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.

Dear Adrian,
I will try to be very careful with my words. You asked me the other day about the triangle Ranch, which you and I have visited. While the original intention of the owner was to have a prosperous ranch, (read, mind boggling largest cattle ranch east of the Mississippi) his intention was not necessarily noble, and as such was a total failure.
In a dream I had the other night it occurred to me that the triangle, was not what he thought it was but symbolic of the father son and Holy Ghost. The owner of this massive spread wasn’t wrong, just early.
I wrote about this in an unpublished novel, entitled wilderness of the beast, which I showed to you once and you have not read. No problem on your part at all as it ends tragically. The question remains is it possible to rewrite a story, and I believe the answer is yes. At this point in my life, I am aware that man can be resurrected only through Christ, so we will have to see what happens next.
I knew that when we took that dirt road into the triangle ranch, now in obvious decay, that there was something there that needed to be expressed. 
It is as if I knew that my story that I wrote was somehow tangled in something to occur in the future. That future is now. 
The triangle ranch is to be resurrected, not for profit, but for the benefit of those suffering from the miserable war in the Middle East. Peace, loving people of both Palestine and Israel need a way out of the horrible miasma that is occurring there. Will peace happen in the Middle East? Not likely, though we must pray that it will. The hatred and animosity have poisoned the land. While Israel might think that its war against Palestine is justified, it should be remembered that Israel has been on the wrong side of the fence as far as God was concerned on several occasions. I suspect God would not be happy with Israel at this point, but perhaps that’s presumption on my part.
What must be done? The solution in the Middle East is to take refugees and peace, loving people from both sides of the war and transplant them somewhere else. This is not impossible and is the only reasonable solution at this time. I am suggesting that any refugee that wants to come to the triangle Ranch, purchased for the good of all be accepted with a pledge from those individuals that they will stay three years at the ranch, devoting their time and energy to the creation of a new nation, or if that word is too inflammatory to many, just called the ranch, the Haven.
Temporarily large pole barn, type structures, capable of standing the snow load, must be erected as quickly as possible. Water and sanitation with an emphasis on green energy need to be in place, not tomorrow but yesterday. None of this is impossible. Both sides believe this war can be won, but nothing could be further from the truth.
The long-term solution to this and many other problems require thinking outside of the box. Long-term land planning at the ranch using technical expertise from the many universities of Michigan Will be required. The use of finca type strategies should help get the ranch off the ground, but private funds will, of course be necessary, and probably in large amounts initially. The purpose of the ranch, is number one to rescue peace, loving humans from the war and tragedy in the Middle East. Secondarily, this ranch could act as a relief valve before the beginning of a tragic and probable World War III. We have little time for argument and disagreement as we are approaching a brink they could engulf the whole world. Don’t tell me it’s impossible, I don’t wanna hear that.
I expect this letter will be intercepted, and in fact, I will be disappointed if it is not. There are many other problems in the world right now that need immediate intercession, but this is the most pressing issue today. While I understand the desire to have a public light shined on the project, myself included, I am aware that the best thing that can happen, is that my name not be used at this time. I am content to stay in my sailboat, privately without public attention. I do not say this out of my own safety, what will be will be.

​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.

