The early December issue of The North Woods Call will hit the presses later next week.
It's another block-buster edition, with stories about the ongoing fight over oil & gas leases in Barry County and the people waging the battle; a proposed strip mine in Michigan's eastern Upper Peninsula; "anti-fracking" legal strategies for community activists; and an interesting study of toxic chemicals at natural gas production sites.
Also, you'll get the usual news and information from the north woods; a review of Plastic Ocean, a troubling book by Capt. Charles Moore; and all our great columns, editorials and letters to get you thinking.
How about signing up for your subscription today, or at least ordering your North Woods Call t-shirts and caps! See www.mynorthwoodscall.com.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
A lifetime of campfires
Mike VanBuren column from the mid-November issue:
A man’s life can be measured in the glow of campfires. At least that’s the way it has been for me.
I first gathered around the soothing flames while still a boy—during family campouts at Interlochen State Park—where we fellowshipped regularly with friends and relatives who made the trek north each July.
Back home, the neighbor kids and I could often be found on summer nights building campfires in the hills behind our home, a rite-of passage that included sipping root beer from gallon jugs, exploring dark woodlots in the moonlight and sleeping soundly in canvas pup tents, or in bags rolled out under the stars.
“The fire is the main comfort of the camp—whether in summer or winter—and is about as ample at one season as at another,” wrote Henry David Thoreau. “It is as well for cheerfulness as for warmth and dryness.”
That’s probably one reason our Native American brethren have traditionally gathered around fire circles to talk and listen to the wisdom of others.
For much of my childhood and into my adult life, I have collected wisdom from campfire conversations. For many years, it was an Independence Day ritual for family and friends to gather around a blazing social fire built in the gravel driveway—and later in the patio fire pit—of our rural home.
We children would listen to the conversations of our parents and their friends, learning important life lessons passed down through stories and good-natured laughter.
“Even in a time of elephantine vanity and greed, one never has to look far to see the campfires of gentle people,” observed Garrison Keillor of Minnesota Public Radio’s A Prairie Home Companion.
Gentleness and quiet wisdom seem to have always been hallmarks of the campfires that I sat around. As I grew older, I carried those benefits with me.
Among my best memories are the roaring campfires shared with friends and family in various locations throughout northern and southern Michigan.
Elsewhere, I have basked in their warmth and light in the national forests of Arizona, with young Dutch tourists on a cold September evening in Wyoming’s Yellowstone National Park and in front of a crackling fireplace at a small log cabin in the ghost town of Tincup, Colorado.
During my early college years, there were large group gatherings in Allegan Forest and on the beaches of Lake Michigan. And my good friend and ex-roommate from Central Michigan University still joins me for regular spring and fall excursions—including twice on the south shore of Beaver Island—that would be incomplete without campfire philosophy.
Firelight was even an integral part of my courtship years and a delight at the wedding reception. And my own kids were raised on campfires and smores during 20-plus years of August camping trips to the state park near our house.
Many gatherings with my acoustic musician friends over the years have included singing to the accompaniment of guitars, banjos and mandolins in the flickering shadows of a friendly campfire.
I treasure these memories and hope to make even more of them before my days are done.
George Bernard Shaw said that “life is a flame that is always burning itself out, but it catches fire again every time a child is born.”
It’s somehow comforting to know that—when the embers of my life are finally extinguished with a dash of cold water and a whiff of white smoke—another boy will come along and seek wisdom in the stories and laughter of a thousand campfires.
A man’s life can be measured in the glow of campfires. At least that’s the way it has been for me.
I first gathered around the soothing flames while still a boy—during family campouts at Interlochen State Park—where we fellowshipped regularly with friends and relatives who made the trek north each July.
Back home, the neighbor kids and I could often be found on summer nights building campfires in the hills behind our home, a rite-of passage that included sipping root beer from gallon jugs, exploring dark woodlots in the moonlight and sleeping soundly in canvas pup tents, or in bags rolled out under the stars.
“The fire is the main comfort of the camp—whether in summer or winter—and is about as ample at one season as at another,” wrote Henry David Thoreau. “It is as well for cheerfulness as for warmth and dryness.”
That’s probably one reason our Native American brethren have traditionally gathered around fire circles to talk and listen to the wisdom of others.
