Rekindled at Revel’s: A Northwoods Retreat to Remember

A Rocky Beginning: The Unexpected Hurdle

When I think of a family vacation during Wisconsin's summer, especially one I'd been looking forward to all year to this point, I think of picturesque sunsets, family campfires, and time spent alone in my solo cabin that I don't get at home. I think of time spent fishing, though I don't get as much enjoyment from that as I did as a younger man. What I don't think of, especially as an adult who I'd like to think is pretty good with money, is an unfortunate clerical error that threatened to derail my entire stay before it got started.

The mix-up involved a misunderstanding regarding billing. Foolishly, I thought we’d pay when we left as we’d done at other places in the past, So I had taken most of the cash I had in my bank account and put it toward my credit card that I’d planned to use to pay for the trip. To my unfortunate surprise, the proprietor wanted up-front payment---which, in hindsiight, I should have been prepared to do anyway----leading to an embarrassing scramble for a suitable card. For a moment, I wondered if this was a sign—maybe I should just pack up and head home, retreat to the familiar disappointments rather than risk new ones. But thanks to the kindness of my family, the situation was resolved, allowing me to stay put.

It's times like these that prove rocky beginnings often end with worthwhile journeys, and my stay at this cozy cabin on this beautiful lake proved that point.

 The Cabin: Small in Size, Big on Comfort

When I stepped through the screened-in porch of my assigned cabin and through the front door, I couldn't help but smile. Simple but charming, this was definitely Northwoods living at its simplest. It gave me the impression of a studio apartment. Despite the compact nature of the space, I felt immediately comfortable. The knot that had formed in my stomach during the check-in process had slowly unwound itself. The size of the space soon became its greatest asset. After a few minutes to let the dust settle, I looked out over Nelson Lake and felt something I'd never felt in my hometown; I felt like I was home.

The cabin's interior was practical without being sparse—a small kitchenette with everything I needed, a comfortable bed tucked into one corner, and that miraculous recliner positioned perfectly to take advantage of both the lake view and the natural light streaming through the windows, not to mention the fortuitous placement of outlets, allowing me to keep my Chromebook charged even after a rigorous writing session. Pine walls gave the space a warm, lived-in feeling, and the faint scent of cedar and old wood told stories of countless other guests who'd found refuge here before me.

This cabin wasn't a lot different from where I stay at home, save for the much better view. The one difference I saw that stood out was this cabin was exactly what I wanted out of life, a lakeside retreat from which I could share my thoughts on paper. I know well that every part of the world has its pros and cons, but I'd gladly take whatever negatives would come from a place like this, especially when the sun was setting and I was in my favorite state, the flow state, a state that seemed to come easily in the soft glow of the porch light as I wrote looking out over the lake.

The Screened-In Porch: My Creative Sanctuary

The screened-in porch that my cabin featured was the selling point for me, even more so than the fact I'd have the place to myself for the week. For that week in early August, that porch was my sanctuary. Every morning, at whatever time my body woke up—I was on vacation, so there were no alarms or schedules—I'd brew myself a cup of coffee, grab my laptop—my Chromebook in this case—and sit out there all morning, watching the lake's surface ripple in the breeze.

The porch itself was simple but perfect: weathered wooden floorboards that creaked pleasantly underfoot, a small table just the right height for my laptop, and two mismatched but comfortable chairs that had clearly seen many seasons of use. The screening was intact enough to keep the mosquitoes at bay while still letting in every sound—the gentle lapping of water against the shore, the distant call of a loon, the soft rustle of leaves in the morning breeze.

On these mornings, I found the quiet comfort that invites creativity. No pressure, no deadlines, no critics, just me and my thoughts. That porch was my creative haven, a private perch from which I could watch the lake ripple in the wind, listen to the ducks and loons make their calls, and bask in the subtle warmth of the morning sun with a cup of coffee or the crisp cool of the early evening as I sipped a cold beer. Little did I know how much this little spot would change me, both personally and professionally. It all began with an idea, an idea I haven't finished writing yet, but it's one that I haven't been able to shake since I got home. Stephen King said something about ideas being akin to bread crumbs in a strainer. "The good stuff stays," he said, I think. This was one of those ideas for me.

