Potluck Joe Pye Weed


Eagle Harbor Web

An unofficial source of Eagle Harbor, Michigan news, views and information.


Harbor Wildflower #1, "Joe Pye Weed" (george hite)
Reader Contributions to the Harbor Web.

No, not a Page devoted to Eagle Harborites' idea of a "good meal out", but rather a potluck assortment of stories, essays, ideas, memories, photos, news bits, poems, whatever (yes, even favorite Harbor recipes) -- all brought to our table by your editor and "George's Eagle Harbor Web" readers. So join in the feast, and don't forget to contribute your morsel -- E-mail it to George today!

"The Thor Saga by Fred Geis (Jan/Feb 2009)

Loving Dog For Sale
Adorable Pet he is so loving he:
Loves to eat fresh baked Peach and Pumpkin Pies left on the counter
Loves Quarter sticks of Butter by the Toaster
Loves to Greet you at %:30 AM with a wet lick on the Face
Loves to place his Paws on your Chest as he skids to a stop after running up to you at15 MPH
Loves to chase Snowmobiles
Loves to take sticks from the wood pile and leave them in the driveway for the snowblower

Oboy Erin Ges Wat?
Oboy Erin Ges Wat??? I gets to com stay wit yu for a week wen yur parnts goes away to Californya! Can I stay in yur rom? N can we hav bacon every day? N Peech Pie?? Yur Granpa maks Bacon wen der is compeny here so maybe he will mak it fur us der. He is sayin we ar havin dis superboll tink n maybe we will hav bacon n peech pie in it. Yur Granpa says yu hav a fren dat is Swedish do does kinds of people hav bacon N peech pie? He also says he is getting anothr bionic eye in too weeks an dat den he wil be able to watch wat both of us is doin. Dat culd be a problim – maybe we culd stay at yur frens house specialee if dey hav bacon n peech pie. Do yu hav suprbowls der? Wat tings ar der to chase? I wl bring sum gud bons to chew wit Yu but we don hav anymor bacon or peech pie here so yu need to find sum of that. I hav ben pratcin walkin on my toes so I can reech da countr top wer da peech pie is N so maybe I can go to ballae clas wit Yu wat ever dat is – Yur granpa sed Yu go to Ballae clas. Dat wuld be fun if dey had bacon n peech pie der – Do dey?

Hey do Yu no wat dis stuff about a dog fur sale is dats on da Eagle Harbor Web Page? If it's wat I tink it is maybe I mites hav a person fur sale – if he duznt fix us bacon n ppech pie I mites jus giv him a way!

Geezer Fur Sail
To does concrnd abouts da goins on in Coppr Falls I wuld lik to set da recrd strate! Let me tells yu how Gud I em. Da peeple at da Humain Socity showed a movie of me on der web page an dey sed I passd da CAT test. Erin told me dat she mite take da CAT test wen she gos to collig but I alredy passd it an she is oldr den me or yu can see how gud us Black Sheperds is by goin to http://www.4germanshepherds.com/solid_blacks.htm I shud hav George put a "Geezer Fur Sail" sign up but wat culd I say abots him dat sumone wuld buy him? Wuld take furst plase In Americn Idle?, Drivs slow – Walks Slowr ?, Cen turn pages in papr n drink cofee at same time?, Use to make gud Peech Pie?... Id hav to pay sumone to tak him. I spen al day takin care of him n al dat I gits is yelld at... Wen I tak him fur a walk I jups up on him to chek he is stil brthin n I gits yelld at, I try to caree his glov n I gits yelld at, I chse da snowmobeels away so dey don run ovr him n I gits yelld at! I hav a drawing of my word dat Im sendin it wit dis.

thors world
(click to enlarge)

A Gud Trik
So Uba I gots a neet tink to tel yu buts yu got to not tel da geezer. Sumhow he is fidin out abouts sum of da tinks I rote yu. He was all goin on abouts da drawin I did abouts how meny tinks I geys in trble fur an how many I gits pets fur. He says da drawin lookd a lots lik da peech pie I ate – one small slice fur him an da ress fur me. So yu knows how I was sayin I gits yelld at fur jumpin up on him wen we is walkin? Wel erin showed me a better tink to do – you run up da trail an den run back reel fas and den wen yu is abouts three gud jumps away you jump up strech yur legs out an yur paws an you lans in da snow jus in front of him an it sprays snow all ovr him. Its bettr den steppin on da tings he puts on his feet wen we go fur walks in soft snow. Doe dat is pretty gud wen he fall down in deep snow. So maybe I sees yu in a few weeks n we ken both git him wen we go fur a walk. But doen say nuttin cuz since I tuld yu da oter stuf he duzent bake pies any mor n haznt fixd me any bacun.


Puttin up wit da Geezer
Uba Ise in troble agin! An all I was doin was practsin my walkin on my toos lik a ballereena (Hey did youse heer Erin is goin to Ballereena scool dis summr an I bets she will let me go wit her an den wen dey see how gud I am at wakin on my toos dey wil giv me peech pie n bacin instead of yellin at me – boy dat wil sho da geezer) but fyr now I is in troble jus caus I was practcin reel hard walkin on my toos n der was sum buttr on da conter jus da saem plase my noos is wen I walks dat way n … I hop summr coms soon. Uder den dat its ben ok sort of. We ben goin on walks dat is reel long – he is lookin fur sumpin n der hav ben lots of traks to follw. I ges wit da nis days lots of oter tings is goin out to da woods to take walks too.
Tank goodnes for dat caus on his own da geezer sur nos how to rown a gud walk. Da oter day he took da ladee in da littl box wit dat he taks wen we go fur a long driv. Da won he yells at wen she talks in da car. So we went up da trail behind da howse n turnd on da trail jus below da top. (Dats gud. Wen he duz dat caus den its goin to be a long walk.) N we went for a whil but den he starts in wit dat Ms. Mazzd Meeata ladee sayin "Dis is jus goin to tak us way out to Centrel agin" n he turns bak n we go a differn way (n dats ok case lik I sed deris lots of gud traks n smells in da woods) but we keeps doin dis fur a long time Walk a bit den, talk to da Mazzd ladee den go bak n down a differ trail.
So we keeps doin dis fur wat is mor den we usalee walks n den he goz all bonkers wit "Hey Thor Hoosz da man now hun! Hoosz da man!" n hes wavin da Mazzd ladee aron sayin "She says her battrees low n she needs a nap!! Ges us old guyz can out walk her in da woods huh! Fancee pants isn't so hot wen she duznt hav her little sports car on da road Huh. Git out in da bush n she cant run wit dan big guyz!" So I don no wat he is goin on abouts but it mus be gud caus den instead of stayin on da trail he heds off in to da woods lik I do all da tim wen he is walkin soo slow n I smells a gud animal trak n so we goz a long way tru da woods n he says we is crossin Owls lak but der aint no Owls dat I can smel n den he is goin on about we is on a dam dat washd out but den we ar bak to plases I no up bi da bluf abov da haus dat he cals Uppr Coppr Falls. So den we wen hom.
I doin no abouts Ms Mazzd but I nos he was tired caus he jus sat in his chair da nex day n dat was borin. Boy I hops summr is soon caus I sur needs to go wit Erin n hav peech pie n bacin n git pets fur walkin on my toos.


