How About a Little Warm?

T

here is nothing quite like a late winter blizzard to get one thinking about warm weather. Since we are just now in the middle of a dastard snowstorm, it seems an appropriate time to show a few pictures of our recent trip to warmer climes and different scenery. We spent the first half of February on The Queen Victoria traveling from Ft. Lauderdale to Las Angeles via the Panama Canal. Of course, the ship made the requisite stops at several ports to fleece the tourists in support of several nations. Accordingly, here are a few pictures and my explanation to my children about why their inheritance has shrunk to such a pitiful level.

A U.S. Navy vessel follows us through one of six locks at the canal. Three locks lifted us 88 feet above sea level to cross the continental divide, followed by our 40 mile trip across the country to the remaining three locks that lowered us to the Pacific ocean.

Contractor Hill - One of the many hills that French and American workers had to carve to make a canal through the continental divide in a land that features mountains and hills for much of its 48 miles that separates two oceans 



One of our first stops was at Aruba, the place where a few thousand drunken Dutchmen cling to a rock in the ocean. It is definitely a tourist place so we toured their single national park. We were surprised how arid their environment seems to be.

The terrain in Aruba was like Arizona with cacti and desert plants everywhere.

After the canal and Aruba we stopped next in Costa Rica where we toured a garden and completed a walk through treetops courtesy of a series of swinging bridges that connected one hill to another.

We learned that Costa Rica has more diversity of plants and animals than anywhere. On our brief walk we spotted butterflies, iguanas, bugs of all descriptions (including ants and termites everywhere), and the most amazing variety of plants that one can imagine. Even this fellow was interesting:

Our next destination was Nicaragua, another 3rd world Central American country that boasts tropical rain forests, squalid villages and little else, in my opinion. We were surprised at the poverty when we left the 'touristy' areas along the coast for a tour of a banana plantation. We ate several types of tropical fruits grown locally and all were delicious. The local beer and the rum wasn't bad either, proving that God loves these people in spite of their lack of cash.

I learned that bannas like these are grown on bushes, not trees. The plants were dense, thick bushes, 8 to 12 feet tall. The bannas are bagged to keep them clean and free of bugs as soon as they begin to grow

We left Nicaragua for Guatemala. It seemed to be a repeat of our prior stop. We only visited one tourist place selling beautiful, hand-made garments. We contributed. Their nation is now a bit wealthier.

After these places in Central America, we made multiple stops in Mexico at several ports I had never heard of. Our ship decided to skip Acapulco because of the risk of crime due to the drug cartels. I think they made a wise choice in view of the recent hold-up of tourists from a cruise ship.  At one of the ports we rafted a white-water river where we interrupted a woman and her goats at a quiet place in the river. She was washing her clothes in the river and the goats were watching us watch her. It was entertaining and I think the goats enjoyed the tourists even though the washer woman ignored

 us.                                                                                  

Rape in Roscommon

Roscommon Rape

This report is an account of a rape and the subsequent trial that occurred in Roscommon County during the 2011 Memorial Day weekend. I served as the Jury Foreman for the trial. I have changed the names of the participants in the case to protect the anonymity of the underage victim of the assault.

The victim, her family, and the rapist.

Alisa was a typical 13 year-old living in a single parent home in a Detroit suburb. Her mother, Angel, had been raising Alisa with the help of her sister, Candy, and the grandparents, Arnie and Thelma. Angel worked at Ford during the afternoon shift. She went to work each day just one hour after Alisa got home from school, only enough time to the two of them to share a Frappe at MacDonalds before Angel dropped her off at Candy’s house.

Candy loved Alisa as if she were her own daughter. She and her husband Scott had been watching over Alisa since she was a baby and it seemed as natural as water for Alisa to spend so much time with them, especially since her parents, Angel and Candy’s mom and stepdad, lived just across the street from Candy. In fact, Alisa spent almost as much time there as she did at Candy’s house and probably more time than she spent at her own home with her mom. And that was OK, 55 year old Arnie adored his granddaughter. Everyone said the family of grandparents, two daughters, one son-in-law and granddaughter Alisa were an extremely close family.

