tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51353158876564807052024-02-06T21:44:38.048-08:00On the Road in MichiganI travel the rocky shores of Lake Superior and the streets of Detroit taking pictures and researching travel guides.
-- Jeff Counts Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-78180644666247143632017-08-13T06:29:00.000-07:002017-08-13T07:08:58.913-07:00Old School Cabins have at Home Appeal<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1KcdmQeEwTCiClaJZ6I40S694pFvGG4BwEZAtQlkIB5HoyNp55dBndmG13WjHEpwyBdVlPPpcRh4Nm333kt3h5s95iwT-8zXaGUmy7KgiaQrLevafQsrBM_kQxiCu_LCUmcn1b0pIqc/s1600/IMG_0948.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1KcdmQeEwTCiClaJZ6I40S694pFvGG4BwEZAtQlkIB5HoyNp55dBndmG13WjHEpwyBdVlPPpcRh4Nm333kt3h5s95iwT-8zXaGUmy7KgiaQrLevafQsrBM_kQxiCu_LCUmcn1b0pIqc/s640/IMG_0948.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bud's Cabins in Lovells has a homey feeling. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Recently, I stumbled on a website for some newly renovated tourist cabins near Mackinaw City, right on the beach with a view of the bridge. I hope to see more such revivals of old cabins, which for many years fell out of favor with travelers.<br />
While we've seen a revival of ''buy local'' that hasn't seemed to have spilled over into the world of lodging in Michigan. I wish it would. Cabins and small mom and pop motels are usually owned by a local family or business person who spends money to move the local economy forward. While writing my Michigan travel guide, Michigan: An Explorer's Guide, I was required to only list locally-owned establishments. It made me a devotee of them. They are listed in the book,<br />
Small cabins give you an Up North feel, especially if they have wood paneling. They also offer more privacy than a motel or hotel. That little extra space between them makes for better neighbors. They feel like a small, cozy home, where you can leave the beer cooler on the porch and hang your fishing waders or bathing suits up to dry. So much the better, if they have a small kitchen and kitchen ware. A home cooked meal is a joy on the, and a break from the constant dreariness of burgers and pizza.<br />
When I'm traveling through the state to update my Michigan: An Explorer's Guide book, I check out big hotels, small mom and pop motels, but when I settle down for the night, I try finding a tourist cabin.<br />
There use to be more of them in the 1960s and 70s when I started travel the state, but got a bad name and became untrendy for many years. My wife was one of those cabin haters. I'd pull up in front of a place and tell her: "Think about it." She didn't spend much time contemplating the subject. The answer was always the same. A simple "no."<br />
But not everyone was like my wife, so some cabins have survived. I've got many of them listed in my guide. The publisher wisely has a policy of not including chain hotels and motels. We all know what it's like inside a Super 8.<br />
Here's a list of favorite cabins around the state from the guide, in no particular order. Many resort-style cabins require you stay two days or even longer. Check their websites, which I've included, for more information.<br />
<br />
<b>Penrod's Cabins</b> in Grayling. Stretching along the Au Sable River, the brown log structures have knotty pine interiors and rustic, log furnishings, and have the feeling that were built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s. Some have kitchens and there are picnic tables and grills. A great place to stay after a day on the Au Sable River. They're close to downtown, and rental canoes are available. <a href="http://www.penrodscanoe.com/">www.penrodscanoe.com/</a><br />
<br />
<b> Pere Marquette Lodge in Baldwin</b>. There are five cabins and one house for rent along the Pere Marquette River. They have knotty pine interiors and some have kitchens. There are also grills. They are fairly old, but clean. A great place to crash after a day on the river either fishing for canoeing. They'd also be a fun place to just crash to get away from the world. <a href="http://www.pmlodge.com/lodge.html">www.pmlodge.com/lodge.html</a><br />
<br />
<b>Sunset Cabins in Grand Marais</b>, Upper Peninsula. These are quintessential U.P. cabins with beach access and a view of Lake Superior. They're tucked away in a secluded area, but call early, many are booked well in advance. sunsetcabinsmi.net/<br />
<br />
<b>Bud's Cabins in Lovells</b>. Located just north of Grayling on the north branch of the Au Sable, the three cabins are a throw back to the 1940s when deer hunters and anglers didn't want to do much more than keep the rain off their heads and get shower. There wasn't a TV set in the one I rented, but there's a lovely deck on the river to kick back on at the end of the day. They're closed in winter. <a href="http://www.lovellstownship.com/buds-cabins-motel.htmlhttp://">www.lovellstownship.com/buds-cabins-motel.htmlhttp://</a><br />
<br />
<br />Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-28937048446889723792017-08-11T06:03:00.000-07:002018-09-04T12:10:29.928-07:00Reconnecting with maps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_hhN710nzLHOsO9os34TcSpWU4YMOmmHDzMuGw1yhYH1yETf4rR1er0JAc4P4WEPxxj288SVwP0HwGmBEYKisvsgTfgHE-nQ8MYNmKFd5_SK6ZFZ9H7xDgmlKMJn_pOmU_CRu0DsddZM/s1600/IMG_2173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_hhN710nzLHOsO9os34TcSpWU4YMOmmHDzMuGw1yhYH1yETf4rR1er0JAc4P4WEPxxj288SVwP0HwGmBEYKisvsgTfgHE-nQ8MYNmKFd5_SK6ZFZ9H7xDgmlKMJn_pOmU_CRu0DsddZM/s640/IMG_2173.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<br />
<h3>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Old Friends</b></span></h3>
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<span data-offset-key="5he43-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I was driving east of Grayling when I looked at my fancy new IPhone and found there was no connection. The GPS was useless. Being an old guy, I carry a set of Michigan county maps, a regular state map and a selection of guide books. Print isn't dead. Any way I like the looks of old coffee and bourbon stained maps. They bring back good memories. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>--- Jeff Counts, author, Michigan: An Explorers Guide</b></span></div>
</div>
<br />Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-14777983321935280442017-08-10T12:45:00.002-07:002017-08-10T12:46:27.610-07:00Sylvania Lake Solitude<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE7LMe2LrJmj9yvfvvURMs60psv86Zhyj6LXZmYPbd4Wea0sk559YAi55ZtEpDRyI5e0D9wAif4sxrrXZzurHw5Dcr6dqCdxqV2Y70TyVyBSlJBeBIPEN1NMtCyg8Qdi-gvdOO6PbPNxA/s1600/Sylvania+Wilderness+-+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE7LMe2LrJmj9yvfvvURMs60psv86Zhyj6LXZmYPbd4Wea0sk559YAi55ZtEpDRyI5e0D9wAif4sxrrXZzurHw5Dcr6dqCdxqV2Y70TyVyBSlJBeBIPEN1NMtCyg8Qdi-gvdOO6PbPNxA/s640/Sylvania+Wilderness+-+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paddling in the Sylvania Wilderness Area can be family friendly, if you plan your trip well. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The term undiscovered is too often used when describing a travel destination. There are few places that fit that description, but the Sylvania Wilderness area near Watersmeet in the western Upper Peninsula comes close. Visitors will find people there, but there's enough lake paddling to spread out the crowds and give paddlers hours of solitude. It's Michigan's version of the famed Boundary Waters and it's less than a day's drive from the Twin Cities, Chicago and Detroit.<br />
The 18,327-acre area has 12 lakes and attracts families seeking a wilderness experience as well as seasoned paddlers looking for secluded lakes. You could travel for a month in the area and not see the same place twice.<br />
The chain of lakes is a perfect area for a canoe, which offers families stable boats for children and large carrying capacity for camping gear. Clark and Crooked lakes offer secluded campgrounds and easy access. Boat launches for those lakes are located at parking lots. Portages to a dozen other larger lakes can range from 0.25-0.5 mile and are not the type of trips you'd want to take small children on.<br />
<br />
For more information, go to:<br />
<a href="https://www.fs.usda.gov/main/ottawa/home">https://www.fs.usda.gov/main/ottawa/home</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.sylvaniaoutfitters.com/">http://www.sylvaniaoutfitters.com/</a>Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-72480357637701765422017-08-08T09:30:00.000-07:002017-08-08T09:30:19.025-07:00Testament of a Fisherman<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAYh362E0mk8qFuzr0WNu-QcnWDLXnGvdVscFZtIDqQlQlBVPzWxwspcuIzeTRrZxLdr60njjDKwHONFJ5XlRIrAK23slQKGHfTKimm_CE-tP_2OuSSW4xGuBZvn7rM5U6LqyXKz8dCY/s1600/Volker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="886" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAYh362E0mk8qFuzr0WNu-QcnWDLXnGvdVscFZtIDqQlQlBVPzWxwspcuIzeTRrZxLdr60njjDKwHONFJ5XlRIrAK23slQKGHfTKimm_CE-tP_2OuSSW4xGuBZvn7rM5U6LqyXKz8dCY/s640/Volker.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"> John D. Voelker, right, was a best selling author from the Upper Peninsula, penning "Anatomy of a Murder" and other fiction, along with essays on trout fishing. His "Testament of a Fisherman" is an often quoted passage. Voelker and his fishing companion, Louie Bonetti, left, paused for a photo in the early 1940s while fishing the Yellow Dog River near Ishpeming. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h2>