(From Fred) Apparently Erin feels Thor has impinged her veracity and asked me to forward her responses to Thor's issues so with out further commentary...

Thors spelling is just awfull. It's to the point were you almost can't read it. However if he had good grammer and used real words then his whole spelling phoneticly would not be a problem. And it doesn't make any sence the way we spell

phone-fone or even fon
wich ones are easeier to figure out (or would be if you didn't already know what all of them said). Say you were a kid just learning how to read. Which column would be easier to figure out and make you less confused? the right. And wich one would just confuse you and make you wish that you spoke a diferent launguage that was invented by slightly more sain people? The left one (wich happens to be the one that we are stuck with thank you very much).
Forever explaining americas real problems (forget recessions) one person at a time,

P.S kindly forward this to everyone you sent your original email to. thnx

Thor, Sry, but I don't think they alow pups at Blue Lake. O well. Looks like u will have to stay w/ the geezer. U rely need to work on u'r spelling. And don't wory about geting in trouble 4 walking on u'r toes and sniffing around on the table because that won't happen anymore by the time u get back from u'r visit w/ me. See u soon.

Thor, don't you dare blame that on me. I did not teach you that trick and you know it. Although I do have a few good ones up my sleeve that I plan on showing you, that one was not one of them. See if I show you any of my tricks now. Did the Geezer tell you that you two were coming up to visit me in a few weeks. Well you are and I'm gonna train you. And I felt that it might be more fair to warn you that I'm gonna crack down hard. The Geezer has been prety nice and you havn't learned much as I gather. But you will. You've been warned
see ya soon,

Dis is no fair
Uba - Wy iz everee won pikin on me? Da Geezer sed dat stuf abouts me bein stubern n den Erin says I cant go to ballereena camp wit her n Joan is goin on abouts mi bein yung n not so smrt yit, n der hasnt ben a singl peech pie n no bacin heer fur evr. Ok I is goin to set sum rekerds strait. Furst about dis walkin hom stuf. Yous has riddin wit da Geezer – he goz soo slo. So dat day we goz to town to wher he "Werks" n I waits in da car whil he "Werks". Den we goz shopin n I waits in da car n he duznt by me no treets n we goz to a gabilleon stors n I waits n waits. So den we goz to Eagl Rivr n he finalee lets me jump out of da car so of cors I am goin to run aron n dat stupid coller slids off so I gos fur a reel run but he yellin "Thor git bak in da car". Wel Im no dummee! If I gits bak in its jus goin to be mor waits n waits n waits n no treets. So I figers maybe if I runs ahed of him n sho him da way hom it might git him movin a littl fastr n he might giv me a gud bon. So dat is wat I do n I led him al da way hom, wich is al uphil n a long way. But wat tanks did it git me? Sor feets is wat it got me! N dis week da sled dog races was on n do Yu tink he wood tak me? No n I seez dat doz dogs gits dem nice boots fur der feets but do I git boots? No! Al I gits is complants.

So den Erin gits al jellus of how gud I em at dancin on my toz n saz I cant go to no ballereena camp wit her – problee da Geezer told her to say dat to caz he duzn wan to hav to bi ballereena boots fur me. But yuoz liv neer da ballereena camp don yu so mabee I coud sta wit yu n we cuod boat go? Or maybee we coud join a brav sled dog teem n git nic itleen boots (I heerd dat on TV bout itleen boots bein fancee). We cuod be ballereena sled dogs n den we wuod be famos n dey woud giv us al da peech pie n bacin we wants.

Anoter tink dat is gittin me. Ok so I had sor feets fur a bit cuz da geezer woodnt git me anee gud ballereena sled dog boots. So we skippd ar walks fur a few daz n yu shud smel wat happin to al my gud tral markin. Der is sunbudee (da geezr saz a cioot or fox) dat has a sereeus bladdr prblem. It must spnds most of da day at da Clif Vew tavrn n da res walkin my trayls caus as fas as I lets da wrld no wat is mi turf dis carictur is dribblin on it. So yuoz gots to git up heer so da too of us cen let dis dofus no who is who aron heer. Da geezr has sum electrik fens stuf he got fur da deer n I tink maybee I puts sum of it out wer dis dood is messin wit me n we liits his bladdr up!


"A Letter From Eagle Harbor" by Fred Geis (12/05)

Fred, Eric, and Sven December 7, 2005
485 Second St.
Eagle Harbor Mi, 49950

So it’s time for an update - or at any rate I’m supposed to sit for awhile so this is a good time to catch up on correspondence and it’s not like talking to Sven is a way to past the time. I hope you all feel I do not gloat over the advantages I have as a senior citizen, I try not to go on about respect due to elders etc. so please take this in the spirit of “Grow old along with me - the best is yet to come... the last of ...” I want you to know how good it can be and highlite some of the wonders of the UP.

You probably know I have had a bad knee for 35 years, and have put off having it fixed until I was on Medicare as a way of getting a few of my tax dollars back. Well the time had come and I scheduled surgery for early winter so I did not have to worry about sweaty bandages, or flies biting me while I laid helpless in recovery. The date was set for this past Friday Dec, 2nd. I like it up here - Wednesday is Senior discount day at Louie’s and the food Co-op. Once a month Pamida has 10% senior discount on Thursday - Life is GOOD. But what I did not know, and never would have guessed, is that the local hospital has Senior Citizen two for one days on Fridays.

I went in for my knee surgery - did all the paper work and the 15 times of “Yes the right knee” etc. and went out, with a little help from the anesthesiologist, to awake with a small bandage on my knee with a large gauze wrapping - and a huge cast on my leg from my knee down to my toes. What is that thing asked my self of myself? The doctor, being busy with his next customer, was not there to respond immediately, but my daughter and one nurse went on about it being for the broken bone, right above my ankle. This of course, seemed puzzling to me but I was still under the effects of the drugs and trauma, so not in a position to bring my full intellect to bear on the problem.

