Rifle River Recreation Area: You Always Remember Your First Time

Sometime soon, when this long winter is finally over and the first week of sunshine and warmer weather is predicted, I will just up and leave my home.  With a tin can hitched to my Yukon and my dog at my side, I will drive north to Rifle River Recreation Area to live for a few days in my beloved woods.

I haven't been to Rifle River since 1998, but I have wanted to return there since my inaugural trip with the tin can.  After years of tent camping, I was ready for something a little more comfortable, but still looked with disdain at the RVers who "pretended" to camp while living in the lap of luxury.  I wanted to sleep in a warm and dry bed, but was unwilling to let go of the simplicity of tent camping, so I bought a tin can.

The 1970 Airstream Landyacht is not nearly as fancy as its name suggests.  Back then, it needed a lot of work, had no hook-ups, and some questionable upholstery.  But it had a bed and a roof with only one leak.  It was all I needed.

In late September 1998, after hours of instruction from my husband on how to back up a trailer, I hit the road for the first time pulling a trailer.  Driving up the highway, with my dog hanging out the window, I was on cloud nine!  I kept thinking "I'm doing it! I'm pulling a camper and going all alone to live in the woods!"  Maybe that doesn't seem like much, but I had never camped alone before, never pulled anything attached to my truck, and never felt so free.  I remember that later, my husband told me a truck driver he knew had seen me on the highway and remarked that I was pretty awesome to go alone like that.  I felt so empowered!

http://www.michigantrails.us
Photo Credit: Dave Case

I chose Rifle River Recreation Area for that first trip because it wasn't too far away, but off the beaten path.  Upon arriving, I was pleased that a few campers were there (I wasn't ready to be ALL alone) but they were spread out.  Of course, as soon as I started backing the tin can onto my site, five guys in hunter's camo and orange hats materialized from nowhere and began shouting instructions to me.  All they did was confuse me.  I had my method, and though I was slow to back in, I wanted to do it by myself.  I'm sure their intentions were good, but seriously, leave me be.

I hand cranked the trailer off the hitch, got her level, and hand cranked the stabilizers down.  It was raining, and chilly.  But once I had my site set up, I walked the dog, returned to the camper, and changed into dry clothes.  Sitting in the camper that first night, listening to the rain ting!  on the tin can, with a hot cup of soup and a lantern to light the pages of my book, I realized that maybe RV camping wasn't such a bad thing.  I was pretty cozy.

http://www.michigantrails.us
Photo Credit: Dave Case

The next day dawned cold but sunny, and I did some exploring.  Rifle River is a gem, with over 4000 acres of exploring, ten lakes, countless streams, and 14 miles of trails.  It plays host to fishermen, boaters, kayakers, hikers, bikers, and swimmers.  A 3-story observation tower presents sweeping views of the area.  Birders will keep busy with field guides and binoculars.  There are highland hardwood and pine forests, grasslands, lowland forests, cedar swamp, bog, and marsh.  There is also plenty of open water.  Hunting and fishing are permitted.  Rifle River Recreation Area has something for every lover of the Michigan outdoors, even offering modern camping and rustic sites.

Wildlife viewing at Rifle River includes deer, grouse, woodcock, duck, goose, and rabbit.  In season, hunters are welcome.  The park is also open to trapping for muskrat, beaver, and mink.  Anglers come to the area for trout, as well as yellow perch, bluegill, rock bass, and  northern pike.  Permits are available at Park Headquarters.

http://www.michigantrails.us
Photo Credit: Dave Case

Love waterfowl?  Look for Trumpeter Swans and Loons, but not too close!

Rifle River is even open in the winter for cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, ice fishing, and snowmobiling.

I spent my weekend at Rifle River exploring streams and trails during the day, and relaxing by a fire at night.  Late September is an excellent time to go;  its not too cold yet, and there are not many campers.  My first trip alone in the tin can brought to light a truth for me.  I can go anywhere, do anything, and be outside learning from my experiences in nature.  Even the coyotes fighting in the woods behind my tin can didn't bother me.  I was safe and secure, and could listen to their howls and yips as part of the symphony of the night woods with joy, not fear.

Since that trip, I have revised my opinion of RVers.  It doesn't matter if you are in a tent, or a Class A Motorcoach, or anything in between.  Campers all have one thing in common; they love to be outside.  Over the years I have added many updates and amenities to the tin can, and expanded my horizons by sometimes camping in State parks with hookups and showers, sometimes choosing State forests with an outhouse and shared water pump.  I can go anywhere in the tin can, depending on my mood.

I am eager to return to the Rifle River Recreation area, the place where my tin can adventure began.  It was the beginning of my journey as a part time wanderer, not to mention the place where I learned my first valuable lesson as an RVer.  Make sure the windows are firmly latched before hitting the road! And I thought all the people waving at me on the highway were just being super friendly.

The Not-So-Adventurous Adventures of Two Anti-Social Introverted Recluses

In October 2012, I tried to ignite a passion in my best friend Debbie for outdoor adventure.  It was an epic fail.  To be fair to Debbie, getting her lost in the wilderness for 11 hours probably wasn't the best way to introduce her to my love of adventure.  She gave it her best shot, but Debbie will never share my love for hiking in the middle of nowhere among the wild animals, though somewhere out there is a hibernating bear who can't get "God Bless America" out of his head, thanks to Debbie's attempts to warn him of our presence.

