Yooper envy

NEAR MUNISING, Mich. – We’re in a new cabin this day … a chalet, the owner says.

And it has those characteristics.  A high-pitched, A-frame roof, knotty pine on wall and ceiling, and a decor that includes animal skins and a mounted deer’s head.

Miners Falls ... the roar is worth the wait.

Yesterday, early snows came. A couple of inches. Today, the snow slides down the steep roof with a roar, the warmer temperatures making slick what yesterday proved an icy grip.

I’m on the second-floor loft, staring out at 16 Mile Lake.  The small island across the way has a single owner, it appears. At least, when I sneak a peek by satellite, there’s a single house and single dock.

“It’d be nice to own your own island,” I yell down to Cindy, who’s reading near the fireplace.

“Yeah, but what about the shopping?”

Oh … that.

This is Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, a vast tract of land between Great Lake waters – Lake Michigan on the south, Lake Superior on the north – sparsely populated, yet heavy with pines, birches and hardwoods.  Its people are called Yoopers, and they are sometimes the butt of jokes from those down under:

Eino was coming out of Pickleman's Pantry in Newberry carrying a bag of meat pasties. Toivo was getting gas and saw him with the bag.

“Hey, Eino. If I guess how many pasties you have in dat bag, can I have one?”

Eino replied, “If you can guess how many I have, I'll give you both of them.”

Toivo answered, “Holywha! Okay, I think you have five of them.”

In fact, many of these jokes come from Yoopers themselves, a self-deprecating celebration of living in what sometimes seems a Northern wilderness.

The bridge too far.

The Yoops get back at those who reside on the Lower Peninsula.  They call us “trolls,” because we live “under” the massive Mackinaw Bridge that connects the two land masses.

Yesterday we visited Marquette, a college and port city to the northwest.  We saw the great ore docks, shopped high atop the city’s picturesque hills, and had lunch in a Cajun restaurant whose family has deep roots in French Canada.

Laissez les bons Yoopers rouler!

We were so impressed with the food that we invited the chef and her husband/waiter to visit us anytime in T.C.  And we'd cook.  

On our return to the cabin, we stopped by Laughing Whitefish Falls.  We took a short hike along the steady Laughing Whitefish River. Eventually we heard the pounding roar of the falls … the river’s massive, copper-tinted waters tumbling over a sheer drop, then sliding fast atop a broad, long washboard surface of rock to a deep pool below.

There the river returned to its steady ways, heading north to eventually empty into Lake Superior.

Laughing Whitefish Falls

Today we turned in a different direction – about 12 miles northeast to Munising, whose name translated from Ojibway means “near the island.”   Sure enough, Grand Island sits just to the north, massively guarding access to Munising Bay.

Not many folks live in Munising.  The last census counted just 2,000 or so.  But the area is known best for its Pictured Rocks and many waterfalls – Alger, Chapel, Horsehoe, Memorial, Munising, Miners, Scott, Tannery, Wagner, among others.  So there’s a brisk tourist trade in the summer and fall.

And so we set out to find at least some of these falls.

First, we made the required stop at the Pictured Rock overlook to snap photos of Miners Castle.  I’ve remarked before, when I stayed on the western shores of Lake Superior, how much rockier Superior’s coast is compared with Lake Michigan.  More like Maine, or California.

Miners Castle

And so it was here.  High atop the bluff overlooking Miners Castle, the winds howled off the lake, made even stronger by the high cliffs.  As if through a funnel pointing up, the winds slammed the wall, gathered tightly, then shot skyward.

I held onto my hat as I peered over the edge; below, angry lake waters swirled.  Folks talk about how great it is to kayak around Pictured Rocks.  Today, though, kayaks would be torn and tossed against the rocks like flotsam.

We then ventured to Miners Falls, just down the road.  Discovering these falls is a lesson in trust … the long path points the way, but you don’t hear the cascade in these dense woods until you are a hundred yards or so from it.

Path to Miners Falls.

