By Mike VanBuren
From the Late October 2013 North Woods Call
Among the most heartbreaking aspects of escalating energy costs —for me, at least—are the negative impacts that higher gasoline prices have on the average person’s ability to travel.
This is pretty much a uniquely American worry, I know, and one that presents quite a conundrum for the conservationist in me.
On one hand, I want to cut pollution and save fossil fuels. On the other, there is nothing that brings me greater joy and experiential learning than climbing behind the wheel of a motor vehicle and wandering down America’s back roads. I suppose I could do this on foot, or bicycle, but it wouldn’t be the same.
Maybe I’m just spoiled by the fleeting opportunities of the past and need to plan less-distant travel in the future. But that’s not something I can easily accept. It seems too much like an assault on the personal liberty to which I have grown accustomed.
As Texas songwriter Billy Joe Shaver so aptly declared: “Movin’ is the closest thing to being free.”
Right or wrong, this has been one of the guiding philosophies in my own life, and something ingrained in the America psyche since the nation’s founding and westward movement of the first European settlers. Gasoline-powered cars and trucks have routinely taken me places I would never have gone and shown me things I would never have seen in any other way.
Ah, sweet freedom.
My parents first introduced me to the American road during the summer of 1963 with a journey down Route 66 to Arizona. From there we drove north to Yellowstone National Park and the Grand Tetons, then back to Michigan—all in a tiny turquoise-colored Volkswagen beetle with no air conditioning.
Ever since that trip, the wonders of two-lane blacktop and the fascinating discoveries one can make along the road have captured my imagination like sticky fly paper.
It was, of course, a time when gasoline sold for 20 to 30 cents per gallon and you could drive all the way across the country for not much more than it costs now for a single fill-up. In fact, for much of my adult life—until fairly recently—road trips remained affordable vacation alternatives.
So down the road I went. From the dense forests of the Great Lakes region to the Saguaro National Monument in Arizona ... from Big Sur on the rugged California coast to picturesque Bar Harbor in Maine ... from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia to Banff and Jasper National Parks in the Canadian Rockies ... from Mt. Ranier in Washington State to the Everglades in the Seminole country of southern Florida ... across the mighty Mississippi, Missouri and Columbia rivers ... from New York City to Los Angeles and Chicago to New Orleans ... and from the border towns of Texas and Mexico to the quiet farm communities of Indiana and Ohio.
And, sorry to say, I’ve loved every gas-guzzling minute of it.
At first, I traveled in an old Plymouth Valiant with a slant-six engine. Then it was a 1967 Rambler Rebel with soft and comfortable reclining seats. Later, I graduated to a series of Ford pickup trucks and Econoline vans, which made it possible to sleep undisturbed in roadside rest areas and assorted parking lots, thus avoiding the costs of hotels and motels.
Those were the glory days of cheap travel and nonstop adventure, which fed my writer’s muse like nothing else before or since.
But now such travel has become a major—and often unaffordable—investment for a penny-pinching adventurer who remembers much less painful visits to the gas pump.
Jet-setting elites still have affordable options and seem to be traveling as much as ever. But what about the common man? Have we forever lost a treasured piece of liberty we once took for granted? Will we again see a time when we can take to the highway without breaking the bank?
Maybe not, but I remain hopeful. There are still a lot of things I want to see in this great land—things I’m sure to miss if I’m forced by economics, resource concerns, or government bureaucrats to stay at home.
It’s interesting to note that when cars were first introduced into American cities in significant numbers, they were seen as the solution to an urban pollution problem—horses. During the latter part of the 19th Century, horses in New York City alone dropped an estimated 800,000 to 1.3 million pounds of manure every day—much of it onto the city streets, according to information gleaned from The Henry Ford Museum’s popular exhibit, “The Automobile in American Life.”
Add to that the urine and remains of animals that died from disease or exhaustion and were often left where they fell, and the nation’s cities were dirty, foul-smelling and fly-ridden places, particularly in hot weather.
It’s no small wonder many urban residents hailed the coming of “horseless carriages.”
But with today’s exponential population growth, and millions more cars and trucks on the world’s roadways, we’re once again forced to look for innovative transportation solutions.
I just hope whatever we come up with will include energy efficient personal vehicles that are affordable to purchase and operate—and useful for long-distance travel, camping, trailer hauling, and all those other traditional automotive activities that modern lightweight and electric-powered cracker boxes so far haven’t been able to handle.
Of course, that will do little to address other automobile-related troubles such as congestion, urban sprawl, and accidental injury or death.
To borrow another phrase from Billy Joe Shaver, unfettered travel on the nation’s back roads and interstate highways may be a “low-down freedom” in light of dwindling resources, corporate greed and modern environmental politics, but it’s freedom nonetheless.
It would unfortunate—at least for those of us who love the road and all it represents—to see such opportunities to roam fade away like yesterday’s horse and buggy.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
A matter of perspective
An editorial from the Late October 2013 North Woods Call
One day we received this anonymous note in the mail:
“We are not interested in your reprints of Fox News and Tea Party positions in edition-after-edition. The North Woods Call is a lost cause. Shep would be so disappointed. We will not be renewing our subscription.”
On the same day, we got two other notes—both signed.
“Keep up the good work,” said one. “Truly enjoy every issue.”
“Well done,” said the other. “Shep would be happy.”
Apparently, it’s all a matter of perspective.
Since we seldom watch Fox News and aren’t involved in any Tea Party activities. it is difficult to know which of our opinions parallel theirs. We are governed by our own observations, education and life experiences.
But none of that really matters. The important thing is to encourage a free and open discussion in the marketplace of ideas. To that end, this newspaper is obligated to call things as it sees them and we welcome the comments of readers who wish to do likewise.
Just remember, our nation was founded on the principles of limited government, personal liberty and the constitutional rule of law. Those ideals have served us well. Why any citizen wouldn’t cherish and defend these things is a mystery to us.
One day we received this anonymous note in the mail:
“We are not interested in your reprints of Fox News and Tea Party positions in edition-after-edition. The North Woods Call is a lost cause. Shep would be so disappointed. We will not be renewing our subscription.”
On the same day, we got two other notes—both signed.
“Keep up the good work,” said one. “Truly enjoy every issue.”
“Well done,” said the other. “Shep would be happy.”