Our annual Fall Camping Trip had become such an important part of our friendship, that despite her fear, Debbie agreed to join me again in October 2013, though she offered up a few rules, contingencies, and guidelines.  She would come, but if I wanted to set foot on a trail, she would be happily waving me on my way from the campfire.  If I wanted to venture any distance from the campground, she would only accompany me if we were going someplace with lots of people.  And electricity.  During our travels, she must have the opportunity to take a break from exploring and eat real food, not the leaves from a plant that is probably not poisonous, if I'm reading the Field Guide correctly.

Ok, it's not quite the way I camp, but for Debbie, I would do anything.  After exploring the Porcupine Mountain Wilderness area for a week on my own, I agreed to meet Debbie at Brimley State Park in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.  Brimley is a little more connected to civilization, has hot showers in the Bath House, and is close to the Bay Mills Ojibwe Indian Community.  After experiencing temperatures in the 80's the week before, we arrived during a steady rain and 40 degrees.  Brrrrr.

I got there first, and found a deserted campground located on the shore of Lake Superior, just north of Sault St. Marie.  Much to my delight, I only saw three other campers in the entire park.  Then the park ranger informed me I had arrived on the busiest and most fun weekend of the whole year, HalloweenFest!  Within a day, the campground filled up, happy campers turned their sites into haunted houses and cemeteries, and echoes of eerie halloween music and owl calls were ringing through the air.  Lovely.  The two introverted anti-social recluses on Site #55 didn't stand a chance.

I like to join the spirit of things, so I ran back into town, and on a meager budget, did what I could to decorate our campsite.  I thought it looked nice, until
another camper remarked, somewhat snidely, that my decorations were "very Martha-Stewart".  I don't think it was a compliment.

By the time Debbie arrived, I had the camper all set up and a fire going.  It was drizzling rain, but the massive tree in our site kept most of the rain at bay.  I grilled the Salmon, brought by Debbie, over the fire, while she used her legs as a barrier to keep Rooney from stealing our dinner.

Debbie and I could easily spend days doing nothing more than sitting by an open fire, reading, talking, laughing, eating M&M's, and enjoying the outdoors.  But there were a few things in the area worth seeing.  On Friday morning we took our time getting ready.  It was very chilly and rainy outside.  I think we both were reluctant to tell the other we really didn't want to go anywhere, so we each showered and prepared for the day ahead, reluctantly getting in the car to go explore the nearby civilization.

Our first stop was at a delightful coffee cafe in Bay Mills.  Owned by an authentic Ojibwe Indian woman and aptly named "Coffee House", the ramshackle building held the promise of intrigue and treasure within.  The owner proudly explained to me her ways of growing organic beans and preparing the purest cup of coffee I've ever tasted.  She did not disappoint.  Debbie and I enjoyed fresh bowls of soup while we surfed the internet - yes, I said internet, while camping, no less - for the timetables at the Soo Locks.  Then, after a leisurely exploration of the local art for sale in Coffee House, we left to watch the big boats go through the time honored tradition of transferring from Lake Huron to Lake Superior through a 21' drop in the St. Mary's river.  Canada lies on one side of the river, Michigan on the other.  In Sault St. Marie, visitors can view the ships passing through the lock system from a platform, and the Visitor's Center provides schedules, information about each vessel, and an in-depth look at the history and construction of the locks.

If you have never been to the Soo Locks in Sault St. Marie, it is worth the trip.  While the two oldest locks are no longer in use, vessels carrying iron ore, coal, cement, limestone, grain, salt, or sand use the MacArthur Lock, built in 1943, which accommodates vessels 800ft long, 80 ft wide, and 31ft deep.  The big Lakers need to use the Poe Lock, added in 1968, built 1200ft long, 110ft wide, and 32ft deep.  Debbie and I were lucky enough to watch the largest vessel on the Great Lakes, the Paul R. Tregurtha,
go through the Poe Lock.  It was an awesome sight to see, even though we had lost all feeling in our fingers and toes and our noses were turning blue from the cold rain.  We toughed it out, then walked across the street to a local bar and had a hot lunch, which had no leaves, berries, or twigs whatsoever on the menu.

We agreed that seeing the Soo Locks was a
worthy experience, but we were ready to head back to the tin can for heat, naps, and dinner.

Even though Brimley State Park isn't exactly in the wilderness, there is something about walking
through the door of the tin can when you are wet, tired, and cold, feeling her warmth descend over you, and welcoming you to rest.  I crawled into my bed, Debbie fought with Rooney over the couch and won, and as we drifted off to la-la land, the rain was singing a lullaby on the tin roof.

When we emerged once more into the rain, Debbie, Rooney and I spent a relaxing evening by the fire, admiring the campers who strung huge tarps over their campfires while we huddled in our chairs with blankets and umbrellas.  Debbie will be the first to tell you, it is hard to pour more wine when you're hanging onto an umbrella and fighting off the glowing embers that keep landing on your lap, but she rose to the challenge.  We watched with some dismay as the new campers continued to arrive late into the night, setting up their rigs in the rain and cursing their spouses loudly.  (That's what happens to otherwise loving couples when setting up camp in the dark and the rain while the kids are running loose, wreaking havoc).  Halloween lights were being strung, dry-ice fog machines were fired up, and the general atmosphere of the campground was a spooky forest surrounding my Martha Stewart decorations.

The next day, however, and in true Kiki-Debbie form, things got much more interesting.  Unfortunately, children are about to descend into my quiet writing space, so you'll have to wait to hear the rest of the story.  Suffice it to say, it was a cold and blustery day, and our good friend Captain Morgan made an appearance.