But as I recovered, and the doctor did come in to talk to me, it began to be clear that these people, during the time period I was in La-La land, decided that since it was Senior Citizen two for one day - They would interpret the large bruises on my ankle, (that I thought I had cleverly covered up and not mentioned to them), as symptoms that something was wrong. Had they only asked me, prior to putting me out, I would have explained to them that I slipped on the ice a week ago while shoveling and sprained my ankle. But no, I was not to be consulted, after all it was Senior Citizen two for one day - and so far they only had one knee to work on, so they brought in an X-ray machine and proceeded to use the grainy B&W image it produced, to arrive at the conclusion that I had a clean break in one of the long bones right above my ankle, (we will assume the alleged break to be in the Fibula (if my memory of Grey’s Anatomy, and I guess mine, is correct)) and therefore they were justified in putting this large weight on my leg, that they say has to be on for six weeks, when I was originally told my knee would be quite functional (if not maybe ready for Tangos) in a week.

Now I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth - I have boarded horses and am quite aware of what their breath and mouths are like and am not curious to look at any more - but still Senior Citizen two for one day - or not - this did seem to be excessive. Yes it is nice for society to care for us seniors and want to lavish benefits on us, but really I would have been quite happy with just a Smiley Face bandage on some part of my arm, or maybe having a oral hygienist come in and clean my teeth while I was out.

Oh well, I shall try to be gracious about this - thank you one and all for your contributions to Social Security and Medicare - really it is/was too much - lets take it down a notch or two if there is a next time.

Love Fred
Write if you find work

"Rich's Two Headed Deer Kill" by Anne Boggio
(Click picture to enlarge.)

George, your digital camera missed a good shot on Thanksgiving Day. Richard shot a two-headed deer at the stamp sands!!

He rode up that way on a 4-wheeler about 2:00 in the afternoon, and was over by the lake, when he saw a strange configuration of antlers protruding just a little above the grass. So he got off the 4-wheeler, loaded his gun, and started walking toward this confusing sight. Suddenly a deer jumped up in front of him, and dangling off the head of one deer was another deer!> Not exactly knowing what he was observing, Richard shot the deer, and then contemplated his problem.

It appears that two bucks had been dueling and, after the battle, were unable to unlock their locked horns. Previous to Richard's shot, one deer was dead, and one was alive.

Richard called home on the cell phone for Jim to come with the truck and HELP try to get these two deer separated. It's estimated that the "deadest" deer had been dead for one or two days. The bottom half of the deer was shredded and mangled, and there were drag marks and other sign around where the living deer had apparently been shaking the attached dead deer like a rag doll, trying to get their horns unlocked.

Jim and Richard tried for ten minutes to separate the two deer, and couldn't. So it seemed the only solution was to sever the body of the mangled deer from its head, thus leaving Richard with a two-headed deer!! The newly shot deer had 10 points, and the old, dead deer had 8 points. So does that mean Richard shot an 18 point deer?

Needless to say, things being quiet as they are in Eagle Harbor this time of the year, this event created a flurry of on-lookers and photographers. We have numerous snapshots (none developed) and some footage on home video. Richard took the deer back to Marquette yesterday (Sat.) to be butchered, and they have contacted a taxidermist who will preserve both heads "as is".

Sorry you missed the excitement. You would have chuckled at some of the comments and reactions.
Richard's "two headed" deer heads are now proudly displayed at the Eagle Harbor Inn.

"Lost Lake" by Paul Freshwater (01/04)
(Click picture to enlarge. Thanks to Neil Harri for this Christmas Day photo. "Lost Lake" is the white area at bottom left. Its isolated and marshy shore is a favorite stop for Sandhill cranes as the migrate from the tundra to the Gulf.)

I feel an adventure coming on. The sustained adrenaline rush of the holiday season has at last subsided. Now filed under "pleasant memories" are the holiday parties; the horse-drawn ride in the snow courtesy of our good neighbors the Schuberts; the Christmas Eve baptism of Lucy Ione Westlake, the first baby born at home in Eagle Harbor in 22 years, where son Ross became a godparent (close enough); a delightful Christmas week with Ross and his ice rink building tribe; dozens of heart-warming holiday cards and letters; the Buckeye’s second straight Fiesta Bowl triumph; and the putting away of our cheery Christmas tree, outdoor lights and decorations. How drab it now seems to sit idly watching the Green Bay Packers, cheesehead knights of the Northern Empire, flailing away at former Coach Mike Holmgren and his Seattle Seahawks in a NFL wildcard game ceded to the Pack by the rival Minnesota Vikings (can real men wear purple?) who self destructed in the last two minutes of their season finale to lose the division lead they held for 16 weeks.

An idea slowly takes shape in my tattered brain. Somewhere in the cedar swamp behind the new home we’re building down the road is a lost lake. Not a large lake ? perhaps a quarter mile from end to end ? but big enough to sport a fallen duck blind at one end. I had stumbled upon it two or three summers ago when exploring the dense and often swampy forest behind our current cottage. I had not returned because all approaches to the lake seem barricaded by mazes of wet bog and decades of dense windfalls. But yesterday good neighbor Neil Harri presented me with a handful of aerial photos of the harbor and our new home which he took on a Christmas Day flight. And from the air, not more than a hundred yards behind our new back yard, was revealed the large patch of glistening white, unbroken by cedar or tamarack, the lost lake of seasons past. Surely the swamp around it must be frozen solid by this week’s cold snap and a foot of snow cover. If indeed the lake is so close, might I blaze a trail to visit it regularly? Might I put a small boat there, far from the killer storms of Lake Superior? Might I sit on its shore to watch wild creatures ply their evening rounds? Might it contain a willing fish?

The short boreal day is fading fast as 4 PM passes. The Packers test my patience by allowing the game to slide into overtime. I go to the closet and dig out my deep-winter boots, then to the bedroom to find my long johns and turtleneck. I am fully dressed for a 15-degree evening when the Packers finally pick off a Seahawk pass to send Green Bay on to Philadelphia and Bret Favre’s fur-wrapped admirers into spasms of ecstacy. I stand up and tell Bobbie that I will be taking a walk in the swamp south of town. She utters one of those wifely reactions which hint at both devotion and contempt. I remind her that our good neighbor and town webmaster, George Hite, who holds the world record for cardiac operations, frequently strikes out through the snow on solo adventures, most of which he survives without broken bones.

The new back yard is deserted, except for the workmen’s portable toilet and a couple of lumps suggesting construction debris under the blanket of snow. The three-story structure which next year will become our home looks silently out to sea as I turn my attention to the swamp behind it. But where to attack this Gordian knot of tangled trees and brush? I choose a corner which looks the highest and push forward, sinking nearly to boot tops with each step and finding the ground not nearly as frozen as I had expected. I climb over the first fallen log. Beyond it another. And another. Soon I feel boxed in with the way back as daunting as the way ahead. A rabbit track passes underfoot, suggesting that at least one creature has found a way to negotiate this thicket. I press on over the next windfall. Then stand stupidly for a moment contemplating the next, ever glad that I had thought to bring along one of the sturdy Kentucky ironwood staffs carved in my previous life. Have I come even a hundred feet yet? Is there a hole in the trees ahead? Press on. And over. At last, a break in the tree canopy ahead. The lake is, indeed, directly behind my lot. But here the ground gives way to a lattice of fallen cedar logs laced with wet bog. My boot sinks past its top and I feel the first incursion of freezing water. Then the other boot as well. Oh, well, my quarry is in sight.

