Last Camping Trip

 

 

 

Marjorie and I just finished our last camping trip of the year and it was a doozy, making the two of us all tuckered out. The trip began innocently enough – we wanted to help celebrate our Granddaughter’s introduction to college after her first six weeks away from home. The school where she now resides happily complied for a family visit by means of their Homecoming celebration.

The Granddaughter is at her new college, now known at Michigan Tech, or, more properly, Michigan Technological University, but formerly, Michigan College of Mining and Technology. I think the former name is most appropriate since it began as a school for engineers who were charged with the responsibility of operating copper and/or iron ore mines for the riches that lay underground in Michigan’s far reaches of the Upper Peninsula. In the case of Mich Tech, the school is in the town of Houghton, sister city to Hancock which lays on the north shore of the Portage River which bisects the Keweenaw Peninsula.

(For those of us who are Michiganders, the Keweenaw Peninsula looks like the dorsal fin of a fish whose outline is the northernmost portion of Upper Peninsula. Its location is as far north as you can go and still be in Michigan). The fish fin is an apt representation of the area since the Keweenaw juts north from Michigan into Lake Superior. The big lake washes the shores of the Keweenaw on three sides making the land form a favorite for those outdoorsy types.

Indians who lived in the area and paddled their canoes along the southern shore of Lake Superior sought out a short cut (as anyone would, given the cold water and frequent brisk winds) and they found a lake and several Keweenaw rivers that allowed a shortcut that bisected the entire peninsula, hence the name Keweenaw, meaning ‘the crossing place or portage.’ The name stuck - the river that bisects and separates the two towns of Hancock and Houghton is now known as the Portage River. Houghton took its name from Douglas Houghton, he who was Michigan’s first state Geologist who made important contributions in locating copper deposits in the Keweenaw. Douglas became a martyr for that work, unfortunately drowning in the turbulent waters as he searched the Keweenaw for copper.

I am furnishing this geography lesson to explain about being tuckered out via the travel needed to arrive at Michigan Tech. The school is 550 miles from Detroit, (about 10 hours travel time), about 480 miles from Chicago, 260 miles from Mackinaw, and about equidistant from Milwaukee and Roscommon at 300 plus miles or six hours travel time during good weather with good traffic conditions, neither of which we had during our last camping trip.

The towns of Houghton and Hancock are situated on the Portage River in the approximate center of the peninsula where a ridge of mountains decorate each side of the river. There is no flat land in either Houghton or Hancock. Both towns were first located on the tiny portion of flat land that serves as the flood plain for the river. Beyond this scarce spot the earth protrudes upward at a fearsome angle for walkers, bicyclists (most need to walk their bikes), and motorcyclists and pity those who leave the flat lands on skates, skate boards, one wheels, or other mechanical people movers that are common in most colleges. Accordingly, walking is the only practical means of transport throughout the villages. It is a good thing that students are young.

In case you are wondering, the answer is yes, Michigan does have some flat areas that are entirely suitable for cities. Only God knows why the earliest citizens of Houghton and Hancock decided to build their homes and a sizable university in the midst of the hills on either side of the river. The ridiculous nature of the sites for homes, businesses, and college buildings clinging perilously to the sides of the hills became even more obvious with the advent of automobiles and the consequent demand for roads running upward at ridiculous angles. Driving on any of the streets in the towns requires both good brakes and powerful engines.

Our camping place was 10 miles distant from Houghton/Hancock since all other camping sites and hotels and motels were sold out due to the popularity of the Homecoming events. The 10 mile distant McLean State Park was a pleasant campground with unsurpassed views of the lake and river. The road taking us to the campground followed the river to its conclusion on the northwest shore of the Keweenaw. The river has a lot of curves that the road follows, making the trip slower than expected. For the three days that we camped, this necessitated a twice daily trip to the campus to visit with and/or return our Granddaughter to her dorm. Of course, we did the camping thing in the evenings as we tended our sore muscles in front of a brisk campfire that helped a little in warding off the cool breezes.

After three days of visiting and sight-seeing and eating marshmallows our trip to the college came to an end and we were ready for a quiet and uneventful trip home. It didn’t quite work out that way. We expected the trip home to be a duplicate to the arrival trip – about eight hours in length when we included two stops for diesel fuel to refill our tank, and three stops to load and then unload food and drinks for the two of us. The trip to the college was mostly uneventful with clear weather and fast traffic. The trip home was not so much of that since a steady rain began spreading over much of northern Michigan just as we were ready to leave. I slowed down to accommodate the now hazardous roadway since I was pulling a 10,000 pound trailer.

