Dear Friends,

I begin this letter on October 12, 2007. The day started with brilliant sunshine, but now it has clouded over and rain is expected.

It is cool enough this morning to build a fire in our workshop in the garage. I will burn a Creosote-Sweeping Log, then sweep the chimney before using it on a regular basis. I will do the same for our wood burner in the house. Then, both stoves will be cleaned, the flue, and the stove pipes in the garage, before the really cold weather comes. I remove a good amount of creosote every year with this method. We use our wood burners often. It is a good way to recycle the dead trees in the forest that could be forest-fire tinder. Since I have no ash trees in my neighborhood, I deemed it safe to burn some infected ash trees that were felled by a neighbor. This, I believe is a good way to destroy the wood that is infected with the emerald ash borer. In addition, we're heating our home at the same time. Betty and I have always preferred the comfortable heat of a wood fire.

We have raised chickens for the past 4 or 5 years. I enjoy having the little creatures around. In the morning, when they are fed, I just cluck a little and they come running. We have one bandy rooster that I have recently named Rooney; after Mickey Rooney. He's just a little guy, but he manages to keep all of the hens happy. I could probably learn something from the little fellow. When he crows in the morning you'd swear he was a bigger bird. He's very loud and shrill. He struts around the fly pen like a king. I can see where the term “cocky” came from.

This is Rooney, our banty rooster.

The remaining 12 chickens are hens. We get anywhere from 4 to 9 eggs daily. We have lost quite a few chickens over the years; from dogs, raccoons, possums, and weasels. One spring morning, I found the remains of 7 chickens. We figured that a weasel must have been the predator, since he killed more than he could eat. I have caught 8 raccoons, our cat Hobbes, 5 possums, 7 rabbits, and 2 groundhog in a live trap over the years, just trying to protect my chickens. Wild predators simply do what they must, and I do what I must. I used to transport the animals to a wooded area and let them loose. Now, it is illegal to do so. So now, I eat them - except for Hobbes: our cat.

If you live locally, and you would like some eggs that contain no additives, or chemicals, that are laid by healthy, running chickens, come by our place and get some at $1.50 a dozen. Please call first to make sure we have eggs.

Just this last Friday, Betty and I went to Soupers Cafe, on Euclid, in the K-mart shopping area. They have some really fabulous sandwiches, made with fresh-baked buns, and real quality vegetables. We split a smoked turkey sandwich with tomato-garlic pesto. Betty had the lobster bisque soup and I had the Kickin' Crab. Really superb! The Kickin' Crab has just the right amount of spiciness to it. Enough to make your nose run just a little. We don't eat out often. But we plan to return there soon. The place reminded me of the New American Cafe that graced Washington Avenue several years ago. We loved their food. They had health in mind when they created the menu. Health and quality. We both gave the place a high “thumbs up.” This is a good place to eat.

We have some old friends from Naples, Florida that we have not seen for many years: Sharon Hanlon and Dave Rawlings. They were here in Bay City, but we couldn't see them the night that they were here. So, Sharon sent me a photo of her two grown children. I told Sharon that I would put a picture of Betty and myself on this website:

Here we are Sharon and Dave: twenty years later. We're doing just fine. Nothing works as good as it once did, but we are blessed with good health at the present time. Send us some pictures.

Dave and Betty

Today is Sunday, October 14, 2007. We had a fabulous morning. Clear, clean air, bright sun, blue sky. It clouded up this afternoon. Betty and I walked the trail out to the Tobico trail. It was comfortably cool. The trail was busy with bikers and hikers. It is good to see so many people taking advantage of our great trail system.

We met Al Izykowski on the trail, both going out and coming back. Al and his son were sports massage clients of mine when I was a practicing massage therapist. Sports massage is great for athletes. Al is a speed skater. He's also one of the big engines behind our speed-skating program here in Bay County. His son: Alex Izykowski, is the same Alex Izykowski that won a silver medal in the 5,000 meter relay in the Winter Olympics. Al's daughter: Morgan is also a promising speed skater. I have a great amount of respect for Al, his wife, and their kids that they have raised. We wish the best to this family of outstanding athletes.

Al Izykowski on the Tobico Trail.

Looking skyward, the foliage begins its display of color.

The beauty of the season encompasses you in this wonderful place.

