“Good news or bad news first?”
“I feel like I should be sitting in a doctor’s office,” I say.
Lisa looks at me and stands from her office chair. She moves in front of me and leans against her desk very dramatically.
“I always wanted to be a doctor on Grey’s Anatomy,” she says. “Yes, McDreamy, you may kiss me…after I save this woman’s life.”
I try not to roll my eyes.
“Okay then, good news first,” Lisa says. She takes a big slug of her latte, sets the cup down and picks up a raft of papers. “Our ratings are up.”
My mind spins. Up? Going from nothing to something is still nothing.
“Way up,” she adds, as if reading it. “Forty percent after your first broadcast!”
Lisa stands and does a little dance that looks as if Elaine from Seinfeld just stuck a fork into an electric socket.
I smile at her in that way patrons do at parents in a restaurant when their child dumps a bowl of spaghetti onto its lap and begins screaming and throwing noodles.
“You want me to stop dancing, don’t you?” Lisa asks.
“Only when you’re done,” I say.
Lisa cinches her long sweater around her waist, grabs her laptop off her desk and takes a seat in the chair beside me.
“The bad news is our competitors are already taking shots at you on social media.”
“Already? What did I do?”
Lisa opens her laptop, clicks on a link to a competitor’s Facebook page, pulls up a video and hits play.
“Sonny’s here to win!”
It’s me at the end of the sled race. My arms are raised in exultation and then I wave an “I’m #1” finger at the crowd.
Winner? Or Loser? blares the banner over the video. Does this look like a good sport to you?
“This has received few thousand views already and over a hundred comments, most of which are not so nice,” Lisa says. “And there’s more.”
Another station has a video of me seeming to laugh at my competitors’ travails. “Everyone was laughing when the pizza slice and shark fell apart!” I say.
“I know, I know,” Lisa says. She types a Google search into her laptop. “And then the TV critic at the local paper wrote this about you just this morning, and I quote, ‘Did anyone else happen to see—and I use that word very sarcastically here—the debut of Sonny Dunes on TRVC-8 last night? I did, and I have a lot of questions, including, who wears false eyelashes to a cardboard sled race? And a ski suit that looks like one of the Real Housewives of Orange County? Northern Michiganders don’t just want our weather from a real person, we want it from a real Michigander who loves and understands our state.’”
I rise out of my chair and pound Lisa’s desk with my hand, her latte cup spinning wildly on her desk.
“It was my FIRST day!” I yell. “That is just downright vicious!”
Lisa looks at me. “I know. It is. Take a deep breath.”
I do.
“Now sit.”
I sit.
“You’re the new kid on the block. The other stations feel threatened.” Lisa pats me on the leg. I think of my mom. “And that’s a good thing, as you know from your years on TV.” She sets her laptop back on her desk. “But I need to be smart about how I position you moving forward.”
I sigh. At least there’s a silver lining.
“I can stay in-studio,” I say. “Everything can be controlled. That way no one can use any impromptu moments against us.”
I expect Lisa to nod and pull a cookie from the pocket of her sweater. Instead, she shakes her head. “No, people want to see you out and about in Michigan. That’s a big reason I think our ratings are up.”
No, you want to see me out and about in Michigan, I think.
“I want Sonny to do something that connects her to the beauty of the area. I want Sonny to show viewers what they could be doing in the snow. I want Sonny to be the face of Michigan, just like Sonny was the face of Palm Springs.”
“You’re talking about me in third person. That scares me.”
Lisa laughs. “I want you to head out this afternoon with Icicle to go snowshoeing. These outdoorsy, adventure segments seem to be resonating with viewers.”
“We’ve done one,” I say.
“This time, we’ll tape and edit them, so you won’t be live, but it will seem that way,” Lisa says, lost in thought. “And we’ll eliminate the Sonny in competition with others element. You can snowshoe, right? Any dummy can.” Lisa stops. “I didn’t mean that.”
There is a small smile on her face.
Yes, you did.
Lisa stands. “So—” she waves her hands as if I’m a bee she’s trying to shoo out the window “—off we go.”
I stand. “To?”
