1000 feet up and I cannot see Canada as Superior stretches her waves across the horizon. Kirtland warblers call as I hang my hammock between Jack pines. Three hammocks, one of cloth, sharing four trunks. I’m swinging over a cliff, over the part of Michigan forgotten, the part some leave off of maps and even at its very edge. Here you can sip from a flask, drink rain water from basins in the stone. Here you can eat wild blueberries, can sleep overnight off the ground and away from prying eyes. Here, you can be what people were meant to be.