet to come in the weeks ahead brings hope and happiness.

The brilliant green of the trees, grasses and bushes reflected in the lazy stretches of the river must also work to trigger my memories of similar days, some that date as far back as decades.

In one such reverie, I am a pre-teen sitting under a willow tree, reading the Nancy Drew mystery “Clue of the Whistling Bagpipes,” which I had taken out on loan from the Carnegie library.

I remember the book was one of the canary-colored bindings of the Caroline Keene series, with protective blue tape over the edges of the book and its spine.

The title was written there, along with the author’s last name, in script-like printing which added to the charm of the moment in my recollection.

A gorgeous, yellow swallowtail butterfly landed in the dirt along the narrow path I walk to my place along the river. I check the branches above my head careful not to have my scalp raked by the long, sharp thorns of crabapple bushes that have always grown here.

I cast my fishing line just for fun.

I am not out for trout in any serious way.

I spread myself out on the gigantic, warm boulders that force the river to bend here. They are white and pink and are made of quartz and other granitic minerals.

Though the rocks have been here over my entire lifetime, they don’t seem to have changed at all. But a closer inspection shows a smoothness to the complexion of these tremendous rock faces that I would suspect has only become softer since I first came here with my mom and dad when I was 2 or 3 years old.

The first time I ever saw a badger was not far from here. There’s a catbird mewing in the thicket where the crabapple bushes grow. Over by the blackberries at the bridge, there is a brown thrasher.

These two species live in the same type of thick bush undergrowth and make a wide range of calls and songs. The catbird’s ability to make a mewing sound like a young feline gives the bird its name.

There is something interesting about this place that I have noticed over the years, but never have been able to quite figure out yet.

It is not situated at a particularly high elevation, but the forest here is home to gray jays and boreal chickadees, just as the highlands are that are found a good distance west of here.

The two places seem dissimilar to me.

My fishing line snags on a rock or a stick and won’t come loose. I decide to wade into the water with my sandals on. The water is cold and refreshing. When I position myself upstream from the lure and tug, the hook comes free, and I reel in.

I stand on an exposed rock that is just big enough to accommodate my two feet. I look behind me upstream and see the water running shallow over finely sorted gravel that has been covered in long strands of yellow-green grass – another sign of summer days.

I recall one time many years ago when I was wading to this point from upstream. As I moved silently through the water with the current, I came upon a white-tailed doe standing in the water, getting a drink.

For a minute or so, we both stood looking at each other. She then slowly turned and walked to the shoreline and pulled herself up out of the river and walked away.

For me, it was one of those simple things that makes a fine memory today.

The dirt on the road is already choking dry and puffs into the air as an old pickup truck crosses the bridge and moves west up over the hill.

Despite being this close and this accessible to other people out here along the river, I might as well be on another planet. I am enthralled by the natural scene blooming and living and chatting and being all around me.

The river downstream from this rock I am still standing on deepens and widens a little as it breaks into braids that move around a handful of craggy looking boulders that have also been here throughout my whole lifetime.

Still farther downstream lie waterfalls and even bigger bends with deeper waters where the big trout are found along the bottom. On days like this, they are languid and sleepy with no plans to rise to the surface for anything until after dark.

I slip my feet back into the water and make my way across the stream back to the big rocks. I sit for a few more minutes trying to soak up as much sunshine as I can. I need it to get inside me deep enough to stay for a while.

Lately, sadness and the seeming futility of many of our collective actions has had me troubled. I need encouragement and hope to be able to see the possibility of things improving in meaningful ways.

Sometimes, it can be difficult to discern. If I have learned anything, it is that nature has the keys to those kingdoms, but she isn’t always clear in what she says or means.

Many messages are left to interpretation of those who seek their value and take the time to hear them. Often, it is a discipline problem.

I need to be able to block out the noise and nonsense of my mind and the dizzying world long enough to not only hear, but to be able to think clearly with resolve and resonance.

This is clearly why a sense of presence and purpose and being in the moment is so important – it allows for these precious moments of enlightenment to creep into a thirsty consciousness.

There are occasions when even though I am enveloped in the most spectacular of natural landscapes, I might as well be deaf and blind for the interference going on inside me that dissolves the beauty, truth and solitude trying to impress themselves upon me.

Thankfully, today is different. I am locked inside the kingdom of understanding and my heart has found the key to being in tune with the natural world around me.

There is nothing but boundless possibility all around me.

In the simplest terms, winter has died, and summertime is alive.

Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.