Things began looking up when the weather cleared as we came nearer St. Ignace and the Big Mac bridge. By this time, we had added an extra hour to the homeward trip with the slower travel occasioned by the rain. But, our spirits were high when we began reaching familiar territory around the straits. And then the unthinkable happened. About five miles west of St. Ignace on highway 2, traffic began to slow. Within five minutes it stopped. Dead flat stopped. We were in the middle of nowhere with several thousand cars ahead of us and a few hundred behind us, all wondering what had happened.

The traffic started moving again. My estimate was that we were now traveling at the speed of 2 miles an hour and I was forced to move only inches before stopping. The idle speed of the vehicle was too fast. I had to brake every moment or two. After 20 minutes of this travel, we finally could see what we thought was the end of the congestion at an exit that must have been at least two miles ahead. We were wrong – it wasn’t the end of the congestion; it was the beginning of additional congestion as the road veered toward St. Ignace and the bridge. In the haze of the distant bridge entryway, we could see the most hated thing ever for motorists like me - road construction barrels.

Highway 2 was a two lane road at this point and drivers began to jockey for position with some opting to stay in the right lane while others of us pretended to see advantages in the left lane. In the distance was the exit from highway 2 on the right side of the road. Only one lane was available on the entrance to the bridge forcing us left hand drivers to begin sizing up the drivers on our right and whether they would allow us into their lane. It was like a low speed game of chicken where the left hand land drivers would measure the length of their vehicles against the quickly shifting openings on the right. I had a stroke of good luck when automobile drivers gave a wide birth to the huge semi-truck and trailer on my right. It seemed a natural move for me to squeeze my truck and 38 foot trailer into the vacuum the semi had left in its wake. It was probably a risky move but the reward was that we could now see the bridge, less than another mile ahead. My watch said we had been in the line up nearly 1 and ½ hours.

“This isn’t supposed to happen,” I said aloud in another of my understatements. As we inched toward the bridge the problem became apparent: there were too many cars and trucks trying to negotiate the bridge entry way that now had fewer lanes since the construction of new lanes was underway with work trucks, tools, and construction barrels now being stored on the roadway. Presumably, someone in the Road Commission had made the judgement that beginning work on a new lane to the bridge entryway would be an acceptable change after the conclusion of the Labor Day.

It wasn’t acceptable to the several thousand of us who were trying to use the bridge.

We made it home after a ten-hour trip with no dinner and bulging bladders. We decided that this would be our last camping trip of the season. In retrospect, it wasn’t all that bad; it was just one more brick on the wall.

Stay happy,

Uncle Bill

 

Cutting Firewood

 

I’m Sort of a Cut-Up …

 

  …both figuratively and literally. The literal sense is that I supply my needs for firewood from the dead and dying trees on my river-side property. That task, of course, requires a fair amount of labor to cut-up the logs into wood stove – sized pieces. The story behind this began in my previous home in Clarkston, Michigan where I built a family room addition to my two-story colonial home that I and my family lived in for 30 years before my retirement. Since the new room was an add-on and since I had promoted myself Chief Engineer for all matters pertaining to heat and light, I decided that adding a wood stove in the new room would yield the twin advantages of saving heat dollars and providing a soft glow on those cold winter evenings that were so common in our area.

Fast forward 37 years to my retirement when it seemed that prospective buyers of our house weren’t interested in a home with a wood stove prominently displayed in the family room. Accordingly, I removed the stove and all traces of its presence including the piles of firewood stacked under the apple trees along the side of the lawn, before listing the home for sale. Then, just about the time that the realty firm wanted to show the home, we had a ferocious storm that dropped dozens of limbs and a few trees from the score of Black Locust trees that adorned our back yard.

Surely, no one would want to buy a house that had downed trees and limbs in the back yard. Or, at least, the mess in the back would reduce the amount buyers would be willing to spend. The only solution I could think of was for me to clean up the mess ASAP. For that, I needed a chain saw. Off to the chain saw shop I went. Unfortunately, a large gaggle of men had the same idea as me. The store was jammed and it seemed that every man who left the shop was carrying a chain saw out the door.

I managed to nab a sales clerk. “That one hanging on the wall is the last one I have,” he said. It was an overpriced saw, too large and too heavy for the work I had to do. Clearly, it wasn’t what I wanted to pay nor was it the small, lightweight saw that I envisioned taking home. I watched as another buyer crept toward the saw on the wall.

“I’ll take it,” I told the salesman.

