Hattie Olsen, the story goes, once fell through the attic of the farmhouse where she lived with husband Charles in Port Oneida. She was fine, but her boys laughed when they saw her legs protruding from the ceiling. Life was hard, but there was also humor on the farmstead where the Olsens lived in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Charles, when he grew older, would sometimes fall while plowing the land. The horses knew him and knew every inch of the land, would stop and wait for him to get up.
Recently, the Glen Arbor Sun was fortunate enough to speak to renowned local author and poet Jim Harrison, who lives with his family on a farm in Northern Michigan. Harrison has published a collection of novellas, Legends of the Fall; novels: Wolf, A good Day to Die, Farmer, Warlock, Sundog and Dalva; and collections of […]
2015 was the year of the storm. The “wind shear” on Sunday, August 2, packed 100-mile-per-hour gusts, toppled thousands of trees in the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore and around the Glen Lakes, rendered Glen Arbor impassible for days, caused millions of dollars in damages and cast a national spotlight on our rural town.
Although my friend, Bonnie Gonzales, didn’t quite make it up Alligator Hill when she tried the first time, she felt it was doable. She wanted to try it one last time before she left for the winter. The trick would be to take the fairways rather than the impassable trail. I was game, so we met at the trailhead entrance by the charcoal ovens one sunny Sunday in mid-October.
The Empire Area Museum Complex celebrates Heritage Day at the museum on Saturday Oct. 10, from 1-4 p.m. Repeat feature this year include the fantastic collection of hand made Faberge type eggs made in Empire in the 1970’s by Helen Witt. A must see.
Amidst the pain, it’s important to remember this lesson: the Aug. 2 megastorm — though it may have been the storm of the century — is one of several cataclysmic events that have changed this land we call Sleeping Bear since the glaciers receded and left behind the great lake and the rolling dunes and forests. And after each event, the land and its animals adapted and tended ahead. Alligator Hill will do the same.
It was a hundred-year storm. Thin trees snapped like matchsticks; thick ones toppled, one atop another, like felled soldiers. The storm’s straight-wind blast left houses with gaping holes, thousands of residents with no power for days, a Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore that is, said one official, unrecognizable, and a cleanup that could take years.
North Unity, on the Good Harbor Bay side of Pyramid Point, was settled in 1855 by a group of Bohemians who had emigrated from their homeland in central Europe to seek a better life in America.
After the shock of entering the dense-leaved maple canopy sheared to the ground and shouldered aside like the dead dropped in their tracks, after all that what I finally see are breaking points. The storm’s catastrophe bars comprehension except in stages, but every moment our eyes are open it becomes more real: massive trunks stacked like proverbial pick up sticks — all cliché but what else do I have in the first moments of first seeing? But this is no game. Still, I am so stunned I have no fresh language to describe this — it’s all too dense, thick with damage. The heart aches and the mind can’t find the way to the words, or even the real. When do I see the breaking points? The crack and twist, wood’s open wounds, the new right angle that is all wrong for the verticality of a tree. Not until the end.
“Where were you when . . .?” None of us will ever forget, and so now we will always trade our stories of this shared local tragedy. Waiting for Kelly McAllister to make me a malted, I gazed through the windows of McCahill’s Crossing Dairy Bar at the Glen Lake Narrows to see the eerie white cloud front race at terrific speed eastward across Little Glen Lake. Instantly the air was a greenish blue-black chaos of horizontal hail, thick rain, and leaves. Heedless of the danger, we gawked out the big windows at plunging power lines, frantic trees, and the growing line of cars refusing to cross the narrows and the bridge they couldn’t see because the lake was airborne. When the lights went out for good Kelly calmly called Consumers on her cell. We only had to inch around one tree as we drove homeward on Benzonia Trail minutes later. Countless others were not so lucky, and their stories have been our daily bread for a frantically memorable, strange, and communal cleanup of a week.