There comes a time in the life of every man and woman when the wild calls with a voice that cannot be denied. It speaks not in whispers, but in the thunderous crash of Lake Michigan's waves against the pristine shores of Nordhouse Dunes. It beckons not with comfort, but with the promise of struggle made sweet by freedom, of hardship transformed into joy by the alchemy of wilderness.

Come, you who have grown soft in the cities, you whose hands know only the touch of toasters and steering wheels. Come to where the sand dunes rise like golden monuments to time itself, where the lake stretches endless as any ocean, and where a man might find what he has lost in the maze of civilization's making.

This Fourth of July, do not celebrate freedom with fireworks alone—live it. Pack not for a weekend, but for months. Pack as if you mean to stay until the ice forms and breaks again, until you have drunk deep from the cup of wildness that our forefathers knew was the birthright of every American soul.

Here, in this sanctuary of sand and forest, where the federal government has preserved for the people what the people have almost forgotten they possessed, miracles unfold nightly. I have seen the northern lights dance green and gold above the dunes when no man of science said they should appear. I have watched the dune grass glow blue in the moonlight, as if the very earth pulsed with some ancient electricity. The deer—those gentle spirits of the woodland—walk among the camps unafraid, taking bread from the hands of children and acorns from the palms of old men who have remembered, at last, what it means to be trusted by the wild.

The lake is but a hop away, as you say, and in that hop lies a universe. From your tent to the water's edge, you pass through kingdoms of wildflower and domains of ancient oak. The creatures here are loving and accepting, for they know no corruption. The raccoon comes calling at dusk, not as a beggar but as a neighbor. The eagle circles overhead, not as a stranger but as a brother of the sky.

Once you answer the call, once you feel the sand between your toes and the lake wind in your hair, you may find yourself changed. Some return to their cities after weeks or months, carrying the wilderness within them like a secret fire. Others find they cannot return at all. They shoulder their packs and walk the trails that lead everywhere—to the Pacific's roaring shores, to the Atlantic's rocky coasts, along the spine of the Appalachians, through the mysterious mists of the Smokies.

There is no right or wrong in this choice. There is only the choice itself, and the man or woman who makes it.

I say to you, especially you whose hair has grown silver with years: you are not old. You are experienced. You are not tired. You are seasoned. You are the great adventurers of your time, and your time is not yet finished. The trails that call to you now call not to your youth, but to something deeper—to the part of you that has always known that life is meant to be lived fully, completely, without reservation.

Do not return to your former life until you have exhausted every wonder. Do not go back to your desks and your schedules until you have read every book that speaks to your soul by firelight, until you have blazed every trail that whispers your name. The wilderness has waited for you through all your years of overwok, broken promises, and meaningless meetings. It will receive you now with open arms, if you have the courage to embrace it in return.

The dunes of Nordhouse are calling. Lake Michigan is calling. The great adventure that is your life—your real life, the one you were meant to live—is calling.

Will you answer?

The wild is patient, but it is not eternal. The call grows fainter with each year of delay, stronger with each step toward the unknown. Pack your courage with your bedroll. Carry your dreams with your provisions.

Come, before the sand settles and the trails grow cold. Come, while the fire still burns in your heart and the strength still flows in your limbs.

Come, and be free.