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"Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams,
her islands and bays are for sportsmen." Twenty-five years later, I went back up to Door County, Wisconsin this past February, just for a weekend road trip. Everything around Egg Harbor, Fish Creek, Ephraim, Sister Bay, Ellison Bay (on the Green Bay side) looked pretty much as I remembered it, and Bailey's Harbor (on the Lake side) looked exactly the same. I decided then and there to come back up in warmer weather. Looked like a good place to spend some time in a small boat. The bay side is a tourist mecca of long standing, mobbed, in the season, by tens of thousands escaping the summer heat of Chicago and Milwaukee as well as sizeable contingents from other areas, all milling about in a snarled and clotted throng of bodies and cars and boats, and all dedicated soaking up the scenic beauty, the quiet remoteness, while unloading obscene quantities of cash and credit on real estate, "art," construction, "art", pottery, "art," anything and everything to do with cherries, "art," mediocre wines, t-shirts, fudge, "art," para-sailing, fishboils, and "art." Not surprisingly, condos, cottages, hotels, motels, B&B's, McMansions, resorts, and hideaways play a huge and ever increasing role in attracting an ever increasing clientele in search of scenic splendor and seclusion. Fortunately, geography and climate have conspired to limit the worst of the desecration to the bay side. Look at Lake Michigan on a map, and imagine a northeast wind coming in off the lake at thirty miles an hour. Unfortunately, even the relatively harsh conditions on the east side of the peninsula no longer provide sufficient insulation. The crowds have gotten so large that, lemming-like, they spill over, and shoreline that has remained pristine for millennia since the glaciers receded has seen a recent bloom of mostly summer homes, though a lot of retirees are now beginning to take up permanent residence. Meanwhile, the very best of Door County, the islands, remain, mostly, undeveloped. Washington Island, by far the largest with an area of roughly 22 square miles (if you discount the fact that the entire upper half of the county is now technically an island since the completion of Sturgeon Bay ship canal in the late 19th century), has a permanent resident population of a few hundred and several dozen businesses catering to tourists (in addition the few that serve the needs of the residents), up by a factor of ten, I would guess, since I last crossed the island on my way to...... Rock Island, the jewel in the crown. As such things go in this day and age, Rock Island is hard to get to. Unless you own a shallow draft vessel, like a kayak for instance, the only way to get there is to take the car ferry from Northport (at the northern extremity of the peninsula) to Washington Island, drive all the way across it from southwest to northeast, and then take the passenger ferry across. Rock Island is a state park. The Wisconsin DNR prohibits motor vehicles (except for a couple of services vehicles they keep there themselves, for maintenance) on the island. Even bicycles are prohibited. The only permanent structures on the island (apart from a few reputed but invisible ruins of days long ago) are a magnificent boat house, a small residence, and a few associated outbuildings erected by the former owner, Chester Thordarson (short biographical selections are available on line.....and are worth looking at), and constructed in a style reminiscent of his native Iceland using limestone quarried on the island, and a lighthouse owned and maintained by the U.S. Coast Guard. As the name suggests, the island is.....rock. One single large rock, as a matter of fact, like all the islands up there. One single large rock that defied the last glacier, although, being nowhere more than a hundred feet or so above lake level, it may be seen as a minimal defiance. At any rate, all of it being covered by a lush forest, it wouldn't occur to one that it is a rock unless one sees the shoreline. Viewing from outside, one sees that the entire shoreline consists of limestone bluffs, ranging from a couple of feet in height to around sixty on the northwest side. The entire shoreline, that is, except for about a half mile on the southeast side, where the prevailing winds have blown sand up over the short bluffs, in the process creating a beach worthy of a tropical isle. So, what has all of this got to do with fishing? Good God, people, there is water EVERYWHERE up there! Well, almost everywhere. In a seeming paradox (in a state with 72 counties and over 15,000 named lakes......you do the math) Door County has only eleven inland lakes that I can find on a map. Yeah, I know, "inland lakes" sounds redundant. But anyone who has seen Superior, Michigan, Huron, or even Erie or Ontario knows the need for the term. Anyway, my primary objective was simply to paddle from Washington to Rock, set up camp, and then spend the next day paddling around Rock Island. Not a terribly ambitious undertaking as it is only something like 7 miles (my own estimate, based