For much of my childhood and into my adult life, I have collected wisdom from campfire conversations. For many years, it was an Independence Day ritual for family and friends to gather around a blazing social fire built in the gravel driveway—and later in the patio fire pit—of our rural home.
We children would listen to the conversations of our parents and their friends, learning important life lessons passed down through stories and good-natured laughter.
“Even in a time of elephantine vanity and greed, one never has to look far to see the campfires of gentle people,” observed Garrison Keillor of Minnesota Public Radio’s A Prairie Home Companion.
Gentleness and quiet wisdom seem to have always been hallmarks of the campfires that I sat around. As I grew older, I carried those benefits with me.
Among my best memories are the roaring campfires shared with friends and family in various locations throughout northern and southern Michigan.
Elsewhere, I have basked in their warmth and light in the national forests of Arizona, with young Dutch tourists on a cold September evening in Wyoming’s Yellowstone National Park and in front of a crackling fireplace at a small log cabin in the ghost town of Tincup, Colorado.
During my early college years, there were large group gatherings in Allegan Forest and on the beaches of Lake Michigan. And my good friend and ex-roommate from Central Michigan University still joins me for regular spring and fall excursions—including twice on the south shore of Beaver Island—that would be incomplete without campfire philosophy.
Firelight was even an integral part of my courtship years and a delight at the wedding reception. And my own kids were raised on campfires and smores during 20-plus years of August camping trips to the state park near our house.
Many gatherings with my acoustic musician friends over the years have included singing to the accompaniment of guitars, banjos and mandolins in the flickering shadows of a friendly campfire.
I treasure these memories and hope to make even more of them before my days are done.
George Bernard Shaw said that “life is a flame that is always burning itself out, but it catches fire again every time a child is born.”
It’s somehow comforting to know that—when the embers of my life are finally extinguished with a dash of cold water and a whiff of white smoke—another boy will come along and seek wisdom in the stories and laughter of a thousand campfires.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Newspaper management 101: Lessons from Shep
Mike VanBuren column from the late October 2012 issue:
The first time I encountered Glen Sheppard, I was an upstart reporter at a small weekly newspaper in the northern Michigan community of Mancelona.
That’s when the phone rang.
“This is Shep at The North Woods Call,” said the gruff, no-nonsense voice on the other end of the line. “They’re screwing up the Cedar River.”
It seems the Michigan Environmental Protection Foundation had filed a civil action suit against the Antrim County Road Commission in hopes of halting two culvert replacement projects on the pristine trout stream. The plaintiffs wanted bridges installed over the river, while the top brass at the Michigan Department of Natural Resources (DNR) had approved the large steel culverts to be placed in the water.
Shep wasn’t about to accept this sitting down. He believed that extensive excavation in the stream bottom would introduce many tons of silt into the Cedar and harm the fishery resource. He urged me to visit the site, take photographs and do a story—which I gladly did.
After 35 years, I don’t recall today just how the conflict was resolved, but I still remember the passion in Shep’s voice and his steely determination to protect the river. It was that way whenever he called with story ideas.
Later, during the mid-1980s, I attended two gatherings for North Woods Call subscribers that Shep hosted at the DNR conference center at Higgins Lake—ostensibly to get-acquainted with incoming DNR directors Ron Skoog and Gordon Guyer. When one subscriber questioned the Call’s editorial stance on some conservation issue, the response was classic Shep.
“If you don’t like it,” he said, “buy your own damned newspaper.”
Given this legendary combative personality, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I visited Shep’s home several years later. The first thing I noticed was a sign next to his door that said something like this:
“If you knock and we don’t answer, it’s because we are either busy, or don’t want any visitors. So just go away!”
Fortunately, Shep was expecting me and answered the door in good cheer. I found both he and wife Mary Lou quite hospitable and easy to talk to, although perhaps somewhat suspicious of my motives. After all, I was there because he had hinted in a column that he might be ready to retire and turn The North Woods Call over to someone else.
That, of course, was easier said than done.
I’m not sure he really wanted to step aside. He certainly didn’t want to surrender The Call to just anyone and I was asking way too many technical questions to suit his style.
