A road trip in honor of days - and friends - who are gone
MARINETTE, Wis. - Summer is here, clearly, but when that sharp, chilly wind hit my face it was as good reminder from my teenage years that a goodnight kiss was an earned delight rather than something owed to me after a movie and an inexpensive dinner.
Lake Michigan can be a very harsh taskmaster, with its roiling waves and tales of tragic endings. It is said that the Atlantic Ocean couldn't hold a candle to Lake Michigan's ferocity when Neptune comes for a visit and creates a major stir.
This was another of my long driving outings and salutes to days gone by and memories fairly clouded.
The traditions of quite a few Chicago families dictated the clan pile in to the car and stake out a space for those endless hours of northward travel. Not having any siblings, I had the luxury of the spacious realm of the back seat, replete with the mandatory cooler filled with soft drinks and fresh fruit. But that was back then, and now this trip meant finding those secret roads known only to my father with his magic, inborn sense of woodsy direction.
Volumes have been written about Illinois families following the call of the wild every year when all things new and familiar brought excitement on a platter. Just going there would raise the hair on the back of my neck.
I drove away from the big lake intent on finding the pathways that captured my imagination. I roamed the side roads near Crivitz, Wis., and took mental pictures so as to compare them to old memories.
Nothing much has changed, except the old-timers are gone and the new generations hadn't allowed enough time to mend the roofs or make the old places presentable.
I slowed the truck near a lake I fished 40 years ago and spotted a youngster a scant 30 feet from the shore.
"How's it going?" I yelled out the window. He answered by holding up a stringer of crappies and bluegills. Good enough for me.
I wonder if the people who live in the north country know how fortunate they are to have the wide open spaces as their front and back yards. I wonder if others who live in the foothills of some of the great western mountain ranges tolerate the winters enough to appreciate the rest of the year.
This wanderlust of mine feeds on a desire to breathe in life in massive gulps. And because I recently lost another friend I keep hearing that proverbial clock ticking every single day.
Like the late John Husar, former Long Grove angler Harvey Klene needed a liver transplant to bring him back to a bit of normalcy. It wasn't going to happen and he continued to slide downhill.
Harvey and I shared an intense interest in flyfishing, and we had planned a trip to the famous Green River out west. But I knew his days were numbered when he canceled the expedition. And then a large box arrived at my front step. The cardboard container was filled with a goldmine of fly tying materials. He told me on the phone the stuff would go to good use, and he was right.
When I received word that Harvey passed away, I sat down and tied flies until the wee hours of the morning, just to keep my mind working in the right channel.
That's what these long drives to the northwoods do for me.
So between the fly tying and the escapes in my vehicle I am able to find a smattering of solace. All it takes is a couple tanks of gasoline and my magnifiers.
agnler88@att.net