on the fact that the trail around the perimeter is roughly 6), so I should have some time to fish. Unfortunately, the day started later than I had planned. What with breaking camp on Washington Island, where I'd spent Friday night, and then poking around until I found a place to get breakfast (nothing opens very early on the island), I was already way behind schedule. Things got worse when I arrived at the restaurant just ahead of another patron. As I reached for the doorknob, I happened to look to my left and there, clinging to the exterior wall in their hundreds were......bugs! Not just any bugs, mind you , BIG bugs......the HEX! Huh? Hex.....in the big lake? Well, o.k., think about it. Protected bays and coves......never see any substantial wave action. Bottom is covered in loon ****. Not the thick black oozy stuff you see in streams......grayish tannish stuff, marl, but loon **** nevertheless. Clean (relatively) water and plenty of oxygen and organic detritus for food. Perfect environment for hex. Well, I be go ta hell! So, the other prospective patron stops to see what I'm peering at and I explain......in exhaustive detail. He is obviously interested, so I go on at even greater length, pointing out several other mayflies, the odd crane fly, midges, caddis......all sort of yummy bugs. The hex was a mixed bag, duns and spinners. The duns are darker than I remembered.....MUCH darker.....nearly black. Eventually, breakfast over, I made my way to Jackson harbor and, eschewing the ferry (which wasn't due to depart for another hour anyway) I started to rig up to paddle the mile and a half across to Rock Island. Hm......how to carry all this **** (tent, tarp, sleeping bag, foam pad, a small lantern, fuel bottle, fishing gear, bottle of wine, spare clothes, etc.) on one small kayak? Foresight! I brought a trailer (aka belly-boat). Tent and sleeping back got strapped on the fore and aft decks, respectively, and the rest went in the trailer. One carabiner on the aft carrying handle, one at the D-ring on the back of the belly-boat, and a twenty foot piece of rope completed the rig. Off I went. Pulling a trailer behind a kayak is a slow business. Nevertheless, I made pretty good time covering the distance. Then I remembered that I would have to carry all the stuff to the campground over by the beach, a third of a mile overland from the boathouse dock/check in point if I stopped there.....and there probably wouldn't be anyone there before the ferry arrived anyway. So I changed course to veer around the southeast corner and pull up directly on the beach. It was in this leg of the voyage that I confirmed the rumors that, with the lake level being near historic lows, it is actually possible to WALK from Washington to Rock, albeit with wet feet. I learned later that it is done fairly often these days, and that one man died in the attempt last year. Drowned. Apparently lost his way (sometimes the path is not entirely clear under low light conditions) and got caught in one of the nasty and ever changing cross currents that plague these waters. It is not for nothing that the passage between the mainland and Washington Island (well, actually between the mainland and Plum.....but it's all very close together) is known a"Porte des Mort"......Death's Door. By the time I got done setting up camp it was nearly noon......and there were thunderstorms in the forecast for the late afternoon. No time to fish casually, just gonna have to troll a wooly bugger or something as I travel around the island. I'd been up here before, of course, and I'd also had plenty of time to look into the water and see that there were smallmouth bass and brown trout all over the place. Sometime, I will HAVE TO focus on fishing, but this time it was all about the boating and the birds and the bluffs and the amazingly clear water with a bewildering and ever changing landscape on the bottom clearly visible at depths in excess of twenty feet. I saw eagles cruising over the water looking for something to steal from the omnipresent gulls and cormorants. I saw mergansers herding their young and others battling one another over territory, a mate or, who knows, some perceived insult. Spiders.....there are spiders in a stupefying array of sizes, shapes and colors all over the island. There is a moderately sized black species that evidently specializes in the habitat among the smoothed limestone rocks that everywhere litter the shore at the base of the bluffs, extending into the water. Fast movers. They sort of flit from one stance to another.....you can't see their legs move. They're here.....then they're there. Zeno's paradox is gibberish, they say. In many places, the bottom is flat planes of limestone bedrock. In others it is fine gravel to house sized boulders of limestone......limestone everywhere. Much of it has lain on the bottom for eons; boulders the size of Volkswagens rounded by thousands of years of shifting currents and ice....being slowly sanded and ground. In some places the bottom has an eerie look of having been laid by craftsmen. Rocks of all sizes, all of them with a smooth and flat top surface, look as if they were