“Someone who is going to continue The Call’s tradition will have to be an aggressive risk-taker,” he said. “Sure, you need to set goals, but to hell with analyzing the odds before deciding to take the risks.”
He conceded that this is not the way in today’s high-tech corporate world, but declared, “The Call ain’t about high-tech.”
Besides, he said, he didn’t know the answers to most of my questions and couldn’t rightly say why the newspaper had survived for so many years without more attention to textbook business practices.
“I would know these things if I were more prudent,” he admitted, “in which case The Call would have died years ago.”
Instead, Shep lived by a lesson learned from his military rifle company commander more than 50 years earlier when as a young soldier he questioned the wisdom of charging a hill without proper reconnaissance.
“You’re telling me that discretion is the better part of valor,” the commander reportedly said. “Discreet cowards cower. Get those rifles up that hill!”
I’m still not sure what to make of all that—I’ve never been one for blind foolishness—but I probably ignored a fair number of traditional business principles when I took on the uncertain task of resurrecting this newspaper.
“We have had a lot of people look at and crave The Call,” Shep told me during one of our discussions, “but none that I judged would carry on its mission. I think you could.”
That’s as close to an endorsement as I ever got from him.
In the end, my business instincts were probably too cautious and his personal identity with The North Woods Call too strong for us to reach a satisfactory agreement while he was at the helm.
Shep insisted that discretion could not sustain The Call’s contribution to conservation for another half-century and left me with three words of advice:
“Just do it!”
Well, I finally did, though not in the way Shep envisioned. Turns out, that was the easy part.
Now I’m learning to harness my natural discretion and live with the risk.
The first time I encountered Glen Sheppard, I was an upstart reporter at a small weekly newspaper in the northern Michigan community of Mancelona.
That’s when the phone rang.
“This is Shep at The North Woods Call,” said the gruff, no-nonsense voice on the other end of the line. “They’re screwing up the Cedar River.”
It seems the Michigan Environmental Protection Foundation had filed a civil action suit against the Antrim County Road Commission in hopes of halting two culvert replacement projects on the pristine trout stream. The plaintiffs wanted bridges installed over the river, while the top brass at the Michigan Department of Natural Resources (DNR) had approved the large steel culverts to be placed in the water.
Shep wasn’t about to accept this sitting down. He believed that extensive excavation in the stream bottom would introduce many tons of silt into the Cedar and harm the fishery resource. He urged me to visit the site, take photographs and do a story—which I gladly did.
After 35 years, I don’t recall today just how the conflict was resolved, but I still remember the passion in Shep’s voice and his steely determination to protect the river. It was that way whenever he called with story ideas.
Later, during the mid-1980s, I attended two gatherings for North Woods Call subscribers that Shep hosted at the DNR conference center at Higgins Lake—ostensibly to get-acquainted with incoming DNR directors Ron Skoog and Gordon Guyer. When one subscriber questioned the Call’s editorial stance on some conservation issue, the response was classic Shep.
“If you don’t like it,” he said, “buy your own damned newspaper.”
Given this legendary combative personality, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I visited Shep’s home several years later. The first thing I noticed was a sign next to his door that said something like this:
“If you knock and we don’t answer, it’s because we are either busy, or don’t want any visitors. So just go away!”
Fortunately, Shep was expecting me and answered the door in good cheer. I found both he and wife Mary Lou quite hospitable and easy to talk to, although perhaps somewhat suspicious of my motives. After all, I was there because he had hinted in a column that he might be ready to retire and turn The North Woods Call over to someone else.
That, of course, was easier said than done.
I’m not sure he really wanted to step aside. He certainly didn’t want to surrender The Call to just anyone and I was asking way too many technical questions to suit his style.
“Someone who is going to continue The Call’s tradition will have to be an aggressive risk-taker,” he said. “Sure, you need to set goals, but to hell with analyzing the odds before deciding to take the risks.”
He conceded that this is not the way in today’s high-tech corporate world, but declared, “The Call ain’t about high-tech.”
Besides, he said, he didn’t know the answers to most of my questions and couldn’t rightly say why the newspaper had survived for so many years without more attention to textbook business practices.
“I would know these things if I were more prudent,” he admitted, “in which case The Call would have died years ago.”