Alisa often stayed overnight at Candy’s house especially if Angel had to work overtime or if there was some other reason. One unfortunate reason for many of the 2011 ‘overnighters’ was bullying by some of Alisa’s classmates. The bullies followed her home and banged on the front door shouting obscenities. Alisa was happy to stay with Candy after those occurrences while her mom went to the school and arranged for help from the school counselor who met with Alisa several times.

One thing that made the living arrangements work at Candy’s house was Scott’s handicap. Scott had been injured in August, 2006 and two surgeries followed for repair of his back. Scott walked with a cane and his condition resulted in his being a ‘house-husband’ while Candy worked and provided the household income through her career at Chase Bank as an investment advisor. Scott had been married before he met Candy and had a son, Scott Jr. Junior, now 18, had lived with Scott and Candy on and off. Recently, he had been living in the basement of Candy’s home. Since he had once been accused of rape, Angel asked Candy if she would sleep on the couch with Alisa when Alisa stayed over. Candy readily agreed and the two spent many nights together on the sofa while Candy’s husband slept in their bed.

The assault

One thing that Scott and several members of the family enjoyed was visiting Roscommon for camping weekends. Scott had a buddy, Rick, who had access to a parcel of forest land in Roscommon County. Rick and Scott both enjoyed the same things while camping: riding four-wheelers and shooting handguns at targets propped against a small hill of sand. On Memorial Day weekend, Scott and Rick agreed to meet at the Roscommon camping site for a weekend campout. It was not an unusual plan, the two had camped there several times over the years, often with various members of Scott’s family; sometimes Angel, Candy, Alisa and others since Rick didn’t mind who came along with Scott.

This time was different. Angel had to work so she couldn’t go on the campout and Candy was studying for a test. She had to pass an examination at Chase Bank to qualify for a promotion so she decided to stay home and study. Candy thought it might be better if Alisa didn’t go either since only the two men were going and there was likely to be drinking and shooting involved. Angel decided it would be OK to let Alisa go with Scott. She said she would come to the campground on Saturday and meet up with Scott, Alisa and Rick who were leaving Thursday afternoon for Roscommon.

The trip went as planned with only a brief delay when Scott stopped enroute at Angel’s house to smoke weed with Angel. After that diversion, Scott’s trip north went without incident and he arrived at the campground to learn that Rick was already there. Scott and Alisa busied themselves in setting up camp. Alisa piled her air mattress, sleeping bag and duffle bag into a tent while Scott arranged a mattress in the back of his pick-up truck, inside the cap, just like he always did.

Since Scott and Alisa ate their dinner at Halo Burger on the way to Roscommon, neither was hungry after they set up camp. Since it was getting dark, Alisa climbed into her tent intending to read her vampire book. She discovered her mother had included a coloring book in her bag along with her clothes. She was cold. She put on a pair of sweat pants over her shorts and a tank top over her T-shirt. Still not satisfied, she put her coat on over her clothes and jammed her hands inside socks that she found in her duffel bag. She drifted off to sleep in her sleeping bag to the sound of Rick and Scott laughing as they finished a half pint of Jim Beam whiskey and then opened the half-gallon bottle that Rick furnished. In between the drinks, the men puffed on marijuana as they sat around the campfire.

It was pitch black when the men finished their drinking and smoking and the night air was cool in the middle of the Jack Pine forest in Roscommon County. After midnight, silence ruled and the thirteen year-old Alisa slept soundly. Suddenly, she awoke in the middle of the night the ferocious pain of a finger stuck in her vagina.

The Testimony

I wasn’t called with the first wave of jurors that were seated for the trial and I was beginning to hope that I could go home. The Judge and the two lawyers were relentless however, as they dismissed one juror after another and then seated replacements. Finally, my number came up as a replacement jurist and I took my place in the middle of the second row of the jury box. I faced the judge and the attorney’s rostrum that sat practically in the center of the new, spacious courtroom. As soon as I sat down the Judge asked a few perfunctory questions and then looked away as I answered. Suddenly the Judge and the lawyers seemed no longer interested in challenging and dismissing jurors. I had conjured up at least three reasons why I would be unsatisfactory as a jurist, but the Judge seemed suddenly intent on other matters so I sat silently, cursing my bad luck.