carefully laid in a random, yet vaguely geometrical pattern......not one of them showing a substantial protuberance above the plane formed by the rest. Spooky. And it's quiet......oh Lord, it is quiet when there is no wind or surf. I looked up from a moment's reverie (or stupor, or what-have-you) at a rhythmic plopping noise. There, about a hundred feet off shore, some little fish (presumably) was ejecting itself from the water every couple of seconds, apparently in an attempt to escape from some fearsome predator below.......unaware (as I was) of the danger that lurked above. I was startled, once again, to hear a whirring, buzzing noise, and looked up just in time to see an otherwise silent herring-gull swoop down and put a sudden end to the contest. I've been around gulls most of my life, but this was the first time I ever heard a sound like that, just the air rushing over wing feathers in a power dive. I heard the swish, swish, swish of an eagle's wing beats from a hundred fifty yards away. Preternaturally quiet. I've never before experienced such quiet in the bright light of day, out in the open. Didn't catch any fish. Even paddling very slowly while looking at and photographing the bluffs, my wooly bugger just skimmed the surface. Besides, despite some scary quick drop-offs and surprisingly deep holes, for this close to shore, I was typically in less than two feet of water. The evidence suggests that the drop-offs, of which there is simply no end, would be prime structure for lurking smallmouths and other choice prey (even the charter boats will sometimes be within casting distance of shore), and I saw a VERY large something, salmon or trout, rise entirely out of the water not fifty feet from me at one point, but fishing just wasn't in the picture this time around. Maybe next time. Oh yeah, the mystery. Some of you may recall that I asked for opinions some time ago about what species of mayfly a not dimly enough remembered plague (as I saw it at the time) from my childhood on Kangaroo Lake in Door County might be. I described it at the time as being fairly large, black, and prolific beyond belief. Well, yesterday, en route for home, I stopped at the marl bottomed Kangaroo Lake and noticed that the property next to the one once owned by my father's cousin Sam, which is to say right next to where I was horrified by the infestation of killer bugs, still had the same name and is apparently engaged in a business catering to the general public.....selling beer steins and clocks (of all things, out there in the middle of nowhere). Since the public was obviously welcome, I put aside concerns about being shot as a trespasser, drove in and introduced myself to the woman minding the shop. It turns out she is the daughter-in-law of the proprietor who I knew there when it was a resort back in my childhood. She remembered Sam and my father and all the rest of the extended clan. We chatted for a while and I promised to send her a bunch of photos from way back in the 50s. As I was on my way out the door, I stopped, turned, and said oh by the way, do you happen to know if there's a big mayfly hatch here about this time of year? Mayfly hatch? Lemme tell ya!!!.........yadda, yadda!!! Sonofabitch! It was the ****in' hex! ![]() Wolfgang |
#2
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Wolfgang wrote:
"Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams, her islands and bays are for sportsmen." Twenty-five years later, I went back up to Door County, Wisconsin this past February, just for a weekend road trip. Everything around Egg Harbor, Fish Creek, Ephraim, Sister Bay, Ellison Bay (on the Green Bay side) looked pretty much as I remembered it, and Bailey's Harbor (on the Lake side) looked exactly the same. I decided then and there to come back up in warmer weather. Looked like a good place to spend some time in a small boat. The bay side is a tourist mecca of long standing, mobbed, in the season, by tens of thousands escaping the summer heat of Chicago and Milwaukee as well as sizeable contingents from other areas, all milling about in a snarled and clotted throng of bodies and cars and boats, and all dedicated soaking up the scenic beauty, the quiet remoteness, while unloading obscene quantities of cash and credit on real estate, "art," construction, "art", pottery, "art," anything and everything to do with cherries, "art," mediocre wines, t-shirts, fudge, "art," para-sailing, fishboils, and "art." Not surprisingly, condos, cottages, hotels, motels, B&B's, McMansions, resorts, and hideaways play a huge and ever increasing role in attracting an ever increasing clientele in search of scenic splendor and seclusion. Fortunately, geography and climate have conspired to limit the worst of the desecration to the bay side. Look at Lake Michigan on a map, and imagine a northeast wind coming in off the lake at thirty miles an hour. Unfortunately, even the relatively harsh conditions on the east side of the peninsula no longer provide sufficient insulation. The crowds have gotten so large that, lemming-like, they spill over, and shoreline that has remained pristine for millennia since