And so it was that I became owner of a large, heavy, professional style chain saw that I was coerced into using, until yesterday’s death of the old girl. You may be thinking that my purchase of the saw had worked out OK since I have been using it for the last 20 years. But not so fast. The heavy old thing did not die from overuse nor was it the result of some lack of maintenance. The truth is I killed it. Not intentionally -it was more like an accident that was not my fault. Here's a picture of the dead saw. You’ll see that it has been crushed.

What happened was that I was in the midst of falling a large dead tree, trying to make it fall in a direction away from the road, but still accessible for cutting into smaller pieces. I know how to do such a thing, but this time my cutting of a notch must have been slightly off-kilter. I was minding my business during the final stage of cutting and suddenly the tree started falling in the wrong direction. I made haste to escape. The heavy chain saw wasn’t so lucky. I must have dropped it as I beat a hasty retreat away from the falling behemoth. The largest girth of the tree fell directly on the running saw. When I returned to the scene I found the saw, still running, despite having a tree laying atop of it.

I turned off the saw and then attempted a removal. It didn’t budge. Even my choicest swear words didn’t’ help dislodge the damned … durn thing. “Aha,” I said to myself as I had used up all my choicest swear words, “I’ll go to the barn and retrieve my longest and heaviest bar that I can position under the tree, then l can use it to
 to free the saw.” I made the trip to the barn and back and I put the bar in a position to lift the downed log. After I bent the long and heavy pole, I returned it to its place in the barn.

For my next idea, I decided on using the diesel truck to move the heavy log. Making another trip to the garage and then the barn to retrieve a stout rope, I determined that the rope wasn’t long enough since the truck couldn’t get close enough to the log. I made another trip to the barn for more rope. This one was long enough, but one other problem became apparent after I had secured the rope to the truck and the log: the downed log was wedged against a small tree that had recklessly chosen to grow in the pathway leading to the truck. I pondered the problem and arrived at the potential solution of using the truck to pull on the log, hopefully getting enough motion that would allow me to retrieve the crushed saw while I had adequate tension on the log.

I climbed into the truck and slowly pulled forward. Of course, the big truck moved forward with no hint of a thousand-pound log* inhibiting its forward movement. When I concluded that I surely must have gone far enough, I shifted the truck gear into park, jumped from the running truck and beat it back to the log, reaching under the log to wrestle the crushed saw away from its partial burial in the soft soil. It worked. I beat it back to the truck and slowly moved it backwards before something bad happened.

I took the crushed saw back to its home in the barn. It didn’t take much pondering to decide that something bad had already happened: the saw was ruined.

*I don’t really know how much it weighed but it seemed like a thousand pounds

The next day I went to a chainsaw store intent on buying a new, lightweight saw that I could use around my forest of heavy, dead oak trees. The salesman was effective. He sold me the latest saw that had several new features compared to my old saw. Unfortunately, the new features added extra weight to the saw. Here is a picture of the new saw that looks very much like the old saw. Who would have guessed?

I keep you appraised of progress after I take another shot at the big oak log laying near the road. You are right … I may be a slow learner.

 

Growing Peas

 

I like peas. Over the years, I have grown as muc
h as we can eat during the few weeks that they are in season in my small garden. I like snow peas even better than regular peas for several reasons. One important reason is that they don’t become starchy if you wait too long between picking and eating.

My occasional problem with regular peas was that I was in charge of the growing and the picking while my roommate was in charge of the cooking and serving. Sometimes, our schedules for preparing the little green peas were not coordinated, causing my peas to lose flavor during storage a sort of ‘starchy’ taste predominated over their normal flavor.

One year I decided to grow snow peas – the kind where you eat the pods as well as the tasty baby peas growing within. Preparation of these peas is easier inasmuch as no effort is needed to separate the pea from its convenient container, a boring, tedious job my mother often assigned to me, a task she called ‘shelling the peas.’ Now, some fifty years later, I have finally figured out how to dispense with that troublesome task by substituting snow peas for the regular kind.

So, I changed from regular peas to snow peas after the first successful year. This year must have been the 4^th or 5^th year of growing snow peas, so I was prepared for the task of planting, constructing a support system for the tender vines, and harvesting the peas for dinner when they were ready to eat, picking only a small amount that was large enough to enjoy as a vegetable fresh from the garden.

By now, you may be wondering what about this year’s crop of peas justifies a blog occupying both my time and yours. Here’s the skinny: You can’t believe what is written on the seed packages. Before I planted the latest round of peas, I carefully read the planting instructions, determined to follow their recommendations, notwithstanding my hard-won expertise in gardening. The package clearly stated that support for the growing peas was needed, but that the trellis wanted was short and simple since these peas only attained a height of 28 inches.

