Running - Part#1: The History

        When I think back to my earliest memories of running, I picture my Dad.  Out on the dirt roads of Otsego County’s Dover Township, of Northern Lower Michigan, he’d pull out his Adidas racing flats.  Those shoes were classics, and some of the earliest versions of a running shoe (white shoes with red and blue stripes).  I can recall being in about the 3^rd or 4^th grade and following him down the hill towards White House Trail.  I distinctly remember stopping at the corner though, and coming home as he made his way on down to Sparr Store.  I’m sure part of it was that it was hard to keep up with him, although climbing the hills to get back home couldn’t have been fun.  It was more, however, about the horse that was in the field just beyond that corner.  I remember it was a dark, brown color; but I also remember that it was scary.  I think it had something to do with his loud whinny and the way it would run at the fence if you came near.  Apparently, at that age, I thought that running the hills back to the house was less of an issue than trying to catch up to my Dad and having that horse see me.  I was only slightly traumatized by horses when we lived in that home, but those are stories for another time.  It wasn’t long after that, when we got a quarter-horse named Buckles, that everything was made right, and I made the decision that I was going to be a horse rancher when I grew up.

        When I reached junior high, I ran track.  I think I ran the mile and did the long jump.  I was small, and thin, and it was tough running in those Chuck Taylor basketball shoes.  Those shoes miraculously became my track shoes when spring rolled around on that old cinder track.  I just tried not to get lapped by Pete who was a year older than me, and the man-child of running at our school.  The summer of 1979 was the turnaround though.  That was the summer when running started switching from a way to get from point A to point B into more of a passion.  I’d always run, and although I wouldn’t say I got a lot faster, or that I even started growing, I did start enjoying it more.  When I was real little, I would run up and down the back hill in the summer with my wagon and scooter, or with my green saucer sled in the winter (talk to my parents for pictures and family movies of my sisters and I playing together).  

        From those experiences, running evolved into sprints to explore; adventures with my dog King into the hills, and valleys, and swamps behind our farm.  Some would probably argue I was running from the house as quickly as possible to avoid starting homework, but either way it was running.

        During the summer of 1979 I was in between my 7^th and 8^th grade year of school.  While visiting my extended family in southern Michigan, my cousins and I decided to run a recently established race around Clark Lake that our Grandma lived on.  We trained and practiced with two of my cousins’ friends by running around the lake for the better part of a Friday afternoon; the day before the race.  The following day; Saturday, we ran the race.  It was a seven mile run.  

It was my first road race ever.  We were young and the muscles in our legs were like those of any kids back in the day.  We made it and finished 14+ miles in two days, plus the swimming in between.  That Sunday morning though, coming down the stairs of the old farmhouse in the orchard off Jefferson Road, was not pretty.  Our legs didn’t want to bend, and so we had to side step our way down; much to the humor of my Aunt and Uncle.  If I remember right, my Uncle “helped” us by wrestling and pounding on us a little.  It was great fun let me tell you, but the fire of running had been lit. 

            I ran cross country my freshman year in high school with my friend Chris.  I didn’t even weigh a hundred pounds yet (not until the end of that year), but I finally managed my fastest time on the very last race of the year, in a snowstorm on our home course, at the county club out west of town.  

Chris and I are on the far right top row.

Throughout our season we ran on different courses throughout Northern Michigan; from turkey farms, to downhill-ski resorts and state forests.  That was the only year I ran cross country, as I started marching in the band the following fall.

            It was within the next year or so that I began occasionally running the five miles to our newly established farm after school, as well as starting the tradition of running our own town’s road race.  It was the climax to Gaylord’s week-long celebration called Alpenfest. 

Sister Becky with the H2O

Some might argue that the climax to the festival was the parade, but I did both of them, and although I really enjoyed each event, I loved the preparation for the race.  It was 7.5 miles long at that time; on a hellacious course that was out in the open with big, long hills.  It was run the 3^rd Saturday of July.  Even in Northern Michigan, it was often unbearably hot.  Looking back in my sketchy running journals of the time, I actually trained well for that race over the years as I did intermediate runs throughout the week and a long run on the weekends.  Somehow I’d figured that out.  Many times I ran it with my friend Jim, once or twice with my Dad, and several times with my boss at the local IGA store, Pat Heath.  Mr. Heath was a good runner, competitive, but helpful in the way that he offered good advice on training.  I knew I had run a good race if I was close to him or his older son Mike.  

In '84 (following HS graduation) with Mr. Heath
After the Alpenfest Race.

        Later during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college, while at home working at the IGA store, I went with the Heath family down to Flint, Michigan to run the 10 Mile Bobby Crim Race.  It was my first long run beyond the Clark Lake or Alpenfest Run distances.  The event had a lot of runners, I finished strong, and the crowds lining the cobblestone streets created a huge rush.  

While home from college those two summers, I also competed solo in the local and well known Mark Mellon Triathlon, as well as in the “Run through Hell” (in Hell, Michigan) with my Dad and Aunt Cherie.  That race obviously had a cool T-shirt.  Printed across the back was the phrase, "I Ran Through Hell."  And I did!