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
Testament of a Fisherman</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By John D. Voelker, A.K.A. Robert Traver 1903 -- 1991</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Editor's Note: This is something I read once a year. Voelker used the pen name Traver because in that era being a writer wasn't seen as a dignified trade. Voelker was an attorney in Ishpeming and later a Michigan Supreme Court judge. </span></i></span></h3>
<div>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> I fish because I love to; because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly; because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape; because, in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing things they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion; because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility and endless patience; because I suspect that men are going along this way for the last time, and I for one don't want to waste the trip; because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters; because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness; because bourbon out of an old tin cup always tastes better out there; because maybe one day I will catch a mermaid; and, finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant -- and not nearly so much fun. </span></span></div>
Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-91739309784846475252014-10-12T11:33:00.000-07:002014-10-12T11:33:08.658-07:00The Stump Man<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ7Ze8nUlVQv3WE_CGQuMdhGNSqfMzpEOnoPNJ3eYSrx9WVh7jhvekbvQcEzaGTt2kQ-bpUUv8_4NpNe5I051-FPbl93tWq1KV_leRquKfS6V5noz7JeNZi6FF4jYl_WZJsiDlPHC_2aE/s1600/Grand+Marais+-+012+009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ7Ze8nUlVQv3WE_CGQuMdhGNSqfMzpEOnoPNJ3eYSrx9WVh7jhvekbvQcEzaGTt2kQ-bpUUv8_4NpNe5I051-FPbl93tWq1KV_leRquKfS6V5noz7JeNZi6FF4jYl_WZJsiDlPHC_2aE/s1600/Grand+Marais+-+012+009.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A stump resists the force of the Fox River</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The people you meet in the back country of the Upper Peninsula are worth getting to
know because they have good stories, often ones that will help you learn about
the landscape. The central U.P. where
I’ve spent many days fishing and hunting is a flat, often brushy area. But it’s
the stumps that get my attention. There are vast areas of old pine stumps left
by lumberjacks from the 19<sup>th</sup> and early 20<sup>th</sup> century. </blockquote>
For
some reason, probably soil conditions, the forest didn’t return to those areas,
and the stumps are surrounded by grass lands. The stumps are partly charred
black by countless grass fires that have swept across the plains. I think of
them as tree cemeteries, each a tombstone bearing testimony to the birth and
death of a stately white pine.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of
the stumps are tall, some three to five feet, and when my sons were young
they’d ask me why they were. I use to
tell them, knowing it wasn’t the truth, that the lumberjacks use to be bigger
than people are now, like Paul Bunyan. The truth is that most the trees were
cut during the winter and that the tree cutters were standing on the snow pack.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During
the peak of the lumbering era in the 19<sup>th</sup> century the nearby town of
Seney where the mills and railroad were located was a town of about 3,000, but
that has dwindled to about 300 these days. It’s hard to imagine that the motley
collection of motels, gas stations and a few restaurants and bars that
stretched along M-28 was once a thriving community.</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br /></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The river system</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Fox
River snakes through the town, and eventually feeds into the Manistique River
system further downstream just north of Germfask. The Fox has two branches, the
east and west, and it offers good brook trout fishing for those willing to do
battle with the tag alder and mosquitoes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve
been fishing the west branch since the mid 1970s, and rarely encounter other
anglers, so I return at least once a year to a special spot on the river, and
informal camp ground on state land that’s marked by a white pine that escaped
the saw and axe. As an angling friend says, “I’ve got a lot of bad habits, but
I keep them up because they work.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My bad
habit is going back to the places where I caught fish, because I know they’re
there. The trouble is you don’t find new places. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During
one trip to the Fox, I decided to fish a new part of the river, upstream from
my usual haunt, a spot where two branches met. I figured there’d be a deep hole
at the spot. To get there, I had to drive upstream toward the Wagner Dam. I’d
driven there before, but never fished it. It’s an eerie place with hundreds of
burned pine stumps, and it had kept me at a distance for years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">But as I drove the two-track toward
the river, I found a certain beauty in the stumps. They were survivors and a
reminder of when the area abounded with white pine, the knotless kind favored
by 19</span><sup style="text-indent: 0.5in;">th</sup><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> century carpenters.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">They’d never dull your saw.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There
was no-one in sight on the warm summer day, and I had the place to myself. I
parked and rigged up for a day in the river.
I tried on a favorite fly for the Fox, a royal coachman. Long ago I’d
decided either rightly or wrongly that the red and black fly imitated the
leaches in the water. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<b>Where two rivers meet</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I waded in and headed downstream
toward the juncture where the two rivers met, fishing along the way.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Casting the fly so it floated under the tag
alders that cover the river in many places yielded a few brook trout, small
ones.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At one point a large white pine
blocked the river, and I sat on it for a while thinking about what would happen
if I dropped dead right here. I was alone.
The thought quickly passed because I’d had similar thoughts in the past,
and could even envision my carcass floating for a while and eventually getting
snagged on a log. It wasn’t a terrifying image.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The day was getting hotter when I
finally arrived at my destination, and I worried the heat would put the fish
down. I favor flies that can be fished either dry or wet, so I put some goop on
the royal coachman so it would sink and cast it into the hole. Several casts later I landed a fairly large
brook trout. I can’t say exactly how large because I no longer even carry a
net, and usually don’t take pictures, figuring that injures the trout’s
dignity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’ve read so many articles about
trout fishing, that I’m actually more confused now than I ever was, but I am
pretty certain that there are only one or two large predators in each hole, and
once you catch one, chances are you won’t get another.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I headed back towards my truck,
wading upstream against the current. Unlike many Lower Peninsula trout streams,
there are very few fishermen’s paths along the Fox, and it’s nearly impossible
to push through the brush. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Fox is like other rivers in
that it snakes around and creates bends just because it wants to, but there are
also straight runs, usually alder covered that are deep, and I often go in over
my waders. That happened that day, and
when I got to the Jeep, I pulled off my waders and drained the water from them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<b style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The stranger</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I stood in my wet socks and pants
on the sandy road, looking more like I belonged to the river than the world of
fly-fishing as presented in romantic ads or magazines. It was hot and I sat on one of the
stumps. It was then that I realized I wasn’t
alone; another truck was parked nearby.
