Last week, after I posted Part I of “Dune Dilemma (or Will I Ever Reach Lake Michigan?)”, I received comments asking me to hurry up and finish the story. So, without further ado, here’s the rest…
If you remember from Part I, it was after eight o’clock in the evening. Exhausted from a three-hour hike through clumps of poison ivy, hungry from missing dinner, and disappointed from my failure to reach Lake Michigan that day—not once, but twice—I definitely was not in the mood to help the worried-looking young Asian-Indian man pacing a few feet below us on the sand dune. But because God had reminded me that I was a Christian, my husband and I now stood with the man, where we all stared down the steep 450-foot slope at the group huddled far below.
“Something’s wrong with one of my friends down there,” he said with an Indian accent, “but they’re cell signal is very bad.” He tapped numbers once again, spoke in loud and insistent Hindi, and lifted his hands in frustration as he made little headway with his friends on the beach. He soon ended the call and rubbed his hands over his face.
“Do you know what’s wrong with your friend?” I asked.
“All I know is that he is dizzy,” the man said. “My other two friends are giving him water, but I don’t know if it’s helping.”
I squinted at the darkening sky. “We should call 9-1-1.”
The man, however, didn’t seem too thrilled with that idea. “Let me try calling again.”
“Use my phone,” my husband said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
While the man’s fingers punched the screen, another young man walked up the dune and panted beside us. “Are you guys with that group down there?”
I explained the situation until the Indian man gave up and handed the phone back to my husband. The second man wiped his brow. “I work for Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park, but I’m off duty now and decided to hike here tonight. That guy down there is probably dehydrated. He’s not making it back up here before dark.”
“I think we should call 9-1-1,” I reiterated.
The second man pointed toward the beach. “If I go down again, I can lead them south along the shore.” He pulled out his phone, brought up a map, and showed it to the Indian man. “If you drive out of Pierce Stocking Scenic Drive, you can take the highway and then a bunch of these little roads to a parking lot. Walk about a quarter mile, and you’ll be at the water; that’s where we’ll meet you. So, to get there, just follow M-109…”
As the Indian man listened with a furrowed brow, I leaned close to my husband. “That poor Indian guy looks totally lost.”
My husband stepped closer to the second man. “Hey, how about showing me those roads.”
The second man went over the route once more and put away his phone. “I’m heading down; see you soon.”
We watched him begin his sliding descent and then turned back to the Indian man.
“You have a car here?” my husband asked.
“Yes,” the Indian man answered.
“And you know where you’re going now?”
“Ah…” The Indian man stared at my husband.
My husband pulled out his phone again. “Okay, we’re here. Drive out of Pierce Stocking and go south on 109…”
My husband pointed out roads and turns, and the Indian man kept nodding. And the more he nodded, the more convinced I was…
This guy had no idea where he was going.
When the Indian man bobbed his head once more, I laughed—not out loud, but one of those little ironic chuckles that you do inside yourself. When God had asked me to help, I was thinking in terms of a half hour, max. But, as he often does, God was asking me to stretch myself, to stick with his plan despite the fact that my stomach was growling, the sky was fading from slate blue to gray, and I was throwing away any lingering hope of washing off poison ivy.
I touched the man’s arm. “Would you like to follow us there?”
He let out his breath in a relieved rush. “Yes, thank you.”
I gave my husband a please-don’t-protest-and-just-do-it glance. And, because he’s a kind man, as well as adept at reading my eye dialogue, he sighed and motioned to the Indian man. “Come on. We’ll go together.”
At the speed limit of twenty miles per hour, we crawled along the three-and-a-half-mile stretch from the Dune Overlook to M-109 with our new Indian friend trailing behind our pickup. Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into a desolate parking lot, got out of our vehicles, and walked down a dirt track toward Lake Michigan.
While we waited on the beach and kept expectant eyes turned north, we learned that the Indian man’s name was Aamod. He was twenty-five years old, came to the United States to attend college, and now worked in New Jersey. He and his friends were at Sleeping Bear Dunes as part of a bachelor party, and even though they had hiked all day, three of his friends still wanted to tackle the 450-foot climb that evening. And the hapless man suffering from dizziness at the bottom?
The future groom, getting married next weekend.
After twenty minutes, I decided that we’d waited long enough. “They aren’t coming,” I said. “We should go back.”
“I have a feeling,” Aamod said, “that we need to stay.”
I sighed, mentally pushed dinner back yet another half hour, and faced the water.
In the lingering dusk, heavy with moisture, a lake-born breeze cooled my skin while the water’s gentle lap quieted my soul. On the horizon, the last vestige of a brazen orange-and-pink sunset reflected on the slumbering Lake Michigan. I squatted on the damp sand and filtered the dark water through my fingers again and again, feeling it rinse away the weariness of the day.
My husband ambled up behind me and squeezed my shoulder. “What are you thinking?”
“I was thinking—I made it to Lake Michigan. Today. Not tomorrow.” I looked up at him. “God’s good, isn’t he?”
He bent and kissed the top of my head. “He sure is.”
Ringing broke the solitude, and Aamod lifted his phone. “They have a signal,” he announced before chattering away in Hindi. A minute later, he hung up and turned to us. “The man from the park decided my friend could not make it to us. He ran up the shore and called an ambulance, which picked them up off a smaller road north of us. We can go back now.”
I rolled my eyes—inside again. Who’d said to call 9-1-1 in the first place? Then again, God had brought me to Lake Michigan…
We hustled to the parking lot, where my husband noticed Aamod’s questioning look and said, “We’ll take you back to the overlook.”
As we meandered along the tree-lined roads, I nudged my husband. “Good thing he’s following us. Look; he’s so distracted he forgot to turn on his headlights.”
“There’s a stop sign ahead; I’ll get out and tell him.”
But as we braked at the intersection, an ambulance drove up the dirt track on our left and halted at the stop sign.
“I bet that’s them,” I said.
My husband rolled down his window, waved to the ambulance, and hopped out of our truck. In the rear-view mirror, I saw Aamod’s interior lights flicker on as he too exited his car. They spoke to the ambulance driver, and a minute later, the EMT released Aamod’s three friends from the back, including the sheepish future groom, who sipped water and shrugged in embarrassment.
After loading his friends into the car, Aamod came back to our truck, shook my husband’s hand, and nodded at me. “Thank you so much for your help.”
“Our pleasure,” I said. And meant it.
My husband released Aamod’s hand. “Heading back to your hotel?”
“No. Back to the overlook. More of my group is there now, waiting for us to pick them up. And…er…”
My husband chuckled, on the outside. “Say no more; we’ll take you back. And, by the way, turn on your headlights.”
A few minutes before ten o’clock—with Aamod still driving sans headlights—we turned onto Pierce Stocking Scenic Drive and pulled onto the shoulder. Aamod eased his car beside us, and a chorus of further “thank you’s” echoed out the open passenger-side window.
“This drive goes in a circle, so you can’t get lost,” my husband said. ” And you’re headlights are still off.”
“Oh!” Aamod fiddled with knobs and buttons and grinned at us when he finally found the right one. “All set. Thank you again.”
Back at the campsite, we showered, started a campfire, and ate an eleven-o’clock dinner through frequent yawns. While chomping down my second piece of barbecued chicken, I reflected back on the evening with the kind of peaceful contentment that comes from following God’s will. I’d served a man in need. I’d touched Lake Michigan and ran its cool water over my fingers. And I’d learned more about the goodness of my big God.
By the way, neither my husband nor I ever got poison ivy.