            While attending college, my roommate Tim Johnson and I began running together.  We trained in neighborhoods around the school and at one point, along with several other guys from our suite, kept track of our times and tried to beat our record for that course every time we ran.  It worked and we got faster; until the point that we “bonked”.  It was then that I learned the importance of scheduling rest days to allow your body the time to recuperate. 

            I continued running after marrying right out of college and moving to Rockford, Illinois.  Usually I’d begin running in the early spring, and build up to run summer and fall races.  I added the local Rockford 4^th of July race to my traditional two races back in Michigan.  Tim and I also continued getting together to

run; often competing in duathlons as well as road races.  The Cherry Valley Duathlon (run-bike-run) was a favorite since it was nearby.  Sometimes we competed as a team, and sometimes as individuals; although my fat-tired mountain bike made that endeavor a bit more difficult.  My fastest running times during those early 90’s came at the old Beloit Fall Classic 10K (where I ran in 38:51 at a 6:16 pace) and the Rockford Jingle Bell Run 5K (where I ran in 19:15 at a 6:12 pace).

            In 1992, while in the middle of my 3^rd year of teaching, I got to know our D.A.R.E. officer at school.  Deputy Rick Sager was into long distance races; races called marathons (26.2 miles).  Somehow he talked me into running one that June up in Duluth, Minnesota.  How could I say no to someone who said I could easily do it?  How could I say no to running a marathon along Lake Superior’s northern coast?  

Rick Finishing Grandma's Marathon in '93

Cindy & I after my 1st Marathon in '92.

Now, 25 years later, with a lifetime of ups and downs throughout it all, the passion continues.  It’s a passion that encompasses people, and training, and courses, and trails, and races.  That, however, is a story for another time.  Stay tuned…

            See you along The Way…

Remembering Opening Day

This is a story I wrote 15 years ago.  It took place in the spring of 2001 as I was first beginning to fish for trout.  In fact, my parents still hadn't moved down from the north-land yet, so I was venturing into unknown territory without the direction of my Dad, who had started me in on the obsession a few years prior.  On those father/son adventures I fished the small headwater streams of Northern Michigan.  Now on my own, I was gathering whatever knowledge, equipment, and ethics I could muster; before heading out and learning first-hand both how to catch a trout, and what to do when I did.  It is an education that has come through mistakes, disappointments, and triumphs while spending time in the water.  It is an education that is continually being honed through experience.

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            I’ve often heard stories about the deer camps of the past.  Stepping back in time, I picture a rustic cabin amongst towering trees, as leaves rustle in the fall breezes.  Old fields extend beyond the forest, now filling in with sumac and young sugar maples.  As darkness falls, the windows glow from the soft lights within.  Perhaps there is electricity, but more often than not the glow comes from that of the Coleman lanterns hanging from the pole beam rafters above.  There is a distinct smell in the small enclosure.  It is that of white gas, wood smoke, dinner, from earlier in the evening, and now the added scent of gun oil.  Men are gathered around the one room shelter.  One or two are finishing up the dishes, the rest are sitting in chairs at the table near the stone fireplace, or on the bottom bunks extending from the sidewall.  The conversation is simple and easy.  They laugh.  They work in preparation.  They anticipate.    I have never been a part of the nostalgia that accompanies deer camp; yet, the anticipation that men in that situation must feel is something very real to me.  The opening day of trout season is at hand.

            I have gone through all of my supplies.  My pole is laid out next to my waders and net.  The vest, once belonging to my great uncle, is supplied with the essentials.  So many little pockets exist, like secret fishing holes themselves.  One of them keeps my new license complete with a trout stamp.  Another contains a small plastic box that keeps my various spinners separated and organized.  It does not hold many, but it holds enough.  It holds my favorites.  My hat, stained and several years old, is like an old friend next to my hiking boots.  My jeans, with a shirt and sweatshirt, lay beside my dresser that displays the clock now set for the early morning.  I wait in anticipation.

            I wish my dad were here.  I feel like I must live up to a tradition of the generations as they prepared for the opening day of some season or another.  I feel that way because I want to.  It is my link to them.  Due to either death or distance, the experience must be a solo.  I will carry them in my heart.  I will talk to them with each cast.  Today is the opening day of trout season.  Today I will go forth alone.  I have fished brook trout in the small streams of my beloved boyhood, and last fall I had a small taste of trout fishing in the area I live now.  Each trip has been special.  Each trip has been memorable.  Never have I fished on opening day.  I wait in anticipation.

            At the sound of the clock/radio I wrestle my head from the pillow.  Pulling my clothes on, I kiss my wife goodbye, and go out to the kitchen.  I only have one thing left to do.  I lay out some slices of bread to make a sandwich.  Beside it I lay a banana; the water was already in a sports bottle and hip pack.  It will do for a light lunch.  This is all done in the low light of the florescent bulbs under the counter tops.  It seems too drastic to turn the main lights on.  For breakfast I have a piece of toast with grape jelly and a small bowl of cereal.  Standing beside the counter, I eat.  I would feel too confined right now to sit at the dining room table.