It was one of those ageless pickups with an old camper cover on the back
that you see in most small U.P. towns. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I figured it was another angler. I
scanned the horizon in all directions and didn’t see a soul, and was a bit
miffed that this interloper had invaded my solitude. After a few minutes the pickups owner
arrived, and looked a bit surprised to see me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Backwoods encounters between two people
are usually a bit awkward, and this one no different. It was as thought we had
caught each other in some sort of illicit act. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
We nodded, and I looked at his
license plate that carried the name of a deal in Escanaba, one of the bigger
towns in the U.P., and figured he was a local. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He said hello, and it took me a
moment to respond. I often spend whole days and sometimes several days alone, not
speaking, and the sound of a human voice jerks me out of my inner world of
random, mostly useless thoughts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m looking for a stump,” he said.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I laughed and said: “Well you’ve
come to the right place, plenty of them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He didn’t find that amusing, and
went on to say that years ago he and his step father would often fish the
river, camp here and make a cooking fire in a certain stump.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“They’ve got the charcoal already –
you just need to get them lighted.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I filed the information away for
possible future use, and we kept talking. He was a welder from Escanaba and
hadn’t been here in nearly ten years. His step father had since died, and he
wanted to find that certain stump. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I wandered around with him, looking
at the stumps, some of which he rejected as being too low and others, too high.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’ve never been one to rain on
anybody’s parade, and the older I get, I’m even less likely to do so. Who was I
to point out the absurdity of finding a certain charred stump among
thousands? I’m a fly fisherman who never
brings home any fish. God knows what people think of me. I’m a backwoods
wanderer looking for my own version of the welder’s stump.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
After looking for a while, my
welder friend decided to try another bend in the river and he drove off on the
sandy two-track in his rusty truck. When
I think of him on occasion and hope to God he found it. </div>
<br />
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Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-26463135057130187012014-09-12T11:27:00.000-07:002014-09-12T11:27:11.184-07:00Try Manchester for a fall color drive <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Manchester</td></tr>
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Manchester is a quintessential small, southern Michigan town that offers fall color tours, an apple cider mill and an old fashioned Sunday drive to get away from the hustle and bustle of the Detroit/Ann Arbor urban core, and all without driving to northern Michigan.<br />
There are plenty of hardwoods, maple and oak that display their colors during the autumn season. The town offers restaurants and small shops.<br />
The drive is part of the fun. Manchester is about an hour west of metro Detroit and is on M 52 just south of I-94, so it's a quick trip, but if you want to take your time, take US 12 (Michigan Avenue), starting in Ypsilanti, which takes you through the countryside and through Saline, which is worth a stop, too. US 12 is the old road to Chicago, and runs through southern Michigan and is dotted with small towns. <br />
One option would be to drive a loop, taking US 12 west from Ypsilanti to M 52, see the town, and then head north on 52 to Chelsea and pick up I-94 for the ride home. Chelsea is another town worth a stop, and is home to the Common Grill, a full menu restaurant <a href="http://www.commongrill.com/">www.commongrill.com</a>.<br />
The River Raisin runs through the village of Manchester, which has about 2,000 resident. The river attracted the first settlers in the 1830s, who built water powered mills, sparking the growth of the town.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alber Orchard and Cider Mill </td></tr>
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In the fall, the big attraction is Alber Orchard<br />
and Cider Mill, 13011 Bethel Church Rd., 734-428-9310. Admission is free for some attraction. There's a corn maze, a you-pick pumpkin patch, and an animal area. There is a small charge for hay rides. The orchard is a bit difficult to find, its about 2.5 miles east off M 52. For a good map, go to their website, <a href="http://alberorchard.com/">alberorchard.com</a>.<br />
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There are several restaurants in Manchester that range from sandwich shops to pizza joints. If you're looking to do an old fashion Sunday drive, try stopping at Habb's Restaurant, 18 W. Michigan Ave., Ypsilanti, <a href="http://www.haabsrestaurant.com/">www.haabsrestaurant.com</a>. The menu of basic American food is refreshing in these days of gimmicks and ethnic foods. The price are moderate. The place traces its roots back to the 1870s, and the decor is a bit time worn, but has a class feel.<br />
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Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-91298040975158418112014-08-30T06:12:00.000-07:002014-08-30T07:31:12.394-07:00Try shooting black and white<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Shooting photos of activities is part of any outdoor experience and there are many dazzling scenes to be captured in Michigan. The image, above, was taken on the Au Sable River with an iPhone, but instead of snapping it in color, the photographer P.A. Rech used the black and white mode, which gives it a haunting, timeless feeling. It was taken late in the afternoon when there were long shadows and good contrast. On the Labor Day weekend, plenty of folks will be out and about with their phone cameras. Try taking a few pictures in black and white to send out some different images to your friends. They stand out in a world of color. Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-54044595883311339582014-08-21T06:56:00.000-07:002014-08-23T13:18:27.195-07:00Detroit's Greektown is losing its ethnic feel <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monroe Street was the center of a thriving Greek community.</td></tr>
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The waiters in Greektown don't put their fingers in the water glasses any more when carrying them to the tables, they're not insulting, and most don't appear to be Greek. They do a good job of lighting cheese on fire, but that's not real Greek food.<br />
Saganaki is for tourists and no self respecting Greek grandmother would light goat cheese on fire in her house. The flaming Greek cheese is a symbol of how Greektown has evolved from an ethnic enclave for newly arrived immigrants into a suburban shopping mall with gambling casinos, and along the way it lost its Greek flavor. The developers have destroyed the thing that attracted them to Monroe Street in the first place. Gimmicks and gambling, not real Greek culture.<br />
There are now only two full-service Greek restaurants remaining. The most recent casualties have been the Laikon and New Hellas, both mainstays for decades.<br />
For my wife, who is Greek-American, the Laikon was her place. She says it offered food that would be cooked in Greek homes. She has given me a vantage point to watch the changes in Greektown since the late 1960s, along with teaching me the good swear words in Greek. In the early 20th century it was a Greek neighborhood. My mother-in-law was born there along with countless other Greek-Americans in the Detroit area.<br />
Detroit was a white, WASP city in those days, and Greeks were prohibited from moving into certain neighborhoods, which kept Greektown cohesive. Those prejudices faded and Greeks moved to other neighborhoods, but came back to Greektown for baptisms, weddings and other events, even after many had moved to the suburbs.<br />
They also went to college, and those of my generation abandon the traditional occupations of restaurant owner or waiter. My wife didn't want anything to do with a bar or a restaurant, as her father and both grandfathers had toiled in them. That was the beginning of the decline of Greek flavor.<br />
Sure, they still serve lamb, but there are now a barbecue joint, a New Orleans style place and pizza parlors, and they outnumber the Greek places.<br />
Greek food and culture were exotic to a white bread boy like me whose family had roast beef on Sundays instead of lamb, and the image of my father-in-law with a lamb's head on his plate will never leave me. There was also the taste of olive oil and oregano, which we never had in our house. Grape leaves? That was trash, wasn't it?<br />
To my wife, it wasn't special, its just what her family ate. Greektown made her proud of her culture and we went to the first Greek Festival in Detroit in the late 1960s, when it was held on Monroe Street and before it became a huge event and moved to Hart Plaza. It was an intimate gathering. The restaurants moved their tables and chairs onto the street and many of those attending were Greek.<br />
Although I was underage, I was able to order bottles of wine, which helped me in my first efforts to learn how to dance Greek style. It felt like a wedding in a Greek village, not the large commercial venture it later became.<br />
Apart from Greek dancing and swear words, my wife also taught me about the sexism that lays deep in the Greek culture. As a teenager, she would drive her grandfather to Greektown for regular haircuts and later pick him up at one of several coffee shops that catered to older Greek men. All are gone now.<br />
Once she made the mistake of walking into the coffee shop to get her grandfather, and was told to leave by the other men. No women allowed.<br />
In the 1980s I went into a Greek bakery on Monroe with some co-workers from a newspaper, and one feminist editor hesitated about buying some pastry. "Oh, go ahead," said a bakery worker. "Us Greeks like our women with some meat on their hips, so we can get a hold of them." It obviously wasn't the right thing to say.<br />
