| In
the Outdoors
Notes from the North Country
At a gathering of contented Upper Peninsula residents,
we asked that each person describe his or her attraction to life
here in one-word responses. Since most of our friends are quite
used to our philosophical—and sometimes rather odd—approaches
to conversation, there were a few moments of silence and then
they dove right in.
The list included: space, beauty, remote, clean, safe, uncrowded,
even cold(!) but one adjective kept emerging: quiet. Living up
here, or visiting in the U.P., offers opportunities to savor the
sound of silence.
We know that intimately. Since we moved to our home in the woods
of West Branch Township fourteen years ago this month, we have
remarked often that the quiet at night is so complete and profound
that it almost has a sound of its own—sort of a deep murmuring
hum.
Background noise—which all of us have in our daily lives—is
one common source of stress. Even when not consciously perceived,
noise has been related to increased blood pressure and adrenalin
levels, as well as general tension and irritability.
Man-made noise also has an effect on wildlife: higher levels of
stress (there’s that word again), prey that can’t hear
approaching predators, even interruption in echolocation for animals
which use reflected sound for navigation.
“We dwell in a world of noise…open a window, anytime,
anywhere, and you’ll hear the clamor...Increasingly, even
wild places are noisy with powerboats, jet skis, snowmobiles,
trail bikes and ATVs…the silences of wild places are not
yet gone, but they are vanishing.”
—Jack Kulpa, True North—Reflections on Fishing and a
Life Well Lived
Eight years ago, the National Park Service established a “natural
sounds” department in Fort Collins (Colorado). Its main task
is preserving “soundscapes,” or places where visitors
can “rest their ears.” Several national parks and monuments
have been identified as among the quietest, including one in our
own backyard: Isle Royale National Park.
Others are Great Basin in Nevada, North Cascades in Washington
and Big Hole National Battlefield in Montana.
It’s not all about the simple pursuit of silence. By quiet,
we don’t mean—nor does the Park Service—the absence
of all sounds. Natural sounds can be an important part of an outdoor
experience. Many of us are soothed by the sound of waves, thrilled
by the rumble of a waterfall, delighted at the song of the Hermit
Thrush on a spring morning and comforted by the distinctive sound
of wind in the white pines.
It certainly is possible to become addicted to noise. Some people
find the quiet of the Upper Peninsula to be ominous and disturbing.
Coming into our more remote areas from the background noise of
the city, they become anxious, saying they are not used to and
don’t know how to be alone and quiet. They often try to dampen
down those anxious feelings by lots of activity and lots of talk.
This brings us to the concept, that, in addition to external human-created
noise, which stresses some and may comfort others, there also
is internal noise—inner chaff that we carry with us. We can’t
say it any better than did Henry David Thoreau, more than 150
years ago:
“I feel a little alarmed when it happens that I have walked
a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit.”
I would fain forget all my morning’s occupation, my obligations
to society. But sometimes it happens that I cannot easily shake
off the village: the thought of some work, some surveying, will
run in my head, and I am not where my body is. I am out of my
senses.
“In my walks, I would return to my senses like a bird or
a beast. What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of
something out of the woods?”
—HDT, November 25, 1850
Do you have a favorite spot...a woodlot, old farm field, backwoods
ski or snowshoe trail, a cabin deep in the forest, granite overlook,
wild Superior beach? Leave your other world, with its noise, cares
and talk, at the parking lot or trailhead. Immerse yourself in
the natural world which surrounds us here. Go quietly.
—Lon and Lynn Emerick
Editor’s Note: Comments are welcome by writing MM or e-mailing
marquettemonthly @chartermi.net
Lon and Lynn Emerick’s Upper Peninsula books: The Superior
Peninsula, Going Back to Central, Lumberjack—Inside an Era,
Sharing the Journey, You Wouldn’t Like it Here and You STILL
Wouldn’t Like it Here are available at area book and gift
stores or by visiting their Web site at www.north countrypublishing.com
Moonlight on the bog
I strapped my headlamp on my head, but never did need it. As
I started snowshoeing toward the bog, my eyes adjusted quickly
to the evening’s light. It never seems to get very dark in
the winter. The bright whiteness of the snow holds its light,
even through the night hours.
I sure was glad for my big ol’ Iversons tonight. In the last
two days we’ve gotten an awful lot of new snow, and today’s
accumulation was like the cherry on top.
We winter people love snow. I was born on December 28, and it’s
my guess that some of my first introductions to the world included
the cold wind on my face. I don’t know how much I liked it
back then, but now it just feels right.