“Ha,” I said aloud. “I can make a simple pole system from my existing supply of 2 X 2 - inch poles that I have secreted in my barn.” I jumped into the task. Since the poles needed to extend only to a height of 28 inches, in almost no time I had prepared a simple framework of poles surrounding the seed bed where my newly purchased seeds were growing just below the surface of the prepared soil.

It has turned out that my peas must not have read the package instructions, most of the plants attained a height of well over 28 inches, provoking the uppermost foliage to bend over, becoming entangled and hiding the tender little peas. In addition to the unseemly appearance of the plants, the entanglement also complicated picking of the pods that shared the same color as the plant’s leaves, resulting in many of the little devils managing to hide among the seeming thousands of plant leaves. The consequence was that some of the tasty peas weren’t, since they got too big, too old, too soon.

So, there it is. Another burden I have to bear in my continuing quest of gardening for fun and healthy nutrition. I thought you might want to know how us North Woods retirees spend our time on complicated subjects like growing peas or flower-less Hydrangeas … (more about that later).

Squirrels, Blackbirds, Mallards and Lester

 

Springtime at the Tudor household brings with it a gaggle, a murder, and/or a flock of birds that have called my pond home, or at least, a place to hang out. One of the important attractions of the raucous gang that shows up most mornings is the adjacent bird feeder that I dutifully fill. My aim is to attract colorful song birds that stop for lunch during migration, or for longer periods depending upon their habits. This spring was no exception. A diverse mix of animals gathered here this spring just as in previous years. Thus far, our warmer weather has brought forth the expected bevy of birds; some wanted, others not so much, just as in previous springs.

Over the years we have had a number of unexpected, and a few unwanted birds. The unwanted critters have been mostly domesticated birds who were not sufficiently corralled. They came from somewhere in the neighborhood, ending up at my pond and my bird feeder. A few years ago, one of my neighbors decided to raise guineas. After only a few days one of the guineas found my pond and quickly explained its location to the rest of the flock, and gave them details about the free bird feed found on the ground below the feeder. Suddenly, the bird seed began disappearing at an alarming rate courtesy of the guinea flock that began a daily raid. The raids ended when the flock disappeared. I don’t remember how or why, only that the owner of the birds stopped their pilgrimages to my feeder somehow. It was probably a sad story involving large dinners cooked at home.

The next major surprise happened the following summer when a large peacock decided to roost on my porch railing – the railing that overlooks the pond and feeder. He was an interesting critter to watch for a few days that suddenly became weeks. The last straw of his visits occurred when he began leaving his droppings on the porch that the railing protected. I managed his departure by engaging the owner of a nearby zoo.

“How would you like to add a wayward peacock to your menagerie of animals?” I asked innocently. He paused. “For free,” I quickly added. That seemed to convince him. We arranged for him to come pick up the bird after I had safely corralled him without damage to his beautiful tail.

Fortunately, I had met a farm boy who knew how to obtain a turkey dinner without firing a shot. He explained that he had been feeding a flock of wild turkeys with corn. He used a metal pan to carry shelled corn to the birds, shaking the pan as he approached them. After some while, the birds associated the noise from the metal pan as the signal for food. Thus trained, he said it was a simple matter to shake the pan as he entered his enclosed bird pen with the birds closely following. He closed the door to the pen while the greedy birds were feeding on the grain he had scattered. Thereafter he had turkey dinners on a regular basis.

I decided to use a slight variation of his ruse for capturing the peacock. Lacking an enclosed bird pen, I made a trail of corn to the man door of my garage that I had left ajar. Inside the garage I had sprinkled a handful of grain. The peacock seemed to have the same mindset as the turkeys, the cock of the walk followed me inside while I made a phone call to the zoo keeper. The keeper came to my garage and captured the bird. He showed me how. Once he had wrapped his arms around the bird to prevent the flapping wings from damage, he used his other hand to grasp the bird’s legs. Once he had the legs in hand, he flipped the bird upside down and the animal became instantly docile, submitting to the zoo keeper and his cage in the back of his pick-up.