            As I pick up my stuff and head out to the garage I am surprised at how warm and balmy it is.  It is still pitch black out, but the warm weather promised from the southwest is well on its way.  The full moon hides behind a haze in the western sky.  I am surprised that the robins are already calling out.  The early bird may indeed get the worm. 

            Inside the van the air is cool and still.  It is refreshing.  The lights stand out brilliantly on the dash as I start the vehicle and back out of the driveway.  The rest of the world seems to be fast asleep.  I listen to one song on the CD already in the stereo and then I put in a soundtrack from one of my favorite movies.  It’s instrumental and it’s adventurous.  If ever music could be dubbed in, to follow a person’s life, this would be the one that I would want for me.  It’s my “Theme CD”. 

            I can hardly see out of the window due to the moisture.  The defroster doesn’t even touch it.  It is then that I realize that it is on the outside, and by using the windshield wipers the world is instantly revealed, albeit dark and foggy.  As I drive, I am amused by the way the moon flits and flirts through the hazy clouds outside of my driver’s side window. 

            Once I have parked in the deserted, gravel lot I take a few minutes to wait for the suns rays to appear while reading the fishing guide with a dome light on.  Eagerness then pushes me onward as I emerge from the van and gather my equipment together.  The extra things that I have are pushed down into one of the legs in my waders before I fling them over my shoulder and grab my pole.  It is a twenty-minute trek to the part of the stream that I want to begin at.  The cardinals are beginning to call as a turkey gobbles on the ridge to my right. 

            As I traverse along the trails I step through a lowland marsh before climbing a hill to enter a sacred forest of giant white pines.  The breezes of the early morning sunrise are beginning to stir and rustle the dried grasses and leaves of last fall.  Descending down through some fields, beside some deer runs, I spook a wary white tail up ahead of me.  She snorts and whistles in apparent alarm at my presence.

            Only a week ago I had been in this same area looking for deer antler sheds with my dad during a spring break trip my parents had made to visit us.  He will be familiar with this area when I tell him where I have gone today.  I walk beside the gigantic monarch of an oak tree before stopping at the water’s edge.  Here the dancing water ripples over rock washed down from the canyon further upstream.  In the growing light I fumble with the four-pound line on my lightweight, open-faced reel as I tie on my favorite Panther Martin spinner that is only 1/32 in size.  Next I pull on my waders and stick my boots into the back end of them.  I don’t have any suspenders, so instead I use an old belt to keep the waders up.  My net drags along behind me, tied to the same belt.

            For the next few minutes I practice flipping the lure into the first couple of pools.  I have one attempted strike in that amount of time before I neatly wrap my line and lure into the overhanging branches of a green ash tree that hugs the bank.  Climbing up out of the water, I survey the situation before remembering that this is my only lure of that color, and it is brand new.  That is thought enough before coming to the decision that I am going after it.  So goes an early morning fishing trip.  Most successful trips involve loosing lures, or tangling yourself into various brambles and tag alder at least half of the time anyway.  Hopefully this would be no different.

            Laying my pole on the bank I heave a leg up on some exposed roots before pushing off into a barrel roll onto my side.  Kneeling in the grass I knew, with deep breaths, that I was committed now.  The next event in the obstacle course involved the actual climbing of the tree with the waders on.  With a quick glance around I grab a hold of some branches at eye level, and scramble upward until I am lodged in the crotch of the tree eight to ten feet up.  It is some spectacle to behold I’m sure as I reach out for the branch, bend it towards me, and break off the culprit twig all while hanging out over the water below in full fishing regalia.

            For the next hundred feet I toss the lure into various holes along the banks and bends.  Soon I reach a point where the water jams into a pile of logs and almost doubles back on itself in about a forty-five degree angle.  I smile in anticipation as the rising sun begins to dance on the waters surface.  Conservatively I begin tossing the spinner, so that the current will carry it just under the submerged tree trunks.  I am not pleased with where I am placing it, however, and realize that I need to inch forward a bit and flip it a little more daringly.  Just as I am doing so, a wood duck flew in from upstream.  I freeze as it lands in the little pool that forms in front of the very log jam that I am fishing at.  In fact, it swims over the very place I am trying to cast my spinner.  Will its presence scare any fish that are lurking there?  Does it know I am standing close to it, merely twenty feet away?  Of course it does, but I do not move a muscle.  The moment is too precious.  The feather coloring is brilliant, and the markings contrast, particularly around its head.  It makes unusual peeping sounds while paddling in place.  Slowly it begins swimming upstream against the current until it is able to walk on the rocky bottom.  It slips and is washed back down into the pool, before making the attempt again.  This time it succeeds in reaching another pool at which time it takes flight and leaves all together.  It is enjoyable to be in the company of such a unique bird who is typically quite wary. 

