A Continuing, Monthly Journal
of People and Places
Along Bay County, Michigan's Rail Trail System

Enhance your health, stretch your mind, embrace your community; hit the Trail. 

by Dave Goss
12-15-07

Dear friends,

I begin this letter on November 18th. My boys and I took a trip to Mesick for the opening three days of firearm season. We had a grand time of it, but didn't deplete the whitetail population. In comparison to previous years, there were fewer hunters in the woods.

We hunted on public land, near Mesick. We pulled our travel-trailer up to Pat's Place: a campground off M-37, and on the backwaters of the Manistee. We have hunted and camped in the area many times, but had never stayed at Pat's Place. The first thing I noticed, driving into the campground, was the protected canal that led to a well-maintained harbor with modern, lightweight aluminum pilings and decking. The entire area is hill after hill of God's own country. We had planned to stay at Northern Exposure Campground on the opposite side of the man-made lake. But, John Galbraith; the manager of the park said that they would not be opened during firearm season this year, but that they plan to be open for firearm season in the future. So, John was considerate enough to call us and give the location and phone number of Pat's Place.

I made a wrong turn onto a very narrow road when we entered the park. A small sign read: site #23, but we had made a reservation for upper site #23, and we had turned into the lower. When the trailer was about to meet with a maple tree, I began to back the rig up. “You should have make a wider turn,” Derick said, as the back wheel of the camper went into a small gully. We were stuck in the north woods. I was on Derick's cell talking to Betty, to determine if we still carried towing on our insurance, when I saw the front-end loader approaching. The park manager pulled us out at no charge. His only comment was: “You should've made a wider turn.” Derick chuckled.

Campground

After setting up camp, we decided to go into Mesick for a burger. We ate at the Bucksnort Saloon, then returned to camp, checked out the equipment, played some three-handed euchre, drank a few more beers in honor of being able to do so without suffering any bad consequences, then retired early. We had been to the area the previous week to pick out our individual hunting sites, so when we entered the woods in the dark of early morning, we didn't need to speak.

There were intermittent snow flurries as we stepped quietly on freshly-fallen oak and maple leaves. There was the sound of far-off gunfire. Someone was shining for deer. There was no way to get a shot at anything at this time of the morning without night-vision goggles, or some kind of artificial light.

As the sun lightened the sky, I could see that I didn't have a good firing lane across the established deer trail, so I moved another twenty feet down the ravine that I had been sitting atop.

Firing lane

Deer are so perfectly adapted to their world. They move silently through the forest. I had been sitting in my new location for around half an hour, when five deer, not more than 20 feet away, suddenly materialized in front of me. One doe looked directly at me. I froze. I had heard, from some source that I don't recall, that a wild animal will look for eyes when they feel threatened. I instinctively squinted when the doe looked my way. She looked at my form for another half minute or so, then walked slowly on. Another deer appeared out of heavy brush. I could not see the head clear enough to determine its sex. Something to the east, startled the doe. In perfect unison, they jumped, then stood stone, still; the ears all aimed in the direction of the intrusion. The moment seemed to stretch on. The five deer looked like a repeated pattern; their torsos in different attitudes, but the heads all at the same angle, with ears at full alert. I felt at the moment like an unseen spectator to something special. I could feel the adrenalin pumping. Even though I now knew that there wasn't a buck among them, I was ten feet away from a wild animal that did not know I was there.

I won't pretend that I have been a great and successful hunter. I'm not. Just having any minor excuse to be in the woods is enough to get me out there. I love to hunt, I love the meat, but I will continue to hunt whether successful or not. I like being there where I can spend time with my sons. They are both good people. I enjoy their attention and their companionship.

Life seems to have more meaning when nature is allowed to take it's own pace. I've never seen a creature in the wild wearing a Rolex, or even a Timex for that matter. Time means nothing. They have no appointments to keep. Nature simply exists.

I sat  in the woods for most of two days. Once over the anxiety of needing to be somewhere, the quiet and peace of the forest was soothing and comfortable, like an old and comfortable pair of shoes. The trick is to find a comfortable position. On the second afternoon of our hunting trip, I found a depression next to a decaying stump. I piled dry leaves in the bottom of the hole, then just set back and waited. I was in the same position as I would have been in my recliner at home. I fell asleep several times; not even fighting the urge. Maybe this explains why I haven't always been a successful deer hunter. I awakened when I heard the familiar rhythm of a deer moving through the woods to my left, coming up the slanted grade of the ravine. I pushed the safety on my .308, and watched while a young doe pranced to a stop, not more than 15 feet away. She sniffed the air, and looked about. My heart raced. She was a fine-looking animal. The doe had picked up my scent. But, since I was wearing orange camo; she didn't see me. She ran on and stopped, out of sight behind a large oak trunk. Then, she retraced her steps, only coming much closer. She leaped into the air and turned 180 degrees in one swift motion. She was standing directly over me. My scent must have been quite strong to her, knowing that I was close, yet not seeing me, confused her. She moved on at a good pace down to the bottom of the ravine. Her tail was down, so she was not alarmed. 

