Life between the lakes, part 37

 

Yesterday I spent part of my afternoon with my new friend Dean Oswald. If you have ever been in the eastern part of the Upper Peninsula, you may have seen signs for his bear ranch, located just a few miles north of Newberry.

The ranch does not open until Memorial Day, but Aunt Carla knows everybody up here and Dean and Jewel are good friends. As a result we were able to arrange a visit to see the three new cubs at the ranch. I am pictured here with three month old “Peanut.” Dean told me he will be about sixty pounds in three months. Before you ask; yes, his claws were sharp.

When asked if he has ever had any close calls with any of the bears over the years, Dean’s reply was “only once.” One of them bit him on the hand when it was being fed. Evidently the impatient, hungry bear was not being fed fast enough for its liking.

I also learned a lot during our visit, such as how to spot a bear’s den in the woods (dugouts near fallen trees) what they will eat (everything) and how, unfortunately the bear population in Michigan has dramatically decreased because of the “powers that be” in Lansing calling all the shots.

The Oswald Bear Ranch is committed to the welfare of abused, neglected or orphaned bears by rescuing them from various harmful circumstances.  The bear ranch is also an educational facility that is dedicated to teaching youth about rescued cubs and the care needed to protect black bears and their environment.

Their long history of protecting a natural resource, the North American Black Bear, and managing the environment of the 240 acres rescue refuge has earned a 5 STAR rating by Conservationist!

Studying, documenting and interacting with their black bears for over three decades the Oswald’s have an unprecedented amount of knowledge in the understanding this unique creatures, and they generously share it with others.

Dean Oswald is a true hero. What he has done for the safety and welfare of the bears is extraordinary. If you are in the Newberry area this summer, make sure and stop by Oswald’s. It is a great family outing that is affordable and guaranteed to be memorable. You will not be disappointed.

And as a bonus, I will close with this brilliant poem by the great Jim Harrison. It makes me wonder why anyone would want to hunt a bear in Michigan.

 

My Friend the Bear

Down in the bone myth of the cellar of this farmhouse, behind the empty fruit jars the whole wall swings open to the room where I keep the bear.  There's a tunnel to the outside of the far wall that emerges in the lilac grove in the backyard but she rarely uses it, knowing there's no room

around her for a freewheeling bear.

She's not a dainty eater so once a day I shovel shit while she lopes in playful circles.

Privately she likes religion—from the bedroom I hear her incantatory moans and howls below me—and April 23rd, when I open the car trunk and whistle at midnight and she shoots up the tunnel, almost airborne when she meets the night. 

We head north and her growls are less friendly as she scents the forest-above-the-road smell.  I release her where I found her as an orphan three

years ago, bawling against the dead carcass of her mother.  I let her go at the head of the gully leading down to the swamp, jumping free of her snarls and roars.

But each October 9th, one day before bear season she reappears at the cabin frightening the bird dogs.  We embrace ear to ear, her huge head on my shoulder, her breathing like a god's.

Life between the lakes, part 36

                

 

Sunday, April 4, 2021 

The most obvious signs of spring in the Upper Peninsula often go unnoticed if you don’t look up, or forget to look down.

It is April 4 and we are now more than a quarter of the way through 2021.

Let that sink in for a hot second.

For the first time this year, I can hear waves lapping and gurgling on the shoreline of Muskallonge Lake, just 30 feet in front of me.  This afternoon I rolled up my pants and ventured in so I could exfoliate my feet between the sand and rocks. It felt good and provided reassurance that Mother Nature has not forgotten about us while life continues to accelerate at a blistering speed.

Goodbye, five minutes from now.

Hello Memorial Day.

I’ve seen the eagle(s) several times over these past two weeks. I’ve also a few some hawks, who were gliding in wide circles at higher altitudes.

I do not want to mislead anyone about my bird acumen. But after repetitive observation and some research I was able to identify the song sparrow, three sounds of the northern flicker; including calls and drumming and a black capped chickadee and I hear new calls each day.

There is also a woodpecker who doesn’t mind us walking by his work of art each morning. All this makes me ponder how it is that birds know more about nature than we thing we do.

What tells them when to migrate?

How do they know which direction to fly?

How do they know when to stop?

Birds do all of that and then they reverse the entire process in order to get back to where they were before they left. Perhaps birds are nature’s perfect boomerang.

It also occurs to me that (unlike half of the members of Congress) their pea brain can solve problems and not create more of them.

The ducks and geese are back, and a family of geese have claimed a perfect little cove on the shoreline on the north side of Muskallonge Lake in front of the old Northmere General Store.

Several pairs of married ducks have claimed the marshy area of Cranberry Lake.  A pair of swans have returned and are said to be considering the west end of Muskallonge Lake as their summer home. The Ravens continue to raise a ruckus when they feel like it and a bunch of sand hill cranes have dialed it up on the south shore over the last few days.

Two weeks ago, a car passed us during our afternoon walk. Since the loop we traverse takes about forty minutes it was enough time for the driver to make it out to his intended fishing location, only to find the road was still impassable before driving back.

About ten minutes prior I heard sounds of an uncomfortable but common wildlife struggle in the woods. It happened close enough that I could hear the end of the life of the victim, yet sense the victory of the other party, knowing this catch would award them (and possibly their family) with another day of their own survival. The neighborhood ravens were circling within minutes.

A few minutes later the guy who had passed us earlier stopped and nervously warned me about a huge coyote that dashed across the road only thirty seconds earlier about fifty yards away. He described it as being as big as Jack and Needa and he punctuated his concern by adding “Dude,” to the end of every sentence.

The first hatch of black flies arrived yesterday but so far they are not being assholes. On Friday a singular butterfly flew circles around us for about hundred yards as we walked down the road in the sun. I wonder why he spent so much of his short life interested in us.

Today the butterflies (the tortoiseshell) are everywhere. I found the first floral growth across the road.  Like most of nature, it is untouched and unattended. It is fitting that so much life and rebirth has arrived on Easter Sunday.

Blessings to all on this great day of eternal miracles.

Life between the lakes, part 35

Click on this picture and tell me what you see.

 

 

I see a long haired Santa on the left, laughing at an angry, frozen sheep on the right. The little lamb below her is bolting off, while a freshwater whale surfaces in the top middle. Knowing their act is fading, the waves lose their threat after they crush the millions of beach hearts, previously frozen in forever ice.

This is the “Life between the lakes- I’ve been too depressed to write anything for a week edition.” Part 34 in the unofficial series. Published March 22.

Life between the lakes, part 34

Current situation:

There is no longer any ice on the horizon of Lake Superior from Deer Park and the big lake is regaining control of the weather.

I haven’t felt much like writing this week. So this is why you are getting a video instead.

The moment is a masterpiece

The weight of indecision's in the air. *

Thanks Kerry Livgren