The Hermit of Gogebic County

Eventually, the story of exactly who does what, where and when is written by folklorists, historians and other interested parties. It belongs to everybody, after all.

But at the time of an event, especially when discovery occurs deep in a trackless wild then leads to untold riches, who wins claim to credit determines who goes on to live how. It's mostly winners who first alter the authentic narrative that later becomes what we call "history".

Which means that oftentimes, nobody alive knows exactly what actually happened. So we fill in the blanks as needed and when satisfied, call the compilation true...

The southern Gogebic Range

For a critical few transformational years in America's history, the Gogebic Range of the Superior Basin served as the nation's greatest producer of iron ore.

Through frightful work, brave men scabbed wealth from beneath the shrouded hills and with their labor helped make possible the transition of America from an agrarian to an industrial society. With so much going on, the question of credit for what led directly to that became a casualty of ambition.

What's true is that by 1848, federal and state geologists had mapped the existence of iron ore across much of the ancient range. It was a hard, inhospitable place said to be infested by insects and where even Indians didn't go. The landscape rested in relative obscurity as attention turned to the nation's first great mineral rush, the Copper Boom of the neighboring Keweenaw Formation.

The year before, Richard 'Dick' Langford emigrated to the States from Ireland. Then in 1852 or thereabouts and for reasons unknown, he'd found his way to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  There he made of himself a hunter, trapper, prospector and general all around woodsy. Langford wandered the dark region of the Gogebic alone, deeper than most any white man had.

It's said that in 1868, Richard 'Dick' Langford sunk a test pit at a promising site on the Gogebic, but didn't dig deep enough to find ore. Near there and atop a hill in 1871 or '72, he discovered iron laden rocks wedged into the roots of a fallen tree. The story goes that at some point, Langford took an unemployed mining captain to the site.

What's true is that subsequently, D.T. Moore wasn't long unemployed.

Probably in 1873, analyzed samples of stone provided by Moore proved to hold iron ore. On the strength of this he raised capital, bought the site and by 1884 the legendary Colby Mine pumped iron all the way to furnaces in Erie PA, to make steel for to build modern American cities, which then gave rise to a radically new American narrative.

A year later, no fewer than seven mines were open on the Range. The rush was on.

Later, D.T. Moore recalled how he'd been timber looking when he picked up a reddish rock from between the roots of a fallen tree and the rest was history.

That story's retold on the vintage Wisconsin State Historical Marker posted at a tourist's view of the Gogebic Range:

The officially sanctioned prose reads in part:

Nathaniel D. Moore (sic) uncovered iron ore deposits in the Penokee Gap near Bessemer in 1872, but it was not until 1884 that the first shipment was made. The news spread rapidly, attracting speculators, investors, and settlers. By 1886 there were 54 mines on the range and the area boomed, having "inexhaustible deposits of uniformly high-grade Bessemer ores." For a brief period stocks rose 1200 percent. The crash in 1887 ended the extravagant prosperity.

Well, not quite. There remained decades of fortunes to be made, lost and made again, while the collective family of miners came and went. When they stayed, most died poor and too often prematurely because the fortune mostly flowed elsewhere.

This is what Richard Langford had to say about it, as quoted by Victor F. Lemmer in his "Ghost Mines of the Gogebic Range", published in 1966:

My labors have brought wealth to others and me to the poorhouse. I could have established my right to one-quarter interest in the Colby Mine, but I did not care to take such a step. I never had a lawsuit, been arrested, or served as a witness or juryman. In fact, I have never been put under oath.

Image courtesy of the Philp J. Kucera collection

What's true is that blind and broke, Richard 'Dick' Langford died in 1909 at the age of 83, in the infirmary of the Ontonagon County poor farm.

Today, traces of both Langford and Moore remain on the Range. A short piece on the hill from where the Colby was dug, there's this:

Upon which there's a plaque erected by the Daughters of the American Revolution (no less) and take that, Wisconsin State Historical roadside signage...