The Porcupine Mountains Series Part 3: We All Need Something To Hang On To

burberry.com

Boots.  Tall, rubber, waterproof boots.  That was what I needed.

About three years ago, I saw a picture of my beautiful and very fashionable niece wearing a pair of Burberry boots at a tailgate party.  I was fascinated with her boots.  They looked so…safe.

muckboots.com

Then last summer my nephew, who had been pouring concrete, dropped by my house wearing tall rubber Muck boots.  I kept staring at his feet, thinking they looked so safe.

Do you ever get an idea in your head that has no basis for credibility but you believe it anyway?  You believe it because you have to?  This is what happened to me with the tall rubber boots.  I got this idea in my head that if I wore tall rubber boots, the snakes couldn't get me.  I came to believe that if I wore those boots while hiking, the appearance of a reptile with no legs would not throw me into a complete panic, because my boots would protect me.  Snakes can't suddenly cross over your foot and climb up your pant leg when you're wearing tall rubber boots.  They can't strike at you through thick rubber.  The boots would keep me safe.  I believed it, I needed that thought to hold onto, and I knew I would never experience a completely peaceful hike without those boots.

But the boots are not cheap, and since I am always stockpiling my money for gas to take my trips to the U.P. of Michigan, boots were not in the budget.  At least, not until my compassionate husband surprised me with a pair of Hunter boots, complete with fleece liners.  They…are…awesome, as is my husband.

Armed with my tall rubber boots, I headed into the Porcupine Mountains with confidence.

Since I spent my first day in the mountains not hiking while I dealt with a shredded tire on the tin can, I had ample opportunity to meet other hikers in the campground.  Asking each of them where they had hiked so far was always accompanied with an inquiry into the snake population out there on the trails.  The 4 Guys had hiked the entire 17 miles of the Lake Superior Trail in one day, and saw two snakes.  The hunter had just emerged from several days of backcountry camping; he saw lots of snakes.  When I asked the couple next to me if they saw any snakes on the Presque Isle trails, they casually replied "oh, just a few".

The freakishly warm weather in October was keeping the snakes of the Porkies active.  No worries; I had my boots.

The next morning, after the sudden storm of the night before, I walked Rooney early.  Wearing my Hunter boots, I headed up the drive through the campground to a field where Rooney could sniff all the bushes.  Along the way, there was a short stretch of road that had deep brush on either side, with tall grasses and wild flowers.  As I strolled through this wild alley, I saw something on the ground.  Upon

closer inspection, I realized it was a snake, which had come out of the weeds seeking the heat of the asphalt after the storm, only to be flattened by a late night arrival of an RV to the campground.  I'll be honest; my heart did that little skip-a-beat thing it does, but I stayed calm.  I had my boots to protect me in the unlikely event that the early morning sunshine would breathe life back into the flat snake.  I kept going, with even breaths and a new-found confidence.

However, stepping foot on the Presque Isle trail gave me pause.  I mean, these snakes would be alive.  I pulled myself up by my boot straps - quite literally - and hiked with confidence.  Over the next several days I hiked many miles on
many trails.  The only time I took my boots off was when I went to bed each night.  They were comfortable, kept my feet dry in muddy areas, and warm.  Most important, my boots removed my fear.  I didn't want to see a snake, but I didn't worry about it either.

Google Images

The funny thing is, I never saw a single snake, except for the dead one in the drive of the campground. I think I am the only hiker that was in the Porcupine Mountains that week who never came across a snake, which leads me to believe my boots have magical powers.  They don't just protect me from snakes, they scare them away!  Hey, we all need something to hang on to.


I love my Hunter boots, and I love my husband for getting them for me.  Next year, I might even hike the Cedar Swamps.  Okay, no I won't.  I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid!

Cedar Swamp, Porcupine Mountains
Courtesy of Google Images

The Porcupine Mountain Series Part 2: Dr. Seuss Would Like It Here!

www.seussville.com

One of my favorite books is Dr. Seuss' "Oh, the Places You'll Go!"  I have been many places, both in body and in mind.  Some were great, some not so much.  But when I live in the tin can and go outside I am often reminded of this book, and have found that I do not need to travel far to find the best places.  For me, they are all in my home state, Michigan.

Once I have the tin can hooked up to my car, and Rooney in the back seat, and I am driving on the highway headed north, I think not just of the places I'll go, but the people I'll meet.  I always meet plenty of people on my tin can trips that are just like me.  They don't care who I am, or what I've done, or how much (or how little!) money I have; they are drawn to me, and I to them, by a common love
of living in the wilderness.  No one I meet on a hiking trail has ever asked me what I do for a living.  Often they don't even ask my name.  They are not concerned with who I am outside of the wilderness, only who I am in that moment.  We share stories of our adventures, talk about what we have seen that day out in nature, and form an instant bond born of our similar experiences.  I have met some amazing people!

I was nervous about going alone to the Porcupine Mountains, because the wilderness area is far removed from cell phones, gas stations, grocery stores, and hospitals.  Help, if I needed it, would be far away.  So it was that I experienced a moment of panic when I pulled the tin can into my camp site to discover one of the tires was completely shredded.  I asked a Ranger if he had any advice for how to get a new tire, and he gave me the number of a guy who lives 35 miles away who might be able to help.  I couldn't call him, though, because I didn't have a cell phone signal.  Fortunately, another camper overheard my conversation with the ranger, and said he and his buddy would help me.  They jacked up the trailer, took the wheel off, found the spare tire, and sadly told me the spare was the original one from 1970, and useless.  But they knew the area well, and sent me an hour away to a shop in Bessemer, with very good directions, where I met a life-long Yooper and really good guy.