Apparently, it’s all a matter of perspective.
Since we seldom watch Fox News and aren’t involved in any Tea Party activities. it is difficult to know which of our opinions parallel theirs. We are governed by our own observations, education and life experiences.
But none of that really matters. The important thing is to encourage a free and open discussion in the marketplace of ideas. To that end, this newspaper is obligated to call things as it sees them and we welcome the comments of readers who wish to do likewise.
Just remember, our nation was founded on the principles of limited government, personal liberty and the constitutional rule of law. Those ideals have served us well. Why any citizen wouldn’t cherish and defend these things is a mystery to us.
Power plant emissions
An editorial from the Late October 2013 North Woods Call
Now that the Obama administration is moving ahead with the first federal carbon limits on the nation’s power companies, we’re wondering what “unintended consequences” this action might have for consumers.
While limiting industrial emissions always seems like a good idea—even if one doesn’t fully subscribe to the theory of man-made climate change—it’s unclear how willing people are to pay more for their electricity.
In a move to bypass the legislative process via executive action, the president authorized the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency to limit new gas-fired power plants to 1,000 pounds of carbon dioxide emissions per megawatt hour and new coal plants to 1,100 pounds of carbon dioxide, administration officials said. The average advanced coal plant is currently emitting about 1,800 pounds of carbon dioxide per megawatt hour, according to industry estimates.
While environmental groups see the new rules as an important step in targeting the largest source of greenhouse gas emissions in the country, opponents fear it could raise utility rates, inhibit the production of reliable energy and wipe out jobs—particularly in coal-dependent states.
Intense lobbying on both sides is expected in the coming months, as well as possible court challenges, before the new rules are supposed to be finalized in the fall of 2014.
We applaud efforts to develop more sustainable energy supplies, but remain uncomfortable with end-runs around Congress and the absence of any comprehensive national energy policy that considers economic realities along with the environment.
We’d prefer to see an open civic debate about these issues—one aimed at revealing all pertinent facts and finding the best, most affordable, solutions to our energy problems.
Not only are American citizens currently embroiled in huge financial struggles—brought on, in part, by short-sighted government policies and bureaucratic rule-making—but we’re increasingly double-minded about resource management and conservation.
We say that we want to reduce energy consumption and phase out the use of fossil fuels, while at the same time embracing technological and lifestyle choices that only increase our energy dependence. We have, for example, a seemingly insatiable appetite for electronic appliances, games and gadgets, while simultaneously ignoring the energy resources needed to power them.
It’s unclear whether there are even enough green energy options available to us to meet these—and other—demands.
Isn’t it time we get serious about addressing these problems over the long-term and move beyond the temporary stop-gap measures that never quite seem to get the job done?
Now that the Obama administration is moving ahead with the first federal carbon limits on the nation’s power companies, we’re wondering what “unintended consequences” this action might have for consumers.
While limiting industrial emissions always seems like a good idea—even if one doesn’t fully subscribe to the theory of man-made climate change—it’s unclear how willing people are to pay more for their electricity.
In a move to bypass the legislative process via executive action, the president authorized the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency to limit new gas-fired power plants to 1,000 pounds of carbon dioxide emissions per megawatt hour and new coal plants to 1,100 pounds of carbon dioxide, administration officials said. The average advanced coal plant is currently emitting about 1,800 pounds of carbon dioxide per megawatt hour, according to industry estimates.
While environmental groups see the new rules as an important step in targeting the largest source of greenhouse gas emissions in the country, opponents fear it could raise utility rates, inhibit the production of reliable energy and wipe out jobs—particularly in coal-dependent states.
Intense lobbying on both sides is expected in the coming months, as well as possible court challenges, before the new rules are supposed to be finalized in the fall of 2014.
We applaud efforts to develop more sustainable energy supplies, but remain uncomfortable with end-runs around Congress and the absence of any comprehensive national energy policy that considers economic realities along with the environment.
We’d prefer to see an open civic debate about these issues—one aimed at revealing all pertinent facts and finding the best, most affordable, solutions to our energy problems.
Not only are American citizens currently embroiled in huge financial struggles—brought on, in part, by short-sighted government policies and bureaucratic rule-making—but we’re increasingly double-minded about resource management and conservation.
We say that we want to reduce energy consumption and phase out the use of fossil fuels, while at the same time embracing technological and lifestyle choices that only increase our energy dependence. We have, for example, a seemingly insatiable appetite for electronic appliances, games and gadgets, while simultaneously ignoring the energy resources needed to power them.
It’s unclear whether there are even enough green energy options available to us to meet these—and other—demands.
Isn’t it time we get serious about addressing these problems over the long-term and move beyond the temporary stop-gap measures that never quite seem to get the job done?
Transportation planning
An editorial from the Late October 2013 North Woods Call
A number of wonderful bicycle and walking paths are springing up in various locations around the north country. For those healthy enough to engage in such activities, these paths are welcome additions to our transportation network.
But most of them seem to be targeted toward recreational use —summer strolls, campground connections, fall color tours and the like—rather than general transportation needs. That’s all well and good, but we’d like to see a more concentrated effort to build such thoroughfares to destinations where people need to go on a daily basis.
That way, we could more easily pedal or walk from home to our jobs, the grocery store, doctor’s office, or local retail outlets—without traveling along dangerous roadways shared with speeding cars and trucks that are too often operated by drivers who are texting, talking on cell phones, or engaged in numerous other distracting and unsafe practices.
Whenever new roads are built, or old ones refurbished, wouldn’t it be a simple matter to also include bicycle and pedestrian pathways separated from the traffic lanes? Maybe road crews could even construct new right-of-ways dedicated solely to foot-powered traffic and connect them to the favored destinations of average working Americans.
Such accommodations would allow short- and medium-distance transportation that doesn’t burn fossil fuels and provides health benefits to those who choose to travel this way. Some users would probably even want to go longer distances when time allows—not just to the beach, or through a local park, but to places they need to visit during normal daily activities.
We don’t know about you, but this would make us much more inclined to dust off our bicycles, or take a walk into town to pick up a few things from the store.
A number of wonderful bicycle and walking paths are springing up in various locations around the north country. For those healthy enough to engage in such activities, these paths are welcome additions to our transportation network.