Then if you'd like a hint of the landscape that first drew Langford to the Gogebic, head east and wander back roads through the Ottawa National Forest to reach Langford Lake. It's at the shore of this lake that Langford's image was captured in front of his shack, or so I once was told.

As for D.T. and/or Nathaniel Moore, we'll have to return here:

This is the best spot for passersby to get a look at that part a the Gogebic Range left relatively unmolested through the mining years. You'll find it at a quick pullover off U.S. 2 in Iron Co WI, a few miles west of Hurley.

Here you'll see a soft line of ancient hills that rise from a landscape counted among the most pristine in Wisconsin. That distinction's earned the place its own name, so today we call it the Penokee Hills. Whatever the name, rains run off its flanks add to a watershed that feeds the entire region, then flows into the rice beds at the Kakagon and Bad River Sloughs, before nourishing Superior.

At the behest of their Florida partner the Cline Group (GTAC), downstate Wisconsin politicians intend to make these hills disappear, as the last remaining scabs of iron in the once fabled Gogebic remain buried deep within. It's poor quality ore, tough to get at and retrieval is an exceeding dirty business, sure. But hey, someone's gotta do it and these are hard stinkin' times. Or so the story goes.

Gazing from this wayside at some of the oldest mountains on the face of the earth -- what used to be like the Andes or the Rockies but are now worn with geologic time -- the State of Wisconsin's got your back because behind you on official signage it tells the story of one Nathaniel D and/or D.T. Moore, a once unemployed mining captain made definitely good.

But the way better bet is to keep looking at those hills, while considering the story of the Hermit of Gogebic County.

Northwoods Follies -- A Friend Indeed

Almost always, it'd be a Friday in mid to late September.

Johnny, Heather & I'd end our respective work weeks, head to our respective homes and pack. Some hours later I'd make the rounds to pick them up. We stuffed the car to bursting along the way.

Then late at night or even later, with little sleep or none at all, we'd hit the road and drive on through. Which was often an adventure in and of itself. Like the time the little arrow read "E" and we spent precious predawn hours fretting at the outskirts of sizable Fond du Lac WI, waiting for the only gas station to open. If you're reading this and younger than 35, just try to imagine that.

Thing was, we'd no time to lose.

Vacation in the Northwoods meant we'd soon be set loose in Wonderland. The first of so few, brief days at liberty had to count for more than just driving. If we pushed through the night we'd secure provisions at least for the weekend and set up camp in time to do something.

It was important.

When I told a story on the late Dick from Wakefield, I said I've known two people who'd gone into the Presque Isle River in heavy water and lived to tell the tale. Dick was the second.

My friend Johnny was the first.

From a 120mm transparency

*

Heather & I arrived in front of Johnny's house long about 11:00 pm, my big-assed black Oldsmobile '88 already pretty well packed. A pile of Johnny's stuff lay out on the walkway, the known quantity of which had space barely preserved for it in the car.

Gear taken for granted today was then still exotic and expensive to boot. Apart from my radical North Face tent, we camped much as our fathers did and their fathers before. Tarps. Axes. White gas stoves and lanterns. Thick flannel sleeping bags. Cast iron cookware, metal dishes. Every bit of fishing gear we owned. Our favorite hats, wide-brimmed and not yet made crushable.

And for a couple years at least, a 16mm filmmaking outfit, sans sound.

We carried lots of stuff.

A man approached from down the street, military gait undisguised by civilian semi-ease and make no mistake.

"Artie!" Johnny greeted the fellow with open arms.

Artie was just in, on leave from the Marines. He'd come over to see what his best boyhood friend Johnny was up to on a Friday night. You can imagine how it went:

Geez Artie, we're all set to leave for a week... I wish... Hey, do 'ya think?... I dunno... only a week... What else 'ya got to do? ...of course there's room... It's freakin' awesome up there...

O.K. What the Hell.

Don't ask how we did it, I don't remember. The car sure was crowded but as driver my space was sacrosanct so I didn't much care. At any rate we didn't have to lash Artie to the roof and there'd be room for him in Johnny's tent. As a Marine, Artie'd been unburdened of most personal stuff. What little was left he'd been well taught to keep tight. We were good to go.

