“Shit man, that’s one mean truck.”

“Yeah, just got it from the dealer, hell of a buy.”

“Red, shit man,” Robbie said with enthusiasm.

“Didn’t spect me to buy a blue one,” Jimmy laughed.

“Guess not,” Robbie laughed at the quip.

“Wanna take a ride to the launch site? Got the cooler in the back, with 12 lites.”

“Hell, yes,” Robbie agreed.

“Hop in,” Jimmy grinned.

“Damn, almost takes a ladder to get in her,”

“Yeah, love them damn tall tires. Cost me an extra $1200.00 for them. Them 3/4 ton tires are lots.”

Robbie loved the rumble of the new Hemi. He envied Jimmy. Jimmy didn’t have no wife or kids like he had. He heard it referred to as disposable income on Fox. Jimmy had a good job pounding nails, he didn’t have to work at the factory like him. Course Jimmy didn’t have no insurance, but hell, being single he didn’t need it, like he did. Two snot-nosed kids and one more in the oven. When he and Jenny didn’t have no kids, things was easy. But once she was knocked up and she had to quit the nursing home, there weren’t no money for nothing - had to even sell his truck too.

Jimmy’s new truck’s sound was sweet, a low rumble, not a pussy truck. The custom chrome grill was a nice add-on, Robbie thought to himself. He chuckled internally. The grill could easily take out one of them nature-rats on one of those bikes that were showing up around here with them well-off folk in their black tights, or whatever they called them. Course, the college ladies that ventured to this remote rural county 60 miles from the campus were a nice feature at the local bar with the butt tight leggings. Jenny didn’t look like that anymore, stretch lines and all. God sure pulled one over on young guys. Lured them into marriage and then kids, mortgage, dead-end jobs, well, you know. Pretty soon you gotta sell your truck and vintage shotgun for diapers. “Shit ain’t fair,” he grumbled. Trump promised it would be different and he believed him, I mean what other choice did he have.

“What ja say, Robbie?”

“Just mumbling.”

At the launch site they put down the tailgate and started sucking beers, throwing the cans into the brush. Lites were cheap and no flavor, but who gives a shit, Robbie thought; the object was to get drunk till you were numb.

“Yeah, I woulda liked to put a gun rack in her like my old man’s truck but you know, that just gives the DNR a reason to stop you, cause you can’t carry no shotgun anyways. Law’s the shits.”

On the way to the launch site they’d passed a couple of blue-hairs in a blue sedan. Aren’t all blue-hairs Democrats? Robbie thought. Jimmy pushed the truck and it blazed past them. Jimmy accelerated and the loud noise jammed to a crescendo. Robbie was disgusted at their turtle-like pace. “Get the fuck off the road,” he yelled out the window.

Jimmy switched the radio to an all-talk station. “I sure do miss Rush. Only truthful announcer out there — now gone,” Jimmy lamented. “Commielaw and all them drove all the good ones off the air.”

“Shit yes,” Robbie said as he spit some chaw into an empty beer can. His mother disapproved but what does she know about a man’s life, nothin’.

“You gonna haul firewood with her?” Robbie asked.

“Hell no, scratch up the bed. Most I’ll haul is a cooler of beer,” Jimmy chuckled. “Maybe an 8-point if I get lucky this fall. Probably fly a Trump flag on her, Fourth of July parade, not sure. Don’t want her keyed by one of them college kids. You know how they are. The only calluses they got on their hands is from their bicycle handles, not a damn hammer like you and I. That’s the trouble with this country, too many damn immigrants suckin’ at the public trough. Lazy fuckers. Can’t wait till there’s a thousand busses with jabberin’ immigrants headin’ to Mexico. Gotta save our jobs somehow,” Jimmy grinned. “Not room enough in this country for all them outsiders.”

“Yep, guess so,” Robbie slurped from the beer can, rolled down the window, then tossed the empty. It rolled down the blacktop and into the ditch.

She is now laid up in dry dock for the winter. The whole summer I lived on her at a city marina in the Keweenaw Peninsula. Most of the summer was spent upgrading the vessel with new electronics. (Marine radio, depth meter and knot speed indicator, fish finder, etc. My main purpose was to see if she was suitable for a live-aboard, which she was. We anxiously (me and the Silent Mistress) lived through several mean storms, banging lightning and severe chop that probably would have laid her over if we hadn’t been tied-up tight to the marina’s floating dock.

Jereme and I (mainly Jereme my friend and helpful mechanic, electrician and whatever else.) installed a homemade wood stove which I will furnish photos of next summer after some minor modifications. I think it will work out well.

Honestly only had her out two days this past summer, which I am almost embarrassed to say but there was a ton of stuff to do on her before she was water ready.

My goal is to have her in the water by June 1st of next year, but those of you that have a sailboat know that all plans are subject to change — Quickly!!

Well, I’m going to sign off now. Remember if you live in northern climes like I do, that the winter is time to catch up on your maritime reading, after all there are times when we are armchair sailors, and that ain’t all bad.

