Feather & Fur

 

"the sofa pillow"... a yellow stone fly pattern

Sunday afternoon I somehow stole a few hours away from the itinerary and parked myself in front of our fireplace.  Piled in a perfect circumference around me was an admiral collection of fly tying materials and books.  This simple act is a story presented in the dress of feather & fur but it’s subplot is the rekindling of what was once as dominate passion.  A quest to be self sufficient and prepared for time out of doors.

Life’s stages slipped tasty cold cuts into this sandwich called parenthood, but there with the oak hissing, the dubbing being spun to the thread and the whip finishing was a good and lost but not forgotten friend.  You know, sometimes good ole’ balogna and mayo just hits the spot.

I have been searching for ways to describe this sensation, and even tried a few out but left them abandon like egg shells in a sink.  Then tonight I came across this quote in a book I am reading named “A Man’s Life… Dispatches From Dangerous Places” by Mark Jenkins:

“Some days in the mountains are so transcendent that you feel you are the luckiest human alive.  Inexplicably, after everything you’re in the exact right place at the exact right time.  The very air resonates with your good fortune.  This is the kind of day I have.  Just the snow, the mountain and me.  Alone, free from the fearful burden of the faithful, I feel myself slip back into my natural, easygoing relationship with the world”.

Pine is Enough

Several years ago I exercised my independence by cooking a frequent flyer ticket that was about to expire and flying out to Big Mountain Ski Resort in northwestern Montana… by myself.

I have many memorable experiences from that endeavor.  One of which was observing the practice runs of the US Women’s Ski Team slice down the giant slalom course, with their slick, skin tight speed suits and sensuous forms, taming the monster named gravity.  Watching in amazement as skis twice as long as mine would chatter over the glazed ice, and then as if drifting into flight, launching off mounds in the course, temporarily divorcing their shadows in silence.  Then slowly reuniting again as they touch back down to sound of metal edges grasping desperately for purchase.

Another was the 2 sentence, 45 minute conversation I had with the shuttle driver that brought me from the airport to the mountain.  As we crept up the serpentine road higher and higher into night air as cold as space and never ending darkness.

He was a off season carpenter who first asked me if I really was from Michigan.  To which I replied “Yep”.  Then he said “I hear you guys actually burn oak in your fireplaces… is that true”? I sounded like a strange question a first, until I realized after staring out the window for the duration of the ride, at the million acres of 100′ conifers.

One man's gold is another's commodity.

On occasion I drift off again and go back to that 3 day dream binge.  Skiing all alone, drinking in the Hellroaring Saloon, listing the to tumultuous uproar of the ski team that shared the hotel I was in as I tried to sleep.  I have always dreamed of having a Montana mailing address, along with many other dreams.

Some dream of endless wealth, some dream of power… some dream of buring oak in a fireplace.

This weekend a mentor of mine said something that now seems to help when the frustration of dreams being ever elusive becomes overwhelming… “may the quest for more be put to rest when on the journey we discover the meaning of enough”.

Through the Eyes of Youth

My son informs me that the Weber in the back yard looks like a large bobber. It is so important to be open to the views and insights of others. A closed mind is like wall around a fort… it protects the content from harm but it prevents those within from obtaining a long view.

Backyard Bobber

Ironically, Weber Grill got it’s start from making marker buoy’s.

The Ghost of Benzonia High

On a recent trip “up north” as us Michiganders call it… my 11 year old son convinced us to stop and check out a deserted factory he saw in the periphery of his vision as we creeped down M115 on a cold, snowy day.  Much to our surprise it was not a factory, but an all but abandon high school. 

 

It was graphically very intriguing but what struck me as more fascinating was the unknown history as to why and how it fell dormant.  I’m sure anyone who lives in the area could have told us but there it was, a dusty monument to a communities commitment to improvement.  A spent shuck from a cornel that had grown past it’s need.  The lyric’s from Jimmy Buffet’s song “the stories we could tell” came to mind.