That intimacy and in your face Greek attitude has faded and even the Greek restaurants feel more like part of a corporate chain in a suburban mall. I can't help putting part of the blame on first, Trapper's Alley and later casino gambling. When Trapper's Alley opened in the 1980s, it gave the street the feeling it had become a suburban mall. Gone were the days when my wife would know half the people she saw on Monroe.<br />
The old restaurants evaporated. The notorious Grecian Gardens went. It had a back room where old guys would allegedly gamble and get drinks after hours in coffee cups, activities that now seem quaint with huge casinos operating and drug wars in the streets.<br />
The mainstays New Hellas and Laikon are gone. Gone also are the surly Greek waiters like one we had one night who threw a woman through the front door into the street. It was Greek Easter and families fast, attend church at midnight, and head to Greektown for dinner.<br />
We attended church that night and were sitting at a table having dinner. The crowd was a mix of Greek church goers and those who had closed the bars. The people at the table next to us had been at the bar, and were ordering lots of food, but when it came time to pay, the woman picked a fight with the waiter in an attempt to get out of the bill.<br />
She slammed the table toward us, my young son quickly moving his hand so it didn't get smashed. She then made a fuss in front of the home crowd -- Greeks. And at one point the waiter in a heavy Greek accent grabbed the woman by the neck and threw her out of the front door, yelling "You f---ing bitch." She'd picked the wrong night for her antics.<br />
I walked outside moments later, angry that my son had almost been injured, and saw her complaining to two Detroit police officers on horse back, one of whom I knew from high school. The cops smiled. They weren't going to do anything. The unwritten rule in Greektown was that cops ate for free in exchange for taking care of trouble on the street. My old high school friend recognized me, and asked: "Did you see anything?" I answered that the woman appeared to be trying to walk out on her bill. He told the woman to move along, which she eventually did, spewing her outrage as she walked.<br />
That was the old Greektown I miss, real Greeks and old style informal policing. I know things change. We're in a cleaner era, polite police and waiters, restaurants with new, modern kitchens, not ones you know you don't want to see in daylight. But I hope cops can still eat for free, and I'd like to see a waiter on occasion with his fingers in the water glasses he's carrying. Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-8477960968757617872014-08-09T03:52:00.000-07:002017-07-10T12:28:50.808-07:00A week alone in the Porcupine Mountains<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSKGmGJ3awTtKt2wpNAVvMmj1Jto6IohCZPlTRjXPk0HGpCpJnVrARA2GEDVOSGyw2wpuc0w6U-GWzi6f-USJzAzemytHi1eGX3Wi25E5dUhgBc8DfnVUdyjjyUmfGTKT3Rirp6ZCukA/s1600/Porkies+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSKGmGJ3awTtKt2wpNAVvMmj1Jto6IohCZPlTRjXPk0HGpCpJnVrARA2GEDVOSGyw2wpuc0w6U-GWzi6f-USJzAzemytHi1eGX3Wi25E5dUhgBc8DfnVUdyjjyUmfGTKT3Rirp6ZCukA/s1600/Porkies+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author alone in the Porcupine Mountains. </td></tr>
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We've all read the warnings in outdoors publications: "Don't go alone." It's good advice, anything that can happen will, if you tempt fate enough. But on occasion you need to ignore common sense and head out by yourself. There are rewards, but to receive them, you have to take responsibility for yourself.<br />
These days most of my lone trips are taken in my fishing kayak and are on fairly well-used recreational rivers or lakes. There's also the ultimate umbilical cord, a cell phone. I carry mine most of the time, even though I don't always have a connection. It doesn't worry me, I wandered in Michigan for more than 30 years without one and I'm alive to tell my story.<br />
I yearn for the days when I wasn't connected. There was more of a sense of adventure, dangers to overcome and a sense of accomplishment when you finished a solo trip. I'm glad I had my basic training during the unconnected era. These days, people are prone to get into trouble because they think a GPS and cell phone will get them out of anything. It makes them reckless. When you know it's just you, more thought is put into your actions.<br />
Over the years, I've taken two lone significant off the grid trips, and countless smaller ones. All have been rewarding, but the two long ones helped guide me through difficult times in my life and set the tone for things to come. Since I saw no one for a week on each trip, I've learned how to be alone in the woods and enjoy it. I also learned to move slowly, so as not to hurt myself. Those are lessons I used in my shorter ventures. When you go into the woods alone, you never come back the same. It's like a temporary stint as a hermit. A favorite nature writers, Sig Olson wrote an essay on hermits he'd met in northern Minnesota and Alaska and concluded that some are nuts, especially those who don't come out of the woods. It's important for those who come back to tell their stories so others can learn to be alone. I'm trying to do that.<br />
My first long, solo trip laid the ground work for much of my life. It was a backpacking venture in the Porcupine Mountain Wilderness State Park in the mid 1970s. I was living in Bay City Michigan, and my wife had family obligations in Detroit for a week, so I headed north. I'd backpacked once before, nearly a decade previously on Isle Royale, but had a companion, plus there were lots of people on the island, and I expected the same in the Porkies.<br />
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Lake Superior in the Porcupine Mountains.</blockquote>
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Backpacking was experiencing a boom then, with lighter equipment, better camp stoves and freeze dried foods. I expected the park to be well used in late August. It wasn't. I spent six days without seeing a soul and it tested me. The first shock was a warning from a park ranger to watch out for black bears, as a camper had been attacked by one a few weeks previous. The hiker was cooking in his tent, a dumb move, especially that year because the DNR had closed most UP dumps where the bears fed by ripping open plastic garbage bags. To bears a small tent with the smell of food on it looks just like a garbage bag.<br />
My first night was spent in a cabin, of which there are several in the park, and I safely slept without fear of them, but there were visitors -- mice. They ran through the place looking for scraps of food left by hikers. I used a flash light to keep them at bay, but didn't get a lot of sleep that night. Small feet make big noises when you're alone.<br />
I knew about the bear danger, and had tied bells to my boots to warn them I was coming, but I worried they weren't loud enough as I hiked the next day. When I entered brushy areas, I swore I could hear them, although I never saw one.<br />
The next night, I opted for my tent, no mice there. The camp site was in view of Lake Superior in an open area, so I could see if bears were around. I collected enough wood during a short walk to make a small camp fire, mostly for reassurance. It was in the 80s, and humid, with the look of rain. I got a decent fire going, and retired to my tent hoping the blaze would keep interested bears away. The thunder started rolling over the lake and there were lightning strikes, but the fire reassured me I could dry out, if needed. A gust of wind hit, blowing the logs out of the fire pit and they rolled in all directions, sparks flying, a scene from hell.<br />
It was only after I hiked out that I discovered a tornado had moved through the area. Without a cell phone or weather radio, I didn't know if I'd been in the middle of it. Perhaps that was good.<br />
As the week moved along, I got accustom to being alone, and spent time taking pictures with a heavy, old school, metal Nikromat camera. The slides still have brilliant color.<br />
The experience was strong and confusing. Something powerful happened to me, I knew it at the time, and for decades I was afraid to tell others for fear they'd think I was nuts. But in my 60s, those fears vanished. I've embraced my crazy side and don't care what others think. I know what happened to me, it was a Native American vision quest. I realized that when I read Indian myths. Young Native Americans went into the woods alone, fasted for days and waited for spirits to visit them. Mine were fire, storm and black bears. Powerful stuff to be inside your head. Those spirits told me not to be afraid when I was alone in the woods.<br />
That was about 40 years ago, and the spirits are still giving me good advice.<br />
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<b>For more information about seeing the Porcupine Mountains, check out my travel guide</b>, <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/explorers-guide-michigan-jeff-counts/1100203724?ean=978158157201">www.barnesandnoble.com/w/explorers-guide-michigan-jeff-counts/1100203724?ean=978158157201</a>8<br />
Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-48180369082985245082014-08-05T05:14:00.001-07:002014-08-05T05:17:14.393-07:00Misty day at Lake of the Clouds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Lake of the Clouds in the Porcupine Wilderness State Park in the western Upper Peninsula is shrouded in mist on a summer morning, in the photo at left. For those with hardy streak in them, they can rent a cabin on the lake from the park and walk into the site. It's an alternative to tent camping at the park. <br />
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<b>For more information on the cabin and the park, go to</b> <a href="http://www.michigandnr.com/parksandtrails/details.aspx?type=SPRK&id=426">www.michigandnr.com/parksandtrails/details.aspx?type=SPRK&id=426</a>Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-15505856380528804932014-07-31T04:42:00.000-07:002014-07-31T04:42:41.340-07:00It's the time of year for Michigan produce<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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August is the time for buying local Michigan produce, and there's plenty of opportunities for it. Stores often mark where their produce is from, allowing consumers to make a choice. Buying local not only supports Michigan farmers, but cuts down on the amount of fuel used. Why buy tomatoes trucked in from some other state, when you can buy local. There are also farmers' markets in small and big towns, like Detroit's Eastern Market. Roadside stands are a favorite.<br />
