BEACH ICE

Lake Michigan has over 80% ice cover. I was here on the beach last week on a warm, sunny day and I was comfortable as a spring afternoon. It’s supposed to be wet and wavy, even when it’s cold but the lake-scape is stiff and rigid, with hard, crunchy convolutions growing up out of the deep, stretching out as far as the eye can see. 

Yesterday was clear and cold, like it's supposed to be and the edge on the wind made you want to look away. In all the world, Duane Watson is my best friend and yesterday we went to see the ice. He teaches biology at Allendale High School, where I retired some 13 years ago. He took an impromptu survey among his students and none of them had been to the lake shore this winter to see the ice. He scolded them for it; it may be a long time before it freezes like this again. Then he realized that he hadn’t been either, so he invited me to go with him to check out the ice. He said he wasn’t going to go out on it, just look through the glass and marvel at nature’s handiwork. 

The view from the road was awful so he parked in the lot at Bil-Mar Restaurant. We had to get out; couldn’t see over the snow heaps and started down toward the water’s edge. I took a few photos and looked up; he was out on the ice, walking away. When I caught up I said, “I thought you weren’t going to walk out on the ice.” It was a no-brainer; how do you, not walk on the ice? Looking back, we could see the top few inches of snow fence, sticking out of the snow just a few feet from where waves lap up in July. “How deep do you think it is here?” he asked. I figured it would be 6 or 8 ft deep but crunchy snow on top of the ice made it feel like the beach. Another hundred meters and the ice turned up at a steep angle. 

That was when the lunar syndrome kicked in and I couldn’t miss the metaphor, “It’s like being on Mars.” Duane laughed and we made our way down the other side. It was a miniature mountain range, like the Andes of Chile, 150 meters off shore, created by ice and wave action.  You couldn’t see north of the lighthouse but you didn’t have to. The jagged, icy discontinuity ran all the way north to Mackinaw, 200 miles up the shore. “Ain’t it great?” he said, talking to himself. I took more photos and saw he was going out onto the broken ice. It was a jumble that had fractured, shifted and refrozen, like a boulder field of ice. Several crevices went down a few feet to clear ice. It looked like one might fall through so we pulled up a big chunk and slammed it down on the thin spot. It clunked like a concrete block on the driveway. Not to worry about falling through. 

It was cold and I wore the wrong hat. After all, we weren’t going out on the ice. Heading back we got a view seldom seen. It was the shore line from a quarter mile out in the lake. I asked Duane, “How long has it been since someone walked on water?” He didn’t know, thought maybe we were the first since JC but all the foot prints in the snow suggested it wasn’t special anymore. I’m heading off for South Korea next week. Next time I’m in Grand Haven we’ll all be bare-foot and shorts and the beach will be full of kite flyers. 

TURKEYS & LOONS

I drove all day yesterday; needed headlights the last half hour. The driveway was fresh plowed but in the meadow, snow is waist deep. Another inch or two of lake effect fell by bed time. This morning I disturbed two turkeys who were pecking in the driveway. They were between my truck and the barn and didn’t see me until I was close. If I’d bent over and pecked at the ground they might have let it pass. But there was a hurried set of muffled wing beats and they lifted off, up into the trees. Thirty feet up they perched, one in one tree, one in another, observing me as if I were the wild one. 

The drive into town was slippery, anti-lock brakes chattering at every stop, and I was careful. After paper work at the bank and a hair cut, I came outside under blue sky and sunlight. I realized I didn’t need the jacket and I noticed the sound of tires on wet streets and water in drains and gutters. I was going to head for the coffee shop but decided to go to the lake shore first. I’ve walked that beach and pier so many times you might think I’d get enough but it’s a place with many faces, it's always new and I never tire of it. 

Hundreds of people were exploring the beach with coats over their arms and cameras in hand. It’s been a cold, wet winter here and wave action piles ice up on the beach, then freeze creates more ice and it gets added to the stack. Up and down the beach, ice is piled up 20-25 feet above the water line and everything is frozen solid. Small, dark pools interrupt the icy white at the river’s mouth but it’s a quarter mile out, beyond the light house before you see stretches of open water. Walking on lake ice is safer than navigating the slippery pier so as far as you can see, down the beach and out toward Wisconsin, dark specks move around and over upheaved, freshwater icebergs, locked in place until something warm and enduring happens. 

I was up on the lighthouse deck, looking north across the channel to the jetty on the other side. A congregation of loons dotted the water of an open pool and I listened to see if I could hear them. Loons are among the oldest birds alive. Their history goes back 50 million years and they’re still singing their eerie, wonderful songs. They may sound like laughter or a wolf’s howl, even yodeling during mating season. Today it was just little whistles and chirps. I remember a Canadian fishing trip where there was an abundance of both, wolves and loons. Sitting on the dock in the wee hours, we would listen, look at each other and roll our eyes. “What do you think?” Well, I think it’s been a great day, being blessed with the presence of turkeys in the morning and loons in the afternoon.

FOR THE BIRDS

Star Mississippi is easy to miss. If the light on the highway is green and you don’t have to slow down, you’d never know it was there. But I know. Just off U.S.49, behind the tall pines, the laid back, little community keeps right on ticking. I was there on Friday, last. I like to cut boards up and then put the pieces back together. When I get through I’ll have a cedar chest or a table, or maybe even a bird house. I make wren houses for my yard, my family and some of my friends. I think they are stylish and the birds love ‘em. That brings us to the Cypress connection. 

A furniture maker, friend from Livingston, Louisiana told me about Heartwood and Star, Mississippi. “You’re going to love the bird houses and it’s the best place I know to get good lumber. You can tell ‘em I sent you.” Heartwood is the business and their business is cypress birdhouses. With the office in an old silo, the shop and warehouse occupy one metal building with another, smaller one to keep cypress lumber out of the weather. Larry & Jerry Glass run the show and whatever they did before bird houses, they don’t have time for any more. There must be 30 or 40 different styles and designs and their creations are marketed all across America and around the world. 

I’m in Louisiana several times a year and lately I have reason to drive my truck. On my way back north, it’s a short side trip over to Heartwood and my friend was right; I love the bird houses and the lumber is tops. Larry gave me a tour and sent me over to sort through cypress boards, pick out what I wanted and settle up in the office. Last week was my third time through and I knew what I wanted. My lumber rack in the basement is nearly full of top grade cypress but I didn’t have one of their exotic bird houses. Now I do.