From then on, the clock seemed to move very slowly. I spent an entire morning listening to repetitious and boring legal matters that seemed of little import. Toward lunchtime, I was startled with what seemed to be a sudden announcement: “The Proscecutor calls Alisa Christian to the stand.” Apparently, the trial had begun and I was stuck as a jurist, like it or not.

A short, black-haired young woman entered the room, was sworn in, and then walked tentatively toward the witness box. She was dressed in a stylish, but conservative gray suit and she looked the part of a woman in her early twenties. I soon learned that she was Alisa, 14 years old. At the nod of the Judge, The Prosecutor stood and began questioning her. As her answers rolled out hesitantly, it became apparent that she was indeed a 14 year old, brave, but frightened little girl. The Prosecutor asked question after question to establish first her family connections and then information about the camping trip. He carefully asked her what happened in the middle of the night and what she observed when she awoke. She said it was Scott, her uncle, who was violating her. The Prosecutor asked if he was in the room and she pointed at a suited, brown haired younger man sitting at the table. Then she burst into tears.

She testified for the rest of the morning as the Prosecutor slowly and painfully drew out the details of the assault. She said that her uncle pulled her sweat pants down, removed her bra and groped her breasts, and put his knee between her legs at which time she felt another pain, this one different and higher up on her belly. Between tears she described how he forced her to stroke him, ultimately finishing his depredations upon her leg. Later, she found a wet spot on her sweat pants. She said that during the assault Scott said little beyond some unmentionable sexual ravings (my words, not hers) except that he told her it was because her aunt wouldn’t sleep with him.

He left her alone afterwards and she went to sleep. She testified that the next day she didn’t leave the tent except once. When Scott saw her out of the tent, he told her to follow him and they walked into the woods. He then pulled a handgun, pointed it at her head at point blank range, and told her she was not to tell anyone what had happened. She returned to her tent and spent the rest of the day inside, not leaving to eat or drink. The following day Scott allowed her use of his cell phone and she called her mother saying she wanted to come home. Scott told her they would leave the following day, Saturday. Again, she spent another day alone in her tent.

Candy testified that when Scott and Alisa arrived home on Saturday morning, Alisa left the truck and went directly to her Grandfather’s house. When Grandfather Arnie saw her, he asked her what was wrong. She burst into tears and gradually told her story. Candy testified that she then called her husband to the house where she confronted him with Alisa’s story. His answer confirmed to Candy that he was indeed guilty even though he denied it. “He answered in a high-pitched squeaky voice that I had never heard before. At that moment, I knew he did it, she said.” Candy said she told him that she was calling the police.

Arnie’s testimony mirrored Candy’s. Arnie added that he told Scott to get the #### (expletive deleted) out of his house. Scott left the house and then shortly left his own house, carrying with him all the camping gear and the four-wheelers that were in the trailer attached to his pick-up. Arnie said that Scott’s father arrived the following day to return the borrowed trailer. Inside the trailer were Alisa’s duffel bag and camping gear. Arnie said he stowed the gear in his locked garage.

Angel testified that the following day, Sunday, she and Alisa went to the Houghton Lake State Police Post to file a complaint against Scott. A trooper conducted an interview with Alisa concerning the assault. Alisa consented to be examined and so she went first to a hospital and then a woman’s center to have a rape kit procedure completed. It was not successful as Alisa screamed and then asked that it be stopped due to extraordinary pain from the inserted device.

Scott’s former friend Rick testified about the camping trip but he was unable to add any information concerning the assault since he was asleep when it occurred and he said he heard nothing, but that his tent was some distance from Alisa’s tent. Rick’s manner was curious in that he said he had not seen Scott since the camping trip and he expected never to see him again in view of recent events. He did not elaborate on his remarks.