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Here's a list of farmers' markets around the state to choose from: <a href="http://www.michigan.org/farm-markets/">www.michigan.org/farm-markets/</a>Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-45925655270295937252014-07-25T05:29:00.001-07:002014-07-26T06:18:36.090-07:00A float trip on the South Branch of the Au Sable River<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU89tsQMBNCe3eHkAqw77DDWpVkCMMM1USeXjT9Ck6T-StSq16ozx6zmnKvBop8eesrb-nqMHocG6IhTfAnEPq25scnulfM4kD0d_4SRWFL4HP0cFgmfethVEIW5a3Sj7Lq1svISTXItI/s1600/082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU89tsQMBNCe3eHkAqw77DDWpVkCMMM1USeXjT9Ck6T-StSq16ozx6zmnKvBop8eesrb-nqMHocG6IhTfAnEPq25scnulfM4kD0d_4SRWFL4HP0cFgmfethVEIW5a3Sj7Lq1svISTXItI/s1600/082.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An afternoon float. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The most popular paddling route on the the South Branch of the Au Sable River is from Roscommon to Chase Bridge Road, where most canoe livery traffic ends. That part of the river is lined with cabins, and there's heavy canoe traffic, especially on weekends. But if you have your own boat, and make the effort, you can paddle through the Mason Tract. a pocket wilderness area, from Chase Bridge to Smith Bridge. There are only a handful of cottages, and most the streamsides are open to the public. There is one large public canoe campground, and it would make a nice family over night trip. One tip: The portage from the river to the campground is long, so it's better to simply carry your camping gear from the boat, and leave the boat at the shoreline. Taking a boat out is much easier at Smith Bridge.<br />
I make the float often, fly fishing as I go and taking my time. That trip takes about six hours and could be as long as eight. But for those not fishing, you may as well take your time and enjoy the scenery and wildlife. On a recent trip I was joined by a bald eagle and several herons. Perhaps they were waiting to feast on any trout I caught. My oldest son once had a tussle on the river with a heron over the ownership of a fish on his line. The heron won.<br />
The 1,500 acre tract with 14 miles of shoreline, and about six miles in length from Chase to Smith Bridge with donated to the state by George W. Mason, a Detroit industrialist who died 1954. There are hiking trails through it, and a system of rough roads. While you can drive to the shoreline of the Au Sable's mainstream, you must hike to paddle to get to the river. A float trip in a canoe or kayak is the best way to access the river. There are people willing to spot your car, so it's waiting for you at the end of the trip. Check with the people at the Old Au Sable Fly Shop (<a href="http://www.oldausable.com/">www.oldausable.com</a>) in Graying to find the name of the car spotter. The cost is $25.<br />
<br />
<b> For more information on the South Branch and other paddling opportunities in Michigan, please check out my paddling guide</b> <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/paddlers-guide-to-michigan-jeff-counts/1100051438?ean=9780881509304">www.barnesandnoble.com/w/paddlers-guide-to-michigan-jeff-counts/1100051438?ean=9780881509304</a><br />
<br />
<br />Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-56470376498152261772014-07-22T05:20:00.000-07:002014-07-22T07:16:57.581-07:00Henry Ford still looms large over the Detroit area<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHErLsKvxTxxAiqoI0Vbqj8NYJM9e9GMa4ywqleSuLuZT6F67jzmjVohjB0hPXguODfZltcY2YlG6fg5ac_ee900Yokw78ajrR4cR9N7SDydYbmxHwAEVERVgbiWOXdIGq6IbwHnFBFDY/s1600/Detroit+-+Henry+Ford+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHErLsKvxTxxAiqoI0Vbqj8NYJM9e9GMa4ywqleSuLuZT6F67jzmjVohjB0hPXguODfZltcY2YlG6fg5ac_ee900Yokw78ajrR4cR9N7SDydYbmxHwAEVERVgbiWOXdIGq6IbwHnFBFDY/s1600/Detroit+-+Henry+Ford+-+Copy.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Henry Ford statue in Dearborn. </td></tr>
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If there's any figure who looms over Detroit, it's Henry Ford, the original. And he was just that. The mention of the name of the man who developed the Model T and founded the Ford Motor Company in 1903 still can spark discussions among Detroiters. Some see him as a dictatorial monster who wanted to control the lives of his workers, while others point to the $5 a day offered to auto workers in the late 1910s as the true start of a middle class in America. The statue of him, left, is located at Dearborn's Henry Ford Centennial Library on Michigan Avenue across from the Ford World Headquarters.<br />
I discovered it when researching my travel guide, Detroit & Ann Arbor: A Great Destination. The book is organized into driving cruises along major arteries. My favorite is the Michigan Avenue route because it takes a driver from downtown to Ypsilanti, and along it are the bones of what Detroit once was. The Corktown area, which was once a prime neighborhood for working class Detroiters, straddles the corridor. There's also Mexican Town, and the now decimated but once vibrant Del Ray, which was home to a Hungarian enclave. Further up Michigan is the Ford Rouge Plant, which was once the largest in the world. The tour ends in Ypsilanti where Ford built a bomber plant that supplied planes to the allied air forces during World War II. The book tells readers where to eat and what to see, and also delves into the history of the area.<br />
<br />
For more information on the book, please go to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Detroit-Ann-Arbor-Destination-Explorers/dp/1581571410/ref=zg_bs_67502_8">www.amazon.com/Detroit-Ann-Arbor-Destination-Explorers/dp/1581571410/ref=zg_bs_67502_8</a>Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-722050259860250362014-07-21T07:32:00.000-07:002017-07-10T12:33:06.661-07:00Detroit's '67 riots led to discovery of fly fishing, Upper Peninsula <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnx9L4RDTqyTCOnOYpnrBriYLFKMapKRxhN5W77qTQvZQOJnlJvWJR7NRqS_btEWcvEvL9Yv9ZMABIWhgiKnX9s0eVdDANIgvBJeNXOlMIeoUKDx2dbz16EJDhNYWi4OUlYchJdoFxCVU/s1600/100_1872.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnx9L4RDTqyTCOnOYpnrBriYLFKMapKRxhN5W77qTQvZQOJnlJvWJR7NRqS_btEWcvEvL9Yv9ZMABIWhgiKnX9s0eVdDANIgvBJeNXOlMIeoUKDx2dbz16EJDhNYWi4OUlYchJdoFxCVU/s1600/100_1872.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fly fishermen ready for a float trip. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s
ironic that the Detroit riots in July 1967 introduced me to tout fishing, Isle
Royale and the Upper Peninsula. Those
things and places seemed a million miles away from the gritty, violent streets
of Detroit, especially that summer. It’s
a lifetime away, 47 years to be exact,
and I spent many of those years trying to run away from my Detroit heritage,
and it wasn’t until I wrote a travel guide to Detroit and Ann Arbor that I
re-embraced my gritty heritage. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> That
summer, I was 19 and had finished my first year of college. To help pay for it, I got what were then one
of the plentiful factory jobs building box cars in a plant. The work was hard, sweaty and dirty, but paid
well. The workforce was integrated, and
I had plenty of African-American co-workers.
One developed into a friendship that was tested by the riots. He and I
had the job of placing large sheets of steel on frames where a welding machine
passed over them. It was hot, even during the afternoon shift, and I was filthy
by the end of the night, covered with flux which was applied to the welds to cool
and harden them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> It wasn’t
the kind of job to make a career out of for either of us. He was an Air Force veteran, just returned
from Southeast Asia where the Vietnam War was raging. He had a wife to support, and me, well; I was
working for beer money. We got friendly
and talked on our breaks about what we wanted to do with our lives. I knew we probably would be friends outside
of work, but he was friendly and I liked him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Then the riots
came. They were sparked by a Detroit
police raid on an afterhours blind pig on 12<sup>th</sup> Street where gambling
was going on. The street was the central
business district for the black community.
Rocks and bottles were thrown and stores looted on a Sunday night. At night I sat on the garage roof of my
parents’ house in Detroit and watched the flames from the fires that had been
started. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> When we
reported for work on Monday, we were told there was a curfew and that we would be
put on the day shift. I lost track of my
African-American friend, and wondered if he’d quit his job. On the day shift, there was a surly black
welder on our crew, which had a white foreman from the Deep South. The welder would put his mask down, and fall
asleep on the job. On one occasion, the
foreman kicked the welder in the legs and said: “Get to work, boy.” The welder lifted up his mask and said: “I’m going to move in next to you and have
sex with your daughter.” It summed up
race relations to me that fatal summer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The
riot dragged on, and as it did, I watched white workers placing orders with the
black guys for deer rifles, TV set and other items. In the mornings, the parking lot looked like
a modern day big box store with guys transferring items from one car to
another. Race relations may have been
bad, but greed is an equal opportunity employer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I hung in
there for a few more weeks, working days.
But then it got too much for me.
Neighbors started to flee for the suburbs and others wanted to move Up
North to a cabin to avoid what they thought would be a race war in the
city. My solution was to flee to the
woods. I’d heard about Isle Royale
National Park in the middle of Lake Superior, so I recruited a cousin for my
first backpacking trip. We were
hapless. I used an old Boy Scout
rucksack and brought canned food, not being aware of the fancy freeze dried
stuff. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> During that
first year in college, I read a Hemingway story, “The Big Two-Hearted River” in
which he sees large trout holding in the river near the Upper Peninsula town of
Seney. On our drive, we passed through the town, and I had to stop. I’d never caught a trout, and that mysterious
image was burned in my immature 19 year old mind. We stopped and wandered around until I found
a river that turned out to be the Fox. There
under a railroad bridge were trout, occasionally moving their tails to stay in
their spots. I imaged Hemingway getting
out of a train car at that bridge and seeing the same sight I saw. Holding trout. Had not he been trying to forget a war in the
story? I was, too, Vietnam and the riots
in Detroit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> As a fly
fisherman, I’ve been chasing those images for more than half a century, and
plan to continue until I keel over in a river.