 

Weather Worth Weathering

Facing west the wind that ripped east across the Great Lakes, brought with it frozen pellets and flakes of moisture that pin pricked our faces.  The tractor and flat bed that pulled us to this desolate location of the tree farm had chugged off into another dale.  We were left there with our saw and hopes of finding the perfect, but naturally not so perfect tree.  The sky was lead gray. The snow was knee deep.  Two does were forced from their slumber as the kids explored.

Somewhere in the power of this movement was the power to fill me with purpose and sobriety.  The power of this moment anchored me to my life. The facades and worries of the everyday where removed and replaced with the simple need to endure the elements.

I pity those that live in regions free of drastic weather changes.  Like the crisp edge of an axe that is tempered with heat, the weather here in Michigan keeps you humble and prepared.

After a brief perusal of our Frasier Fir options we all agreed on “the one”.  We said a prayer of thanks, I crawled under the lowest bush and pretended I was a Husqvarna … without the blue smoke.

Now the tree fills our living room with artifacts of the decades and memories in the making.  Soon it will migrate to the back yard where it’s decor will switch to a little less celebrated white lights and serve as bird roost until spring.  At which point it will be ground into mulch and used to protect the soil from which it came.

Your whisper is to loud…

 

This morning felt like a return to home.  I’m rare in this regard… I love the pre-day hours.  For the last several months I had altered the events in my day in a way that enabled me to sleep like a rock but robbed me of these early morning moments of solitude.

The world at peace, still succumb to the powers of slumber… me gliding through it in silence on my vintage Schwinn like a great blue heron in a remote cove… I’ve even got the long bony legs.

Soft, subtle rain fell straight.  The fenders kept my back from getting striped with mud, the GoreTex kept my shoulder’s dry, the Starbuck’s warmed my soul but the cold rain chilled my legs confirming I was alive… and awake.

When I returned home I sat on the screened porch and finished a book a good neighbor loaned me titled “The Animal Dialogues” by Craig Childs.  It is a fabulously written book about the authors encounters with himself as a natural being and nature.  One of the final chapters reverses the roles and describes himself as nature encountering humans.

This takes place as he is walking the desert of Arizona and the abstract scenario removes the barriers that prevent one from pretending we can exist without nature and become part of it, when a Air Force F-18 fly’s over on a training mission 30-ft. off the deck.

As I closed the book a similar awareness of the moment struck me.  I was the only human that was vertical for probably 3 village blocks.  It was just me, the two cats and a plethora of wild creatures scampering around the base of our bird feeder and flitting through the air.  Filling the view with dozens of sounds and bursts of motion.  One of the local wild felines was even stalking the chipmunks

I felt as thought I fit in, I was one of them.   I had my morning back… I had my world back.  I was aware of the wonders.

And now I switch gears, I can hear the kids chattering and cars roll by.  But I’m recharged and ready to listen, ready to share, ready to help.

 

why we live here…

Those of us who choose to live in Michigan have done so in part because of the abundance of water that surrounds us.

Sunday morning on Reed’s Lake.

From the bow of my canoe.

 

Boat to the past…

I have just returned from the past. Over the last several days I was chaperoning a 4th grade class to a national treasure… Mackinac Island. It’s funny how one tends to forget the riches in one’s own backyard when they think of all the riches in the world.

The Grand Hotel… featuring the worlds longest porch.

The island experience truly cannot be explained without sounding like a Sunday afternoon PBS travel log. But I can confess to a transformational experience every time I am there. The only way to reach “the turtle” is by ferry or by plane… or by snowmobile if you brave a winter visit. But to make the trip more unreal you can cross over the Mackinac Bridge that reaches from Michigan’s lower peninsula to it’s upper and take a ferry from there.

8 miles and not one car to worry about… freedom to swerve when ever you want.

The Fort… still guarding the harbor.