1971; Route 66, somewhere between Los Angeles and Tuba Arizona.
Hitchhiking with my 17 year old younger brother back to Michigan, after a failed attempt at being one of the “flower children”. Like many of my kindred brothers and sisters we were on a dismal quest to find the answers we so desperately wanted. My brother, Bill and I, like so many others, had taken to the road by the hundreds, perhaps even thousands in our quixotic need to understand ourselves.
It is important to note that this quest which was fueled mainly by college educated youth was tied to a nascent philosophical and economic tide that had its origin in the New England of the 1830s to the 1860s - the emerging Transcendentalist movement, Thoreau and Emerson included.
This flood tide advanced slowly over the course of the 20th century and despite two world wars and many conflicts blossomed in places like Harlem, California, and to some extent the country of France, where the disaffected fled to in increasing numbers.
By the 1950s, a fringe society painfully coexisted with the economic and social status quo in the states. This status quo could not withstand the building pressure and societal eruption seemed inevitable. Jack Keroac and Allen Ginsburg, among many others, stretched the rubber band until it snapped. And the Flower Children, a predictable product of the times erupted.
I don’t want to suggest that there weren’t also significant women, i.e. feminists, propelling the movement. The metaphorical wind that swept into the Cleaver household, where spotless kitchen counters and proverbial 2-room bungalows, blew out windows. The mythical June Cleaver might have found LSD and free sex were not only available, but to some, desirable as well. All the while, Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell picked out tunes of protest and indignation. Please note, that many men and women chose the traditional route and did not follow the path so many of us were on. This is not a condemnation of those who chose the static state, it could be argued that they were perhaps wiser, or perhaps more comfortable with the status quo. While significant social change is traumatic to many, it is ignored by others, either by choice, or by a myopic need to wear sunglasses even when society is being blasted by harsh bright light.
One aspect of this revelation became apparent over time and that was, to many, the formal rejection of the Christian religion by a growing number of my generation. To more traditional Christians, this was akin to throwing out the baby with the bathwater, but more of that later.
Many youth adopted religious alternatives, such as Buddhism, or in some cases what is considered the occult. Others glommed onto psychological prophets like L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of the Church of Scientology, or Werner Erhard (the developer of Erhard’s Seminar Training). Frankly, some of us were just confused, myself included. I slipped into the confusion and downward spiral of agnosticism to atheism. At the time, my belief was that the expansion of human consciousness could be aided by the use of psychedelic drugs and to this I became a ready convert. This conversion assisted me in adopting “new prophets” like Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix and other self-destructive souls. In the end, most of us were just plain disillusioned.
Now, where does this preamble end and the soul of this discourse arrive? Clearly, I have a message that extends beyond a flawed, drug induced history. Yes, I will get there. In California after a disastrous series of events, which some I may reveal in later episodes my brother and I, along with at least a hundred hitchhikers were stranded in a southwestern city, with little funds left for our trip back to the perceived safety of Michigan. It was at that point that an older woman, dressed poorly, because of her lack of wealth, I now suspect, began preaching to my brother as we sat along the cement curb in the blazing sun.
My brother, aged 17, seemed intent on hearing her preach the gospel, while I, aged 19, sat with disdain, perhaps aloof in my sense of her ignorance, and my own arrogance that she was intellectually not my equal. It would be interesting, and not authentic, if I declared at this juncture that my brother was “saved” and found his god at that moment but he did not find his faith. What does remain of this encounter, now in 2024, and 53 years later, is I recall this incident as if it were yesterday. When one remembers how many thoughts are resigned to dismissal or just fade away, it becomes remarkable, maybe even miraculous, that such a poignant memory remains.
While VW buses painted with gaudy psychedelic colors headed west, some youth fled to remote areas of the country and raised chickens beside mostly ill-built cabins. These folks whom I would join later were simply referred to as back-to-landers.
My brother and I hitchhiked up Highway 101, which now seems to be slipping into the ocean, to a northern Californian commune where we stayed until the sesame butter, the only thing in the refrigerator, ran out. With no money and no future except selling high-priced fire alarms door-to-door, we headed back to L.A. and then returned east on Highway 66 to Michigan.
My quest, not necessarily my brother’s quest, was an incremental search for meaning. Many of us pursued a new paradigm. I was not alone, by any means. Droves of us fled to Hari Krisna, Jesus Christ Superstar, and Timothy Leary’s psychedelic trips. Looking back now, it was both legendary and perhaps, somewhat misguided. Woodstock remains a high note and the beginning of much turmoil, though I was never there. I’m laughing, partly because I have met many of my peers over the years, who have claimed that the were at Woodstock but my best guess is that the closest they ever got to Woodstock was a filthy gas station restroom somewhere near Buffalo.
There was so much more that this trip influenced. The trip preceded later events equally charged with doubts and troubles. Now I see clearly in retrospection that everything happens for a reason, and in time, if we have the power of discernment, lead us to our path. In all of this I found God, who I must admit eventually found me.
In my next column I hope to give the reader clarity about the life and times of a hitch hiker, riding the roads of his life. I will introduce you to an overreaching cop on the infamous Route 66 and a loaf of white bread. You might call this a bread sacrament of sorts, though this bread was not unleavened and probably cost less than a buck at a convenience store, but like I said, more of this later.