And then the grandeur hits.  The awe overwhelms you … that something so mighty, so massive, so thunderous, could be hidden and muffled by tall oaks, birches and pines. Few people, relative to the world’s many people, know of this spot, I thought.  It’s an exclusiveness to be cherished.

We would go on to see Chapel Falls, hidden even deeper in the woods. We leaned far over the edge to watch Chapel Creek tumble and turn to noisy vapor.  We pledged then to come back with our children to see all of these falls.

Experiencing these tumblers in November is different from what the typical tourists see.  For one, the Yoopers themselves have relaxed, now that the downstaters are gone.  And a daily rhythm returns … there's quiet, much solitude, and Nature’s winds and water beat a tuneful drum, not fouled by the noise of throngs marching along wooded paths.

On the way to Chapel Falls, ferns remain.

Today, for example, the Chapel Falls trail was our own. The Park Service’s parking lot could accommodate hundreds of cars; the latrines were even two-holers – separate men’s and women’s.  Yet all were vacant when we arrived.

It’s better at this time of year, I think. Ice clings to the trees, each pine bough glistening as the sun shoots through ... like bright smiles. Granted, the forest has lost its leaves; yet, what in summer is a dense thicket of green becomes a pleasing community of trees, each one distinct in shape, angle and thickness.  Legions of them stretch on, over distant hills.

And anyway, the green is not far away. At the feet of this timber are small blankets of bright ferns, a reminder of what was … what again will be. 

Chapel Falls tumbles below.

As much as those on the U.P. joke about themselves, and we join in, they know their land is a treasure. It’s one they share with us in summer and fall.  But they do so jealously, I’m sure.

In a sense, they own this island called the Upper Peninsula.  Okay, it’s not an island.  Wisconsin’s vast border to the southwest guarantees that.  But it seems an island nonetheless, guarded by deep waters on at least three sides. And it is well tended by those who call it theirs.

“It’d be nice to own your own island,” I told Cindy.

Yoopers know. 

Chicken Lot

CHANDLER LAKE, Mich. – The winds are brisk off the lake, from the south. The skies gray. The rain goes from a spatter and sputter to a cascade with a whimsy that makes me smile.

All along the lake, the hardwoods are changing their colors, mainly at the treetops. Bright oranges, reds and yellows capping a girth of green beneath.

The last place we lived, on Five Mile, I dubbed Hilltop because that’s where it sat.

And yet here, again, we sit high up. This time a lake spreads below. We don’t have a name for this place yet, though we will. The Weavers have a tradition of naming their houses. I don’t know how unusual that is – perhaps it’s pretentious – but I think it’s wonderful. 

Quickly … name five personality traits of your house. I bet you’ll have no trouble. See? Now fashion a name. We tend to find names for those things that are dear to us.

My folks, as young marrieds, named their tiny first house in Columbia, Mo., the Nut Hatch.

Perhaps we’ll call this place the Nut Knocker.

Odd?  Really, it’s not.

I’ll describe the house in the next post. But first, let me introduce you to the wide outdoor deck off the main floor, which actually is the second floor.

You can reach the deck from either our living room or sun room. It overlooks the lake, Chandler, and the view is to the south. Nellie, our Great Pyrenees, already has found her favorite spot on the deck, at its southeast corner. There she can look south toward the water or east toward the woods that separate us from our neighbors.

She lets her nose do its work. Thrust between the vertical railings, her big, black sniffer expands and shrinks like a beating heart, collecting every smell for her deliberative brain. 

That’s where Nellie was perched when it hit.

Doink!

An acorn the size of a watermelon tumbled from one of the mighty oaks above our deck and bonked her on the head.

Now, Nellie’s head is big. So I’m not sure it even caught her attention. But it caught mine, because of the noise … like a ball-peen hammer on a hollow coconut.

I looked at Nell, worried. She looked at me, very unworried. Perhaps this wasn't the first time.

She turned her nose back to the railing, ready to sniff some more.

Such is life on the deck these days. To sit and admire the lake and passing sun requires a football helmet … and shoulder pads if you have them. 