Both the State Trooper and Forensic Technician from the Grayling Crime Lab testified about their investigation. Neither was able to offer proof of Scott’s guilt since insufficient physical evidence was found, the rape kit was inconclusive, and no DNA evidence was available. A key piece of evidence was missing, the sweat pants with the wet stain was not in the duffel bag when it was returned by Scott’s father.

The last to testify was Scott. The Defense Attorney interrogated him and then the Prosecutor. He sat stocially at the witness stand and answered each question in a monotone. He corroborated all of Alisa’s testimony except the assault. He said it never happened.

The Jury Deliberates

Our legal system demands that defendants are innocent until proven guilty by a jury of 12 citizens who must be unanimous in their opinion of guilt. Further, the requirement is that guilt must be established “beyond a reasonable doubt.” Clearly, our system sets a high bar to avoid punishment of the innocent.

The high standard required by law was defined further by the Judge. He furnished a nine-page set of instructions that enumerated the charges against the Defendant and listed the elements of proof needed to find him guilty. The instructions included a set of rules about evidence the jury was to consider as well as those things the jury should disregard. The rigorous set of instructions made the jury’s job harder.

I agreed to become the Jury Foreman. I called for the first vote on Scott’s guilt or innocence shortly after we began our deliberations. The vote was seven to five, nearly a perfect split. I was with the majority who believed that the assault occurred, but some felt that the evidence did not rise to the level required by law while others felt strongly that Scott was innocent.

We spent the rest of the day going over details. We decided to review the testimony concerning the missing sweat pants; we wanted to know who knew they were missing, when it was reported they were missing, who had the opportunity to remove them from the duffel bag, etc. We asked the Judge for help and he responded by reconvening the court, providing his recall of the testimony about the pants and advising that we had the right to review the transcript of any particular testimony that we wanted. We asked for and received the trooper’s testimony that was read aloud to us in open court. Neither the Judge’s recall nor the re-reading of testimony helped.

We discussed the issues. Tempers flared. Personal experiences were revealed. One juror explained that he had been wrongly accused of rape so he knew that Scott was innocent. It was an emotional and exhausting experience. Some of us had the acid taste of having being witness to an atrocious, heinous act performed on an innocent child by a trusted relative, while others saw a conspiracy between an experienced young woman and a cunning aunt.

Deliberation continued into the next day. Overnight, two jurors changed their minds. The new vote was nine to three for finding the Defendant guilty. The question became simple: Do you believe her, a 14- year old school girl, or him, a 38-year old house-husband who walks with a cane?

Finally, the jury was able to come to terms with a verdict that all supported. We found the Defendant not guilty on four of five charges that could not be proved “beyond a reasonable doubt.” On the fifth charge, the jury sided with the 14-year old, deciding that an assault did indeed occur by the Defendant, her uncle. We found him guilty of Criminal Sexual Contact, a serious charge that forever labels perpetrators as convicted sexual predators. At the end of the trial, the Defendant was returned to jail to await sentencing. After much soul-searching, I am pleased to report that our legal system works and we now have one less predator on the streets. Hurrah!

So, Why was Roscommon County Named for an Irish County?

Type the word “Roscommon” into Google and the first result will be County Roscommon, Ireland. Of course, we  who live in Roscommon Michigan know they are wrong, even though Irish people have played a key role in the development of the United States. During its formative years, our nation needed hardy pioneers to populate its vast territories and the Irish came. After our nation became established, the repressed Irish saw it as a place of freedom and opportunity. The result was a massive immigration of Irish to North America. In 1845, the already heavy Irish immigration exploded when the poor people of Ireland suffered with the Potato Famine and left their native land in waves.

The list of famous Irish people in the United States is long and impressive and includes some names you may not have guessed. Buffalo Bill, Davy Crockett, President Andrew Jackson, and Billy the Kid were all Irish. In fact, the U. S. now has at least 10 times more folks claiming to be Irish than Ireland itself.