The Tobico Trail

Since this is such a colorful time of the year, I couldn't resist showing some pictures of the most natural part of the trail system. We'll take a three and a half mile stroll through the woods:

 MORE RAIL TRAIL PHOTOS

Quotable Favorites

Is civilization progress? The challenge, I think, is clear; and, as clearly the final answer will be given not by our amassing knowledge, or by the discoveries of our science, or by the speed of our aircraft, but by the the effect our civilized activities as a whole have upon the quality of our planet's life- the life of plants and animals as well as that of men. Charles A. Lindbergh, Jr.

Only a person who can live with himself can enjoy the gift of leisure. Henry Greber I would like to share with you, a story that I wrote and published in the newsletter: Feeling Fine, which I sent out once a month when I was a massage therapist. The story is fictional. It takes place near Mesick, Michigan; a favorite and special camping place for me and my family. The story is in several parts.

Pal

by Dave Goss

The ancient, bony hands seemed to form to the hickory handle of the ax. Arthritis exaggerated the knuckles and the fingers grew from the joints at severe angles. His movements were painful, economical and accurate. The oak log split, the fragments landing just in the correct spot so that they could be picked up and stacked along the south side of the cabin with little effort. Harvey; a mix of cocker spaniel and retriever, lay in a pile of maple leaves and watched as his master worked.

Through the summer and fall, he had worked , slowly and steadily, cutting and splitting the thirty-some cords of hardwood that it would take to get him through the harsh winter ahead. It was late October. The fiery reds and yellows and oranges that had adorned the trees, now carpeted the forest floor. The sun shone brightly off the fallen pallet of color and the whole panorama seemed aglow the morning light.

The old man paused and looked down at the clear, flowing river; a constant reminder of his good fortune in life. Though he had known sorrow and tragedy, fate had been kind for the most part. He intended to live out his life here in this place of great beauty. He had everything he needed. Though his arthritic hands gave him constant pain, he was strong and fully capable of caring for himself and Harvey.

He was called Pal; a name given to him by some of the locals in Mesick. He lived alone in a small cabin in a vast growth of hardwoods, near state-owned land in northern Michigan. No one knew much about him. He kept to himself, even when he went into town for needed supplies, he rarely spoke. It was not known where he came from or what his real name was. He received very little mail, except for a few “occupant” circulars on occasion.

Willard Riggs, a large, round-bodied man in his early fifties, owned the IGA in Mesick; the only grocery for twenty miles. Willard had tried to talk to Pal several times. But the old man only grunted and smiled. Eventually, Willard began to greet the old man with: “How are ya pal?”, for lack of anything else to call him, he was thereafter referred to as Pal.

Molly Riggs, Willard's wife, also of generous proportions, even went through the trouble of going through the Wexford County tax records to find Pal's real name. She and Willard had an interest in the old man's land as an investment. The area was growing rapidly, and the 300 acres that Pal owned was prime land. The UPS man had told Molly about the old man's cottage on the high banks of the river.

The natural beauty of the rolling hills in the area was magnetic. Thousands of acres were owned by local Christmas-tree farmers. There were places here were the hills were close to being mountains. The horizon was a sinuous, flowing line that held mystery behind each hill.

Mike Dennis; the owner of Mike's Realty, had predicted that within 10 years there would be a McDonald's on U.S. 115, the highway that linked the tiny town with the outside world. Christmas tree farmers were selling off their acreage at 3 times the former value. Large, sprawling homes with 5 and 10 acre spreads were springing up everywhere.

Searching the tax records at the county seat, Molly found that the original deed to the property that Pal lived on, was owned by Jason Van Wert, back in 1918. The property was passed on to his daughter; Edna Wills, who passed it on to her son; James W. Pelton. James paid the taxes from a Kalamazoo address. All of the taxes had been paid on time. Everything seemed in order. Molly Riggs left the county seat knowing little more that she did when she came. But, she did have one thing that she did not have before: the address of the owner in Kalamazoo: James W. Pelton.

The following week, Pal came to town. He left Harvey sitting just outside of the automatic doors as he sauntered slowly into the Rigg's IGA. He walked over to the bakery counter and pointed at the nutty dough nuts, holding up three fingers. Molly Riggs waited on him.

“Hi,” she said with enthusiasm.

Pal nodded and gave a barely audible grunt.

“Everyone calls you Pal 'cause we don't know your real name. What is your real name?”

“Charles,” he said with a raspy, faint voice.

“If you don't mind, I'll just keep calling you Pal, then everyone will know who I'm talking about. Can't you talk Pal?”

“Not very well,” he whispered while pointing to his neck.

Molly feigned a compassionate expression. “You live off Hodenpyle Dam Road don't you?

Pal nodded.

“It must be tough living out there in the wild all alone. You look like you're having some trouble getting around.”