 Inspiration by the Water

As you might tell by my often obscure Stephen King references, I have an affinity for his kind of writing. Like King, I express my deepest fears through my characters in fiction. I had no choice but to put on a mask of bravery in public—I used to call it fearlessness, but I had the wrong concept in mind. On the page, however, I could express my deepest fears through the eyes of my characters.

The idea that came to me on the lake this year was one that explored a fear of mine I have told no one else about before now, a fear that unbeknownst to anyone on that vacation save for those who read this piece, kept me from going out on any boats except for one time. That fear is that of drowning. In this new piece, which I wasn't sure what the length was going to be—I never am to start with—my main character checks into a cabin similar to the one I was in that week. He sees wet footprints, bigger than those made by a curious child coming ashore from the lake, but dismisses them for the first couple of days.

The story took shape as I sat there in the golden hour before sunset, when the lake surface turned to molten glass and the line between water and sky seemed to dissolve. Something about that liminal time, when day surrendered to night, made it easier to confront the things that scared me. The wet footprints in my story would grow more frequent, more deliberate, until my protagonist could no longer ignore what was rising from the depths of his own subconscious—and the lake itself.

I won't spoil the entire story, but I brought it up because it came to me sitting on that screened-in porch. This spark, I thought, would be the turning point in my career and my life.

 Sparking Creativity: A Writer's Turning Point

Before I arrived at Revel's this year, I was at a crossroads. I knew I wanted to write for a living, and I knew I wanted to travel. I also knew I would not do any of those things wallowing in my doubts and fears of exposure. If I was going to do what I loved for a living, people would have to see me, or at least see my words. Would that happen here though? I didn't know at first, but it didn't take long to find out.

When I first got to Revel's and settled into my cabin, I was dismayed at the revelation that there was not a Wi-Fi connection in the cabins as I had originally expected. Normally not a big deal to me on these trips, lack of connection, while it wouldn't prevent me from writing, would prevent me from posting anything I'd written. As luck would have it, my cabin was the closest to the bar, and the bar had wifi. Though it was spotty the connection I could get was enough to post two articles within that week, and there was an outlet within reach of both the recliner and the bed, so battery life on my Chromebook was a non-issue. This week would be productive after all, it seemed.

Those evening trips to the bar for wifi became a ritual of their own. I'd save up the day's work, walk the short path through the pines, order a beer or a coffee depending on my mood, and settle into a corner booth to upload my words to the world. The bar had its own charm—local anglers sharing tales of the day's catch, and the easy conversation that only happens in places where strangers quickly become temporary neighbors. It was there, surrounded by the gentle buzz of vacation conversations, that I hit "Publish" for the first time in months without second-guessing myself.

Armed with a renewed sense of purpose and determination, I got right to work, first sitting in the recliner in the cabin. This recliner was remarkably similar to the one in which I sit right now as I write this. The tan color was the same, the mechanism was similar, and it felt the same to sit in it. In more ways than one, I was home. What began as random musings I didn't think I would publish turned into two published blog posts and the better part of a third by the end of Friday night. Perhaps this would be the turning point my career needed. Starting that first Saturday night, I became more prolific in my writing and sharing, and it gave rise to the consistent, albeit not uniform, posting schedule you've seen since. Turns out all I needed was a little time to myself.

