I was one of them. With snow in the forecast for next week, there’s no telling when I’ll be able to grab another hike through the woods under such pleasant skies. And the well-maintained, easy-to-walk trails at the Experimental Forest offer slices of the outdoors that are accessible and enjoyable for just about anyone.

Don’t let the “Experimental” part of the name fool you. Kellogg Forest is hardly some sterile laboratory with white-cloaked technicians ambling about. Yes, it’s a world-class MSU forestry research site. But what you’ll find there before anything else is a lovely composite of woods, trout stream, wetland, and field that makes you want to stretch your legs and explore what lies over the hill and around the bend.

To that end, the folks who run the place are very accommodating. According to the website,  “Activities include bow hunting, fishing, biking, hiking, horseback riding, and cross-county skiing, driving the forest loop, and several interpretive trails. Guides are available for group tours.”

The afternoon light was waning when I pulled into the parking lot off of Webster Road north of Augusta. Camera in hand, I headed for the covered bridge that spans Augusta Creek and serves as a gateway to much of the park’s trail system.

The creek is one of the many projects underway at Kellogg Forest. Degraded as a trout habitat in the early 1900s by extant agricultural practices, it is currently being restored, thanks to the hard work of Trout Unlimited and assistance from the Kellogg Forest staff.

The stream threads its way through marsh, fen, and brushy swamp, bordered by the upland woods. On another day in a greener time of year, I might have explored its wetlands, but today, the woodland trail beckoned me toward corridors of pine and hardwood trees.

On October 24, 2001, a violent storm system blasted through Kellogg Forest, leveling three of its experimental tree plantations and damaging three more. Fifty-seven acres were flattened by straight-line winds. But what many would have called a disaster, Kellogg Forest saw as an opportunity for research and profit. You can walk through the woods today and see where the gale swept through, and also the ways in which the staff at Kellogg have set about making lemonade out of lemons.

The sun, hovering like a glowing ball just above the horizon, was filtering its last light through a gray weave of November branches as I rounded a turn in the trail and emerged into an opening. There, a convocation of young fir trees crowded the field in an experimental Christmas tree farm.

“They look like a bunch of fuzzy creatures all gathered together, watching a movie,” said Lisa when she saw my photo. And you know, they do: an audience of evergreens convened at the Sunset Theater, watching the sun descend through the forest.

You can catch the show yourself whenever you feel like it. But I recommend that you not wait too long. Outdoor theaters aren’t much fun once the snows start flying here in Michigan.

Very good. Kindly exclude yourselves from the following poll.

As for the rest of you, how many are huge fans of November?

Hmmm…okay, let’s try that again: if you love the month of November, raise your hand.

Just as I thought. According to this scientific poll, out of the vast handful of my non-deer-hunting readers, not one of the four of you is all that crazy about November.

I’m not surprised. Here in Michigan, only a deer hunter could love this month.

As I write, the weather outside is blue and the temperature is in the lower sixties. It’s an absolutely glorious day, but it doesn’t fool me, and it doesn’t fool anyone who has lived in this state for any length of time. We know what lies around the corner.

I hate to sound negative, but of all the months of the year, November is the emptiest. Here it stands, forlorn as the ghost of some old, gray hobo, bereft of autumn’s vivid hues yet not quite committed to the black and white of winter.

This is not the most rewarding time to take a walk in the woods. Still, if you keep your eyes open, you’ll find hints of color here and there. A straggler beech tree, hanging onto the last bit of bright green and yellow in the forest. The mottled, tri-lobed leaves of hepatica, also known as liverwort for the plant’s supposed resemblance to the human liver, accenting the ground here and there. But in November, such things are just fading memories, like the echoes of a parade that has passed.

If I’ve found an image that captures November for me perfectly, it’s the Carlton Center Church at Charlton Park (and yes, “Carlton” and “Charlton” are spelled differently). Viewed in the late afternoon with the sun slanting in between streaks of alto-stratus, the beautiful old church takes on an eldritch feel, nestled among the stark silhouettes of large, leafless trees. For that matter, the historic village as a whole, bustling with activity in the summer, reminds me of a ghost town this time of year. The only thing missing is tumbleweeds blowing through the empty streets. I may write the Barry County Parks service and recommend that they provide some.