Bucksnort Saloon

Karaoke contestants

A Time For Family

The Holiday Season is always a time for family. Here are some pictures taken during our Thanksgiving get-together.

Betty, Kaitlyn, and Delaney- making cookies.


Our daughter Marcy, Brady, and Delaney- River of Lights


Brian, Brady, Delaney, and Marcy

 Rock Shop

One of our favorite stops when we camp in northern Michigan, is C & M Rock Shop on Honor Highway near Beulah. I have always been fascinated by rocks and have collected them throughout my life. If you have a similar interest, these people have much more than a casual interest in their bountiful collection of every kind of rock imaginable. They even have petrified dinosaur dung. While dinosaur droppings may not hold a whole lot of interest, the fact that you are looking at the form of something that existed tens of millions of years ago is quite fascinating. The shop itself is an old farm building that has no aesthetic appeal until you discover what is inside.

Some of the rocks purchased at C&M Rock Shop.
 

Question: Which kind of Christmas tree is greener: an artificial tree, or a natural tree?
 
Answer: A naturally-grown tree is better for the environment than an artificial tree. The real tree is replaced on tree farms with another tree, they can be ground up and made into mulch and fed back to the Earth. Plastic, or pvc trees do not decompose, (at least not in our lifetime,) they contaminate the environment, and they contain lead.

Speaking From the Heart

While we're on the subject of trees: Betty and I planted some trees in our back lot this summer. Planting trees is a very healthy thing for the Earth and it is time for us all to do our part in the most important cause there is: saving Earth. This is past being a fad.

The Earth is in great danger, and we are the cause. Consider this question, whenever you consume: Do I really care about life after I am gone? It really does get down to that question. In our quest for more, and more, we are like a cancer on our planet. We have shown in the past, that profit is more important than the future of all life. We must rearrange our priorities, and we must hope that it is not too late. We must evolve from self-indulgence, to Earth-indulgence.

Pal
Part 3

Molly Riggs was shocked when she found out from her sister, Rosemary, who worked at Mesick Pharmacy, that the prescription that Pal had filled was for Viagra. She was hoping to find that he was on some medication that would tell her of a physical malady that he old man might have. Instead she had discovered that the  man was having sex with Winnie Hatch; an old widow. “Imagine those two old coots making whoopee way back there in the woods,” she said to her sister.

“I'd say, no matter what age you are, if you can get it, take it!” Rosemary laughed.

As the long, cold winter progressed, Molly found plenty of fodder for gossip. Especially when it concerned Pal, and Winnie Hatch. She saw to it that her “concern” for Pal was voiced to her fellow members of Sisters of Charity, in her church.

One frigid, Sunday morning, Winnie showed up at the early service at the Methodist church. After listening to a lengthy sermon, Molly hurried to catch up with the old woman as she exited the building.

“I do hope that Pal is doing well,” she said, over Winnie's left shoulder.Winnie pretended not to hear, and walked on.

“Winnifred Hatch, you are being rude! Why won't you speak to me?”

“If it's any of your business, I haven't seen Pal for several days now.”

Molly had feared that Pal and Winnie might develop a lasting relationship, and possibly even marry. That could conceivably stand in the way of Molly obtaining the piece of property that she was so obsessed with. This was good news. But, Molly did her best to sound sympathetic.

“I do fear for the dear old man. Doesn't he have any family that could help care for  him? He's so far away from help if anything were to happen.”

“No. He has no living relatives. His wife and only son were killed in Colorado, 4 years ago. He's still mourning them.”

“Do you think that he is capable of caring for himself?” Molly asked with a most compassionate expression.

“Yes he is. He may get around a little slow, but he does just fine all by himself. Why are you so interested in Pal? Isn't he just a little elderly for you Mrs. Riggs?” Her voice had a sharp edge of irritation to it.

“There's no need for jealousy. I am only interested in his well-being for humanitarian purposes, Winifred. I have no interest in bedding the old man.”