Hilton

​Jereme and I working on Silent Mistress

 Wednesday, February 28th, 2024
 There is a massive and impressive statue of Father Baraga at the head of Keweenaw Bay near the small town of Baraga. This statue is a fitting monument to a great priest and is well worth the effort to visit should you venture north to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

 I might add there are efforts to have Father Baraga canonized. Despite whether one believes that any man is worthy of the lofty title of saint, most will admit that Father Baraga was a gifted and tenacious soul, tromping through deep snow and ferocious cold to bring the Catholic faith to the Native Americans.

 The Snowshoe Priest also was the originator of the first Chippewa dictionary (circa July 8, 1853).

 He explored in the wild and rugged Upper Peninsula, and his efforts are well-documented. This history makes a wonderful read on a frigid night as the ice hardens and booms on Lake Superior, and as wild williwaws sweep across this magnificent inland sea.

 (Near the shores of Keweenaw Bay, Lake Superior)

 It was an unusually warm day and what a citizen of the Upper Peninsula would notice was that the ice, normally solid, was mostly devoid of the solid barrier that usually blankets the enormous Lake Superior. Arguably this may be due to climate change, but I will set that issue aside for the moment as there remains much debate in certain circles about the validity of climate change. What is not up for debate is that for centuries the Native Americans have ventured out on the ice for the elusive Lake Trout, endemic to Lake Superior and a staple of their diet.

 Father Baraga (June 29, 1797 - January 19, 1868), often referred to as the Snowshoe Priest, often ventured out on the treacherous lake, not for fish but for souls. The recorded history of this Priest is the stuff of legends regardless of your faith, or lack of it.

 Let me quote just one excerpt from the respectable Reverend Chrysostum Verwyst’s historical biography, Life and Labors of Reverend Frederic Baraga, published in 1900.

 From a Fr. Chebul note: (no date given in diary)

 “One time F[ather] Baraga was going to Ontonagon in company with an Indian half breed in the month of March or April. At that season of the year the ice, though thick, becomes honey-combed and rotten. Some say that Baraga’s companion was a man named Newagon. They went on the ice at LaPointe Island. As the walking on the beach would have been very fatiguing and long, they determined to make straight for Ontonagon over the ice, becoming detached from the shore, began drifting lakeward. After they had traveled for some time they became aware of what happened, for they could see the blue water between them and the shore. Newagon became greatly alarmed, for almost certain death stared them in the face. Had the wind continued blowing in the same direction, the ice would have been driven out into the lake and broken up into small fragments. They would surely have perished. To encourage the drooping spirit of his companion F[ather] Baraga kept telling him that they would escape all right and that they must trust in God, their loving Father and Protector. He also sang Chippewa hymns to divert Newagon’s attention and calm his excitement. Finally, the wind shifted and blew the field of ice back towards shore.

 They landed near Cadotte Pointe, near Union Bay, a short distance from Ontonagon, which they reached the same day. “See,” said the missionary to his companion, “we have traveled a great distance and worked little.” The distance from La Pointe to Ontonagon is about sixty or seventy miles by air line. Had they been obliged to walk the whole distance around the bend of the lake it would probably taken them two or three days of very hard and fatiguing traveling. So what at first seemed to threaten certain death was used by God’s fatherly providence to shorten or facilitate the saintly priest’s journey.”

 Verwyst, pp 221-22.

Note the derogatory use of “half-breed” was purposely left in this quote to keep the diary exactly as written, I apologize for this remark but consider this as accurate to both the diary and to demonstrate the prejudice of this moment in history.

​You might wonder why I chose an almost antique tractor for an essay. I hope by the end of this essay that it all becomes quite clear.


The 8N tractor was, and to the best of my information still is, the most popular tractor ever made, worldwide, with 530,000 units manufactured during its heyday. At the time it was distributed the average retail price in 1952 was $1404.


So what? Well, the current average 100 h.p. John Deere tractor costs between $60,000 to $85,000 depending on the unit. Now I realize that comparing the 8N, with roughly 20 horsepower to the aforementioned tractor is much like comparing apples to watermelons, but here is my point. First both tractors are row-crop tractors. What that means is that a farmer can use either one for plowing potatoes, or whatever. Of course, given the John Deere’s tractor is bigger, faster and more powerful, and most importantly, can work a larger farm, it’s more productive, hands down. No argument there. But will they both function on a small farm, say 300 acres or less? Of course. But at what cost?


Remembering my accounting class in college, (actually I would rather forget that miserable class), if the said farmer is going to amortize the cost of her equipment over, let’s say 10 years, and the farmer paid around $2,000.00 for her well-kept Ford 8N, given no repairs, for simplicity’s sake that would be $200.00 a year.


Now, if the John Deere, again given no costly repairs, and the tractor cost $80,000, it would amortize at roughly $8,000 a year. Now I understand that the more expensive tractor could farm more acreage. BUT that would mean she would have to buy more acreage thus increasing her debt service. Now I know there are a thousand bean counters who could drill large holes in this argument, but suppose between this farmer and the government that it was agreed that the ideal small farm was to be 300 acres (approximately) not more, and maybe less. Now if farmers agreed that they would not purchase more land, the fixed cost for each farmer, per acre would be the same.