“Me and Harvey get along just fine,” he whispered with considerable effort, nodding his head toward his dog, patiently waiting outside the store.

Molly questioned him further about his health, his family and his land. Pal sensed that there was more to her questions than friendly concern. Finally, Pal had heard enough questions. He nodded, then turned and walked slowly out the door.

That afternoon, Molly sat at her crowded desk in the store office and wrote a short letter to James W. Pelton, 804 Rhodes Street, Kalamazoo, Michigan:

Dear Mr. Pelton,

My name is Molly Riggs. My husband, Willard and I are life-long residents of Wexford County. We own the IGA in Mesick. We would like to speak to you about the possible purchase of the 300 acres of land that you own on the Manistee River, off Hodenpyle Dam Road. Please give me a call at the number on the enclosed card so that we may speak to you concerning this matter.

Thank You,

Molly Riggs

Molly and Willard Riggs, decided one afternoon to take a drive to Pal's property. A lone mailbox on a two-mile stretch of road, with no name or number on it, lead them to turn onto a winding dirt back into the forest. There was a half-inch, steel cable strung across the road. The cable was looped around a post, but the padlock on it was not locked.

The terrain was well wooded, hilly, and aglow in autumnal color. They traveled well over a mile before taking a sharp curve to the right, when the cabin and the river came into view. The Manistee coursed its way through a lowland meadow a hundred feet below. The panoramic view was beautiful. According to Molly's research at the county seat, this was the only stretch of land on the Manistee River in the area that was not owned by the State of Michigan. This 300-acre parcel of land occupied by an aged hermit, had been an incredible secret all of these years, that none of the locals seemed to know about.

“There's Pal.” Molly pointed to an area below, where Pal sat in an old canvas lawn chair on the bank, legs crossed, his dog laying in the grasses beside him. There was a slight, cool breeze. The vivid, blue sky, the reds and yellows of fallen maple leaves, the crystal-clear river, everything looked clean and new.

They looked around the small, neat cabin, with great stacks of split hardwood in the back. The large fieldstone chimney was stained with creosote.

A large garden had withered. Brown stalks and vines gave evidence of fine, healthy plants. There were a number of chickens and a goat in a fenced area. There was a small, unpainted barn made of cedar that had been given a new roof recently. A very old Farmall tractor that had been bleached by the sun to a grayish pink, could be seen through the open door of the barn. There was no outdoor privy. Molly assumed that there was indoor plumbing. Electrical wires leading to the cabin and the barn. There was a silver, late-model Silverado parked near the cabin, the truck bed filled with new lumber.

The Riggs left quietly, apparently undetected by Pal and his dog.

On the drive back to town, Molly could not contain her enthusiasm. She would buy this land. She and Willard agreed not to tell any of the locals about their plan.

It was two weeks later that Molly received an answer to her letter sent to James W. Pelton. The letter was brief and to the point:

Dear Mrs. Riggs,

In answer to your letter of several weeks ago: the land is not for sale. It is currently under a lifetime lease by the gentleman that now occupies it.

James W. Pelton

Molly Riggs was devastated. That old man could live for another 20 years she thought to herself.

Sleep did not come to Molly for the next two days. She was obsessed over finding a legal way to purchase the land. Willard found her to be cranky and ill-tempered.

On a bright Sunday afternoon after church services, and lunch at Jeri's Restaurant, Molly's mood had brightened. She and Willard drove out to Pal's cabin. They had been tentative the first visit, not wanting to be detected. This time they left the steel cable off the gate post.

The truck rounded the curve that looked down on the river. Willard paused to look for Pal along the river bank.

“What do you want?” A loud, clear voice came from behind the truck. “This is private land!”

Pal's face appeared at Willard's window.

“We brought you some nutty dough nuts. I know you like them.” Molly smiled, holding up a white, waxed bakery bag.

“Thank you, but I don't want your dough nuts! Why have you passed the cable barrier on my road?”

“We just came to see if we could help you in any way. You seem to have trouble getting around, and I know you are plagued by arthritis. We're just concerned for you, that's all. Molly's forehead wrinkled with her pained, sympathetic expression of compassion. “Your voice has gotten much better since I saw you last.”

“My voice is fine! I just don't care to talk to anyone; especially meddling strangers. I want to be left alone. Please leave this land and replace the cable at the gate. It'll be locked next time!”

“Like Molly said Pal, we only wanted to extend a helping hand to a neighbor.” Willard backed his Ford truck up, turned around and drove away.

(to be continued)