The name of the now abandoned railroad depot was Stargap, the name more of a sly insult toward the old man who sold newspaper and cheap cigars to departing, always departing passengers, leaving Stargap, just after the Great Crash of 1929. It was 1931 or so.
The gentleman, and I use that word loosely, named the small town Stargap, after Adrian Stargap, the old man, and his former business partner, that he treated with disdain, bordering more on spite. The two of them had once owned the prosperous section of land central to a very large and lucrative clay pit, which was used in the production of red drainage tiles. These tiles, baked in enormous kilns, were necessary to drain the enormous swamps that could turn black muck into fecund farmland. The terracotta tiles, perhaps varying in length of 1 to 2 feet or so, were butted against each other and were the salvation of the hordes of Eastern Europeans, Czechs and Polish among others, that bought the wetlands from often disreputable land agents. Of course, all of this now valuable farm land needed railroads to transport the commodities to markets in large cities such as Lansing, Detroit and Chicago, so the boom was on until the disastrous Great Depression. It is now 2024 and I suppose all of this backstory, now many years ago, does not fully explain the now decaying village, no longer a town, of Stargap. You see, Mereck Novotny, a Czech himself, was ambitious almost to the point of obsession. I know that because of letters he left behind to my great-grandmother, his wife, whom he left behind (without her blessings) in the old country. I now possess these letters. Those letters describe his acrimony of Adrian Stargap, whom it seemed everyone else in town seemed to appreciate, both for his gentle kindness and affability. Let me be clear, this story, of which this is Chapter One, is not autobiographical, but of course, who can write without including the nuances of truth invading the page. This personal examination of Stargap, is more than a trite tale of folks with quirks of various sorts. I grew up in Stargap and at my current grey-haired age, I allow myself the privilege of meandering through memories, some noble and some downright dubious. Consider this as Chapter One, and I hope you will stick around for Chapter Two next month. In the meantime, take care and God Bless. Hilton
0 Comments
Looking back at my hitchhiking in 1971 or so, I recall my memories without the pleasant scent of reminiscing. Let me explain.
With memories which flow in the mind like a canoe in a swift river there is no adequate control, the memories, both good and bad resist our efforts to direct our (my) course. Try to control the memory in your head at this very moment and most likely you will find it is nearly impossible. Perhaps if one has the mind of a guru or a meditating monk, one may be successful at this endeavor. However, I generally fail at my meager attempts. With the act of reminiscing, there is a pleasant sense that obscures the hardships of earlier time, or an earlier experience. So is reminiscing a memory or is it an emotion which provokes a memory. I think the latter. In this case a positive emotion. OK, what difference does it make? Well, like a moth in a cocoon, perhaps our physical body entraps all memories, though we may not be aware of this process. Thus, a particular emotion, at a specific point of time forces the body to create a memory. I envision this in an almost linear fashion: Thus an emotion provokes a memory. E = M. And certainly not the other way around. Our actual body then becomes the chrysalis of all memories, an unseen arbitrator of all emotions. Without the underlying emotional context there are no memories. This is not a simple, did the chicken or the egg come first as I will try to demonstrate in the following paragraphs. I am suggesting that we, as humans, often turn this all around believing that our emotions are a process of thought rather than emotions wrapped tightly like a silkworm within our body, read, soul. The human mind is capable of making unusual and mistaken gyrations as it justifies to make sense of the stimuli that enters our system as emotional content. It seem clear to me now that many of the memories I have of these earlier events when I was hitchhiking, though stored in my brain as memories, are really disguised emotions that hid out as memories and that truly “feeling” these emotions was a slick protective device of my brain. I am reminded of that simplistic but truthful comment that, “no pain, no gain.” It is only through hitchhiking through my brain and discovering the emotional journey, not the mental one, that I can achieve any sense of what happened as memories are mostly fallible while emotions are rarely infallible. We truly remember through our emotions and not our memories, therefore to remember we must walk through our emotions, both the positive ones as well as the negative ones, to have any sense of clarity. So what, I