May 20, 2000. During the caterpillar infestation I spent a lot of time at my folks' camp in Big Traverse Bay (the neighboring bay to Little Traverse). "The camp" is a Scandinavian tradition. Many Finlanders have a second home in the woods or on a lake or a river that they retreat to on weekends. The caterpillars weren't living in Big Traverse because most of the tree--old Jack Pine-- were dead, eagerly awaiting a fire so their cones could open and they could spread their seeds on the sandy earth. But it wasn't only the space away from the green armies that drew me there; it was my history, my family and my connection to the lake. My grandma always says, "that lake gets in your blood." She and my grandpa spend every summer evening at their camp in Little Traverse, staring at the Lake. "Damn thing looks different every night!" says my grandpa, with his infinite eloquence. That "damn thing" has watched over three generations of Arolas and close relatives. The signs on the dirt driveways of Big and Little Traverse read like a bad Finnish joke: the Bekkalas, the Petajas, the Juoperris, the Juntillas, the Torolas. I can't wander more than a few driveways without my grandpa telling me "that's a cousin ya know. Shirttail relative!" The lake has watched us all grow up, move on, bring children into the world, come back for desperate vacations from the "big city," and come back for good. She brought me back here. I'm not sure if she'll let me go.

The early part of this summer was especially dry. We hadn't gotten enough snow last winter and the rain was not coming nearly as much as it should have. My parents were spending a week of vacation at the camp when my mom called.
     "It's unbelievable out here!"
     "Oh, a good wind?" I asked. A southeast wind translated into a perfect beach day (meaning the bugs are chased into the woods and the warm surface water is brought to shore).
      "No, it's smoky! I can barely see the lake. Some idiot is doing a controlled burn near Rice Lake and the smoke is blowing right into our bay. It's really terrible!"
      I took control. "Mom, controlled burns are good things. When we were in Flagstaff they did them all the time. It really cuts down on fire danger, don't freak out about it."
      "I know, I know, but it just doesn't feel right. I think we're coming back to town." She hung up.

I didn't think about it until a few hours later when Jeff and I were in the car headed to the grocery store. We have a strange affinity for Rush Limbaugh and were listening to 93.5FM, the local Conservative Christian station which continually brings bizarre amazement into our lives. Just as Rush was claiming that the country wasn't racist anymore because the Cosby show was a big hit in the 80s, Maryann, local radio personality, chimed in: "Warning, Warning, all residents of Mink Farm Road in Big Traverse Bay must evacuate immediately. Again I repeat, all residents of Mink Farm Road must evacuate immediately. We don't have all the details just yet, but apparently it has something to do with a controlled burn." I frantically turned up the radio. Jeff tried to reassure me,
      "It's probably just due to the smoke," he rationalized (the ever rational Moon in Scorpio), "your mom said it was really dense, right? They're probably just doing it to be safe."
      My soul ached with impending loss, but I tried to agree, "Probably."

We parked the car and did our grocery shopping. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I pictured our camp going up in smoke, the Jack Pines eagerly eating up the flames, the fire melting the kayak, leveling the sauna, charring the wild blueberry bushes. My stability, gone. The moment we got home I called my mom. She was crying.
      "It's going to burn, it's all going to burn!"
      "So, it is a fire. What happened?"
      "The idiot who was doing the controlled burn let it get out of control and the wind is carrying the fire right toward our camp."
She cried. I cried. We sat in silence on the phone and tried to rationalize. There was nothing we could do. We had no control.