Running the Dunes; Sleeping in Tents; and a Glass of Port

Cross-country camp experience strengthens father/daughter bonds.

Some dozen years ago, I volunteered to join the chaperone team for my daughter, Emily’s, high school cross-country camp, to be conducted over the course of four or five days in the Traverse City, Michigan area.

We met early in the morning of an August day, in the parking lot of Canton High School, in Detroit’s suburbs, and embarked upon a caravan of minivans making the roughly four-hour trip to the picturesque Traverse City resort area.

I was looking forward to spending time with my daughter and her teammates during this excursion. Of course, I was assigned to ferry a few younger teammates in my car, as Emily and her fellow seniors traveled in a car driven by a much cooler dad, Jack. But, I knew that we would eventually find our way to the same destination, and that I would be part of the team with my daughter.

Also, historically, chaperones were enlisted to accompany the girls on their many training runs, monitoring their progress, and ensuring that the gaggle of runners remained intact at the end of the run (I believe “gaggle” is the appropriate term to use to describe a group of high school cross-country runners, but I could be mistaken - alternatives abound in the animal kingdom, including: pack (armadillos); colony (beavers); coalition (cheetahs); mob (emus); horde (gerbils); and cackle (hyenas) - I think I’ll stick with gaggle).

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Not being a runner myself, I suggested that I could monitor the gaggle of runners while bicycling, a role which didn’t previously exist in this organization, but one which Eric, the team’s coach, who was also a local policeman, embraced, and accepted for me, and another dad, Jerry. I’m thankful that Eric agreed to this accommodation, because I would have needed six months of training to prepare to accompany the girls while running, and even then. . .

Our first task upon arriving at the campground in Traverse City was to pitch our tents. Not being a camper (so. . .you’re not a runner; not a camper; what else don’t you do?), I had borrowed a tent from a friend. Likely as a practical joke, this friend set me up with the tiniest pup tent known to man, establishing my tent as the smallest one in the campground (ironically intended to contain the largest member of the traveling party), one which barely contained my six-foot frame.

In the interest of gender diversity, our chaperone team also included a mom, Jackie, whose initial contribution to the team’s efforts was to lock her keys in her car, and also her tent (which I believe was much larger than mine), and other provisions, just after arriving at the campground, setting-off an hour-long fire drill regarding how best to regain access to the vehicle - the usual suspects were deployed: a dangling coat-hanger, a call to AAA, a claw hammer to the rear window (just kidding about that last one. . .if you’re really serious about breaking a rear window, you’d need a more substantial implement, such as a tire iron, or a pick-axe).

There was another dad included in the convocation of chaperones (I co-opted “convocation” from the animal kingdom, which describes a group of eagles as a “convocation” - I think that’s appropriate, no?), whose name escapes me at the moment, likely because his first name didn’t begin with the letter “J,” and I had dubbed the group including Jack, Jerry and Jackie the “J Team.” But, more about this other chaperone, who was the veteran in the group, having shepherded three daughters through the camp experience, covering a span of about ten years, in a little bit.

Having been in existence for a number of years, this camp had developed a number of traditions, which had become part of its culture, and which had to be repeated year-after-year. These practices included: a spaghetti dinner (no small task that, cooking a spaghetti dinner over a campfire); s’mores (now, that’s more easily accomplished over a campfire); an afternoon at a Traverse City beach; a night out for dinner at a local eatery; an occasional shower in the coin-operated showers at the campsite; pitched battles on the river between campers in competing canoes; an afternoon of shopping in Traverse City’s business district; a mile-long run through undulating Sleeping Bear Dunes to Lake Michigan’s shoreline; and a goodnight glass of port every night for the convocation of chaperones.

Allow me to more clearly illuminate for you three of those activities. First, the shopping excursion for the girls: Traverse City is known largely for one thing: cherries. Thus, any manner of cherry-themed products: pies, jams, jellies, preserves, chocolate-covered treats, flavored cola, aprons, dresses, shirts, ties, shoes, coffee mugs, towels, pajamas, glassware, baseball caps, and pick-axes were available for sale in the adorable little shops located in the business district. And the girls wandered off to enjoy the panoply of retail offerings.

Meanwhile, the “J Team” and I determined to devote this valuable time to more productive pursuits: a visit to a local tavern, where we may, or may not have sampled cherry-themed cocktails; Day-drinking is the best!

The mile-long run through undulating Sleeping Bear Dunes to Lake Michigan’s shoreline was truly an adventure. Given the contours of Sleeping Bear Dunes, and the fact that it was sand-covered (see a sample view of the Dunes above), I had to ditch my bicycle, and join my fellow-travelers on foot. I accepted faulty advice, and joined this advance sans footwear. We began our run (some us walked) early enough in the morning that the sand was still relatively cool and welcoming. I arrived at Lake Michigan’s shoreline near the tail-end of the group’s movement; my troubles began on the return trip.

As the sun heated up the dunes, it became increasingly unbearable to walk, or even stand on the sand, without burning your feet. Those who were running were probably faring better, because their feet were not in contact with the sand as much. The trip back became a game of, run twelve feet to the shade produced by a very small shrub, then wait there for a few minutes, before identifying another spot of shade produced by a very small shrub, this one perhaps eighteen feet further, and so on, for what seemed like hours.

As kind as it was intended, the round of applause and cheers provided by the girls and the convocation of chaperones, waiting in the parking lot, as I emerged over the final sandy hill, was small consolation for the extremely painful experience inflicted upon my feet, which by this point resembled the spaghetti dinner cooked on the campfire a few nights earlier. I think it was two weeks before I was able to wear shoes again.

Finally, as for the goodnight glass of port every night for the convocation of chaperones (admit it, you were hoping that would be one of the three activities for which there would be additional color commentary), this grand tradition was foisted upon us by the “non-J team” chaperone, who told us that he had introduced the practice early in his tenure, which had by then exceeded ten years, because his father-in-law had unfurled the tradition during a family camping trip that he and his family had been on years earlier.

It might not sound like it, but this trip did provide a bonding experience for Emily and me. If we were to attempt to replicate the adventure, however, there are a few things I would change: I would secure a larger tent; I would wear shoes during the run/walk of the dunes; and I would substitute a goodnight glass of single-malt scotch for the glass of port (port is pretty sweet). And, I think Emily would nod her head to those conditions as well.

This group of girls, and the “J Team,” and the non-“J Team” chaperone, and Coach Eric were an awesome group to spend time with in Traverse City - great memories! But, the best part was spending time with my daughter in a setting very important to her at the time.

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