So off we went together, spirits high and set firmly on adventure. For the first and only time, our happy little trio of Northwoods Players had added a fourth.

*

In the short afternoon of a late September day, we arrived at the Presque Isle unit of the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness. The place was mostly empty and we secured our two favorite campsites overlooking Superior.

From a vintage 35mm transparency

We ought to have set up camp but were like restive kids finally spilled from a full season of school. Excitement overrode judgment and instead of doing chores we headed down to the river to see what we could see. That was why we'd come, after all.

With the right wind at night and the Presque Isle running high, you hear the rush of the falls all the way to the far end of camp. That's a fair piece. Even more than the nocturnal rhythms of the big lake, it's probably my favorite lullaby.

You can't see my river from the trail leading down to it.

Over the years I've come to anticipate the state of things by what I hear of her from on high. When the river's white song informs the woods it sings mostly of good fortune. When she's silent, it generally means you'll work harder for less.

On this day in September, the Presque Isle's voice was full. As was the parking lot and with Michigan plates, another good sign. Locals don't much waste their time fishing where fish aren't but when edge seasons draw runs of mighty beasts from big water all the way up the river to the falls, locals take full advantage.

Down the stairs we tumbled, clumsy with anticipation. What sights awaited us at the bottom!

Jammed shoulder to shoulder, fishermen lined every reasonably safe spot along both sides of the heavy river. On the suspension bridge we stood agape as dozens of Coho salmon were hooked, disgorged and rudely tossed to the rocks behind, with fresh lines quickly laid out then all but instantly hooking another silvery fish. Behind every fisherman there flopped a pile of not quite yet dead salmon.

None of us had ever seen the like. We were transfixed.

Then we shook ourselves and ran the steep steps up from the river two at a time, a thing I can no longer do regardless of circumstance.

We threw gear from the car and built the essentials of camp. Even so, the day slipped towards dark while we made ready. Which was why we carried Mr. Coleman's portable sun, to blast the night.

Flush with anticipation, we headed back to the river.

At dusk the parking lot emptied, as did the riverbank below. With fresh choice of spots, we clambered down a narrow trail to a smooth rock ledge along furious water. We fired the Coleman, rigged our gear and commenced to fish.

We rode astride the world, as intended.

Johnny stood upriver to my left and nearest the falls. Heather came next, then me. Artie ended up downriver, nearly submerged in total darkness. Fishermen and fish were both fled with the day. Only we four tourists remained, hard beside hissing water in the night. So close were the falls, you couldn't hear much of anything beyond river song. Turbulent air over the water ate the light from the portable sun.

We proceeded to catch exactly nothing but fished on, true to our purpose.

Above the white rush of the falls, an existential alarm sounded. I turned. Out of the night Heather ran to me along the cruel edge of slick stone; yelling for all she was worth, arms waving wildly. I inhaled sharply to scold such dangerous abandon, then something caught my eye and instead I looked down.

Johnny was in the river.

Were it not for flailing hands clawing at black slate I'd probably never have seen him. His head was roughly even with the ledge, thrown back in terror to keep from drowning then and there. I'll never forget the look on his face.

The current flung him to me. I stretched out my fishing pole. Johnny grabbed it and maybe even slowed for the space of a fleeting thought. It proved insufficient. He hurtled irrevocably past, to what in my horror I absolutely recognised for imminent death.

Johnny fast faded from sight.

Deep in shadow, Artie bent at the waist.

With a mighty swipe of a single Marine hewn arm, Artie clutched the shoulder of Johnny's sodden coat. In a single fluid motion he plucked Johnny straight from the raging river and into the air, then set him down gently upon the welcome stability of slippery stone.

Against all reason, Johnny wasn't drowned after all.

Because Artie'd taken leave from the Marines, then was unexpectedly hauled hundreds of miles overland only to find himself placed precisely in the two square feet of all existence at the exact same moment ever when he'd be perfectly positioned to save his best boyhood friend's life, which he did.

