Life between the lakes part 5

 

                            

 

Life between the Lakes, part 5

On this morning’s walk, I heard what Thomas McGuane might call “the longest silence.”

When I reached Lake Superior the waves were slow and vast. It sounded like a Giant had rolled over on its side and fallen asleep facing the shoreline.

The sky was overcast all day. The windsock occasionally fluttered while behind it, the rowboat accepted that it was now upside down at the base of two jack pines.

Deer Park, Michigan is not recognized as a current location by the state of Michigan but many locals still call it by its name. It was a logging community in the late 1800s and at its peak was home to about 400 people. It had a post office, a school, probably a saloon, and the lumber mill.

A series of narrow gauge railroads connected the regional lumber camps and brought timber to Muskallonge Lake, which was the holding pond as the wood softened before making its way to the mill. This was in the 1890s and the workers produced an astounding 16,000 board feet every 24 hours.

When the trees were gone, so were the people. The railroads shut down and pulled up their tracks by about 1905. Today a huge pile of sawdust is all that remains at the sight of the mill and a well-trained eye can trace the path of the abandoned railroad.

Muskallonge Lake is about 30 feet to my right and Lake Superior is about 300 yards to my left. In addition to the mill, Deer Park had a lifesaving station and the foundations of the buildings can still be found.

Deer Park is the heart of the region known as “shipwreck coast,” situated between Whitefish Point and Munising.

Many lives were lost as ships vanished in Lake Superior throughout this region.  In 1892 the SS Western Reserve sank with all hands about 35 miles Northwest of Deer Park and the steamer Cypress, sank in 1905 just 8 miles out, within sight of the lifesaving station. Only one of the crew of 24 survived. He washed up on shore at the end of the road I’m on and lived to reluctantly tell his tale of horror. 

In 2007 while searching for a different wreck, the SS D.M Clemson, explorers found the Cypress in about 400 feet of water straight out from Deer Park. Amazingly the hull was completely intact, which was surprising because of the violent nature of the storm that took her.  Her name and port of call remain completely legible on her stern.

So here I am. I’m in a cottage on my favorite lake getting ready for winter in a place where the average yearly snowfall total is just over 100 inches. A week ago I had doubts about making the move to the UP, but the simple fact that I had a productive week writing has quelled those worries, at least for now.

I’ve written more in the past seven days than I have in the last year and a half. Living in this temporary setting, I know it will be hard to leave when the day comes.

The dogs are content and sleeping comfortably after their afternoon walk and “early bird” senior citizen dinner about three hours ago.  If there was someplace else I could be right now, I don’t think I could tell you where it was.

The Royal Oak Train Tower

Growing up in south Royal Oak, westbound Lincoln Ave was the gateway to almost everyplace I went. This tower stood behind Redford/Cashway (formerly Erb) Lumber on the Grand Trunk line just east of Main Street. It was like a beanstalk and remained a lost fascination of my youth until I came across this photograph.

Passing it in a car was one thing but the one and only time I got the courage to walk up to it, I was enthralled while I looked at this fortress. I wondered if it was where “the engineer” slept or how far down the tracks you could see from its majestic perch. Detroit maybe? Chicago?

As a kid I was more aware of the trains at night because my young life was filled with walking to school, eating lunch, playing kickball at recess, getting home on time for supper and riding my bike around my neighborhood as I played with friends and passed the time with people who have disappeared (or happily reappeared here on facebook)

As I got older I could figure out if the train was heading north or south by the frequency and strength of the train whistle. If it was northbound I’d hear the first faint blast down in Ferndale at the intersection of Hilton and Nine Mile. As it moved north I would hear its rumble getting closer and it would continue blasting its horn as the volume increased while it passed the crossings at Hudson, Lincoln, Main St, Fourth Street and finally Washington Ave. There might be one more toot as it passed the old commuter substation near where Vinsetta Blvd crosses 12 mile, but otherwise it faded as it made its subtle ascent toward Birmingham.

If it was heading south, the sound of the steel wheels on the rails would hang in the air, like distant traffic and after the first horn wailed, it would get louder as it gained speed and rolled into downtown. Most people don’t know that there is a topographical difference of about 140 feet in elevation from the north to south tip of the city. This is but one reason for the difference in speed of the trains coming and going.

I can still hear trains from my house but it is different now. How I hear them defies logic, as the closest open space where they pass is about a quarter mile away where the tracks cross Normandy. The front of my house faces west, toward Woodward, yet somehow their sound weaves its way between the houses, and trees and I can hear it out of my front window.

I still dream of trains and of that time of my youth, when the train tower became haunted at night with ghosts of all the Hobos who walked the tracks while it remained a mystery shrouded in secrecy during the day because nobody really knew with complete certainty what went on inside.

The train tower is but another one of the landmarks of my youth that the modern age has claimed. It’s gone, but not forgotten and still a permanent snapshot in my mind.