The Narrows There’s not much to talk about in regards to this little place, but there is a lot to say. From the small, dusty gravel parking lot, to the limited lake shore not 60 feet away, and the 3 or 4 miniature, 1-bedroom cabins in between, there isn’t a lot to look at. The memories though, packed into that cramped space stretch wider, when placed back to back, than the joined length of the smiles on my family’s faces when in that place, but not by much. The Narrows is a conglomerate of cabins placed casually along the shore of Lake Tomahawk, a branch of the much larger Lake Minocqua, surrounding the island town of Minocqua, Wisconsin. It is a humble location, far from civilization, and farther from cell phone reception. Here sits the site of my family’s annual retreat, headed by my grandfather, “Grampa” to everyone he knew, with the raucous company of his daughters, sons-in-law, and grandsons. That large company, residing divided into two of the toy huts,
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The bass that we all had caught earlier in the week were prepared and being served as reward for our diligent efforts throughout the duration of our stay. Seeing as this was a “fishing” trip, it was only fair that our plentiful bounty be consumed in celebration. Everyone, grandparents, their children, their spouses, and their sons, gathered at the massive picnic table outside, bathed in the warmth of the campfire that would soon be host to countless dropped marshmallows. The aroma of bread rolls, buttered corn, and fried fish permeated the camp. We ate and talked and laughed. I heard stories of visits to The Narrows, past, hilarious accounts of my grandmother’s cooking exploits, and even a few of Grampa’s military stories, which were exceedingly rare, due to his distaste of his time serving. This is the site where my family was strengthened. The heart of The Narrows continued beating ever so steadily as the conversations drew on into the
The bass that we all had caught earlier in the week were prepared and being served as reward for our diligent efforts throughout the duration of our stay. Seeing as this was a “fishing” trip, it was only fair that our plentiful bounty be consumed in celebration. Everyone, grandparents, their children, their spouses, and their sons, gathered at the massive picnic table outside, bathed in the warmth of the campfire that would soon be host to countless dropped marshmallows. The aroma of bread rolls, buttered corn, and fried fish permeated the camp. We ate and talked and laughed. I heard stories of visits to The Narrows, past, hilarious accounts of my grandmother’s cooking exploits, and even a few of Grampa’s military stories, which were exceedingly rare, due to his distaste of his time serving. This is the site where my family was strengthened. The heart of The Narrows continued beating ever so steadily as the conversations drew on into the