That's because this is not the occasional small acorn that falls, nor even the average-sized one that caused Chicken Little’s panic. No, the average acorn here seems as fat as a plum. And even the small ones seem weighted like a leaden minie ball of Civil War fame.

And it’s not just their size and weight that seem extraordinary. It’s their number.

With even a slight wind, they fall in sheets. A heavy wind sends a torrent. 

Pop! Bang! Thunk!

Along the water’s edge, a different sound. More fluid, lengthy, muffled.

Goiiink!  Kaalump!

We hosted our neighbors on the deck recently – Bob, Cindy, Ron and Wendy – to share Ron and Wendy’s history of the lake. Iced tea and pilgrim bread were passed all around.

It was a relatively calm day. Even so, we all worried. None of us had been spared these falling skies. I knew this, because I could hear the echos up and down the shore and atop their roofs.

So each of us sat, wary, ready to dodge the bullet glancing off the table, ready for our own destiny with “doink!” 

Ready for that chosen nut to plop in our drink … God’s hole in one. 

These Chandler veterans said they’d never seen the acorns fall so big and thick. We speculated as to why – the moisture from the 200 inches of snow last winter, perhaps, or the very short and cool summer. I wanted to say global warming but stopped myself. The Big Warm-up tends to get blamed for too much these days.

Regardless, you would think the squirrels would be ecstatic. And perhaps they are. 

Squirrels, after all, bury these nuts in the ground to provide nutrition through the winter. They plant a lot of trees that way, too. So this is a squirrel’s cornucopia … Moses’s manna … right here in their tight, little grips. 

But I think this year, it’s a bit too much. Our gray- and black-furred friends seem tired … worn out. Nature’s been telling them to haul and dig and bury so many nuts this season, it’s like knocking in the 20^th run in a 20-0 rout.

Ho hum. 

Plus they’ve had to dodge these missiles, too.

No, I don’t know what we’ll call this new place of ours. “Nut Knocker” has promise, but I worry about that on a welcome sign by our road.  Neighbors might not talk – they'd understand – but strangers and the UPS man would.

So we’ll think on it a bit. Plus the nuts are but one season. Soon the snows will come. 

I can guess the names inspired by that stuff.

A head's turn

It was always going to be just a way-stop … a place to hang our hats while we sought the lake spot. “Just here for a year or so,” we explained.

That it grew to be a friend in such a short time surprises me.

I dubbed it Hilltop then. Not the house, really, but this 1-acre place.  Its rows of red pines, a hundred strong, march up from the small valley below, sentinels surrounding the long, wide deck on the house’s north side.

To our south, a horse barn and the occasional whinny and snort of a thoroughbred.

To our northwest, a rooster and his raucous crow.  It’s a myth that roosters do their cock-a-doodle thing primarily at dawn.  This one prefers mid-afternoon.

Then there are the winds off the bay.  We could never see the bay, even from our second floor.  But we could smell its freshness – the breeze sometimes heavy with rain, sometimes thick with snow. Sometimes so strong, even on bright, blue days, that the trees would sway deeply, roaring their chorus.

I will miss the trees most of all.  Not that our new place doesn’t have trees.  It does … quite a few.  And I will learn to know them, too.  But these 100 provided solace on many a day from my perch in the second-floor office.

It was a view worthy of the best tree house.  And I rationed it.  Really.  I deliberately placed my desk and computer against a blank, windowless wall, saving the tree-house view to my left, through the large window, for moments of reflection and other, occasional breaks from the job.

It seemed illogical at first.  Why not savor the best view as background to your workaday world? 

But why risk turning what is best and special into workaday?  That’s the trick of working from home, especially when your focus must be elsewhere – in my case, on the happenings in a city three states away.  Separation of where you live and what you do is paramount, if only to keep where you live precious.

This weekend, we’ll say goodbye to the 100, the special second-floor view and to all of Hilltop.  There won’t be sadness … not enough time has been spent here to warrant that. But they’ll be respect and a fond farewell.