We gathered around Johnny who was alive. He shivered cold and wet, but just then was maybe less scared than any of us, considering. We made it off the river, up the stairs and back to camp at least as quickly as we'd made it down.

We built the sort of bonfire that lights the night to let the world know you're there.

It was just the slightest misstep that pitched Johnny full into the river. He told us that the great beast of the Presque Isle tried mightily to drag him below the undercut slate and claim him for its own.

Johnny said It tried to yank my boots off, which were the exact same words used some decades later by old Dick from Wakefield, high above the same stretch of river on a sparkling morning.

Through the night we four laughed and maybe cried as our fire shot sparks off to the sky over Superior. We spoke of life and death and life some more, always more.

Life chose Johnny and we remained at liberty to howl at the moon, our purpose for that day in that place forever secure.

Notes From the Field -- Reboot

When I started my 30 year career as a commercial photo tech in the big city, it was in the company of veteran lab rats intimately acquainted with the vicissitudes of professional craft as applied on a time critical basis.

Appropriately, these were called "craftsmen".

During that 30 years the Digital Age dawned.

The earth shook and the skies grew wild as old ways disappeared into the whirlwind of progress, from which there's no return for the past.

Then the day came when decades of high level performance got paid off with casual insult and I'd seen enough to know it'd only ever get worse and there'd be no better end, so I said screw it and walked away.

Out of a job and flat out of career prospects, later that day only one thought dominated:

I'll never again work under crushing deadline except by choice.

And more than a decade later here I am, having spent the last 19 months producing comprehensive, cross-discipline product from scratch and just as fine as I can make it, considering the running Digital Age deadline of 'live'.

Maybe one can't teach an old dog new tricks after all, despite new fields of play...

This is a job traditionally done in isolation.

Had I engaged this fieldwork even a few short years ago, I'd have spent as much time, traveled as many miles, shot the same film at the same locations and not talked much about any of it along the way.

After which I'd have poured over the images and sifted through accumulated stacks of notes & prose, encouraging each to carry me back to a moment captured with purpose upon a highly specific landscape.

Then in order to fashion this pile of gathered stuff into a coherent body of work possessed of cogent context, I'd consider everything about it and at my own pace would make it all into a new thing. Maybe another year or so of concentrated effort, or at any rate until satisfied.

Only then would I let it loose upon the wind.

This being now not then, blogging changed everything. Except I still have on my hands this pile of gathered stuff and already partly formed, too.

In order to do something with it, I'll first have to not juggle quite so much. Me spitting into the digital wind and trusting to faith won't cut it because while I like being able to juggle, I set out to do much more and don't trust the void one bit.

Giving this work its best chance to last requires I revise the workflow and again shrug off deadline pressure, so I can revisit old ways in order to craft something new and more tangible than ether.

From the beginning of this Odyssey and throughout, I've worked from a list of subjects. That list grew as our travels assumed a narrative that gained definition mile by mile, through an organic process of exploration & discovery intrinsic to quality time spent on the road.

There's more yet to come, both of list and exploration, but a good bit of it requires surpassing effort on my part, as some nuts are just plain tough to crack.

To accommodate that as well as my backstage efforts to make what I intended of this gig, we'll slow things down a bit. From here on I'll post new material at least once a month, which means we're likely to remain on this digital journey together for a good deal longer than was originally planned.

Of all the images gathered during our travels, the two used here today have become emblematic for me of where we've been and where we're headed. This narrative promises to only deepen and grow richer as we go.

It's a distinctly American story. I hope and trust you'll stick around to see this project through.

So with that in mind, please drop in on Thursday April 4th, when we'll relax the pace and complete this current trek through the Porcupine Mountains with a story so unlikely you might think I've made it up.

But it's true, all the same...

Creative Conversation

Many people act like they expect to live forever, but they won't.

Creatives spend their lives crafting things that might, but they can never tell.

So artists offer their song to the wind and the wind carries the best part of them to an unknown place where echo is the currency of trade and whether or not their offering lasts, they'll not know it either way.

What's true is that art informs us, whether for a moment or forever.

