A Couple Of Friends

It was the winter solstice of 2025.  It was brisk.  It was cloudless. It was a day of blue skies.  It was also a day with good friends.  I’ve known Scott and Justin seemingly forever.  They’re now both principals in their respective schools, but before that we taught together in the Prairie Hill School District.  Scott joined the staff in 2002 and Justin in 2011.  By that time I had a decade or two under my belt.

Over the years we’ve traipsed together through snow and over ice.  We’ve marched in swampy muck.  We’ve paddled down snaking rivers and across ripple surfaced lakes.  We’ve run together on black topped paths, along wooded trails, and in various races and marathons.  We’ve fished and we’ve cooked meals over a small open fire in remote areas.  In other words, I’m not sure I could come up with a sound number for the amount of times that the three of us have gotten together or headed out on an adventure.  It’s been a healthy plethora!

But it had been a while since our last get-together, so it made sense to reassemble over Winter Break.  Beyond “when” we went, “where” we went, and “what” we did, I found that it was more about “how” the trip transpired.  While enjoying the company, I found myself analyzing our time and the way we were interacting.  It wasn’t a formal case study or anything like that.  It bordered more on an out-of-body reflection.  We talked of course.  Each of us inadvertently shared what had been going on in our lives since the last time—all while we drove and hiked.

Once we had arrived at our familiar destination, deep in the woods and along moving water, we each went to work.  I found our efforts both interesting as well as refreshing.  When the time comes that I can no longer do such things, or am scattered to the four winds, they’ll easily know what to do to carry on with another generation of friends.  They don’t know all of my secret spots, but they know enough of them, and that’s all that really matters.

We set about finding dead wood, small twigs, and dried grass as tinder.  We did that automatically with hardly a word.  After we had brought our offerings to the river bank, we coaxed the fire into existence and cooked our food.  During the process there were times when it was actually quiet.  It wasn’t awkward. It felt natural.  We knew how this was all going to play out, so it didn’t need anything additional.  It simply felt good to mumble a few things and then stare into the flames while we waited for the food to finish cooking.  And while that was happening we each did a task that needed to be done.  It happened intrinsically because we’ve done this a hundred times together.  We know the next step is going to either be stirring ingredients, adding salt and pepper, putting some sticks on the fire, leveling the frying pan, or nestling the pot of water closer to the coals.  While eating, we remembered other such times when we had done this very same type of thing with funny or unusual sidebar events that happened simultaneously.

In the end we hiked and we ate.  But through it all we also did what simply needed to be done while enjoying the process of being together.  Friendships look different depending on a host of variables.  For Scott, Justin, and me it started a long time ago in a school building where as staff members we weren’t just colleagues, we became friends that shared common interests.  It’s the kind of situation that not only makes a staff stronger, it allows friendships to transcend time.  I suppose the connection that the three of us have is unique and a little out of the ordinary when it comes to the activities that bring us together, but it works, and we enjoy it.

See you along The Way…

And A Few Random Pictures From The Past:

Justin, Scott, & Me - Winter Of 2012 Or 2013

Paddling The Sugar River - Fall 2023

At My Daughter's Wedding - Winter 2023

Fishing The Kishwaukee River - Summer 2025

Generating A Generational Gathering

 

Sandwiched between Christmas and New Year’s, and on the backside of a small town in southern Wisconsin, I gathered two other kindred generations and headed out.  First we crossed a frozen lake, and then we climbed the far bank, before making our way up into the woods.

I’ve been there before, but this was my first venture into that locale with my Dad and son Todd.  Although I’ve taken each of them out individually to the woods, and on multiple occasions, it was our first outing all together.  For that reason they each knew the routine, quickly began packing down the snow, and set about collecting and cutting up some firewood.

Our Three Walking Sticks
All Carved By Dad

With the snapping sounds of the crackling flames, and the tantalizing smells of the sizzling food cooking in the skillet, we settled into the rhythm of a day camp in the woods.  We wouldn’t be there long, but we would be there long enough; long enough to generate meaningful conversations between father and son, and grandpa and grandson.  While my dog Kora settled in on her blanket, we sat and talked as I added various ingredients.  The food was typical, meaning that it was what I always cooked.  It’s become what’s expected.  I can appreciate that, even as the one who cuts and prepares it all beforehand.  When you’ve eaten several helpings of it outdoors, and in cold temperatures, you’ll know what I mean.

After indulging in the breakfast, and rinsing it down with some hot cocoa, we cleaned up, packed our gear, and erased any evidence of being there.  Being stealthy is important to keep such places sacred.  It’s why I’m always mixing it up as to where I go.  I suppose it’s like having a random generator that allows me to arbitrarily choose from any one of my special get away places.  In such circumstances I liken my decision making to being, “Crazy like a fox,” but I suppose it’s better described as, “Sly like a fox.”  Either way I’ll lose you if you try to follow me, and still manage to enjoy a great day in the woods.  And should you be so lucky as to be invited to join me, I’ll welcome you into the secret location with open arms; although on more than one occasion I have been known to wander in circles first to confuse people with directions or have them turn off the location on their phones.  As I said, it keeps places special.