Let’s throw in a little politics into this equation. Suppose the government decided in all its wisdom, that small farms were beneficial to both the consumer and the small farmer.


O.K., but what does all of this mean to my original venture into antique tractors. Many lefties, myself included might say, well just go to the farmer’s market and, who in the hell cares, about rusty old tractors and small farms anyway? I have visited a few in my neck of the woods where guys with long hair and pretty ladies in long cotton dresses are happy to sell us more privileged types piles of assorted veggies, at prices that are slightly or excessively more than the local supermarket. (More on that later.)


But what about that single mother with several children who lives in a “food desert”? For those of you unfamiliar with this term it refers to an urban area, most often in an impoverished area of a city that no longer has a food market. What food might be available is often highly-processed junk passing for food. Much of this food is made with products I wouldn’t eat myself. Why is this? Essentially, the government hands out large sums of cash to corporate farms to grow unhealthy shit. If you don’t believe me, please research farm subsidies. Now I want to be emphatic that these subsidies go primarily to giant corporate farms and not the 300 acre farm we have been discussing.


Well, to some people this is just capitalism doing what it always does, give that single mom food stamps, (or whatever they call it now) and the problem is fixed. Who needs small farms anyway? I suspect with the new administration coming in that Trumpanomics will raise its ugly orange head and food for the poor and the few small farms left will be seen as a drag on the society and a bunch of losers feeding at the public trough. And, of course, well if you live in a “food desert” that’s your own damn fault and you should pack up your decrepit old mini-van and move to the suburbs, buy a McMansion and plant flowers instead of pole beans.


So you can perhaps now understand why many college educated folks with a little bit of cash and idealistic values flee to rural areas and buy old Ford 8N tractors and ten acres of overgrown pasture, raise goats and sell farm-fresh eggs.


Whew, sorry about my rantings about old tractors but I will try to provide clarity before I end. You see, the old Ford 8N is not just a rusting hulk behind an old barn but symbolic of what we can do to get out of this whole mess. If a corporation, given financial support would re-introduce a basic, no frill tractor, much like the Ford 8N, and it could be financed at a very low interest rate and this unit subsidized to immigrants with farming knowledge (and there are plenty who come to the U.S. with agrarian experience) part of the problem could be fixed.


As for agriculture land, there are many areas of the country where small farms were the norm 100 years ago. Many of these farms now lie fallow and could be cultivated again. Land purchase could again be governmentally subsidized. Hell, if we are giving gobs of money to corporate farming we can well afford to prime the pump of the poor. This would increase local food production. As for “food deserts” well this problem is complex but not unsolvable with creative thinking, pressure on big-box stores to come, or return to urban areas, or promoting urban farming.


The answer to many of these problems is not larger and larger farms but quite the opposite.


Commodity prices are low, and maybe that way for the immediate future. According to government statistics, midsize farmers are fleeing farming in droves, despite more demand for grain production as a burgeoning worldwide population strains the boundaries of starvation. Rising fertilizer and equipment costs and that big bugaboo inflation eats at the debt-ridden farmer, who might have felt pressured to buy more land to be more productive. We haven’t even addressed the cost of cattle feed for a world that is more and more starved for meat and fuel.


Add, the inevitable change of climate conditions and its increasing effect on crop production and areas of the U.S. that may be unsuitable for farming not too long in the future and what we are witnessing is a “perfect storm” headed our way.


I truly believe all problems are solvable but I also make trips to the grocery store near me and, like most of you, take a sharp breath in when I see the rising cost of eggs and milk.


Peace


Hilton


Stats on Ford 8N for your perusal
manufactured with a 3 point hitch will
allow the various equipment additions:
1. Post hole digger
2. Cement mixer
3. Mower
4. Back blade
5. Scoop
6. Chipper
7. Plow
8. Rakes
etc.


4 speed transmission
4 inline cylinders
wheel base 70”
length 115”
width 64.75”
curb weight 2410 lbs
Even now, according to what I learned parts are readily available.


This was not a perfect tractor by any means, and refinements and alterations to improve efficiency were made over the years. For more information check online.

Ontario Trip - to the Lady Evelyn River System
August 1995


These notes were written while on our trip. The notes are recorded as written with any insights or additions in the final summary. Unless otherwise indicated, the notes were written by Hilton Moore and his partner.


August 12: Saturday: Gamble Lake. Landed by plane, set up camp - no fish, set minnow trap - fire - lake water was warm - set food in canoe for night.


August 13: Sunday: Partner’s birthday - fog on lake - took dip - no minnows - took down camp at Gamble Lake, proceeded downstream, at a point noted on topo map we caught nice perch (3). We then proceeded downriver and caught 8 more nice perch in swamp just past bridge. At junction of river saw couple, then 3 more canoes where we camped. Set up camp just beyond junction of river. Moose tracks on banks. Saw mink and muskrat. We fileted perch. Had sauteed perch and seasoned rice for dinner. Nice weather. Set out minnow-trap - many minnows there.