Instead, Shep lived by a lesson learned from his military rifle company commander more than 50 years earlier when as a young soldier he questioned the wisdom of charging a hill without proper reconnaissance.
“You’re telling me that discretion is the better part of valor,” the commander reportedly said. “Discreet cowards cower. Get those rifles up that hill!”
I’m still not sure what to make of all that—I’ve never been one for blind foolishness—but I probably ignored a fair number of traditional business principles when I took on the uncertain task of resurrecting this newspaper.
“We have had a lot of people look at and crave The Call,” Shep told me during one of our discussions, “but none that I judged would carry on its mission. I think you could.”
That’s as close to an endorsement as I ever got from him.
In the end, my business instincts were probably too cautious and his personal identity with The North Woods Call too strong for us to reach a satisfactory agreement while he was at the helm.
Shep insisted that discretion could not sustain The Call’s contribution to conservation for another half-century and left me with three words of advice:
“Just do it!”
Well, I finally did, though not in the way Shep envisioned. Turns out, that was the easy part.
Now I’m learning to harness my natural discretion and live with the risk.
Mid-November issue
Greetings to all you North Woods Call groupies out there. We're entering our 60th year this month and the latest edition will be coming off the press this week, so get ready.
Stories include pieces on state Sen. Tom Casperson discussing the Department of Natural Resources (DNR), a lawsuit over oil and gas leases in Barry/Allegan counties, the arrest of seven lease protesters, the work of Michigan photographer Rick Baetsen and the impact of EHD on this year's deer licenses.
Of course, there's also a cornucopia of other important information, as well as the usual columns and editorials.
Stories include pieces on state Sen. Tom Casperson discussing the Department of Natural Resources (DNR), a lawsuit over oil and gas leases in Barry/Allegan counties, the arrest of seven lease protesters, the work of Michigan photographer Rick Baetsen and the impact of EHD on this year's deer licenses.
Of course, there's also a cornucopia of other important information, as well as the usual columns and editorials.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
It's time to stop howling at the moon -- and each other
Mike VanBuren column from the October 2012 issue:
It’s a cool morning with a hint of fall in the air and Toby is stretched out on the floor near my desk.
Toby is my son’s beagle hound and I’ve been elected dog sitter for the day. We just returned from an energetic romp through the woods—searching for fresh air and exercise—and now my four-legged companion is trying to sleep it off.
Having a dog around the house reminds me of my younger days. It seems like there were canines everywhere in the rural neighborhood where I grew up—big dogs, little dogs and all sizes in-between. Some belonged to our family, but many lived with the neighbors.
They were mostly mongrels, I guess, with every kind of name you could imagine—Snorky,Wags, Cocoa, Nipper, Tony, Sport, Chip and Joey. I remember them all. Saber and Shane were male German shepherds with questionable dispositions. Penny and Princess were female beagles. It seemed like Princess was always pregnant, waddling and bellowing across hill-and-dale on her regular hunting expeditions.
The lucky dogs roamed free in those days. Others—such as the unpredictable German shepherds—were kept chained, or penned.
One of the first dogs I remember—Skippy—was struck by a car when I was perhaps five-years old. He retreated under our front porch and stayed there whimpering in pain until my father mercifully took a rifle and ended the misery.
Dogs can bring much grief when their relatively short lives reach their inevitable conclusions (see Tom Springer’s column on Page 6). Maybe it’s the memory of this pain and loss that made me not want a dog for many years, along with a personal resistance to the constant demands that dogs place on their masters.
Yet, energetic animals like Toby add a lot of joy to our lives. Their ebullient personalities and unwavering loyalty are infectious, and may be worth all the extra work that goes into caring for them.
Toby, for instance, is occasionally in need of a bath—thanks to his penchant for seeking out and rolling in the foulest-smelling odors that perfume the ground along woodland trails. It’s not always easy to understand the ways of a dog.
It can be just as difficult to understand the ways of men and women. Despite all our good deeds and wonderful inventions, we often insist on polluting the earth, abusing natural resources and disparaging each other. Then we find perverse satisfaction rolling in the stench that we create—until bath time, at least.
This phenomenon seems to happen the world over. It is found throughout our lives and culture—in politics, sports, entertainment, media, business, religious institutions and interpersonal relationships. We know we need cleansing—and are often pointed toward the soap and water—but decline to scrub ourselves down. We’d rather hold our noses and blame the filth and offending odors on someone else.