            Gathering my wits I now focus again on how to get my lure in the exact vicinity that the wood duck has just been.  Swinging the spinner to and fro as a pendulum, with excess line in my left hand, I flip to the current of choice.  It lands close to where I want it, but not exactly.  I begin reeling it in while thinking about how I can do it better on the next cast when suddenly I see a flash and get a hit.  My pole bends wildly as the line races under the logs and throughout the pool.  Slowly I gain on the fish until I am able to scoop it into the landing net.  I can’t believe something this big, can live in this small stream.  My hands are shaking.  This is what I have dreamed of.  I can’t have possibly imagined anything better.  If I thought the wood duck had been beautiful, the markings on the trout are incredible.  Carefully I extract the hook while kneeling at the water’s edge.  The fish is a brown trout, born and raised in these cool waters, and now measuring at fifteen inches.  It will be my first opening day trophy. 

Later @ home with The Brown

            Putting the fish into the recesses of my vest I turned the bend and now began casting up along the bank.  Here a fallen tree, coupled with exposed roots, overhangs the water.  Upon the third or fourth cast I again have a hit.  As the trout races back and forth in front of me I try to keep the tip up and keep it from getting tangled in the debris along the bank.  I can hardly believe it.  I have two good, sized browns, practically back to back, and it is only 7:00.  Netting the trout I turn to the bank behind me and use it as a table to unhook the fish. After measuring it at fifteen and a half inches I ease it back into the clear, cool water, and watch it quickly disappear down stream.  The water has already been kind to me.  I will return the favor.

            The next section of the stream is unusual in that it is straight, deep, and flows with hardly a ripple.  I begin working the water with long casts out ahead of me.  As I move forward I also begin easing my way toward the bank to my right.  Here the hills above cascaded sharply to the waters edge.  Looking ahead, a honeysuckle bush drapes its branches out into the water.  With concentration I flip my lure to a spot I think might carry it under the shaded sanctuary.  What I get is a spinner caught neatly around some branches.  Shaking my head, and staying surprisingly calm, I wade into the hole I am trying to sneak up on so cautiously.  After freeing the line from the branches, I notice from my position that another honeysuckle is just ahead of me, in addition to some rocks from the bank that slope steeply down to the stream’s bottom.  I flip the spinner forward.  It is only a short cast.  I can’t manage much more of a cast the way I am positioned.  Unfortunately nothing hits on my first try.  Perhaps by coming across the stream to free the line I have scared out any trout that are hiding there.  I try again with out any hit.  As I pull the spinner from the water’s surface, however, I look down just in time to see a monster brown trout turn two or three feet in front of me.  I suck in a huge lung full of air.  All I can say is “Wow…Wow”!  That fish made the other two I had caught look like fingerlings.  It had followed my spinner, but it hadn’t had enough space to think and grab on before I had to pull it from the water. 

            Trying not to disturb the scene, I slowly back out down stream.  I cross back through the water and pull myself up onto the bank; using it as a chair, dangling my legs in the water.

As I rest and take in my situation, my spirit laughs.  Pulling the lunch from my vest I eat, and scheme.

            I already have one fish in my pocket.  If I can catch the one that I have just looked eyeball to eyeball with, then I will have to decide whether I keep it or release it.  Other various “if / then” statements run through my mind as I enjoy the growing morning and my lunch.  The winds blow warm and dry under the sun’s rays.  I want to know my possibilities and choices before I try again.

            After thirty minutes have passed, I grab my pole and slide back into the water.  Carefully I begin stepping forward, with my head bent low to the surface.  This time I stay on my side of the stream.  Once I am kitty-corner from the lair of the lunker, I stop and flip my spinner to almost the exact spot that I had stood earlier.  I continue to stay low as I begin reeling it in. 

            The strike that hits my lure is so strong I instantly brace, straighten up and lean back.  I have to, unless I want to take an early morning swim.  It is the same trout.  I will bet my life on it.  No two trout that big will, or can live that close to one another.  If they do, then God help the bait-fish, crayfish, and flies.  They will have no chance. 

            The fish first races fifteen feet down stream.  Doubling back it passes me and goes twenty feet upstream like a hot knife through butter.  My pole is straight up and the tip is straight down.  I let myself breathe and released the word “Wow” through a grin and clenched teeth.  The trout now retraces its path and begins swimming back downstream when my line suddenly screams “uncle” and breaks.  I laugh aloud.  Perhaps I wouldn’t have laughed if I hadn’t been able to catch and keep my first fish, but I had and I did, so anything else I considered extra.  I continue to laugh and repeat the word “Wow”.  What more could I do?

True, it had been too much fish for my line, but that was the point…Too much fish.  That brown trout had been a monster, and although it was the “one that got away”, I didn’t care.  The experience of having three different trout hit one of my favorite lures, and the stories that now went with it, was priceless.   

            With my lure now lost on an age-old fish, and the temperatures rising with the sun, I decide to begin the walk back to the van.  It has been an excellent morning of fishing.  Somewhere my relatives of old are smiling down from heaven above.  It is not simply because I have a nice brown trout in my vest.  It is not simply because I have caught one, released one, or let one get away.  It is not simply because I am fulfilling some ancient prophecy.  The generations are smiling because I have come for the experience itself, in addition to all of those other things.  I experienced the tradition of the “opening day” which brings with it the anticipation, the wonder, and the appreciation of the outdoors.  The fish is in my vest, as the generations are in my heart today.  It is the opening day of trout season.