hear some say and perhaps rightly so. Well, let me try and bring forth what I mean in a way that is not so esoteric. I feel the cold rain running down the back of my shirt and I shivered as my brother and I stood on the major freeway in Kansas City. We knew we were not supposed to hitchhike on the freeway itself, but only on the entrance to the freeway. We were desperate for a ride, cold and very hungry we made a decision to violate the “code” known by all knowledgable hitchhikers that if you didn’t want troubles from the cops don’t venture onto the freeway. I suppose this unwritten (or perhaps it was a legal fact) was supposed to stop us hitchhikers from fouling up the snarl of city traffic and perhaps causing an accident. While this was appropriate and we, Bill and I, knew better we had been stuck on an inner-city entrance ramp for hours in the midst of a frigid rain with little hope that anyone would stop and pick up a pair of wet hitchhikers on a very dark and stormy night, in other words, “we were fucked.” At the height of the storm a police car, I don’t recall whether it was a sheriff or state police car, and it doesn’t really matter now, slowed down and I had a sinking feeling (remember what I said about emotional recall) and from his intercom a sonorous voice floated out, like a protective angel and the voice said calmly, “God bless you boys,” with that he accelerated and disappeared into the rainy night. I didn’t know at the time, whether to whisper a “thank-you” for not arresting me, or cursing the cop for leaving us in our wet miserable condition. Now I suppose this is where a nicely tied-up ending to this story would conclude but the visceral ending was just starting. Shortly, and I mean very shortly, after the police cruiser left us shivering in the rain, a car pulled over and thrilled, we piled in, wet, cold, and hungry. It only took me moments to check out the situation. The two self-described brothers, were either high or drunk, and maybe both. It’s fair to say that they were unsavory. I had a feeling of great unease, bordering on fear. The two quizzed me about where we were from, etc, which is standard hitchhiking dialogue between the hitchhiker and the vehicle occupants. I was asked about our trip from California and where we were headed, which was Northern Michigan. After some strained banter, the brother sitting in the passenger seat asked me if we had had any problems along the way. Without giving this question the seriousness it deserved before answering, my gut screamed, “tell them about your knife.” Nervously, I told them that we had been shaken down by a plain clothes cop in a dirty western town in New Mexico. There were many hitchhikers coursing through his city, and I suppose he saw himself as a crusader of purity, or some damn thing, cleaning up his city from the long-haired commies, like fleas on a dog invading his self-perceived Camelot. He stopped the car we were in and forced the young woman, our ride, to dump us unceremoniously in a bank parking lot where he rifled through our packs looking for whatever, maybe sub machine guns or a small fighter jet. What he didn’t find was my bowie knife, stashed down deeply in my grimy sleeping bag. He forced us to walk to the end of the city in the wretched heat and that if we stuck out our thumb to hitchhike we would immediately be thrown in jail. Nice guy, eh? Do you feel what I was going through? Or, does all of this just register in your mind as someone else’s memory of events, just wondering. Back to Kansas City. It stumbled out of my mouth, “I’ve got a knife here in my sleeping bag, just in case.” The brother said snarling, “Well, I got a loaded pistol in the glove compartment.” There was a menacing tone to his voice as the other brother, the driver, slammed on the brakes and ordered us to get out. The rain had stopped and we did exactly as we were told. The two sped away and a shiver of relief shuddered throughout my body. Yes, I remember this memory but I especially feel my body tense as I recall this situation. Was my body telling me something at the time, my mind could not fathom? Was my emotional state giving me a premonition of some sort that I reacted to, something that was subliminal? It is easy to just brush this whole thing off as a pure coincidence, after all the cop’s blessing, the sonorous voice that echoed in the bone-chilling rain, occurred just prior to our doubtful ride with the mysterious brothers. Could that voice in the pitch black rainy night been the voice of an angel, a gift from God? I really can’t say for certain but I choose to believe it was.; Peace, Hilton So here I sit in my skivvies in my northwoods cabin on the edge of the wilderness, and like the proverbial frog from the early 70s, croaking a popular catchy tune in my head. I hope this vagueness avoids some sleazy copywright attorney from trying to squeeze money out of me, which by the way, I don’t have. But, in secret, the name of the frog was Jeremiah.