Winnie Hatch became so upset, that all she could do was stand there speechless, with her mouth agape.

Molly continued her surveillance of Pal and his property through the winter. She found that a man that she had seen earlier that year, in a black, luxury car, and wearing what looked to be a tailer-made suit, had visited Pal several more times that winter. Molly caught the man while locking the cable gate to Pal's property. She parked directly behind the black Lexus; blocking his exit.

“Is Pal okay?”

The tall, somber stranger looked perplexed.

“Is the old man well?” Molly asked, not knowing for sure what his real name was.

“Just fine,” said the stranger.

“Are you a doctor, or a lawyer?” she asked.

“I'm not at liberty to answer any of your questions. Would you please move your truck so that I can leave?”

Molly nagged Sheriff Joe Litwa that afternoon, when he came in to the IGA. She wanted him to visit Pal. She was sure that if the sheriff visited Pal enough, he would soon find evidence that the old man was too feeble to live alone. But, the sheriff saw no need to bother the man. “He seems to be doing just fine on his own. I don't have a right to meddle in his affairs.”

Molly Riggs was getting quite frustrated. Despite her efforts, she knew very little about this mysterious, old man, who had suddenly appeared and taken residence in Wexford County. He would not allow anyone close to him; with the exception of Winnie Hatch. and he had kicked her out. He had no family. How did he support himself? How was such an ancient, arthritic person, able to maintain his cabin, and split wood for heating, plus all of the other chores that she knew he had been doing? She would find the answers to these questions. Winnie had more information about Pal than she had let on. Molly was more determined than ever to possess his 300 acres of prime land.

The ice on the Manistee began to break up in mid-April. Then, thousands of wildfowl speckled the backwaters with with new life. Canada Geese, mute swans, ducks, loons and bald eagles busied themselves feeding the young. Late May brought the walleye, and the walleye fishermen. Northern Exposure; a local, privately-owned campground, on the banks of the backwaters, was filled to capacity with hopeful fishermen.

In 1947, the Hodenpyle Dam was built to provide cheap electricity for the area; flooding a large area and creating the lake. The land around the newly-created lake had remained undeveloped. It was owned by the State of Michigan, then leased to what was then, Consumer's Power Company, which in turn sub-leased a portion of the land to what was then: Mesick RV Park, which became Northern Exposure.

Pal owned two boats. One 12-foot rowboat stayed tied to the shore in front of his cabin. The other 12-foot, aluminum boat he kept on a trailer so that he could launch it at Northern Exposure, which was on the other side of the Hodenpyle dam.

The picturesque lake would be buzzing with boats of all sizes, trolling for walleye, using crawler harnesses, or various artificial lures.

Pal was one of the few fishermen who did not troll for walleye. He dropped his anchor and rigged his fishing line with a #10 hook, and a Canadian crawler, hooked through the nose- with no sinker. He would cast his line out and let it slowly sink under the weight of the crawler. Few fishermen paid any attention to the old man until he pulled his boat up to the the launch ramp with his limit of walleye; 5 per day. Pal caught his limit daily and cleaned his catch at the fish-cleaning station, provided by the campground, near the boat launch. He would attract attention while cleaning his catch. Other fishermen wanted to know what bait he used and where he fished. The word spread of Pal's uncanny luck with walleye. He soon began to attract attention wherever he anchored on the lake. Other fishermen would seek him out and anchor close by  him. Not wanting the attention he was getting, he soon began to anchor farther away from the campground.

As the weather warmed and spring became summer, local residents who ventured up the river on the high side of the dam by boat or canoe, would occasionally see Pal and Harvey as they passed by his property. They would see him in his old canvas sling chair with his contented friend close by, or walking through the woods. They would report any “Pal sightings,” to Molly Riggs.

Sheriff Joe Litwa happened to visit Northern Exposure Campground one sunny morning in mid-July. He was enjoying a cup of coffee with John Galbraith, the manager of the campground, when he happened to pick up Pal and Harvey with his binoculars about a half-mile from shore. The lake was calm. Sheriff Litwa mentioned to John that he would one day like to live the lifestyle that Pal was now living. “Now that's living,” he said. “Out in the middle of the lake fishing with your dog.”

“That old guy catches fish when nobody else can,” John remarked.

The sheriff returned to the campground that evening at dusk, on his normal security cruise. The lake was calm and swam in the golden light of the setting sun. Pal's boat was in the same spot it had been in that morning. He grabbed his binoculars from his car and took a closer look. Harvey was standing on the bow of the boat, barking. The top of Pal's fishing hat could just barely be seen near the motor.

