Digital Composition: Mike Rendel
A Mother’s Legacy in Midwest Summers and Winters
Story By: Sara Wesche
The wind blowing my hair back. The earthy smell of lake water. Lake Michigan’s impossible turquoise. Fresh snow crunching under skis. The warmth of mom-and-pop ski lodges, all wood smoke and hot cocoa. A-frames along snowy roads. These moments bring me back to the Midwest of my childhood and to my mom – the woman who made it possible.
My mom wasn’t outdoorsy.
She didn’t like to “rough it.” Creature comforts were more her style, and luxury was her preference. Yet when I think about my connection to this land, the lakes, and the winters, my thoughts go straight to her.
Every weekend in the summer, we’d pack up and head out to our boat. My first memory is of our open-bow speedboat in Nunica, Michigan. We’d spend days cruising the Grand River, taking the boat to Lake Michigan, and beaching it by the dunes. Later, we upgraded to a cabin cruiser docked in Muskegon, and every Friday after my parents got off work, we’d haul ourselves to the marina. Coolers packed, overnight bags slung over our shoulders, we became part of the weekend warrior crowd.
Towels and bathing suits hung to dry on the boat railing while we took boat rides from Muskegon Lake to Lake Michigan, swimming off the back of the boat. The waves always felt enormous to my skinny kid self. I’d sit in my mom’s lap and drive the boat, her hands guiding mine at the helm. She loved it—being behind the helm and on the water. I’m glad I saw my son sit in her lap and drive the boat, too, before she left us.
My mom passed away in April 2024 after a rapid battle with lung disease. Losing her so suddenly was shocking and painful, but a slow loss of breath would have crushed her spirit faster than it did her body. She didn’t want to live a life half-lived, and I don’t begrudge her that.
My mom was summer.
She loved the lakes, the long days, the warmth. Fourth of July was her holiday, and summer was her season. Her birthday was in July. So is mine. This first summer without her was devastating, but through it all, I was reminded of how much my childhood experiences in the Midwest outdoors are tied to her. She loved this place, and without me realizing it, she passed that love down to me.
Our summer vacations were boat trips to Northern Michigan, stopping at port towns like Ludington, Frankfort, Leland, Charlevoix, and Petoskey. I’d wake up already on the water, the lake around us, heading to the next port. When it was choppy, my mom would hand me cereal in a coffee mug so it wouldn’t spill.
For someone who claimed not to like “roughing it,” our boat trips weren’t glamorous, and certainly not five-star. It was like camping, just in marinas instead of campsites. But she still made it happen and was always the driving force behind our adventures.
Just as summer was defined by days spent on the lakes, winter had its rhythm. Our love for the Midwest outdoors spanned the seasons, moving from the water in the warm months to the slopes in the cold. Trips “up north” to ski—Boyne Mountain, Boyne Highlands, Sugarloaf, Schuss Mountain, Crystal Mountain—are some of my fondest memories. I can still smell the little A-frames we stayed in, with their scent of wood, fire embers, and just a hint of mildew.
Photo: Sara Wesche
Our family photo albums are full of these outdoor escapades. Smiling faces in the water, lighthouses and sunsets, tousled hat hair headed kids with hot cocoa. There’s a picture of my mom, carrying me in a baby carrier on her back, cross-country skiing. I was six months old, and she was out there, already introducing me to the outdoors. Because she wanted to do it, we did it, too. She planned, organized, and got us going. She may have had help from my dad, but she was the one who made it all happen.
Now, I’m a mom, too, and I try to instill that same love of the outdoors in my own child. To appreciate what we have here. To protect it. Spending time on our trails, on our freshwater lakes, and teaching him to ski on the same mom and pop hills where I learned.
The thing about legacy is that it happens quietly. By doing what we do and celebrating the things we love, we leave behind something that lasts.
It wasn’t about grand adventures but rather the little moments. I didn’t realize it then, but becoming a mom myself made me see it. My mom wasn’t climbing mountains or conquering trails, but her legacy is full of these small, beautiful memories. It was an afternoon cross-country skiing with a baby on her back, a day spent by Lake Michigan, walking the shoreline and looking for the perfect rocks. It was learning the names of the plants that grow here, recognizing how they change with the seasons. It was choosing to sit outside in the evening instead of staying indoors, soaking in the long days of summer. It was these moments, more than anything, that gave me my connection to the outdoors and to this place.
Photos: Sara Wesche
Before she passed, I told my mom we were starting a publication, and she was thrilled. She always supported my writing. I shared my first story with her—about the changing winters—and found that she had printed it and saved it in a folder. I didn’t get the chance to tell her this, but this journal is because of her. My love for the outdoors is because of the experiences she gave me. No matter where we went, or how far we traveled, this place—this land, these lakes—was always home. There’s no other place like it on earth.
My mom grew up in Muskegon, Michigan, and spent her childhood on the lake. She told me stories about their family vacations, driving around Lake Michigan and staying in roadside cabins, seeing Tahquamenon Falls. The Midwest has been home to us for generations. We’re glacier babies, born of a land shaped by the ice that once moved through it, leaving behind lakes and rivers and a spirit of grit and resilience. It’s part of who we are—the ability to ebb and flow with life, to take on whatever comes our way.
I often think about how my mom didn’t seem “outdoorsy.” She was more Lucille Bluth than Grandma Gatewood. But what does it really mean to love the outdoors? Today, people post their epic adventures online, competing for the most likes. But to celebrate the outdoors, to leave a legacy of love for it, you don’t need to be through-hiking the North Country Trail or skiing every peak in the Midwest. Sometimes, it’s just about being there, passing on the love for it in quiet ways that last longer than we realize.
As we age—now in my 40s and a mother myself—I’ve gained perspective on what truly matters. Navigating life without my mom has been one of the biggest challenges I’ve ever faced. Starting something new without her here, without her guidance and support, has been the most scared I’ve ever felt. But she taught me so much about honoring yourself, about doing what’s important for you. Even though she’s gone, she continues to inspire me.
In this time without her, I’ve come to recognize the true importance of her legacy. It wasn’t about the big moments, but the small ones—the simple choice to spend time outside, to appreciate the beauty of this land, to share it with those we love. And now, more than ever, I see how crucial it is for us to come together and celebrate this place we call home. Her legacy lives on in that, and in me, and I can only hope to pass it down to my child.
About the Author
Sara Wesche, a proud Michigander, grew up chasing adventures from Lake Michigan’s shores to the ski hills ‘Up North.’ After years in corporate marketing leadership, she’s spent nearly a decade as a freelance marketing strategist and writer. Sara is a member of the Forbes Communications Council, a founding member of Grand Rapids Professional Women for Good, and a mountain biking coach for the Grand Rapids Dirt Dawgs. As Editor and Co-Founder of Midwest Vertical Journal, she uses journalistic storytelling to bring the Midwest’s legends, locals, and landscapes to life.
