SUDDENLY ITS SUMMER—and not just the season of blue skies and verdant woods, of songbirds in the morning, thunderstorms in the afternoon, and fireflies at night, but the languid interlude we remember so fondly from childhood. Then as now it can seem timeless, lazy, as far removed from the productive seasons as the apple tree is from the office.

“Blue Cottage,” courtesy of Glenn Wolff. Visit www.glennwolff.com

For a few years when I was very young my parents thought that summer should be for taking vacations to ocean and mountains, to Chicago or New York or Disneyland. But after one or two trips my brother and I dug in our heels and howled. Why would we want to leave Michigan in the summer? Our house was on an inland lake; we had a dock, a rowboat, a powerboat, a raft on pontoons. There was waterskiing to master, and walleye to catch, and islands to camp on with our friends. Twenty miles away was Lake Michigan with its endless beaches and surging schools of salmon, and within bicycle range were ponds full of bluegills and woods laced with trails and cedar swamps where the creeks were alive with brook trout. There was canoeing, swimming, baseball, and playing with our dog. Who could bear to miss even a day of that? Early in the morning Rick and I slipped from the house and stayed lost until dark. We were explorers of the near-at-hand, world travelers who never had to leave home. It was everything a boy could want.

Or that a man could want. For I’ve changed little after all these years. I still prefer to stay in Michigan in summer, still spend as many days as I can lost in the woods and on lakes and rivers, searching for walleyes and warblers, for wildflowers and champion trees, for strawberries and brook trout.

Summer is the high season for down-and-dirty adventures. It’s for exploring those small, overlooked sanctuaries that time hardly alters—the blueberry bog and the tree-shaded pond and the pine forest where the floor is softer than any carpet. It’s the season for wet shoes and sweat-stained hats, for wearing a canteen on your belt and consulting your compass even if you’re pretty sure you know where you are.

(Adapted from Jerry’s “Reflections” column in Michigan Blue Magazine, summer 2012 issue. Thanks to Lisa Jensen and Glenn Wolff.)