It shows us who our neighbors are, how they see their lives and culture and their neighbors too, so that we might better understand them and better define our own place in the cosmos, having shared.

Creativity is an ongoing conversation as essential to human wellbeing as are earth, air, water and sky. Without its saving graces, we'd be a poor race indeed.

And from the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness of Michigan, a diverse group of dedicated folk devote their best efforts to assure that conversation thrives.

For two weeks last October I reveled in my residency at Dan's Cabin, courtesy of the Artists in Residence Program sponsored by the Friends of the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness. 

So extraordinary was the personal experience, so gracious the hosts and splendid the accommodations, upon leaving the place I promised myself to promote the work done at the Park by those who stand among its very best friends.

While there I led the ideal artist's life -- near the only time in my life I've been at liberty to do that, for whatever length of time. As direct result I accomplished some my best work ever.

And as is true of most of this Odyssey, where I've gone you can too.

Burdened by cultural noise and myriad sundry demands, tempted too much by handy distractions like T.V., Facebook and blogs, many artists yearn for an opportunity to submerse themselves in their work.

That opportunity is here.

Yeah, it's in the wilderness and maybe that's wholly outside your experience much less comfort level, I get that.

So here's the gig:

Nestled in a splendid grove of hemlock a mere quarter mile from the road, your fellow creatives have built a comfortable, sturdy cabin just for you.

Outside, the real world rules and a creek runs by. Inside there's a comfy bed, a well equipped kitchen, ample working space, a wood burning stove for warmth with everything framed by a wide expanse of windows that let the real world shine in, day and night.

And you're welcome to bring someone along whether for companionship or courage, should that suit you.

What the place lacks is phone, Internet, T.V., radio and all the distractions of contemporary life. I know of resorts that charge big money to rent that sort of liberty for even a single night.

On that table is a journal kept by a succession of residents for the benefit of those to follow. It's quite the thing to read. Artists use their stay at Dan's Cabin for everything from relaxation to adventure, from quiet contemplation to life altering self-discovery.

While there, they also accomplish fundamental work.

Out your door is a well maintained trail system cut more than 87 miles through 60,000 acres of wildness and offering prospects that range from remote waterfalls to accessible vistas. Then there're the pristine beaches of Superior, where folk hunt agates or swim or simply spend a contemplative afternoon beneath a warming sun. After which you might choose to bathe in the wonder of twilight as seen from the edge of the world's greatest inland sea, then marvel as the Milky Way blankets the sky one star at a time, an exquisite filigree undimmed by light pollution.

And being a creative, you will work, as the spirit moves.

Maybe you're thinking it all still seems too daunting. That you're too utterly urban to risk the real world or it's too distant or maybe you're too old to engage it or that your particular creative effort is an unlikely fit for the program.

What's true is that artists grow excuses like an untended garden grows weeds.

The Residency's hosted a rich array of artists whose work runs the gamut. Writers. Photographers. Poets. A filmmaker. Sculptors, painters, composers, graphic artists and musicians. Ceramicists and a glass artist. Printmakers and more.

That includes an octogenarian painter, a ceramicist in from Australia and an installation sculptor who traveled from Tokyo. So there's that.

What these folk share is a commitment to creative effort and the rewards earned when willing to take a leap of faith in oneself.

Did I mention the built in audience?

In return for Residency, your obligation is to donate a piece of work inspired by your stay and to give a public presentation during it -- the audience for which is involved, informed and friendly.

Can a working artist ask for more?

Yeah, the deadline for 2013 entry is April 1st and I've left you little time to prepare. I apologize for that, but the organic workflow of this Odyssey combined with the vicissitudes of life and here we are.

All the same, most working artists have their best work compiled and at hand. So putting together a proper presentation takes at most a bit of contemplation and just a few hours time. I'm here to tell you that a modest if well considered effort expended late last winter paid off for me in spades come autumn...

These last couple years of fieldwork sparked by specific creative purpose then informed across a magnificent landscape populated by a diverse, indomitable people have indelibly informed me.

And with that, whatever light I possess is edged closer to lastingly perfect. A proper source of warmth for blood run thin once my day's grown long.