It is not surprising then, that many place names in the United States have been given Irish names since the early settlers had such a high proportion of Irish among them. The State of Michigan was no exception as Irish flocked here in search of opportunities that were not available in their native lands.

The first territorial governor of Michigan, Lewis Cass, turned to his friends and associates for help in organizing the vast wilderness of the region to meet the requirements of statehood specified by the Northwest Ordinance of 1787. One of the requirements was the establishment of counties with local government. The process began with land surveys to establish county borders. After that, counties were named and officials appointed to operate the fledgling local governments.

In 1815, Michigan organized its first county around its largest city, Detroit. It was named Wayne County in honor of “Mad Anthony” Wayne, the famous general who helped win The Northwest Territory from Indians. Thereafter, other counties were surveyed and organized as the region gradually filled with people.

Two years later, Monroe County (next to Wayne County) was organized and named and, important to our story, Michilimackinaw, was organized and named in 1818. A large wave of counties was named in 1829; eight of them named for President Andrew Jackson and members of his cabinet: Barry, Berrien, Branch, Calhoun, Eaton, Ingham, Van Buren.

The Michigan legislature was ultimately responsible for naming Michigan counties and it accepted recommendations from anyone who cared to offer a name. One of the early namers of counties in northern Michigan was Henry Schoolcraft, protégé of Territorial Governor Lewis Cass. Schoolcraft had published several texts about Native Americans and he sought to name many of Michigan’s northern counties for famous Indians who lived in the area. The young Michigan legislature seemed to agree with Schoolcraft’s ideas as they adopted several Indian names for northern counties including the name Mikenauk for our county. That name was short-lived.

Schoolcraft was mightily disappointed in 1840 when the legislature changed the names of 16 counties and gave five of them names from Ireland as replacements for Indian names. Four of the new names chosen were from counties in Ireland: Antrim, Clare, Roscommon and Wexford. A fifth name, Emmet, was chosen to honor one of Ireland’s most important figures, Robert Emmet.

When I learned these facts during research for my book, The Early History of Roscommon County, it seemed strange to me that Irish names would be favored over those of Native Americans. I decided to complete further inquiries on the matter when time and opportunity permitted. This fall the opportunity arose when I scheduled a vacation tour of The Republican of Ireland. The next series of my blogs is the result of many inquiries and that trip. I hope you will enjoy learning about our connection to County Roscommon, Ireland as much as I did, especially our connection with Roscommon Betty, The Pirate Queen, and Charlie O’Malley.

Michigan’s Emmet County is named for Irish Hero Robert Emmet

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Young Robert Emmet

Robert Emmet was an Irish patriot and martyr who led an uprising against the British rulers of Ireland in 1803. The revolt failed miserably, but the young Emmet became famous across Ireland in song and verse. Emmet gained fame across Ireland after he faced execution for his rebellion yet decided to remain in Ireland to be close to his fiancée. On Sept. 19, 1803, the government brought Emmet to trial. Before sentencing, Emmet brilliantly defended his nationalism. He said he was prepared to die for the future of Irish freedom, closing with the words: "Let no man write my epitaph…. When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written." He was 23 when he was sentenced to death and hung.

Ireland in Depth

So how was I to know that there are two Irelands? I quickly learned there are: The Republic of Ireland and its nearest neighbor, Northern Ireland. We visited the larger Republic of Ireland, an independent state covering the lower 80% of the island and not the six counties comprising Northern Ireland that surround Belfast and remain a part of England. The most important tourist sites are in the lower part, The Republic of Ireland.

We began our tour in the port city of Galway on the west coast at the base of the famed Galway Bay, that expanse of water forever immortalized by Bing Crosby. From there we circumnavigated the island ending our visit in the largest of its cities, Dublin. We liked the smaller cities and the beautiful countryside best, especially the never-ending parade of small farms and expansive pasture fields. There are surely more sheep and cows in Ireland than people.