Which brings us to the future.  In May last year, I posted a conclusion in the blog regarding our time at this house:

“… Hilltop is but a way-station.  Our goal in two years is to buy or build a lake place. We’ll take the first year or so to scout out locations. And that will keep the adventure going.”

“For while it’s wonderful to be high up to catch the bay breezes, our ultimate haven – heaven – is to be by water’s edge. There the waves will sing their hearty hellos.  And we will join in.”

And so we have. We’re moving to a place on Chandler Lake, just five minutes away.  I’ll post soon with details about the new house.

As to the lake … I don’t know much about it yet beyond its glacial history. We’ve already met many of the new neighbors, and one in particular seems to know Chandler’s role.  And so we’ll soon have them over to eat and talk and share what they know.

We’ve also circled Chandler’s shore in kayaks.  It is a small lake – just over 40 acres – and so it took about an hour to make it around.

Because of its size, the waves’ hearty hellos will be few.  But there is always the big bay for that. 

The views on Chandler, though, will be no less spectacular.

Which brings me to my new office. It will overlook the lake.  There I can watch the loons, the otter, perhaps a beaver or two.  This fall, I’ll see the green trees on the opposite shore transform to bright oranges, yellows and reds.  This winter, I’ll monitor the snow as it sticks loosely to branches and bark in puffy layers.

I won’t watch too much.  Too risky. 

So my desk and computer again will face a blank wall.  That’s a must.

But I’ll work in comfort knowing that occasional relief is but a head’s turn.

This time to the right. 

When trees were king

It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit. 
 

- Robert Lewis Stevenson

TRAVERSE CITY, Mich. – Summer has set in now.  Spring seemed just a moment, its time made short by the subzero cold and deep snow of winter.  The final remnants of the fourth season did not melt until May.

The pine's bark

But summer is here, in grand fashion. 

It’s easy to see the commercial effects – the tourists and traffic the most obvious.

But that’s in town.  In just minutes, you can be out of town.  And then the North opens to a panoply of deeply rich colors and textures – the emerald blue of the lakes, the verdant greens of the forests, the whites and oranges and stark reds of the wildflowers.

And the meadows.  I’ve long loved this northwest corner of Michigan, and I’ve often said it’s because of the lakes.  And that’s true.

But I love, too, the abrupt change that happens when thick forest meets the vast, light-green fields of the meadow.  You see that here often, in places like Leelanau County. 

What many don’t know is that this boundary of tall and flat is usually the vestige of the area’s lumbering past.

They tower above

Walk into these woods today and it’s not unusual to see the trees lined in neat rows.  Though they tower 50 feet tall or higher, they are, like stalks of corn, crops to be cultivated and, eventually, harvested.

But for these trees, the harvest never came.  The lumbering slowed, for reasons economic and otherwise.  Yet the trees remained, to grow as colossal sentinels.  Mighty, yes, but a welcoming canopy for birds, bear, deer and the occasional stream.

That’s why the meadow and forest stop and start abruptly.  It was man’s hand that configured these dividing lines, not Nature’s.  And unlike so much of what man touches, these ended up beautiful.

I mention these trees because we have, as I’ve noted, about 100 of them in our front lot.  From the north deck, the trees seem spawned at random.  But walk just a few yards to the east, off the deck, and then you see the rows … nine now, though surely there were more before this house was built.

All in a row

From the satellite, it’s easy to see our situation.  We’re on an island of pine surrounded by vast open spaces.  Here the beauty of meadow and forest is less, because of the mixed smattering of housing development.  But it’s a rich history lesson nonetheless.

At one time, in the late 1800s, most of these surrounding hills were cultivated with rows upon rows of pines.  I’ve read where this sea of green stretched for many miles east, south and west of downtown Traverse City.

Like corn or soybeans in an Illinois farm town, it was why this town existed … as a lumber portal to feed growing cities such as Chicago.  The farmers here were businessmen with names like Boardman and Hannah.

As the town grew and the lumber trade lagged, these lumber barons were left with vast amounts of land that they sold happily for commercial development.

