“Dear Hazel,

 This just does not do the lake justice, for it is very pretty. Had a dandy time there.  Abby” September 24 1908

 I’m not sure what Howard City looked like in 1908 when this postcard was written, but I am sure when visiting Whitefish Lake today, you would notice a big change in boating attire for women!   

 “Dear Carrie,

 Came Thursday Sept 10, was sick in bed not going to school. Make up your mind to come over. Will try to show you a good time. Tell your mother to come over to. Write soon. Leonard”  Sept 19, 1908

Originally settled by a group of Dutch immigrants under the leadership of rev Albertus Van Raalte in the mid1800’s, Holland is located on the shores of Lake Macatawa. After settling into Holland, the industrious Dutch dug a cannel in 1860 connecting Lake Macatawa to Lake Michigan. The landmark Big Red lighthouse is located along the south side of the channel, adjacent to the lakeside community of Macatawa.

 You can’t help but notice the Dutch culture; beginning with the Victorian Dutch architecture in the historic neighborhoods. The Dutch heritage is celebrated annually in May when hundreds of thousands of visitors invade Holland for Tulip Time. The Windmill Island is another popular tourist spot, as well as the bulb gardens, displaying brilliant the brilliant flowers that make the Netherlands famous.

Along Pine Avenue there are several interesting works of art http://waterlandliving.com/index.php/2009/04/08/1049/made from junkyard scrap by Padnois recycling.

Holland is the home to Holland State Park, a wonderful park on the north side of the channel. A walk on the pier, a swim in Lake Michigan, or climbing the dune is the perfect way to celebrate a warm summer Michigan day.

Just to the north three miles on Lakeshore Drive, one will discover Tunnel Park, a county owned park named for the tunnel you walk through to access the Lake Michigan waterfront. This time I got some great shots of the sun setting reflecting of the walls of the tunnel. I felt like I was in the right place at the right time.

 Much like what is often done today, Muskegon offered several financial incentives to entice the rapidly growing business to their city. This, combined with the fact there was no room to expand in their original location, helped the company make the decision in 1904 to move from their Wisconsin location to 59 E. Western Ave. in Muskegon.

 At the turn of the century, Racine Boat company became one of the largest boat and engine manufacturers in the state.   In 1912, Racine Boat Manufacturing Company  merged with several other firms, such as Truscott Boat Manufacturing Co., to form a conglomerate named National Boat & Engine Company.  That firm closed its doors 1915.

 This advertised boat was an 86 foot beauty, whose price was marked down to $2,200.00 for a boat show. They had a smaller, 28 foot model for a modest $1,200.00. A Speedabout for $300.00 was also available, as well as several models of rowboats, canoes and sailboats

 At one time it was bustling with activity; worried mothers checking and double checking to make sure all the kids and pieces of luggage were accounted for, grandparents eagerly waiting for grandchildren, or family members waiting for that first glimpse of a loved one returning from war.

 Today, the building is quiet, used only as a rundown old storage building.

 I wonder if Bill and Ma had any fond memories of this railroad depot.

 “My Dear Bill,

 This is a fine morning, clear but cool. I am washing out the doors and I am glad that about done for this year. The men went and picked apples yesterday afternoon. Liz gave Joe a bag of Russets. Good bye Ma.” 

September 28 1908 

We didn’t get just a little snow, either. I don’t know exactly how much fell, but as you can see from the photo, it was at least two-thirds of the way up to my knees on the trails at Seidman Park north of Ada. I’m six feet tall and I wasn’t standing in a drift; what you see was the average. In other words, we got lots of snow. Major snowage. Snowissimo.

Michiganders fall into two groups: those who love winter and those who hate it. There’s not much middle ground. There is, however, considerable flux. You can start the winter loving snow, and then sometime around February or March, cross a line and decide that you frankly loathe the stuff. Yet even those of us who at best merely tolerate the cold season because we must, have to admit there are moments of unsurpassed beauty and magic which only that pale old wizard, winter, can conjure up.

The first snowfall is such an occasion. An endless host of plump flakes cascading out of the December night, dipping and rising and dancing in the air currents, blanketing the ground in bridal white and lading the trees like thick frosting—this is Michigan winter at its best. When the sun rises on that confectionery landscape, you’d have to be a real Grinch not to admit that it’s a pretty wonderful thing. For that matter, even the Grinch would probably crack a wondering smile at the sight of the new-fallen snow.

Well-layered and with cameras slung around our necks, Lisa and I emerged from my car at Seidman Park and stepped into that fresh, first layer of snow. I had no idea it was so deep! But Lisa is every bit as much an outdoors person as I am, and of the two of us, she’s the one who has deer hunting in her blood. She’s not easily deterred, and neither am I. So off we went down the trail to see what the fields and woods had to offer.

When was the last time I had hiked these trails? My gosh, it must have been ten years ago. Moving to Caledonia shifted my attention to the attractions of Yankee Springs and rural Barry County, and I forgot about places to my north such as Seidman Park and the Egypt Valley State Game Area. That is, I almost forgot. On this snowy afternoon, I’m glad I remembered this beautiful park with its miles of hiking trails winding over tumbled fields, around ponds and wetlands, across wind-blown dunes and oak barrens, and through silent, snow-muffled forests.

There are varieties of snow. I’m no expert on this subject; I just know that it is so. There’s a big difference, for instance, between the frigid diamond chips that fall on extremely cold days, and the big, soft flakes that stick to just about anything they touch and pack readily into snowballs. This latter kind of snow—snow that falls during relatively warm days—is the stuff that clung to the branches and transformed the woods around Lisa and me into a Narnian fantasy. Strange shapes emerge out of such snow. Logs become white-hatted gnomes. Trees become sculptures of white clumps on black trunks that reach skyward, straining toward the graying evening sky.

Love it or hate it, winter is here—the months of minimalism, the season of black and white. At its worst, we’ll live with it. At its best, we’ll call it beautiful. Its beauty may not be the tenderness of spring, the richness of summer, or the flamboyance of fall, but it is there. When peaches-and-cream clouds drift above a sunlit, snowy landscape, then at least some of us will admit that winter, too, is a fair maiden.

Of course, we’re likelier to appreciate her beauty when we dress warmly and carry a camera.

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.