the glaciers receded has seen a recent bloom of mostly summer homes, though a lot of retirees are now beginning to take up permanent residence. Meanwhile, the very best of Door County, the islands, remain, mostly, undeveloped. Washington Island, by far the largest with an area of roughly 22 square miles (if you discount the fact that the entire upper half of the county is now technically an island since the completion of Sturgeon Bay ship canal in the late 19th century), has a permanent resident population of a few hundred and several dozen businesses catering to tourists (in addition the few that serve the needs of the residents), up by a factor of ten, I would guess, since I last crossed the island on my way to...... Rock Island, the jewel in the crown. As such things go in this day and age, Rock Island is hard to get to. Unless you own a shallow draft vessel, like a kayak for instance, the only way to get there is to take the car ferry from Northport (at the northern extremity of the peninsula) to Washington Island, drive all the way across it from southwest to northeast, and then take the passenger ferry across. Rock Island is a state park. The Wisconsin DNR prohibits motor vehicles (except for a couple of services vehicles they keep there themselves, for maintenance) on the island. Even bicycles are prohibited. The only permanent structures on the island (apart from a few reputed but invisible ruins of days long ago) are a magnificent boat house, a small residence, and a few associated outbuildings erected by the former owner, Chester Thordarson (short biographical selections are available on line.....and are worth looking at), and constructed in a style reminiscent of his native Iceland using limestone quarried on the island, and a lighthouse owned and maintained by the U.S. Coast Guard. As the name suggests, the island is.....rock. One single large rock, as a matter of fact, like all the islands up there. One single large rock that defied the last glacier, although, being nowhere more than a hundred feet or so above lake level, it may be seen as a minimal defiance. At any rate, all of it being covered by a lush forest, it wouldn't occur to one that it is a rock unless one sees the shoreline. Viewing from outside, one sees that the entire shoreline consists of limestone bluffs, ranging from a couple of feet in height to around sixty on the northwest side. The entire shoreline, that is, except for about a half mile on the southeast side, where the prevailing winds have blown sand up over the short bluffs, in the process creating a beach worthy of a tropical isle. So, what has all of this got to do with fishing? Good God, people, there is water EVERYWHERE up there! Well, almost everywhere. In a seeming paradox (in a state with 72 counties and over 15,000 named lakes......you do the math) Door County has only eleven inland lakes that I can find on a map. Yeah, I know, "inland lakes" sounds redundant. But anyone who has seen Superior, Michigan, Huron, or even Erie or Ontario knows the need for the term. Anyway, my primary objective was simply to paddle from Washington to Rock, set up camp, and then spend the next day paddling around Rock Island. Not a terribly ambitious undertaking as it is only something like 7 miles (my own estimate, based on the fact that the trail around the perimeter is roughly 6), so I should have some time to fish. Unfortunately, the day started later than I had planned. What with breaking camp on Washington Island, where I'd spent Friday night, and then poking around until I found a place to get breakfast (nothing opens very early on the island), I was already way behind schedule. Things got worse when I arrived at the restaurant just ahead of another patron. As I reached for the doorknob, I happened to look to my left and there, clinging to the exterior wall in their hundreds were......bugs! Not just any bugs, mind you , BIG bugs......the HEX! Huh? Hex.....in the big lake? Well, o.k., think about it. Protected bays and coves......never see any substantial wave action. Bottom is covered in loon ****. Not the thick black oozy stuff you see in streams......grayish tannish stuff, marl, but loon **** nevertheless. Clean (relatively) water and plenty of oxygen and organic detritus for food. Perfect environment for hex. Well, I be go ta hell! So, the other prospective patron stops to see what I'm peering at and I explain......in exhaustive detail. He is obviously interested, so I go on at even greater length, pointing out several other mayflies, the odd crane fly, midges, caddis......all sort of yummy bugs. The hex was a mixed bag, duns and spinners. The duns are darker than I remembered.....MUCH darker.....nearly black. Eventually, breakfast over, I made my way to Jackson harbor and, eschewing the ferry (which wasn't due to depart for another hour anyway) I started to rig up to paddle the mile and a half across to Rock Island. Hm......how to carry all this **** (tent, tarp, sleeping bag, foam pad, a small lantern, fuel bottle, fishing gear, bottle of wine, spare clothes, etc.) on one small kayak? Foresight! I brought a trailer (aka belly-boat). Tent and