In some cases, it was brush-clearing on a grand scale.  Cherry orchards might replace the pines – one crop for another. But more often, at least south of Traverse, the trees were felled for retail, warehouse and residential projects.

Our house and garage ... on an island of pines

Not always, though. It was the wise developer who, yes, saw the forest for the trees – who embraced what the Northern woods could bring to a home.

So pines now seclude a number of residential plats surrounding Traverse City.  Many are high atop hills, very deep in the woods, rich with wildlife.  Sanctuaries from the bumps and bruises of daily life.

What's left elsewhere are patches like ours – where the currents of development have washed away the forest around us, like a river’s torrent.

I nicknamed this house “Hilltop” because that’s where it sits.  Up here, it catches the bay breezes from the north.  On windy days, the 100 trees roar their delight as they bend and sway.

If trees could think – and I’m not sure they can’t – I imagine they welcome these more active moments, when they can stretch their rough coats of bark and shed themselves of spent needles. 

Yes, it’s a smaller chorus, this 100.  But as the gusts blow, the sentinels’ song drowns the pulsating traffic noise of Five Mile Road below – the arterial stretch most responsible for development out this way. 

From such a gust comes quiet.

It’s a reminder of when trees were king.  When they owned these hills.

And no apologies here ... it’s a reminder of what is owed them. 

A pine cone's promise

A bend in the river

The Missouri River flows below Weston Bend.

WESTON, Mo. – ‘Tis the land of vices, these hills. 

Thick forests of oak and hickory take turns with crop rows along Missouri Highway 273 … forest, then field, forest and field … again and again, trailing down to this historic town and the banks of the Missouri River. 

Above the town sits the McCormick Distilling Co., founded in 1856 by Ben Holladay, who eventually moved from hooch to horses when he plotted the Pony Express route from nearby St. Joseph to San Francisco. McCormick is, claims the company, the oldest operating distillery in the world.

Today, McCormick’s plant has shunned making its famed whiskey here – it imports it instead – in favor of vodka and rum.  It pumps out plenty of both.

1853 Weston ... engraving by Hermann Meyer.

At the foot of town sit tobacco barns, year-round testament to when Weston was the port and hub of Midwestern tobacco and hemp production.  Today, Platte County still turns out millions of pounds of tobacco each year despite tobacco’s stigma.

But I’m in Weston for its virtue, not its vices.  And that can be found high above the river, within Weston Bend State Park.

I’m not a stranger here.  The family would, on occasion, hike the park’s paved path with dogs leading the way.  We once attempted to bike it, but the trail hugs the roller-coaster hills so tightly – sharply dipping, climbing – that it bested both our brakes and our spirits. 

Weston Bend path.

It’s far better on foot.  And following three days of business in Kansas City, I was ready.

Walking these grounds is to walk history.  The Kansa, Sac, Iowa and Fox tribes all wandered these woods; Lewis and Clark, in their chronicles, wrote of fur traders below its bluffs; a French Canadian named Pensineau operated a trading post and tavern within its boundaries.  A creek carrying the Pensineau name still flows through the park.

On this day, there was nary a hint of spring.  Tree buds were microscopic amid the shriveled, brown leaves still clinging to branches.  Tufts of grass bordered the path, but they were small and a dull green. 

I did see one patch of plants emerging, each thick sprig opening like a droopy umbrella.  I don’t know the plant’s species, but I suspect these four guys owe their early start to their location along the dirt trail that snakes atop the river bluff.  With only river on the west, not trees, the sun has warmed the ground sooner. 

Hello, spring.

It’s here from this outlook, though, that you can view the park’s ultimate prize.  Hundreds of feet below flow the waters of the Missouri – a magnificent site all its own. But gaze straight out and you see west … and the vast flatlands of The West. 

Look slightly southwest and there’s Fort Leavenworth, Mo., home of the Buffalo Soldiers, guardians of the Santa Fe Trail.  It was also the site of George Custer’s court martial for undisciplined conduct ... a predictor, some contend, of Custer's rashness and the later Little Big Horn travesty. 