Jim, from C & M Oil Company, took one look at my tire and said,

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"Oh ya, you don wanna be driving on that, eh?"  He pointed out that I really should have radial tires on my trailer, and proceeded to put a new, much better tire on the wheel.  When he brought it back out to me, I showed him the spare, and he put the same new tire on that as well.  Then he said,

"Ya, these here new tires are bigger than yer old ones, yer gone want ta put da spare on da other side, you betcha."

Alrighty, then.  I worried that eventually I would need the third tire for the spare, so we agreed that on the day I left the mountains, I would drive back to Bessemer and get a third tire put on the wheel.  That way, I would have two new tires on the tin can, and a spare, and they would all be the same tire.

Jim was really nice, and went out of his way to make sure I would be safe.  He only charged me for the tires, no labor.  And he agreed to meet me early at his shop later in the week, to get me back on the road at a decent time.

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When I left Bessemer, I stopped at a Michigan Roadside Area.  In the U.P., there are no Rest Areas like downstate, where there is a big parking lot and nice bathrooms with flush toilets and electric lights.  U.P. Rest Stops consist of pulling on the shoulder of the road to park, and using an outhouse.  I will, however, say that Michigan outhouses are very clean, always have toilet paper, and many use composting to keep the odor and fill line low.

I stopped there to let Rooney out of the car for a walk and a potty break.  We wandered behind the outhouse to a narrow trail in the woods, when we heard a low growl.  The hair on the back of my neck stood up, Rooney immediately went into defensive stance, and my hand went to my gun.  A rustling in the branches produced an old geezer, complete with white beard to his belly, flannel shirt, and a missing tooth.  I laughed and told Rooney to relax.  The growl had come from the old man's sled dog team, tied up in the woods.

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He had been driving and camping for three weeks in an old, beat-up VW van with his sled dog team.  He's from Alaska, where he has lived for the last three years in a small cabin with no utilities.  He chops his wood for heat and cooking, grows his own food, hunts for meat, and is completely self-sustained.  I asked where he was headed, and he told me he hadn't seen his wife and family in three years, so he was going home to southern Michigan for a visit.  His life-long dream had been to live in Alaska, but his wife did not want to go with him.  She stayed behind to run his business.  I naturally asked what kind of business he has, and he casually replied,

"Oh I've made millions.  About 50 years ago, I got the idea to sell deer urine to hunters.  Now we manufacture the stuff and sell to all the outdoor stores, all over the world."

Huh.  Millions, eh?  I guess the money really doesn't matter to him.  But if the Discovery Channel ever decides to produce a reality show about him, I think they should call it Piss Posh.

I thoroughly enjoyed talking to the old man, he had to have been at least 85.  He patiently answered all my questions about living off the grid in Alaska and told some great stories.  I wished him well and went on my way, but I will never forget him.

Back at the campground, my new friends returned to help me put the wheel on, and I was good to go.  I may have lost a day of hiking, but it was worth it to experience the friendly help of strangers and meet the old man.

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That night, a storm blew in.  As it approached I took Rooney for a quick walk, and passed by a campsite with 2 tents and 4 guys.  I stopped and asked if one of them had been playing "Amazing Grace"  on a harmonica the night before.  One of the guys raised his hand, and I let him know how much I appreciated hearing the mournful notes drift on the wind to my campsite.  The 4 Guys had anticipated the storm, and they were the only campers to have a massive tarp hung over their campsite and a fire going.  As the rain started, I ended up sitting by their fire with them and hearing their story.

The 4 Guys had been destined to be friends since birth.  They grew up together, married each other's sisters, and are now raising families of their own together.  The bond the 4 Guys shared was deep and strong, and I found myself longing for that kind of closeness and companionship.  They made a pot of coffee over the fire and shared it with me, and told me how the raccoons had gotten their cooler and they had little left to eat.  Long time outdoorsmen making a Rookie mistake like leaving the cooler out made them that much more real.

We compared notes about hiking trails, told funny camping stories, and waited out the storm.  When I went to bed that night, I was grateful to have been given the gift of their friendship, if just for a moment in time.

Everyone I meet in my travels to the wilderness is of a special nature.
They all prefer to be outside, away from society, and all appreciate the miracle and wonder of the balance of nature.  Living simply, for whatever time they can get, and loving all of life is what these people share.  I think Dr. Seuss would have liked it in the wilderness, and if he had written a book about my travels, it might have gone something like this:

Oh, the people you'll meet
when into the wilderness you go
Some are tall, some are short
Or small, or big, some "just so"

You will meet ones who are rich, and ones who are poor
But none of that matters, who cares?
They have no need of money or things
When getting lost in the middle of nowhere

Oh, the people you'll meet in the wilderness
When you hike on the shore and the trails
They all have the same smile, as they walk and they see
Through the sun, rain, snow and gales

They are young, they are old
and everywhere in between
They all know so much of the world they are in
They all know what it means

The people who come to the wilds each day
Are all seeking the same thing
The people you meet deep in the woods
Have hearts that know how to sing!