For that reason, I’ll always hold that morning special.  Such an outing, in a sacred place, doesn’t happen often; and when it does you mark it.  Generating a time when you can gather generations of your family together for an outdoor experience can be memorable, especially when you each share the same spirit of adventure.  Perhaps that’s why I smiled to myself as I walked with my dad and son back across the lake, watching our shadows in the snow covered ice under the glare of the rising sun.

See you along The Way…

A Circus Of Hounds In The Dogwood

There isn’t a cloud in the sky, unless you count the smoke rising from my smoldering fire.  It’s the reciprocal of stars you see screaming down on you in the middle of the night; in the middle of nowhere.  On this day, in lieu of a nighttime celestial setting, it’s the color of blue that makes a lasting impression as the sun flexes its muscles.  Winter is losing its grip and it knows time is running thin.

I’m surrounded by frozen swampland, thick with 8 foot high red-osier dogwood.  The bark of the branches facing the sun is a deep, dark, rich-red color.  It’s a beautiful setting interlaced with clumps of dried grasses from last season and lingering patches of snow from a storm several nights ago.

The Native Red-Osier Dogwood

The dogwood is native to North America.  My firewood is not.  It too has a rich, reddish color deep within its tightly ringed, wood fibers that can easily be seen when it’s cut or split.  I used dead and dried branches of the buckthorn tree to cook a lunch in my iron skillet for my dog Kora and me.  I figure that I might as well put the nuisance tree to good use.

The Core Of The Buckthorn Tree

Making A Fire From Flint & Steel

Occasionally, back to the north, I can hear the mechanical whine of four wheelers or ice augers.  Ice fisherman at a nearby lake are out in full force as their season nears its end.  I counted a total of 75-80 cars and trucks, some in the small parking lot with most lined up and down along the country road.  It was a circus-like atmosphere when I walked amongst the city of ice shanties and into my secluded setting of red-osier dogwood.  Off and on I can also hear a plane overhead or a train in the distance.  Crows caw and chickadees call their own name, repeating the last syllable of “dee” several times afterwards.

Following my second cup of hot cocoa, I shed my thick coat and settled in to write in my journal.  Kora was curling up on her blanket next to me, when suddenly I could hear something running towards us.  No sooner did I attempt to focus in through the thick brush when a turkey ran through our camp less than 15 feet from our fire.  Kora stared off after the velociraptor type bird and then looked up at me as if to say, “What was that all about?”

I threw a couple more logs of buckthorn on the fire, grabbed my pencil and journal, and once again sat down on my foam pad.  It was then that I locked into the distant baying of hounds that I had begun to hear several minutes beforehand.  I had figured that it was dogs from a nearby kennel, aroused by their owner feeding them or something akin to that.  But now the deep throated, and excited bays, seemed to grow louder.  In fact, they seemed to be very close and in hot pursuit of something just outside of my line of vision.  The first dog went by so quickly that I only caught a glimpse of it through the brush.  It was following a trail close to the line made by the turkey.  The second, a treeing walker hound marked much like a long legged beagle, ran right by us; not even giving my dog Kora the time of day.

I rose, grabbed Kora’s leash, and snapped it onto her collar.  I knew that she had no intent of following these crazy dogs, but I didn’t know if the rest of the pack would lay into her once they saw or smelled her.  Another dog, this time a redbone hound of short, tawny-colored hair, came straight at us, literally hopped over our fire, and continued baying after whatever the pack was chasing.  I could see they each had electronic trackers attached to their collars.

I needn’t have worried about the pack of hounds messing with my dog.  They were on a focused mission that was darn near impressive, to say the least, and nothing seemed to deter their pursuit of the unknown quarry.  Their baying continued out in a wide circle close to the shoreline of the lake and then back around.  On their second lap, they swung about 30 feet out from us, and I was cognizant enough to record some of their ruckus.

CLICK BELOW FOR A VIDEO OF THE BAYING HOUNDS:

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I think there may have been a couple more dogs besides the 3 or 4 that I saw, each with their own pitch.  After the second lap I heard the dogs double back, heading towards the origin of their romp, and then after a single gunshot, all was quiet.  I don’t know that anything is in season right now other than cotton-tailed rabbits or coyotes.  Maybe it was a Sunday afternoon run for the pups, and the gunshot was the sad signal that playtime was over.  Regardless, the crazy circus had ended and quiet once again permeated the swamp, although it was some time before the birds resumed their calls to each other.

Kora’s blanket is now saturated and a moat of melted snow now surrounds my once proud cooking fire.  I’ll take the time to pack up and hike back to the lake in the next few minutes.  It was a good afternoon to get outdoors.  Spring isn’t too far away and the tree sap will begin to flow.  One trimester remains at school, basketball season is coming to an end, and my running miles are beginning to ramp up.  But today, this day, was a much needed day.  In the hidden recesses of the red-osier dogwood, and warmed by both the sun and burning buckthorn, Kora and I survived the hounds of the swamp while thoroughly enjoying the circus-like atmosphere.