And I’ve got the Detroit riots to thank for all of those great
times. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Click here to see what the Detroit Free Press had to say about my Detroit & Ann Arbor Explorer's Guide.</b> <a href="http://www.freep.com/article/20111218/COL32/112180552/Ron-Dzwonkowski-Detroit-explorer-gets-the-picture">www.freep.com/article/20111218/COL32/112180552/Ron-Dzwonkowski-Detroit-explorer-gets-the-picture</a></span><br />
<br />
<b>For more information on the book, please go to </b><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/explorers-guide-detroit-ann-arbor-jeff-counts/1103809957?ean=9781581578447">www.barnesandnoble.com/w/explorers-guide-detroit-ann-arbor-jeff-counts/1103809957?ean=9781581578447</a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-54722689273929247632014-07-18T05:44:00.001-07:002014-07-18T06:29:12.638-07:00Finding a quiet spot in the Pictured Rocks <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zb_q6z-zoWTNlUvej7YmBlgzUoqJMYwy2ic4uJQ2Ei3DbTn1JwM2q_BEoWC2S6m3i-ipNTpuVldqFiDm-hyVQryAGfT3ZQsGtC_U-x7Runt1hpKQrdZdyhIEK-uAThItypvGB05PuiY/s1600/Upper+Peninsula+-+stream.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zb_q6z-zoWTNlUvej7YmBlgzUoqJMYwy2ic4uJQ2Ei3DbTn1JwM2q_BEoWC2S6m3i-ipNTpuVldqFiDm-hyVQryAGfT3ZQsGtC_U-x7Runt1hpKQrdZdyhIEK-uAThItypvGB05PuiY/s1600/Upper+Peninsula+-+stream.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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The Pictured Rocks in the Upper Peninsula offer plenty to see. There are dunes and of course the pastel colored rocks along the shores of Lake Superior. But there are also quiet, little places where you can spend time collecting your thoughts. The Hurricane River near Lake Superior is one such spot. My guide book to Michigan can help you find such places throughout the state. </div>
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To check out the book, go to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Explorers-Guide-Michigan-Complete/dp/1581572018/ref=dp_ob_title_bk">www.amazon.com/Explorers-Guide-Michigan-Complete/dp/1581572018/ref=dp_ob_title_bk</a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
For more information on the Pictured Rocks, go to <a href="http://www.nps.gov/piro/index.htm">www.nps.gov/piro/index.htm</a></div>
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<br />Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-79684273502680505732014-07-10T05:41:00.000-07:002017-08-08T11:13:13.761-07:00A good stop at the Sleeping Bear Dunes<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlh2jbbIsLh-d_JB4eI-h5SNtzqbs1I-3tACO1VQkjdvy4FXjIpunv5B-q0Yfwu9-bWAzmlWwRbRxxNFCp-XstecG0V5B3WSJIenR21fpM2IIxJJqAPeNHRnRpovOVDxBGb7h2rYa3Bg/s1600/L.P.+2013+058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlh2jbbIsLh-d_JB4eI-h5SNtzqbs1I-3tACO1VQkjdvy4FXjIpunv5B-q0Yfwu9-bWAzmlWwRbRxxNFCp-XstecG0V5B3WSJIenR21fpM2IIxJJqAPeNHRnRpovOVDxBGb7h2rYa3Bg/s640/L.P.+2013+058.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blacksmith shop at Glenn Haven </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore in northwestern Michigan is now an idyllic vacation destination, but to 19th century families, it was a remote home along Lake Michigan.<br />
A stop at Glenn Haven, where some of the original buildings have been restored will bring back what life was like for those hardy pioneers who worked in the woods as lumberjacks or tried to farm or fish for a living.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Life moved slower in those days, no faster than a horse could travel. A main attraction is the village </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
blacksmith shop where a real blacksmith is at work.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
There's also a general store and and old hotel, once frequented by lumberjacks and early visitors to the village. A fish cannery has also been restored and can be visited. The beach nearby is another attraction, along with a nearby restored lifesaving station, where rescue boats and other equipment is on display. </div>
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If you go, check out Glenn Arbor, nearby, which is a thriving tourist town, with restaurants, motels and shops. </div>
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For more information on Glenn Haven go to </div>
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<a href="http://www.nps.gov/slbe/historyculture/glenhaven.htm">www.nps.gov/slbe/historyculture/glenhaven.htm</a></div>
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Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-1030553321784293312014-07-03T09:09:00.001-07:002014-07-03T09:10:07.752-07:00U.P. roadside attractions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRe5idV_ms0Pyd5qp4Ylqxxsuw04w_0knYErRkfQGuEEiUcVxPqWBMFaRktIstfUaS-n2NE0SyGilc6zTb6o2HoL6rXgbAzti4964cUbMx-yuZx6DyNlmH6wZ9W1mUHGBdsSC395KAEmU/s1600/U.P.+-+Pasty+shop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRe5idV_ms0Pyd5qp4Ylqxxsuw04w_0knYErRkfQGuEEiUcVxPqWBMFaRktIstfUaS-n2NE0SyGilc6zTb6o2HoL6rXgbAzti4964cUbMx-yuZx6DyNlmH6wZ9W1mUHGBdsSC395KAEmU/s1600/U.P.+-+Pasty+shop.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
The Fourth of July marks the start of the Michigan travel season for many families with children, and roadside attractions are a way to break the drive. The U.P. is full of them. A stop for a pasty is a break from fast food. And then there's the town of Christmas just west of M-28. Santa is there year round. A personal favorite is the Yooper Tourist Trap, below, right, which has displays of quirky items, like the Yooper Internet, which I could never figure out the meaning of. They Mystery Spot on U.S. 2 just west of the bridge has delighted generations of kids.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-yZDUQ7crxsHSjO_y77FNCFim7wCxf77BaDTE94gesDngYUgTzJ9bdvo86CrTBzZs9T5-K-4_56hXwAiXOp1JTbyf0j2TjOel4EV7ixIyQzisVSd2o3JnFIkr25YP_fK558_3Q6pMuvI/s1600/100_2059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-yZDUQ7crxsHSjO_y77FNCFim7wCxf77BaDTE94gesDngYUgTzJ9bdvo86CrTBzZs9T5-K-4_56hXwAiXOp1JTbyf0j2TjOel4EV7ixIyQzisVSd2o3JnFIkr25YP_fK558_3Q6pMuvI/s1600/100_2059.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjow94p6keznTZFa1sjvoxqVGnkXxXwKhRWF1-ogkgGCowrY1k3nd28WTtDiGFnaABxK4BF4A_K1BGo-ZmeTTnCxC5n4MOKMZ3V5Tp_Hn8fs5VH2jyxwsUn_AnoJxSTLttgAYNuYqtBu7s/s1600/100_2052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjow94p6keznTZFa1sjvoxqVGnkXxXwKhRWF1-ogkgGCowrY1k3nd28WTtDiGFnaABxK4BF4A_K1BGo-ZmeTTnCxC5n4MOKMZ3V5Tp_Hn8fs5VH2jyxwsUn_AnoJxSTLttgAYNuYqtBu7s/s1600/100_2052.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
<br />Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-25096390008551058372014-06-17T05:03:00.003-07:002017-08-10T12:30:15.187-07:00Quiet waters in the Upper Peninsula<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpquL8BXOMXlZSDmHX3utZtdEiw_Op7jFaKDBjezDxUF0avQNTnDpSlrv0aCrwHq4xvzUljpNcZDQwZ5dCI8CCiGUZ1Pu7WOJ_2uv9l9vQqDnEXm59yEly2HjXhQ5kzehBaXInNAHXR0/s1600/U.P.+Generic+-+paddling+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpquL8BXOMXlZSDmHX3utZtdEiw_Op7jFaKDBjezDxUF0avQNTnDpSlrv0aCrwHq4xvzUljpNcZDQwZ5dCI8CCiGUZ1Pu7WOJ_2uv9l9vQqDnEXm59yEly2HjXhQ5kzehBaXInNAHXR0/s640/U.P.+Generic+-+paddling+-+Copy.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> One of my favorite mini vacations is wandering the Upper Peninsula with my sea kayak on top of my Jeep, looking for intriguing waters to paddle. I take the kayak because it allows me to explore the bays and inlets of Lake Superior with ease and safety, and also inland lakes. A favorite destination is Beaver Lake in the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore Park between Munising and Grand Marais. The access is at Beaver Lake Campgrounds. From there you can spend a day exploring the lake, or you can paddle to Lake Superior via Beaver Creek. You're going to have to get out of the canoe/kayak and pull the boat at some point, as the creek is shallow. For more information on this destination and others, check out my book, the Paddler's Guide to Michigan, The Countryman Press. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-74577136197275751222014-06-16T06:05:00.000-07:002014-06-16T06:05:33.386-07:00Eating the local fish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2QzyverMsbM27Kercyq0K6bfvZonLi49lGSHB5T7Te22Wg73wssH6LWCY2GJx3mVk3ZxXuP6cgA59G38FVKM8ZsxCQqwAs1k32XQ-0Vgps7Zgc_xt6WpCFFOpE_u4i4baRGMBa64OSE/s1600/Frankfort+fish+market.