Remembering Dad (George Hite) with love on the second anniversary of his death. Enjoy this journal entry from a November day in 2006. 11/7/06 – A Walk in the Bush I needed a walk in the bush. Heck, we all probably did after experiencing the tumult and down right meanness of much of this seemingly endless mid-term election. Actually, my Copper Country neighbors and I escaped much of this – campaigns up here are pretty civil and neither of the big political parties paid much attention to us. We are apparently too few and too predicable to garner their attention. One of the many attractions of this place. My need for a few moments in the quiet and beauty of the bush was more driven by some building camp fever. Too much time pecking away on the computer, shuffling Historical Society paperwork, and readying the camp for the long winter. So when the big winds eased off, the temperature rose to the sweatshirt comfort zone, and a bright sun stimulated the dormant bright blues of the big lake and harbor waters and resurrected the soft browns of our abundant rock and sand and the still lush, albeit muted, reds and greens of the big forest, I donned my hiking boots for a trek in the bush. I was amply rewarded. I chose the harbor ski trail for this little adventure. It’s a bit of a challenge for this somewhat worn body, but by resisting the temptation of off trail excursions I was reasonably comfortable as I trod along the soft trail – mostly sandy loam laden with abundant pine needles. I carried a big stick, not for warding off any bears that might take a fancy to me, but for stability. I’m a bit tottery, a new facet of my life that keeps me off Peregrine’s foredeck as much as possible. Gosh it was quiet back there. Not a sound, not even the almost always-present murmur off the nearby big lake, its surface on this day apparently enjoying a rare day of rest between our big fall blows. I did detect a slight rustle of treetops as they were lightly stroked by a fading southwest whisper of wind, a sound more like one might sense from a far away and barely perceptible babbling brook. No croaks of ravens, craws of crows or hammering of woodpeckers interrupted my solitude. My boots trod softly and quietly through the soft sand and cushioning pine needles, with only an occasional trump of a boot as I stumbled over a protruding tree root. There is something almost surreal about an absence of sound in the bush, but on this day it was welcomed and comforting. No critters either, big or small. The squirrels and chipmunks have apparently finished their fall harvesting and have settled in for the winter, perhaps spooked by our mid-October blizzard. I’d hoped to encounter a playful otter or two near Long Lake, one of their favorite haunts, but alas they too have apparently moved to winter quarters, probably closer to the harbor where the fishing is better. I did encounter lots of deer track, some of it fresh, but with deer hunting season fast approaching, all but those with short memories have moved into the safety of the cedar swamps. The hunters are beginning to litter their deer stands with goodies so the unwary may be tempted to move out from their safe sanctuaries, but on this day no bucks, does or Bambies crossed my path – although I’ll bet a few viewed me suspiciously from nearby cover. One big set of clawed prints caught my attention, either a wolf or big cat, but without my tracking book I was at a loss to identify its owner, and, frankly. I didn’t feel inclined to stick around to see who might show up. But the visual senses were abundantly stroked. It was mid-afternoon by the time I got deep in the bush, the sun well on its way towards the southwestern horizon, casting its slanting, soft and golden tinged light across the landscape. Long irregular shadows of tree trunks stretched across the trail with open ground areas of sandy loam and pine needles now muted in the fading light and their surface dotted with the dancing shadows of pine tops and the few remaining hardwood leaves as they were teased by the light breeze. The clear sky above, displaying the deepening blue of late day, a glorious crown on this magical scene. I wished I’d remembered to bring my camera to share this with you, but no camera, at least one in my inept hands, can truly capture this beauty – it has to be experienced. I huffed my way to trail end, and then through our sleepy little town back to camp – body weary but with a much enriched and soothed soul. There is nothing better than a walk in the bush to remedy a bit of camp fever and counter the trials and tumult of these times. I should do it more often – perhaps you should too! A postscript. Id be remiss if I did not acknowledge the debt I owe, actually all of us owe, to those whose foresight and action have made it possible for me and for my children and my grandchildren and their children to forever enjoy a walk in these woods. Much of the trail I trekked is now in public ownership, set aside as a township recreation and wildlife preserve by the initiative of many of my Harbor neighbors, chief among them being our former township supervisors Jim Boggio and Doug Sherk and the men and women who served on our township board during this process. This precious gift to future generations of Harbor residents and visitors is something that those of our generation can be justly proud of.
Posted on: Fri, 01 Nov 2013 14:38:50 +0000
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