A memory still captured in my minds-eye

Renegades

“Go forth and have no fear.”
X Ambassadors (Song lyrics from “Renegades”)

        The wind was blowing today; strong wind.  Perhaps I read more into the wind than what it is, but I love it and feel close to it.  Here at home I like it because it helps drown out the constant hum of the nearby highway; all I can hear is the wind through the spruce boughs and feel the shake of the house when an extra strong gust hits.  It’s strangely comforting.  I say strange because it’s a sign of moving and changing air masses; air moving on currents from high to low pressure seeking some unknown destination.  At the same time I like to picture and sense God’s movement in the wind; movement as the Spirit. Wind is the confirmation of that presence for me.  Hence, the wind is strangely comforting.

        The group Kansas sings a song entitled, “Dust in the Wind.”  It’s a classic song played on an acoustic guitar.  While it is a good song, it is admittedly a pessimistic view of life as if nothing matters.  I personally don't believe that.  Life matters, people matter, and what we do matters.  We are part of a bigger story, and yet we play a role and live out our purpose or niche as an integral part of that story.  “Every story, great and small, shares the same essential structure because every story we tell borrows its power from a Larger Story, a Story woven into the fabric of our being…”.” (Epic - Eldredge)

        In other words, this is it!  We can live a life with meaning, a life with purpose, and learn from both the highs and lows along the way because indeed that is part of our story.  That’s a much different view of life than the person living in such a way as to get past the things they either don’t like in their life, or the person trying to get everything perfect - before they can start living.  We can live life with a sense of freedom like the wind itself.  We can live like a renegade.  It’s strangely comforting that with structure in our lives we can also have freedom.

        Speaking of renegades, the unofficial/official Gulo Adventure Clan gathered this morning after an evening of parent/teacher conferences.  It was a repeat performance of last year (See Past Entry "Un-Common Core") but at fifty something degrees, it was almost sixty-five degrees warmer this year.  We gathered early and drove out to one of my favorite areas.  It’s open and vast and wild in some areas, and yet thick and close and embracing in others.  It is flat and it is hilly.  It has prairies and it has woods; both highlands with hardwoods and bottomlands with softwoods.  Today we walked through all of those environs, including a wide marsh.  We had to; there was so much ice on the trails and areas we were trying to walk across, that we had to choose a course where we could walk with some sort of footing.  It was the result of the remnant snow and warm weather.

        It was a long walk in, but it was perfect in that it allowed us to talk and dialogue and enjoy both the work and beauty of it all.  Along the way we crossed several creeks and made our way to the bank of a large river.  I quickly made a fire while the others put up a tarp to block the wind - or looked for firewood.  The wind was blowing from the West by Southwest at 30 to 40 miles per hour, with gusts up to 60; although the woods helped to block some of that.  

   

        Conversations covered school, sports (heroes and underdogs, both legitimate and fallen), and a host of other side topics on the heels of the wind.  Our prayer was for being the constant in the midst of the winds of change that happen throughout our lives.  We ate, and then ate some more.  We needed to with all of the food we had.  With eight guys and two dogs we had 18 potatoes, 20 eggs, a dozen stadium brats and 20 ounces of Colby jack cheese.  I forgot to add the salt and pepper, and a few of the potatoes got a little dark, but ask any of them whether they cared or not.  The cocoa was only slightly warmer than luke-warm (wrong side of the flames), and the orange juice was sitting comfortably back in our refrigerator at home, but ask any of them whether they cared or not.

      Trust has come to this bunch of renegades by spending time together over the last few years; time hiking and paddling a river, in addition to working and teaching at school.  Because of that trust, you feel as though you can pretty much be yourself, and that alone feels pretty good.  After packing up we began our hike back, stopped for a group picture, emerged from the woods where we suddenly realized how much windier it actually was, and then came again to a little creek. 

Scott, Joe, Justin
Merel, Ted, Wes
The Pups, Louie & Mike

The creek really wasn’t much of an obstacle, and luckily the temperatures were moderate in case someone slipped in.  It did provide, however, the opportunity to act as pioneers.  Through the use of ingenuity and perseverance we were able to forge ahead.  It also provided us the chance to act as boys; both running and jumping and running free, if only for a moment.  

        Walking the rest of the way back in wet boots was at a minimum.  The “who, what and where” stays with the wind in the woods.  Like most good stories, it’s where they happen and where they remain.

        That same wind that carries our stories in fact is our story; or at least a part of it.  I like that this group of men all come from different places, with different backgrounds, and different up-bringing.  When I consider those things, our difference in ages, our different world views, and yet the way we band together and appreciate each other’s company, I can’t help but smile.

        We drove back, said our goodbyes, I unpacked a little, picked up my daughter from a friend’s house, and then fell asleep for a solid hour or more.  I only awoke when a blast of wind slammed against the front of the house.  The wind, like my morning with the Gulo Adventure Clan, was strangely comforting.

        See you along The Way…

“Life, you’ll notice, is a story.  Life doesn’t come to us like a math problem.  It comes to us the way that a story does, scene by scene.  You wake up.  What will happen next?  You don’t get to know – you have to enter in, take the journey as it comes.”

