Living in the Woods
Somewhere along the timeline of my life, I got the idea of
living in the North Woods. I don’t know how or why the idea came to me. Perhaps
it was some hidden influence from a literature class about Henry David Thoreau
and his eloquence in describing his 2-year stint of living in the woods along
Walden Pond.
“I went to the woods because I wished to live
deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not
learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had
not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did
I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live
deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like
as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close,
to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it
proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and
publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by
experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.” –
Henry D. Thoreau
Maybe it was not Thoreau, but someone much closer to
Roscommon like Marguerite Gahagan, a local scribe who ran a newspaper, The North Woods Call. She earned a fair
living writing about the woods and environmental issues. She spent her last
years in Roscommon living in the woods, writing about her favorite things;
little critters from the woods who came to her door in search of handouts that
she happily furnished.
Marguerite Mary Gahagan (June 22, 1907 – January 4, 1997)
was an award-winning journalist, author, and conservationist. She wrote, edited
and published The Northwoods Call, a weekly newspaper that became an
influential conservation publication across Michigan. Marguerite took the
approach of an investigative journalist, reporting on environmental issues in
Michigan. She operated the paper by herself for nearly 16 years, being
recognized by Time Magazine, the National Wildlife Federation, and the
Association for Women in Communications. This legacy continues in the form
of Marguerite Gahagan Nature Preserve, located at Marguerite's former
estate in Roscommon, Michigan.
Whatever the reason, I ended up
in the woods in Roscommon, drawn to its beauty as typified by its colorful
lakes, rivers and woods that dot the county like spots on a leopard. Everywhere
in the county we are no more than five miles from a body of water, so says our
tourist information.
When I first moved here, I didn’t know too much about living
in the woods. I didn’t know about black flies and how these tiny critters make
a living out of bedeviling humans. These are the ones who sneak under your
socks to suck your blood, leaving behind a poison that causes swelling and
terrific itching. After moving to Roscommon, I quickly learned that black flies
are just the prelude to the real punishment that begins with the maturation of
their friends and neighbors, mosquitoes. Big, black ones who specialize in
attacking us unwitting humans who dare set foot in THEIR woods. They are so big
that, if you could catch ‘em alive, you could saddle ‘em and charge money for
rides. I bet that neither Thoreau nor Marguerite wrote about these flying
devils.
Shortly after bug season gets in full flower, pollen season
starts. In my area of the woods, you wake up one morning to find a layer of fine yellow dust on everything you own that
sits outdoors. Your beloved outdoor hammock or lounge chair is suddenly coated
with dust that becomes slimy when wet and crusty when dry. The porch, window
frames, and all other horizontal surfaces become similarly coated. There is not
much point in cleaning it up, because you’ll have the same thing again
tomorrow. The amount of the yellow dust slowly begins to diminish after a few
weeks and becomes only a distant memory providing that the wife cleans
everything before company arrives in late spring.
One of the good things about this time of year is the spring
equinox – the date that the sun provides the most hours of sunlight during the
entire year. Even though the bugs are bad in the spring, on June 21 we get
nearly 16 hours of sunlight as the sun rises around 6 AM and sets after 9:30
PM. ‘Course, you can’t go outdoors to see either event cause the bugs are too
bad at those times.
Hard upon the last gasps of the yellow pollen snowfall is
the coming of late spring snowfall. Not the winter kind – the spring kind where
our many cotton-wood trees drop their seeds that float through the air in their
cocoons of cotton, landing on every surface that the wife just cleaned of the
nasty yellow pollen. Even the tall weeds and recalcitrant flowers in your
gardens that have been unattended because of your seasonal allergies get coated
with cotton. This year, the cotton was so pervasive that I found myself
suddenly wishing for pollen instead of cottonwood snow on everything. A shudder
of revulsion is the appropriate response here. One would begin to question my
choice of the woods were it not for the birds.
Ahh the birds. All the nastiness of spring is forgiven with
the arrival of our migrant birds beginning in early spring and extending until
summer begins. In earliest spring we begin to hear the colorful notes of
Trumpeter Swans at the river along with the unmistakable gurgle of Sandhill
Cranes flying low overhead as they search for a resting place during their
migration or settle in one of the close by fields making it a summer habitat
for long-legged birds.
Medium-sized and smaller birds also add their color and songs
to our neighborhood. My personal favorites are the barred owls who inhabit our
swampy woods and place their telephone calls at any time day or night asking
the same question over and over, “Who cooks for you?” If you listen carefully,
most times you will be rewarded with an answering call from a distant owl. The
answer is haunting especially at night as the eerie melodic answer comes
floating back on the cool night air. ‘I don’t know,’ “Who cooks for you?” These
birds are easy to fool. Many times, they will answer me as I add my shouted
rendition about cooking to their monotonous conversations.
Just now our bird feeders are featuring the daily display of
an especially colorful neighborhood resident, an Evening Grosbeak and his
family. He is large enough to match wits with our equally colorful but more
common blue jays who often spar with the grosbeaks for an available spot at the
feeders.
And so it is. The hardships of life in the North Woods are
balanced against its pleasures. I now realize that neither Thoreau nor Gahagan
were influential in my decision in moving here since I am neither able nor
willing to construct 100 word sentences as Thoreau did, nor earn a salary of any measurable sort by provocative writing as did our resident and well-known naturalist Marguerite Gagahan. But I can watch the birds and enjoy our magnificent surroundings. It is quite enough.