sleeping back got strapped on the fore and aft decks, respectively, and the rest went in the trailer. One carabiner on the aft carrying handle, one at the D-ring on the back of the belly-boat, and a twenty foot piece of rope completed the rig. Off I went. Pulling a trailer behind a kayak is a slow business. Nevertheless, I made pretty good time covering the distance. Then I remembered that I would have to carry all the stuff to the campground over by the beach, a third of a mile overland from the boathouse dock/check in point if I stopped there.....and there probably wouldn't be anyone there before the ferry arrived anyway. So I changed course to veer around the southeast corner and pull up directly on the beach. It was in this leg of the voyage that I confirmed the rumors that, with the lake level being near historic lows, it is actually possible to WALK from Washington to Rock, albeit with wet feet. I learned later that it is done fairly often these days, and that one man died in the attempt last year. Drowned. Apparently lost his way (sometimes the path is not entirely clear under low light conditions) and got caught in one of the nasty and ever changing cross currents that plague these waters. It is not for nothing that the passage between the mainland and Washington Island (well, actually between the mainland and Plum.....but it's all very close together) is known a"Porte des Mort"......Death's Door. By the time I got done setting up camp it was nearly noon......and there were thunderstorms in the forecast for the late afternoon. No time to fish casually, just gonna have to troll a wooly bugger or something as I travel around the island. I'd been up here before, of course, and I'd also had plenty of time to look into the water and see that there were smallmouth bass and brown trout all over the place. Sometime, I will HAVE TO focus on fishing, but this time it was all about the boating and the birds and the bluffs and the amazingly clear water with a bewildering and ever changing landscape on the bottom clearly visible at depths in excess of twenty feet. I saw eagles cruising over the water looking for something to steal from the omnipresent gulls and cormorants. I saw mergansers herding their young and others battling one another over territory, a mate or, who knows, some perceived insult. Spiders.....there are spiders in a stupefying array of sizes, shapes and colors all over the island. There is a moderately sized black species that evidently specializes in the habitat among the smoothed limestone rocks that everywhere litter the shore at the base of the bluffs, extending into the water. Fast movers. They sort of flit from one stance to another.....you can't see their legs move. They're here.....then they're there. Zeno's paradox is gibberish, they say. In many places, the bottom is flat planes of limestone bedrock. In others it is fine gravel to house sized boulders of limestone......limestone everywhere. Much of it has lain on the bottom for eons; boulders the size of Volkswagens rounded by thousands of years of shifting currents and ice....being slowly sanded and ground. In some places the bottom has an eerie look of having been laid by craftsmen. Rocks of all sizes, all of them with a smooth and flat top surface, look as if they were carefully laid in a random, yet vaguely geometrical pattern......not one of them showing a substantial protuberance above the plane formed by the rest. Spooky. And it's quiet......oh Lord, it is quiet when there is no wind or surf. I looked up from a moment's reverie (or stupor, or what-have-you) at a rhythmic plopping noise. There, about a hundred feet off shore, some little fish (presumably) was ejecting itself from the water every couple of seconds, apparently in an attempt to escape from some fearsome predator below.......unaware (as I was) of the danger that lurked above. I was startled, once again, to hear a whirring, buzzing noise, and looked up just in time to see an otherwise silent herring-gull swoop down and put a sudden end to the contest. I've been around gulls most of my life, but this was the first time I ever heard a sound like that, just the air rushing over wing feathers in a power dive. I heard the swish, swish, swish of an eagle's wing beats from a hundred fifty yards away. Preternaturally quiet. I've never before experienced such quiet in the bright light of day, out in the open. Didn't catch any fish. Even paddling very slowly while looking at and photographing the bluffs, my wooly bugger just skimmed the surface. Besides, despite some scary quick drop-offs and surprisingly deep holes, for this close to shore, I was typically in less than two feet of water. The evidence suggests that the drop-offs, of which there is simply no end, would be prime structure for lurking smallmouths and other choice prey (even the charter boats will sometimes be within casting distance of shore), and I saw a VERY large something, salmon or trout, rise entirely out of the water not fifty feet from me at one point, but fishing just wasn't in the picture this time around. Maybe next time. Oh yeah, the mystery. Some of you may recall that