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.

Ontario Trip- to the Lady Evelyn river systemAugust 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, but the thoughts and sentiments were absolutely shared by his faithful partner in this expedition, Amy Fletemier.
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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: Amy’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. Amy and I 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. Amy 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:
(Amy writing) 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.
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, Amy scores again. My eyes hurt very, very much yesterday morning, sunburned because of previous welding experience. Had to cover eyes with bandana and Amy 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 Amy’s 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. Amy 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. Amy’s grandmother’s birthday. We are camped on Bridal Veil portage trail. Making notes. Amy 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:
(Amy writing) 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 Amy 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. Amy 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. Amy 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. Amy 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: (Amy writing) 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:
(Amy writing) 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: (Amy writing) 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: (Amy writing) 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. Amy navigated us to end of lake where we found portage. Met couple from Toronto going same route. She carried canoe. The first female besides Amy 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.
Amy 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.

Chi: definition: life force or energy force. From Taoism, this word is not compatible with Christian thought as there is no Christ which to most Christians is the only way to God.


Chi also could be thought as the life force that flows through the body and through everything. In Christian thought it might be akin to the Holy Ghost.


While not monolithic among Native American tribes the notion that there is a “Great Spirit” has some similarities to the “Holy Ghost”. In my readings of Native American religion there is “God in all things,” much like Buddhism. I suspect if you (me) wants to start an argument, or in the worse case scenario, a war, I suggest that all these “spirits, ghosts, etc” are one and the same. By the way, there is some similarity to the Japanese Zen, “MAKYO” and Tibetan “NYAM”. I am fairly certain that each group would argue vehemently that they are the only holders of “the truth”.


While personally, I hold onto the belief in “a God” I cringe at how easily some folks can tell you that they (or their families, in-groups, church etc. etc.) are the ONLY holder of their “Ghost” or “God”. Of course, once I have uttered this belief, I open myself to being labeled as a heretic.


In my way of thinking Chi is much like a porcelain bowl, but at the same time not the actual bowl but the inherent potential of the unfulfilled bowl. In contrast to the Western concept of Christianity, most of us can conjure up a picture of Jesus in our heads, mostly a slightly effeminate figure with long brown hair and piercing blue eyes in a dazzling white flowing robe -


No such figure exists within the concept of Chi. Why is all this hair-splitting necessary? Of course in Western thought it becomes crucial as several religions vie for dominance on the world stage. As the Muslim religion strains to make itself a prominent religion pushing Eastward on the planet, all of this push and pull soaks up resources, and in a sense their competing factions bring us in the present world, often not peace but war.


It is my further belief that humans are not born equal, and in fact, never will be, despite what the founding fathers might have wished. The U.S. Constitution is as flawed as mankind is. The Bible (or whatever version of it one uses) argues through Jesus that “the poor will inherit the earth” of course is symbolic rather than factual. What we have here is the split between faith and law.


Of course in Christianity, the ultimate balance between faith and law only becomes manifest after our own death. At best, this notion is a slap-in-the-face to those with the least, and at its worst utter nonsense. But hey, ever since the beginning of Christianity this has been the sleight-of-hand that capitalism uses to disguise the reasons for unjust legal and monetary advantage.


So, as I stated earlier, the notion that men (and women are equal) is a fallacy, always has been, and probably will be as long as humans are on this tired blue ball twirling in space around the sun. One could ask, so is the saint more precious than the sinner? I mean if we must examine the worth of each human, are we to treat them equally as many religions ask?