Surrounding the village is a 298-acre recreation area with a large swimming beach, boat ramp, and hiking trails. But the village is the park’s crown jewel. Located on Thornapple Lake between Hastings and Nashville, Michigan, this unique location first sprung up as a pioneer settlement called Indian Landing. In it, you’ll find a working lumber mill, a blacksmith shop, a bank, the one-room Lee schoolhouse, and many other buildings that harken back to a long-lost way of life.

During the warm months, from Memorial Day through Labor Day, the park is alive with visitors. But in November, silence reigns.

The chatter and rustling of black squirrels and the occasional hammering of a woodpecker were the only sounds of activity as Lisa and I roamed the grounds of Charlton Park yesterday afternoon. Other than those, the place was quiet, as empty as November itself.

There are ghosts in the village. I saw one of them peering at me through the window of a darkened shop as I walked down the plank sidewalk.

Okay, it wasn’t a ghost, it was an old doll. A very old doll. In today’s world of high-tech toys, it probably wouldn’t be anything that would rate high on a child’s Christmas list, but back then, it was no doubt the dream of many a little girl. The girls have long since passed through their own Novembers. The doll remains, sad-eyed, remembering.

Sorry, didn’t mean to creep you out. But that’s November for you.

Unless, of course, you’re a deer hunter.

I know that’s not a very nice thing to say about someone, but in Tom’s case, truer words were never spoken. Tom is the resident turkey of the small animal farm at Bowen’s Mills. He’s also about as nice a guy as you ever could hope to meet. Think of a big, friendly black Lab, only round, with two legs, wings, a beak, and covered with feathers. That’s my buddy Tom—and he’ll be your buddy, too, once you meet him. He likes people and he likes attention, and he loves getting that wrinkly, red-and-blue head of his scratched.

Tom is sort of the unofficial mascot of the Bowen’s Mills menagerie. There are plenty of other critters there as well that kids and grownups alike will find irresistible. Immense, noble Percherons, powerful enough to haul the ponderous cannon used in the Civil War battle reenactments. A long-necked alpaca with the biggest, most soulful eyes and longest lashes you’ve ever seen. A flock of sheep whose wool finds its way into the hands of local knitters. Chickens of various types, the most engaging being the silkies, with their white, downy feathers.

Speaking of which, from my point of view, chickens are chickens, and most chickens can command my attention for a limited time at best. But silkies are different. They’re beautiful birds, with feathers so fine that it’s as if the birds never outgrew their fuzzy, chick stage of development. Silkies almost beg to be cuddled and petted—though, realistically, I doubt they would appreciate the experience nearly as much as the person doing the petting. Fluffy cuteness aside, they’re still chickens, and not given to sloppy sentimentality.

The pony, on the other hand, seems to dote on getting his forehead scratched. If you can look at this gentle little guy and not immediately feel your heart melt, you’re made of steelier stuff than I am. “Awwww!” is the only appropriate response when he comes ambling toward you, and while he may be hoping for a tasty handout, he’s quite appreciative of a simple petting.

As is Tom. If ever a bird were personality-plus, Tom is that bird, and he surely enjoys a good scritching. My encounter with him being my first experience with turkey scratching, I was surprised to discover how hot his colorful head and neck skin felt to my fingers. Touching it was like touching a blue and red radiator. I was told that Tom can change the mix of those colors at a whim. It’s all about attracting a mate. I’d give it a try myself if I weren’t already quite pleased with the lady I’ve got, who would probably be less than impressed by such a display. There’s no accounting for taste.

But I digress. This final picture is a closeup of Tom. You can see for yourself what a handsome fellow he is. If you feel so inclined, head over to Bowen’s Mills while the weather is still cooperative and get acquainted with him personally. And if you can’t make it till after Thanksgiving, don’t worry. Tom will still be around. He’s an old turkey who has survived many a holiday. He’s got it pretty darn good as far as turkeys go. But it couldn’t have happened to a nicer turkey.