Look slightly northwest and there’s Atchison, Kan., also a river town and the site of the eastern terminus of the famed Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad.

Look straight west and you face Manhattan, Kan., where son Zach and Kansas State University reside, and nearby Fort Riley, home of the U.S. Cavalry. Both city and fort float atop the beautiful Kansas Flint Hills. 

Custer was stationed at Fort Riley; ironically, the only official survivor at Little Big Horn among Custer’s ill-fated column was the horse Commanche. The horse became Fort Riley’s regimental hero and mascot and, reportedly, a lover of beer until his death.  He was then shipped to the University of Kansas, properly stuffed, and stands now, forever, in its natural history museum.

Commanche

The people and energy that gave rise to Fort Leavenworth, Atchison, Manhattan and Fort Riley funneled through Weston, then the farthest “West Town” in the United States and the primary river crossing for the great move West.  By 1850, more than 260 steamboats a year stopped at its port. 

A flood in 1881 changed all that almost overnight, moving the channel a bit west, only to snake back east to its original course below the eventual Weston Bend State Park. The town slowed to its sleepy state today.

So, how quiet it is.  Still.   

But one can imagine the noises then … the shrill whistles of steamboats, the creaks and squeaks of wagon trains, the crack of whips above snorting oxen teams, the whinnied protests of horses made anxious by fast water.

And, at night, bar-room music tumbling onto Main Street.  Inside … a thick, potent tangle of whiskey and smoke.     

Season's speed

Point Betsie in winter's grip.

TRAVERSE CITY, Mich. – How fast it’s gone. 

Not the snow … it remains more than thigh deep and will be here until May, say folks.

Indeed, by most measures, even up here, winter’s grip has never been tighter. Lake Michigan’s two large bays are solid plains of ice; fish shanties dot the surface like specs on flypaper, all the way to Power Island.  We remain bundled in thick layers, waddling fatly on the street – winter’s Pillsbury Doughboys. Even the deer take to hiding, avoiding the impasse of thick snows in the dips and swales of our front woods. 

No, it’s the time.  It seems mere weeks ago that we put snow tires on our two cars – that we walked amid the burnt oranges and reds of autumn, saw the sun dance along the sand.

Now, we’re rounding winter, already looking toward spring.

I don’t know whether time’s quickening pace is a product of my stage in life. I’ve heard others say so … that, like gravity in some wormhole, time grows ever-more compressed as one is drawn to, well, the grand finish.

I hope not.  Sure, I’ll welcome spring … bear hugs all around.  But I’ll miss winter, too, which surprises me.

Not the cold, of course.  We both complain of single digits and sub-zero wind chills mainly because it’s not supposed to be like this.  The average high temperature this time of year is 31, but it’s been 15 degrees less than that of late.

Then again, winter wasn’t supposed to be like this anywhere in the country.  So to complain merely joins a national choir of grumps.

What I will miss is the snow.  I won’t attempt poetry here about it.  Done that enough.

But I’ll observe some things about the season.

The dogs love it.  Nellie, our Great Pyr, full of white fluff, loves to bury her head deep in it, searching for some object on the ground below. 

Nellie ... and snout frost.

When not plunging the depths, she flops on her back at the top of the driveway, her four legs spread wide like a toppled turtle, shimmying right, left, then right again, scratching the coldness with her spine.

Linus, meantime, has regained his fur, this after an overly enthusiastic groomer rendered him a hairless cat in October.  Now, fully re-upholstered, his first act when let free is to dive headfirst into a snow bank, digging rapidly with his front paws while shaking his head.

He’s long done this in the sand, in our bed pillows and blankets, and in his dog bed.  It’s reassuring to see him do the same with snow, to arrive at our back door, his face peppered in white ... to know he’s at home here.

The equipment is surviving nicely.  I’ll lump our cars into this category.  We had this silly notion that we’d need to buy military surplus halftracks to make our way from one end of town to the other

There also was our uphill driveway … “Uh, you might have problems with that this winter, you know,” warned Howard, our truck driver/moving guy, last summer.