I asked for opinions some time ago about what species of mayfly a not dimly enough remembered plague (as I saw it at the time) from my childhood on Kangaroo Lake in Door County might be. I described it at the time as being fairly large, black, and prolific beyond belief. Well, yesterday, en route for home, I stopped at the marl bottomed Kangaroo Lake and noticed that the property next to the one once owned by my father's cousin Sam, which is to say right next to where I was horrified by the infestation of killer bugs, still had the same name and is apparently engaged in a business catering to the general public.....selling beer steins and clocks (of all things, out there in the middle of nowhere). Since the public was obviously welcome, I put aside concerns about being shot as a trespasser, drove in and introduced myself to the woman minding the shop. It turns out she is the daughter-in-law of the proprietor who I knew there when it was a resort back in my childhood. She remembered Sam and my father and all the rest of the extended clan. We chatted for a while and I promised to send her a bunch of photos from way back in the 50s. As I was on my way out the door, I stopped, turned, and said oh by the way, do you happen to know if there's a big mayfly hatch here about this time of year? Mayfly hatch? Lemme tell ya!!!.........yadda, yadda!!! Sonofabitch! It was the ****in' hex! ![]() Wolfgang enjoyable...as usual. thanks. jeff |
#3
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![]() "jeff" wrote in message ... enjoyable...as usual. Were I a "writer," or did I aspire to being one, I would despair over the impossibility of making the reportage as enjoyable as the trip. It was a wonderful weekend, filled with enough events and (perhaps more importantly) non-events to fill a book (which it will not) and a photo album (which it did). Oddly enough, not the trip itself, but at least the timing, was inspired in part by a truly dreadful writer. Norbert Blei was just another name I'd heard off and on over the years, just another "regional" writer (an apt enough description in this instance whatever one may feel about it in general) who happened to specialize in Door County. I'd been thinking about this trip for a while....for several years, actually.....ever since John (goddamn the pusher-man) introduced me to kayaking in Penns Creek. So, falling prey (however briefly) to an uncharacteristic streak of self-discipline, I was working my way methodically through one of the "to be read" stacks about a week and a half ago when what should pop up on the top but Blei's "Door to Door," an unconscionably self absorbed and self-satisfied orgy of smug and pretentious gruel about "Art," "artists," (including, not a bit surprisingly) "WRITERS," misogyny, nascent "New-Age" pop-crap, Door County "characters," Santa Fe, sublimated (if only barely) lust for one's best friend's wife, Jungian blather, broadcast wholesale contempt........well the list goes on and on.. Pure, unadulterated ****. Amazing. Got great critical reviews from people who certainly knew better.......even in 1985. Anyway, Becky's got the house up for sale......got a showing.......I need to be gone Sunday. O.k., no problem. Where to go? Hm........ ![]() thanks. You're welcome. Wolfgang |
#4
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On Mon, 18 Jun 2007 14:15:10 -0500, "Wolfgang" wrote:
"Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams, her islands and bays are for sportsmen." That's good stuff, Wolfie. Cheers. /daytripper |
#5
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![]() "daytripper" wrote in message ... On Mon, 18 Jun 2007 14:15:10 -0500, "Wolfgang" wrote: "Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams, her islands and bays are for sportsmen." That's good stuff, Wolfie. Cheers. Thanks. And I assume you know that the line quoted above is not my own, but for those who might be laboring under a misapprehension, it's Gordon Lightfoot's. Wolfgang |
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On Mon, 18 Jun 2007 14:15:10 -0500, "Wolfgang"
wrote: "Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams, her islands and bays are for sportsmen." *snipped* Sonofabitch! It was the ****in' hex! ![]() Wolfgang Walk there you say? Sounds like un-nerving fun. Nice TR. g.c. |
#7
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![]() "Wolfgang" wrote in message ... "jeff" wrote in message ... enjoyable...as usual. Were I a "writer," or did I aspire to being one, I would despair over the impossibility of making the reportage as enjoyable as the trip. It was a wonderful weekend, filled with enough events and (perhaps more importantly) non-events to fill a book (which it will not) and a photo album (which it did). Oddly enough, not the trip itself, but at least the timing, was inspired in part by a truly dreadful writer. Norbert Blei was just another name I'd heard off and on over the years, just another "regional" writer (an apt enough description in this instance whatever one may feel about it in general) who happened to specialize in Door County. I'd been thinking about this trip for a