Oh, the people you'll meet at the end of the day
When you're tired and achy and weary
Some will be smart, some will be not
But each loves the wilds so dearly

They will tell you their stories
Which sound just like yours
When you live in the wilderness
There are no walls and no doors

Oh, the people you'll meet who know how to be free
In the wild where space is a given
The calm ones, the excited ones, all of them know
Being in the wilderness is livin'!

Some will come happy, some will come not
Some will be angry or tired or sad
But once in the wilderness none of that stays
They will forget the life that they've had

Oh, the people you'll meet when you walk in the wild
All put one foot in front of the other
They are never alone, no matter their troubles
In the wilderness we walk with each other!

On my last night in the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness Park, I took Rooney along the Lake Superior shoreline to climb and jump the rocks and watch the sun set.  Coming up over a steep rock, I was startled to find a man, sitting in a camp chair on top of the rock, beer in hand, quietly watching the waves.  Not wanting to interrupt his reverie, I apologized and tried to move on, but he invited me to share the sunset with him.  Rooney and I sat on the big slab of rock, and the man and I told each other about our time in the Porkies.  We had seen many of the same things that week, but had not crossed paths until now.  I found a sense of peace sharing a sunset with a total stranger who understood me better than any of my friends at home.  We fell silent, and as the sun hit the distant horizon with a sizzle and the waves lapped at the rocks, I was content.  Oh, the People I've Met! who have enriched my life for mere seconds.  They all have a place in my heart.

The Porcupine Mountains Series Part 1: Hallowed Hollow Ground

I like trees.  This is a bit of an ongoing argument at my house, because Scuba likes to cut down trees.  I understand his concern with things like pine needles and leaves clogging eaves troughs, and roots
infringing on the driveway.  However, I always point out the trees were here first, so I win.

If I could get Scuba to take a day-long hike through the Porcupine Mountains, I might be able to change his way of thinking.  A long time ago, before settlers arrived in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, those lands contained 81 million acres of undisturbed, closed-canopy forest.  About half of this land consisted of forests of sugar maple, eastern hemlock, yellow birch, American basswood, northern red oak, and eastern white pine.  Today, less than 0.2% of these hardwood-hemlock forests survive as virgin (never been logged) forests.  The largest of these virgin forests is in the Porcupine Mountains, with 35,000 acres of relatively undisturbed hardwoods and hemlocks.*

I only saw a fraction of that while hiking the Porkies, but it is really something to see.

It's not that portions of the Porcupine Wilderness has never been logged.  In the late 1800's, tracts of land were purchased to log the white pine and cedar stands.  Sadly, remnants of the logging era still remain today, where century-old pine stumps can be seen all along the Lake Superior shoreline.*  But the difficulties of logging in this wilderness area pushed the logging barons to other places by the early 1900's.  As technology advanced, some logging activity took place until the early 1940's.  The last logging operations in the Porcupine Mountains occurred in 1953-1954, after a wind storm left a blowdown of centuries-old trees between the mouth of the Big Carp River and Summit Peak.  After the storm, park officials contracted with Connor Lumber and Land Company to salvage the timber in exchange for land the park wanted.  When the salvage of the timber was complete in 1954, the Michigan Conservation Commission declared the Porcupine Mountains a Nature Reserve, thereby protecting the remaining virgin stands from further logging.*

Darkness in Daylight

My favorite tree is the Hemlock.  When hiking on Government Peak trail to the top of a
mountain is halted by a majestic 400 year old tree, I can't just walk around it.  I must take a moment to study its solidity, its gnarled roots visible below my feet, yet stretching deep into the mountain rock for stability.  Standing under its branches, I am awed by the darkness at the height of day, the mighty Hemlock blocking the warmth of the sun, yet radiating its own heat down on the earth.  I am humbled by its strength, inspired by its endurance, and joyful at its beauty.

As I hiked, I noticed from time to time my footsteps made a hollow sound, like I was walking on a drum, and I wondered about it.
Later, a visit with Bob Wild of the DNR shed some light on this phenomenon.  The mountains are a result of millions of years of volcanic eruptions and tetonic plates moving around, and have a strong foundation of rock.  The Hemlocks traveled through pollination and took root in the glacial deposits and rock, but the roots necessarily grow down through the earth.  In various places, especially where the virgin Hemlocks stand, the root formations under the rock have created pockets of air, or hollow places.  At first I found this unsettling, but Bob explained that the roots serve to strengthen the framework under the ground.  He pointed out that the "hollow" ground on which I walked felt very hard and solid.  As my time progressed in the mountains, I came to think of these areas as walking on hallowed, hollow ground.  Bob liked my description.

Those same roots, exposed above the crust of the mountain, act like fingers, reaching out to claw and grab.  It is entirely possible that a lone hiker could find herself having some difficulty navigating the Hemlock roots, which brings up the age old question; if a hiker stumbles and trips her way up (and occasionally, back down) a trail, but no one is there to see it, did it really happen?  So I found myself being quick and light of foot, following in the steps of my American Indian ancestors with speed and agility on my hike.  That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The entire 7.3 mile hike up Government Trail was made worth it by the rest stop I took at Trap Falls.  Stumbling…um, I mean, gracefully stepping, into a designated backcountry campsite, complete with a bear pole, and finding a rustic outpost of the most delightful design, was a much welcome respite from the hike.  Many others who had traveled this way before me had created an outdoor home complete with chairs, tables, fire pit, and the soothing sound of Trap Falls cascading into the Carp River.

