Paradise Point

Freshman year of college was lonely.

 

I’d sit in the library and spend hours stalking girls at my school on social media, analyzing whether or not they’d be an attainable new friend. Somehow, it seemed like everybody I followed manufactured a brand new group of friends within a few weeks of being in college. I’d desperately search to find what clubs they were in and clues on how they met — hoping I could recreate the magic and fill my internal void with an Instagramable girl group. 

 

Most of these girls advertising their month-long, “soulmate” friendships were in sororities, which I actively made the choice to avoid. But no matter what I did to minimize the loneliness, I constantly felt like I was falling behind. Like everyone around me was capable of being someone others could deeply connect with, and I was going to float on the surface level of relationships for all of college. 

 

Four years later, after reflecting with my current friends, I realized I wasn’t as alone as I thought. The plague of showcasing fake social security infected almost everybody, and hiding your feelings of alienation was the only way to get by. But behind the scenes, I anxiously scouted for opportunities that could make this monster school seem smaller. 

 

Towards the end of my intro level geology class, my professor started marketing Camp Davis, an environmental science field camp in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I assumed my career path would head somewhat in the direction of the environment, but regardless — it was five natural science credits and a month living under the Tetons. I filled out the application, and six months later I was driving across the country in a Dodge caravan with a group of strangers. 

 

Almost immediately, I started forming a group dynamic with Andrew, Lauren, Jade and Bree. We spent the month of July frolicking through the mountain trails, chasing chizzlers (ground squirrels that terrorized base camp), and stargazing while memorizing different types of rocks. We all decided to sacrifice our comfort zone the summer after freshman year — and it paid off. 

 

After we returned from our Camp Davis cloud nine, we strived to plan reunion camping trips up north and late night hangouts during sophomore year. It became more and more difficult as the school year went on, and our gatherings eventually became limited to pregames for co-op parties (since I lived in one). And alas, not long into second semester, COVID hit. Our friend group wasn’t (and still isn’t) the texting type, so we bunkered down in our pods and didn’t communicate for months. 

 

Towards the end of the summer, Andrew proposed we take a camping trip before the start of junior year. Lauren and I were the only ones that could go, and once we got the approval of negative test results and prior quarantining, we set off for our first adventure after five dreary months of isolation. Similar to most of our trips, the location wasn’t decided until less than 24 hours before. This one was suggested by Andrew: Paradise Point, a dispersed camping site at the dead end of a private road a few miles outside of Christmas, Michigan in the Upper Peninsula. It’s located on the outer edge of Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. We’d eventually refer to it as Communist Cliffs. 

 

The three of us met at a geology field camp, so nerding out over the history of the rock record came easily. We often make jokes about cleavage (the angle that minerals split along crystallographic planes) or chert, our group’s favorite rock at Camp Davis. Although at the time we didn’t talk openly about the exact geologic processes that formed Communist Cliffs, we could’ve. It absolutely would not have been out of the ordinary. 

 

For some baseline knowledge, the geologic formations of Pictured Rocks consist of 50 to 200 feet sandstone cliffs that extend more than 15 miles along the Upper Peninsula’s shoreline. It takes about 68 miles to drive from one end to the other, or a three-day backpacking trip. 

 

The cliffs are a sedimentary rock formation, meaning they were formed at or near the Earth’s surface by the accumulation of sediment. They often contain distinctive layering patterns that section off where and when certain rocks were deposited. And Pictured Rocks is no exception.

 

Before any sedimentary buildup could happen, a basin had to be formed. Around 1.1 billion years ago, the core of North America began to split in half. Obviously, it wasn’t very successful — as the continent remains intact today. The minor land separation was eventually filled with melted glaciers, establishing Lake Superior (exclusively referred to as “Lady Superior” on Communist Cliffs). 

 

Once the lake formed, sand and gravel were transported downstream towards the southern shore of Lake Superior. Sometime during the Precamrbian period, around 1 billion to 500 million years ago, these sediments lithified into a terrestrial rock unit known as the Jacobsville Formation. It was deposited prior to the genesis of land animals, so no fossils have been recorded. This is the base of Pictured Rocks, and only the very top of the formation is exposed above Lady Superior. 

 

Jacobsville is distinctive by its rustic red hue, hinting that the sandstone contains iron oxides (when oxygen interacts with iron, the sediment rusts). It’s beautifully tough and durable, and has the strength to withstand extreme temperatures. We lived on this layer at Paradise Point, since the other formations that once existed in the space disappeared from weathering. 

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Just getting to Paradise Point was an expedition in itself. We survived the seven-hour journey with Suzy’s Pasties (a quick stop right after crossing the Mackinac Bridge), a gas station bathroom break in Christmas, and a constant repetition of motivational words to the Maz — which almost didn’t make it past the pot-hole poisoned private road. 

 

Once we reached the finish line, we hurled out of the car and into the August heat. There was one open campsite remaining: a sliver of flat land that was the width of my car hood. It was just enough space to fit our two (turned three) person tent and Andrew’s hammock. We spent the first night sleeping off the pasties and pot-holes, ready to do absolutely nothing the next day.