 Solitude by the Lake: Embracing Northwoods Tranquility

When I'd make these trips with my family as a boy and young man, I happily joined my family as they flocked to the docks, fishing poles in hand and boat motors revving. As I've gotten older, the difference in physical capability between myself and the rest of my family became glaringly obvious. I'm painfully reminded of my struggles to navigate the dock where my dad's boat was, and to get into and out of the boat itself. Every year, I try my best to participate in whatever my family is doing. After all, you never know how much time you've got left. But all the while, I fought the embarrassment of being so unsteady on my feet in certain situations, even though I could walk well most times. The more the embarrassment grew, the greater the temptation to retreat into myself. Instead, I turned to the pen.

The morning of the boat incident started with such promise. I'd watched my family gathering their gear, heard the familiar sounds of preparation—tackle boxes snapping shut, coolers being loaded, the cheerful debate over who would sit where. I wanted so badly to be part of it, to reclaim some piece of the person I used to be. But as I approached the dock, the weathered planks seemed to shift beneath my feet in a way that felt unpredictable, unsafe. What should have been a simple step into the boat became an awkward dance of hesitation and overcorrection. I saw the quick glances exchanged between family members—not unkind, but aware—and felt the familiar heat of shame creeping up my neck.

After the first—and only—embarrassing venture onto the boat, I immediately retreated to my makeshift writing desk. It became my way to process things that were going on and how I felt about it. I thought I'd lost the ability to turn to the pen for relief. Thankfully, like a trusted friend, it was there. I didn't write about the experience itself. Instead, I wrote this post about self-doubt, channeling the feelings of inadequacy and the strange sensation that everyone was looking at me into something related to my beloved craft. Using the lake as a backdrop, I channeled everything into my keyboard, cherishing the gift of solitude, which turned out to be the best part about that vacation.

What I discovered during those quiet hours was that solitude wasn't a consolation prize—it was exactly what I needed. While my family created their own memories on the water, I was creating something too, something that would last beyond the vacation photos and fish stories. The writing that emerged from that place of vulnerability became some of my most honest work, the kind that resonates because it comes from a place of truth rather than performance.

 The Unexpected Gift: Finding Peace in Limitation

Something I didn't expect from this trip was how liberating it would be to stop fighting against my limitations and start working within them. For years, I'd been trying to force myself back into a version of myself that no longer fit, like putting on clothes from a decade ago and wondering why they felt so wrong. At Revel's, surrounded by the unchanging rhythms of lake life, I understood that adaptation wasn't surrender—it was evolution.

The lake taught me this in its own subtle way. Each morning, it was different—sometimes mirror-smooth, sometimes choppy with whitecaps, sometimes shrouded in mist—but always unmistakably itself. It never apologized for its moods or tried to be anything other than what it was in that moment. Watching it from my porch, I saw my own changes not as failures but as natural progressions, like the way the shoreline shifts over time but remains essentially beautiful.

 Reflection: A Sliver of Heaven in the Northwoods

When I look back at my trip to Revel's, I realize that the financial misunderstanding that marred the beginning of the vacation was nothing more than a blip on the proverbial radar. The real story, and the most important aspect of my time there, is one of surprising comfort, creative resurgence, and a comforting sense of peace that accompanies taking life as it comes. If you find yourself in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, seeking creative renewal, solace, or just an escape from the hustle and bustle of life, I can't recommend Revel's enough. It's a little lakefront paradise with no shortage of hospitality.

More than that, it's a place where you can discover—or rediscover—parts of yourself that get lost in the noise of everyday life. The writer in me found his voice again. The dreamer in me remembered what it felt like to imagine without limits. And the part of me that had been struggling with change learned that sometimes the best way forward isn't to fight the current, but to find new ways to navigate it.

As I packed up that final morning, I realized I wasn't just taking home a collection of blog posts and story ideas. I was taking home a renewed sense of possibility, a deeper understanding of my own creative process, and most importantly, the knowledge that sometimes the best journeys are the ones that take us not where we thought we wanted to go, but exactly where we needed to be.

Do you have a favorite vacation spot? Where is your favorite place to recharge your creative batteries? Do you enjoy fishing, boating, or just enjoying yourself near a lake as I do? Leave your thoughts in the comment section below.