Rooney ran down the steep bank to drink from the cool, clear water, while I sat on a log and drank my bottled water.  I looked up, at the mighty Hemlocks.  I looked over, at the bear pole where countless hikers have hung their food.  I looked around, at the natural impression in the mountain that gives a small but flat place to set up camp.  I looked down, at the water flowing over and around ancient rocks, and I thought "God is good, and Michigan's DNR is awesome."

I stayed longer than I should have, but found it difficult to leave this magical speck of earth.  As I climbed up the steep bank back to the trail, a Hemlock branch was there to give me a hand up.  In gratitude, I saluted the tree, and envied its post.  To be a sentinel over this beautiful mountain, and this very spot where people seek shelter, is a duty that can only be given by God.

Eastern Hemlock can be found throughout the park.  They can live 500 years or more, and reach 100 feet in height.


Arriving here from the eastern Allegheny forests 3,000 years ago, their thick canopy of needles provides not just shade from the sun, but shelter in the winter, attracting deer in the snowy months.  Hemlock stands become deer yards during the winter, where the deer feed on buds and needles.  The tannins in the needles and bark of the Hemlocks also creates the reddish-brown color of the streams and rivers in the park through runoff.*  All through my hike up to Government Peak, I marveled at the Hemlocks, seeing the effects of them everywhere I looked.  They are a living, dynamic presence which urged me to keep going, even as I tired.

Root growing over Rock

I found a sense of inspiration in the woods.  The Hemlock will not be daunted, giving me the idea that the next time someone challenges me to a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, I want to be a Tree!

Throughout my hikes up the mountains, I forged ahead, I reached the top, and I came back down.  I followed the rules, carrying out my empty water bottles and granola bar wrappers.  Because God has given us this amazing place, but the DNR, hikers, and nature lovers are bestowed with the responsibility of keeping it amazing, I was careful not to disturb the balance or leave anything but footprints, and possibly a little bit of flesh and blood from my leg, but that's a story for another time.  I hope that someday, my husband will walk the mountains with me, and see what I've seen, and never cut down another healthy tree again.  Then again, he usually cuts them down when I'm not home, so if I'm not there to see the tree fall, did he really fell the tree?  That's his story, and he's sticking to it.

*All of the historical and environmental information in this post comes from The Last Porcupine Mountains Companion, Fifth Edition, by Michael Rafferty and Robert Sprague, published by Nequaker Natural History Associates, 2012.   I strongly recommend reading this book prior to a visit to the Porcupine Mountains.  It will not only give you helpful tips for exploring the park, but will also enhance your understanding of what you will experience here.

A Conveniently Located Hanging Tree

People with a debilitating phobia learn to avoid certain situations, so you would think I knew better.  As much time as I spend outdoors, hiking in the wilderness and deep woods, I shy away from areas that present the perfect environment for snakes.  Tall grass, wet and marshy fields, and rivers are the prime places for me to skirt around.  I know this.  I do it all the time.  Except this time.

I had traveled a day ahead of my family to the village of Empire in the Sleeping Bear Dunes to set up camp for our annual Family Camping Trip.  It's always a great weekend, with camping much less an emphasis than a whirlwind tour of all the area tourists attractions.  My husband loves tourist attractions. We were exploring the entire Leelanau Peninsula this year, since we try to go someplace new every year.

I love the annual Family Camping Trip, but struggle with camping in my beloved northern Michigan and spending all my time with crowds, overpriced food, and busy streets.  I want to be in the woods!  Early morning of the day my family would arrive was the only time I would be able to wander alone in the woods.  I made a quick stop at the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore Visitor's Center, in search of a Trail Map, to fulfill a promise I made to my daughter, Birdie, to scout out some running trails for her as she is training for her first half-marathon.  The Visitor Center is very well staffed, with many exhibits and plenty of informational brochures available.  I found a Trail Guide, and purchased it on the Honor System by dropping a couple of dollars in the "Friends of Sleeping Bear Dunes" box.  Another reason to love the wilds of Michigan.  Do you think a visit to any big city would include payments on an honor system?

Looking through the guide, I found a nearby trail system that would be easy for Birdie to access and drove a few miles to Esch Beach, within the National Lakeshore.  It wasn't particularly easy to find, and the old road that dead-ends at the beach is hilly with the asphalt washed-out on the edges.  Because it was still early, I walked through a small dune and came out on a completely deserted Lake Michigan beach, with dunes rising up behind me and the lake rushing toward me.  The sun was shining on dewey dune grass, making the dunes sparkle like diamonds.  I had found a very private stretch of beach and could not have been more delighted.

To my left, a small, crystal-clear creek emptied into the great lake.  According to my map, this was Otter Creek.  After walking the shoreline in solitude for about an hour, I returned to my car and found a sign located next to the vault toilet giving the history of the lost town of Aral.

It's a fascinating story.  According to Michigan's Lost Towns, Aral was a logging community in the late 1800's.  But perhaps its most intriguing story is not told on the official plaque at Esch Beach.  Behind the sign a very old, large tree lies on the ground, having toppled over a long time ago.  It's called The Hanging Tree.  On August 10, 1899, two Benzie County deputies were sent to Aral to place a lien on the stacked logs at the mill for unpaid taxes.  Mill Manager Charles Wright met the deputies on the road with a pistol and a rifle, and shot them dead.  The bodies were left where they fell and the mill continued operations as though nothing had happened.  As news of the double murder spread, the people of Aral became increasingly angry, and sent a telegram to Benzonia to inform the sheriff of the trouble.  As the sheriff dispatched a posse of twenty men to apprehend Wright, the mill manager shut down operations and disappeared into the woods.