 

There were about five other groups of campers, ranging from four-person families to an entire wedding after party. We’d pass by each other while finding secluded places in the woods to pee, walking to and from the red rock “beach,” and in the gravel patch turned parking lot. The mutual solitude we all coexisted in together was one of the most soothing feelings I’ve ever had. No words needed to be shared to know that each camper was on your side. More than fifteen people from all different walks of life were situated for however many days on this bluff, and we all chose to live in harmony. 

 

Once Andrew, Lauren and I made this realization, we began comparing Paradise Point to an imaginary commune, where the shared possession was the land and our responsibility was to take care of it for each other. Shortly after, Paradise Point, our collective dreamland, became known as Communist Cliffs. 

 

We spent our entire Saturday resting and roasting under the sun on Jacobsville, taking breaks between naps to swim and breaks between swims to nap. We exhausted all the downloaded music we had on Spotify, took hourly trips back to the car to grab snacks, and talked about whatever came to mind. Despite not seeing each other after a tumultuous six months, our conversations were easy. We laughed until it went quiet, and then relaxed in the comfort of just being around each other. 

 

Andrew and I further developed our friendship dynamic, which resembles the banter between a big brother and little sister. Our favorite shared activity is exploring, which at Paradise Point, manifested itself into floating down Lady Superior and admiring the charm of the cliffs’ gradient colors, arches and crevasses. We treaded lightly, gazing off to the Northeast where the Munising Formation lives — a sequence of fragmented basal conglomerate, sweeping crossbedding in medium-grained sandstone, and crumbly pink quartz sandstone deposited in the Cambrian. 

 

Once we finished our day of doing nothing, we watched the sunset turn the bluff’s blended hues of beige into golds and salmons. We laid our heads on each other's shoulders and waited patiently for the stars to attend. During this trip, I learned the simple, golden rule of friendship: find friends you feel good around. 

 

It seems obvious, but for most of my life, I didn’t fully acknowledge a lack of anxiety as a good indication for friendship. I searched for friends who shared my interests, friends who wanted to be my friend, friends who were circumstantially conducive. I had friends who had the label of a friend, but didn’t really know who I truly was on the inside. 

 

The truth is, finding friends who make you feel like the most peaceful, at ease version of yourself is difficult to find. It requires listening to and investigating your emotions — even the bad ones. It demands brutally honest introspection, even if the conclusions point away from social status, history, or convenience. It forces you to think with how you feel, something I’m still constantly learning to do in the right way.

 

Nature has not only been a crucial bonding agent in so many of my relationships, but it’s also taught me the important lesson of rest and relaxation in friendship. Communist Cliffs showed me the tranquility of coexisting, the connecting effect of shared curiosity, and the straightforward reminder to be around people who make you feel like your best self. 

 

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Unfortunately, Paradise Point has undergone some changes in the past two years. First, the owner of the private road officially blocked it off to visitors. This means that the spot is no longer legally accessible by land.

 

Second, although Michigan remains one of the most climate-resilient states in the country, the impacts on Pictured Rocks are already being reported. If lake levels continue decreasing below historical averages, a variety of plant and animal habitats could be destroyed. Projected higher temperatures and changes in precipitation patterns around Lake Superior will increase the mortality rate of forest species and cold water marine animals, while increasing the populations of invasive species (like zebra mussels). Invasive species not only threaten the lives of the entire ecosystem and economy of the region, but also the safety of recreational activities  — like traversing through the water along the shoreline of Paradise Point. 

 

More extreme weather events and stronger wave action could leave shoreline regions more vulnerable to erosion and destruction. With the exception of the Jacobsville formation, the younger sedimentary deposits are extremely fragile to changing climate conditions. Recent kayakers along Pictured Rocks have recorded large portions of the cliffs dropping into Lake Superior. This past summer, a tourist videotaped a 200-foot section plummeting into the water. The consequence was a dull, dented shadow of the multicolored rock that used to exist in its place. 

 

Our unprecedented influence on the climate record will inevitably lead to undeterminable effects on our nation’s favorite landscapes — one of them Michigan’s oldest, grandest displays of our unique geologic history. But beyond just the scientific history, the sandstone cliffs are home to the personal archives of countless Michiganders. From backpackers to business owners along the shoreline, Pictured Rocks provides an immeasurable service to the emotional history of its admirers. I’m thankful for the lifelong lessons I learned here. But I’m also frustrated and heartbroken that generations after me might not know the majestic rainbow hues on Lady Superior’s shoreline, or the pure bliss of dipping into her therapeutic waters. 

 

We can’t keep looking at nature as something to conquer. If we cultivate a culture of mutually caring and respecting the land, like the one that exists on Communist Cliffs, the gifts the environment provides will keep on giving. It requires us to center communalism rather than individual indulgence. But I promise, the feeling of shared peace within a community is so much more powerful than the rush of individual control. 

 

It sustains the feeling of mental relaxation we all deserve to have — the one we’re all searching for, in friendship and in life.