It certainly isn’t the call of swans. The mute swans we have here in Michigan are aptly named. They make very little sound unless you get too close to them, in which case they let you know in unmistakable terms. In the millpond along the Paul Henry trail out by Middleville, the swans have found a haven and have been busily increasing their numbers. The mature birds are splashes of breathtaking, snow-white incandescence that light up even a dull October afternoon. But the first-year adolescents have a beauty of their own, a composite of chocolate feathers against the emerging whiteness of adulthood.

The younger swans were patrolling the waters and the older birds were busily preening themselves as Lisa and I set out on the Middleville trail the other day with our cameras. Lisa was out to photograph the swans. I wanted to capture the last bit of color before the winds took it.

Not that there was much color left. It’s amazing how swiftly the fires of autumn finally fade and die, leaving only stray sparks to remind us of the blaze that lit the maples, the oaks, the sassafras, and the poplars. Two weeks ago the forests were in their glory. Today, a solitary vine of green, gold, and brown leaves trails through empty branches like a stubborn memory.

Let me not forget the willow thickets—first to leaf out in the spring, last to fade in the fall, clusters of gold amid the somber cattails and wetland grasses. Then there is the watercress, green the whole year round in the flowing current of the streams and backwaters. And on moist, wooded hillsides, the gnarled branches of the witch hazel are festooned with spidery, yellow blossoms, just in time for Halloween.

Yes, there is still color to be found as the autumn fades. Very little, to be sure, but it is there. Even the oaks, whose subdued, rusty-red hues render them as maiden aunts against the flamboyant maples at autumn’s peak, retain their leaves long after the party is over. When December snows mantle the forests, the brown-clad oaks are a reminder that the world has not been reduced utterly to black and white.

Walking back toward the car, I came upon a lone milkweed pod hanging from its stalk like a perched bird, its seed parasols trailing out of its side like silky plumage, waiting for the wind to catch them and carry them away. As the embers of the autumn wink out, as the swan song of the leaves sings its blustery melody, I think: today, somewhere out there, that handful of milkweed seeds is spinning along on the gale, bearing with them the life and promise of a spring not yet seen and a summer yet to come.

Lisa and I were at historic Bowen’s Mills in northern Barry County, where a Civil War battle reenactment was about to commence. For the past couple of hours since our arrival, the Union platoon had been hanging about near the village green as visitors strolled through the grounds, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the Cider Days Festival.

I’ve known about Bowen’s Mills for years, but I had never taken the time to explore it. Man, what I was missing! There is far more to the place than I ever imagined. With its active mill that produces everything from buckwheat flour to apple cider; its historic buildings dating as far back as 1840; its arts and entertainment center for weddings and social events; its animal farm with sheep, chickens, Percherons, and an old Tom turkey that loves to be petted; and more, this is a destination location, a wonderful place to put on your calendar and make an afternoon of.

In the encampment on the periphery of the battlefield, numerous men and women in period attire created an atmosphere of authenticity as they plied their crafts. From tent to tent, you could see demonstrations of everything from old cookware and campfire meals to prototype sewing machines and handmade garments.

By and by, the Union platoon filed into position up by the old gristmill. Hats came off, a dedicatory prayer was said, three salvos were fired into the air, and then the troops marched into position in anticipation of battle.

They didn’t have long to wait. In short order, a small cloud of children fled screaming from the old schoolhouse at the far end of the village, announcing the arrival of the Confederate army. Then the shooting commenced.

I was impressed by the quantity of lead that flew. I was even more impressed by the low mortality rate, but that was just wisdom. With the limited number of soldiers on hand, each side had to conserve on the dying or there’d have been no one left to fight by the time the action moved upfield in front of the audience. The result was that both sides whanged away at each other for quite a while without anyone scoring a hit. It was some petrifyingly poor shooting; they’d have inflicted as much damage on each other playing Parcheesi. Even the cannon, which went off suddenly with a bone-gelling blast, produced no effect other than possibly, in some of the onlookers, an intense longing for a change of underwear.