“Empire,” she says. “The Empire Bluff Trail.”
When I reach the door, I turn to ask Lisa if she wants my forecasts in different locations, but she is already shutting the door on me.
“Ready?”
I jump.
Icicle is standing in front of me. “You’re like Jacob Marley.”
“Who?” he asks.
“One of the ghosts that visits Ebenezer Scrooge.”
“Who?” he asks again. “Oh, are they like an old-timey band my mom listened to in the ’80s? She still goes to all those tribute concerts.”
“Never mind,” I say. “Houston, we have a problem, though.”
“My name’s not Houston.”
“Never mind again. I don’t have anything to wear to snowshoe.”
“Oh, you do,” he says. “It’s already in the van. You can change when we get there.”
I cock my head at him, confused.
“Lisa bought you an outfit that is—and I quote—‘more appropriate for northern Michigan.’”
I actually shudder. “Lisa bought clothes for me?”
I picture myself in sweatpants and a sweater with a glitter pine tree on the front.
“And she gave you her snowshoes, too.”
“I’m all set then,” I say.
“You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you? My mom says you were really funny as a kid.”
I think of the two of us planning our cheerleading routines, and me pushing to use a chant I created.
We’re number one
Can’t be number two
And we’re going to beat
The whoopsie out of you!
I shake my head. “That sounds like there’s a ‘but’ in there,” I continue.
“No, you are funny,” Icicle says. “But it’s not my kind of funny. I like The Walking Dead and stuff like that.”
“That’s not funny, though.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy, and says, “We all walk around like we’re zombies most of the time. Half dead. Half alive. I think it’s amusing, or I’d be sad all the time.”
The honesty of his words stuns me.
I can’t help but think of myself, stuck right now in this in-between world. I think of my mom, her family half dead, half alive. I think of Lisa, trying to resurrect a dead station. And I think of this young man standing before me who has been marked—literally and figuratively—by a life-defining and life-changing near-miss moment and not his accomplishments and all the life he has ahead of him.
I zombie-walk to the van, and we head toward Empire. It is snowing lightly, and as we drive the flakes seem to dance in the headlights, weightless, carefree, happy. The roads are fairly decent, so I need not clamp the door handle, touch the buckle or air-brake the floorboard the entire drive, which makes Icicle relax a bit.
We head directly west from Traverse City and straight across the middle of the pinky finger of the Mitten. As we drive along 72 and cross M-22, the snow picks up a bit. Empire sits on the coast of Michigan south of Leland and Glen Arbor. If you were able to drive across Lake Michigan, you would end up in Egg Harbor, Wisconsin.
“Was TV always what you dreamed of doing?” I ask Icicle to distract myself from the roads.
He nods. “I always loved video games and sort of being lost in another world. I filmed a lot of shorts in high school and college. I did a short documentary on my dad’s hockey career, which ESPN ran online.”
“That’s amazing,” I say.
“Everybody else’s world just seemed a little more interesting than mine.”
I look at him and smile. “Why?”
“I mean, you know. My dad was pretty famous around here. My mom was so pretty and popular. I mean, you two were so close before…” He stops abruptly. His face twists in embarrassment and pain.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“She told me about your sister,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
I nod. “Thank you,” I squeak. I don’t want to cry. “It’s okay,” I repeat. “Go on.”
The red streaks across his face from his admission, and he takes a breath to calm himself. “And here I come, this too-tall, goofy-looking kid who’s too lanky to play hockey and who is terrible at basketball. Not as social or as popular as my mom. I mean, I was not the kid my parents should have had.”
You poor thing.
“And then the icicle incident made me into part folk legend and part bad luck symbol. Girls didn’t want anything to do with me because they assumed I was bad luck and were scared some sort of natural disaster might befall them, too. So I just do my job and disappear into everyone’s else’s world. Like yours now.”
“You do realize that not everyone else’s life is perfect, much less any better than yours.”
Icicle looks at me and then stares out at the road. “It’s fun to pretend, though, isn’t it?”
We sit in comfortable silence until we reach the Empire Bluff Trail. The parking lot is dotted with a few cars and trucks but not many. Most people are at work or at home, warm and safe, not having to snowshoe for their career.