Galway was an engaging small city that seemed big with its hundreds of tiny shops and historical venues. Many of the storefronts were original, medieval buildings made from stone. The most interesting was the front of a house owned by a Lord Mayor of the city several hundred years ago. The Lord Mayor gained renown after he used the upper window of his house as a gallows to hang a criminal accused of murdering a Spanish sailor. Since the Spanish were the most important trading partners of the Galway Irish, the Lord Mayor was not about to let anything interfere with continued success in trade. Besides, he said, he loved justice and the Spanish demanded retribution.

The problem was that Galway’s executioner refused to carry out the hanging. The reason: the criminal was the Lord Mayor’s son. The Lord Mayor decided that if the Public Executioner wouldn’t do his job, he would perform the task himself. He did and the deed was forever recorded in history. The name of the dedicated politician who executed his own son by hanging – Lord Mayor Lynch.

Galway’s Cathedral (in a town of 15,000 people)

After Galway we visited the region of Connemara to the north and learned about the Irish potato famine of 1845. The potato blight and the actions of the wealthy landowners resulted in the deaths of a million Irish people and the immigration of another million. A large share of the immigrants came to the U.S. in their desperate search for food. One of the moving sites that we saw was a monument to U.S. citizens who collected money to support the Irish during the famine and emigration. The U. S. citizens who helped were identified, they were Choctaw Indians who had endured similar, unspeakable hardships as a result of eviction from their native lands some years earlier.

Sculpture Commemorating Irish Famine

One of the most beautiful spots we visited was Kylemore Abbey, a former castle owned by a wealthy Irishman who spent a fortune for his wife. Sadly, she died at age 46 shortly after the castle was completed. The castle was fronted by a lake and surrounded by beautiful gardens. Interestingly, the construction of the castle was one of the few projects completed during the famine and the owner helped provide work for many hungry Irish during the several years of its construction.

Kylemore Abbey

Of course, no visit to Ireland would be complete without a visit to Blarney Castle. I decided not to kiss the Blarney stone as I preferred to avoid the slobber, lipstick and drool from the thousand or who bent over backwards to kiss the stone for its gift of blarney. Marjorie said I have enough already.

Blarney Castle

One of the best things about our tour was our tour director who gave us a running commentary on Ireland during our bus rides. He explained current events and noted that Ireland has the best government money could buy. He said the Irish are easily confused. For instance, you can confuse an Irishman by leaning two shovels against a wall and telling him to take his pick. He made our tour convenient also. He directed the bus driver to park anywhere after turning on his “park-anywhere flashers.”

The Dingle Peninsula in the southwest of the island offers the most attractive scenery anywhere as the tall cliffs and rolling hillsides frame the ocean with all its colors.

Pasture lands along the coastal area of Dingle

We enjoyed watching a sheep dog in action at one of the many farms. The Border Collies that are used are fearless in controlling the sheep and work their hearts out for nothing more than an occasional head pat from the master.

Another beautiful spot on the island is the famed county and national park named Kilarney. (Numerous sites in North America have been named after Kilarney.) Kilarney hosts three lakes and a river and is surrounded by mountains. It is not nearly as large as some of our national parks but it is impressive for a small island nation that is the approximate size of Indiana.

Looking Down at one of Kilarney’s Lakes

U.S. history is inextricable linked to Ireland’s past because of the huge numbers of Irish immigrants to our shores. Many of our political leaders, sports figures, entertainers and other notorious folks are of Irish descent. Many Irish expressions and place names have come into our language. When we visited the village of Cove (the last port of call of Titanic and Lusitania) we learned that a famous warrior, Strongbow, traveled there to provide support during a rebellion. Strongbow told his Irish hosts that he would arrive by sea at one of two nearby landing sites. “I’ll land either by Hook or by Crook,” he said, referring to nearby landing sites.

Memorial to Titanic Passengers at Cove

One of the noted Irish sites that we didn’t visit were the Aran Islands off the coast. (One of our party was a man who writes for a fishing magazine. He visited the islands during our tour to go fishing.) The islands are noted for fishing and for the wonderful wool sweaters that originated from there. The story of the sweaters is worth repeating.