This year we’ve had neither peacock, guinea, nor wild turkey, but another interesting bird who has been regularly visiting our feeder: this year the surprise is a chicken. A big black one. The big bird arrives at our feeder through the forest that surrounds the pond, thus hiding his neighborhood home. At first, we thought it was a hen as we watched the critter dig into the soft soil to make what seemed to be a roost, nestling in place like it wanted to lay an egg. Then it crowed. Its first attempt at crowing was a hoot. It seemed not to know how to crow as the best it could do was a scratchy whistle, repeating the attempt several times before giving up. That was several days ago. In the intervening period he has become better at crowing, throwing his head back and emitting a loud screech for several seconds. For some reason, the sound brings a smile to my face. 

I call him Lester. Yesterday Lester was feeding at his customary spot, quickly pecking at the cracked corn that I had sprinkled around the base of the feeder. The usual assemblage of critters joined Lester and each seemed to be competing in collecting the corn and the myriad sunflower seeds that the wild song birds were throwing to the ground from the feeder above. The assembly included two squirrels (one gray fox squirrel and one super-speedy red squirrel who can’t seem to get along with anyone) one drake from the pond, a dozen blackbirds, and the biggest of the assembly, Lester. Each of the critters ignored the others except for the red squirrel who irritated everyone else. They were fun to watch. They ate most of the corn and seeds in one morning.

The following day Lester was alone at the feeder. He soon began crowing. His meaning was unmistakable – he wanted more corn. I got up from my easy chair and secured several cups of cracked corn. I must have been too slow as Lester had wandered away by the time I arrived at the feeding station. That was when I decided he was to be forever known as Lester. I called out to him, Lester, Lester, Lester. It was enough, he came running over to me, afraid, it seemed, at that other birds, squirrels, or ducks might steel what was rightfully his. I watched as he pecked the ground furiously before I could pick up my bucket. I don’t think he even noticed my leaving.

I’ll keep you appraised about how Lester is doing as the spring turns into summer.

---

 [WT1]

 

This blog is intended for only a certain cadre of Northwoods Journaal Readers, more specifically, Trunk-slammers, Snow birds, Down-staters, Cottagers, Distant relatives, and Other friends who live in warmer climes including those who fear winter in the north woods.

 

 

The End of Winter in the North Woods

 

Today, April 11, 2023 at 4:30 PM, I am officially declaring that winter is dead. The signs are unmistakable, our bird feeder is inundated with black birds, robins have begun singing at ungodly hours in the morning, and a chicken has found our wild-bird feeder. (The hungry, oversized chicken apparently prefers my seed menu for wild birds as she has been stealing our cracked corn and sunflower seed mix, causing me the necessity of refilling the feeder daily.)

Not all the detritus of winter is gone. I still have patches of snow remaining in my lawn. This, despite today’s 70-degree weather and sunshine that will undoubtedly cause sunburn among our citizens who have forgotten what sunshine is, not to mention the havoc it can cause on unprotected skin. Other hints of Spring are the daffodils that have shown their interest in my gardening skills as many are now peaking their heads through what used to be known as a lawn.

Daffodowndilly,

 

 

By A.A. Milne

 

She wore her yellow sun-bonnet,

She wore her greenest gown,

She turned to the south wind,

And curtsied up and down,

She turned to the sunlight,

And shook her yellow head,

And whispered to her neighbor,
“Winter is dead”

 

But the biggest hint at the end of winter is our road. The gravel portion of our road passes directly in front of my lawn and mail box and each winter it shows the result of packed snow that seemingly cannot be removed by our County’s Road Commission Trucks with their gigantic plows. The consequence of this failure is that the snowpack turns into ice that grows thicker and thicker during the long winter. When the main roads are ice-free due to constant care and road salt, our poor graveled road shows no hint of warm weather melting until late in the year.

Not to be outdone by the road, our pond and the large lakes in our area also harbor ice for weeks and months after you’d think Spring is near. (Yesterday’s newspaper reported on residential damage to homes around the big lakes as the loosened ice was blown on shore by high winds). One of the prompters for today’s announcement about the end of winter is the melting of the aforementioned ice, both on our road and our pond. Almost as if on cue, two ducks landed on the pond today.

My own run-in with the end of winter snow patches involved my enthusiasm for beginning gardening duties. Given the warm weather and the sunshine, I decided this afternoon to begin work in clearing the dead limbs and trunk of a tree that fell this winter due to an overload of snow and ice. There was only a single impediment to the work that I began; a patch of snow- covered the ground where the dead tree had fallen. Surely, I reasoned, the small snow patch would be no match for my newly purchased lawn tractor with its knobby tires.