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2QzyverMsbM27Kercyq0K6bfvZonLi49lGSHB5T7Te22Wg73wssH6LWCY2GJx3mVk3ZxXuP6cgA59G38FVKM8ZsxCQqwAs1k32XQ-0Vgps7Zgc_xt6WpCFFOpE_u4i4baRGMBa64OSE/s1600/Frankfort+fish+market.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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There's nothing more enjoyable than visiting local fish markets in Michigan beach towns. They're nothing like their city cousins in big towns, where the fish is sandwiched between the chicken and pork, all encased in plastic. The fish takes center stage in the small markets where the person behind the counter helps select the pieces you want and wraps them in paper, the way it should be. White fish is a favorite, but I usually can't resist picking up smoked fish for lunch or a snack. Since I buy wine based on it's name, I usually pick up some Fishtown white, a Michigan wine. A chef from Maine who worked on yachts once advised me during a bar conversation in the U.P. to bake white fish until it flakes. Use a fork to test it. Then in that distinctive Maine accent he said: "Then you can pour any sauce on it you want." I follow his advice to this day.Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-34411058709527078842014-06-13T06:51:00.000-07:002014-06-13T06:52:13.971-07:00Photo tips for shooting Mackinac Bridge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ66iPPnIGnsZ_o-HqffJvh7VE33D6LidnESIOsqMdikAbJqcABYRbzE9QLOoHhGn_XIy39aNFM2cBRDuNUgMR1x-zFyQZIq3E34ZMrUCE7Vfa9s_bOha1Ej9kDXpfGeFng0Sn9xOkoaE/s1600/Mackinac+Bridge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ66iPPnIGnsZ_o-HqffJvh7VE33D6LidnESIOsqMdikAbJqcABYRbzE9QLOoHhGn_XIy39aNFM2cBRDuNUgMR1x-zFyQZIq3E34ZMrUCE7Vfa9s_bOha1Ej9kDXpfGeFng0Sn9xOkoaE/s1600/Mackinac+Bridge.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Many people have taken photos of the Mackinac Bridge over the years, and they're in photo albums, on computers and phones. Taking a picture of the Big Mac is difficult. Most are shot from the same angle in Mackinaw City. If you're looking for a different view, simply drive across the bridge, turn right on U.S. 2 and take it to Straits State Park on Church Street. I've been going to the area for years, but only stumble on the park last year, when I was looking for a new bridge shot. The park was a delightful discovery, and is a refuge from the crowds in Mackinaw City and St. Ignace. The beach was uncrowded and it was July. There are camp sites near the water, walking trails and a shallow beach for letting the kids swim.<br />
<br />Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-72773912426925887592014-06-11T06:39:00.000-07:002014-06-11T06:46:07.618-07:00Traverse Bay Lighthouse trip<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwUXg_G8itQrLCHDq4Wr0JPjsRH4k-obpaBRoNTiS_rH0neX93dskqtutB07ee45kZvun0SI_IS1joSe9E_j-VioHUJtwEnvhWXjLFu8eFNClij3XFCai4thYmvuvUvwOLwrFBnrpAk0g/s1600/L.P.+2013+100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwUXg_G8itQrLCHDq4Wr0JPjsRH4k-obpaBRoNTiS_rH0neX93dskqtutB07ee45kZvun0SI_IS1joSe9E_j-VioHUJtwEnvhWXjLFu8eFNClij3XFCai4thYmvuvUvwOLwrFBnrpAk0g/s1600/L.P.+2013+100.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9b1U8biBVK-4kMFDyYshxfYoPRaPL-5ms6q5Xx_GxzjNSvSz7eFPUFqgKir_NqugOBeWgcSV4s_d7E8M1icBVoJmpf94f2IWM1xyTKdomBGxWyOH8TuuT09rpKwlR76hHEcErrr6vPL8/s1600/L.P.+2013+102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9b1U8biBVK-4kMFDyYshxfYoPRaPL-5ms6q5Xx_GxzjNSvSz7eFPUFqgKir_NqugOBeWgcSV4s_d7E8M1icBVoJmpf94f2IWM1xyTKdomBGxWyOH8TuuT09rpKwlR76hHEcErrr6vPL8/s1600/L.P.+2013+102.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
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Seems like people had more time in the past for handiwork. I know things like this are dated, but it doesn't stop me from admiring them. This unconventional rock planter is at the Traverse Bay Lighthouse in Leelanau State Park just north of Northport.<br />
A trip to the lighthouse, built in 1858, makes for a good outing when in the Traverse City area. The stone flower bed was built by James McCormic in 1926, and it reminds me of backyard projects at northern Michigan homes. It's similar to the old bottle fences people built, but which are disappearing due to neglect. This one should be around for a while.<br />
<br />Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-4506861479571543032014-06-09T09:05:00.001-07:002014-06-10T06:17:22.613-07:00Eating local isn't new<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGzEqJgkIE71ISVqG0r8q5Kw5_kHQCfE6n6ks_a4_PAu7jSHpgQulQRhRYZAntK-dgrxxnuqAH4zQOy_tl6Pm4xa3ZRUXqep6rNF0FihxEviAoNtt_lW0-BaJz8j7oUfdnRI4ua0UkQU/s1600/Market.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGzEqJgkIE71ISVqG0r8q5Kw5_kHQCfE6n6ks_a4_PAu7jSHpgQulQRhRYZAntK-dgrxxnuqAH4zQOy_tl6Pm4xa3ZRUXqep6rNF0FihxEviAoNtt_lW0-BaJz8j7oUfdnRI4ua0UkQU/s1600/Market.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">These days a reader can't pick up a magazine, read a blog post or
turn on the television without hearing about buying locally grown produce, meat
and dairy products. I'm 100 percent behind that and make an effort to buy
Michigan farm products. My wife and I stop by road side stands in our travels
around the state. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But I've been doing this for a long time.
I was born to it. I have my father and grandfathers to thank. They weren't
trendy chefs or restaurant owners cashing in on a new trend, they were old
school farm people, for which "buying locally" came naturally. It was
in their back yards or down the road. So on Father's Day, I'm paying tribute to
them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My father was an Arkansas kid, who grew up
on small patches of farm land near Little Rock during the 1920s and through the
Depression years of the 1930s. As a teenager, he raised a patch of musk melons,
the best he ever saw, he said. But he couldn't sell them in Little Rock because
the price wouldn't even pay for the gas needed to get them to market. He had to
watch them rot in the field. It was an experience that affected him for the
remainder of his life. "People were hungry in the city, and I had a good
crop, but I couldn't get it to them," he'd say. In his later years he
worked in an inner Detroit soup kitchen to feed people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">He later attended agricultural school at
the University of Arkansas, and eventually taught farming at the Henry Ford
Trade Schools in<span class="apple-converted-space"> Dearborn. </span> He'd lament that urban sprawl in western Wayne County was chewing up good farm
land. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Because of that background, our family
trips took on a new<span class="apple-converted-space"> dimension. </span> The countryside wasn't just scenery. I learned there was a reason that fields
were plowed in a certain way, and that fruit trees were planted on the south
and west side of hills -- to get more sunlight. Every farm building has a
specific use, and the quaint wooden ones weren't built to look that way, but
for a specific reason. I wish I'd listened better. To this day, when driving
through the country I marvel at the architecture of old, abandoned farm
buildings. I know that in my misty childhood I was once told what they
were. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">On those trips, my father would pull over
to the side of the road and walk into a farm field, pick up a handful of soil
and examine it. It was<span class="apple-converted-space"> embarrassing</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>as a kid, but I now value the
education. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I started to value country rides with him,
as I grew older. In his 70s while dying of<span class="apple-converted-space"> leukemia </span>he still had the energy to get worked
up about a herd of cattle he saw. "Somebody ought to shoot that farmer for
the way he's keeping them cattle." He went on to say they were covered
with flies and should be washed down with a certain solution, to keep the
insects away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Even when watching the TV news, he saw
things differently, especially when there would be a famine in an African country.