In goodness knows what clothes, I think.
I jump out of the van and head to the back. Lisa’s snowshoes are waiting along with a recyclable grocery bag filled with…
I pull the bag toward me and wince.
“Are these men’s clothes?”
There is a handwritten note atop a pair of polyester pants and bright red turtleneck and fleece zip-up.
“Cotton is rotten!” the note from Lisa says. “Soaks up the moisture and makes you feel colder. And we all know Sonny hates being cold. Ha! Ha!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t look,” Icicle says.
“I’m more worried about you seeing me dressed in this,” I say.
He turns, and I hop into the back of the van and pretend I’m a Cirque du Soleil performer, bending and twisting to pull on the too-big black snow pants and fleece. I pull on a pair of thick socks Lisa has left, the boots I wore today and then hop out.
“How do I look?” I ask Icicle.
“Like Lisa?”
“You’re funny,” I say.
I jump back into the passenger seat and pull down the mirror. I apply some makeup—not too much—and smooth my hair. I grab my beloved Tom Ford sunglasses from my bag and put them on.
“Do you need the sunglasses?” Icicle asks.
“The snow is blinding,” I say. “And they look good on camera.”
“They seem a bit much.” He stops and gives me look. “Lisa wouldn’t like them.”
I take them off and return them to my bag.
“If you hand me a pair of Oakleys to wear,” I say, “I swear I will stick you with a snowshoe pole.”
Lisa, of course, has old-school snowshoes that are wood framed with rawhide lacing. The ones I had growing up were aluminum and plastic. These are heavier than the ones I remember but seem sturdier. I can’t recall the number of times I had to trudge home through the snow with a broken binding or torn plastic decking.
“Did you know snowshoeing was developed thousands of years ago specifically for winter travel by foot?” Icicle asks. “Native Americans innovated snowshoe design. Depending on snow conditions, they created different styles. The whole idea is to stay atop the deepest of the snow.” He looks down. “See? In these, we only go down a few inches versus having to trudge through knee-deep snow in boots.”
“You’re a surprise every day,” I say.
Icicle ducks his head and takes off.
I follow, clomping loudly out of the lot and toward the trailhead.
“Ready?” Icicle asks.
I nod.
It is snowing now with some intensity, and the temperature seems to be dropping.
“Lake effect is in full effect,” Icicle comments.
“You know weather?” I ask.
“Isn’t everyone in Michigan an expert?”
I laugh.
“They seem to be, anyway” he says.
“What causes lake-effect snow?” I ask.
Icicle explains as adeptly as I ever could.
“And why is this area so prone to it?”
He explains astutely.
“Good job,” I say.
“Thanks,” he says. “You know I’m a meteorologist, right?”
“What?”
“Double major,” he says. “Along with broadcast journalism.”
“Why aren’t you on air?” I ask.
“Me?” He chuckles and shakes his head as if I’m joking. His laughter is sad and hollow, and he takes off ahead of me without saying another word.
By the time we reach the trailhead, I’m out of breath.
“This is a pretty easy trail,” Icicle says as if to mock my exertion. “Especially for inexperienced snowshoers. It’s only a mile-and-a-half loop, but it’s got a great payoff at the end. That’s why Lisa chose it.”
“I used to come here with my family when I was little. I did grow up here, remember?”
Icicle smiles and trudges forth on snowshoes carrying heavy equipment.
Ah, to be twenty-five again. I stop. Ah, to be forty again.
The trail meanders through a beech-maple hardwood forest that is breathtaking in its solitary beauty.
“These trees always seem to know a secret,” I say in the quiet of the woods.
Icicle turns, a long, lone silhouette in the snow.
“Oh, I think they do,” he says. “Just think what they’ve witnessed over the centuries. Life springing forth here after the Ice Age, emerging after massive glaciers carved out the deep basins of the Great Lakes and created the perched dunes—formed by glacial sands deposited on plateaus high above the shore—like we’re standing on now. We’re talking ice so heavy that it actually pressed the Earth’s crust down. Imagine the power of the forces and the length of time it took to form these hills and valleys, shorelines, lakes and streams of today. These trees emerged. Native Americans traversed through these very trails and spoke to them. Their love of this earth was carried on the wind, driven into the ground and took root where it grew in these trees. So, yes, I do think these trees know a lot more about life than we do.”
