The Blurry Line

Artwork by Michael DiMilo

            This last week, my family and I took a mini-vacation to the family cabin in the Northwoods of Wisconsin. The cottage has been in our family for a little over fifty years and sits on a beautiful spring-fed lake. After my father passed away, my mom—as she’s fond of telling—used to pile all five kids and assorted pets into a red Volkswagen bug on the last day of school and head north. We’d pass the entire summer living on the lake property and exploring the adjoining woods, but we’d also necessarily have to spend some time in the civilized trading outposts of Minocqua and Lake Tomahawk, participating in our share of touristy pastimes, minimum-wage jobs, and Saturday night dances.

            Most little towns up north are dotted with gift shops hawking products like little cedar boxes that say “Welcome to Hazelhurst,” t-shirts emblazoned with the logo of the local municipality, watercolor renditions of loons, or cheap packs of fireworks. There are Gay Nineties-themed candy stores, Paul Bunyan-themed restaurants, and gift shops galore. Some of the other tourist attractions include zip-lines, ATV tracks, jet-ski rentals, and even—smack in the middle of dozens of beautiful lakes—a water park (which, by the way, is quite popular).

             The Northwoods also boasts hundreds of pristine lakes, beautiful forests, and an abundance of wildlife. Much of this land is state-owned and protected from hunters and developers. Visitors can see loons, eagles, cranes, deer, raccoons, porcupines, and even wolves in the wild with some regularity. At night, with a near absence of light pollution, stargazers are treated to a clarity and depth of vision in the sky that would be impossible in the city. It’s not unusual to see satellites streaming across the heavens with the naked eye. Occasionally, amateur astronomers are treated to vivid displays of the northern lights. 

            It’s not hard to find a quiet place in the woods or on the lake. Sitting on the pier in the morning, one might hear a car in the distance or—on an unlucky day—someone running their chainsaw, but by and large, the only sound you hear may be the rustle of leaves in the wind or birds high in the branches. 

            Existence in this vacation wonderland tiptoes this sometimes blurry line between the commercial and the natural. Tourists seem to be attracted in equal parts to the natural wonders of lakes, wildlife, and serenity of the woods or to the thrills of go-cart rides, waterski shows, or the zaniness of snowshoe baseball.

            I found myself torn between these two worlds during my youth. I absolutely loved going out on the pier at night and watching the stars while wisps of fog from the lake swirled around me. I loved hiking so deep into the dark old-growth woods (rarely found these days) that the silence seemed like a giant net cast over the wise old groves of northern pines. It was silent and dark enough to spook me, and I’d find myself hurrying back toward home. I loved swimming in the cold and pure waters of our lake, and later hunting up bullfrog tadpoles big enough to cover a child’s palm.

            I also enjoyed riding on the go-carts, going to Saturday night dances, visiting Minocqua’s commercial main drag, and going to the Castle Drive-In on Highway 51 for such urbane double features as Die, Monster, Die or Mothra versus Godzilla. (However, we did actually see The Godfather there in 1972.) Art lives.

            Understanding the Northwoods necessitates understanding the American tourist. People want everything on their vacations: a little bit of peace and quiet, some fishing, some shopping, some souvenirs, and some action. They want it all. So tourist areas like Northern Wisconsin become a smorgasbord of entertainment choices: everything from nature walks to waterski shows to shopping districts. 

            And this sort of uneasy co-existence is not exclusive to Wisconsin. In Florida, the urban development of Miami suburbs bumps right up against Everglades National Park.  Cape Canaveral, Space Beach, abuts the Canaveral National Seashore Preserve to its north. The theme parks of Orlando lie very near to the natural wonders of the Kissimmee area. 

            Gatorland, near Orlando, is a Florida theme park that contains a zoo, ziplines, gator wrestling, and—surprisingly—the Gatorland Bird Rookery, which hosts hundreds of nesting birds situated over an alligator breeding marsh. Visitors pass on a boardwalk adjacent to the nesting birds and directly over some monstrous gators. There is also a nature walk. The park seems to easily straddle both worlds: the natural and the kitschy. 

            There is, however, the danger of one of these worlds dominating the other. Developers are constantly seeking to encroach on the Everglades. Overpopulation on the Florida Keys is endangering the surrounding coral reefs. Relaxation of development laws in Northern Wisconsin have allowed builders to start altering shorelines of lakes, something which, up to three years ago, was illegal. Urban sprawl is starting to crawl across the landscape up north; just drive up Highway 51 between Hazelhurst and Minocqua.

            The reason, of course, is money. Tourists can be charged for entering a waterpark but not for stepping into the public waters of a lake. You pay for tickets to a petting zoo but not to see a deer feeding on the side of the road at dusk. When they figure out a way to charge for a view of the Milky Way (probably indoors), they’ll do it. The civilized side of the tourist trade needs no advocates; they’re powerful enough. 

            The go-carts, musky museums, and ziplines are all fine and dandy, but what we do have to do is ensure that the wild and natural landscapes of Wisconsin, Florida, and the rest of our country stay pristine and free. We, the tourists to their beauty and natural grandeur, are their main advocates.