Torch Lake

“There’s some work to be done,” my mom pronounced as we drove up the rugged, twisted pathway. “But it’s perfect. Your dad and I finally both agree on something.”

 

My parent’s retirement house on Torch Lake was like a godsend. They bought it seven months before COVID hit, just enough time for our family pod to make use of the open space and solace while the world was locking down and drifting apart. 

 

It was an outdated yet beautifully placed two-story house on the sunrise-viewing side of the lake (also known as the west, but the former is how I remember it). The old-fashioned vinyl kitchen cabinets and dusty popcorn ceilings could easily be mistaken for cottage charm. Overgrown Columbine and dogwood vines intruded into the fractured stone walkway surrounding the property. Thick trees stood tall on every perimeter, some stuck with funny-looking tree faces with old man features. 

 

“The couple before us loved gardening,” my dad commented. “Here, let me show you the trail network the husband made in the front yard. It’s amazing.”

 

From the moment we heard about my parent’s magical find, we heard about the property owners that came before them. Boyd and Johanna (better known as Hannie) Kuiweck, an older couple that purchased the land in the late eighties and built the house from scratch. Following their retirement in 1994, they left their home in Indiana and moved up to Torch, a property they would soon title “Sweet Haven.” 

 

Their life on the lake was a quiet yet peaceful one. Boyd spent his time boating, fishing, and constructing a chain of carefully maintained hiking trails in the front yard. Indoors, he became an accomplished artist, specializing in realistic oil paintings of local wildlife, seascapes, and landscapes. My parents bought one with the house, a convincing, bulging-eyed green fish. 

 

Hannie, on the other hand, was a distinguished master gardener. Her department was in the details: the wildflower placement, which groundcover goes where, trimming the bushes, managing the insects that seasonally visited. One of the most important rules for master gardeners is to incorporate as many native plants as possible, which boosts biodiversity and limits the use of fertilizers (a crucial step in avoiding harmful algal blooms and eutrophication in the lake). 

 

My parents were inspired by Hannie’s zeal for environmentally-synergistic gardening techniques and enrolled in a virtual master gardener course at Michigan State University last January. Despite their constant bickering about test scores and my mom’s vocal disdain for studying, they graduated from the course as “Michigan master gardeners” — now able to carry on Hannie’s passion project.

 

In the early 2010s, Boyd was injured in a car accident and became paraplegic. Up until his passing in 2015, Hannie spent her days taking care of Boyd and managing the property. Boyd was no longer around to take care of his well-crafted trails, and as Hannie grieved and grew older, the plants overflowed their orderly dwellings and took on a life of their own. In the late summer of 2019, she handed over the keys to my mom and dad, Kathleen and Larry Hintz. They promised to take good care of her Sweet Haven. 

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Torch Lake and the surrounding land has a long record of nurturing groundskeepers, dating all the way back to 8,000 to 6,000 BC. But before any human-like species migrated to Torch Lake, the glacial action from eleven thousand years ago did severe destruction to the ecosystem. In a near-arctic climate, hundreds of miles of Torch countryside was covered with rugged and raw debris (boulders, clay, sand, gravel). It was a lifeless tundra, naked of all groundcover and wildlife — an almost impossible scene to imagine today. 

 

But as does with every end of a bitter chapter, a slow recolonization of beauty began. Thawed rocks transformed into nutritious soil, algae began to vegetate the water, tiny willows and herbs sprouted along the coasts. Flourishing trees and plants gave the go ahead to the return of wildlife, and soon the entire natural ecosystem was restored. 

 

The earliest group to the land were Early Archaic people trekking northward, seeking caribou and musk-ox for food. Through artifacts found at ancient occupation sites, we know they scavenged the area for survival materials and handcrafted scores of essential items we still use today, like snowshoes, canoes, fish hooks and woven baskets.   

 

By 1,000 BC, the first gardeners arrived, known as the Woodland people. They were known for their distinct survival tactic of trading and planting seeds, and remains of their delicately decorated pottery have been found at Woodland sites in the region. As time went on, various tribal communities wandered through the area, planted themselves for a period, and then either vacated or died off. The groups that survived did so due to their understanding of nature and ability to adapt to the changing climate.  

 

Although specific historical records are slim to none in this era, the story behind Torch Lake’s name is cherished. The shoreline surrounding Torch Lake was finally established with domed bark houses and canoe launch sites, and the settlers began participating in communal hunting and gathering activities. Specifically, by the light of burning pine-knot torches and minimal moonlight, they would spear whitefish with their handmade tools. Then came the name: Was-Wah-Go-Ning, or the Lake of Torches. The story explaining Torch’s name is known by heart for most who reside there, my dad included. 

