Pine Stump Junction

Years ago while looking at a Michigan map, I found a place name, Pine Stump Junction in the Upper Peninsula's Luce County on County Road H 37. I wondered what was there, and I finally made it to the place during the 1970s while on a fly-fishing trip. The old northwoods tavern was the only building in the place, and inside it was basically a beer bar with pickled eggs and ham hocks sitting in jars behind the bar. Every few years I'd stop by to see if it was still there, and did so this summer. Looks like times haven't been kind to the Pine Stuff. It was Sunday morning, so I couldn't tell if it was open, but it looks like there's a bit of construction going on. In my travels through the U.P., it seems like other backwoods taverns are suffering the same fate, victims to the brewpub craze. I'm sorry to see them go, nothing went better with a pickled egg than canned beer. The place is at least still on the map.

The old Jeep

     My relationship with my 2001 Jeep Cherokee lasted longer than a lot of marriages, about 190,000 miles of bumpy road - which some would equate to a rocky marriage. But in my case, I wasn't looking for a divorce, it was forced. The old Jeep presented me with a bill for the misdeeds I'd done her over the last dozen years that added up to about $3,000, which prompted me to say goodbye.
     We've been through a lot. When I first climbed into it, I could claim to be middle age. These days I get free coffee at McDonalds and only have to pay half price for a fishing license.
     The Cherokee has been replaced by a new, gray Jeep Liberty and smells brand new. Some like that; but not me. I miss the smell of the old one, the combination of spilled bourbon, river water, sweat, mold, dirt, sand and spilled coffee. Too bad I couldn't bottle it.
     I spent an hour or so cleaning it up for the trade-in, mostly pulling out flies that had become embedded in the carpeting. I couldn't face giving it a true cleaning. That would have meant an array of chemical products which I never used on it.
     When I first bought it, I made some feeble attempts to make it acceptable to suburban society, but that soon faded away because it was my vehicle, not a family van to take kids to soccer practice, it was mine and mine alone. I'd never had a car that was truly mine since my 1968 Mustang, which was abused in the way only a 20 year old kid can manage. When we have kids and social responsibilities, we tend to buy vehicles for others, to cart around kids, get groceries, and drive people to medical appointments. There were also teenage sons borrowing the car. The Jeep was all mine and had no social responsibilities.
     It was often caked in mud from fishing or hunting trips, and my wife pretty much refused to ride in it. Later on, it developed creaks and groans brought by driving back roads, and my sons took to affectionately calling it "the rattle trap." One salesman I worked with pretty much told me it didn't belong in the office parking lot. Since I hate suburban sensibilities, I'd leave it mud splattered for as long as possible.
     I went down a lot of roads with the old Jeep, some of which I probably shouldn't have, especially after a night at a northern Michigan tavern, but I don't regret any of the adventures I had with it. I also wrote three travel books out of it, one about Detroit, so the Jeep has been on some of the wild back streets of the city. And in all that time, I never had to call a tow truck. It's been a good marriage, and I'm looking forward to getting the new Jeep dirty, and acquiring new bourbon, river and fish smells on the inside.
   

A spring float on the Pere Marquette

This is a great time of year to get out on Michigan rivers. The foliage isn't thick yet, and you can see the landmarks along the river banks. I love old houses or cabins on streamsides, like this one on the Pere Marquette River near Baldwin.
The old houses speak of a different era when white pine was cheap, and it wasn't expensive to add a couple of extra rooms to a house, especially a screened in porch for use on summer evenings.
The Pere Marquette is a joy to paddle, especially if you have your own boats. Floats range from four to six hours, which is pretty much an entire day, if you're fishing along the way, like I did, or even just sight seeing. In three days of floating, I caught plenty of large brown trout, and a few rainbows.
Because the trees and other foliage wasn't up, I saw many deer and the bird watching was good. The morel mushroom season was on and there were folks in the woods harvesting them. A combination float trip/morel picking expedition would be a good trip.
I stayed at the Pere Marquette Lodge in Baldwin, which offers rooms in the lodge, cabins and a few houses for rent. The cost was moderate, about $70 a night for a room. The folks in the fly shop at the lodge arranged for someone to spot my car, picking it up where I put my river in the boat and moving it to the take out spot to which I was headed.

Cabin fever has me feeling like Gabby Hayes

It’s mid winter in Michigan, thoughts of fall are fading and it’s too early in the year to start thinking about spring paddling, fishing or hiking. My winter supply of books is dwindling and like others in the upper Great Lakes, I’ve got a bit of cabin fever, and I’m starting to feel like one of those characters played by Gabby Hayes in the old western movies, the old prospector who has been alone in his cabin for too long.

The marketing geniuses who put out fly-fishing catalogues know this, and the four-color, slick products start arriving in the mail about now and tempt me to buy new rods, reels, other gear or clothing that I usually don’t need.

                Since I’m writing a canoe/kayak guide to Michigan this year, paddling catalogues are arriving, reminding me of gear I didn’t know I needed.

                I can usually resist the efforts of marketers until I hold my annual Jimmy Buffet party. The ingredients are simple – a Jimmy Buffet song, “Boat Drinks,” fly-fishing catalogues, a credit card, but most of all, a bottle of tequila.

                By the end of the evening, I’ve usually placed several orders, and sometimes I surprise myself when the gear arrives.  The after effects are usually a hangover and a big credit card bill to pay off.

                Buffet’s song speaks to me in the winter – “I shot six holes in the freezer, I think I got cabin fever.”

                On such nights, my wife makes sure my shotguns are out of reach and that the shells are locked up.

So far there has been no damage, but there’s always the first time.