Toby doesn’t necessarily think about the things he does. He’s wired that way. But we humans should know better. A dog merely follows his instincts. We are supposedly gifted with reason and logic.
If we’re going to improve our relationship with the earth, work better with each other and make greater advancements for the common good, we need to take personal responsibility for the outcomes of our actions.
As some political strategists like to say, we’ve all got a dog in this hunt. We might as well train it to do the right thing.
Otherwise—with apologies to the late Hank Williams—we’ll just keep chasing cars, scratching fleas and howling at the moon.
It’s a cool morning with a hint of fall in the air and Toby is stretched out on the floor near my desk.
Toby is my son’s beagle hound and I’ve been elected dog sitter for the day. We just returned from an energetic romp through the woods—searching for fresh air and exercise—and now my four-legged companion is trying to sleep it off.
Having a dog around the house reminds me of my younger days. It seems like there were canines everywhere in the rural neighborhood where I grew up—big dogs, little dogs and all sizes in-between. Some belonged to our family, but many lived with the neighbors.
They were mostly mongrels, I guess, with every kind of name you could imagine—Snorky,Wags, Cocoa, Nipper, Tony, Sport, Chip and Joey. I remember them all. Saber and Shane were male German shepherds with questionable dispositions. Penny and Princess were female beagles. It seemed like Princess was always pregnant, waddling and bellowing across hill-and-dale on her regular hunting expeditions.
The lucky dogs roamed free in those days. Others—such as the unpredictable German shepherds—were kept chained, or penned.
One of the first dogs I remember—Skippy—was struck by a car when I was perhaps five-years old. He retreated under our front porch and stayed there whimpering in pain until my father mercifully took a rifle and ended the misery.
Dogs can bring much grief when their relatively short lives reach their inevitable conclusions (see Tom Springer’s column on Page 6). Maybe it’s the memory of this pain and loss that made me not want a dog for many years, along with a personal resistance to the constant demands that dogs place on their masters.
Yet, energetic animals like Toby add a lot of joy to our lives. Their ebullient personalities and unwavering loyalty are infectious, and may be worth all the extra work that goes into caring for them.
Toby, for instance, is occasionally in need of a bath—thanks to his penchant for seeking out and rolling in the foulest-smelling odors that perfume the ground along woodland trails. It’s not always easy to understand the ways of a dog.
It can be just as difficult to understand the ways of men and women. Despite all our good deeds and wonderful inventions, we often insist on polluting the earth, abusing natural resources and disparaging each other. Then we find perverse satisfaction rolling in the stench that we create—until bath time, at least.
This phenomenon seems to happen the world over. It is found throughout our lives and culture—in politics, sports, entertainment, media, business, religious institutions and interpersonal relationships. We know we need cleansing—and are often pointed toward the soap and water—but decline to scrub ourselves down. We’d rather hold our noses and blame the filth and offending odors on someone else.
Toby doesn’t necessarily think about the things he does. He’s wired that way. But we humans should know better. A dog merely follows his instincts. We are supposedly gifted with reason and logic.
If we’re going to improve our relationship with the earth, work better with each other and make greater advancements for the common good, we need to take personal responsibility for the outcomes of our actions.
As some political strategists like to say, we’ve all got a dog in this hunt. We might as well train it to do the right thing.
Otherwise—with apologies to the late Hank Williams—we’ll just keep chasing cars, scratching fleas and howling at the moon.
The great north woods and me
Mike VanBuren column from the September 2012 issue:
OK. It’s time to confess.
I didn’t grow up in northern Michigan and I don’t live there now. I spent a significant amount of time there as a boy and young man, though — kind of like Ernest Hemingway, without the Nick Adams stories and Nobel Prize for Literature.
I learned to love the north country early on during family campouts with assorted friends and relatives. Regular destinations included state parks at Interlochen, St. Ignace, Indian Lake, Brimley and Baraga.
We fished in Duck Lake, crisscrossed the Mackinac Bridge, toured the Keweenaw Peninsula, swam in the Great Lakes, skied on Wexford County’s tiny Lake Meauwataka, watched big ships move through the locks at Sault Sainte Marie, and generally enjoyed the clean air and fresh water that personified the so-called “winter-water wonderland” of my youth.