But most of them seem to be targeted toward recreational use —summer strolls, campground connections, fall color tours and the like—rather than general transportation needs. That’s all well and good, but we’d like to see a more concentrated effort to build such thoroughfares to destinations where people need to go on a daily basis.
That way, we could more easily pedal or walk from home to our jobs, the grocery store, doctor’s office, or local retail outlets—without traveling along dangerous roadways shared with speeding cars and trucks that are too often operated by drivers who are texting, talking on cell phones, or engaged in numerous other distracting and unsafe practices.
Whenever new roads are built, or old ones refurbished, wouldn’t it be a simple matter to also include bicycle and pedestrian pathways separated from the traffic lanes? Maybe road crews could even construct new right-of-ways dedicated solely to foot-powered traffic and connect them to the favored destinations of average working Americans.
Such accommodations would allow short- and medium-distance transportation that doesn’t burn fossil fuels and provides health benefits to those who choose to travel this way. Some users would probably even want to go longer distances when time allows—not just to the beach, or through a local park, but to places they need to visit during normal daily activities.
We don’t know about you, but this would make us much more inclined to dust off our bicycles, or take a walk into town to pick up a few things from the store.
"The geography of nowhere"
By Mike VanBuren
From the Late September 2013 North Woods Call
Many years ago—before I ever lived in northern Michigan—my predecessor at The Antrim County News wrote a column about urban sprawl and development in Traverse City.
The area around Grand Traverse Bay, he concluded, was a beautiful place “until the white man came.”
He was, as I recall, talking about the heavy traffic and view-blocking construction along U.S. 31 in the mid-1970s. Today, of course, these problems are exponentially worse.
Northern Michigan—Traverse City and Petoskey, in particular—are drawing visitors and new residents like steel nails to some kind of powerful urban magnet.
Recent national attention as great places to live and vacation have only increased the number of people and automobiles flocking to these areas.
Each time I venture into either of those communities, I’m struck by the additional clutter and increased difficulty I have driving my own vehicle through the mind-numbing congestion.
I’m sure city officials are doing their best to cope with all the changes, but I wonder if they’re doing enough. As population figures escalate, little seems to relieve the growing pressure. Even building new and wider roads does not eliminate traffic congestion. The new roads just fill up with cars and additional businesses that attract more activity.
These problems are by no means confined to northern Michigan. Unplanned growth and urban sprawl have become huge problems in many locations.
Some folks in my hometown of Richland—a generally peaceful, well-used community in lower Michigan—worry about this, too.
It’s not that they mind the increased commerce and higher tax base that come with more people and more development. They just hate having lost the quaint, small-town atmosphere that once was the village.
Yet they should have thought about that years ago—back when they first began to welcome the houses, apartments, businesses and industries that now surround the one-time farm community.
These days, cars and trucks crawl around the shady village square like ants on molasses. They fill parking lots, clog roadways, and snake out in all directions across the cluttered landscape. And people are everywhere—crowding local schools and forcing higher taxes on us all.
It’s an ongoing challenge faced by cities and villages throughout the Great Lakes region—and beyond. From Buffalo to Chicago and Cleveland to Marquette, sprawl is increasing air and water pollution, devouring forests and wetlands, and saddling communities with the social and economic costs of unplanned growth.
Many people in Richland seem to think they can stop this hungry monster with feeble efforts to preserve local heritage. They’ve had the village designated a historic district, and have declined to let the streets be widened to accommodate the thickening traffic.
But I think it’s too little, too late. They shouldn’t have allowed it to get this way in the first place. Even now, little is being done to stop the runaway development that hugs the outskirts of the village—turning it into what writer James Howard Kuntsler calls “the geography of nowhere.”
Still, I find myself hoping there’s a way out of this mess. Some claim there is—if we have the wisdom and will to correct our mistakes. Urban, suburban and rural communities should try to manage growth and sprawl with what the Sierra Club says are “smart-growth solutions.” These include setting boundaries for urban growth, preserving farmland and green space, and building neighborhoods that are easy on pedestrians.
We need better transportation choices, too—such as bike paths, commuter trains and buses. And we should do away with government programs and tax policies that help create sprawl. More importantly, we should insist that decaying urban areas be revitalized before new development is allowed on open rural land.
People move away from cities because they’re looking in part for better schools, safer streets, and cleaner air. They also want a sense of community and a connection to nature. If we could address these issues in existing urban areas, there might not be a need, or a desire, for so many people to flee to places like Richland, or rural communities further to the north.
The answer lies in making all communities “user-friendly” and livable—regardless of their size. That way, everyone can enjoy the benefits of a healthy environment.
And we wouldn’t have to destroy our farmland, forests and rural villages in the name of modern homesteading.
From the Late September 2013 North Woods Call
Many years ago—before I ever lived in northern Michigan—my predecessor at The Antrim County News wrote a column about urban sprawl and development in Traverse City.
The area around Grand Traverse Bay, he concluded, was a beautiful place “until the white man came.”
He was, as I recall, talking about the heavy traffic and view-blocking construction along U.S. 31 in the mid-1970s. Today, of course, these problems are exponentially worse.
Northern Michigan—Traverse City and Petoskey, in particular—are drawing visitors and new residents like steel nails to some kind of powerful urban magnet.
Recent national attention as great places to live and vacation have only increased the number of people and automobiles flocking to these areas.
Each time I venture into either of those communities, I’m struck by the additional clutter and increased difficulty I have driving my own vehicle through the mind-numbing congestion.
I’m sure city officials are doing their best to cope with all the changes, but I wonder if they’re doing enough. As population figures escalate, little seems to relieve the growing pressure. Even building new and wider roads does not eliminate traffic congestion. The new roads just fill up with cars and additional businesses that attract more activity.
These problems are by no means confined to northern Michigan. Unplanned growth and urban sprawl have become huge problems in many locations.
Some folks in my hometown of Richland—a generally peaceful, well-used community in lower Michigan—worry about this, too.
It’s not that they mind the increased commerce and higher tax base that come with more people and more development. They just hate having lost the quaint, small-town atmosphere that once was the village.
Yet they should have thought about that years ago—back when they first began to welcome the houses, apartments, businesses and industries that now surround the one-time farm community.
