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TOPIC: June 24th
http://groups.google.com/group/entstrees/browse_thread/thread/b32cc253f6a3cdb2?hl=en
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== 1 of 1 ==
Date: Tues, Aug 12 2008 9:54 am
From: dbhguru@comcast.net
ENTS,
My wife Monica is currently away on a canoe trip. I'm staying home
keeping the plants watered. She hasn't had the opportunity to proof
read June 24th. For now, I submit it as is and will correct a future
version.
Bob
June 24th
On the morning of the 24th, we arose, ate a quick breakfast in our
motel room, packed our belongings, and hit the road. It was a
scenario that was to be repeated for about half the days we
traveled. The plan of the 24th was to wind our way across the
southern UP to the point where the peninsula is thinnest and then
head north for a rendezvous with Lake Superior. We would first
parallel Lake Michigan for a number of miles and stop periodically
to commune with the great waters. However, we had not progressed far
when I saw a sign for what I initially mistook as an advertisement
for pastries. I was secretly visualizing a huge chocolate-covered
donut, although I pretended to be interested in getting Monica a cup
of coffee as soon as possible. The sign in front of the little shop,
in fact, advertised a U.P. specialty, namely pasties as opposed to
pastries. The pasty I was eventually to eat is a kind of sandwich
with potatoes and other vegetables and some meat included in a p
astry-type wrap. Pasties are a Cornish invention. In the U.P.
pasties were prepared for miners working the local iron mines. At
least this is my understanding, but for completeness, according to
Wikipedia, a pastie is defined as follows:
“A pasty (Cornish: Pasti, Tiddy Oggy, pronounced /ˈpæsti/
(the 'a' pronounced as in 'cat'), or less commonly pastie) is a
filled pastry case, commonly associated with Cornwall, United
Kingdom. It differs from a pie as it is made by placing the filling
on a flat pastry shape, usually a circle, and folding it to wrap the
filling, crimping the edge to form a seal. The result is a raised
semicircular package. The traditional Cornish pasty is filled with
diced meat, sliced potato and onion[1], and baked. Pasties with many
different fillings are made; some shops specialise in selling all
sorts of pasties.”
The little shop advertising pasties had no coffee or donuts, and the
owner’s explanation of a pasty did not satisfy me, so we moved on
until I saw another small shop also offering pasties. The second
shop was bigger than the first. It looked more prosperous, so we
stopped. Coffee was available as was a variety of novelty items –
U.P. style. We bought thimbleberry jam (our first), a special
nontoxic insect repellant recommended by the lady at the cash
register, chocolate fudge, and oh yes, I bought a pasty. Monica
wisely deferred, allowing me to be the Guinea Pig, or sucker.
As was going to pass, but after a convincing sales pitch by the lady
at the cash register, I decided to try one. Well, the bottom line is
that my lone experience with pasties is sufficient to satisfy my
curiosity about them. My palette does not cry out for a second. At a
future date, I may try another pasty, but I think I need some time
to work on the desire aspect. By the way, my particular pasty was
filled with potatoes, rutabagas, onions, and a meat, advertised as
sirloin beef – a kind of all in one meal that miners could
conveniently carry into underground depths. I had never heard
of pasties. The lady at the cash register explained that the
pasty’s origin in the U.P. was a carrying on of the traditions of
Welch and Flemish. I do not recall if she included Cornish, as cited
in Wikipedia, in her list. I am sure she said Flemish.
As we continued along Route #2, I worked on my Pasty, spilling
out bits of potato and rutabagas into my lap. It was not a pretty
sight. If I held the pasty to tightly, the ingredients would
catapult out. If I held it too loosely, I was in danger of dropping
it. I had to perform a delicate balancing act. We had not gone
more than 15 or 20 miles when we saw a small roadside state park. It
was a good place to commune with Lake Michigan and for me to dump
the rest of my pasty. The beach had an assortment of small and large
rocks near the edge of the water. The rocks broke up the shoreline
in a visually pleasing way.
