Michiganders are divided too on which part of the state they are from. The southern portion, the one shaped like a hand are called Trolls by the Yoopers, (those who live "above the bridge" in the Upper Peninsula!) and as we all know, trolls live "under the bridge" from Mackinaw on south.
The southern part of the state is the industrial hub, and the population center where the hustle and bustle of the office machines whirl and twirl, the pace is frenetic, and kinetic, the heart attack and ulcer rates skyrocket higher than the Michigan Consolidated Gas Building, and the infrastructure is crumbling, an urban rockslide leaving gaps and holes in the ghetto fabric exposing all the cities dirty little secrets. The whores, the pimps, the junkies thrive in this compost of crime. Gunfire is as prominent as crabs are in a whorehouse, and cops and corruption are engaged in a copulation of convienience. Dee-troit..where I was born and raised. I got used to it. Then..something happened. I moved away from the pollution, the factory noise, the horns, the urban congestion, as well as the culture and the excitement that exudes from a city. I did the unthinkable...I moved...UP NORTH!
The Up North of the state has always fancied itself an independent state, and could survive without the tourism provided by the Trolls of Michigan and the boaters from Illinois, Ohio and Indiana. Thats fine in summer, but in winter..it's food stamps as the official coin of the realm, and trying to earn just enough money to repair the chain saw and buy a new auger for ice fishing. It's the time of "rockin' chair money" or unemployment as any plaid and proud Yooper will proclaim..yep..and damn proud of it! So I moved there not knowing fully what to expect and fell immediately through the looking glass into a world that was completely upside down, topsy turvy and a place that defied me to define the difference between a pasty and a pastie, both edible as far as I was concerned. I've had both.
No, I did not just move up north, say to the Sunrise side of the state near Alpena, nor the Sunset side of the state near Traverse City. Like a virgin on prom night..I went all the way! All the way to the UP..the Upper Peninsula..where dwell the "yoopers" which at first sound conjur up visions of hobbits. No not the hobbits of film fame, but the hobbits you pictured when you first read one of Tolkeins books, remember those? Books? The film forced the imagery on you, the book leaves the doors of perception wide open and allows you the freedom to visualize. Yoopers, hearty souls of legend who are plaid and definitely proud and say things like "eh" to give a hard core Canadian reason to pause. It's Fargo, before there was a Fargo.
Yoopers are an original, in a class by themselves. I was ultimately absorbed into this wonderland underground counter culture without even knowing it. Like getting laid in your sleep. You don't remember what happened but you awaken with a smile, and look of contentment.
It's venison, shotguns, hunting tags, blaze orange, Pabst Blue Ribbon Bear, knotty pine and ladies pool leagues all tight jeaned hunching over a pool table, stretching the fabric even tighter than the male imagination, leaving nothing to the imagination, and Lawdy, how she could handle a pool cue!!
I took a job at a small radio station in St. Ignace, one end of the Macinac Bridge, the north end rolling gently to the Troll toll booths at the gateway to the land of Paul Bunyan, lumberjacks and jills, souvenirs and indian tribes with unpronounceable names, like some of the French names of cities and towns in Michigan that look like they were composed from an arbitray pile of Scrabble tiles that had fallen to the floor in no particular fashion.
I needed a place to live, and getting used to the smell of pines, instead of exhaust, it was inevitable that the lure of the forest would draw me out of town about 20 miles west of St. Ignace in search of that Jeremiah Johnson cabin in paradise, and damned if I'd find it..I did!
I found my private Walden, not in Idaho, but in a town near a small forest lake tucked away in the trees and full of blue gill and small bass, and on the shores of Lake Michigan which can bring down ships in a storm with the best of them and toss up a warehouse full of driftwood, logs, stumps, rocks, Petoskey Stones, and fishing line tangled, old bobbers, life jackets faded from the sun and elements, pieces of wood boats, rowing types and on ocassion, and old weathered oar that was salvaged and turned into shelving mounted on my limited wall space. The town was Brevoort..it consisted of my cabin, a house a quarter of a mile away, housing the landlord and lady, a small store with fishing supplies, bait and beer, a half mile down the highway, walkable, and traffic heading west to Wisconsin and Minnesota and east to St. Ignace and the island of Macinac. The yin and yang of US 2.
One time not far from the cabin there was a police chase. Seems one of the locals, will not mention his name as he may still be alive but was frequently seen drinking and shooting pool with me and also playing pinball at a place called Doc's Bar. One day he was so hungover, he forgot he was in a stolen car from the night before, and no, I was not with him that night! The cops knew it and saw it and chased it...he gunned it down US 2, cops in hot pursuit when he suddenly stopped the car, jumped out and ran to hide in the woods.