It’s reasonable to ask what this essay prelude about a frog has to do with the topic at hand, prejudice and city planning. I’ll get to that sooner or later. Let me say that I believe I was “called” to attend a conference entitled, “Hope for the City” in March of 2024. I didn’t go, mostly due to my aversion to snarling traffic and high-speed maniacs. I suppose this act of defiance on my part to deny my “calling” was a normal response, “Hell God ain’t gonna tell me what to do!” The way I see it, after God slapped me in the face several years ago when I was a rabid atheist, that I should probably learn to listen better. The rural north is my home, mostly has been my whole life. Not surprisingly, I have a prejudice against cities and city folk. That’s the truth, and like the old saying goes, no matter how much lipstick you put on a pig, it’s still a pig. When I was a young kid, I truly believed that we should erect a chainlink fence across the whole state near the city of Clare. For those of you not familiar with the Great State of Michigan, this city is about midway up the mitten, we refer to as the lower peninsula. Clare, ironically, is called the “Gateway to the North.” In my young, naive, and might I add stupid view of the world I thought this would keep out all the riff-raff of “those folks”. Does this sound familiar? If so, I bet you own a red power tie. I didn’t realize until I was much older that this sentiment was really just “subconscious racism”. I had absorbed an unreasonable fear of people of color. Unfortunately, racism, and xenophobia was not only my personal sin but it exists throughout our culture as well as our geography. While the southern border states seem to be the focus of this particular problem, it is just as rabid here in the north. As a child, the fence was steel and razor wire, but as I aged, the fence became a metaphor for my own subconscious intolerance, poignantly well hidden, even to myself. Expanding the metaphor, the fence is now more than allegorical, as miles upon miles of cement and razor wire reify what was once just hidden hatred. Of course hatred has its own rewards. At the ballot box it garners votes that reinforce its putrid existence. Hate and prejudice become justifiable as a way of curbing “those people” from becoming one of “us”. One could argue about why “they” want to become one of “us” but only a cursory review of the history of US policies in Central and South America will enlighten even the dullest lamps if they truly wish to be lit by those wearing dirty red baseball caps. I digress. Back to the cities and urban planning. There is no longer just a canary in the cavern, but a bullfrog in a stinking stagnant pond. Whether rural folks, in both the south and the north, will gracefully accept the influx of immigrants, or continues to resist the inevitable is yet to be seen and will play out in policies and politics. Will the influx remain in squalid conditions in burgeoning cities with reduced resources, i.e. housing, pollution, climate change, infrastructure, water, increasing poverty, low wages, and the list goes on, or will many despite racism and intolerance flee to the country? That course remains to be seen. Where does city planning play into this polluted pond? If humans do not provide a hospitable and pleasant existence for marginalized folks there is likely to be chaos. This scenario is not only inevitable but as time goes on without addressing fundamental needs, a dystopic future becomes more likely. Planning around the edges of the pond is not sufficient any longer. As a nation we need to not only make the pond more hospitable to all but clean up the damn mess we are in, not in the future, but now, before Jeremiah croaks. Peace Hilton Mycology, by definition, is simply the study of fungi. Interestingly, in the three aspects of life, fish, fowl and fauna, they do not fit anywhere. I