I force myself through the last barrier of small saplings to the marge of the snow-covered lake. Across its smooth surface the trails of small animals criss cross as a record of their wanderings. I take a step closer to gauge whether the east end of the lake might be more easily reached through the forest behind our cottage down the road. The ice gives way with a crack. I find myself several feet beyond the shore and now up to my wallet in frozen water. What a chilling sensation! The headline on George’s website flashes before my eyes: "Neighbor disappears in wake of Packer victory, grieving widow mourns with hot fudge sundae." I lean forward on my belly and slowly crawl toward vegetation as my wet legs hit frigid air. Again each boot finds a watery hole before I scramble onto the relative safety of a fallen log. Where are my footprints? I’m not going that way again! I climb over two or three more windfalls and fall flat on my face. Did my toe snag something or is my strength failing? "Spring thaw reveals neighbor as meal for roving coyotes." Two more falls and my numbing legs bring me within sight of the backs of cottages. In the dimming light, I stumble toward Neil’s, he of the aerial photos, and find that he has neatly plowed a mountain of snow to the back of his property which I must climb over. I do so on hands and knees, finding that the legs of my jeans now have the consistency of sheet metal.

I pick my way through the deserted back yards to the one behind my soon-to-be home, pausing at the neighbor’s tree line to admire the shapely metal roof and cedar walls from this unaccustomed vantage point. Cedar shakes don’t yet cover the Tyvek behind the garage because the family that makes them by hand in the Traprock Valley took a month off for hunting. Hunting season is a time-honored Yooper tradition, much like August vacations in Europe when no-one can find a grocer or doctor. I admire how our mechanical subcontractor has cleverly hidden the exhaust flues for three fireplaces, and I imagine how warm it would feel at this moment to be standing before a blazing one. A hot shower will have to do. These laces are frozen solid. I’m sorry about the puddle in the boot room. Yes, my dear, I know I’m an idiot.

"The Art of Rink Building" by Ross Freshwater (12/03)
(Click picture to enlarge. Old photo, but I never miss an opportunity to get Abby in the act.)

Happy Holidays. Arrived at the parents snowbound Lake Superior abode on Tuesday eve, to be awoken from my post-drive slumber on the living room couch by an incessant knocking on the back window. Raised my head toward the direction of the lake's crashing midnight waves to see my bud Rodney's nose pressed against the frosted glass. He recently bestowed upon me the title of Godfather, and as I fumbled for my gloves I mumbled "Hey man, don't we have a baptism in a few hours..." "Sure do, and for the remainder of the evening, we've got a hockey rink to build too. Where's your tuke? Rich and Jeff are out in the truck. Where you been? Ya @#%*!"

Welcome to Eagle Harbor; Population 50; Christmas time; 200. The store my great-great grandfather built still sits by the entrance to town, ghost still wandering benevolently around the attic. Just about every other Irish person around this place shares his name, among the other descendants of numerous Finns, Italians, Swedes, Germans, and the slew of other European stock that hit these shores to mine copper lodes worth more than even California’s gold.

So tonight's task; a hockey rink; an annual escapade; full of stupid human tricks, and a duty really. When your world is frozen for five solid months and the biggest building in town is the fire hall, the only communal respite from cabin fever is indeed a keen slab of ice, ten sticks, and a puck. Building the perfect rink, however, is not attained through a sloppy flood. Quite to the contrary, it is an art that requires patience, subtle craftsmanship, respect for the passage of time, a fire hose, at least four hearty men, a hearty truck, and above all, copious amounts of booze.

My compadres have already been busy at work for an hour. Now lacking in creative fluids, my punishment for not showing up exactly six minutes after greeting my parents, following my nine hour drive from Chicago, is to stock our crew with needed libations. This requires pulling up to the house of a forty-something from which us thirty-somethings have inherited this civic honor. While the particular forty-something saws logs upstairs and the teenage cause of their welcome rest watches late-night movies in the living room, it is the designated bar backs job to slip through the back door, past all defenses, to the liquor cabinet. At our first stop, Mikey Kukuk’s, I find a twelver of Negra Modelo just inside the back porch door. Will he ever learn? Perhaps it is an anonymous donation.

On to the fire hall, where behind, the industrial strength utility lamp perched on a portable goal post illuminates the sheen of the night’s first few layers. Off to the side, the fire hose spurts out a freeze foiling mist from its resting-place on a snow mound. “I’ll take this one boys,” as beers are cracked open and Rodney positions the hose between the knees of his snow pants, gaining the needed leverage to rocket eighty pounds of water pressure fifty feet into the air.

The physics of building a stellar rink is rather simple, yet highly delicate. The higher you shoot the water into the air and the better mist you achieve with it, the higher the probability the moon’s freezing rays will solidify that stuff just as it lands in an enamel blanket over the past minutes’ labors. Aim too low, and you’ll tear up your rink. Easy enough, but sometime just try angling eighty pounds of water in the right direction from an arc fifty feet up almost directly over you head. Pray for an agreeable wind, and wear Gore-Tex. While the hose helmsman is hard at work, also be prepared as assistants to engage in the busy task of snowball throwing, friend throwing, and the masterful art of North Woods BS.

As Rodney finishes up his rotation, Rich’s expert eye determines it’s a thick one. This will need a good half-hour to dry. What other service opportunities could pass the time? The four of us pile into Rich’s truck. His massive plow is the answer to the town’s other greatest need. With 250 inches of annual snow, there are few Yooper souls who don’t appreciate a courtesy plow-by; even if it is two o’clock in the morn. Watching Rich blaze that shovel within a graceful inch of every tree, box, and house in our path is every bit as fun as any other activity four guys might watch lined up on a bench akin to a living room couch. Just don’t let Jeff, the Florida bartender, near the remote.

On to the next dousing; another thick one; another half-hour to kill time. Back to the truck for a meander around town. While the forty-somethings saw logs, we spy a few fifty somethings watching a late night movie, perhaps powered by the fact that their own offspring have shipped off to college. We conveniently position the cab by their living room window, launch into a Silent Night rendition appropriate for the hour, and pull away to appreciative smirks. But not before steeling away their twenty-one year old son for his apprenticeship training.

Next dousing complete, we find we’re out of booze. Onto Phil’s house for another round of plunder. This time, the teenage sons are watching their movie by the only available door. In this situation there is but one option; a flagrant attack. Door swinging, we burst in bellowing “we’re here for your whiskey!” as I make a b-line for the kitchen cabinet. It’s dark. Two gallon bottles stand out among the lot. I swipe one and make for the door. As we tear off in a rooster tail of snow, Phil’s 6’4” frame comes lumbering down the stairs. “What the heck’s goin on down here?” “They pillaged the liquor cabinet dad.” A passive shrug as dad meanders his way back up the stairs.