Monica was obviously attracted to the combination of beach flora,
sand, rocks, and water. We walked along the water’s edge. As small
waves splashed against the rocks, the experience seemed to build in
Monica a connection to Lake Michigan, although the lake’s color on
that occasion was not vivid. In fact, it was rather drab - not
befitting my impression of the great body of water. But, before
proceeding with more impressions of Michigan, I will submit the
customary Great Lakes statistics.
Lake Michigan is the 3rd largest of the Great Lakes in surface
area and the second in volume. Its surface area is 22,400 square
miles. Its volume is 1,180 cubic miles. Its average depth is 279
feet and its maximum depth is 923 feet. On the global scale, it is
the 4th largest freshwater lake, ranking behind Lakes Superior,
Victoria, and Huron. Lake Michigan has the dubious distinction
of being the only Great Lake to lie wholly within the borders of the
United States. I say dubious because approximately twelve million
people live along its shores, a concentration of humanity, that
thinking like a lake, must be a nightmare. When we over-populate the
shores of a lake, we rob it of its naturalness, of its capacity to
be itself, to shape its destiny. Sadly, four of the five Great Lakes
are forced to suffer the indignity of excessive human development
along miles of their shores. Development reins in my desire to the
lakes more frequently, but I must admit that I haven’t explored
enough to give each lake its just due.
On my first extended visit to Lake Michigan in the late 1990s, I
developed a strong attraction for the lake. On the particular day
that my late wife Jani and I stood on its shores, Michigan’s color
was a very pleasing, vibrant shade of blue, with the usual streaks
and reflections. To me, Michigan seemed friendly, and its north
shore on the U.P., where I connected with the lake, is free of large
concentrations of people, especially the northeastern section. That
first experience more than satisfied my desire to see the great body
of water in a fairly natural state. In fact, it was on the shores of
Lake Michigan that I began the process of intentionally communing
with the Great Lakes – communicating in a spiritual sense. Let me
explain.
Spiritually connecting to a natural land feature in a genuinely
deep way can be a challenge. With exactly what is one communing? Is
the communication nothing more than gathering input from one’s
five physical senses and then turning to one’s inner feelings and
perceptions in an act of subjective evaluation? Perhaps, but I
believe that there is more to the process than a physical
stimulation followed by a subjective evaluation. I believe that
there are levels of connection one can establish with an animate or
an inanimate object that brings into play the energy field
surrounding the object in a genuine energy body to energy body
communication, but proving that theory is difficult.
At the simplest level of the human communication with a great
natural feature such as a mountain or lake or a prairie sky, one can
experience palpable feelings of appreciation and enjoyment. At one
time or another, everybody engages in the appreciation-enjoyment
level of communing with a natural feature, even if the feeling is
masked. For the more receptive, the result can be expressed in
words, art, or photography.
However, I believe that far deeper communications with a natural
landscape can occur by connecting to its energy gestalt. This cannot
easily be done with any of the usual interferences such as sounds of
a motor, high speed, etc. One must sit with the natural landscape
and seek to open inner channels of communication. I suppose there
are ways to make the connection or than the meditative form. For
example, painting an object may be a good form of extended
communication. The artist may not consciously be attempting to
establish a direct spiritual link, but I suspect it happens at the
subconscious level. It’s all pretty subjective.
Actually, I am unsure of the full nature of my communications with
natural objects, but I do believe that I sense their energy fields,
both as individual objects and as collections in a gestalt. Sensing
energy fields, or what I interpret as such, allows me to relate to
the non-human world in a highly personal way. This having been said,
I would still be hard pressed to prove any feeling or perception
that I experience as induced by the “vibrations” of the natural
object. For now, it must remain a faith-based enterprise for me, but
the subject merits further discussion.
