I always preferred the Warren Dunes in southern Michigan to the Indiana Dunes. I don’t know why. These aren’t your typical sand dunes, either. The Warren Dunes tower up to 260 feet above the lake. People climb them and then surf, run, or even roll back down. But it isn’t as easy a feat as one might think.

Home from school one summer, Clifford in tow, I wanted to go to the park. Clifford, Darewood, my older sister, and I piled into a car and headed to Michigan. The Warren Dunes were only about an hour and a half away, so an easy day trip. Though Clifford had grown up in South Africa and traveled extensively in his younger years, he had never seen anything quite like our dunes. Needless to say, he was impressed.

I think Darewood had decided early on that he was going to climb the tallest dune. Clifford looked it up and down and decided he was in. You only live once, right? The thing is, this was back in the day where Darewood was still fairly athletic and Clifford was a cigarette smoking fiend who felt that sitting on a couch watching TV exerted too much energy. But hey, who am I to judge?

So this is where I need to explain what climbing the largest dune can be like. It sits at more than a 45 degree angle in several locations. It’s steep. The sand is also ridiculously soft. Tower Hill, the most popular and prominent dune, sits 240 feet above the lake. A climb to the top is not for the faint of heart. Tower Hill can be a challenge for youths, let alone adults striving to prove their worth. It is a chore, but a rewarding one. There’s nothing quite like the experience of reaching the top, scanning the shoreline and observing the sun setting over the great lake.

Perhaps not so impressive? Just a small hill, right? (image: campsitephotos.com)

How about now? See that tiny little guy about to climb? (image: michianacindy.blogspot.com)

Darewood was ready. Clifford was, too. My sister and I were contemplating it. We thought we’d wait and see since we’d been watching people repeatedly making it half way, throwing in the towel, and running back down.

So Darewood began jogging up the hill. Well, jogging the best one could through several feet of sugar soft sand. Clifford, watching Darewood’s technique, decided to follow suit.

Let’s just say each of these boys was not like the other.

As Darewood continued to bound up the 240 ft peak fairly effortlessly, but still sucking some wind, Clifford wasn’t having quite the same success. In fact, he was on his hands and knees, crawling and gasping for air, looking a little something like this …

Cliff climbing Tower Hill.

But a touch more desperate and his face had a tinge of blue.

By this point my sister and I were walking past him, staring in awe. Oh yeah, and laughing our asses off. We had decided to embark on the same quest, but were taking a more leisurely approach by walking to the top in a round about way. Still with the hill so steep, walking can be almost worse than jogging. So yes there were times we struggled with our footing, and yes, we too were out of breath, but our experience was nothing like that belonging to the crippled puffing mass dragging his body up the hill, spitting the sand particles out of his mouth while whimpering in pain.

Should I have stopped and helped the guy out? Meh. Who am I to come between a man and his failing attempt at simulated glory?

Besides, he did make it to the top – eventually. He also thought we may have to call him an ambulance, but that’s part of the fun, right? I was pretty proud I made it to the top that day, and though I felt like I needed to catch a bit more than a breath, Clifford was sincerely requesting an oxygen tank. But just check out that view …

View from the top of Tower Hill. We did it! Wish I had photos to commemorate the occasion. (image: Jung Family at avoision.com)

Have you ever been to the dunes of Great Lake Michigan? Share your experience with the world below.

It’s not because you can’t find Pepsi here, though it does seem scarce at times. There are those loyal chains that carry the brand, but I don’t usually eat at those restaurants, and again, I don’t usually order pop.

I digress … the bottom line is, for whatever reasons (mostly my proximity to Coke country), I had a Pepsi, and I never have a Pepsi. It was a sunny summer day, the kind where you can smell the fresh cut grass and the BBQ burning in the backyard down the street. And suddenly I was taken back to Hoover Field in New Paris, IN.

The great Hoover Field.

The trusty old scoreboard. Wait – is that a Pepsi logo I see?

Hoover Field is the ball diamond where I, along with thousands of other kids over the years, played little league during our summer breaks from school. Keep in mind the town itself boasts a population of right around 1500, so pretty much no matter how coordinated or not you were, little league was what you did as a kid.

I loved little league.

Look at that awesome third baseman just waiting for action.

My t-ball, coach-pitch, and softball playing years weren’t the kind players have nowadays. Travel leagues weren’t the trend; there may have been an end of season all-star game against a neighboring town at best. A friendly competitive spirit kept the games alive. We didn’t have moms arguing with umps; we had moms stepping in as third base coaches. Our dads weren’t schmoozing a scout; they were in the dugout readying the next player at bat.

Where waited our turn to be on deck.

Ball games were a family affair. Tiny tots ran around the grassy grounds playing tag while their siblings practiced their throws. Parents chatted up one another while their children took the field. Runs counted. There were winners and losers. We had fun team names like Royals, Cardinals and Phillies. We drank water from a hose, unfiltered, and lived to tell the tale. We had actual human beings chucking balls across the plate for coach-pitch. Those were great summers.

One of my brother’s little league teams  back in the day. Way way back in the day.

Families sat together in the stands.

The diamonds were our playground for the entire  summer.

The best part? A win. A win didn’t just mean you were the best at your game. A win meant the coach was going to treat you to a drink of your choice for a game well-played.  And what did those old Lion’s Club members serve from their little concession stand in the sticks? Pepsi. It was ice cold and melted in your mouth. It was the best fix on a hot summer’s eve, and tasted even better because it was earned. There were no health nuts saying the soda would dehydrate us or that it wasn’t good for our teeth. It was just the universal drink of champions, and often losers, too. Whichever you were, we all shared that moment together.

Though Pepsi was king, if you were the daring sort, like me, there was a different order of the day. A good old fashioned suicide. For those of you uncool cats that have no idea what I’m talking about (my husband included), a suicide was a mix of Pepsi, Mountain Dew, Dr. Pepper and 7Up. And it was awesome. Next time you’re at a chain, try it. You won’t be disappointed.

Do something out of the ordinary this week – have a Pepsi and just sit back and enjoy. Be reminded of a time where having something as simple as a soda meant all your worries went away. Take a moment to remember what quenched your thirst after a tough game – especially for my friends still spending their summers at Hoover Field. And to my peers that played ball but are now sitting on the sidelines watching your kid at bat– share with them that tiny bit of happiness you were granted when you came flying off the field. Those kinds of summers are short and don’t last forever. No-take-backs.

Best summers ever.