The islanders who lived on the islands have always been ocean-going fishermen who ventured out in small boats. Like many coastal areas, the sea can become rough in a matter of minutes and being caught out in small boats can be life threatening. Bodies lost at sea were sometimes recovered months later with only a vestige of the original flesh remaining. The wives solved the problem of identifying remains by sending their husbands out with distinctive sweaters that were knitted with unique designs. Nowadays, the sweaters are knitted for tourists like me that show off the skills of the knitters.

Our tour ended at Dublin, capital city of The Republic of Ireland. Dublin had less to offer me than the other towns since it is like other modern cities around the globe with the possible exception that it seems to have more pubs per square mile than other places.
And of course they are all wonderful with their emphasis on old furnishings, old buildings and old music played by musicians who seem to enjoy playing. The beer isn’t bad either.

Guinness Tanker Heading into the Brewery for a Refill – we were following.

We liked Ireland and the folks there seemed to like us. We recommend it as a vacation spot.

Grandpa Bill

Sept. North Woods Journal

North Woods Journal

September, 2011

1

The Great Exploration & Fishing Trip of 2011

Having just returned in one piece from our 2011

camping/fishing/exploration venture in the

North Woods, it is time for me to unleash my

pen while you settle back for an account of the

rigors and adventure of a true tale in the true

north.

We prepared for our adventure some weeks

ago as we sorted through our old survival gear.

We felt we needed to be fully prepared for

exposure to black flies, wild animals, and long

periods with inadequate food and drink, not to

mention chance encounters with half-crazed

humans. And those risks would be just with the

drive to the woods.

Our destination was Algonquin Provincial Park

in northeast Ontario: 5 hours north of Toronto,

2 hours east of the Georgian Bay and just south

of the river used by the voyagers in their quest

for North American furs. Our itinerary was to

paddle from west to east on two rivers and

three lakes for a distance of some 40 miles.

Embarkation Point: Little Tea Lake.

This route was suggested by our outfitter. He

sealed the choice of routes when he offered me

the use of his fishing pole since I had forgotten

mine. “Good fishing,” he opined as he counted

my money for the fishing license. It turned out

that he was something of a sadist; giving me a

fishing pole with two exposed treble hooks and

then delivering us to the starting point an hour

and a half distant by car He chuckled as he

dropped off the canoes and hurried away

before we had a chance to discuss the option of

returning home and lying to our friends about

completing the trip.

Consigned to our fate, we drug our heavy gear

to the canoe, loaded it without sinking the boat,

and began our epic adventure on the first of

several lakes. It was pleasant the first hour and

as I paddled I imagined myself a voyager loaded

with furs headed toward Mackinaw and a cash

reward. The second hour was a little less

pleasant; the first lake seemed unending and

the canoe was moving awfully slowly. Finally,

we reached the far shore to discover that the

route to the next lake was via a river and the

river had several impassable rapids.

The solution was to unload the canoe, shoulder

the gear and hike around the rapids and then

back to the river. Simple, eh? Not so simple if

the path around the rapids is up a hill, through

the forest and over a rock-strewn path that no

self-respecting voyager would ever use more

than once, or so it seemed to me. Nevertheless,

there was no cure for it and so I proceeded to

carry the gear including the awkward fishing

North Woods Journal

September, 2011

2

pole with the treble hooks dangling close to my

face. When I arrived at the river after the first of

three rapids I discovered that there was no

ferrying service for our canoe. I retraced my

steps…

and carried the canoe over the hill, through the

forest and around the rocks to the river,

entirely forgetting the part about the voyagers

and how much fun I was having.

The next paddle down the river was entirely too

short as we came to another of those #

^&!%d

rapids and the big rocks that impeded our

progress. So it was back to the unloading,

carrying, etc.

Stopped by the rocks and rapids

After three portages on the river and a weed

filled channel that grabbed my paddle on every

stroke, we finally made it to Big Tea Lake. Our

aim was to camp on one of the many islands

that dotted the lake. Mercifully, we found one

without too much difficulty and so one more

time I unloaded the boat, carried the gear and

lifted, eerrr… dragged the canoe ashore for a

much needed rest and evening cocktails. I was

too tired to fish so I dropped the fishing pole

along with the gear and suddenly noticed that

the treble hooks had ensnared the fabric of the

straps of my pack.