These days, cars and trucks crawl around the shady village square like ants on molasses. They fill parking lots, clog roadways, and snake out in all directions across the cluttered landscape. And people are everywhere—crowding local schools and forcing higher taxes on us all.
It’s an ongoing challenge faced by cities and villages throughout the Great Lakes region—and beyond. From Buffalo to Chicago and Cleveland to Marquette, sprawl is increasing air and water pollution, devouring forests and wetlands, and saddling communities with the social and economic costs of unplanned growth.
Many people in Richland seem to think they can stop this hungry monster with feeble efforts to preserve local heritage. They’ve had the village designated a historic district, and have declined to let the streets be widened to accommodate the thickening traffic.
But I think it’s too little, too late. They shouldn’t have allowed it to get this way in the first place. Even now, little is being done to stop the runaway development that hugs the outskirts of the village—turning it into what writer James Howard Kuntsler calls “the geography of nowhere.”
Still, I find myself hoping there’s a way out of this mess. Some claim there is—if we have the wisdom and will to correct our mistakes. Urban, suburban and rural communities should try to manage growth and sprawl with what the Sierra Club says are “smart-growth solutions.” These include setting boundaries for urban growth, preserving farmland and green space, and building neighborhoods that are easy on pedestrians.
We need better transportation choices, too—such as bike paths, commuter trains and buses. And we should do away with government programs and tax policies that help create sprawl. More importantly, we should insist that decaying urban areas be revitalized before new development is allowed on open rural land.
People move away from cities because they’re looking in part for better schools, safer streets, and cleaner air. They also want a sense of community and a connection to nature. If we could address these issues in existing urban areas, there might not be a need, or a desire, for so many people to flee to places like Richland, or rural communities further to the north.
The answer lies in making all communities “user-friendly” and livable—regardless of their size. That way, everyone can enjoy the benefits of a healthy environment.
And we wouldn’t have to destroy our farmland, forests and rural villages in the name of modern homesteading.
An ecological prophet of doom
An editorial from the Late September 2013 North Woods Call
A couple of people have asked why we haven’t swallowed the notion of man-made climate change like a hungry fish—hook, line and sinker.
There are several reasons we aren’t doing more than nibbling at the bait. And one of them can be summed up in two words:
Al Gore.
The former U.S. vice president turned carbon credit profiteer has said a lot of outrageous things over the years—and not just about the “inconvenient truth” of global warming. His demagoguery seems to know no bounds.
Now he has reportedly compared “climate change deniers” with “an alcoholic father who flies into a rage every time a subject is mentioned.” And he likened them to the perpetrators of history’s most egregious events, including racism, apartheid, and slavery.
None of this is really surprising, of course, because he is following the same playbook that most so-called “progressives” use to push their often dubious desires on a confused and ill-informed world. Such tactics are not only dishonest, but patently offensive, and we long ago stopped listening to anyone who uses them.
Simply put, personal smears and the wholesale demonization of others are non-starters that poison civic debate, and keep us from collectively reaching concensus on issues as complex and politically charged as climate change.
We deserve a more genuine discussion about such consequential matters when we engage in the public square. And it’s up to each of us to make sure we have it.
Snake oil salesmen and self-absorbed prophets of global ecological disaster should be rejected in favor of clear thinking and verifiable facts—even if we’re tempted to bite hard on the frightening theory of man-made climate change.
When we allow ourselves to be manipulated by modern-day Elmer Gantrys, it’s truth and civility—more than the earth—that hang in the balance.
A couple of people have asked why we haven’t swallowed the notion of man-made climate change like a hungry fish—hook, line and sinker.
There are several reasons we aren’t doing more than nibbling at the bait. And one of them can be summed up in two words:
Al Gore.
The former U.S. vice president turned carbon credit profiteer has said a lot of outrageous things over the years—and not just about the “inconvenient truth” of global warming. His demagoguery seems to know no bounds.
Now he has reportedly compared “climate change deniers” with “an alcoholic father who flies into a rage every time a subject is mentioned.” And he likened them to the perpetrators of history’s most egregious events, including racism, apartheid, and slavery.
None of this is really surprising, of course, because he is following the same playbook that most so-called “progressives” use to push their often dubious desires on a confused and ill-informed world. Such tactics are not only dishonest, but patently offensive, and we long ago stopped listening to anyone who uses them.
Simply put, personal smears and the wholesale demonization of others are non-starters that poison civic debate, and keep us from collectively reaching concensus on issues as complex and politically charged as climate change.
We deserve a more genuine discussion about such consequential matters when we engage in the public square. And it’s up to each of us to make sure we have it.
Snake oil salesmen and self-absorbed prophets of global ecological disaster should be rejected in favor of clear thinking and verifiable facts—even if we’re tempted to bite hard on the frightening theory of man-made climate change.
When we allow ourselves to be manipulated by modern-day Elmer Gantrys, it’s truth and civility—more than the earth—that hang in the balance.
James Oliver Curwood & Michigan conservation
By Mike VanBuren
From the Early September 2013 North Woods Call
I’ve never been sure what medieval-style castles have to do with conservation and north woods action-adventure stories.
But it’s something I puzzle over whenever I pass through the lower Michigan community of Owosso and see the unusual writing studio built by early 20th Century novelist James Oliver Curwood on the banks of the Shiawassee River.
Curwood was famous for his lifelong interest in the outdoors and the riveting stories he penned about nature, romance and the struggles of fictional heroes and heroines living in the far north. He was among the best-selling American novelists of his era—certainly the highest paid—with his literary creations appearing in magazines, books, stage productions and early motion pictures.
Yet, in 1922—while seeking a quiet retreat to do his writing and meet with business associates—Curwood constructed what is now known as the “Curwood Castle,” a fairy tale bit of architecture more reminiscent of the European Middle Ages than the harsh wilds of North America.
Go figure.
Maybe Curwood wanted to stand out among his Shiawassee County neighbors, or—as some have said—fulfill his romantic notions of an inspiring place to write his stories. He was far from commonplace himself and may have longed for something unique to match his personality.
Regardless of the reason, the castle is somewhat symbolic of Curwood’s crusade for the conservation of Michigan’s wildlife, forests, lakes and streams. Among other things, he was suspicious of the Michigan Department of Conservation’s ability to manage natural resources, and believed that political patronage was interfering with effective enforcement of the state’s game and fish laws.