while....for several years, actually.....ever since John (goddamn the pusher-man) introduced me to kayaking in Penns Creek. So, falling prey (however briefly) to an uncharacteristic streak of self-discipline, I was working my way methodically through one of the "to be read" stacks about a week and a half ago when what should pop up on the top but Blei's "Door to Door," an unconscionably self absorbed and self-satisfied orgy of smug and pretentious gruel about "Art," "artists," (including, not a bit surprisingly) "WRITERS," misogyny, nascent "New-Age" pop-crap, Door County "characters," Santa Fe, sublimated (if only barely) lust for one's best friend's wife, Jungian blather, broadcast wholesale contempt........well the list goes on and on.. Pure, unadulterated ****. Amazing. Got great critical reviews from people who certainly knew better.......even in 1985. Anyway, Becky's got the house up for sale......got a showing.......I need to be gone Sunday. O.k., no problem. Where to go? Hm........ ![]() thanks. You're welcome. Wolfgang ....you gotta work Monday? john |
#8
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Wolfgang wrote:
"jeff" wrote in message ... enjoyable...as usual. Were I a "writer," or did I aspire to being one, I would despair over the impossibility of making the reportage as enjoyable as the trip. It was a wonderful weekend, filled with enough events and (perhaps more importantly) non-events to fill a book (which it will not) and a photo album (which it did). Oddly enough, not the trip itself, but at least the timing, was inspired in part by a truly dreadful writer. Norbert Blei was just another name I'd heard off and on over the years, just another "regional" writer (an apt enough description in this instance whatever one may feel about it in general) who happened to specialize in Door County. I'd been thinking about this trip for a while....for several years, actually.....ever since John (goddamn the pusher-man) introduced me to kayaking in Penns Creek. So, falling prey (however briefly) to an uncharacteristic streak of self-discipline, I was working my way methodically through one of the "to be read" stacks about a week and a half ago when what should pop up on the top but Blei's "Door to Door," an unconscionably self absorbed and self-satisfied orgy of smug and pretentious gruel about "Art," "artists," (including, not a bit surprisingly) "WRITERS," misogyny, nascent "New-Age" pop-crap, Door County "characters," Santa Fe, sublimated (if only barely) lust for one's best friend's wife, Jungian blather, broadcast wholesale contempt........well the list goes on and on.. Pure, unadulterated ****. Amazing. Got great critical reviews from people who certainly knew better.......even in 1985. Anyway, Becky's got the house up for sale......got a showing.......I need to be gone Sunday. O.k., no problem. Where to go? Hm........ ![]() thanks. You're welcome. Wolfgang these vicarious trips provide unique views i honestly enjoy...your writing and perceptions are always an added benefit of the trip. i assume we passed near the portal to the area you describe when we drove down the eastern side of wisconsin at the conclusion of my first visit? i look forward to reading the results of your future fishing forays around the island. as my legs weaken, i find some comfort in the access to quiet places that can be found in boats of all types. jeff |
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![]() "asadi" wrote in message t... ...you gotta work Monday? Yep, afraid so. And this coming weekend will be used up in apartment hunting, packing, etc. ![]() Wolfgang |
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![]() "jeff" wrote in message ... these vicarious trips provide unique views i honestly enjoy...your writing and perceptions are always an added benefit of the trip. Fortunately, living vicariously is cheap, safe, devoid of the most direct and immediate effects of unpleasantness and, let us say, less than taxing. We're all going to be doing more and more of it as gravity exercises its inexorable influence on accumulated years. ![]() i assume we passed near the portal to the area you describe when we drove down the eastern side of wisconsin at the conclusion of my first visit? I've discovered that I've got a very poor memory for the details of excursions....you may recall that I'd entirely forgotten we went through Marquette on that trip. But, yeah, I know we came down along the lake shore, so we must have gone through Green Bay. Had we turned left there, we'd have been within half an hour's drive of Door County. i look forward to reading the results of your future fishing forays around the island. as my legs weaken, i find some comfort in the access to quiet places that can be found in boats of all types. One of these days I'll have to do a trip in which the focus is fishing, just because there's so much water and the fish are there. However, it's not my favorite venue for fishing. Unless my legs give out sooner than yours (admittedly, a reasonable enough proposition) you may have to wait a while. Wolfgang |
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