See you along The Way…

Newton's Apple Remembered

     It's interesting how one thing can lead to another; either due to a direct impact or through indirect influence.  In the early to mid 1660's, the Great Plague swept through Europe and on to the British Isles.  That led to the temporary closing of the University of Cambridge in England.  And although it was a tragic, scary time period, a young scholar named Isaac Newton took full advantage of the time off from the university to pursue his studies independently. Among the insight he gained from tests he conducted on various theories and principles, he also experienced revelations in regard to the concept of gravity.  It was a concept that was apparently inspired from watching a falling apple. That experience led to thoughts of acceleration, which in turn, became the fundamental basis for his Second Law of Motion.

     I thought of this story of Newton on Saturday.  I thought of it as a figurative idiom.  It was the second day in a row that I had an opportunity to head out to the woods.  

I am fortunate indeed; and while working hard all week, I look ahead for such periods of time when I can escape and relax by playing hard too.  This time I went out with my Dad.  It was the first time I'd had an opportunity to take him out on one of my winter outings.  Only a year ago he had had hip replacement surgery.  In the midst of continued cold weather, I took him to the spot where my winter wanderings all started.

     When I say, "where my winter wanderings all started", I am referring to my life here in the Stateline.  If I go back before that, anything I did probably came from, or involved, my Dad in some shape or form; back in the "Old Country" on our little farm in Otsego County Michigan.  Hopefully as the years go by I can look back and say, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."  I can't say that Saturday's outing led me to any thoughts on gravity, but I did think about how time accelerates the older we get.  I suppose that's why I try to take advantage of any and all opportunities when my Dad and I do get together.

     As we hiked, we talked.  We've always been able to do that.  We joke that some of our best father-son conversations were while we were cleaning manure out of the stalls in our barn; that was often a cold weather activity.  Not an activity that was necessarily in the dead of winter, because the snow was too deep to haul it out over to the garden, but we usually did do the cleaning in the late fall or early spring.  Such a chore made for a captive audience.  We would clean the pens at that time for several reasons.  One was that it probably didn't smell quite as bad then as it would in the middle of the summer.  Plus you didn't have the flies.  Another was because it would allow the animals to have a clean pen going into the winter; when they were inside more than out.  Sometimes it was because the manure had built up after a long winter indoors.  We usually cleaned on a day with nasty weather; a day when you couldn't do anything else.  It was for these reasons, coupled with the ingredients of the 4 or 5 tined pitchfork, our wheelbarrow, and some good, old fashioned grunt work that gave us the opportunity to talk.

     Beyond our conversations when cleaning the barn, we also talked while working outside.  It was the kind of work that would eventually lead to play.  Because of our location in the "Snow Belt" of Northern Lower Michigan, we often had family and friends stay at our house for “get-a-way” weekends in the winter. We would usually sled/tube or cross country ski; adults and kids alike.  To prepare for such outings, we cut brush and trees off the hills and along the trails.  It was tough work.  It was fun work.  It was work to talk to.  Our hill was well known, and historic, as a place to gather youth groups, cousins, and friends throughout the winter months.  It was the fruition of my Dad's dreams.  He even installed an old tow rope, from a nearby downhill ski resort, through holes he augured through cedar posts.  People would use them as a hand hold to climb back up the hill.  When you worked to create something like this you enjoyed it all the more.

     We had miles of cross country ski trails snaking through the hills and valleys behind our house.  To groom them, my Dad and I would snowshoe them first.  The front person would break trail while the one behind would overlap the middle track creating a "three track wide" trail.  Where trails merged, or came down a steep incline into a curve, we often would stomp down more snow to allow for error while skiing.  More than once we would return from packing the trails on snowshoes only to be greeted by our guests who had just arrived.  With a change of clothes and the transition from snowshoes to skies we'd be off again; this time with a whole entourage.  Those adventures led to some great times and memories.  It's hard to erase a classic wipe-out at the bottom of a run from memory, especially when you witnessed it or lived it.

     It was these thoughts that ran through my head as my Dad and I hiked along last Saturday; thinking of the past while talking in the present.  We watched the dogs often, and that reminded us of Teddy, Susie, King and Cricket, and later Kelly and Dolly; all good dogs.  They were all dogs we had up north that loved romping in the snow, as Kati and Kora were doing that day.

Eagle Wing Print

     With the fresh snow, visible signs and tracks were everywhere. There were prints from voles and their low bellies, mice with their dragging tail and tracks packing down whole areas under the seed heads of the rattlesnake master prairie plant.  An owl's print was left where it grazed the snow with its left wing and then dug in with its right as it made its attack.  A coughed up pellet was the only other sign that it left.  Further on it became evident why we had seen 4 or 5 bald eagles in the trees ahead of us, when we came upon the carcass of a raccoon.  The snow was packed from their feet and marked with their great wing tips as well.  They all left stories in the snow.  Cold winter days are like that; they resurrect visions of the past while creating new ones.  I enjoyed the day with my Dad; hiking, talking, listening, solving world problems and spending time together.  He's good at that.  Newton would have been inspired and proud.  Dad's a solid tree for this apple to have fallen from long ago.  
     See you along The Way.