once heard a noted mycologist remark, "If it wasn't for fungi, we would be walking on 200 feet of debris, as fungi are the only lifeforms which can decompose wood and cellulose." While that previous sentence may sound like hyperbole, it is not. Other than bacteria and earth worms, fungi are responsible for all the fecund soil on this planet. The history of fungi is long and complicated and, by some theologians' findings, they may have been created on either the third or the fifth day of creation, and some preachers even believe their origin is on the seventh day. This is all very confusing to me, but if you see your Bible and read Genesis you can make up your own mind. I will let the reader decide which, as I'm a little out of my depth - either way, the fossil record seems to indicate that fungi are at least 1 billion years old. Fungi have a special niche in both mycology and literature. I would suggest you take a look at the famous tale by Lewis Carroll entitled Alice in Wonderland, and you may enter the rabbit hole of psychotropics. Currently there is ongoing medical research on the benefits of using psychoactive mushrooms to reduce the symptoms of PTSD. In the city of Marquette, Michigan, here in the Upper Peninsula, where I hang my Stormy Kromer, a new company is researching how fungi might be instrumental in reversing PFAs, a major source of pollution. We Yoopers are very proud that a two-man team, of Joe Lane and Ryan Iacovacci, have received a major grant for PFA remediation. For those of us unscientific folks, PFAs are considered to be a "forever chemical". This pollutant has a long scientific name, which I don't choose to try to pronounce. Just take it from me, it's a mouthful. Well, many amateur mycologists are just generally known as "mushroom hunters" and eagerly search and consume mushrooms simply for pleasure. Others are joining the ranks of commercial mushroom farming, bringing delightful bounty to our tables. While on this note, I must emphasize that although mushrooms of many species are delectable, there are many that are also deadly. Collecting and/or consuming wild mushrooms is not for the faint of heart. For those who do not understand the hazards involved, please join a mushroom club or seek out an experienced mycologist before you consume any mushroom. This may go without saying but owning and using an up-to-date guidebook is also a necessity. Just because the squirrel eats a mushroom doesn't make it safe either, this is an old wives' tale. Come back to that pesky creature in a few hours and see if he's still kicking or whether he looks like an upside down piece of lawn furniture.
Other medical properties I should mention are, fungi is used in antibiotics, anti-cancer drugs, vitamins, and cholesterol lowering drugs. I certainly don't want the reader to come away from this short essay believing I've thoroughly covered the ground - that's a pun - concerning mushrooms. Without adding that new discoveries for uses of these living miracles are occurring all the time, and new species are found both near and far, we, as humans, must be especially mindful of the destruction of wild habitat - of both mushrooms and plants, in places like the Amazon basin. The next miracle drug might be found by Alice or the Mad Hatter, or who knows, within a magical mushroom. Peace, Hilton Moore Joanne is busy washing my gear and getting it ready for transfer to my sailboat, the Silent Mistress. This new adventure is on a restored 25 foot 1977 O'day sailboat. I suppose it's reasonable to ask what my sailboat has in common with my E-bike. Well, the answer is they are both propelled by lithium batteries, and as such, reflect my desire to push Americans toward a future that is better, for the climate, and for the health of our economy. The Silent Mistress, my name for the old gal, comes from the second story in Volume One of North of Nelson.
