Mt. Baldhead sits before us, the region’s tallest sand dune, rising six hundred feet into the air. Three hundred two steps go straight up the middle of the forested dune, like a wooden zipper.

“It’s been years since I’ve done this,” I say.

“I’ve been doing them nearly every day—even in winter—for years,” Scooter says. “Great training for the fall ten-mile Mt. Baldhead run. You run these stairs at the halfway point.”

“Of course you do,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You should do it with me,” he says. “And it would make a great weekend getaway for exercise enthusiasts.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Not a bad idea,” I say. “The last part, I mean.”

Scooter laughs and looks at me. “Ready?”

I shake my head no, and we head up the steep steps, a canopy of trees covering the stairway. Every dozen steps or so there is a landing, and people at every elevation gather on them, some taking photos while others gasp for breath. Scooter is like a squirrel, scampering up the steps, taking two at a time, stopping at the landings to wait for me.

Halfway up the steps I am sweating, and people are passing me.

“On your left!” they call.

“I feel like a broken-down Datsun on an autobahn filled with Beamers,” I say to Scooter, who laughs.

He grabs my hand. “Let’s do the last half together, okay?”

A step at a time, we make it to the top, my thighs shaky and my quads quivering like jelly when we finally do.

“I think this was worth the effort, don’t you?” Scooter asks, his mouth agape, his hands on the railing.

From the top of Mt. Baldhead, there is an unobstructed view of all that makes the area so stunning. The towns of Saugatuck-Douglas are stretched out before me like a beautiful oil painting on canvas, the light gleaming off the river and bay. Everything is adorably miniature, like a doll village, even the boats floating down the river toward the lake.

Beyond the towns, the canvas turns to a quilt, blocks of green and gold, squares filled with linear patterns of orchards and vineyards.

“I forget sometimes,” I say, “that I am a part of something bigger.”

I think I am saying this to myself until Scooter puts his arm around my back. “Me, too,” he says softly, before gesturing with his free hand into the distance. “But look. How many people are coming here to experience this beauty because of you and your inn? How many memories are people making in the boats I’ve restored? We are all so small in the scale of things, but can be so big in our impact on the world.” Scooter stops. “We are more than meets the eye.”

My eyes shift to a massive cottonwood tree growing straight out of the dune. I remember hiking with my father, who pointed out these trees.