The Magic of Brown’s Island

100 Years of Magic in the Northwoods

The Bonne Vivant has been quiet for two weeks, not because inspiration was absent, but because I traded my desk for the dock. I returned to Tomahawk, Wisconsin — a place where time bends and slows, where the pace of life is written by pine trees and rippling water. Nestled between Lake Mohawksin and the Wisconsin River, Brown’s Island has been in my friend’s family for over a century. It is a sanctuary, a small patch of earth that holds the weight of history, memory, and countless summers of laughter and stillness.

The Ritual of Mornings

Each morning began the same way. A cup of tea cradled in my hands as I stepped onto the eastern dock. The river stretched before me like glass, a perfect mirror to the wide sky. Hummingbirds flitted past, birds soared overhead, and the soundscape was stitched together by the distant whistle of trains across the river. I lingered longer than I ever do at home, realizing how rare it is to simply watch the day begin. No phone buzzing, no meeting waiting, no rush to be anywhere but here.

The Soul of Tomahawk

Tomahawk itself is a town of just 3,390 people and was once a logging hub in the 1890s. It’s known for its Northwoods beauty, recreational activities on Lake Mohawksin and the annual Northwoods Fall Ride motorcycle rally. Its history is rich with folklore — from rumors of Chicago mobsters hiding out during the prohibition era, the earliest dated references of Paul Bunyan, and the mythical Hodag creature said to roam the nearby woods of Rhinelander.

Life here feels stitched together by traditions: Friday night fish fries, brandy & whisky Old Fashioneds, baskets of cheese curds, and the friendly warmth of Midwesterners who treat you like a neighbor the moment you arrive.

On Tuesday mornings, the farmers’ market bustles with color. Amish flowers spill from wooden crates, jars of jam glisten in the sun, and baskets of vegetables, berries, and spices line the stalls. The whole scene feels timeless, like something out of another era — and in a way, it is.

Brown’s Island – A Family Legacy

On the island, the days are measured not by hours but by small ceremonies. Afternoon naps in hammocks that sway in the wind to the sound of wind chimes. Sunsets that blaze across the western dock while laughter carries over the water from passing pontoon boats. Nights around the bonfire, where the moonlight glistens on the rippling river and conversations that stretch into the night.

Even the wildlife seemed part of the story. Deer grazed quietly at the edge of the trees. Birds flitted in song from tree to tree. Eagles circled with a slow majesty overhead.

And then, every evening at sunset, the geese arrived. You could hear them before you saw them -a chorus of honking calls echoing across the lake. They gathered in great numbers, circling together as if telling the story of their day, before forming their lines and flying off into the painted sky. I imagined them preparing for their long journey south, just as I, too, would soon point myself back toward Florida.

The landscape itself was shifting in quiet preparation. A few brave trees had already begun to turn, tips of red and amber flickering against the deep green pines. In two more weeks, the Northwoods would be awash in color, a brilliance we never get to experience in Florida. The message was clear: the season was changing, the geese knew it, and so did I.

Soon enough, summer’s glow and autumn’s blush would give way to winter’s grip. Brown’s Island, which felt so alive with birdsongs and bonfires in summer, would be encircled by ice and silence. The pontoon boats that skimmed across glassy water would be hauled ashore, replaced by ice fishing huts scattered on the frozen lake. The Polaris carts would give way to snowmobiles, carving tracks through the drifts.

For families here, it’s a change of season. But for Florida folk like us, it’s a reminder that the Northwoods can be both magical and merciless — a place too cold and hostile to inhabit year-round, which is why the cabins are carefully shuttered before winter sets in.

The Essence of Tranquility

After several sacred days on Brown’s Island, I was reminded that peace is not found in grand gestures or elaborate escapes. It is found in these simple, repeated rituals: a cup of tea at sunrise, a glass of wine on the dock while the sunset gives it best performance, the honking of geese at dusk, the laughter of friends gathered around a table of fried fish and cheese curds. The sacred lives in the everyday, if only we pause long enough to notice it.

“Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.”— Albert Einstein

🌿 Sacred Invitation

Brown’s Island reminds me that peace is always closer than we think. Where is your island — that place, ritual, or moment where you can feel time slow, even just for a breath? I’d love to hear.

🌙 Closing

The geese found their way into the sunset, the leaves hinted at the season to come, and I packed my own bags for the journey south. Next week, I’ll take you along on that road trip home.

Until next Sunday,

Here’s to bonfires, changing leaves, and sacred moments that carry us home.

With love and gratitude,

Heather Founder & Curator, The Bonne Vivant

'The greatest form of flattery is sharing this with a friend!"

Stories that Nourish. Moments that Matter.

© 2025 The Bonne Vivant