How does one begin the communing process? I can only relate how
it happens for me. With Lake Michigan, firstly, there is the vast
expanse of blue, blue-green, and gray water that occupies my field
of vision punctuated by sparkling streaks and patches. The shapes
and colors are exhibited on a grand scale. One cannot easily ignore
the spectacle. Then there are the moods of the lake where its
exhibits its serene and turbulent sides. Thirdly, there is the life
within. The lake is far more than its surface. There is the sensing
on the skin of lake breezes and the variety of smells associated
with the lake and its environs. One gains an awareness of and
appreciation for the patterns of light that are reflected by the
waters.
I try to sensitize myself to all these aspects of the lake, and
at some point, I feel I gain access to something deeper. Call it the
spirit of the lake, if you will. I believe that I ultimately connect
with the underlying patterns of energy that emanate from the
physical forms, but the deeper access does not happen every time. In
fact, what I would interpret as a true communing is a relatively
infrequent occurrence for me. My particular life experiences do not
promote the deeper communications. I’m often concentrating on
numbers and various comparisons, but deeper communications do occur.
As a defense of this belief, I would refer readers to “Science and
the Akashic Field” by Ervin Laszio and “Science and Human
Transformation” by William Tiller. Nor I think that deep
communications with natural landscapes occur for most people. In
particular, in our western society, one’s contact with a large
body of water such as Michigan remains primarily through
recreational and/or business pursuits, but enough of my musings.
Leaving Lake Michigan, we entered the interior of the U.P.
heading for Lake Superior. The route along the way was one of
scrubby re-growth forests dominated by acres and acres of
nondescript maple, birch, spruce, tamarack, and fir with little hint
of the truly impressive virgin areas of the Porcupine Mountains,
Sylvania, the Huron Mountain Club or several small old growth
remnants. Most of the U.P. has been severely cut-over, and today,
offers little of interest for big tree and/or old growth
enthusiasts. That is just the way it is.
However, despite the on-the-ground forest reality, even in the
logged over areas, the U.P. exudes a simple, if un-resistible,
charm. The easy pace, past Indian culture and its aftermath as
reflected in colorful place names, the scenic Porcupine Mountains,
the varied topography, fauna, and flora of the peninsulas that jut
into the Great Lakes, and of course the miles of shoreline make
Michigan’s U.P. an unforgettable summer vacation spot. But, for
wimps such as myself, winter is a different story. The U.P.’s
character changes. Heavy snow and blizzard conditions are the norm,
especially on the Keweenaw Peninsula. Keweenaw is known for
its snowfall totals and competes with the Tug Hill Plateau in New
York as the East’s snowiest inhabited place. Keweenaw has long
been recognized, but national awareness of Tug Hill has been less
so, until recent years. It is turning into a real competition.
In the winter of 1976-77, Hooker, NY received an astounding 467
inches of snow. I have seen numbers as high as 390 inches of snow
for sites on the Keweenaw, but I seriously doubt that the 390 number
is the record. I was amazed to learn that Herman, Michigan averages
236 inches of snow per year. I think that is tops in the East for a
town and the Porcupine Mountains may receive even more snow. I’ve
never seen any firm records presented for the Porkies , but Lee
Frelich is aware of some pretty heavy snow totals.
Once in the vicinity of Lake Superior, Monica showed an elevated
interest and with good reason. We found an overlook that allowed us
to gaze out over Grand Island and the bay it forms. Grand Island
definitely caught Monica’s attention with its attractive covering
of conifers. I was counting on Superior to convert her to a Great
Lakes enthusiast even if the seemingly limitless expanse of waters
would never become her first choice for a preferred lake
environment. Yet, the sheer size of Superior, its immense presence
is bound to eventually make converts. Consider its vital
statistics. Lake Superior is the largest freshwater lake in
the world based on surface area. Its area is an amazing 31,820
square miles - about the land area of Maine. Superior’s depth is
also impressive. Its average is 482 feet and its maximum depth is
1,332 feet. Superior’s volume is an enormous 2,900 cubic miles,
over twice the volume of Michigan at 1,180 cubic miles. At 5,700
cubic miles, only Lake Baikal in Siberia has a larger volume of
freshwater, but for me, Superior will always be king.