Adventure tales by Jack London, poetry by Robert Service and stories by Farley Mowat only added to my fascination with all things north.
Nevertheless, most of my time was spent in the Spring Brook Watershed of Richland Township, located in the southwestern part of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula.
My friends and I would wade the meandering stream, catch trout in the cold spring water and build dams at various swimming holes — unwelcome obstructions that the Department of Natural Resources would promptly remove. We climbed trees, roamed the woods, camped in the meadows, explored the wetlands, dug small ponds and stocked them with captured frogs, and looked forward to the annual outdoor show in the Kalamazoo County Center building at the local fairgrounds.
That’s where I first saw The North Woods Call – back in the days when Marguerite Gahagan was still publisher. There was always a stack of the little newspapers near the entrance and I would beeline over to pick up my copy. I was as fascinated by the publication then as I am now.
Years later, when I became a newspaper reporter and editor at weekly publications in the northern Michigan communities of Mancelona and Kalkaska, I would occasionally get telephone calls from Marguerite’s successor, Glen Sheppard. Shep, as he was known, always had a good tip for a story in my coverage area and I was pleased to follow up on them.
It was Shep who introduced me to Bud Jones of Alba. Bud took me on an early morning trip to the sharp-tail grouse dancing grounds in eastern Antrim County. Shep also connected me to legendary conservationist Ford Kellum, who gave me a tour of the forsaken stump country surrounding the Deward tract near the Antrim-Crawford county line.
It was about that time — in 1978 — that I started to think that someday I would like to own The North Woods Call. I had always had a heart for writing and journalism, and I couldn’t think of a better place to ply my trade than with a publication that actually made a difference.
I first started to talk to Shep about the future of The Call during the late 1980s. He said he wanted to take on a partner — and maybe even sell the publication — but I’m not sure he really did. The newspaper had become such a part of him that it was difficult for anyone — let alone Shep — to think about the publication continuing without him at the helm.
I submitted several proposals over the years, but he wasn’t very responsive to my ideas. He wasn’t a business guy, he said, and wanted someone willing to “jump in and charge the hill” without so much consideration of business plans, profits and losses.
Anything short of that did not resonate with his “take no prisoners” personality.
It ultimately took his passing and several months of negotiations with Shep’s widow, Mary Lou, and her attorney to seal the deal. But now it’s done and here I am, wondering just what I’ve gotten myself into.
It’s still a significant risk — and probably a dubious business deal. Given today’s newspaper economics, it could be downright crazy. Maybe I do meet Shep’s partnership requirements after all.
I still visit northern Michigan as often as possible and I’d like to return one day to live and work there. Unfortunately, life circumstances at the moment do not allow for that. So I am going to attempt — for the near-term, at least — to write and publish The Call from my home in Kalamazoo.
That will be a challenge, I’m sure, but it is much more feasible in this era of advanced communication technology than it might have been in years past. After all, Shep did a fair amount of newsgathering over the telephone — particularly in his later years. I don’t think he used the Internet much, but that is another powerful tool that I can employ.
I’m also hoping to develop a stable of top-notch environmental writers to contribute articles, features and opinion pieces. That may take a while, but it is a goal worth pursuing. Ultimately, we want to make The Call the go-to source for news and information about outdoor and conservation issues in Michigan — and beyond.
The important thing is to build an active learning community around The North Woods Call — one that engages citizens, businesses, nonprofit organizations, government agencies and policymakers in the important work of protecting our natural resources.
You are part of that community, and can help by subscribing and contributing comments, story ideas and general expertise.
Welcome aboard.
Now let’s move forward and see what we can accomplish together.
OK. It’s time to confess.
I didn’t grow up in northern Michigan and I don’t live there now. I spent a significant amount of time there as a boy and young man, though — kind of like Ernest Hemingway, without the Nick Adams stories and Nobel Prize for Literature.
I learned to love the north country early on during family campouts with assorted friends and relatives. Regular destinations included state parks at Interlochen, St. Ignace, Indian Lake, Brimley and Baraga.