Trip Note:
Gamble Lake too warm for trout, lots of perch just down from Chance Lake. Do not take child proof lighters. Don’t use Coleman mantles for lantern and bring enough. Don’t buy thin fishing line. It tangles too easily. Small rubber worm worked great for perch. Don’t take army rations. Too heavy.


August 14: Monday: Got up early - took down camp. Let out minnows. Lined down rapids. One mile through marsh, difficulty in finding Portage Site B, -440 meter portage taken because it avoided other rapids - difficult portage through rough rocks. Camped along portage on hill, caught one perch. Explored unnamed lake, small like marsh now. It is the evening now, drizzling, having tea and soon a sip of brandy before bed. No need for suntan lotion on this trip yet. Still no trout just perch, saw no people today. Having food in separate bag very handy for portaging purposes. Dynamo bottle for water works great.


August 15: Tuesday: Did the 5 portages to get us to McPherson Lake. First portage short but very rough over boulders. 2-3-4- portages not bad, 5 a little rough. Most beautiful campsite so far overlooking falls on lake. Lots of beautiful cliffs behind campsite. Caught no fish. Chubs in minnow trap. Land has been burned over to this point. Hope fishing gets better. Sat by fire at night, beautiful weather. Loons, muskrats. Partner got many blueberries and made delicious blueberry bannock for dinner. Need to get berry identification information for next trip because have seen many berries we can’t identify. Plastic bottle got leak and fixed with duct tape. Ibuprofen still very necessary - much pain in shoulder and chest area from work accident. Had salami with blueberry bannock for dinner. Took bath for first time in McPherson just below falls. Only need a tiny bit of hair conditioner for trip. We are not using soap for dishes, only using for body and clothes so we could take a lot less next time in small plastic bottles.


Trip notes: Don’t take plastic jelly containers. They squish out. However mustard and catsup packets are great. Don’t take powdered milk next time. Bannock recipe from Hap Wilson’s book is great. Foam bed is shitty, soaks up water. Next time inflatable mattresses. Boots too heavy, take only one pair next time. Brandy is great on trip, 20 fluid ounce root beer plastic bottles work. Jackets take up a lot of bulk. We brought jean jackets. Consider other light weight alternatives that take less bulk and weigh less. Trail bread excellent but too heavy. Take more homemade baked granola because it is lighter.


Trip note:
(Partner writes): “We need to reduce our weight. Suggestion: lightweight or no axe. No army rations. Use dried meat and no salami. Come up with lightweight shoes. No foam, unless air mattress. Fabric minnow trap. Less hair conditioner, just braid hair,” she states.


August 16: Wednesday: Got up, blueberry oatmeal for breakfast, most excellent. Left shortly after ten and made camp shortly after six. 4 portages (3 runs and 1 portage) got to Kathryn Lake, 2 couples camped across point from us and YMCA boys at far end of lake, these are the first people we have seen for 3 days - unfortunately solitude has been interrupted. Dinner was a combination of army ration and cous-cous, very good, she scores again. My eyes hurt very, very much yesterday morning, sunburned because of previous welding experience. Had to cover eyes with bandana and she took over steering. Lasted about 2 hours until it got hazy, Then I could see again but eyes are still really sensitive. Saw several loon and babies yesterday, also beaver, still no moose and no bear although have found bear scat on portage trail.


Trip notes: Found out pan with leftover cous-cous in it weighted down with rock in the water made an effective minnow trap. Will try this again. Don’t ever want to haul metal minnow trap again.


August 17: Thursday: Got up, had no breakfast - not her idea. As we were taking off plane landed with couple. Trip note: double-bag everything. Couples names were Eric and Ellen who scooted ahead of us on the river system. First set of rapids we lined, second set we portaged. Visited with Eric and Ellen and saw Hap Wilson’s cabin. Hap is known as writer of book about Temagami canoe routes. Eric informed us of fire ban in area due to high heat and no rain. They decided to stay at Hap’s cabin. We pushed on to Bridal Veil Falls. Difficult portage last 300 feet had to belay canoe down slope. Camped midpoint on portage. Had beans and potatoes for dinner - yum! Hung food over cliffs and bag ripped. Lost some parmesan cheese. It was another beautiful day - eyes much better. She put ointment in them. Ribs still hurt but not as bad. Used propane lantern for first time. We decided we do need 2 propane bottles because of fire danger and rain. Bridal Veil Falls is beautiful but no fish. My blue jean shorts are ripped now. Looks almost indecent but who cares.


