Cabins are an important part of the lake-life culture we prize as Michiganders. They draw us out of the suburbs and up the highways, beckoning us to freshwater vistas, rickety docks, and whitefish dip.
But these simple pleasures will cost you. A weeklong stay in a Michigan cabin can go for a couple grand—or much, much more, depending on where you stay. Take a scroll on Airbnb or VRBO. Many lakeside lodgers will pay a few hundred dollars per night. And that’s before the cleaning fee.
Why does it cost so much to enjoy dazzling views and ice-cold swims? It’s because cabins have gotten too fancy.
The places you see for rent online come with a host of amenities. They offer flat screens and hot tubs and marble countertops. The house and its comforts are the attraction—and the reason behind the price tag.
But the best cabins aren’t fancy. They put a roof over your head and encourage you to spend most of your day outside, in the lake and with your family.
The most idyllic weeks of my childhood were spent in a cabin like this. It wasn’t ours. My family had the amazing luck of living next door to an older couple with a charming little place two hours north of our neighborhood. When the cabin sat empty, we were welcome.
The place was fairly rustic. No air conditioning, no heat. Certainly no stainless-steel appliances or granite countertops. The toilet worked, most of the time.
But it was in every way magical. The house was perched on a hill that sloped down to Sage Lake. Its tall front windows and small front porch offered sweeping views. Sunrise, midday, sunset—any time of day was something to behold.
The cottage was crowned with an open-air loft crowded with six twin beds, each covered in worn, handmade quilts. Exposed cedar planks perfumed the entire house as it baked in the sun.
Most important, the cabin seemed to urge us to throw open its creaking screen door and get outside.
During our visits, my sisters and I would wake up, one by one, and amble out to the deck and down the sandy stairs to find mom drinking coffee in a plastic Adirondack at the lake’s edge. We’d watch loons stream by, babies perched on their backs, or otters slip in and out of the still water.
Then we’d make a pile of sandwiches and hit the lake. We puttered around on a teal pontoon, if my dad could manage to back it out of the shallow, weedy bay. We explored the nearby channel on kayaks. Mostly we went swimming.
Finally, we’d drag our tired bodies back inside. We climbed the knotty cedar stairs to the loft and flopped down onto squashy beds, breathing in hot, heavy air and listening to the box fan whir us into oblivion.
Occasionally, the lake lit up with lightning, and we found ourselves home-bound. But the cabin didn’t fail us.
We crowded the tiny living room, piecing together puzzles or pushing a “James and the Giant Peach” VHS into the little TV. We argued over who should take the first turn at charades. We read.
Outside or in, we didn’t need much to enjoy our weeks Up North. Fancy amenities would have ruined it, would have made us want something more than the luxury of the lake.
Our neighbors sold their property around the time I turned 18. My children have enjoyed plenty of Northern fun, but they have yet to experience the magic of a simple cabin out in the boonies, steps from the water.
I’ve wondered if I’ll ever spot our childhood cottage on Airbnb as I look for a cheap rental. It might look a little boring next to the modern dream homes that are so popular.
But to us, it was perfect.
Katie Clarey is a contributing writer for Michigan Enjoyer.