But we rolled the dice and kept our cars, buying snow tires instead.  Since, we’ve scampered up and down hills unabated, including our driveway.  Even the Beetle scurries about, as long as we wait until the plows come through.

Other devices also are doing well.  Although neighbor Levi moves the heavy stuff with his tractor, our snow blower has been a handy backup.

My only complaint is our snow shovel.  It’s made for slight snows, not the piles that abound here.  And so, as I lift a shovelful, the joint between handle and shovel blade honks like a Canada goose as the screws work themselves loose.  Its days are numbered.

Shovel and birdseed cans.

Oh … it is handy for flinging poopsicles into the woods. One consequence of two dogs and arctic cold is that the darn poop never disappears.  It freezes in an instant and will remain that way until spring.

It sounds gross, but it’s like we’re making the devil’s lasagna – a layer of snow, a layer of poop, a layer of snow, more poop …. I shudder to think what awaits us beneath come the thaw.

Here’s to hot water.  While record snows continue to fall, and temperatures seem still to drop, we stay warm inside.  Kudos to our hot-water heating system.  I was raised with it as a child, but every house we’ve owned since marriage has used forced-air heat.  Except this one.

Our boiler room doubles as a laundry room.  It’s right off the kitchen.  What constitutes the furnace and boiler is a plumber’s nightmare, although I’m sure Dad would be at home there.

First there’s the squat, blue “Hot Water Maker” that does what its label claims.  But how it does so seems remarkable.  So small – 4 feet or so – and yet it provides an endless stream for dish-washing, showers, laundry and more.  We’ve never run out of hot water.  Even when friends visit. 

Mighty Blue.

Then there’s the furnace … an equally squat guy sprouting so many pipes, valves and switches that it conjures the control room of Jules Verne’s Nautilus. Captain Nemo would marvel as it rumbles to life, the hot water coursing through the house’s veins.  And it all works so well.  Ever since October, the house has wrapped itself in a draft-free, static-free blanket – far better than the snug bug’s rug. 

So tonight the cheery weather guys are predicting temps will drop to 12 below.  That plunge will cause our outdoor decks to contract, sending occasional loud “bangs” like hammer blows through the house as the joints and boards shrink.

But inside?  The furnace will fire, the pipes will clank softly, the hot water will move from station to station.  All will be toasty. 

And we’ll close our eyes, hum the Beach Boys’ “Kokomo” and find ourselves, perhaps, at moonlight in the Keys.

The birds are our friends.  Finally, there are the feathered among us. 

That they survive the never-ending snows and plunging temperatures is Nature’s miracle, of course.  They have multiple tactics:

Birds ... and Nel.

-       Feather puff-up:  I’ve even seen Sky, our house finch, do this trick when there’s a chill in the air.  Like a feather-down jacket, puffed-up feathers provide thicker insulation.

-       The gang’s all here:  Small birds like the bluebird or chickadee will gather in large numbers and tight spots to share body heat. The experts call it roosting. 

-       Sunning, shivering:  We all do this … grab sunshine when we can and shiver when we must. Birds regularly do both to raise their temperature.

-       Bring on the fat: As dainty and light as birds are, they love fat, especially late in the year as the hardest of winter arrives.  I’m a big suet fan.  We have one pileated woodpecker that especially likes to dine with us. (Nellie likes that suet, too … likes to roam beneath the suet feeder for greasy cast-offs.  Yech.)

Of course, the birds would get along just fine without our efforts.  But it’s a nice view during the week from my second-floor office perch – to see the many-colored friends dash to and from the feeders, an ornithologist’s Grand Central Station atop a blanket of white.

How fast they go, back and forth.

How fast it’s gone, this winter.

Cloud walk

On the trail near Northport.

It’s the crunch you hear first.  Not the northern winds, nor the duck’s call from the nearby river.

It’s the crunch … the crisp plunge of the foot atop snow, descending maybe an inch, the action made loud by the broad and long snowshoe clasped to your heavy boot.