After all, our concept of equality is definitely a social construct any way you choose to look at it. The slippery slope becomes who, or more relevantly, which religion holds the most political juice and is “in charge” of determining which humans are more worthy. Hitler tried this and we all recognize what a terrible outcome ensued.


Theologians might argue that their brand of “Chi” is superior to others but the historical evidence is dismal, i.e. the Crusades, the Inquisitions, the Salem Witch Trials, and many more, including slavery and more recently racism, male patriarchy, etc.


Should we let the grinding wheel of evolution decide which “holy ghost” evolves? Is mankind the arbitrator? Or, is God the arbitrator? But we have so many Gods on this planet, how is he (she) to decide what is to be saved and what is to be discarded?


Personally, I have never been comforted that one religion was superior to the rest, whatever flavor you choose.


Jesus said something like, “the only way to Heaven is through Me.” That’s a paraphrase but you get the point. I admit that theology goes mostly over my head. I suspect many theologians of different faiths also adamantly insist that their religion “is the way, and perhaps the only way” Do you understand why I am confused?


While some research suggests that the U.S. religious followers are decreasing, it is clear from the past U.S. presidential election that there are still many Christian MAGA fans out there.


I think a fair guess that whatever the course of religious hegemony, the overall trend will be a declining influence of Christianity in this country — and maybe in the world. Unless there is a drastic decline in economics in which case all bets are off.


The long historical reach of Catholicism was arguably due to lots of sex among its adherents, breeding batches of children which added directly to the Vatican’s coffers. I feel some folks reaching for stones to pelt me with, oh well, this is an opinion piece and others are free to view my ramblings otherwise.


Once a religion owns the political and legal framework, the shaping of behavior and thought become a logical conclusion, I believe, that naturally follows.


Please don’t read this as a total condemnation of religion, it’s not. Without religion’s gift to charitable causes, and most importantly, framing human behavior in a positive sense, the world would be perhaps more difficult than it already is. Truly, if God did not exist, there might have been a case for man creating God in his, or her image, and not the other way around.


What about human evolution? Does it follow that as humankind advances, or to some scholar’s way of thinking, moves backward, due to over-exploitation of resources, massive amounts of starving masses, world-wide pollution, global warming, etc. that the human species will devolve. Will the human species continuation demand a mutation that could possibly save the planet, from what looks more and more likely to be the course.


There remains a conundrum, as unfettered capitalism lays bare, will civilization become more and more, a battle between physical giants like Arnie against intellectual monetary giants like Elon Musk? When I say Arnie, you know that I am being facetious, but not, as right-wing strong men seem to be flexing their political muscle all over the planet. Is this the new evolutionary struggle? I would hate to believe that Donald Trump is at the top of the evolutionary ladder, heaven forbid, but we may be headed in that direction.


As the so-called Goldilocks Zone gets smaller and smaller due to human negligence, most any well-read observer knows we are on the knife-edge of oblivion. Despite all the noxious calls for more oil, the drill-baby-drill bullshit only shields the ignorant from the truth. Despite everything I still believe there is a sliver of hope.


Many well-meaning religious souls will tell the gullible that all of this is “God’s work” and salvation will soon be at hand. This religious fatalism is not a cure for disaster, but many believers embrace it.


Back to my original essay. That all men are not created equal. I am neither an evolutionary biologist nor a noted religious scholar, I am just a writer living in the woods, but I recall Nero’s own admission that he fiddled as Rome burned.


I really don’t care who takes the credit for saving the planet from its own death by human hands. Could be a gifted politician, a mystical shaman, or a diesel mechanic with dirt and grime under his or her fingernails. The point is we have a looming catastrophe that requires exceptional leadership to solve. While many folks argue about the powers of the “Holy Ghost” my heretical belief is I care more about whose beer cans are strewn about at my favorite fishing hole. Peace.


Hilton Moore.
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