Simply put, he didn’t think that the Michigan Conservation Commission and the bureaucrats hired to protect the resources were doing their jobs. You might even say that Curwood saw the state’s conservation system as a kind of contemporary feudalism where political favors were given to special interests in exchange for their loyalty to politicians.
The Department of Conservation, he said, was being diverted from its original purpose into a political machine, which had for its aim the spending of money where it would do the most good—for politicians.
Sound familiar?
The Curwood Castle—actually a replica of a Norman chateau—was built rather late in the author’s life, just four years before he died in 1927 at the age of 49 from an infection related to what is believed to have been a spider bite. Likewise, Curwood’s zealous dedication to conservation—capped by his own appointment to the Conservation Commission in 1926—blossomed during the last decade of his life.
Prior to that, by his own admission, he was a wanton killer of animals and had numerous big-game trophies hanging on the walls of his Owosso home to prove it. All that changed, however, during a hunting trip to the Canadian Rockies, where he stalked a large grizzly bear he named Thor. Curwood reportedly tried to kill the animal three times in three weeks—seriously wounding it—until Thor approached him one day on a rocky ledge high on the side of a cliff and Curwood slipped and fell, breaking his gun.
The bear reared up on its hind legs, as if it were going to attack the terrified hunter, then turned and walked away with a low growl. Curwood couldn’t believe he had escaped near certain death and returned home committed to the conservation of wildlife, rather than to its destruction.
Of course, he wrote a story about the incident—published in 1916 as “The Grizzly King”—in which he said, “Thor was not, like man, a murderer.”
Going forward, Curwood began to campaign publicly about the virtues of conservation.
“I have ceased to be a destroyer, as I once destroyed,” he said, “and my ruling passion is to help wild things to live, from flowers and trees and birds and beasts to man himself, rather than to indulge further in the dominant sport of my species—extermination.”
Curwood spent much time enjoying Michigan’s outdoor resources and owned several cabins, including one along the Au Sable River near Roscommon that was later expanded into a lodge said to have once hosted the likes of California newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst.
Under the administration of then Michigan Gov. Fred Green, Curwood saw some notable successes in his campaign for conservation, although neither the governor nor fellow Conservation Commission members were ready for all of the major reforms he proposed.
His legacies include pushing through the commission a resolution supporting the purchase of a stand of virgin white and Norway pine near Grayling, which later became the showpiece of Hartwick Pines State Park. Perhaps more importantly, Curwood significantly moved public debate toward the conservation of Michigan’s natural resources and built support for many related policies and programs that followed.
He wanted to limit, or even close, certain hunting seasons, and he was interested in stocking streams and game preserves, as well as reforestation.
“Conservation is not simply a matter for the hunter and fisherman,” he said. “Our very lives and future prosperity depend on it.”
In a letter to noted Michigan conservationist P.S. Lovejoy, Curwood said, “We must save what we already have and then look ahead to what we can achieve in the next 50 or 100 years.”
Unfortunately, after his death, many of the things Curwood fought for—especially when it comes to separating partisan politics from conservation—have been routinely sidestepped.
For the crusading author, however, it was largely a spiritual quest that can only be ignored at our peril.
“Nature is my religion,” he said, “The great goal I want to achieve is to take my readers with me into the heart of this nature. I love it and I feel that they must love it—if I can only get the two acquainted.”
From the Early September 2013 North Woods Call
I’ve never been sure what medieval-style castles have to do with conservation and north woods action-adventure stories.
But it’s something I puzzle over whenever I pass through the lower Michigan community of Owosso and see the unusual writing studio built by early 20th Century novelist James Oliver Curwood on the banks of the Shiawassee River.
Curwood was famous for his lifelong interest in the outdoors and the riveting stories he penned about nature, romance and the struggles of fictional heroes and heroines living in the far north. He was among the best-selling American novelists of his era—certainly the highest paid—with his literary creations appearing in magazines, books, stage productions and early motion pictures.
Yet, in 1922—while seeking a quiet retreat to do his writing and meet with business associates—Curwood constructed what is now known as the “Curwood Castle,” a fairy tale bit of architecture more reminiscent of the European Middle Ages than the harsh wilds of North America.
Go figure.
Maybe Curwood wanted to stand out among his Shiawassee County neighbors, or—as some have said—fulfill his romantic notions of an inspiring place to write his stories. He was far from commonplace himself and may have longed for something unique to match his personality.
Regardless of the reason, the castle is somewhat symbolic of Curwood’s crusade for the conservation of Michigan’s wildlife, forests, lakes and streams. Among other things, he was suspicious of the Michigan Department of Conservation’s ability to manage natural resources, and believed that political patronage was interfering with effective enforcement of the state’s game and fish laws.
Simply put, he didn’t think that the Michigan Conservation Commission and the bureaucrats hired to protect the resources were doing their jobs. You might even say that Curwood saw the state’s conservation system as a kind of contemporary feudalism where political favors were given to special interests in exchange for their loyalty to politicians.
The Department of Conservation, he said, was being diverted from its original purpose into a political machine, which had for its aim the spending of money where it would do the most good—for politicians.
Sound familiar?
The Curwood Castle—actually a replica of a Norman chateau—was built rather late in the author’s life, just four years before he died in 1927 at the age of 49 from an infection related to what is believed to have been a spider bite. Likewise, Curwood’s zealous dedication to conservation—capped by his own appointment to the Conservation Commission in 1926—blossomed during the last decade of his life.
Prior to that, by his own admission, he was a wanton killer of animals and had numerous big-game trophies hanging on the walls of his Owosso home to prove it. All that changed, however, during a hunting trip to the Canadian Rockies, where he stalked a large grizzly bear he named Thor. Curwood reportedly tried to kill the animal three times in three weeks—seriously wounding it—until Thor approached him one day on a rocky ledge high on the side of a cliff and Curwood slipped and fell, breaking his gun.
The bear reared up on its hind legs, as if it were going to attack the terrified hunter, then turned and walked away with a low growl. Curwood couldn’t believe he had escaped near certain death and returned home committed to the conservation of wildlife, rather than to its destruction.
Of course, he wrote a story about the incident—published in 1916 as “The Grizzly King”—in which he said, “Thor was not, like man, a murderer.”