The air all around turned blue for a moment

while I considered the impact of spending a

night in the tent with a fishing pole thrust

through the door while it was firmly connected

to some of my equipment. I might have left that

situation till morning if I had been able to get to

my food. Since the prospect of an evening

without suste

nance wasn’t appealing, I

searched through my gear to discover my trusty

knife with 14 special blades and began to

extricate my pack from the clutches of the

fishing pole. Ultimately, I was successful so that

the evening passed without further frustration

and I was able to nurse my sore muscles.

The next day came early and so we broke camp,

loaded gear and began the paddle toward the

next lake. After an hour of paddling, we came to

the end of Big Tea Lake and found the portage

that led to the next lake, Manitou. This

thousand foot portage carried us up the

obligatory hill and then down to the lake where

we spread our eatables on a large grey rock and

had our lunch of tuna, cold lake water, and a

few cookies that were only partially crushed by

the weight of the pack.

North Woods Journal

September, 2011

3

We found another island in Manitou Lake

where we stopped to set up camp. After dinner

I snapped the fishing pole together for an

expected pleasant evening spent in reeling in a

few lunkers for the following day’s meal. After

less than a dozen casts I felt a tug on the line.

Surely I had a big one. I tugged the line and it

seemed to tug back. I waited a moment but the

line went quiet. I tugged again and the line

seemed firm so I waited once more.

After several minutes of this back and forth

tugging, it finally dawned on me that the treble

hooks had once again become ensnared. This

time the offending ensnarement was either a

large rock or a log at the bottom of the lake.

“Ah ha!” I chortled, as I determined that no

simple log or rock would destroy my fishing and

my chance for immortality in capturing the

largest fish of season. I was wrong. In the event,

I walked down the beach, stumbled on some

rocks and broke the fishing line with my one

and only borrowed lure still firmly engaged in

holding fast to a sunken obstacle put there by

the devil.

I spent the evening by the fire, calculating the

cost of the lost lure and the excuse that I would

generate for having lost it. The aggravation was

lost when the sun went down to reveal a

greater pleasure:

The next day was like the previous: more

paddling and carrying of gear. In early afternoon

the weather had changed for the worse and we

decided to camp early.

Clouds come to earth with rain

The rain brought storms and wind making us

wind-bound to our island. It wasn

’t at all

unpleasant as we played games, read books,

and relaxed our sore muscles. The wind lifted

the next day to reveal a perfectly calm lake,

ideal for continuing our journey.

Calm water for rest of the journey

North Woods Journal

September, 2011

4

We paddled to the end of Manitou Lake for

another river and another series of portages.

One was the longest of our trip, nearly 1200

meters or ¾ of a mile. By this time our muscles

had grown accustomed to the insults of

portaging and so the up and downhill trips were

manageable. However, at one of the portages, I

noticed that my pack had fallen over.

Unfortunately, the unlucky fishing pole now

minus the lure with the nasty treble hooks, was

lying beside the pack when it fell.

I noticed something different when I reached to

pick up my pack and the rest of the gear

including the fishing pole - the spinning reel

came apart in my hand. That

&-$33@d heavy

pack had broken the reel clean into two pieces!

Now I had to face the sadist again and pay for

his broken reel. No doubt he would claim that it

was an expensive reel; probably not suitable for

use by an inexperienced camping tenderfoot

and it was too bad that the broken reel and lost

lure had spoiled my fishing. Then he would

assume a troubled look as he collected my

money and mentally catalogued a funny story

for his fellow outfitters during the winter

’s

drinking. The shame of it all!

Instantly, it all came together for me. When we

finished our trip in two more days I strode

confidently to the outfitter with my wallet in

hand to pay for the damaged reel and lost lure.

“

You were right,” I said. “The fishing was great. I

would

’a landed him but he was so big he plum

broke this old reel of yours. What do I owe?

”

Grandpa BIll