We fished in Duck Lake, crisscrossed the Mackinac Bridge, toured the Keweenaw Peninsula, swam in the Great Lakes, skied on Wexford County’s tiny Lake Meauwataka, watched big ships move through the locks at Sault Sainte Marie, and generally enjoyed the clean air and fresh water that personified the so-called “winter-water wonderland” of my youth.
Adventure tales by Jack London, poetry by Robert Service and stories by Farley Mowat only added to my fascination with all things north.
Nevertheless, most of my time was spent in the Spring Brook Watershed of Richland Township, located in the southwestern part of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula.
My friends and I would wade the meandering stream, catch trout in the cold spring water and build dams at various swimming holes — unwelcome obstructions that the Department of Natural Resources would promptly remove. We climbed trees, roamed the woods, camped in the meadows, explored the wetlands, dug small ponds and stocked them with captured frogs, and looked forward to the annual outdoor show in the Kalamazoo County Center building at the local fairgrounds.
That’s where I first saw The North Woods Call – back in the days when Marguerite Gahagan was still publisher. There was always a stack of the little newspapers near the entrance and I would beeline over to pick up my copy. I was as fascinated by the publication then as I am now.
Years later, when I became a newspaper reporter and editor at weekly publications in the northern Michigan communities of Mancelona and Kalkaska, I would occasionally get telephone calls from Marguerite’s successor, Glen Sheppard. Shep, as he was known, always had a good tip for a story in my coverage area and I was pleased to follow up on them.
It was Shep who introduced me to Bud Jones of Alba. Bud took me on an early morning trip to the sharp-tail grouse dancing grounds in eastern Antrim County. Shep also connected me to legendary conservationist Ford Kellum, who gave me a tour of the forsaken stump country surrounding the Deward tract near the Antrim-Crawford county line.
It was about that time — in 1978 — that I started to think that someday I would like to own The North Woods Call. I had always had a heart for writing and journalism, and I couldn’t think of a better place to ply my trade than with a publication that actually made a difference.
I first started to talk to Shep about the future of The Call during the late 1980s. He said he wanted to take on a partner — and maybe even sell the publication — but I’m not sure he really did. The newspaper had become such a part of him that it was difficult for anyone — let alone Shep — to think about the publication continuing without him at the helm.
I submitted several proposals over the years, but he wasn’t very responsive to my ideas. He wasn’t a business guy, he said, and wanted someone willing to “jump in and charge the hill” without so much consideration of business plans, profits and losses.
Anything short of that did not resonate with his “take no prisoners” personality.
It ultimately took his passing and several months of negotiations with Shep’s widow, Mary Lou, and her attorney to seal the deal. But now it’s done and here I am, wondering just what I’ve gotten myself into.
It’s still a significant risk — and probably a dubious business deal. Given today’s newspaper economics, it could be downright crazy. Maybe I do meet Shep’s partnership requirements after all.
I still visit northern Michigan as often as possible and I’d like to return one day to live and work there. Unfortunately, life circumstances at the moment do not allow for that. So I am going to attempt — for the near-term, at least — to write and publish The Call from my home in Kalamazoo.
That will be a challenge, I’m sure, but it is much more feasible in this era of advanced communication technology than it might have been in years past. After all, Shep did a fair amount of newsgathering over the telephone — particularly in his later years. I don’t think he used the Internet much, but that is another powerful tool that I can employ.
I’m also hoping to develop a stable of top-notch environmental writers to contribute articles, features and opinion pieces. That may take a while, but it is a goal worth pursuing. Ultimately, we want to make The Call the go-to source for news and information about outdoor and conservation issues in Michigan — and beyond.
The important thing is to build an active learning community around The North Woods Call — one that engages citizens, businesses, nonprofit organizations, government agencies and policymakers in the important work of protecting our natural resources.
You are part of that community, and can help by subscribing and contributing comments, story ideas and general expertise.
Welcome aboard.
Now let’s move forward and see what we can accomplish together.
Kalkaska newspaper features The North Woods Call
The North Woods Call was recently featured in The Leader & the Kalkaskian, Kalkaska's county-seat weekly newspaper.
Call editor and publisher Mike VanBuren is a former editor of the Leader.
Writer Katie Bedard-Goytowski interviewed Mike for her story, which appeared in the October 10 edition.
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