August 18: Friday: Friday morning. Her grandmother’s birthday. We are camped on Bridal Veil portage trail. Making notes. She kind of had breakfast because I was anxious to get started. I tried fishing in the morning but got nothing. We slid and belayed packs down slope, and unfortunately left ropes behind - OOPS! Lucky we had enough ropes to finish trip. Next 950 yard portage then Far Man portage then 2 runs to track. Lining is using one rope to control canoe going downstream. Tracking uses two ropes, on tied to bow and one to stern to steer through rapids. Managed to catch beautiful bass as we were getting out of river system. Many bass but few takers. Food bag completely ripped now. Set up camp at old logging camp dock. Put food out in canoe for night. Fried bass with cornmeal and spice and had rice with basil and dehydrated butter flakes in it. It was a delicious dinner. No fire because of fire rules. Still no rain, hot weather, jean cutoffs shredded and unusable. Used jack knife to make new shorts from tan pants. Need shorts more than pants this trip. Sipped brandy till dark. Both Amy and I were fatigued at this point, tempers are short, she says mine is, but I say hers is. Lost expensive lure today.


Trip notes:
She writes: “We lost ropes (both of them) after belaying the packs down. We inadvertently left them there. Now we have no way of tying food up. Floated out the canoe last night with food bag. Works well but no one likes to swim near dark back to shore. Other dumb thing I did was to put the lantern after we used it under the blue tarp. Woke up to find hole in tarp - lantern had melted through. We ate 16 inch bass for dinner. Was delicious and better than our usual out of Fletcher’s Pond, near Alpena Michigan. I have still yet to catch a big fish. Packs beginning to get lighter. Should leave axe and boots home next time. It was another scorcher today. Has been one of the hottest summers in Ontario for a number of years.”


August 19: Saturday: Woke up had breakfast of oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins. Very good. Moved camp a football field from previous spot to a more desirable and aesthetic area than old logging camp. Extremely hot. Took several dips and fished all afternoon with success. Several missed strikes in morning. Swam at point down the lake and must have punctured bottom of canoe - on the way back she had to bail while I rowed against strong headwinds. Very fatigued by the time we got back. Fixed canoe with silicon and had dinner of army meat patties which were excellent. She had a vegetable pattie, which was a gift and not her idea, and it was not terribly good. Also had popcorn and tried to use cous-cous in minnow trap with no success. Put oatmeal in minnow trap too but no minnows. Slept lousy (both of us), camp site where tent was was sloped. Put food up on cliff away from bears. No one in sight, beautiful sunset and extremely hot. She got stung by a bee when she and I went to crap.


Trip notes: Do not need to take towel and washcloth. Next time will take a pair of pants with removable legs which will make shorts if needed, much less weight. Buy the thickest Zip Lock baggies on the market and double bag them.


August 20: Sunday: Got up, had coffee and tea and went fishing. Got up early because of bad night of sleep. She caught a small bass, small pike, and lost a nice bass. I got nothing. We went back to camp and Amy fileted the pike - great breakfast. Couple came down the channel just as we were about to bathe, saw them later also. They were from Manhattan and he was working at a camp up here. We canoed from the south channel of Lady Evelyn River system to Willow Island Lake. On the way got a 24’’ pike which we devoured at dinner time. Made our own campsite on a small island. Fished in evening, no luck. Beautiful place to swim, sandy shore.


Trip notes: We need to check to see if stove leaks when we connect to bottle, and remove stove from bottle when finished.


August 21: Monday: She writes: “We are leftover fish for breakfast and were on our way to portage across 2 fairly flat paths to reach Lady Evelyn Lake. Sunday was quite windy and when paddling we did not pay enough attention to the topography of the lake. Paddling Monday morning it was clear we did not know our location in Willow Island Lake. The result was that we paddled way past our portage to Sucker Gut Lake. Lost about two hours in having to backtrack. The portage was a difficult one to find even if we had known where we were. The portage was located in a swampy area. We learned a good lesson - pay attention to the topography of the lake every moment you are canoeing in it. We are still not certain which island we camped on last night. After first portage we ran into a couple who had worked as guides all summer. They informed us that our outfitter is expensive. Nice to have this thought confirmed.”


Trip notes:
She writes: “Do not wear tennis shoes with no socks as water foot wear. Both Hilton and I have multiple blisters. At end of portage found 3 socks hanging on tree. Just our luck because our feet needed socks, as our wet gym shoes were hurting our tender feet. NOTE: Always hook the bungy cord securely in the canoe when not in use. Have lost one of them - and necessary to strap paddles in during portages. We have made a couple of observations of canoeing couple. It is very common for the man to carry the canoe solo while woman trails behind with gear. Carrying gear in wooden boxes with a tump line is very popular. Canoe traditionalist couple we met today had 2 wooden boxes and a pack full of gear. They wondered at the little amount of gear we had for such a long trip. We think we still have too much gear.”


[Note: Traditional box is called Wannigan in the Algonquin language. We were not traditionalists. Most of our gear came from garage sales.]


