​On the Road to Munising, Michigan- Day 1

We are BACK!
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​There’s something special about the moment an adventure officially begins. For us, Great Lakes Odyssey 2 started not just with packed bags—but with a detour east to Jenison, Michigan to pick up the man, the myth, the legend… Dave. Every great expedition needs its people, and pulling up to his home felt like the official kickoff. Gear was shifted, bags were rearranged, and just like that, our team was complete.

Of course, no true road trip begins without a proper stop—and for us, that meant Tim Hortons. Steve grabbed his favorite coffee, and Dave hopped out to make sure I had my Diet Dr Pepper. Priorities. But the moment Dave stepped out and shut the door… click. The car locked. There I was—locked inside, and Dave was locked outside. For just a moment, my claustrophobic self kicked in enough to feel that little wave of panic rise. Nothing overwhelming, but enough to make me very aware of being sealed in. Dave stood outside, equally stuck, trying to figure out how we had managed this. And then, just as quickly as it happened, it was over—doors unlocked, a deep breath, a few laughs, and back on the road. Adventure, officially underway.

From there, we turned north. The drive from the Chicago area to Munising is about 6 to 7 hours, but with our Jenison stop, it became a full day on the road—and honestly, that’s part of the magic. There’s a rhythm to these drives, and in our car it always looks the same. Up front, Steve and Dave settle into conversations about what we lovingly call “guy things”—logistics, stories, ideas, pieces of the work always moving forward. And then there’s me, tucked into my little “hidey-holey” in the back seat. It’s my space—where I write, where I listen, where I create, and where I take it all in.

This time, I worked nearly the entire drive. Typing, planning, building, thinking. And every time I looked up, there was more snow. More on the trees. More along the roadside. More falling from the sky. It felt like we were slowly driving deeper into winter instead of out of it. Somewhere between the hum of the road and the quiet of heading north, ideas began to take shape. Notes turned into something more. That in-between space—the movement, the stillness, the distance from everything else—is where so much of this work begins.

As we moved farther north, everything shifted. Cities gave way to small towns, then forests, then long stretches of open road. By the time we reached the Upper Peninsula, it felt like we had crossed into a different world—quiet, still, and beautifully frozen in time. We rolled into Munising ready to land for a few days. Sitting along Lake Superior, the town carries a different kind of beauty in late March. Snow piles line the streets, ice edges the harbor, and the lake stretches out cold and steady, like it’s holding something vast and powerful just beneath the surface.

After a full day of travel, we checked into our hotel, unpacked our gear, and began that familiar transition from travel mode to field mode. Batteries charging, cameras out, plans being reviewed. There’s always a quiet shift in that moment—a grounding. Tomorrow, it begins.

Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore stretches for more than 40 miles along Lake Superior, and in winter, it feels almost otherworldly. The sandstone cliffs—already known for their sweeping mineral colors—are framed with ice formations and frozen waterfalls. Water that once moved freely down the rock face is now suspended in place, forming curtains of blue and white. The same forces that shape this landscape in summer—wind, water, and time—are still at work here, just quieter, slower, more subtle.

This place tells powerful stories. The force of Lake Superior, even in freezing temperatures. The rhythm of freshwater ecosystems across seasons. The resilience of life in cold environments. The importance of protecting and understanding systems that are constantly changing, even when they appear still. Even in winter, this landscape is alive.

Over the next few days, we’ll work alongside rangers, scientists, and students to bring this place into classrooms across the country. Not just what makes it beautiful—but what makes it matter.

Day one is always about the journey. And maybe that’s the part I’m learning to notice most—the space in between. The quiet hum of the road. The laughter after small moments of panic. The steady rhythm of snow falling outside the window while ideas come to life inside. Somewhere between where we started and where we’re going, something begins to take shape—not just the work, but us, too.

And tomorrow, we step out into it.