We are snowshoers now.  We approached the status with some trepidation.  After all, when lower-Midwest flatlanders move significantly north – to the land of tall pines, deep snows and occasional sentences that end in “eh?” – you embrace new with caution.

If only to avoid embarrassment.

We got 'shoes for Christmas!

And so we ventured out, quietly, along a path we knew would be our own. And tried our new snowshoes.

We left the dogs at home to avoid distraction.  And we joined the Boardman River Trail at its southern point along Keystone Road.

It’s a wondrous trail, exhibiting the push-pull tension of nature vs. development.  On the left, as you head north, the Boardman’s rapids sing their song – raucous, swift, steady.

On the right, soft echoes of cars move fast along Keystone, heading downtown or south to the retail development of Chum’s Corners.

On this day, the river wins.  And the amazing thing:  The snowshoes seemed to work.

Our tracks along Esch Beach.

It was a clumsy effort at first. I imagined strapping on tennis racquets and doing a bow-legged duck-walk, so I was prepared for awkwardness.  But that lasted mere minutes, and soon we were moving up and down hill, across bridge, even over ice, with the confidence of veterans.

Snowshoeing, for those who’ve not done it, seems more glamorous and even dangerous than it actually is.  That is, especially if the snow is not too deep and the path ahead of you is packed down by those who came before.

We’ve all seen the scene in the movies … the distant snowshoer-hero on a vast Siberian plain, treading atop multiple feet of snow, arched headlong against the white winds.

It can be like that, but not here.  Here, there are amazing snowshoe trails that parallel cross-country ski trails, and they bend and curve and move up and down amid thick groves of pine and oak. 

Ice balls along Esch.

Since our start along the Boardman, we’ve gone north – explored the trails of forest and dunes along Cathead Bay, near Northport.  We’ve headed east – trekked the thickly wooded Sand Lakes Quiet Area below Williamsburg.  And traveled west – to our favorite Esch Beach along Lake Michigan, where we marveled at the massive ice shelf that not only obscured the beach and first 50 feet of water, but left incredible ice balls the size of musk melons and cantaloupes lying thickly, up and down the shore, as far as the eye could see.

We were especially brave that day.  You see, snowshoes have metal cleats underneath that deeply grip the snow.  That’s how you get traction.  A four-wheel-drive for the foot.  Equipped with those and sturdy poles, you can go virtually anywhere.

And so we ventured onto the ice shelf, eager to reach the top.  We could hear Michigan’s waves slapping the ice wall, but we wanted to see it.  We weren’t alone … a few other hardy souls had the same idea.

Cindy admires the beach view.

I mentioned brave, because word soon came from the park ranger that it was dangerous to be on the shelf … there was water underneath, after all.  (I suspect he thought us stupid, not brave.)  And so we clambered back to the safety of the beach’s hills.

We eventually drove up to Empire Beach where, interestingly, the shelf was not nearly as daunting and the waves crested mightily, sending water shooting skyward.  Here's a short video on my Facebook page.

I can’t say that snowshoeing is without its hazards.  When you fall, especially in very thick snow, it can be an extreme challenge to right yourself.  Up here, the snow can be too thick and pliable to push yourself up from the ground; your center of gravity often is far ahead or behind the shoes, making your legs useless in simply standing up.  

Sun casts shadows atop Empire's waves.

In the end, you must rely on your poles and upper body strength, or a helping hand.

But those mishaps are infrequent, and so we march on, learning more as we go.  

For instance, there are certain courtesies to the trail … especially that the snowshoer never walks atop the skiers’  groomed paths.  Folks can get snippy about that.

But what you mainly notice is the sheer joy that snowshoers and skiers alike share in being outdoors. The friendly greetings along the narrow trails.  The smiles framed by beet-red faces and thick headgear.

Especially now, as nearly each day brings a new layer of white – flocking the trees, rounding the edges of every outcropping into a frozen softness, turning the hills and valleys into thick, undulating clouds. 

We walk those clouds.  We’re snowshoers now.  It feels good.