By and by, though, the conflict shifted to directly in front of us, and at that point a Union soldier finally took a ball. It killed him instantly, from all appearances, though not so thoroughly that he didn’t manage to pull his hat over his face a few minutes later to shield his eyes from the sun. It’s not easy being a corpse.

Shortly after, a rebel soldier went down, sprawled spread-eagle on the ground, his fingers twitching. Now we were getting somewhere. A young Union troop was next, and this guy really went the extra mile. He’d brought with him a little cap of red dye that he could chomp down on, and…well, you get the picture. The carnage was underway.

While I’m poking a bit of gentle fun at some of the humorous points in this drama, let me say plainly that it was superbly done, offering a fascinating taste of the Civil War battlefield. The engagement was well-scripted, the actors put their hearts into their roles while at the same time clearly having fun, and I enjoyed the show immensely. The Union army eventually drove away the invaders and the village was saved, which was what we’d all been hoping for. Then, as the smoke cleared—there was a lot of smoke—the casualties miraculously picked themselves up off the ground, the crowd clapped and cheered, the troops took a bow, and everyone was happy.

Barry County has some beautiful jewels tucked away in its rural setting, and Bowen’s Mills is one of them. If you live anywhere within a hundred miles, don’t be like me and wait half your life before you discover it. Hop in the car and go. And bring your camera. You’ll be making some memories that you’ll want to revisit.

On the southwest side of the lake, one will notice the dam with the overflowing waters spilling down the spillway. Next door is the lakefront Algonquin Lake Party Store, a small market that carries all of your weekend supplies. Since the day was warm, I stopped in for an ice cold Orange Crush. The friendly clerk thanked me and then returned to gaze out the large picture window overlooking the dock and lake. Having a great view must make work much more pleasant!

 On the northern side of the lake Camp Algonquin, a YMCA camp, is located . I like their motto: “I am third.”  Having summer programs since 1946 and year round use since 2002, the camp has been making memories in the lives of the attendees for many years.

Having visited many Michigan lakes, I think, generally speaking, camps make good neighbors. What do you think?

The food was typical of a diner,  nothing fancy, but plenty of choices.  The blueberry pancakes were good. Light, fluffy. and just the right amount of blueberries. The special of the day was country fried steak with eggs, potatoes and toast for $5.99. The bill came to just over eleven dollars, a small amount for the generous portions.

They seem to promote their Friday night fish fry.  Sounds interesting, but it wasn’t Friday night so we can’t comment on that. We may have to check that out later.

One additional note of interest, Gun Lake has an evening trolley that’s free. It leaves the State Park Campground at 5:00, 6:20, 7:40 and 8:52. It makes stops at over ten different restaurants, so you can get some dinner, ice cream or whatever sounds good to you that evening. You don’t have to drive, so you can sit back and enjoy the beautiful weather and scenery.

I like that idea. I think I will head out there some night this summer and try it out.

I came across Maple Manor by pure serendipity while out exploring the upper  Thornapple River. My goal on this last day of February, 2009, was to find the headwaters southeast of Charlotte. I didn’t succeed, but I had a wonderful afternoon, and if I’d had another hour of daylight and a county map instead of a state map, I’m sure I’d have found what I was looking for.

The Thornapple is, in my humble opinion, the most beautiful river in southwest Michigan. All rivers have their lovely stretches, but the Thornapple has more of them than any other river I’m aware of in this part of the state. It’s a clean river, untainted by industry, flowing through mostly rural settings and just a handful of town on its journey from the south central part of the state to its junction with the Grand River in  Ada.

I’m familiar with the Thornapple as far east as  Charlton Park, where it broadens out into Thornapple Lake. From that point on, I’m in personally uncharted territory. Today, I decided to acquaint myself with the upper half.

Just north of the bridge in Nashville, the first road east takes you for a winding journey right along the riverside for maybe a mile-and-a-half before curving to the north. A fleet of swans—scores of them, perhaps hundreds—call this area home. The swans were patrolling the waters in company with a multitude of Canadian geese, the weed birds of the North.