(Epic by John Eldredge-Nelson Books, Nashville-2004)

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I like the song "Renegades" by X Ambassadors (and not just because I drive an old Jeep...nope, still haven't washed off the dust from my trip to the Pigeon River Country of Northern Michigan...for the last two years)...
The "Official" video rocks in the way that it not only has the song, but it also shows how different people with various "Challenges" are able to succeed because of their team of support personnel that serve and help them to achieve their dreams and goals...Blind people lifting weights, skate boarding and riding bikes...a one armed boxer...the wrestler and rock climber with no limbs...not to mention the very end of the video where it shows the band members getting out of their Jeep (not covered in Michigan Dirt) and walking through an alley to where they are playing in a concert...the lead singer/guitar player (Sam Harris) is leading his older brother Casey who is the keyboard player for the band and who is also blind...

CLICK ON THE VIDEO & CRANK IT UP!

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And if you like the song, here is the hour long version…I often times put it on at school when I’m working, and listen to it over and over…

X Ambassadors - Renegades {hour version}

Scout

“But turn my mind altogether to the forest; that will not deceive you, being ordered and ruled by a hand that never wavers.”

The Scout-Deerslayer by James Fenimore Cooper – 1841

            When I was a kid, the Clark Family used to visit us up north.  Mr. Clark and my Dad were dorm-mates at Central Michigan University back in the day.  The Clark’s had two children; about the same age as my sisters and me, and together with our parents we would partake in some sort of adventure.  In addition to gathering at our house, we sometimes met in Grand Marais in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to camp and hang out.  They often drove what I considered at the time, a rugged vehicle; one that would be categorized as an SUV these days.  Two of their vehicles that stand out in my mind were the Jeep Cherokee Chief and the International Scout II.  I always enjoyed the opportunity of riding along in one of those; usually when we were out driving the backwoods trails and dirt roads of the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore.

            The Jeep and the Scout were both unique and had the cool factor.  I like that word “Scout.”  It’s a word that’s both dear and true to my heart.  When I hear the word scout I think of Nathaniel Bumppo (also known as Scout, Deerslayer, Hawkeye, and La Longue Carabine).  He was the adopted son and brother of Chingachgook and Uncas.  These were the main characters in James Fenimore Cooper’s saga now known as the “Leatherstocking Tales” set in the mid to late 1700’s of early America.  The best known of those five stories is entitled, “The Last of the Mohicans.”  The books were written in the early 1800’s but the latest movie, starring Daniel Day Lewis, came out in 1992.  I had read several books from the series beforehand, but have often stated since the movie came out, that if I could set my life’s story to a sound track it would be to that movie’s music.  I’ve listened to it many times while in route to many an adventure.

            Perhaps in my mind’s eye I envision myself as a scout.  I don’t have the same wilderness areas to walk upon, and I certainly don’t encounter the same dangers as Hawkeye did in tales of the old frontier.  I do enjoy that balance between forging and exploring on my own, and yet interacting with others while enabling them to experience things outside of their normal path through life.  My Dad has often said to me that I do a good job of taking him to creeks I’ve scouted ahead of time, and pointing out areas for him to pitch his spinner where he can catch a trout.  That’s coming from an experienced fisherman.  Perhaps he’s right.  I do enjoy scouting, preparing, guiding and then watching those who are involved, immerse themselves into the surrounding adventure and atmosphere.

            It was with such flair, and after being asked several times by a couple of our school's female staff, that we went out last weekend.  It wasn’t that the ladies weren’t capable of doing it on their own (because many of them are).  It was more that they’ve heard or seen pictures of the outings I’ve had with some of the guys on our staff.  They knew I had places I could take them, and that I would enjoy both the leg-work involved in organizing it, as well as preparing and setting up the food and equipment we would need.  Unfortunately we didn’t have a lot of available time left in our schedules this winter when we could go out.  So, on short notice we sent out an email a week ahead of time.

            After four of our staff expressed interest in joining my wife Cindy and I, I set about planning a course and destination. 

Todd & I Scouting out an Area-The Week Prior

While my son was home the week before, we went out and scouted out a possible area.  Although several bald eagles were using some nearby trees as roosts, I decided against the area after some rain and rather warm weather threatened to flood the section we had to walk through.  Over the next few days I scoured some maps, chose two possible sites, and ran out last Friday (the night before the outing) to scout them out. 

Scouting Along The River-Friday Night

I arrived at sunset, and after taking a shortcut through the woods, came out after dark.  I did, however, find a perfect area to bring the ladies the following day, by way of a different starting point.  All told I covered about two miles that night and saw an eagle, heard a barred owl, saw the work of a pileated woodpecker and then came upon a huge herd of deer on my drive back.  I stopped at the store to buy supplies and then came home to cook, clean, pack, and prepare (not necessarily in that order…the words just flow better lined up like that).  It took several hours, but I

The Necessary Groceries

had the radio on and the kitchen was mine.  I sent the ladies several texts and pictures of the preparations to entice them of what was to come.