The engine on the lawn tractor sprang to life in mid-afternoon as I prepared to move the remnants of the dead tree that was littering the back lawn. I moved the tractor and cart to the dead tree, ready to begin loading the limbs that I had cut. After filling the cart, I climbed back on the tractor to make my first pick-up of branches and limbs. But the tractor wouldn’t move. The tires spun as the melting snow made a perfect lubricant for the knobby tires. An hour passed by as my efforts to move the tractor were for naught. In utter despair, I had to call upon the wife for help. The two of us made short work of the problem and I decided to put the tractor away for another day

 

Snowball

By Shel Silverstein, Falling Up, 1996

 

 

I made myself a snowball

As perfect as could be

I thought I’d keep it as a pet

And let it sleep with me.

I made it some pajamas,

And a pillow for its head.

Then last night it ran away,

But first – it wet the bed.

 

A Canadian Business vs. Michigan

 

Michigan environmentalists have mounted a lengthy campaign to remove a gas and oil pipeline that lays at the bottom of Lakes Michigan and Huron at sites near Michigan shores. Those environmentalists claim that only removal of the line can ensure the safety of the Great Lakes waterways by preventing another *oil spill. A rupture of this pipeline would be close to home; the waters in and around the Straits of Mackinaw are at risk if this pipeline ruptures anywhere near the tip of the mitt.

The current and ongoing public outcry centers on a single pipeline known as **Line 5. Environmentalists see this pipeline that carries toxic oil products as a major risk and one whose objective is to make its owners increased profits by carrying oil from Canada across Michigan waterways to their refinery on the eastern shore of Lake Huron in Ontario. Both the refinery and the oil pipeline are owned and operated by Enbridge, a Canadian pipeline and energy company. The incentive for shutting down Line 5 arises from concerns that Enbridge has a spotty record for both oil spills and for failing to observe the sovereignty of the Bad River Chippewa Indians who claim the company has illegally trespassed on their land.

The risk for oil leaks at Mackinaw is increased by freighter traffic that uses the waterway for transporting materials needed for US businesses (think iron ore, grain and myriad other materials). Several instances of freighters getting their anchors entangled with the pipeline have been reported. The other concern is that the pipeline is old, well past the 50-year longevity date that engineers used as the original design criteria. Other complaints are that Enbridge has not followed appropriate maintenance practices on the aging pipeline that would ensure its continued integrity.

Enbridge has been responsible for several oil spills, including a spill on their line 3, which was the largest inland oil spill in the US.  Another Enbridge spill occurred near Kalamazoo, Michigan sending oil into a waterway that connected to the Kalamazoo River. This spill seemed to be a rallying point for environmental action.

 Opposition to Enbridge projects has resulted in several popular uprisings, most notably the Dakota Access Pipeline protests, and the Stop line 3 protests, in addition to Michigan’s Stop Line 5 protests. The Michigan action has resulted in several legal steps that included a Michigan lawsuit, supported by Michigan’s Governor. Michigan Gov. Gretchen Whitmer used her authority in 2020 when she revoked Enbridge's easement, and Enbridge now operates their pipeline illegally, according to several environmental action groups. The question that seems to arise is “How can a foreign business fail to follow the dictates of a state whose citizens are customers for their products?” Enbridge has responded to these legal challenges by claiming that their operations transcend individual state authorities and that Canada and the US have established an international treaty that governs agreements of this nature. Court actions are currently in process to adjudicate these issues, but immediate resolution is not expected and Enbridge continues to use Line 5 despite the ongoing risks.

The situation is a bit complicated. Here are a few more facts that need be considered.

The risk of a catastrophic oil leak in the Great Lakes via a pipeline failure is small, but discrete. The pipeline has been operating for 69 years without a major failure near Mackinaw, although several small leaks have been found and fixed. It is certain that other leaks will occur in the future, but no one can predict when or how large such leaks might be. The only certain way to remove all chances of a major failure is to remove the pipeline altogether. (see reference note below about some previous leaks)

Pro-business groups would argue that the chance of a major leak is so small that the risk is worth the benefits achieved by efficiencies gained. Certainly, the use of a pipeline to transport oil is only one of many ways that oil can be moved from one region to another. Studies of Enbridge operations reveals that truck transport of oil would increase their costs by less than one half penny per gallon of gasoline produced – a small price to pay since the benefits of pipeline transport helps the owners of Enbridge, but the risks of pipeline failures results in damages to the lakes and thousands of citizens in Michigan and other states. The environmentalists say that the risks are the poisoning of 20 percent of the world's freshwater that is held in the Great Lakes, that the $7 billion a year business of the fishing industry would be irretrievably harmed and that 75,000 individuals could lose their livelihoods should Line 5 rupture in the Straits of Mackinac. The basic argument seems to pit oil company profits versus the health and well-being of our Great Lakes and the citizens who live near the lake.