I look down at my bounty as we cruise along in our bouncing rig. I grabbed the brandy. Good Grief. Two days later Phil will inform me that my punishment is to finish the bottle. Another dousing and another half-hour to kill. “Tomorrow is Lucy’s baptism guys, and I can’t settle for just water from the harbor, I need it from the big lake.” On to the marina, where the lava rock beach of exposed Superior sits just a hundred yards through the bush. “It sure would be nice to reach that lake tomorrow without snow in my boots.” Rodney’s wish is greeted with an acknowledging drop of the plow and an eight cylinder push through a powder white tunnel to the waves beyond.

The final dousing is in my hands. It is indeed a subtle art to send a geyser of water fifty-feet high yet inches just beyond your nose. I’ve never been much of an artist. Factor in the steady north wind and by application’s end I’m an icicle colony. It’s 5:00 AM. Shift’s done. Home to a hot shower that drains the water heater and a base-board heated bed. There’s something about a night’s sleep under your parent’s roof. It rests in a soundness like no other. So sound that when I lift my head to gaze at my watch, it’s two o’clock. For a teacher that normally rises at 5:30 this is an impressive feat. And gives me just enough time to eat my breakfast before I stand in church.

Aggrieved Party Responds "I need to make comment on the obstreperous remarks of Fresh Rosswater made in his unfactual report of the ice rink. First, I appreciate the compliment – forty something my butt – fiftysomething is the truth. And, as far as sneaking around “borrowing” my negra modelo – a couple of miscommunications must be addressed. Gail (the woman who suffers my antics) was trying to surprise me with a cold 12 box of mi mas Buena cerveza – Negra Modelo. So, as the owners of the Eagle Harbor Store have been extremely flexible, she called Dick to order the beer, to be delivered upon our arrival. However, when Mikie (Kuk Junior) and I stopped by the Delaware Cutoff Road to extract young Boggio and his snowsled from the ditch, Dick was already there assisting but claimed no knowledge of any beer order. He graciously volunteered to get the beer ASAP and I thanked him. I mentioned this to Ginny and Doug Schubert the next morning and she commented that Rich Probst had gotten an odd telephone call from Gail ordering beer “just like she had done last summer”. (note – everyone in Eagle Harbor knows everything – youngbloods be aware that you will never get away with anything). Rich, being the great guy that he is, of course had the order on hand. Dick, also being the nice guy that he is, also got the beer for me. Sooo, I ended up con muchas Negra Modelo. And, the ice rats minus Fresh Rosswater had previously been to my house celebrating the 20th birthday of Mel AND had already raided the Kuk booze cellar, drank Negra, AND had an invitation to help themselves later. So, if Ross thinks he pulled a fast one on the ol’ Kuk, forgetaboutit. I was (and will always be) willing to contribute to the opportunities for harbor festivities." Mike Kukuk

Superior New Year by Ross Freshwater (01/02/03)

Lake Superior was the darkest I've ever seen her waters yesterday. A greasy black, her rolling swells so heavy with slush, they could not release themselves as they usually do in their frothy white fashion along her shores. Just dark and slowly rolling. Swelling in her containment. Angry. There was a ship out there. An old freighter of the same class as the Edmund Fitzgerald. A black ghost, with inky smoke crawling out of her stack. This is the most gloom I've ever seen in her.

I waited for an eruption, but none came. As the cloak of night set in, she settled, awaking the next day to her deep winter blue once again. Had I witnessed for the first time a passive-aggressive bout?

As morning wore on, the small circular blooms of ice began to form and merge as they always do on calm days. Like a small slow moving pack they congregate, then seem to breed their way in a blanket across the harbor - usually across about half of its surface, depending on the wind. On a really cold day, the whole thing. It was shaping up to be a really cold day. Seeming to sense this, the town otter was busy getting what fishing done that he could before the blanket hardened. Perpetually at play, he was a dose more serious than most days.

Toward eve, two bald eagles came gliding down Eliza Creek to the beach. Eliza is a skinny rock strewn winding crease through the forest, draining the swamp that sits a mile behind town. These two were hunting together, and as the forest gave way to town and beach they raised up their six- foot spans and came to perch on the frozen beach sand.

The otter was diligently engaged in his underwater world. I wondered if the eagles could see him through the hardened slush. Or hear him maybe. Or smell him. They seemed to know he was there. He was big. They were immense. He broke the surface, looking for a fast breath, realizing probably that any chance of finishing his tasks was fast being sealed up by the ice.

The hunting duo caught eye of him immediately. He also caught site of their fast swiveling heads and quickly slipped under the ice - a thick float of the stuff, with only one real opening that I could see. The eagles saw this too, their necks cocking their yellow eyes into dart-like focus in lightning movements that seemed more like those of a caffeined up robot compared to the slippery smooth movements of their expectant prey below. One flapped its way out onto the ice flow, while the other stayed perched by the stream's mouth, no doubt the source holding this doorway open in the ice.

Jane Boggio, a Scandinavian beauty turned pseudo Southern Bell (via her Birmingham society grandfather in law), was standing on the road above the beach. She was raised here. A sweet woman, made somewhat lonely, I think, by the Yankee spirit this lake no doubt has refused to release from her. She watched the scene unfold for a minute in morbid curiosity. It's amazing how the awe of nature here never ceases to inspire. I've never grown bored with it.

The otter was no doubt plotting what the heck he was gonna do when he burst through that hole. Had he had time to scout his options? I thought about how pressured lungs hurdle time to move faster. Would he be pushed to hallucinate a remedy to this fiasco? Were his improv abilities snappier than the skills of the two perched in the lighter medium above?

He burst up through that hole. White heads flicked around and were angling to move. Wings raised, chests hurling forward, they suddenly stuttered in stride. Their white heads swung backward around. The otter shot from the water over the ice, as his aquatic tale passed its action to his sharp clawed feet. Like a brown lightning bolt, he crashed body and soul into a large stand of bushes up the beach. They were dense and plenty twiggy enough to keep those two away.

I looked behind the eagles to see what had broken their stride. There was Jane, one foot forward from before. An unconscious honed look of forward movement in her eye. She had barely budged from her place on the road, but they saw her, through the eyes in the back of their head. She'd given Mr. Otter that one-second window to his second chance.

All four of them were pretty magnificent at that moment. The hunters then brandished on their face that frustrated look that they'd been uneccesarily foiled. But come on guys - an otter's a cool animal - one of the more fun-loving species I've ever watched. I think you'd find their love of revelry contagious. Keep yourselves happy with the fish.