After our rendezvous with Grand Island, time began working
against us, so we pushed on toward the eastern edge of the Porcupine
Mountains. I had a motel in mind for the evening close to the lake,
but as we reached it, we learned that it had fallen on hard times.
Its doors were firmly locked. But on that evening, luck was with us
and we found a delightful cabin right on the shores of Lake
Superior. It was idyllic. The cabin had two bedrooms, a
refrigerator, stove, and screened in porch. Green ash trees shaded
the cabin, but were open enough to allow us to gaze out on the
waters. The area around the cabins was artfully and lovingly
landscaped. We were even able to make a small fire from drift wood
in the outdoor fireplace provided to the cabin. Neither Monica nor I
could imagine a better place.
As I collected wood for the fire, I thought about the largest of
freshwater lakes on the planet. Its 2,725-mile shoreline mostly in
areas of low to very low population density has allowed Superior to
retain a very natural feel. While I maintained the fire, Monica sat
on the beech and watched the growing sunset. It was gorgeous. She
wanted to stay a second night, but our schedule was getting squeezed
so we decided to continue our trip the following day. We both agreed
that we would return to the cabin. Its only negative was its very
soft double-bed that left both of us with a sleep debt the following
morning, but debt or no debt, neither of us would dream of trading
the experience.
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TOPIC: June 24th
http://groups.google.com/group/entstrees/browse_thread/thread/b32cc253f6a3cdb2?hl=en
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== 1 of 2 ==
Date: Wed, Aug 13 2008 6:21 am
From: doncbragg@netscape.net
Bob--
Having spent 6 years at Michigan Technological University (in
Houghton, on the base of the Keweenaw Peninsula) as an undergraduate
then graduate student, I feel qualified to add some commentary to
your experiences in the UP...
First, don't be too quick to write off the wonders of the pasty.
My first few experiences with them (bland objects served in the MTU
dorm cafeteria) almost caused me to write them off. Shortly
after I started dating the woman who would eventually become my
wife, I went on a "Copper Country Cruise" with her and her
parents, and we stopped at a little pasty shop in the small town of
Ahmeek. Connie's Kitchen served up pasties that far exceeded
anything I had to that point, and while this little spot has long
since closed, I have been able to find a number of other good pasty
joints--and several that weren't so good... A piping hot
pasty, with either gravy or ketchup, during those long UP winters
really does hit the spot. Gotta get them with rutabaga,
though!
My first winter as a student at MTU saw over 325 inches of snowfall at
the Houghton Airport, which is above normal, even for then.
The winter of 1978-79 saw 390 inches of snow fall in the old mining
town of Delaware, Michigan, further up the Keweenaw Peninsula, and a
supersized "snow stick" along US-41 shows what this
looks like (http://www.roadtripamerica.com/roadside/Michigan-Mohawk-Snow-Stick.htm).
Of course, this snow did not all fall at once, and the light, fluffy
lake effect=2
0snow compacts well, but I remember 3 feet or more of snow in the
woods most of the winters I was there. Delaware averages over
240 inches of snow every year, and I think the Keweenaw Peninsula is
the snowiest place east of the Rockies, as its position in Lake
Superior means it is constantly exposed to lake effect snow.
The more famous snowbelts in the northeast get a lot of snow,
but lake effect snow stops when the Great Lakes freeze over, and
Lake Superior rarely does...
Don
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Don C. Bragg, Ph.D.
Research Forester
USDA Forest Service
Southern Research Station
DonCBragg@netscape.net
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The opinions expressed in this message are my own, and not
necessarily those of the Southern Research Station, the Forest
Service, or the USDA.
== 2 of 2 ==
Date: Wed, Aug 13 2008 7:51 am
From: dbhguru@comcast.net
Don,
Thanks for weighing in. You've convinced me. There will be another
pasty in my future.
Bob
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