Of all the miles over all the months across country grand & hard, of the people, places, sights, sounds and smells, of the incredible history freely mixed with triumph and misery and truth and lies and glimpses of a regional future with promise unlimited -- even considering all that and more -- it's likely that my two weeks spent as a guest at Dan's Cabin will be the time I treasure most through the years.

So do yourself a favor -- consider applying for an artist's residency  at the Porcupine Mountains. Do it for your work. Do it for yourself.

Put your very best effort on the line for something uncommon.

Click here, to stop procrastinating and get started.

And by all means please share this link with other creatives of all inclination everywhere, whether via Google or Twitter or Facebook or good old fashioned word of mouth.

Because creative conversation is the name of the game and you never can tell where that'll lead...

The Porkies -- People & Their Government at Work

In the arena of contemporary public discourse, American government and government workers are routinely disrespected. How and why that happened doesn't much concern us here.

What's true is that a constituency exists for each taxpayer's penny spent, for everything the government spends those on. From warheads and surveillance to corporate welfare. From education and environmental remediation to the critical research necessary when trying to transition an entire civilization over to sustainable and against a fast ticking clock.

Our inability to make government function more wisely and at optimal efficiency leads us to a conversation where government itself seems rendered unsustainable. Save that almost everyone who yells "Cut!" is yelling about cutting yours not theirs -- so there'll always be some form of government left to deliver theirs, if not yours.

When fueled by irate righteousness the democratization of all media has unleashed in us, the nuance of real life is too often obscured and our public conversation fails.

Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park is a landscape eminently suited to the restoration of healthy human perspective.

It's prudent to remember that your liberty to visit was first secured through direct government response to local citizen advocacy, while today an ongoing and robust public/private partnership smooths your way.

Without government & government workers, it'd be just you alone against nearly a hundred square miles of undifferentiated, cut over northern wilds. It's unlikely you'd ever think to go there or even guess this exists, much less be able to launch a boat on it or snap a picture when someone does:

From a 120mm transparency

The real world stays open 24/7, so folk wander the Porkies day and night through the seasons. It's impossible to tell exactly how many people visit the place during any given year.

Something upwards of 300,000, best guess.

These include day trippers, trekkers, skiers and kayakers. Families on beach blankets next to picnic baskets. Fishermen and other dreamers. Hunters, bird watchers and gatherers of berries. Collectors of solitude, busloads of school kids, devoted world travelers and casual tourists alike.

And during a few short weeks in autumn, the Porkies play host to flocks of migrating photographers who descend on the landscape like hundreds of busy starlings, only to flee south when leaves fall to a wet north wind.

So the Park employs 35 workers to provide for the education, amusement, comfort and safety of all comers.

That's 12 full time paid staff and 23 part time paid staff to ride herd on better than 300,000 of us let loose over 60,000 acres of otherwise inaccessible wildness, open to us 360 days a year.

These 35 government workers maintain 87 miles of mostly backcountry trail. They clean toilets, cut grass, respond courteously to every inquiry and rescue the careless. They fix what we break, replace what can't be fixed as budget allows and otherwise faithfully serve the needs of everyone who visits.

They do all this and oversee the natural health of the place too.

Being so near the Visitor Center during my October stay offered an opportunity to interact with Park staff far more than is usual for me, as my home turf of the Presque Isle is something of a lonely outpost by comparison. Near the end of the residency, I took advantage of one of the fine interpretive programs regularly offered by the Park.

Which is how I came to spend a bit of quality time with Lynette Score, government worker:

When traveling the Northwoods, many people hope to see a bear. The Porkies are a good place for that, as bears roam throughout the Park. But most times, bears know you're there before you do and any easy way to turn the odds of a sighting in your favor invariably courts disaster for both you and them.

Near the end a damp, chill afternoon, Lynette greeted me and two other travelers at a trailhead, then led us into the woods to get up close and personal with the next best thing:

That's a split trunk Birch and one-time winter home to a bear. It's located not far from the road, but you'd never know it's there and in all my years bustering 'round the woods, I'd not stumbled across the like or I might've tried sleeping there myself during some mystic summer's night of my youth.