I know Joanne accepts my desire for another adventure, and truly she has been a stolid support throughout this ride. I have always been a rolling stone at heart, and God blessed me with her help and support, and regardless of what my future might bring I thank her from the bottom of my heart. My E-bike journey is now complete, and I hope to have it published as soon as possible. But, as you may or may not know, publishing a book is a difficult and tedious task, fraught with many problems and issues. The end of the E-bike journey was full of many difficult surprises which I will bring to light in the book. Let's just say it didn't end the way I had hoped, but in some ways, despite the hardships, I am grateful for how it concluded. In the meantime, if you wish to read more about my adventures and insights on a variety of topics, I would suggest you check out my website, www.writerinthewilderness.com or my Substack Platform at hiltonemoore.substack.com . I currently have two books in print, North of Nelson Volume One, North of Nelson Volume Two, and a short story in the UP Reader, Volume Eight. All of these books can be purchased through Amazon, Kindle, or on audiobook. Frankly, if you buy them directly from silvermountainpress.com , that will provide more funds for the Silent Mistress. Thanks so much for your support. Perhaps you will hear from me soon, once I'm aboard. Hilton Got up early, 8:05. Loons woke me. What a gift. After hearty ham sandwiches on thick homemade bread, and delightful mushroom coffee, went for a walk to the beach. Warm day. We took down the tent and packed up the gear but not until I made note of the abundance of Solomon Seal plants at the campsite. The Latin name is Poly Ganaden. Also known as King Solomon Seal, originally consumed by Native Americans, the starch seal rhizome tastes much like a form of potato. It was used to make breads and a hearty soup. The roots are asparagus-like and eaten boiled or raw. Also, history records that it has medicinal properties such as an anti-inflammatory, a sedative, and a tonic. Wikipedia states that "It is often depicted in the shape of either a pentagram or a hexagram. In mystic Islamic or Jewish religion the sixth seal of King Solomon's signet ring, according to history, gave this wise king the ability to speak with animals. If you dive into this deep historical well you can see why the proverbial seal is the predecessor to the star of David revered by the Jewish for faith. By the way, in what seems a long ago, I ate these rhizomes on several different occasions and found them palatable, but not remarkable. The rocky trail to Serenity Lodge where we were to spend our next night is a gorgeous cabin locked away in a dense and mosquito-ridden area. It was a very rough ride there on the E-bike, but like the proverbial Asgard, a welcome relief. A bubbling trout pond and a dock which, according to the caretaker, were quite a pleasant swim, were inviting. But tired and hungry, we chose not to take advantage of it. For dinner we took the pickup back to LaBranch Tavern for the traditional UP fish fry. The walleye was excellent and we left satiated. The unofficial botanist and aging mycologist that I am, I can't seem to restrain myself when I spy a rarity, either in mushroom or plant. To my delight, around the lodge were numerous yellow ladies slippers. For those who do not know these lovely flowers, I recommend using a good guidebook. I suspect the name Ladyslipper might now be considered a male chauvinist label, as this flower entraps bees or other insects in this vagina-like opening, which forces the intruding insect to escape only by crawling through a canal, where the offending insect becomes covered with pollen which it then takes to another flower, spreading its pollen like an oversexed teenager. It was very late and we took our separate sleeping quarters, sinking into hand stitched quilts, falling deeply asleep in the quiet night. Till next time, good night. Hilton Solomon Seal Yellow Ladyslipper
Spent the last couple of days at Joanne's house, as I mentioned earlier, because of rain. She fixed some food for us for the next several days, and we headed to Crystal Falls via 141 past Amasa. This is a quicker route to where I left off - while a little busier. When we got back to the park, paint River Forest Campground, we loaded up the bike. I had no intentions of going any further on Gibbs City Road, as it is narrow with no shoulder and a lot of rises, which can take someone on a bicycle by surprise when a car zooms over a hill. In Crystal Falls we had a delicious breakfast at the New Leaf Bistro of Swedish pancakes, with imported lingonberry jam. I highly recommend this place and their food. From Crystal Falls, we headed on M69 to Sagola. On the way you will come up on M69, and if you follow it, you will get to the small village of Felch. The previous time we had been there we had a nice meal, the very day that the bar burned down. That was sad for the owners and the patrons. We unloaded the bike after waiting out a rain storm and I headed east on the Felch Grade Trail. This beautiful stretch of trail is mainly very straight with few twists or turns, going over several delightful streams that I would have loved to have fished if I had more time. The trail part parallels the highway; it probably was the original course through this vast wilderness. I was headed to Stromberg Park, a county park several miles north of 69. I will give you more direct assistance on mileage in my book after it's published. When I got to the corner of Ford Ville Road there was a large cadre of young ladies playing softball, a tournament I suspect. Heading north on Ford Ville Road, I came to the park, which is tucked away onto a quiet lake. I noted that this lake had little motorboat activities, which to me was a recommendation. This was proven correct when I was awakened at 8:05 the next morning by the haunting tremolos of a pair of loons. This small lake was a peaceful Place for a respite from my arduous bike ride. I will try to write more tomorrow. Hoping everyone knows their place in the universe. God is smiling down on you. Copyright for this upcoming book belongs to Hilton E. Moore. All rights reserved. Hardwood Community Recreation Center. I would assume this might have been a school at one time, but that's just a guess. Another shot of the Hardwood Recreation Center. Sign to Stromberg Park.