Farther east, down a muddy country road, I caught up with the Thornapple again. But it was a wilder version of the broad backwaters in Nashville. It had narrowed down to a wide, ice-fringed ribbon bordered by cattail marshes and forested hillsides. I stopped to snap a few photos under the late afternoon sun. The day, which had begun with bands of cloud and a light sprinkle of snow, had transitioned into a flawless blue mirrored in the river’s serene surface.

Down the road a few more miles lay Vermontville. When you draw near the town this time of year, you’re apt to see steam rising from local maple sap refineries. These aren’t big, commercial businesses; they’re down-on-the-farm, family-run operations, bastions of Vermontville’s treasure, real maple sugar and maple syrup.

Impulsively, I stopped in at Maple Manor, purchased a half-gallon of syrup and a sampler of candy, and talked with the crew, who were sitting around the boiler. But as I’ve said, that’s a separate blog, so stay tuned.

Twenty minutes later, I was back on the road and headed for Charlotte. Southeast of town, along the backroads, I once again crossed the Thornapple. But it was nothing like the broad channel that flows through Middleville, and Caledonia, and Alaska, and Cascade. Here, in the midst of farm country and lowlands, a narrow stream threaded through a tangled, swampy woods. The sun’s last rays slanted through tree silhouettes, glinting orange off of icy banks.

The day had wound to a close, and I, too, was winding down. I snapped one last picture. Then, climbing back inside my car, I commenced the long drive home.

From fishing, to photography, to birding, to family outings, to Michigan history and more, Charlton Park offers something for just about everyone. Even cabins in the woods for winter wanderers like me looking for something a little different with which to fill their camera lenses.

The cabin called for exploration, and naturally I responded. I have no idea what its history is. It could be a relatively recent reconstruction, but given its weatherbeaten appearance and its location a few hundred yards up a wooded slope from a historic community, it’s reasonable to assume that the old structure is an original pioneer dwelling. The raised foundation suggests that it may have been moved from somewhere nearby to where it now stands. Or maybe not. I didn’t find any mention of it in the Charlton Park website, so the story behind it remains a mystery. What’s plain to see, though, is that the cabin is remarkably well constructed, a very sturdy-looking log dwelling dovetailed together with amazing precision.

Sundry items on the premises add to the sense of human presence—a shed for firewood on the northwest side; a rustic, picturesque rain barrel up against the east wall. The grounds, if not the cabin itself, appear to be used for something—school groups, Boy Scout outings, who knows?

Leaving the cabin, I hopped in my car and continued down the road toward the park office and the historic village. Originally known as Indian Landing, the town was once a thriving nineteenth century community, and today it is preserved as a landmark jam packed with fascinating insights into life in an 1800’s Michigan settlement. Look through the website and you’ll be amazed at what this park has to offer in the way of educational programs, events, volunteer opportunities, forestry, and recreation. Charlton Park is a class act and one of the true jewels of Barry County, Michigan.

Today, however, with a cold northwest wind blowing snow across the empty parking lot, you’d have had to use your imagination to picture the place filled with people strolling down tree-shaded walks past the Bristol Inn, the cooper’s shop, the blacksmith shop, the one-room schoolhouse, and so forth.

On a rise overlooking the rest of the village stands the Carlton Center Church. My hands were growing numb, but the lovely, white building with its picturesque steeple was too photogenic to pass up. Built in 1885, the structure served as a Methodist Episcopal church until 1975, when it was moved from its original location in Carlton Center to Charlton Park. Complete with all of its original furnishings, the church is still used today for weddings—and as a subject for wayfaring writers bearing cameras.

If you think of Barry County as little more than a hinterland of lakes, wetlands, farms, and state game land, then a visit to Charlton Park will change your mind. Whether you want to experience a cross-section of Michigan history, picnic in a pavilion, or simply relax with a book beneath a shady maple by the riverside, treat yourself to an afternoon at the park. Bring your family, your date, or just yourself. You’ll thank yourself for taking you there.

Well located in central Barry County, Head Lake is close to many other Michigan lakes, both large and small, as well as being close to Hastings and Delton for all your weekend supplies. It is also close to the Gun Lake area and all that area has to offer.