“Hilton must not have much male pride. He and I carry the canoe together. Find it easier and makes each of us less prone to accidental injury. Found good campsite for the night. Best of campsites - good hearth, latrine trail, rocks to sit on, and flat spot for tent, plus good view of water. Found this place late in the day after lots of paddling. It was about 6:30 when we made camp. I was getting worried because clouds were blowing in, the wind was strong, and the weather was in general spooky. I usually begin worrying anyway, when we do not have a campsite before 5:30 p.m. Windy and have to use the canoe as a wind break for our fire. Had wonderful and much deserved dinner of potatoes au gratin. Parmesan cheese great for camping. Our flashlights are going dead. Need extra batteries for next trip. Leave clothes pins at home - are unnecessary.”


August 22: Tuesday: She writes: “Today is overcast and we had cinnamon and raisin oatmeal for breakfast. We fished all morning. I was a lazy fisherwoman - let Hilton paddle while I read my book and yanked the jighead once in awhile. Caught 3 bass in the process, one was very good size 15’’. Hilton had no luck. We came in about mid-afternoon. I read my book and Hilton took a long nap. I sat on a rock shelf that overlooked the water and enjoyed the sun which every once in a while would peak out from behind the clouds. Went fishing again in the evening - no luck.”


August 23: Wednesday: She writes: “Began packing up camp to move down to Diamond Lake. Had to make a beeline for the tent and wait out some rain. Were on our way in no time with no further hindrance from the weather except the wind against our face as we paddled. Found portage to Diamond Lake and carried boat a few feet over a very tiny fall. Talked with a man named Flynn who had a house boat moored near portage. He was kind enough to give us a contour map of the lake, so we would know where the good fishing was. We decided to take a campsite along the narrows before the water opens out to Diamond Lake. Campsite is across from Indian pictographs. Thought there would be less people around here as Flynn led us to conclude that this is a very popular lake complete with fishing camps. Too many people.”


August 24: Thursday: We had planned on staying at campsite for the day fishing but it was too windy so we packed up camp. Cream of wheat for breakfast and last of coffee. Canoed across from campsite and looked at Indian pictographs, interesting, makes one wonder. Much wind today. Set out bottom bouncer for fishing and drifted down lake. She navigated us to end of lake where we found portage. Met couple from Toronto going same route. She carried canoe. The first female besides Partner involved in carrying canoe. They had not caught any fish. Had lunch on the old bridge which is now just a derelict. Portaged into Lake Temagami at Sharp rock - drifted down lake - continued to be very windy. Set up camp, water very clear almost eerie, but no fish. Had cous-cous, vegetable burger which was foul by both our standards, then went out fishing. Again no fish. Came in had popcorn and brandy and went to bed. Three or four cabins in sight. Coming back to civilization with much regret.


These notes from our trip, are so much like a river, a memory that will not be forgotten, that flows in the human mind. We were much younger then.


She and I are no longer together and have gone our separate ways. I have few regrets. I still retain the memories, and I always will.
​

I suppose it is fair to ask, what the infamous Russian Satellite, Sputnik, has to do with the dying mother of a small child in the congregation. Actually, the young child in question was five or six, and the child of our Methodist minister the year Sputnik was fired into space. The year was 1957.
The child’s care became a congregational duty, a loving act of kindness, but as you might imagine fraught with difficulties and stressful for all involved.
I suspect the precocious child felt much like cold left-over green bean casserole at a church supper, an obligation to the middle-age pastor by many, and particularly to Grace, a charming but edgy lady who had an eye for the pastor. I think that Grace, perhaps subconsciously, wished for the pastor’s wife to die, though I am certain she would have been aghast at my suggestion, but much later she admitted there was some validity in this statement and in fact, much much later, she told me that this was true. She is gone now, so it would be uncharitable for me to say so, but the only folks privy to this story are mostly gone, except the boy, now grown, and me. I am grizzled with grey like an old dog, so no one cares what I say anyways.
As the inevitable hand of death spares no one, the pastor’s wife slid into that final retreat from life, lingering in her pain oblivious to all those around her as the congregation prayed.
One might assume the congregation was praying for deliverance, and most were, except perhaps Grace, and in truth, me. More of that later.
Back to Sputnik. We, the young boy, Grace, and myself, the upright divorced deacon, sat quietly in the fourth pew from the altar. I pretended to listen to the pastor’s drawling sermon but was equally interested in Grace’s fine shapely legs. It had been awhile.
Obviously I am not a spring chicken and Grace was a decade younger and a recent widow. Auto accidents happen, that’s all I can say. I had been labelled as jaded by ex-wife. It fits.
As the bald-headed usher passed the offering plate solemnly down our row, the nickel that the child was anxious to tithe, slipped through his fingers and rolled down the aisle. The frantic child ducked under the forward pews, scrambling to retrieve his offering. Grace grabbed him by the scruff of his Easter suit, forcing him back into his seat as he began screaming, that his nickel “wasn’t going to make it to the rocket ship”.
Now if you know one thing about Methodist churches, it is that decorum must be maintained at all costs, hence the term methodism, the hallmark of John and Charles Wesley, the founders. Trust me, the commotion that followed would have had the two pious brothers rolling in their graves.
I swear to you that the full attention of the church was on the screaming child and Grace, loudly spouting out four letter expletives like a drunken sailor as she yanked the young child by the hand and half-dragged the young boy out of the sanctuary.
After the service I retrieved the nickel as I found the sobbing boy hiding in the basement Sunday school room. He was hiding in the dark, I guess you might say this traumatic event was symbolic, and leave it like that - but the boy insisted that we take his nickel to the altar, where he asked me to bless it. I felt humbled, to say the least.
Shortly thereafter the boy’s mother passed. Though the pastor never mentioned this issue, I suspect that Grace’s public spectacle soured both of them on any chance for a relationship. I guess that is where I came in; Grace’s new suitor. It was clear to everyone that Grace had little patience for children, and frankly, neither did I.
I have since become financially well-off and give generously to my church, but the most generous gift ever made to that church was the nickel that young boy gave to the rocket ship to God on that Easter Day.