In command of her subject and thoroughly engaging, Lynnette said this was likely the den of a mother bear, as those need approach winter's rest with far greater care than do their male counterparts. After all, it's the female bear that carries the considerable burden of ursine reproduction, a truly extraordinary process that Lynette explained in terms easily understood.

On the other hand, guys being guys whatever the species, male bears sleep pretty much wherever. They might fall asleep up in the branches of a tree or just lay down atop a depression in the earth  and nod off, only later to be covered by a blanket of snow.

Take this little guy, who made his den smack dab in the middle of what in full winter becomes a groomed, cross-country ski trail and for a while at least, slept right through all the traffic that passed over him. With the discovery of the den, Park staff ceased grooming and rerouted the ski trail, though a trail cam later captured the bear's early emergence on a too warm day in March -- mighty wet but apparently none the worse for wear.

Image Courtesy of Bob Wild and Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park

And while I know a bit about bears, it was Lynette who clued me in to the disagreement over whether or not they're true hibernators, because bears confound our scientific criteria for that by occasionally waking up.

Like when some hapless intern is sent into a den and checks the hibernation temperature of a bear via insertion of an anal thermometer...

Lynette offered the opinion that whether bears aren't true hibernators or are the most adept practitioners of it, the bear shows us that the wonder of Nature resists efforts at reduction.

Of course, she was right.

During these hard times and especially considering her expertise, young Lynette Score might well have accepted full time employment downstate. Instead she chose to take her chances and work part time in the Porkies, hoping to make a home and build a career serving people and a landscape better suited to bears than to most humans.

Would that more of us had that kind of moxie or shared that level of commitment.

And from now on, whenever some cackling demagogue appropriates government workers as excuse to constrain a people's government down to the narrowest of proprietary purpose, Lynette and her co-workers who've chosen tough careers in public service at publically funded Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park will be among the folk I think of.

*

Significantly, the Porkies benefits greatly from a working public/private partnership through which citizens and their government together put shoulders to the load and achieve common goals.

Having worked my way right through my residency, I was well & truly done and it was only on the last full day when finally I took all things easy.

Late that morning I stopped by the Folk School for a bit of business, but mostly for the warmth of friendly company. There I chatted while everyone else in the room busily made for themselves pretty much from scratch a traditional Finnish stringed instrument, called the kantele.

Later, they'd learn to play it.

Friends of the Porkies thrives on a deep loam of citizen advocacy and appropriate government response. As the Artist's Residency is one result of that, I came to know this fine organization far better than I had.

It's like a big old backwoods Hemlock. The landscape might be hard but the Hemlock rises tall and sturdy just the same, with roots spread wide and the whole of the thing essential to the forest's continuing health, as new life invariably springs from old.

From a 120mm transparency

First there's the famous Porcupine Mountains Folk School from which the artist's program, Dan's Cabin and a host of other good things stem.

Like the annual Porcupine Mountains Music Festival that attracts both talent and audience from far and wide.

Then, should you care to see what a top drawer workshop overseen by a diverse cooperative of dedicated creatives looks like, go here.

Across all the miles we've traveled together on this Odyssey, I've kept a special watch for things sustainable because it's only those that'll ever allow the region to escape the historically destructive cycle of boom & bust.

We've found enough of those to be encouraged.

Prime amongst them is the personal partnership forged over time between concerned private citizens and their government, to advocate for ancient Kag wadjiw. That's a distinctly American relationship that assures a unique landscape and the people who live on it not merely survive but thrive, so that all of us are the better for it.

I'm the better for that partnership.

And if you're a working creative, please stop by this coming Thursday and see how you might be too...

The Porkies

Though coincidentally home to porcupines, when viewed from the east this range of ancient mountains resembles a crouched Kag, or Porcupine. That's why they were called Kag wadjiw by the Ojibwa. The name stuck.