Another day where the trip was delayed by rain. It is dusk and I am sitting in a friend's comfortable recliner - quite a change from the saddle sores of earlier in the week. I've been here three days due to rain, and fatigue. Back to the trip. County Road 657 is roughly 13 miles from its origin, on Forest Highway 16, to the Paint River Forks campground. So exhausted, dehydrated, and bone tired. I covered the 25 miles and felt like I had won the Tour de France when I finally found this primitive camping ground. I must say that County Road 657 is a great ride through magnificent woods and forest. Along the way I witnessed a startled doe, who had recently given birth to a nervous fawn, right in the middle of the dusty road. You'll notice a photo included with this slice of my trip. If you are familiar with wild scat, this is a pile of bear dung. Not a sight you choose to see on a back road, when you're miles from nowhere. I pedaled faster and whistled, partly to warn the Bruin, and partly to allay my anxiousness. Took a bad fall on the way, due to my own negligence. When I stupidly took my left hand off the handlebar to check my front pack, I came crashing down, bending the handlebar and suffering some mild abrasions - and a large ugly purple bruise. Fortunately I did not break my eyeglasses, which would have been a problem, as I am visually half blind without them. I straddled the front tire and, w'ith considerable effort, aligned the wheel and the handlebars. Disaster avoided. A little later I had a case of the "shits" - I needed to evacuate in the woods - not pleasant but entirely necessary. If you haven't read the almost famous book How Do You Shit In The Woods, do so before you ever venture into the wilderness. You might learn something that you think you already know.
I will leave you for the day. If all goes well, I will be continuing on the road again tomorrow. Dear friends, Several days have gone by without an update on my E-bike adventure. The trip from Bruce Crossing to Kenton was amazing, and you'll be able to read more details once my book is published. Why is it that humans, at least some of us "touched" folks need to have a quest? Ever since Marco Polo we have been gallivanting around the globe, looking for something that might be in our backyards. Though in Marco Polo's case, China was a bit far away. I have been riding in an area with little to no cell service the last few days, which has complicated my trip as battery charging is always an issue. My friend Joanne has been a gift, ferrying the batteries back and forth every day to recharge them. Hopefully in the near future, as demand and technology improve on E-bikes, they will have regenerative capabilities. For those of you who are not electronically inclined, like myself, this could be a generator of some sort linked up with the front tire that would pump juice back into the battery, increasing the range of these bikes. Enough said about this, other than that the future inclusion of an electronic port, much like what you would have on a computer these days, would open up a new host of possibilities - a plug-in coffee pot, or a water filter, or a cellphone charger, or... the list goes on. Well anyway, the village of Kenton, where you can get a great homemade pizza at UP Chuck's (yes that's his real name!), to County Road 657 is roughly 13 miles, however, I would suggest you stop at Tepee Lake, where, the locals told me this story, Jimmy Hoffa, the famous union president, had a cabin. In my future book I will try to fill out this connection, but for now stay tuned. It is amazing what you can see or hear when you are not flying down the road at 65 mph! Well, enough for one day. I intend to tell you more about my exploits tomorrow after I dry out - not from alcohol, mind you, but torrential rainfall. But that's for tomorrow. Take care, Hilton Trestle over Agate Falls, on M28, on my way to the village of Kenton.
|
|