I am staring at Icicle unable to speak. “You sure are a wise, old owl for someone so young.” I finally manage to say.
“You grow up an outsider, you spend a lot of time alone in the woods reading,” he says.
“What else do you know?” I ask.
“That we better keep moving or Lisa will have our heads.”
We continue along the trail in silence, passing some old farm equipment buried in the snow.
“And there’s the money shot!”
I look up, and Lake Michigan is laid out before me. The shoreline arcs in breathtaking fashion, and Lake Michigan seems to go on for infinity. The water churns in the wind, and the dunes seem even more dramatic in winter, sand coated in ice and snow.
“Pretty amazing, huh?” Icicle asks. “We’re four hundred feet above the water.” He points. “In the distance you can see Sleeping Bear Point and South Manitou Island.”
I smile, remembering the legend my dad used to tell me about the Manitou Islands.
Long ago, the bear Mishe Mokwa and her twin cubs sought to cross Lake Michigan from the Wisconsin shore to escape a great forest fire, I can hear my father say decades ago as we stood at this very spot. Mishe Mokwa made it safely across, but her cubs floundered and drowned in the lake. The mother bear crept to a resting place where she lay down facing the restless waters that covered her lost ones. As she watched, two beautiful islands slowly rose from the water to mark the graves of her twins. The Great Spirit Manitou had created two islands to mark the spot where the cubs disappeared and then formed a solitary dune to represent the faithful mother bear.
A thick band of lake-effect clouds drifts inward, and the sun breaks out. It is simultaneously sunny and snowing. Lake Michigan suddenly turns from concrete gray to Caribbean blue. Without warning, I tear up, thinking of my mom as the mother bear and how she continued on without one of her cubs.
“Ready?” Icicle asks, grabbing the camera. “I think this is the perfect spot and moment.”
“I agree.”
“What a stunning winter’s day, northern Michigan! I’m Sonny Dunes, and I’m coming to you today from the Empire Bluff Trail, where I’ve been enjoying a day of snowshoeing.” I lift my snowshoe and shake my leg. “I’ve been humbled by the landscape and the lake today, and its beauty in winter. The sun has broken out, and right now, in the distance, you can see the Manitou Islands.” Icicle turns and pans the lakeshore. “The legend reminded me of my own mom. She was one tough mama bear who loved her cubs more than anything, too.” My voice breaks, and Icicle turns the camera on me. “It’s good to be home.”
I stop. “Sonny Dunes’ Dunes Forecast is a winter wonderland!” I give the seven-day, knowing a graphic will appear later. “From the Empire Bluff Trail, I’m Sonny in the Winter. Have a Sonny day!”
“That was great!” Icicle says. “Did you just come up with that sign-off?”
“Like it?”
“I do!”
A family snowshoes past, a young mother and father and two little girls. The parents stop to admire the view and ask what we are doing. The girls are literally running through the snow, puffy coats that make them look like little snowmen come to life. One of the girls screams, and I look up. Her body disappears over a dune. One ski pole flies into the air. I take off running, instinctively, before the parents even move. My heart is in my throat. I reach the first little girl who is peering over the dune.
“Gotcha!”
Her sister appears, laughing. The hill was an optical illusion, the drop-off only a foot or so.
“Don’t ever do that again!” I gasp. “Promise me! Ever! Don’t do that to your sister!”
The little girl who played the trick begins to cry.
“What are you doing?” the mom asks when they approach a few seconds later. She pulls the little girl into her arms, and the dad holds the other sister protectively. “They play this game every time we come here.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I was just worried. I… I…”
I turn and walk back toward Icicle, who I realize still has the camera trained on me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I thought it might be a story,” he says. “I thought you might be a hero.”
“I will never be a hero,” I say.
I take off running, my shoes throwing snow, and I don’t stop until I reach the van.