Due to years of citizen advocacy, this magnificent place was first secured as a park in 1945. With further protections since gained, the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness became the crown jewel of the Michigan State Parks system and today ranks among the finest relatively undisturbed landscapes on the Superior Basin. At its heart stands nearly 35,000 acres of virgin northern hardwood forest, said to be the largest such tract to remain in North America.

From a 4x5 transparency

After near to twelve hours on the road and well past dark, on the first night of our first trip together to Superior, Heather and I arrived at the Presque Isle campground that marks the western end of the Porkies. We set up camp and devoured a stack of hastily prepared Bisquick pancakes slathered with rich currant jelly made by Heather's dad. Then we fell asleep to the whisper a big lake offers at its shore.

The next morning brought our first Northwoods lesson: leave a plastic jug of dough on the picnic table overnight and you'll later clean up after a critter ambles along and savages the jug for to get at the bounty of tasty goo while you're otherwise oblivious.

That morning also revealed that we'd pitched our tent at the forested edge of a high bluff looking roughly west out over Superior, so it was all good.

Heather, from a vintage 35mm negative

Our relationship with the place now stretches near to 40 years and is indelibly personal.

In the Porkies Johnny, Heather and I bushwhacked over the hills searching for evidence of Copper Complex people, to no avail. Likewise our always half-hearted hunt for the crashed B-17, artifacts of which can be found in collections scattered throughout the region.

We didn't actually look for the legendary pictographs as told to Henry Schoolcraft by the Ojibwa shaman Chingwauk, but always hoped we'd somehow find them anyway. To date, no one has.

Me & Johnny, from a vintage 35mm negative taken by Heather

It was on the South Boundary Road at dusk where we encountered our first wild wolf, many years before those were properly reestablished and long before one could even imagine we'd be engaged in civic conversation about hunting wolves, as we are again today.

This particular wolf instead worried over road kill just off the shoulder of the road.

We slowed and pulled alongside.

The wolf lifted its formidable head to address us with the most sentient eyes I've ever seen. In them could be found no sign of fear or aggression, though they fairly shone with a remarkable awareness and make no mistake.

In response, Heather rolled up her window.

After a while the great beast took a step back and drew itself in to the darkening wood. We left the wolf to its meal and returned to camp exhilarated.

I've not again been so close to a wild wolf until last autumn, during this Odyssey. To be sure it was under entirely different circumstance but again at the side of a road, which is an unhappy story for another time.

Heather and I spent half our honeymoon at the Presque Isle. On my 2nd night of marriage I managed to bounce a thankfully dull axe off the back of my hand. Heather fixed me then and there and our template for wedded bliss was set.

Of all the fish I've ever tussled with, by far the finest of 'em swam the Presque Isle.

Heather fishing the mouth of the Presque Isle, from a vintage 4x5

I once fought a fish upriver and down for more than forty minutes, tethered to only 6# test. Finally I gained the upper hand. At last I brought the behemoth to dark water at river's edge. In another moment, I'd need come to grips with a monster from the deep.

Then with a sharp thwipt no doubt heard all the way to Isle Royale, the line snapped. My knees shook while I used my left hand to pry loose my right from the rod. The name of the beast remains a mystery.

Then there was the time the biggest Steelhead I've ever seen rose from beneath my feet as I retrieved a spinner through fast water while perched upon an undercut shelf. I swear she never moved a muscle of her brightly colored flanks and became simply one with the current so when that spinner reached just there she was there too, to kiss it softly as it passed. And the fight was on.

For... I dunno, maybe three seconds. Seemed like forever then as now, so amazing the sight and rich my memory of it.

Funny, how often fisher folk's greatest tales involve no fish at all or the one that got away. Best leave that to ponder for people who don't fish...

And did I mention that the South Boundary Road is my favorite drive anywhere? Miles of classic two lane blacktop rolling up and down and all throughout the naturally indistinct boundary between governmentally sanctioned wilderness and not.

The Porcupine Mountains Wilderness is wonderland. A complex, richly rare landscape ideally suited to adventure and quiet contemplation in turn and at your discretion.

It's for that and because I take the place so personally, that we'll spend some bit of time there over the next few weeks...