Every family has their traditions. Some bake cookies, some play board games, some attempt a Christmas talent show that really should’ve stayed a one-year experiment. Mine? We pile ourselves into cars, coolers, and boats every fall and head to Raleigh Lake. And when I say tradition, I mean sacred—we’re four generations deep. That’s not a family trip, that’s a dynasty.
Just 20 minutes outside of Ignace, Raleigh Lake is stunning. Lake trout shimmer under the surface, hunting is top-notch, and the quiet is only broken by loons calling—or my uncle’s snoring, which could scare off a moose. The whole thing started with the heart and soul of our family: Uncle Tony. His mission in life was simple—make sure his family was happy, fed, and laughing. And beside him, Auntie Stella, the saint who put up with the rest of us with grace and beauty.
Back in the beginning, they camped in the cold, in September snow. (Imagine brushing your teeth with icicles—because they did.) Now? We’ve leveled up to lakeside cabins with mattresses, kitchens, and hot showers. Our ancestors suffered so we could glamp. Thanks, guys.
And yet, the formula hasn’t changed: catch fish, fry fish, chop firewood (by “we” I mean my dad and uncles while the rest of us mysteriously develop back pain), walk to the falls, go bird hunting, and attempt moose calls that sound more like someone choking on a kazoo. Bonus points for throwing cheap shots around the fire until somebody storms off to bed—usually only to reappear ten minutes later with more beer.
My Nana Dolores and Papa George joined in early, and their kids carried it on. It’s where my dad fell in love with fishing and the outdoors. For him, this trip is a yearly reset button. For the rest of us? It’s the one week we’re forced to spend time with family we claim drives us crazy, but truthfully, we love too much to quit.
Here’s the truth: Rapinos don’t know how to half-do anything. We fish hard, laugh harder, and party like we’re still in our 20s (our knees would disagree). Every campfire comes with so much roasting, I’m shocked we don’t call it Rapino Comedy Night. Someone always gets chirped for catching “the world’s smallest fish.” Someone else takes heat for forgetting the ketchup (a crime punishable by exile). And someone always brags about the one that got away, which—according to family law—must be met with eye rolls so big they practically echo.
The last few years we’ve shifted from scraping frost off boat seats to parking them at the beach for afternoon swims. Times change, but the vibe? Unstoppable. Because Uncle Tony’s original message is stitched into every trip: spend time together, love each other, and laugh until your cheeks hurt.
Now, us girls do joke (half-seriously) about being doomed once our dads “kick the bucket.” Who’s going to drive the boats? Who’s going to remember the secret fishing holes? They do all the hard stuff while we, conveniently, “hold down the dock” with snacks and wine. But here’s the thing—we’ll figure it out. Even if it means we circle the lake aimlessly for hours yelling, “Does anyone recognize that rock??” Because what really matters is the tradition, not the GPS coordinates.
I wouldn’t trade Raleigh Lake for anything. Not Paris, not Vegas, not even a weeklong all-inclusive (though let’s be honest, a margarita machine on the dock wouldn’t hurt). This is my happy place. My grounding place. The trip I start counting down to the second we leave each year.
So, do you have a tradition? A trip you wouldn’t dream of missing? Because I’m convinced mine might be better than yours. Go cast some lines, chirp your siblings, drink just enough red wine to embarrass yourself at charades, and start building something that’ll last four generations. Trust me—it’s worth every mosquito bite.