​I believed I was “called” to attend a conference entitled, “Hope For The City” in Atlanta, Georgia in early March of 2024. I chose not to go, I guess because of my aversion to cities.
I suppose this sort of aversion was really defiance against God, or the universe, or source, or whatever you believe. This deliberate act on my part, I could rationalize, and I did. After all, humans have free will, and dammit I can do what I want.
So here I sit in my long johns because I just got in from a very wet and cold ride. I’m in Ontonagon, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan at the beginning of a long E-bike ride to Schaffer, Michigan. Why? Well, I guess I am not entirely clear myself, the ride is partly a charity event sponsored by me (the only participant) and partly to show the public that an E-bike event could make up for the financial loss to the economy due to the lack of snow this past winter, no snow, no snowmobilers. I might add E-bikes in the north are mostly a Caucasian affair unless you are on a university. This economic bombshell I believe, is due to climate change, but some folks up here still believe that guy with the dead orange squirrel on his head who has convinced them that climate change is a hoax. But hey, what do I know?
Anyway, my point is, that the snowmobiles are mostly all white guys and gals who come here to roar through the woods at death-defying rates of speed, often mixed with gallons of beer.
Have you ever seen an African American on a snowmobile? Or of any sort on a snowmobile? Bet you haven’t. Have you ever asked yourself why? I've got a hunch that African Americans have valid reasons for not heading north anywhere in the midwest, because of a fear, fear of what might occur once they pass Clare headed north. Even as a child I sensed the exclusion of Blacks was real, though I think mostly subconsciously. In fact, when I was maybe 9 or 10, I once remarked to my father, who was an ardent liberal, I might add, that there should be a chain link fence going east and west across the state at Clare and that no one who lived south of this razor-wire fence should be allowed north. Of course, I didn’t realize it at that time, but I had absorbed unconsciously the intolerance and prejudice of my northern culture.
Of course, any critic of this theory could argue that blacks just don’t want to come north, because, you know, blacks don’t like the cold, which I might add strikes again at the very ridiculous notion that the rural north is not prejudiced. To some degree it just is. Now I know some of you might say, “well I’m not prejudiced.” Maybe so, if you aren’t I suspect that you must have been born and raised in some other country, maybe Switzerland or Sweden or maybe in a shoebox. But hey, I’ve never lived overseas so what do I know anyway? Perhaps the whole damn world is racist.
So how does this essay tie everything together? Well, I believe the view that Blacks don’t come north to snowmobile is a tandem track to my aversion to cities, i.e. lots of black folks. I wish I could just lobotomize this out of my head, of course without the painful and illegal surgery necessary, but I can’t. I am what I am and I can only hope that the ugly face of racism is excised out of our culture in the future. At this point, I take responsibility for my prejudice and will ardently work to reverse it.
At some point, snow permitting, I would love to snowmobile with an African American on the many beautiful trails in the Upper Peninsula. And hey, we could even stop for a beer at some out-of-the-way bar, somewhere on a trail, and have a burger and a beer. Now that would be snowmobiling at its best!
Or perhaps we could take an E-bike trip here in the north with a friend or companion of color when the leaves are dripping with red and gold. That would be a great way to introduce my friend to the far north. We all have a lot to learn from each other. And for now, let’s skip the lobotomy.

When I woke early this morning and had my usual cup of steaming coffee, with half and half, I might add, I was aware that Kenneth Smith, a long term prisoner on death row in the state of Alabama would never again have the same. He was executed January 25th, 2024 by nitrogen hypoxia, the first instance of this gruesome execution upheld by the court system of Alabama.
When it comes to the death penalty there continues to be great debate by some political conservatives and committed Christians alike. As such, there is no consensus. A historical perspective is perhaps in order, as the death penalty has long roots dating back centuries, especially among early Christians.
Emperor Justinian, born 482 BCE, his reign encompassed 527-565 BCE, and he had a leading role in shaping early church laws, and by way of his role as emperor, the very nature of a death penalty, now referred to as “Punishment of the Sack”. This form of execution was generally a form of legal retribution to patricide, although on occasion, matricide as well.
This brutal method included sewing up the prisoner alive in a leather sack, with various animals, also alive, and throwing the sack in a river. The inclusion of wild dogs, monkeys, snakes, and a rooster increased the terror of the accused as this death combined not only death but terror as well.
I would like to think we, as a society, have moved beyond this gruesome need for retribution; what is clear is that this is not justice but a sense of revenge, that some need, either consciously or unconsciously.
I have no idea whether Kenneth Smith wore a mandated hood for his execution, nor do I care to find out. Was he able to see the faces of his loved ones in those final moments? Or, did he have to gaze into the eyes of his victim’s family? Either way, according to witnesses it was an excruciating sight to see. It makes me wonder whether we are still metaphorically using the Punishment of the Sack, or something just as lethal, and just as brutal. God forgive us all.