An Ode On Gitche Gumee by Tami Thompson (11/02)

"I am from Mississippi but I have family in the Soo. I have never lived there but have been drawn to the UP strongly ever since I visited my grandma on the Gitche Gumee as a child. I can't even explain WHY I love it there so much exept that perhaps I spent a past life on the Big Lake's shores.

I wrote a poem about the beauty of the Lake about 10 years ago. I have never shared it with anyone, but I think your readers might enjoy it."

Wow, Tami! Your ode to our favorite big water is sure to touch the souls of all whose life rhythm has forever been altered by it's presence, no matter how briefly, in their lives. Thanks. (Tami's email is taminator_88@yahoo.com

Lake Superior. The name says it all. It's superiority is obvious. In it's dark swarthy waters swirls the history of millions of years. The grandest of the greatest of lakes, it has a Jekyll/Hyde personality with virtually no attention span. One moment, it's waves lap gently against the shore hypnotizing the audience. The next, violent teeth gnash together gorging themselves on the sand. The lake's breath can be gently pulsating, caressing; then harsh, whipping and lashing the shore's occupants.

The lake is a universe unto itself, a virtual black hole on the face of the Earth. It controls it's weather, it's schizophrenia, it's helpless creatures. As soon as you encounter Superior, you are drawn into it's atmosphere and the outside world is no more. It baits you, and beckons you to it's depths. The water is dark, inviting you to lose yourself in it. You're pulled and lured and have no control once it inhabits your body and you're possessed by it's spirit.

It intimidates you immediately upon encounterment, yet strangely enough frees you. As you gaze upon it's immense body you feel it's nocuous glare in the abyss of your soul, wearing your resistance down, refucing you to nil. Just when you lose all hope and accept your destiny as it's prisoner, the wind embraces you and your mind is raised to a new level of consciousness. You accept the existence of an immeasurable God and His infinite creativeness. The artwork of His own personal gallery is suddenly displayed before you and you marvel at his ingeniousness, dumbfounded that One so great truly exists. You soul is set free from the restraints of the human-bound world and launched into the unknown universe of chaos. You realize you may never know the complexity of savoring two completely disparate emotions as hopelessness and exultation at the once again.

Superior's truculent beauty ravages the senses and breathes new life into the soul. The engulfing variety of emotions that pelt your being force you to realize that life is not all that it seems and inanimate objects may take on a life of their own. Superior is it's own entity. It captures you and no matter how you try, you will relinquish your essence and always be a part of it's soul.

Wolves and Coyotes by Doug Sherk & Jim Wachowski (3/01)

"George - After our conversation this AM I went home and found this picture that Nancy took yesterday of a pair of coyotes that came by our place on the ice. These two aren't too far out and of course in real life they look much bigger than the photo shows. I believe it is the female that is in the lead and she was limping. I saw another one on the ice just West of Olson's on my way up to your place this AM. After I came home we went into Calumet and just before Jacob's Creek we spotted a pair of coyotes out on the ice going West. I believe it was the same pair as the female was limping and when the male saw us he spurted ahead of her and she just couldn't keep up and finally sat down to rest and he stopped and waited for her. Just a few minutes ago I saw a lone coyote quite far out on the ice going East. By now the ice has humped up and is quite a difficult terrain and he was having quite a time going up and down and over and around, but was in no hurry. We have seen coyote out here on the ice several times a bit later in March over the past 10 years, usually alone. I believe someone once told me this is part of their mating cycle. It could also be that they are searching for food. They move steadily along but are never in a hurry. I would be interested in knowing what you find out about this behavior." (Doug Sherk, 3/2)

"George - I wanted to let you know that Barb, Tom and I spotted a wolf on Monday morning. We were about 1.5 miles east of the Jampot, on M-26 when we spotted the the wolf out on the pack ice. He stopped to look back at us when we stopped the car. He was typically marked and looked very healthy (actually, quite a large one). After passing a nonchalant glance our way, he proceeded north, farther out onto the ice.
We were quite concerned that the wolf might fall through the shifting ice, but with little help to offer, we went on our way, hoping for the best. I conjectured if the deer yard down the road a bit had drawn the wolf to the area. In our 33 years, this is only our 2nd sighting of a wolf, and there I was without the binoculars. The previous sighting was on the Brockway Mountain drive in 1986.
We have always seen more wildlife along M-26, which is why we usually take that road when going up town. Just another great Keweenaw moment to share. We saw the "harbor" Eagle (also) earlier on Thursday, flying over it's namesake." (Jim Wachowski, 2/28")

Does anyone know why in late winter the coyotes and wolves wander about on the near shore ice pack? Are they hunting, mating, or just out for a stroll?

"It was a very common sight to see coyotes travelling on the ice in front of Grand Marais before the mange epidemic. Dad thought they had a den to the east of us and use to throw scraps out for them Although I never gave it any thought, I would think the traveling on ice would be much easier than in the woods in deep snow." (Julie Goodell Asselin, 3/3)

"George, I took these wolf pics (click to enlarge) a couple of weeks ago during our pack size survey. You can see the animals are all around huskier looking.. The legs and feet are thicker. These are in other counties near us. Our biologist said he believes the coyotes on ice are there for finding mates and easier travel in winter. Down by Baraga they scavange fish entrails from ice fishermen. I saw an eagle walking around out on ice pack today for about 30 minutes before it flew.. Perhaps there are small critters lost out there and easy to prey on." (Neil Harri, 3/11)

State Police Radio Tower Plans by Tom Scanlan. (2/01)

"Thanks to a heads-up from Jim Boggio, who supplied maps and drawings, I spoke to the cops in Lansing and Negaunee regarding the new tower planned for the Township. It will be built when the snow cover leaves, along with the load limits. It will be 475 feet high, and will be approximately 600 feet east of the Cutoff Road, at a point approximately three-quarters of the distance northward from the intersection of Cutoff and US41, towards the intersection of Cutoff and Garden City Road. It will be SOUTH of the existing Cellular tower. It will have strobe lights on it by day, but only red lights at night. The cops were very nice about it... the tower (and overall State Police communication system) will benefit Sheriff Ron Lahti and his crew quite a bit...they'll be able to use it for communicating with their deputies in Keweenaw County, and not have to replace their aging 25 year old County Owned system."

"Wild Berry Picking " by Elaine Wildman. (10/00)

Picking thimbleberries is a combination of pleasure in the woods and the physical challenge the bright woodland fruit. No one could PAY ME ENOUGH to do this by the clock, but since timing is a matter of personal choice, I never mind getting hot and tired going for more of the bright woodland fruit. The big bright red berries look like Christmas decorations sticking up from the large, velvety, maple shaped leaves. Chickadees and other birds chirp in the maple, pine, and aspen trees. Yellow St. John's wart, purple foxglove, white Queen Anne's lace, daisies, and other wildflowers decorate the scene.