Soon he was heading at top speed back out of the woods and jumped into the backseat of the open rear door of the cop car afer it seems he ran headlong into the woods at top speed and in the process of intrusion, happened to disturb a mother black bear and her cubs. He wasn't that drunk that he couldn't figure out he had a better chance with the cops than a protective mama bear.
I heard this story as told by my news director at the time at the radio station who had by now secured a cabin next to mine, well, next is a relative term, as it was fully a quarter mile east of mine but walkable as we both would meet at the store, load up on beer for the evening to compliment the bags of weed we would open and smoke from a source in Saginaw and then spend the evening outside enjoying the stars and forest noises, a little music on the radio, me playing harmonica and he a small marimba he had purchased years ago in Grand Rapids from a street vendor.
There is a book called, "Don't eat the yellow snow" which didn't make a lot of sense to me at first until I did move up north, way up north, up up and away up north. Bears and forest critters, and some drunken or inhebriated humans have a habit of pissing in the snow when outdoors. The fluffy white gown becomes stained and yellowed resembling those stains you can find on the unclean sheets of any dive motel or flophouse in the country. Never mind trying to figure out it's genetic code..try to avoid it at all cost is all.
Not all creatures great and small live in the open. My cabin became host to a curious visitor who in time moved in and made himself, or herself, at the very least, itself (I wasn't going to pry or physically check for one gender or the other as that would be rude under any circumstance whether human or critter) It was a field mouse. The cabin was one room of knotty pine, with room for a bean bag chair, my sleeping bag which was my bed and a small kitchen adjoining with a tiny camping fridge and stove, compact as all hell and would fit in a Volkswagen me thinks. I don't remember if the mouse, was in fact a doormouse but if it was I can't remember what the doormouse said.
I didn't name the little fellow, as I figured he probably was known to his kind by his own name that the mouse world had given him so I wasn't about to interfere and play god with the forces of rodentia. He didn't call me by name either so we were on equal footing. I discovered him or her, or rather it discovered me when I woke up and rolled over in by sleeping bag one morning. Bang! Along with a spectacular sunrise there was a mouse staring at me from mere inches away. Quizzical, and as if to say...when is breakfast Amigo? I'm hungry...he wasn't afraid of me, nor I of him. I did talk to him a bit, as you'll rant and ramble in the early morn, rolled a joint, lit up and began to smoke and then spoke more at length with my little grey visitor, soon to be tenant and compadre. I got up and got a small bowl I had fashioned from tinfoil and put some milk in it, found some Oreo cookies on the counter and crushed one up on a small paper plate and set both down for the little guy. Chow Time!
From that day on..he would come and visit, sometimes for hours, especially at night. I became especially fond of his company and vice versa I think although he never said one way or the other. This went on for about two months. He'd scurry out the door after eating and visiting, and go back to the woods, no doubt to his family that had to be worried sick about him venturing in the the land of the crazed human race where cheese and traps are the norm as is disposal of the dead varmint.
Then one day he didn't return. Now I was worried sick. Was he in trouble, did the cheese trap vortex consume him? Did he venture into a tourist cabin where he was misunderstood and anihilated by unappreciative city folk. I didn't know, but dutifully left out a bowl of milk and Oreo's every morning just in case, hoping anyway the little guy would come by and brighten my day once again..but he never did.
I never enjoyed his company again. I went a few years ago on the trek down US 2 from St. Ignace to see what might remain of that cabin, and in the hopes that the little field mouse was waiting for his Oreo's. The day was clear, the sun bright, the lake blue and calm, with freighters heading up and heading down, private fishing boats filling the lake, the bridge not far in the distance, barely visible, but the cabin..I know it was here. Right There! Damn..it's gone, but that sand dune wasn't here before or was it? Parked the car, got out and went to the dune where the cabin should be and saw protruding from the top of the dune a green faded roofline. Yep..that was it..the cabin had been swallowed up alive over the years by the elements. It was as though the days I had spent there were preserved now, a mummy, no a memory preserved as the sands of the desert protect the pyramids and burial places of the ancients.
I headed out, feeling somewhat accomplished, though not fully. I wanted to go inside and relive those days, but Thomas Wolfe said it best..You Can't Go Home Again. So instead I started up the car and headed back to the bridge, back to the land under the bridge where the trolls live, but on the way stopped into the little party store where I used to get beer, bait, Oreo's and milk. The owners were different now, but they had Oreo's! I bought a package of them and the look of delight that came over my face must have puzzled them. It was almost gleeful and orgasmic. "Son, you alright?" he said. "Yep, I am, youbetcha I am!" I exclaimed. As I paid and pulled out an Oreo to eat. At that moment, that first bite, the memories raced back of that little mouse, my companion, and I started laughing outloud. The shop owner looked puzzled. "Are you sure you're ok?" I just smiled and took another bite and the memories poured forth.."I held the Oreo in the air and said happily..Damn, you CAN go back home again, at least for a little while a little moment in time!"