Late February edition

     Look for your late-February edition of The North Woods Call later this week
     Read about the governor's proposed hikes to hunting/fishing license fees and fuel taxes, as well as the "biodiversity bill" currently making its way through the state Legislature, a multi-disciplinary "fracking" study guided by the University of Michigan, the continued battle over wolf hunting and much more.
     Also, a look at Stanwood's Native American herbalist Herbert Mingo, known widely as "Big Elk" while he gathered and sold medicinal herbs in Mecosta County from the late 1920s to the late 1950s.

The ghosts of Deward

By Mike VanBuren
From the early February edition of The North Woods Call

     Ongoing debates over open pit mining and hydraulic fracturing in drilling operations have made me think of earlier times when Michigan’s resources were under assault—particularly during the late 19th and early 20th century logging of the Deward tract in the state’s upper Lower Peninsula.
     I first visited the site near the intersection of Antrim, Kalkaska, Crawford and Otsego counties in 1978 with the late Ford Kellum, a retired Department of Natural Resources wildlife biologist and somewhat of a legend among Michigan’s conservationists.
     Kellum was irritated at developers and oil companies that day, which he said were continuing the abusive practices that turned the fragile land surrounding Deward into a case study of mismanagement.
     As one of the last remaining stands of virgin white pine near the end of Michigan’s fabled lumbering era, the majestic forest offered tremendous potential for a hungry industry.  By the late 1970s, however, it could only be described as God-forsaken brush country, punctured by oil & gas wells and scarred by various other development activities.
     What we saw that day was a virtual wasteland of weathered and decaying stumps on soil so delicate that bruises left by horse-drawn wagon wheels more than 60 years earlier could still be seen.
     We walked through the old town site, over long-abandoned railroad grades and past the huge concrete foundations of a sawmill that once ran without stopping day and night, producing as many as 52 million board feet of lumber in a single year.
     The town began to die, of course, as soon as the last giant pine completed its run through the mill.  In March 1912, as suddenly as the town was created, the mill was dismantled and moved away.  The local population gradually diminished until the last resident deserted the site in August 1932.
     Deward had become the last of Michigan’s lumbering ghost towns, leaving behind a prairie-type land mass marked only by the huge white pine stumps.
     Repeated fires and soil too poor to bring the forests back kept much of the land from recovering.
     During the 1920s and 1930s, huge flocks of prairie chickens could be flushed from almost anywhere on the tract, but—due to the fires, natural growth and development—they eventually disappeared.  Sharp-tailed grouse were introduced south of Deward in 1933 and did well for a short time  until they, too, became the victims of growth and development to the point where—at the time of our visit—there were only a few remaining in the area.
     For more than a generation, there was little activity on the Deward tract.  Then a pipeline construction crew moved through the area, uprooting stumps and leaving a large scar on the land.  Later, a large development firm took over 12 square miles of the tract surrounding Lake Harold in Antrim County.  Roads were cut and paved, recreational facilities and an airport were built, and lots were surveyed and sold.
     Elsewhere on the tract, drilling operations continue today.
     Several years ago, I returned to Deward with my then nine-year-old son and a former college roommate.  We camped for two days at the old town site, hiked along the Manistee River and searched for memorabilia.
     Natural growth and a 25-year-old pine plantation were beginning to reclaim some of the land, although large areas remained sparsely covered—sporting nothing more than a few scrub trees and a thin layer of soil and grass.
     The nights were dark and relatively quiet, save for the occasional yip of a coyote and the rhythmic pounding of nearby oil wells.
     On our last morning in camp, while we were packing tents and preparing oatmeal for breakfast, a large explosion shattered the Sunday morning calm.  Each of us jumped a bit—startled by the loud boom and resulting percussion that we felt forcing its way through the trees.
     Then the quiet returned, with only the lingering odor of natural gas to remind us of the disturbing noise we had heard.  We saw no smoke or flames and heard no emergency vehicles responding to whatever had caused the blast—only a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves.
     Just another day in Deward.
    We finished breaking camp a short time later and drove away, never having figured out what had exploded, or how far away it was.  Not much to get excited about, I guess, because we never heard or read anything about it after that.
     I returned home haunted by the strange experience and by memories of my first visit to Deward many years earlier with Ford Kellum—who was a tireless advocate for better resource management right up until his death in October 1991.
   It seems like there is so much that he left unfinished.

Early February call

The early February edition of The North Woods Call was published this week.  Featured are a variety of photos from the north country, as well as stories about invasive species, lake-effect snow, "climate change," wolf hunting and an environmental report card for  Gov. Rick Snyder from the Michigan League of Conservation Voters.  Also, the formal obituary for Mary Lou Sheppard, who published The North Woods Call for many years with her late husband, Glen.

Late-January issue coming soon

The late-January edition of The North Woods Call will be out in about a week.  Featured will be articles on Upper Peninsula mining, gun control, the recent death of Mary Lou Sheppard, the conservation efforts of the late Guy Kistler and much more.

If you don't already have a subscription, get one now!

Mary Lou Sheppard dies

Mary Lou Sheppard, widow and longtime business partner of former North Woods Call publisher Glen Sheppard, died December 29 at her Charlevoix-area home.  She was 79.

Sheppard was preceded in death by her husband in early 2011 and had been battling cancer in recent months.  As of this writing, no memorial services had been scheduled.