 

For thousands of years, the Indigenous peoples lived harmoniously with the land, leaving only worn footpaths to trace their existence. They believed Torch Lake and its surrounding natural gifts were communal, belonging only to the Great Spirit. As long as the tribes protected its sacredness through sustainability and cooperation, the bounty could be celebrated. 

 

Yet in 1839, the U.S. Government stole the Native land and sold it to lumbering companies and white settlers. The carefully chosen trails were colonized by European white settlers, eventually turned into pavement. The majestic trees were chopped up into fences for unfamiliar animals and private log homes. The canoe launches were replaced with wooden boat docks, whose role was to speedily dispatch the next batch of white settlers to seize more land. 

 

In my perception of Torch Lake, I see both of these versions. I feel the reverence of the land by my parents and their neighbors, and the energy that goes into ensuring proper conservation. However, I’m also white and of European descent. I understand that I will never understand the pain of having my homeland stolen and replaced with the thief’s belongings. But if I want to fully appreciate the beauty of Torch Lake, it requires learning and acknowledging the painful history that preceded me. 

 

The story progresses to one of demolition and genocide. Manipulators disguised as missionaries imposed Christianity on countless tribes. Thieves masked as lawmakers established rules and a legal framework to justify involuntary land transfers. Within one generation, almost all of the land allotted to the Indigenous tribes was colonized by white settlers. If the remaining Indigenous individuals weren’t killed over trade deals and displacement, they were massacred through foreign disease and disenfranchisement. 

 

The physical and emotional trauma endured by the Indigenous people forever stains the true image of Torch Lake. But the indigenous history celebrated by the predominantly white Torch Lake community are strictly the enjoyable parts: the beautiful night behind the name and their passion for sustainability. 

 

At first, I worried that acknowledging the pain behind one of my favorite places would tarnish how others see it. Now, I realize that not taking accountability for why I’m able to enjoy this place at all would disservice the indigenous community, Torch Lake herself, and everyone reading this story. My personal experiences wouldn’t be possible without it. 

 

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In July of 2020, my older sister, Maddy, and I decided to spend a week just the two of us at the lake house. The in-house furniture only consisted of a few folding chairs, one plastic table, and Maddy’s futon from her freshman year dorm room. We slept on the floor with mounds of blankets. There weren’t any blinds on the windows yet, so we could rely on a daily 7 AM wake up from the sunshine and subsequent oven-like heat. No alarms needed. Our most-used area of the house was the screened-in sunroom, which my mom stocked with an outdoor seating set a few months after acquiring the house. 

 

I spent my days attending Zoom lectures for my virtual summer class, completing assignments for said class, and writing papers for my campus research job. Until my computer overheated or the screen was unintelligible from the sunlight, I did everything in the sunroom or on the narrow wooden dock. When I finished my work, I’d cook dinner for Maddy and I using ingredients we picked up at the Traverse City Farmer’s Market a few days before. We’d eat outside and rest there until sunset, letting the sounds of boat motors and waves crashing onto the bank drown out the silence between us. 

 

We’d return to our blanket mounds and move just as steady and slow the next day. 

 

Each visit to Torch Lake maintains the same deceleration from normal life, even while my rate of productivity and amount of sleep remain constant. I voluntarily sit in silence for breakfast instead of scrolling mindlessly through TikTok. I sustain a perfect balance of bonding activities and alone time, neither one being too draining or too lonely. I notice the birds soaring between the canopy of trees in the backyard, and the unspecified fish darting in the water under the dock. I study how the freshwater waves turned into ripples. 

 

As cheesy as it sounds, I make sure to walk down to the dock and say goodbye to the lake and all its creatures every time I end my stay. 

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When talking about Torch this past Thanksgiving, I overheard my dad say to mom, “I catch myself pinching myself because I can’t believe this place is real.” 

 

If nothing else, the stillness and comfort this place inspires in my parents is enough to make it one of my favorite places in Michigan. But I’ve been privileged enough to begin my bond here surrounded by friends and family, and with the daydream that in fifty years my kids will also feel a similar connection. 

Before Torch Lake, I didn’t understand what it was like for land to feel like home. Not just jaw-droppingly beautiful, or even a place that holds some special meaning or lesson. I feel it when I look at the beds of Butterfly Milkweed wildflowers my mom spent the morning grounding into soil. I feel it when I watch my dad touch up Boyd’s trails with carefully selected rocks he found on shore. Or when Maddy and I dance in the lake for an hour, jump out to dry off and then start the process over again. I feel it when I think about how my future family could one day see me caring for and loving the land in the same way, taking after grandma and grandpa and the many other nurturers before us.

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I’m at peace knowing the many generations after me will feel the same way.