He didn't listen to the politics of it, but would look at the landscape and
point out that a simple irrigation project would allow the people to have a
farm plot that would produce food for people and forage for domestic
animals. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLvbuPekWA6jhO10583wPwk-KlgbzsfRzGBehMRX5vUyupyoU-ujundbpRiCUQzPNHw3fzvROTqUrl_oAT-p-HGu3VIQpOC-7KOFuxeFL8eklO9WVpMLzbr4WcMvrnrvBteBbKpQOjOhE/s1600/File0057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLvbuPekWA6jhO10583wPwk-KlgbzsfRzGBehMRX5vUyupyoU-ujundbpRiCUQzPNHw3fzvROTqUrl_oAT-p-HGu3VIQpOC-7KOFuxeFL8eklO9WVpMLzbr4WcMvrnrvBteBbKpQOjOhE/s1600/File0057.jpg" height="279" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author harvests corn in Arkansas in the 1950s.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">He came by this naturally. His father was
a descendant of an old Arkansas pioneer family that had lived in the area since
the 1840s and they were accustom to feeding themselves from a small farmstead,
not an easy task during the Civil War or during Reconstruction that saw northern
troops taking advantage of farmers for nearly ten years after the war. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Every square inch of my grandfather's ten
acre plot was dedicated to producing food. There was a large garden with okra,
corn, tomatoes, watermelon, and other produce. There was a peach orchard. There
were also chickens and pigs. The pigs intrigued me, they'd eat anything, and
once it was almost me. I was about five and was sitting on the rail of the pig
pen watching them feed. My father and grandfather were nearby picking peaches.
I lost my balance and fell in the pen. I heard my grandfather yell: "Get
that boy out of there before them pigs eat his guts out." It was a direct,
honest lesson that affected my view of pigs for years to come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My oldest son was able to learn some of this
when he went with my father and his brother to buy some<span class="apple-converted-space"> sorghum </span>near the family farm in Arkansas. He
returned hours later, laughing. "It took us two hours to buy it," he
said. "First, we just had to gossip with the guy, and then gently bring up
the fact that we'd heard he made it. Then we had to take a taste. The guy then
gave us the entire history of sorghum<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>making. Finally, we were able to buy
some."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I hoped he'd learned more than just about
southern politeness and how you can't be too direct when talking to an old
southerner. I hope he learned that it's important to know where your food comes
from and how it's made, so he can pass that along to his two daughters. The
locally grown food movement may seem terminally hip, but it's really just a
return to older values. I for one hope it grows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-706552173488477292013-09-15T07:17:00.001-07:002014-10-04T07:05:35.844-07:00Tunnel of Trees fall drive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnD7rDwwl6g4biHmcjsU1k4EfeqhV5woOE4tbqvQ907rS4XAJuBDpcvfOPaSN4SFXieD3TPxD5-qRrhAfD9QSk8MLAMjWvmOO1Vhp8ZnfL5mzog6-HWrmF9HVT8PgOrmi2TfAJiYqpJQ/s1600/fall+2012+021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnD7rDwwl6g4biHmcjsU1k4EfeqhV5woOE4tbqvQ907rS4XAJuBDpcvfOPaSN4SFXieD3TPxD5-qRrhAfD9QSk8MLAMjWvmOO1Vhp8ZnfL5mzog6-HWrmF9HVT8PgOrmi2TfAJiYqpJQ/s400/fall+2012+021.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0xeIjPAx3XBuHoQTmErU8BBYawaonndeRGxfoyMTlrzOwIqUqso2GeAriE0sLXu6_GWhD6jA9DuBYv13giEyOLU6NnwzMmRYwivE5emEb3fsi_JRDWZCyWzfDbAz972nDbukcovLGMaE/s1600/Harbor+Springs+-+Tunnel+of+Trees+drive.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0xeIjPAx3XBuHoQTmErU8BBYawaonndeRGxfoyMTlrzOwIqUqso2GeAriE0sLXu6_GWhD6jA9DuBYv13giEyOLU6NnwzMmRYwivE5emEb3fsi_JRDWZCyWzfDbAz972nDbukcovLGMaE/s1600/Harbor+Springs+-+Tunnel+of+Trees+drive.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Legs Inn at Cross Village, above. On the road on the Tunnel of Trees, left. </td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.4799995422363px;"> One of my favorite Michigan drives in the fall is M 119 between Harbor Springs and Cross Village. The slow, winding road through the Tunnel of Trees offers a stunning view of the Lake Michigan shoreline, and there are also the upscale homes along the road to see. There are places to stop and have a coffee or cider, like Primitive Images Rustics, above. Another good stop is at the Good Hart General Store. If you're up for lunch, try the Legs Inn at Cross Village, which was built by a Polish immigrant and wood workers, who fashioned the restaurant with local logs. Plan a long afternoon for the ride, so you can take your time. At Cross Village drivers can cut over to US 31, if they don't want to take the winding road back. Lodging is available in Harbor Springs and Petoskey.</span>Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-42939973012322422672013-09-08T08:41:00.000-07:002017-08-13T17:55:41.840-07:00Detroit in the 1930s: Corruption, hate groups, right-to-work <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYfxreAVnQV8DuBI2CDYt1G76NoUIAGzn421dppM_-osozdcQAFvkBrSB3A3adNC3CEfFtzIHSYd1KBQoVuBPvmiL9arImDB9UI5d6ucwbVS1atDBP2DCOiMeh-zGaYXg35SN2HeVhKYI/s1600/black_legion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYfxreAVnQV8DuBI2CDYt1G76NoUIAGzn421dppM_-osozdcQAFvkBrSB3A3adNC3CEfFtzIHSYd1KBQoVuBPvmiL9arImDB9UI5d6ucwbVS1atDBP2DCOiMeh-zGaYXg35SN2HeVhKYI/s640/black_legion.jpg" width="562" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black Legion members in the 1930s. </td></tr>
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I'm in the midst of researching a mystery novel set in Detroit in 1935 and the more I read, I realize the city hasn't changed that much. The backdrop for the book is the formation of the UAW and the Ford Hunger march of 1932 in which five workers were killed by Ford Motor Co. goons and Dearborn police. I know that wouldn't happen these days, but one issue that hasn't is the right-to-work. The state legislature not long ago made Michigan a right-to-work state, reheating an old issue. <br />
Also figuring in the book is the Black Legion, which was very active in Detroit in the early 1930s. It was an offshoot of the KKK and was anti-communist, anti-immigrant and opposed to unions. There's some indication it was used by manufacturers in Detroit to fight unionization, but that comes from a booklet published by a socialist group, and I wonder how much of it is true. The group was responsible for some killings in Michigan and eventually was brought down by police.<br />
While the legion is history and I doubt we'll ever see its likes again, we still have that "anti" sentiment alive among some ultra conservatives. Don't get me wrong, I very much respect the conservative point view. We need to hear it for balance.<br />
You can't turn on the radio or TV these days without hearing some bellowing blow hard trying to put his or her political spin on events. Personally, I don't like either side. Things weren't much different in the early 1930s. Detroit had it's own conservative talk show host in the person of Rev. Charles Coglin, a priest at the Shrine of the Little Flower in Royal Oak. His anti-communist tirades and conservative positions had a large nationwide audience and it took the Catholic Church to eventually silence him.<br />
Meanwhile, at Detroit's city hall corruption was common place with the Purple Gang paying off police and public officials. Just look at the headlines coming out of Detroit these days, and you realize somethings don't change. It's just a different set of characters.<br />
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<br />Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5135315887656480705.post-81978133340663450132013-08-27T05:07:00.000-07:002013-08-27T05:07:26.621-07:00Hemingway's beach<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWg6meJzKsppwB_ugEcIT7R53D2db6zvR6_xzw-OSiFTpnyV90vUp3IcpaIV5XG9aOJQ5IBlv11efYrcEZdAX_dTlIkVgWCeNIxcIl8lQ40_j7IcrfPtBJ2HB8EhZtQTIkVsNPAze3lxw/s1600/Horton's+Bay+-+Hemingway+beach.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWg6meJzKsppwB_ugEcIT7R53D2db6zvR6_xzw-OSiFTpnyV90vUp3IcpaIV5XG9aOJQ5IBlv11efYrcEZdAX_dTlIkVgWCeNIxcIl8lQ40_j7IcrfPtBJ2HB8EhZtQTIkVsNPAze3lxw/s400/Horton's+Bay+-+Hemingway+beach.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
Have you ever stopped at a place that was eerily familiar? Not in a disturbing way, but one of those strange memories that are in the back of your brain. While taking photographs for my guide book, I stopped in Horton's Bay near Lake Charlevoix to snap a shot of the general store there. It's where a young Ernest Hemingway hung out in his teenage years when he wanted to get away from home. It was his version of going to the mall. Something guided me across the road and down a small trail to the lake, and when I got there, Hemingway stories I'd read years ago came flooding back to me. The story is "Up Michigan," and the beach and dock play a central role in the drama. They still look pretty much like they did when Hemingway's characters were there.Jeff Countshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18136492730274400456noreply@blogger.com0