Short and Sweet

For those of us who reflexively point our lemming feet toward the ocean every year at the ringing of the last school bell, there are lessons to be learned in a Wisconsin lake. The scale is smaller than the endless, restless (not to mention shark- and hurricane-infested) vistas of the ocean. The water is fresh, the banks are shady. At Eagle Lake, west of Crivitz, where we swam every day, the dark water was a just-right salve on bodies, whether wracked by Wisconsin winters or Washington summers. Late one day, with the reddening sun catching on the ripples of the day's final dive, a loon glided down for evening swim of it its own. Twilight is endless this high on the globe, and at 9 p.m. the stately bird casts a long shadow across the water -- and sends a plaintive wail around the shore, where we whittled away at a sublime block of Laac's Finest Wisconsin extra sharp, aged six years.

"Looking out over a peaceful lake at sunset with a beer in my hand, that's as close to heaven as I get on this earth," said Staudenmaier.

Ah, beer. Wisconsin has been a beer culture since, oh gosh, back to the days of Laverne and Shirley. And Wisconsinites have refined a lot of ways to watch the sun go down with a cold one at the ready, either a cheapo Blatz or Schlitz from down Milwaukee way, or one of the finer, newer microbrews. Round about dusk, for example, at places like Thunder Lake, Lake Noqueby or High Falls Flowage (a flowage is a sort of wide, slow spot in the river), fleets of pontoon boats slip their lines and putter out to quiet viewing spots. At Shaffer Park Resort in Crivitz, one of the oldest and most famous of dozens of roadside supper clubs that line the back roads, it's the custom of many to end the day encamped on the cocktail deck overlooking the Peshtigo River.

That's where we decompressed after a day-long blitz of golf, swimming, hiking to waterfalls and racing go-carts at Vacationland Fun Park. The kids roamed between the tidy wing of riverside motel rooms and the playground by the heated pool. We manned the deck chairs, waiting in the shade of massive red pines for our chance at the Friday night fried walleye.

I may have stumped the dining room waitress with an order for red wine. "Do you want ice with that?" she came back to ask after consulting the bartender.

But the walleye was excellent.

On Saturday, Staudenmaier left us to go visit his 102-year-old mother. Carless, we called the local Ford dealer, who said, sure, you can take a Taurus for the day (it cost us $45 for 24 hours). We wandered north, getting deeper into the woods, and found a surprising new Marinette entity where they do savvy good wine, as well as fine food and fancy digs. On Miscauno Island, an estatelike preserve in the middle of Menominee River, a group of Green Bay and Milwaukee investors have taken a flier on a genuine high-end, all-suites hotel called the Four Seasons Resort (no relation to the luxury chain). It just opened in May, and when we showed up, the new-car smell was still strong upon it. Normally, I find brand new hotels a mess of baffled staff, unfinished rooms and unseasoned decor. Especially in middle-of-nowhere settings like this crook in the river in the Wisconsin outback, experienced workers can be hard to find (you can drive miles on the roads here without passing a house). But this one seems ready for prime time.

Cross the one-lane steel bridge and a handsome white manor house rises among the pines, surrounded by well-watered fairways. At one end, a three-story wood-paneled mezzanine encloses a year-round pool, sauna and hot tub. At the other, the new construction abuts the original Four Seasons, a 100-year-old roadhouse and inn. The original wing has a spicy history (including Chicago mob connections) and a settled, established feeling that adds some vintage to the just-opened addition. Between a basement sports bar that stays crowded with locals, a quieter upstairs bar with veranda seating, an ice-cream parlor, game room and two restaurants, the place buzzed more like an oasis in the desert than a hotel in the woods. It was quiet and secluded, and we had no worries giving the girls their own keys while we played an early round of nine holes.

We crisscrossed the county in our loaner Taurus, taking it on our final evening to one of Marinette County's big shows, the Twin Bridge Water-Ski Team. When you build your summers around lakes and powerboats, it doesn't take many generations before you end up with kids putting on extravagant costumes, climbing on each other's shoulders and water-skiing in front of polite people in lawn chairs twice a week. That's the scene we found at Stephenson Town Park, a pretty tree-lined beach at High Falls Reservoir. This year's theme: Indiana Jones and the Stone of Excuses, a contraption of a plot that was far less stable than the 17-skier pyramid the team pulled off as one of its finales. (How they learn to ski like that during 10-week summers is beyond me.)

At the end of the show, the skiers ran ashore, lined up in front of us in wet, vaguely Arabic garb and broke into a clunky chorus-line dance. These were fine athletes, terrible actors and clearly having a blast.

We could still hear them, a pack of partying Wisconsinites living their summer lark, as we pulled down the sandy lane, turned left at the blacktop and went looking for ice cream.