The going was rough. Even with my 10-by-32s, I was sinking a good
foot or more with each step. Although I’ve made this trip
many times  this
winter, retracing the same trail to pack it and make it a little
easier for my friend Bud, you’d never know it by any resemblance
of tracks. With all the new snow and the big winds I followed
it now only by memory.
As I wound my way through the woods, the tall maples were swaying
like they were trying to rock babies to sleep. Far above, the
wind roared like the passing of freight trains. I was glad I had
dressed extra warm. Pulling gear through deep snow was enough
to keep me warm on the way out, but out on the bog’s exposure,
it would be a whole different story. So why did I want to sleep
on the bog? Exactly that; exposure. It has the most wonderful
exposure to the stars, moon and sky.
I left the hardwoods and worked my way down into the cedar swamp.
I’m amazed how my feet remembered where to go as I wove my
way through the cedar maze. All the usual bunny tracks were well
covered over now. My night vision was becoming clearer. Who knows?
Maybe behind all that cloud cover, the full moon really was rising.
As I reached the edge of the swamp, it was like approaching an
opened door, more light and a lot more wind.
In the middle of the bog was a small pond. I named it Snow Angel
Pond affectionately due to the tradition I have of fulfilling
these reoccurring urges while there to flop down on my back, gaze
up at the beautiful expanse of sky and flap my wings like a child.
(Everyone ought to have some traditions.) Upon emerging from dense
woods and a thick swamp, the openness just moves me that way.
What can I say?
No angels that night, though. If I would’ve flopped down
in this blizzard, they may not find me ’til spring.
I scanned the bog for the little shelter I’d built, but couldn’t
see it, even though I was starting to make out some of the tamaracks
and black spruce that speckled the openness. I walked in the general
direction, and figured it would appear soon enough. It did, but
certainly not where I had expected it. My sense of direction has
never been my strong suit.
It is just a little teepee structure covered with clear plastic,
but it is enough to shelter me from the majority of the wind and
it allows me the visibility I crave. The lean-to door had blown
off, and it took me a while to find it and dig it out from under
the snow. I couldn’t believe I even found it. It was nice
to get out of the wind for a while.
I know tradition says entrances should face east, but in the U.P.
with the winter’s north wind and the sun and moon in the
southern horizon, this one opens to the south—to each her
own. No moon yet, though, as I unrolled my bedroll and sleeping
bag and got cozy. I laid and listened to the wind. When the wind
eased off from time to time, I listened as the snow hit and slid
down the walls.
A few hours later, I woke with the whole shelter glowing. Through
the open peak, I saw the heavenly spotlight. A few small, thin
clouds slid quickly past it. Ahh, my long-awaited full moon. I
scrambled out of my bag and stepped out onto the bog, totally
washed in moonlight. What a glorious sight. Very few stars were
visible with such a powerful dominating light.
Although the few remaining clouds were racing quickly across the
sky, the wind really had died down. I didn’t need shelter
from the wind anymore. I pulled my roll and sleeping bag out and
up onto the snow and climbed back in. Toasty warm and thrilled
with my view, I laid with a giant grin on my face and blinked
away the tears in my eyes. It’d be hard to be anything but
elated in a setting such as this. It is such things that allow
me to bear the harder things of life.
Directly overhead, the Big Dipper pivoted on the North Star, its
ladle sweeping the sky. By morning it would be hanging from its
handle, retiring until the next night’s star harvest. I dozed
on and off, trying to keep my face from freezing. A couple of
times I woke to what sounded like someone snoring. Oops…it
must have been me. Each time I looked, the moon and the Dipper
were further along in their night travel. The moon was encircled
with the most beautiful rainbow-colored ring, clearer than I’d
ever seen. Then finally, it dipped below the western horizon of
spruce spears and was gone.
The sky now was graced by different light, northern lights. Moving
very slowly like spirit clouds, they glowed softly of green and
white. They danced over me, soft and subtle, coming in and out
like waves of the Big Lake.
Again, I dozed and woke—this time to the light of dawn and
the sound of a flock of American goldfinches flying overhead.
Memories ran through my head of my mother’s call: “Get
up! It’s daylight in the swamp.” If only she could see
me now. So I heeded the memory and got on up.
I wished I had followed my brain when it told me last night to
put my boots in my bag with me. Ice shoes in the morning are not
one of my favorite things. I shuddered as I slid my feet into
them.
Soon, I had water heating on my little stove and was enjoying
the morning. There’s nothing like a hot drink in the cold
and the calling of chickadees and ravens.
I just wished I could feel my toes.
—Jude Holloway
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