The perimeter road of the island is 8 miles long and thus, the island is not very big… which works out well because the only mod of transportation once there is by foot, bike or horse… of which there are many.

When you arrive in the harbor your ferry will dock at one of many piers. As you stroll towards shore you pass carts full of luggage, bikes represented several decades of design and a wide variety of people. As you leave the docking area you typically pass through a building which serves as a dark transforming vestibule. Strangely symbolizing your rapid time travel. Stepping out of the darkness onto main street is like you have found some secret passage to a movie set for a Victorian mini-series that you play a role in.

Arch Rock.

Mackinac (pronounced mack-in-aw) has a real and rich history. The island is situated in the waters between Lake Michigan & Lake Huron. It was the trade mecca for the fur industry and served as the purpose of battle between the French, British and English over the years. It is our second National Park.

The forts that served as strong holds and geographic icons the early Indians cherished still remain in remarkable condition. This is the real thing Mickey… no Donald’s or Pluto’s.

There were hundreds of little insights the jumped up and slapped me in the face during this particular trip. Little things like how the kids didn’t know how to use the “coaster brakes” on the bikes we rented… and how fascinated that age group is with the road apples everywhere… and how fast they could circle the chuck of land.

Your best hope with these kids really, is to maybe, just maybe, help them encounter some form of intrigue that will pull them back to this place (and places like it) as the hand on our clocks go ripping by. Some cerebral bookmark that grows into a weekend itinerary but may take 20 years to harvest. And then you hope they still exist.

The original Big Mac… the worlds longest span between supports.

This is one of those places where you know living there would be a struggle but you wish you where a local…. it’s a secret that you want to share. So here’s to hoping the past is still there for our future.

you failed… that’s great !

As a parent one discovers there are many unforeseen lesson’s you endure, while stumbling down the path.  One of which is allowing your children to fail, but allowing them to learn how to deal with it.  As caring human creatures we typically tend to intervene in ways that prevent it.  But to be honest I wonder if it is to avoid our own emotional discomfort rather then the child’s.

My son has taken up wood carving. I think it is a reaction to the Indiana Jones phenomena that is washing over us like the sun as a cloud completes it’s eclipse.

Somehow he has managed to find a cast off piece of 2×4 and locked it into our Black & Decker Workmate.  Then position it in the driveway and proceeded to carve a wooden idol that he claims he will paint gold when he is done and hide it around the neighborhood.  In the process fabricate maps, collect artifacts and don a vintage beaver felt Stetson Moose River fedora of mine.  Sounds like a great way to spend a summer… I wish I was a kid again.

I have given him enough direction on this “art” to minimize trips to the emergency room but that’s about it.  I firmly believe that learning through experimentation is a better teacher than someone doing it for you while you watch.  As I observe from afar (without him knowing of course) I have witnessed him slip and slice, whittle and chip, carve and crack… pieces off that he had no intentions of removing.  Several times during this effort he has come to me with idol in hand and said “we can just glue that back on right dad”?  In the process he is gaining first hand knowledge of grain direction, tool sharpness and the laws of force vs. finesse.

At some point during the week I was up late watching video clips from the TED conferences and came across this one from a gentleman named Sir Ken Robinson.  The content is timed amazingly well with my son’s wood carving episode.  This is about a 18 minute video but well worth it.  The content and the delivery is priceless.  Enjoy.

(click image to link with video)

Photo of Sir Ken Robinson: courtesy of the TED web site

power fin vs. power

A myth.  Only seen in inspirational photos.  I have spent combined probably months in streams seeking refuge under the pretense of fishing but seldom have I actually witnessed this.  There, below us were trout jumping up a waterfall.  How could they possibly know that this is the way back to the nest?  Against all odds they bolt.  With the thrust of a fin and launch.  At risk is everything.  Exhausted and battered, they fail… wait and try again.  How could you not be moved by this?

 

Rockford Michigan… are dams a good idea anymore?