Courtesy National Park Service

By the time the posse arrived, the angry mob was out for revenge.  Charles Wright had employed a man to act as interpreter for the Ottawa Indians, and Peter Lahala was thought to know the whereabouts of his boss.  The posse dropped a noose around Lahala's neck, and the Indian was hoisted in the air from the hanging tree.  The sheriff lowered him, asked where Wright was, and when Lahala couldn't answer, they hoisted him up again.  Before this grim justice could be fully carried out, Wright was dragged from the woods after being captured by a group of men, and Lahala was released.  Wright was sentenced to a life of hard labor at Jackson Prison.  One year later, his sentence was commuted by the Governor.

I find stories like these add so much more to my experience in a particular spot.  I drove my car about 50 feet up the road, and turned off at the trailhead.  A single-lane dirt two track led to several trailheads, so I kept driving to find the best trail for Birdie.  I knew she needed to run at least 12 miles, so I consulted the trail guide and started marking the different loops she could take.  As I drove further, I

Courtesy Google Images

saw Otter Lake on my right, and immediately thought I was in prime snake territory.  Going deeper into the woods, I stopped at Marker #4 and got out to walk, veering away from the marshy banks on the lake.  I walked a bit in my beloved woods, circled back to my car, and prepared to head back to the campground and wait for my family.  I had a clear idea of the route Birdie would run, and felt good that I was able to find it for her.

Driving out, I noticed many clumps of wildflowers growing right next to the dirt road.  With such a narrow lane, I figured I could lean out of my car window and cut some wildflowers for my vase at the campsite.  I was nervous, knowing that that proximity of the lake and the long wild grass and flowers were great hiding spots for reptiles, but I was able to cut several flowers without stepping outside of the car.  As I came upon the bridge over Otter Creek, I spotted the most unusual clump of flowers, right next to the corner of the bridge.  They were beautiful!  I told myself that I had enough flowers, I was pushing my luck, and I would actually have to step out of the car to cut these.  River, dense undergrowth, bridge, shade on a hot morning, all screamed at me to just keep driving.  I stopped.  The flowers really were breathtaking.  I leaned out the window and scanned the ground, particularly around the base of the flowers.  I took one of the cut flowers and threw it out the window, to see if anything moved on the ground.  The morning was quiet, I saw no movement, and decided I was safe.

Open the car door.  Grab the scissors.  Put one foot on the ground next to the bridge flowers.  Keep one foot in the car.  Lean over, grab the whole bunch of flowers, and make one quick cut.  That was my plan.  As I reached down to cut, a very large, very black snake reared up from the center of the bunch…ohshitohshitohshitgetinthecarouch!slammedmyfootinthedoorohshitohshitohshit!  I hit the gas with the car door still open, called my husband, who was still driving north with the kids, and saw my world turning black around the edges.  When my husband answered, he knew what had happened right away.  He's heard that wheezing and moaning before.  He said, "Are you in the car?  Pull over, pull over!"  He knew chances were good I was about to faint.

I actually handled it well this time, considering the size of the snake and the surprise attack it launched at me.  I kept driving, resisted blacking out, and my husband talked me through it.  I was pretty shaky for several hours, and experienced flashbacks, but I didn't faint, so that's progress.

Later that afternoon, after my husband arrived, I drove him out Esch Road to take him and my son to the deserted beach I had walked earlier.  No longer deserted, we couldn't even park, so we drove out and I instructed him to turn down the dirt road to the bridge so I could show him where "the incident" occurred and let him check out Birdie's running route.   As he slowly drove over the bridge, my son hung his head out the window and said, "Oh yeah, there's your snake, Mom".    GoGoGoGoGoGo!  We peeled out of there, spraying dirt and small rocks behind us, and went back to the safety of the campsite.

Later that night, Birdie arrived at the campground with her boyfriend.  After greeting them, I hugged my daughter and said "Guess what?  I found your running trail today!"  She smiled and replied,

"Oh, thanks, mom, but you didn't need to.  I plan to take a break from running this weekend."

This would be an ironic end to my story, wouldn't it? Sadly, I'm an idiot, and the story isn't finished yet.

On the last morning of the Annual Family Camping Trip, I once again arose very early, and decided to drive back to Otter Creek Bridge to get a picture for my blog.  No sane person with a snake phobia would have returned there, but again, I had a plan.  Turning onto the dirt two-track, I stopped the car immediately, left it running, and using a 300mm zoom digital camera lens, leaned out the window to snap a photo of the bridge, where "the incident" happened.  A wild rabbit hopped across the lane, and I shot a beautiful picture of the rabbit sitting right in the spot where the vicious snake attacked me.  Backing out of the dirt road, I breathed a sigh of relief.  Now, I would never again return to the Otter Creek Bridge.

I had my shot for the blog, my family headed home, and I went north to spend a few days in the U.P.
 While there, a huge storm blew in, and I spent a cozy evening in the tin can, with the rain beating down on the roof and the wind gently rocking the camper back and forth.  I passed the time by downloading all my pictures onto the computer, and when the photo of the rabbit at the bridge came up, I thought it was a really pretty picture.  The sun was hitting the rabbit's back, making its fur shine.  The colors were glorious, the picture was perfect.  Wait…what is that long black thing in the lower right corner of the screen?  A stick?  A root?  Zoom in…ohshitohshitohshitohshit!