“Something's wrong,” the sheriff told John Galbraith. He borrowed a pontoon boat from John and headed out on the lake to investigate. As he approached Pal's boat, Harvey became quite excited, barking and wagging his tail. The old man appeared to be sleeping. He was laying on his back with one of his gnarled hands resting on his stomach- his head in at an awkward angle against the outboard motor.

“Ahoy there!” The sheriff called out.

As Joe pulled up to the boat, he could see that Pal's skin was a pale blue, and his eyes were partially open.

Sheriff Joe Litwa drove up the winding dirt road off Hodenpyle Road, to Pal's cabin, trying to find a clue as to where Pal had come from, and what should be done with his body. His remains had been taken temporarily by ambulance to Warren's Rest Funeral Home in Cadillac. Joe was accompanied by his part-time deputy, Willy Jeppeson.

They found his cabin and out-buildings to be in excellent repair. Everything about the place was obsessively clean. There was a woodburning stove in front of an old brick fireplace that had been blocked off. Joe put his hand on the stove and found it to be cold, as he would have expected. Hundreds of books lined the shelves on either side of the main room. An old Remington typwriter sat at an antique desk, that looked old enough, and well-made enough to be of considerable value.

Willy Jeppeson found a steel box under the desk. There was a padlock on the box, but it was not locked.

“I think I've found his legal papers,” said Willy.

Inside he found insurance papers, and warranties for tools and appliances. There was an official-looking envelope with a string clasp. Willy opened it, hoping that it would answer some of the questions that they needed to find answers for.

“The last will and testament of James Woodrow Pelton. That must be Pal's real name.”

On the floor, close to the desk, was a cardboard box full of hard-bound books. Joe picked up one of the books. “Days of Wonder, by J.W. Pelton,” he read. He turned the book over and looked at the loose-leaf cover. There was a short biography and a photograph of the author.

“It's Pal,.” Willy said. “It's a young picture, but it's Pal alright.”

“J.W. Pelton is a famous author!” Joes mouth was hanging open. “He wrote Pastures in the Pines. I read it when I was just a kid.”

The news of Pal's death spread quickly through Wexford County. Molly Riggs had mixed feelings about the old man's demise. She would miss the feisty old guy. But, perhaps she could now buy his land. It took her awhile to arrange the facts in her mind. It finally came to her that J.W. Pelton was the same James Pelton that she had written to in Kalamazoo. In order to keep some sort of privacy for a man who had been a best-seller for so many years- a celebrity, he had moved to this remote area to live out his life in peace.

The next day, there were camera crews from all over the country converging on the tiny town of Mesick. Reporters questioned the locals as to what they knew about J.W. Pelton.

Two days later, CBS aired a special documentary on the old man that everyone knew as Pal. Every TV set in the county was tuned to CBS. The patrons of the Bucksnort Saloon were hushed as Dan Rather spoke of the Pulitzer Prize for Literature that Pal had received in 1956, for Days of Wonder, his second book. Photos were shown of Pal as a young man, fishing in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, and canoeing in the Manistee, posing with old friends, and of a meeting with president Eisenhower.

Then Dan Rather stood on U.S. 115, in front of the IGA and spoke with local folks who had known the old man. Molly Riggs' bountiful face filled the screen. She managed to shed a tear as she spoke of her friendship with J.W. Pelton and how much she loved him.

The last scene of the documantary was of Dan Rather in front of Pal's cabin, off Hodenpyle Dam Road:

“J.W. Pelton had no living relatives. He lived in this humble cabin, though his wealth was considerable from the sale of his many books. He gave the bulk of his wealth to a literary scholarship fund. The 300 acres of land that his cabin sits on was willed to the state of Michigan. He will be missed. This is Dan Rather in Wexford County, Michigan. Good night.”

---

Quotes

Man is a complex being: he makes deserts bloom – and lakes die.  Gil Stern

The measure of a man's real character is what he would do if he knew he would never be found out.   Babington Macaulay

I am never bored anywhere: being bored is an insult to oneself.  James Renard

First you forget names, then you forget faces, then you forget to pull your zipper up, then you forget to pull your zipper down.   Leo Rosenberg

And suddenly, reaching the last frontiers, when man is already stricken with poverty and nakedness and everything that seemingly adorns his life- then he finds in himself enough firmness to support himself on the final step and give up his life, but not his principles.   Alexander I. Solzhenitsyn

The lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house as a guest and then becomes a host and then a master.   Joseph Conrad