And I enjoy the physical activity of the picking - pulling on a small tree to get up a steep bank, climbing over an old, mossy log, stepping around the branches or over stones, balancing across a small stream on rocks, stretching through the patch of chest-high goldenrod to reach another group of berries. With sturdy shoes, jeans, long sleeved berry-picking shirt and a good protective dose of Keweenaw cologne (insect repellant), I plow through shoulder high ferns and pull young oak trees back. There's delight, too, in rolling the berries gently down into my hand so as to crush them as little as possible, lifting the upper leaves to see if there are any hidden beneath and pleased to find them. Occasionally there is a flattened out spot where a deer has slept and a mashed trail to a stream. As I clamber, climb, and stretch, I think of how good it feels to be active and appreciate that I have the strength and the agility to do it.

Raspberries present a different challenge. With all the berries hanging down from the drying canes, they are more hidden. But they, too, look like Christmas lights - the tiny ones - as I lift up the scratchy stalk to find them. Again, it's important to pick with the hand underneath as berries are rolled off with fingers, particularly since a neighboring one might shake loose and drop to the ground. Sometimes there's a spider web to admire and dodge around - or reluctantly break if that's the only way to reach the next bush. With pretty, purple thistles to push aside, I appreciate the long sleeves of the 25c garage sale shirt which is soon stained with berry juice.

Ooops! Watch out for the loose stone! Good thing the berry pail isn't very full as they spill down the bank. Can't pick 'em twice.

Then I take the car 8 miles on a rocky, sandy logging road to the blueberries. There are some good thimbleberry patches in the first couple miles (and deer tracks), and then it's a pleasant slow drive on the light-brown surface with tall trees arching overhead as I listen to classical music on PBS. Crows soar ahead, a fawn ducks into the woods, and once a coyote ran ahead a hundred feet before dashing into the bush. Coming out on the paved road that borders the southern edge of the peninsula, I enjoy views of bright, blue Lake Superior. Across the bay, the Huron Mountains show in the distance. A roadside park brings back memories of pasty picnics and some chilly swimming, and in a few miles there are patches of blueberries on both sides of the road.

It's less physically demanding to pick the blues. They're low to the ground, so I kneel to get them and stay down, moving from bush to bush. When they're thick, I pick by the seat of my pants, sitting down to reach forward and to each side, rolling the tiny light blue balls into my hand and then into the container hanging from my belt. On the stem they're a light blue color which matches the sky, and then they darken shortly after picking. A fruitful stem has several light blues as well as some whites, greens, and pinks in progress. With the tiny green leaves and small berries, the patch has its own special beauty. Bright red clusters of wintergreen berries and some bright blue beads are special decorations here. Brushing aside the low ferns and the grass which tickles my face, I enjoy the breeze whispering in the pines and the splashing of waves on the nearby shore.

Later I sit on the sand with my back leaning on a driftwood log for my picnic lunch. Then I slip off my shoes and go wading on the sandstone that forms this part of the coastline, regretting that I left the swimsuit at home. The sandstone is a mixture of red and sand colors in varied patterns showing like a painter's gallery through the crystal clear water.

So picking berries is an active meditation with nature, satisfying body and soul. . It's always hard to leave a patch when more red or blue decorations beckon.

And, of course, there's the wonderful bonus of the blueberry pie and pancakes, blueberries & raspberries on the morning cereal, and the jars of jam that last all winter.

"Buckeye Boys" Reunite
by George Hite.(9/00)

Ah yes, ladies. These onetime Harbor tennybopper heart throbs were back in town. Twenty-seven of them, some with spouses.

For the uninitiated, the Buckeye Boys were a mainstay of Harbor life in the 1940s, 50s and 60s. Over 100 teenage boys from Roger Bacon High School in Cincinnati were brought to the Keweenaw in those summers by Joe Hellner, a Laurium native working in that Ohio city for Proctor & Gamble. For several years they camped in the remains of an old miner boarding house at Delaware. The beach, and the bevy of adoring teen beauties at nearby Eagle Harbor were just too tempting. For additional insight into this bright memory in the hearts of many Harbor ladies, go to Who Were The Buckeyes/ on the Harbor Q&A page. (Scroll down to the question.)

Pete Speed, who like many of the Buckeyes returns often to Eagle Harbor, reported the August 8th through 11th reunion. Dan Young, who sent us the adjacent photo, said the gathering included "activities" (one can imagine what that means) in Bete Gries, Copper Harbor, and, of course, Eagle Harbor. I suspect there was a visit to the old Delaware campsite as well. Dan reports that the most seasoned of the returnees was Jim Nunlist, who made his first trip up here in 1936. Dan noted that the Buckeyes camped at Delaware until 1962. They then moved to "a modern camp" at Lac La Belle's South Point (the boys all hoped that meant indoor plumbing and water, but alas, only a roof that didn't leak.) .

The Buckeye Boys certainly added some spark to the Eagle Harbor scene for many years. It's good to have them back.

Buckeye Boys
Click photo to enlarge.

Pictured above: (bottom row) Dan Young; (first row)Chickie Meyer, Sylvia, Pamela Young, Marilyn Dineen, Rae Schluchter; (second row)Ileen Walters, Freida Herrmann, Diane Sabelhaus, Chuch Herrmann, Mike Kelsey, Bucky Walters, Ruth Junker; (third row) Fr. Ed Lammert, Ron Sabelhaus, Dick Klus, Bob Richards, Dan Schlachter, Pete Speed, Bell Klus; (fourth row) Rick Abel, Fr. Noel William, Burt Meyer, Rick Doerger, Ken Young, Jim Klus, Jerry Doerger, Mairie Lammert, Jim Nunlist, Bob Dineen; (fifth row) Ed Junker, Jim Brigger, Tom Lammert, Bill Lammert, Tom Burke; (not pictured) Don & Rose Kleingeers, Jim Lammert.

Eagle Harbor Life-Saving Station Gets Facelift
by George Hite.(9/00)(Click pictures to enlarge.)

Yes, after many years of neglect, the beautiful boat house at the Marina is getting fixed up. Thanks to a crew of young men and women from the Alberta station of the AmeriCorps' Michigan Civilian Conservation Corps, the Michigan DNR, and the good folks at Fort Wilkens State Park, the exterior of the almost 90 year old Harbor landmark is being scraped, primed and painted.

The building was the principal structure of the Eagle Harbor Life-Saving Station. Constructed between 1910 and 1912 by the U.S. Life-Saving Service, the boat house remained in service until shortly after World War II. Now used by the MI DNR for storage, it is the lone on-site survivor of the several structures that housed the men and boats of one of the Great Lakes' most renowned life saving stations. (Several of the other structures were moved across the bay when the station closed, including the two keeper's houses at the lighthouse. Charlotte Barber provided this old post card photo of the original station. Click to enlarge.)