Yup, you guessed it.  My attack snake was crossing the road in front of my car when I took the picture. I never saw it until I zoomed in on the frame, safe in the tin can staring at my computer.

The next time I decide to go to Otter Creek Bridge, would someone please erect the fallen Hanging Tree and threaten me with it?

Can I Have A Moment, Please?

Lake Superior at Crisp Point

Sometimes, I just need a moment.  Maybe I need that moment to take a deep breath before I say something I shouldn't, or a moment to have a hissy fit wile I rant and rage and let out my frustration.  Most times, though, I need a moment to just be silent.  This usually involves sitting on a high bluff at the edge of the woods overlooking Lake Superior, which is where I plan to someday build my stone cottage and live out my days sitting on my bluff overlooking Lake Superior. And chopping firewood.

A couple of years ago, when I was going through a rough time, I started this blog as a catharsis of sorts, where I shared my moments of peace found while traveling in a vintage Airstream.  My tin can let me go places I had dreamed of my whole life.  I enjoyed sharing my stories so much, that I want to do more.  But life still intervenes and keeps me from traveling often enough to write about it full time.  I spent a considerable amount of time this summer thinking about how I could develop my blog when I only travel a few times a year.  I also spent a considerable amount of time this summer not writing, because the two dogs, two cats, husband, kids, and all their friends were a constant energy in the house that prevented me from writing.

I may have spent the first month of summer feeling frustrated and wishing more than anything that I could have just one hour to write, except I had nothing but my frustration to write about, and who wants to read that?  I may have let that feeling go on, except that I really enjoy being a positive person more than a negative one.  My good friend, Debbie, who shares so many of my adventures, reminded me, "it is what it is".  It was summer, and everyone was home.  I gave up trying to write (which also goes against my nature)  and started looking for the positive.  I found it.

Gotcha, Suzy!

In each day, somewhere in the chaos and noise and demands, I had a moment.  Suzy the Cat began a habit of climbing up the ladder to my daughter's bunk bed and stealing her stuffed frog animal.  I would find that frog in the oddest places, pick it up and return it to the bed, only to find it again in a new place the next day.  It became a game with me and my daughters.
Where would Suzy put the frog today?

There was a moment each morning, when my youngest daughter, The Wise One, would walk into the kitchen while I was having my second pot of coffee and sleepily murmur, "Good morning, Mom" followed by a hug.  It's always good to start your day with a fond greeting and a warm hug.  We would then proceed to place our bets for what item my older daughter, Birdie, would announce she needed to get from Target that day.  Birdie went to Target almost every day.  It's a disease, as is spending her paycheck before she gets another one.  We're working on that.

The couch is NOT for you, Rooney!

I had other moments, as well.  I rarely left the house this summer.  Why would I, when Birdie would be going to Target anyway and could pick up what I needed?  But a few times we met up with friends for an evening, giving me moments of laughter and companionship.  I watched my son, Fun Boy, growing into a fine young man this summer, who worked hard at his job all day and cheerfully helped out around the house.  I had many moments with Rooney the Newfoundland, but those are best left
unmentioned in my efforts to remain positive.  I settled in this summer, and while I admit I still had day after day of being frustrated with no peace, no time, and no privacy, I embraced that moment each day when my heart would warm with delight over my family and friends.

The Tin Can at Muskallonge Lake

This new-found emphasis on finding the good each day, taking the moments that were given to me and holding them, gave me some ideas on the direction my blog might take once school started and I had time again to write.  I have stories from a few trips I took this summer, but I need more.  Perhaps, instead of only writing periodically about my adventures in the tin can, I could fill my time with sharing the moments I find each and every day that give me peace beyond of the tin can.

Stop spinning, Rooney!

I already had one of those moments this morning.  In preparing for my upcoming escape to the mountains, I have been brushing Rooney's thick and unruly fur every morning, trying to loosen as much hair as possible before we go so my tin can doesn't accumulate an entirely new floor covering.  Rooney is pretty tolerant of being groomed, usually standing still until I tell him he can go.  However, this morning, I wanted to focus on his enormous tail, and he didn't like that so much.  I had to hold him by the collar with one hand and try to brush his tail with the other, while he kept spinning away from me.  He would spin, I would follow, he would spin again, I would follow again.  Long before I even made a dent in the massive amounts of hair on his tail, I became dizzy until I finally fell down and gave up.  See?  I told you moments with Rooney detract from my personal goal of being positive.  But at least these days, my house is quieter and I am finding time to think, write, and dream.

My son has returned to the University and is contemplating changing his major during his 3rd year.  I'm sure several moments will result from that.  The Wise One has entered Middle School and taken up running, following in the footsteps of her older sister.  Cross Country Meets are a great place for peaceful moments.  Birdie has moved to the big city to begin her Freshman year of nursing school, and gave me a really nice moment last week.  She called home and asked me if I had ever taken a Philosophy course in college.  I told her not only had I taken several, I taught Philosophy for many years at the college level.  She was surprised and duly impressed.  It's not often I can impress my children.  It was a really good moment.

Starting today, I plan to write often about my moments, good and bad, at home and in the tin can.  My goal is to connect with readers on a most basic level.  There are good days and bad days, ups and downs, and within each day is a moment to remember.  Sharing my moments with you will hopefully touch you so that you know you are not alone.  We can all love those peaceful moments together, and learn to laugh at ourselves during those not-so-peaceful moments.  Never forget, Rooney will be laughing at all of us during every moment.  He's good at that.

Have a spectacular day, and thanks for reading my blog!