Enbridge Inc. is a multinational pipeline and energy company headquartered in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. Enbridge owns and operates pipelines throughout Canada and the United States, transporting crude oil, natural gas, and natural gas liquids. Enbridge's pipeline system is the longest in North America and the largest oil export pipeline network in the world. Its crude oil system consists of 28,661 kilometres (17,809 miles) of pipelines. The size and technical reach of Enbridge assures that it is, and will continue to be a major player in the world’s creation and distribution of energy. To their credit, Enbridge has built several renewable energy projects in North America and Europe including wind, solar, hydroelectric, and geothermal projects and has proposed a net zero greenhouse gas emission target for 2050.

Considering the size of Enbridge operations and the number of pipelines they operate; the Line 5 issue must be only a tiny part of their large oil transport business and manufacture of energy liquids. Their highest-ranking managers must have more important issues to deal with than a single issue with a single pipeline. Yet these same managers must have approved the extraordinary steps their company has undertaken to challenge Michigan’s elected officials (including the Governor) and to undertake expensive legal action aimed at continuing their past practices. Additionally, the company has undertaken an aggressive public relations campaign aimed at those of us who live in Michigan. Presumably, this campaign is aimed at convincing Michigan citizens that they should undertake political action to convince Michigan's Governor to refrain from action against them.

Enbridge has generated an avalanche of Facebook ads supporting Line 5. Many of their ads have been confusing, biased, and outright falsehoods concerning energy supplies and potential shortages. The ads imply that Michiganders will suffer shortages of essential propane for heating if Line 5 is closed and that other energy shortages will occur, ultimately leading to price increases for gasoline. One of the most egregious of the ads claimed that Michigan businesses will suffer if Line 5 is closed leading to job losses and other business reverses for Michigan citizens.

The ads are so over the top that their message of potential energy shortfalls is lost. Quite frankly, it seems to me the ads must do more damage than any benefit the Enbridge managers imagine by convincing readers to add their voices in support of a business who wants to increase their profits despite health and financial risks to their customers. Surely a company of their stature can do better. I suspect that many Michigan citizens must see the blatant exaggerations in their advertising claims that give rise to negative thoughts concerning the company and their unbridled attempts to increase profits no matter the cost to Michigan citizens. What do you think?

 

*The Kalamazoo River oil spill occurred in July 2010 when a pipeline operated by Enbridge (Line 6B) burst and flowed into Talmadge Creek, a tributary of the Kalamazoo River. A 6-foot (1.8 m) break in the pipeline resulted in one of the largest inland oil spills in U.S. history (the largest was the 1991 spill near Grand Rapids, Minnesota. Enbridge was found deficient in their handling of the spill by failing to implement a prompt response. Interestingly, Enbridge has more miles of pipeline in the US than in Canada.

 

**Line 5 is a 1,038 km (645 mile) crude oil pipeline running from the Superior terminal in Wisconsin to Sarnia, Ontario. On average, this pipeline moves 540,000 barrels of natural gas liquids and light crude oil per day. A spill in the fish sensitive area of the Straits area would be catastrophic for fisheries in the area.

 

 

 

New Spectacles

 

New Spectacles

 

Warning – this remarkable blog has something different about it: It may be the first document I have ever written for public examination that has someone other than me as the star character. Read on to learn that the new spectacles are not mine, but those of my roommate, Marjorie.

The beginning to this story actually dates back several years when I first met Mr. Hochstetler, the mysterious man behind the full-face, deep gray beard and black hat. Hochstetler, as his name suggests, is an Amish man who sells Amish furniture to those of us who have a taste for such things. And so it was that when we were furnishing our new retirement home, we ventured several miles east to the Amish farming area where I discovered Mr. Hochstetler and his cache of quality wood furniture (made mostly in Ohio at an Amish settlement). Hochstetler was only too happy to show us his wares and we began a lengthy relationship with him that settled around me giving him money whilst he explained how his Amish furniture was not only attractive but also built to last, unlike typical ‘English’ furniture. We were hooked despite the smell of cow manure that emanated from his barn and settled into the open windows of our car.