Going forward, Curwood began to campaign publicly about the virtues of conservation.
“I have ceased to be a destroyer, as I once destroyed,” he said, “and my ruling passion is to help wild things to live, from flowers and trees and birds and beasts to man himself, rather than to indulge further in the dominant sport of my species—extermination.”
Curwood spent much time enjoying Michigan’s outdoor resources and owned several cabins, including one along the Au Sable River near Roscommon that was later expanded into a lodge said to have once hosted the likes of California newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst.
Under the administration of then Michigan Gov. Fred Green, Curwood saw some notable successes in his campaign for conservation, although neither the governor nor fellow Conservation Commission members were ready for all of the major reforms he proposed.
His legacies include pushing through the commission a resolution supporting the purchase of a stand of virgin white and Norway pine near Grayling, which later became the showpiece of Hartwick Pines State Park. Perhaps more importantly, Curwood significantly moved public debate toward the conservation of Michigan’s natural resources and built support for many related policies and programs that followed.
He wanted to limit, or even close, certain hunting seasons, and he was interested in stocking streams and game preserves, as well as reforestation.
“Conservation is not simply a matter for the hunter and fisherman,” he said. “Our very lives and future prosperity depend on it.”
In a letter to noted Michigan conservationist P.S. Lovejoy, Curwood said, “We must save what we already have and then look ahead to what we can achieve in the next 50 or 100 years.”
Unfortunately, after his death, many of the things Curwood fought for—especially when it comes to separating partisan politics from conservation—have been routinely sidestepped.
For the crusading author, however, it was largely a spiritual quest that can only be ignored at our peril.
“Nature is my religion,” he said, “The great goal I want to achieve is to take my readers with me into the heart of this nature. I love it and I feel that they must love it—if I can only get the two acquainted.”
When man collides with nature
An editorial from the Early September 2013 North Woods Call
It has been said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Nowhere does that seem more true than in the relationship between people and nature.
And conflicts with wildlife may be at the top of the list.
The struggle with Canada geese has raged for some time in grassy backyards, at public parks and on lakeshore beaches, and the squishy messes they leave behind can turn even the most docile animal lover into a raging waterfowl exterminator.
Then there are mute swans, on which the Michigan Department of Natural Resources has declared war—in Barry County, among other places—planning to kill thousands over the next five years to reduce their numbers in the state. The birds are an invasive species, they say, and have a destructive impact on vegetation.
Now comes a Bellvue-area farmer, who tells us about the damage sand hill cranes are doing to his crops. He says he’s able to legally shoot them as nuisances, when necessary, but complains that state law does not allow him to harvest and eat them. “That’s stupid, he says.
It doesn’t seem to matter whether we’re talking about wolves, wild hogs, deer, raccoons, or any other species that have found themselves at cross purposes with humans. Some folks want them protected, while others insist they can’t be eliminated quickly enough.
Workable solutions to these dilemmas do not come easily—particularly in this day-and-age when we can’t seem to sit down with others and discuss anything rationally.
In a weird sense, it’s biodiversity run amok.
It has been said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Nowhere does that seem more true than in the relationship between people and nature.
And conflicts with wildlife may be at the top of the list.
The struggle with Canada geese has raged for some time in grassy backyards, at public parks and on lakeshore beaches, and the squishy messes they leave behind can turn even the most docile animal lover into a raging waterfowl exterminator.
Then there are mute swans, on which the Michigan Department of Natural Resources has declared war—in Barry County, among other places—planning to kill thousands over the next five years to reduce their numbers in the state. The birds are an invasive species, they say, and have a destructive impact on vegetation.
Now comes a Bellvue-area farmer, who tells us about the damage sand hill cranes are doing to his crops. He says he’s able to legally shoot them as nuisances, when necessary, but complains that state law does not allow him to harvest and eat them. “That’s stupid, he says.
It doesn’t seem to matter whether we’re talking about wolves, wild hogs, deer, raccoons, or any other species that have found themselves at cross purposes with humans. Some folks want them protected, while others insist they can’t be eliminated quickly enough.
Workable solutions to these dilemmas do not come easily—particularly in this day-and-age when we can’t seem to sit down with others and discuss anything rationally.
In a weird sense, it’s biodiversity run amok.
Feral cats: Pets gone wild
An editorial from the Early September 2013 North Woods Call
The three cats that reside in our home are warm, cuddly creatures that snuggle, purr and carefully groom themselves to demonstrate that they are lovable and well-behaved domestic sweethearts.
Let them outside, however, and they immediately turn into vicious serial killers that get perverse pleasure out of maiming more vulnerable animals—then proudly leaving the mangled leftovers of mice, chipmunks, birds, rabbits and squirrels on our doorstep.
We don’t like it—although we appreciate the general absence of trouble-making mice around our home—but we’re not sure what to do about the slaughter. Like us, our cats are outdoor-lovers and would go stir-crazy if we imprisoned them in the house.
According to a Smithsonian Institute study, free-ranging cats like ours are the top threat to wildlife in the United States, killing up to 3.7 billion birds and 20.7 billion mammals each year. Yet there is no real concensus about whether this is acceptable.
Cat lovers say their pets are simply part of nature’s sometimes unpleasant eat-or-be-eaten network and are hard-wired to do what they do. Those less enamored with prowling renegades, however, say something must be done about these mass murderers and have even proposed the hunting of feral and stray cats—those once adorable human companions that have returned to the wild.
That may be OK for often unhealthy felines that are truly undomesticated—living outdoors without any human contact or care—but how would hunters tell the difference between one of those and a free-ranging domestic cat?
Would they be allowed to profile, or ask for a government-approved identification card, before aiming and firing?
The three cats that reside in our home are warm, cuddly creatures that snuggle, purr and carefully groom themselves to demonstrate that they are lovable and well-behaved domestic sweethearts.
Let them outside, however, and they immediately turn into vicious serial killers that get perverse pleasure out of maiming more vulnerable animals—then proudly leaving the mangled leftovers of mice, chipmunks, birds, rabbits and squirrels on our doorstep.
We don’t like it—although we appreciate the general absence of trouble-making mice around our home—but we’re not sure what to do about the slaughter. Like us, our cats are outdoor-lovers and would go stir-crazy if we imprisoned them in the house.