            They arrived at 8:00 the following day on Saturday morning, and together with the dogs, we loaded into two vehicles and headed out.  The weather was perfect for a winter outing, and with several cold days in a row, the ice and snow were solid.  In fact, it was so solid after the brief melt earlier in the week, that the walking was slightly treacherous in areas.  To keep our footing we sought out snowy areas so that we could have traction with our boots.  The conversation throughout was light and relaxing.  I stayed just enough ahead to add to it occasionally, but allow them to feel free to talk as they liked.  Plus, it allowed me to keep track of the dogs in their excitement to be out.  We hiked the ridge along the river, and then made our way down along some trails; towards a lowland area where we could hike back into the river.  The women helped me gather some sticks for fuel and watched as I got a fire going. 

Starting the Fire

It took me two tries with the flint and steel, and it required some gentle coaxing to get the flames to jump from the grass I used as tinder to the sticks.  It took the bark from some nearby wild grapevine to finally get it going.  I then began cooking the food while the dogs ran and sniffed around the river’s edge, and the ladies told stories from both the past and present.  While eating, we saw two different eagles; which is always exciting.  They were immature, and lacked the stark white head, but they certainly were something to behold with their great size and wingspan.

The ladies about to settle into a meal.

            We then packed up and began hiking out, but not before we stopped for a group picture.  It was a great morning and the perfect inaugural outing for some of the adventuresome women from Willowbrook Middle School.  After returning to the vehicles after almost three total miles of hiking, we packed our supplies, the dogs, and ourselves and were back to our house by noon.

Lisa, Mary, Laurie, Andrea, Cindy & the Dogs

            That afternoon I turned right back around, as part of my ultra marathon race training, and went back out to the area we were in that morning and ran the trails for two and a half hours.  The ice and snow were a bit softer as the sun had come out and the temperatures were in the 40’s.  By my last lap I “bonked” a bit.  Apparently the morning meal of potatoes, eggs, cheese and sausage were not the perfect recipe to keep me going for that long!

Recovering after the Run - Ice Cleats on the Shoes

            The following day, on Sunday afternoon, my daughter Jodi and I took the dogs down to the nearby creek.  She wanted me to take her down so she could practice taking pictures with her new camera.  

Hiking with Jodi as She Takes Pictures

The rest of the evening we settled in to watch the Denver Broncos win Super Bowl 50.  The Bronco’s Peyton Manning was once the quarterback of my favorite NFL Team (The Colts), so it was fun to see him win his second Super Bowl.  The win was nowhere near the result of his efforts, but rather those of the Bronco’s awesome defense.  Still, I’m hoping it’s the last game of his career and that he can now retire on a win as one of the greatest QB’s of all time.  He’s had quite a run for the last 18 years.

Super Bowl 50

            Speaking of runs, last weekend was full of them.  I’d been throughout the countryside running out, hiking in, hiking out, hiking around, running around, hiking down, hiking back and then running down...to the point where I didn’t have a whole lot of energy left and all I wanted to do was sit, relax and vegetate for a while.  Running in this way is part of who I am, my gift, and what I resonate with.  I love the scouting, preparing, and guiding that is involved, and then watching those who are part of the experience immerse themselves in those same environs that I too enjoy.

            See you along The Way…

“One moccasin like another!  You may as well say that one foot is like another; though we all know that some are long, and others short; some broad, and others narrow; some with high, and some with low insteps; some in-toed, and some out.  One moccasin is no more like another than one book is like another; though they who can read in one are seldom able to tell the marks of the other.  Which is all ordered for the best, giving to every man his natural advantages…”

Hawkeye-The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper – 1826

Two Week Album

Dry Run Creek in Hononegah Forest Preserve

     Capturing life moments in pictures is a way people have documented their personal history for many years.  In order to stay connected with the teaching that she loved, back when my kids were young, my wife taught others the art of creating photo albums out of the scads of pictures that most people had stashed in old shoe boxes under their bed or in down stair closets.  Through the company "Creative Memories" she was able to influence and help others to connect with their past as they made their way through the present and dreamt of the future.  It inspired me to have my own adventure photo albums. The old, blue, pullover jacket I wear as a shell, on cold winter days, has the Creative Memory logo on its left breast corner. It's a remnant of some good days of preserving stories caught on film.

     Two weeks have been preserved here in this blog as well; adventures caught and preserved during the last week of 2015 and the first week of 2016.  They are pictures of adventures with family, friends and while out searching the vast-land for my own personal peace of mind. I'll document them as if in an album; pictures with captions.

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2015

On Tuesday, January 29th, after we shoveled the driveway, my daughter Jodi and I went out to Roland Olson Forest Preserve and went cross country skiing.  She loves to ski, and so we take advantage of the snow when we can.  I grew up skiing as a kid and sharing that love is edifying.  With the base of ice, from the previous day's storm, and then a few inches of snow on top, the conditions were almost perfect.  We were the first people to make tracks on the back loop.  I enjoyed being able to break trail with 2 swaths from my skies, as I swooshed along with Jodi for about three and half miles on beautifully clear trails.