Because of the important role the Eagle Harbor Life-Saving Station played in the development of shipping and recreational boating in the Superior waters around Keweenaw, the Keweenaw County Historical Society plans to obtain the boat house when the DNR finds other storage facilities (in the works), and establish a Life-Saving Station museum within the building. The Society's 36' Coast Guard motor life boat, now parked out front, will be fully restored and placed inside on the still existing launch railway. Several Keweenaw and Harbor families have ancestors who served at this station.

In watching this crew of young Michigan men and women take on this assignment, it's obvious that they appreciate the history and beauty of this Harbor landmark. They are doing a terrific job. Housed at Ft. Wilkens during the week, they return to the Michigan Civilian Conservation Corps camp in Alberta on weekends. (Yes, our Harbor crew is from the same group that has done such a splendid job in restoring that famous old "Ford" town.) Like most AmeriCorps crew members, they sign up for six to twelve months service. They receive modest pay. The big incentive is the college scholarship they are awarded after meeting service thresholds. After 900 hours of service they earn a $2,300 scholarship, and after 1700 hours the award is a $4,300 scholarship.

In chatting with these young people, I also sense their attraction to the "service" aspect of their work. They all could probably be flipping hamburgers or stuffing grocery bags, but have instead opted for someone more useful to society - something offering them the joy of accomplishment. A public hiking trail cleared, a park shelter constructed, an historic site or building restored - all tangible and useful evidence of their labor and dedication. A couple of them mentioned career hopes with the DNR or other public service. This is a good program. We are fortunate to have them among us.

Pictured from left-to-right (click to enlarge), are crew leader Jason Larson from Marquette; Steve Kinnunen, Baraga; Jessica Dove, Lanse; Dave Bryant, Grand Ledge; and Christine Nancarrow, Roseville.

If you are in the area, stop by the marina and tell them how much you appreciate their service. They will probably be scraping, priming and painting until early October.

"Scooping the shore lined cargo of wreck, Ralph Budd " by Ted Harvey.

I just got around to flick thru the 'Old Pics' and when if read the words from the Cat Harbor folks about the grounding of the Steamer Ralph Bud, flashes of memories jumped back up from the fog of time.

That was the highlight of the winter of '29 in our family. There were no roads to Cat Harbor then, but I was 9 and brother was 10 and abuzz with the talk around the Sacred Heart of Laurium about who got what from the wreck....we bugged and pestered our parents to get some of the goodies. Remember,this was May and still winter and it was the huge squall that beached the Bud.

I remember my dad, Wilmer Harvey, coming home with the back seat of the Chrysler full of butter and bacon slabs wrapped in a blanket. He had just landed at Eagle Harbor after he and Paul Pawler and gang went out in the MARION, Pawlers cruiser, to the site and in a rowboat went on the beach and scooped up the butter and bacon rolling in and out in the surf, so my dad said. Not many had a boat access in May as the winter was still running on. Many people came in to the shoreline by foot and filled their backpacks.

The butter and bacon when I got my hands on it, Dad must have brought back 20lbs of each, was wrapped in very liteweight wax paper and it just was as hard as a brick from being in that cold water. We shared much of it with our relatives, the Eddys, Thouins, Mihelich families and it was 'manna from heaven' added to our larder. Mother could not afford to buy that much butter and bacon in a year.

I'm working on my 80th year and was happy to send and share this anecdote that came to mind telling how the wreck touched our family.

"Listen" by Martha Medlyn Pfeiffer


You can hear the voices of your ancestors, ancient and not so distant, as they speak to you in winds that run their fingers through the boughs of the pines.

They are telling you why they came, why you come, why you keep it in your soul.

It is a collective spirit that often gently caresses your heart, but sometimes squeezes hard, making you weep with sorrow, sadness, loss.

It is the strength of the spirit as forceful as waves that move rock and as bright as the full moon reflection on driven snow.

It is peace at summer dawn when the Lake becomes ripples against the soft sand, singing you awake slowly, carefully, so as not to startle your senses.

It is joy, laughter, and love, when the ghosts show your their colors of Fall and shout to you through your eyes that you must never leave.

A Tribute To Fritz Carlton

Our neighbor and friend Fritz Carlton died in 1998. A touching and beautiful poem tribute to Fritz composed by his children along with a picture of Fred conning Seven C's was printed in the Mining Gazette. The last stanza reads:

The last fish has not been caught
The last berry has not been picked
The last agate has not been found
The last butterfly has not flown
The last wildflower has not bloomed
Trips to Isle Royale and Salami Fest will continue on...
...And you will be along...

To read the full text click Superior Dad

The Potluck Archive. Check it out!

"Fire Threatened Harbor Homes"by George Hite 9/99
"1999 Harbor Tree Trimming" Photos by John Wakemann.
"The Harvey Boarding House" by Sue Adams and Ted Harvey.
"A Tribute To Georgte" by Fred Kellow.
"The Fishtug LaBelle" by Bob Carlton.
"Teenage Trip To Eagle Harbor Memories" by Ann Gasperich.
"A Winter Visit" by Mike Owen.
"Pig Roast" by Ann Gasperich.
"A Keweenaw Ski Day" by Liz Benson.
"Lighthouse Ghosts" by Garrett Valentino.
"Storm Day" by Sue Adams.
"Cabin Opening" by Liz (Boorman) Williams.
"Roy's Place" by Ann Gasperich. Chapters 1 - 5.
"Harbor Haiku" by Bill Baird.(July, 1997)
"Baseball To Bottling" by Sue Adams.
"Boomer memories From The Late Fifties and Early Sixties" by Sue Adams.
"Moon and Waves... Memories of Evenings On The Beach." by Daphne Holldorff.
"Lake Superior: Does Water In Equal Water Out?" by George Hite
"Harbor Moose Population Drops To 500!" by George Hite
"The Cornish Tofu." by Dick Van Pelt.
"The Lure of the Keweenaw." a poem by D.D. Kinsey.
"The Eagle Harbor Male Truck." by Sue Adams.
"The Ultimate Hike and Harbor Moonshine." by Sue Adams.
"The Keweenaw Kernewek Parallel Walk." by Jean Ellis
"Sneaking Through The Lilac Bushes -- A Childhood Adventure." by Ann Gasperich (Click)
"Mount Baldy Excursion" by Barbara (Boorman) Williams (Click)
"Bears On Bicycles" by Jim Curto (Click)
"Silver Island Surprise", by Carol (Johnson) Bogart. (Click)
"Bear Hug", by Vic Williams. (Click)
"George the Pig", by Barbara (Boorman) Williams. (Click)
"In Quest Of The Measuring Stick", by George Hite. (Click)
"Barrel Background", by Carol (Johnson) Bogart. (Click)
"A Winter Day At Eagle Harbor", by George Hite. (Click)

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