Fast forward about ten years from the period when we collected rocking chairs, an oak bench, a jewelry box and several other Amish pieces needed to keep Hochstetler in business and the Mrs. happy. At some point in the new century whilst enjoying our new furnishings, I developed a creeping awareness that something wasn’t just right with me. My local optometrist finally defined the issue at one of my regular appointments. “Do you know that your eyes are developing substantial cataracts? It is time to see a surgeon who can rid you of such an insult and put you back to where you were as a younger man.” Of course, our village of Roscommon had no such surgical expertise, forcing me to other locales in search of a surgeon known to have a delicate touch in dealing with eyes.

It was a critical issue for me. By this point, I had worn eye glasses for fifty years and I was not about to let any Tom, Dick, or Harry, pull a knife on me while I was still awake enough to defend my eyes despite their faulty condition. My first stop was at the slightly larger town of Grayling where a registered Ophthalmologist was known to practice. When I asked my neighbors about him, I got the impression that this man was in such demand that scoring an appointment to see him was considered the height of good fortune. Surprisingly, when I spoke to his nurse about an appointment, she seemed rather dismissive about the esteemed sawbones and his full schedule. “Why don’t you just come to the office and I’ll talk to you and we’ll see if you need his surgical expertise and we can look at his calendar.”

So I did. The nurse made a quick examination of my eyes and then asked about floaters. I didn’t know what floaters were. She explained about them and said that she and I, like many of the patients that she and the doctor examined, shared this affliction. “I talked to the doctor and he said don’t worry about them, they generally don’t cause any vision problems other than being an annoyance.” She paused, then at looked at me with an intensity that I hadn’t noticed before. “That’s because he doesn’t have them,” she said with a hint of annoyance

It was a telling and pivotal comment for me, provoking a continuation of my search for a surgeon who could correct my vision. The search was fruitless as I went from Grayling to the next town of Kalkaska, thence, three more villages to the west until I could travel no further. I had reached the west coast of Michigan and site of Traverse City. Surprise! This town was the home of not one, but two medical businesses that focused on Ophthalmology. Each business had multiple physicians, nurses, and impressive buildings with the name Ophthalmology featured in bold letters on the outside of their buildings. I chose the most ostentatious building for my optical care.

Then I made a most unlikely finding. The physician who had begun practicing at this business was a younger man with the unlikely name of Dr. Hochstetler, M.D. His picture was prominently displayed in the entryway. He had no beard, no black hat, nor anything else to suggest he was Amish. I made an appointment to see him. In the space of the following several months, the good doctor performed his magic on my eyes, removing the cataracts and returning my vison to clarity WITHOUT SPECTACLES. That was a few years ago, and I haven’t used spectacles since.

Now, fast forward to this past Monday. Although we are still in winter, the few days prior were especially beautiful with the sun shining much of each day. On Monday, the Mrs. and I took advantage of the warm sun to sit on the deck to enjoy the sunlight. I didn’t notice that she had removed her glasses as I sat down on the chair next to her. My sitting provoked a sudden crunch and a slight pain in my nether end. I had broken her glasses that she had placed on the chair. All was not lost, however; as luck would have it, she had made an appointment a month earlier for an eye exam with Dr. Hochstetler’s office for a likely selection of new spectacles. The appointment was for the following day. We laughed about the timing of the event coming so close on the heels of the fractured spectacles.

We left early the next morning for Hochstetler’s office, intending to have a brief shopping stint followed by lunch and then the eye exam. The drive time of four hours for the round trip would cover the period when a heavy snow storm was forecast. This time the meteorologists were right on target. By lunch time, the snow was so heavy that we could barely see across the road. We went to the Hochstetler office anyway, given the broken spectacles and long trip already invested in the visit. While Marjorie was being examined, I waited. And waited. Finally, she called for my help in selecting new spectacles. I walked into the room that had each wall covered with pegs on which rested a frame that would be used for whichever new spectacle she selected.

“How do you like this one? she asked. I moved forward for a closer look. I didn’t notice the slight noise as my sleeve brushed one of the new frames from its resting place on the wall. Nor did I hear it as it fell to the floor. I only realized it had fallen when I returned to my chair and I STEPPED ON THE NEW SPECTACLE FRAME. Curiously, this pair of spectacles had the same damage as the pair that I had sat on the day previously.

I retreated to my chair in the waiting room, afraid to move. Marjorie settled our account and I crept out of the office several dollars lighter. While I steered our truck through the snow on the ride home the snowy road somehow seemed an appropriate penalty for having broken two pairs of glasses in two days. Only the coincidence of the Hochstetler name and our continued support for both the Hochstetler furniture and the Hochstetler New Spectacles made the incident noteworthy. And, by the way, I have decided that I will be staying away from everyone’s spectacles, new or used.