According to a Smithsonian Institute study, free-ranging cats like ours are the top threat to wildlife in the United States, killing up to 3.7 billion birds and 20.7 billion mammals each year. Yet there is no real concensus about whether this is acceptable.
Cat lovers say their pets are simply part of nature’s sometimes unpleasant eat-or-be-eaten network and are hard-wired to do what they do. Those less enamored with prowling renegades, however, say something must be done about these mass murderers and have even proposed the hunting of feral and stray cats—those once adorable human companions that have returned to the wild.
That may be OK for often unhealthy felines that are truly undomesticated—living outdoors without any human contact or care—but how would hunters tell the difference between one of those and a free-ranging domestic cat?
Would they be allowed to profile, or ask for a government-approved identification card, before aiming and firing?
The "singing wilderness"
By Mike VanBuren
From the Late August 2013 North Woods Call
The spirit of the north woods lives in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area of northern Minnesota and the Algoma Country of northern Ontario.
I haven’t actually seen the Boundary Waters—they’re on my list of things to do—but I’ve read about them often in the writings of Sigurd Olson and others.
Olson, a back country guide for more than 30 years and tireless advocate for protection of the wilderness, was influential in saving the Boundary Waters and helped draft the Wilderness Act of 1964. President of The Wilderness Society from 1963 to 1971, he helped establish Voyageurs National Park in Minnesota, the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska and Point Reyes National Seashore in California.
Olson called the Quetico-Superior country northwest of Lake Superior “The Singing Wilderness.” It has to do, he said, with the calling of the loons, northern lights and the great silences of the land. “It is concerned with the simple joys, the timelessness and perspective found in a way of life that is close to the past,” he wrote—noting that he has “heard the singing in many places.”
I heard it for the first time myself nearly 40 summers ago when I accompanied three high school friends on a journey into the wilds north of Sault Ste. Marie. It was supposed to be a quiet week-long canoe outing, but we found a bit more adventure than we had anticipated.
To begin with, the drive north became somewhat less than melodious when the large Oldsmobile 88 in which we were riding flew over an embankment and into a stand of small trees at a dark, fog-shrouded T-intersection less than 50 miles from home. We managed to extricate the car—with the help of a nearby resident and his tractor—and reattach the two canoes on top. But the trip appeared doomed 20 miles later when all the motor oil had leaked out and the V-8 engine seized up.
Not to be deterred, two of my companions hitch-hiked home to get other vehicles and we were again on our way several hours later. We finally crossed the International Bridge into Canada and reached the Algoma Central Railroad station early the next morning.
Although none of us were expert canoeists—me in particular—my friends wanted to challenge the Batchawana River, which in Ojibwe means “turbulent waters.” Fortunately, I read about the dangers that the Batchawana posed to inexperienced canoeists and talked them into the more serene Sand River—which is a good thing, given what came later.
We loaded our canoes into a baggage car and settled in for the 140-mile train ride to Sand Lake. Within a few hours, we launched the canoes into the large lake several yards from the railroad tracks.
Ah, peace at last.
We paddled effortlessly across the calm water in search of Sand River, but didn’t find it that afternoon. Instead, we camped on a small rock formation—which someone had dubbed “Whiskey Island”—one of several such havens dotting the pristine lake.
That’s when the wilderness began to sing, even though it was difficult to detect any audible sounds. There was music in the silence itself, punctuated by the occasional call of a loon, splash of a fish, or unnatural cannonballs of four weary compadres jumping into the cool, fresh water.
The next several days were like that—lots of silence, occasional banter between occupants of the two canoes, welcome physical activity and the indignant snorts of moose that were surprised by human invaders while foraging along the Sand River.
In many ways, it seemed like heaven on earth. Plenty of time to paddle, portage, fish and fry up the day’s catch over an open fire. Time to reflect on life, absorb the relaxing sounds of nature and scribble notes about things I wanted to remember.
Sadly, the time came for my canoe mate and me to return to Central Michigan University for the start of fall classes, so we bid adieu our traveling companions, who had decided they wanted to follow the Sand River all the way to Lake Superior. We paddled back upstream, across Sand Lake and flagged down the next train that passed by on the tracks to Sault Ste. Marie.
Our erstwhile friends, meanwhile, pointed their canoe toward Gitchee Gumee. But instead of portaging around some of the dangerous whitewater further downstream, they decided to shoot the rapids, bending the aluminum Grumman around a large boulder and stranding themselves in the singing wilderness. If not for a Canadian Forest Service helicopter happening by and discovering their plight, they might still be there today.
But all is well that ends well and our search for the music goes on. It may be in the soft guttering of an open fire, Olson said, or in the beat of rain on a tent.
“It seems to be part of a hunger we all have for a time when we were closer to lakes and rivers—to mountains and meadows and forests—than we are today,” he wrote, “Because of our almost forgotten past, there is a restlessness within us, an impatience with things as they are, which modern life with its comforts and distractions does not seem to satisfy.”
From the Late August 2013 North Woods Call
The spirit of the north woods lives in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area of northern Minnesota and the Algoma Country of northern Ontario.
I haven’t actually seen the Boundary Waters—they’re on my list of things to do—but I’ve read about them often in the writings of Sigurd Olson and others.
Olson, a back country guide for more than 30 years and tireless advocate for protection of the wilderness, was influential in saving the Boundary Waters and helped draft the Wilderness Act of 1964. President of The Wilderness Society from 1963 to 1971, he helped establish Voyageurs National Park in Minnesota, the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska and Point Reyes National Seashore in California.
Olson called the Quetico-Superior country northwest of Lake Superior “The Singing Wilderness.” It has to do, he said, with the calling of the loons, northern lights and the great silences of the land. “It is concerned with the simple joys, the timelessness and perspective found in a way of life that is close to the past,” he wrote—noting that he has “heard the singing in many places.”
I heard it for the first time myself nearly 40 summers ago when I accompanied three high school friends on a journey into the wilds north of Sault Ste. Marie. It was supposed to be a quiet week-long canoe outing, but we found a bit more adventure than we had anticipated.