Walking Christmas morning

     For the past several years, it has been my practice to take a pre-dawn walk on Christmas morning through the rural neighborhood in which I grew up.
     It is the best time of the year to be walking.  The world’s usual frantic pace has temporarily slowed and automobile traffic is light—practically nonexistent if you go early enough.  There is a special serenity in the air that is uncommon on other days.
     I recall one such morning a few years ago.  The sun was just beginning to rise and a nearly full moon hung brightly above, covered by a thin veil of cirrocumulus clouds.  The sky appeared red and rippled like the chiseled muscles of an athlete’s abdomen.
     An eerie vapor floated upward from the chilly waters of tiny Bonnie Brook and I could hear the gentle current gurgling around small stones, fallen logs and beds of still-green watercress.
    Some homes remained dark and still, while others were lit by multi-colored Christmas lights that flickered through tightly closed draperies.  As usual, I saw no one, but knew there were children smiling and giggling inside the warm structures, as they discovered the toys and gifts that mysteriously appeared overnight.
     Passing by the green two-story house where I spent my formative years, I thought about the many happy Christmases spent within those walls—waking early to run down the long wooden staircase with my older sister to see what jolly old Santa left behind.
     There was unfettered magic in finding the red-and-white stockings our mother made hanging on the oak-trimmed wall, stuffed with pencils, candy and assorted other goodies.
   I have often wondered how many other Christmases were celebrated in the same small rooms during the early 1900s, when others lived in the house and farmed the valley floor.  Who were the rosy-cheeked children of those days, giggling with delight at the things they found under their yuletide tree?
     I contemplate these questions each year and try to imagine youngsters from another era running down the same stairway in the pre-dawn hours to see what St. Nicholas had left for them.  My own father was one of them, having lived in the house himself as a child.
     Each year about this time, my mind generally wanders back to some of the childhood gifts I remember most—toy cars and trucks, BB-guns, assorted games, a 15-pound bow and matching arrow set, miscellaneous clothing, toy rifles and pistols, and lots of Hardy Boy mystery books.
     On my walks, I often hum a few bars of “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem,” or some other Christmas song, as I continue up the road.  When I cross meandering Spring Brook, I usually stop to look into the clear, cold water.
     There are greater gifts than the ones we find under our Christmas trees, I remind myself, then offer a small prayer of thanksgiving for the narrow trout stream, the snow, and life itself.
     A half-mile further—past the local rod and gun club—I will pause again and gaze up a long driveway toward the tiny house where my grandfather lived until his death more than 45 years ago.  I remember sledding with my cousins and neighborhood friends on the steep slopes behind the house.
     Across the two-lane road, there was once a jet-black horse that stared at me from behind a dark wooden fence.  He always seemed to be curious and I could see his warm breath in the cold morning air, streaming from his wide nostrils like smoke from the fire-breathing dragon in a child’s picture book.
     “Hello, Mr. Horse,” I said each year.  “Happy Christmas to you.”
     The horse, of course, always ignored my greetings and continued to stare at me in silence, as if trying to figure out why anyone would be walking alone on such a cold winter morning.
     Along about this time, the sun usually appears and the moon fades into the daylight, so I start  back toward where my walk began.
     During the good years, there is plenty of fluffy white snow to muffle sounds and enhance my morning walks.  On those days, the landscape glistens in the early morning sunlight like billions of tiny diamonds spread out as far as I can see.
     It is on these peaceful mornings that I most keenly sense the presence of God in my life and treasure the incredible gifts I have received during the many Christmas seasons I have enjoyed.
    Among them are the sun, the moon, the sky, and the Michigan landscape.  Also, the friends and loved ones that have passed through this rural neighborhood and enriched my life.  And all the living creatures that share the bountiful land with us.
     Topping the list, of course, is a tiny infant born a couple thousand years ago in a crowded Bethlehem stable, which is what Christmas is really all about.
     “How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given,” the old song goes. “So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his Heaven.”
     One year, as I ended my holiday walk and looked across the valley for the last time, I saw a small herd of white-tailed deer prancing through a stand of tall pine trees.  They were quite playful that morning and seemed to be celebrating Christmas in their own special way.
     Maybe they sensed the spirit of their creator moving across the land—much as I do each year as the Christmas dawn breaks.
     “Oh morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth,” I sing from childhood memory, “And praises sing to God the king and peace to men on earth.”
     Merry Christmas, my friends, and a splendid new year full of heavenly hope and love.

A note to readers

Mary Lou Sheppard, widow of longtime North Woods Call publisher Glen Sheppard, has reportedly been in good spirits over the holidays, despite her deteriorating health.  She underwent cancer treatment last summer, but in August was told that the treatment was not working and nothing more could be done.

In a recent e-mail to The Call, she said she was being cared for at home by her daughter, Jackie, and planned to stay there “until the end.”  “Some days are good and some are not,” she said, but there will be no more chemo or radiation treatments.

Low energy and “chemo brain” sometimes makes it difficult for her to answer e-mail and otherwise operate her computer—or even talk on the telephone—but she loves to hear from friends, loved ones and those she became acquainted with through The North Woods Call.   In fact, she has been delighted by several well-wishes and cards over the past few weeks, according to her daughter.

If you want to send a card or note yourself,the address is 165 Turkey Run Road , Charlevoix, Michigan  49720.