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On Wednesday, December 30^th, after getting up and going for a run, our family of four met my Dad at the movie theater to see the new movie: “Star Wars-The Force Awakens”.  It had great significance.  My Dad took both of my sisters and me to the original movies (episodes #4, 5, & 6) back in the day.  As I remember it, the movie (“A New Hope”) came to our town’s small movie theater.  My parents, however, weren’t too sure we should see it as they didn’t know too much about it, and it was rated PG.  I got a paperback version of the movie from a school book order and read it instead.  After my Uncle Rob took my Grand-dad & Grandma though, the decision was made that we could go see it.  By then, unfortunately, the movie had left our town.  In the 1970’s we didn’t have VHS or DVD players and so we had to wait for the movie to come back again; assuming it was good enough to recirculate.  Fortunately for us, “Star Wars” did!

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Thursday, December 31^st was the 27^th wedding anniversary for Cindy and me.  I spent the better part of the day under the kitchen sink after discovering a water leak under the sink the night before.  At first I thought about seeking help, but after looking it over I settled on trying to fix it myself.  Early in the morning I bought a new garbage disposal; the root of the problem.  I read through the directions when I got it home and laid out the necessary tools.  In addition to taking out the old disposal, I disconnected all of the piping, cleaned them out, and applied new putty to both of the drains before inserting the new disposal.  It worked out pretty slick considering I didn’t come in with a lot of confidence.  I finished off the afternoon’s daylight by running back out to Roland Olson by myself, to cross country ski a 3 mile loop.  It was a good way to end the day’s activities before we all got together with some friends for food and dodge-ball to celebrate the New Year.

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2016

Friday, January 1^st was New Year’s Day. 

I woke early and met my friend Louie, and about 10 other people, to run 6 miles on and around the Rock River Bike Path in downtown Rockford.  It was cold, but it was fun and has become a sort of tradition to kick off the new year.  That afternoon Jodi and I went back out to Roland Olson to

XC ski one more time.  It was cold and breezy but we had a good time putting in 3 or 4 miles both in the Preserve as well as on the linking trail that goes over to the Kinnickinnick Creek Conservation Area.  That afternoon Cindy and I took a walk in the neighborhood with the dogs under a beautiful sunset.

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On Saturday, January 2^nd my friend Scott and I went out for a hike with my dogs to

the river bottoms.  The sun rose over the horizon as we started out on the highland prairies.  We enjoyed talking and figuring out how to create log bridges to get both us and the dogs over some of the high water creeks that had formed in the bottoms as they drained off the oxbows.  We managed to stay relatively dry, and got a fire going from flint and steel in order to cook a great little brunch on the bank of the river.  It was a four hour excursion well worth the effort.  That afternoon my wife Cindy and I were able to get out to spend some time together and debrief from the year and Christmas Break as well as to celebrate our anniversary of two days prior.  It was simple but good.  We ate out and had a subway sandwich, and then took a walk at Hononegah Forest Preserve.

That night, as a totally spontaneous act, our entire family went to the theater to see the late night showing of “Star Wars” for a second time…it was a final family fling!

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School started again that following Monday…an adventure in and of itself!  Our school’s Environmental Club did go sledding after school on Wednesday, January 6^th.  The kids, about 60 or so of them, had a great time in perfect weather…it was just the right temperatures with just the right amount of snow to both walk through it and sled down on it.

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On Saturday, January 9^th my son Todd and I went to the woods with our dogs (Kati &

Kora).  Everything was wet from the rain the past few days.  Remarkably, the water level in the woods was down from the previous weekend.  We enjoyed each other’s company, and although we had a time of it getting the fire started, since everything was damp, we eventually did.  Todd said that the brunch we cook gets better every time he tastes it.  I’ve said it before and will probably say it again; nothing compares to a meal cooked over an open fire after a little work.  I used my new little “Emberlit” stove to heat up the water and then keep the food warm while we took some pictures to try capturing the moments.

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On Sunday, January 10^th we attended church.  Our pastor gave what I like to call his annual “State of the Union” address.  He reviews where we’ve been, challenges us and then shows us how we can move forward as both individuals as well as a

church.  Afterwards, in 7 degree temperatures with wind, I ran 8 miles on the snowy trails at Hononegah Forest Preserve. I was able to run without any aches and pains that I had been experiencing during my runs for the last few weeks.  It was encouraging and I felt great.  My running route in the preserve is beginning to feel very comfortable.  I can run it without really thinking about it.  At one point I had to throw down logs to hop across about twelve feet of flood water from the mouth of Dry Run Creek that flows into the Rock River at that point.

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PS – Today on Saturday, January 16^th I had an extra adventure outside of the adventures in the “Two Week Album”. 

I took my friend Justin to the woods for a quick hike and cookout before he attended his son’s basketball game (apparently an epic comeback from 10 points down).  Taking people to the woods is a fun thing to do.  I of course enjoy the company, but inviting friends into the position to be adventurous and experience life in a different venue is the most rewarding aspect.

I came back home and then went and ran 8 miles as part of the first official “long run” of a training schedule that will prepare me for a race this coming May.  The temperature was in the mid 20’s and sunny; a beautiful day.

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Episodes of adventure; they are remnants of some good days preserved as stories and caught on film.

See you along The Way…