To begin with, the drive north became somewhat less than melodious when the large Oldsmobile 88 in which we were riding flew over an embankment and into a stand of small trees at a dark, fog-shrouded T-intersection less than 50 miles from home. We managed to extricate the car—with the help of a nearby resident and his tractor—and reattach the two canoes on top. But the trip appeared doomed 20 miles later when all the motor oil had leaked out and the V-8 engine seized up.
Not to be deterred, two of my companions hitch-hiked home to get other vehicles and we were again on our way several hours later. We finally crossed the International Bridge into Canada and reached the Algoma Central Railroad station early the next morning.
Although none of us were expert canoeists—me in particular—my friends wanted to challenge the Batchawana River, which in Ojibwe means “turbulent waters.” Fortunately, I read about the dangers that the Batchawana posed to inexperienced canoeists and talked them into the more serene Sand River—which is a good thing, given what came later.
We loaded our canoes into a baggage car and settled in for the 140-mile train ride to Sand Lake. Within a few hours, we launched the canoes into the large lake several yards from the railroad tracks.
Ah, peace at last.
We paddled effortlessly across the calm water in search of Sand River, but didn’t find it that afternoon. Instead, we camped on a small rock formation—which someone had dubbed “Whiskey Island”—one of several such havens dotting the pristine lake.
That’s when the wilderness began to sing, even though it was difficult to detect any audible sounds. There was music in the silence itself, punctuated by the occasional call of a loon, splash of a fish, or unnatural cannonballs of four weary compadres jumping into the cool, fresh water.
The next several days were like that—lots of silence, occasional banter between occupants of the two canoes, welcome physical activity and the indignant snorts of moose that were surprised by human invaders while foraging along the Sand River.
In many ways, it seemed like heaven on earth. Plenty of time to paddle, portage, fish and fry up the day’s catch over an open fire. Time to reflect on life, absorb the relaxing sounds of nature and scribble notes about things I wanted to remember.
Sadly, the time came for my canoe mate and me to return to Central Michigan University for the start of fall classes, so we bid adieu our traveling companions, who had decided they wanted to follow the Sand River all the way to Lake Superior. We paddled back upstream, across Sand Lake and flagged down the next train that passed by on the tracks to Sault Ste. Marie.
Our erstwhile friends, meanwhile, pointed their canoe toward Gitchee Gumee. But instead of portaging around some of the dangerous whitewater further downstream, they decided to shoot the rapids, bending the aluminum Grumman around a large boulder and stranding themselves in the singing wilderness. If not for a Canadian Forest Service helicopter happening by and discovering their plight, they might still be there today.
But all is well that ends well and our search for the music goes on. It may be in the soft guttering of an open fire, Olson said, or in the beat of rain on a tent.
“It seems to be part of a hunger we all have for a time when we were closer to lakes and rivers—to mountains and meadows and forests—than we are today,” he wrote, “Because of our almost forgotten past, there is a restlessness within us, an impatience with things as they are, which modern life with its comforts and distractions does not seem to satisfy.”
Smart environmental policy
An editorial from the Late August 2013 North Woods Call:
A friend of ours once wrote a song based on the old saying, “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”
We feel that way about many so-called “progressive” environmental policies that often seem to cause more harm than good.
After all, what did the “Cash for Clunkers” program really accomplish, other than waste taxpayer dollars, remove from the market vehicles that a considerable amount of energy was expended to make, drive up the prices of used cars and deprive low-income people of access to affordable transportation?
What good does it do to spend billions funding “green energy” companies with no viable customer base that will be bankrupt in a few months when there are no buyers for their far-too-expensive products?
And why try to destroy the fossil fuel industry before we have the appropriate technology to replace it with something equally effective at powering the nation’s economy?
Then there are those new-fangled light bulbs—the ones that cost many times what we have spent on Thomas Edison’s old incandescent variety, but aren’t nearly as bright and contain hazardous mercury that can’t be disposed by conventional means.
We’re all for innovation and finding new and more energy-efficient ways to do things. And we agree that ongoing research and development into these areas is necessary and appropriate.
But there must be a more efficient and cost-effective way to go about it. Far too much money is going into the pockets of politicians and their business cronies (ie. financial donors) under the guise of protecting the environment, and far too little into legitimate pursuit of technologies and products that will better serve the needs of mankind at prices we can afford.
We want a cleaner, safer environment as much as anyone and concede that some past environmental policies have helped bring that about. But we could do much better if we kept the greedy bandits away from our public treasury and let market forces play a more substantial role in solving our energy problems.
A lot of viable solutions are probably being overlooked because the short-sighted power brokers in control of the money can’t figure out how to enrich themselves and still find cheaper and better sources of energy.
We need solid answers that benefit us all—not just those with enough green in their pockets to buy the American dream.
A friend of ours once wrote a song based on the old saying, “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”
We feel that way about many so-called “progressive” environmental policies that often seem to cause more harm than good.
After all, what did the “Cash for Clunkers” program really accomplish, other than waste taxpayer dollars, remove from the market vehicles that a considerable amount of energy was expended to make, drive up the prices of used cars and deprive low-income people of access to affordable transportation?
What good does it do to spend billions funding “green energy” companies with no viable customer base that will be bankrupt in a few months when there are no buyers for their far-too-expensive products?
And why try to destroy the fossil fuel industry before we have the appropriate technology to replace it with something equally effective at powering the nation’s economy?
Then there are those new-fangled light bulbs—the ones that cost many times what we have spent on Thomas Edison’s old incandescent variety, but aren’t nearly as bright and contain hazardous mercury that can’t be disposed by conventional means.
We’re all for innovation and finding new and more energy-efficient ways to do things. And we agree that ongoing research and development into these areas is necessary and appropriate.
But there must be a more efficient and cost-effective way to go about it. Far too much money is going into the pockets of politicians and their business cronies (ie. financial donors) under the guise of protecting the environment, and far too little into legitimate pursuit of technologies and products that will better serve the needs of mankind at prices we can afford.
We want a cleaner, safer environment as much as anyone and concede that some past environmental policies have helped bring that about. But we could do much better if we kept the greedy bandits away from our public treasury and let market forces play a more substantial role in solving our energy problems.
A lot of viable solutions are probably being overlooked because the short-sighted power brokers in control of the money can’t figure out how to enrich themselves and still find cheaper and better sources of energy.
We need solid answers that benefit us all—not just those with enough green in their pockets to buy the American dream.
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