Duck, duck, goose. Are you old enough to remember this childhood game? I am.


Well, what does that childhood game have to do with the great outdoors? If you said goose down, good guess.


At first glance the use of goose or duck down quilts or sleeping bags seems logical, and perhaps eco-friendly. However, a closer look at this practice reveals a darker side. According to several sources, the use of down feathers condemns the fowl to an early death, or, it may subject the goose or duck to removal of the down while the bird is still alive. This must be an excruciating and painful practice, and in this day of artificial polyester products, such as polyfill, totally unnecessary. It is not uncommon for geese or ducks to have their feathers “replaced” several times in a season. This unnatural molt represents additional agony; I guess you might call it repeated suffering.


Am I arguing for animal rights? I guess so. Despite my rural upbringing, as I continue my walk on this planet, I have become aware that we, as humans, must realign our “wants” with a new reality. There is something to be said about a rural farmer raising a small flock of geese for harvest and selling the down as additional income. This process, although not free of pain for the bird, seems part of God’s plan. It is a balanced approach to life, that also requires death. What doesn’t seem commendable is the factory farming of thousands of geese, force-fed for foie gras, a deliberate and cruel method to produce an enlarged liver that causes the bird immense pain. This so-called “delicacy” remains nothing less than a form of legalized torture, sanctioned by many countries on earth, the U.S. among them.


What must it be like for the geese, who mate for life, to see their mates plucked alive? Are animals on this planet just a commodity? A source of meat and feathers to be used as we like? I readily admit I am a carnivore, a Christmas goose has on occasion graced my table, and yet, I can see that our planet groans from polluted water, from factory farms of all sorts, and excessive grain that could have been used to feed starving humans, instead this grain is used to produce down for sleeping bags for upper middle class campers.


This past week, as the weather cooled, I tossed my Hudson Bay blanket on the bed, snuggled in tight and warm for the night, with no need for a down comforter, and frankly, I slept well.


While there are international standards for the harvesting and use of down, labeled as RDS (Responsible Down Standard), these standards do not entirely solve all the ethical issues involved but if you decide you still care to use down products, these standards are worth an internet search to inform you of the issues involved.

Bread has been an essential source of sustenance since the beginning of recorded history. Is there anything we don’t know about this important staple, this gift from God? The answer to this question is kneaded into our present time, please excuse the obvious play on the word kneaded. Unfortunately bread has become the weapon of choice for Israel as it starves those who oppose its use of force, a cultural genocide to the Palestinian people. It is not my intention to “pick sides”; that is for diplomats and politicians more knowledgeable than I.
What has become clear is that desperate people will employ desperate means for the essential right of all involved to have “bread”. The length that the people of Gaza will use to have bread - or its undesirable equivalent - is now well documented, as the starving people resort to the use of animal feed or fodder to make a foul-tasting unleavened bread to stave off starvation. It was reported within the last few weeks that a small bag of flour was selling on the black market for over $400, if it was available at all.
It is difficult to fathom here in the States, where bread of all types line the grocery store isles in relative abundance, that hungry children are starving on the other side of the planet.
One has to ask, isn’t the necessity of bread a birthright? Didn’t God design our harvest for the sustenance of all? Or, does the grace of God only extend to developed countries, those not mired in war, plagues, and drought?
As you knead your bread, let us reflect on those who are hungry. Didn’t Jesus choose to deliver bread to the throngs that followed him at the Sermon on the Mount?
In the book of First Chronicles, chapter 23, verses 29 and 30, God commanded:


“...both for the showbread and for the fine flour for meat offering, and for the unleavened cakes, and for that which is baked, and for that which is fried, and for all manner and size. And to stand every morning to thank and praise the Lord at evening.”


While you prepare the bread this very day, and as the delightful aroma of fresh bread wafts through your kitchen, may you remember that the “showbread” the Bible mentions was a sanctified bread reserved for priests of the temple of Jerusalem, not a bread for those unable to receive this blessing. And yet, this command by God seems ironic, given that Israel controls Jerusalem and has disrupted the food supply into Gaza. When a crust of bread becomes a weapon that slaughters innocent children, one should ask why?
Are we, as a nation, ready to do what needs to be done, are we ready, as the Bible instructs, to “cast our bread upon the water?” Think about that biblical admonition as you eat your loaf of bread and you cast your votes.