I Owe Lou a Million Dollars

I was thinking of times past today. I began to think about my brother Dean and his brother-in-law Louis Mikulich. Lou or Louie as we knew him was one of a number of children. Lou lived in Traunik, MI his hometown. The Mikulich family was well known in that area as his mother and father had owned and operated a general store and post office there for many years. Louie came from a talented family. My sister-in-law, Gladys or Miki as we knew her was an athlete of some prominence in high school. Several brothers played tennis in college and old man Mikulich had built an asphalt tennis court at his home for his children to play on.

Lou went to college and had a degree in some field like Botany or Biology. I'm not sure what the degree was in. He never worked in the field. When Mr. & Mrs. Mikulich passed away Lou took over the store and kept the property at Joe's Lake in good shape so family members could return to the U.P. for vacations and family gatherings. Lou eventually became post master and ran the store keeping an eye on the family holdings.

Lou was a gentle man, soft spoken and refined. He was well educated and stay current on the events of the day. He was aware and knew of the issues of the region, the state and the country. Louie smoked a pipe and was one of those people whose appearance a pipe enhanced. Lou loved to laugh and had a good sense of humor, however the image he projected was one of serious contemplation.

Whenever my brother was at Joe's Lake Lou paid a visit nightly to sit and discuss the events of the world, enjoy my brother Dean's company, or many times to go night fishing for bass on Joe's Lake. Joe's Lake was a beautiful body of water. About 2/3 of it was bounded by either state or Cleveland Cliffs land. There were cabins, but not too many. The lake was clean, sandy bottom with some silting as there was no flow through the lake. It harbored huge small mouth bass. Dean and Lou caught many bass and always released them, the fun was in the catching, not the eating.

Lou and Dean had agreed they would keep a bass weighing over 5 1/2 pounds and have it mounted to hang in the log cabin. Back in the depression Mr. Mikulich, senior, had a builder pay off a debt owed to his store by building a log cabin on a piece of property Mr. Mikulich had acquired on Joe's Lake. It was a simple cabin, however it was spectacular. It was made of huge northern pine logs, had a huge field stone fireplace, two very small bedrooms and sat on a hill over looking the lake. It was simply magnificent. This is where my brother spent his summers, and the land Lou watched over with benevolent grace.

I've been to that cabin many times. I stayed the night on occasion. I went night fishing with Lou and Dean and enjoyed the thrill of small mouth bass striking surface lures and startling the hell out of the fishermen. I've enjoyed the company of two intelligent, articulate men who enjoyed each others company as much as anyone could. They played golf in Gladstone many times and ate dinner together often. They loved one another deeply.

One time when I was very young I spent a week in Midland, MI at Dean's home. The weekend I was to return to Munising Lou showed up and offered to drive me back to the U.P. The plan was he would drive me to Traunik, the Mikulich home, and then I would call my Dad and he and mom would drive out to pick me up. My folks had given me some some money to pay my way, but Lou wouldn't hear of it. In fact, he ended up driving into Munising and taking me right to my home. I expressed my appreciation and told him that I owed him a Million Dollars. He chuckled and lit his pipe. He said that one day he would collect and drove back to Traunik.

Lou was a solitary figure much of the time and I could not help but wonder about the quality of his life. Lou seemed to enjoy good conversation, discussion of issues, and seemed to care deeply about the country and the environment. He was alone most of the time for Lou was a bachelor.

Through the years we would enjoy getting together when my brother was up north. We would enjoy a fire in the fireplace in that magnificent cabin and I would listen as Dean and Lou discussed and debated the issues surrounding the times. Over the years I stopped in several times at the store in Traunik to pay my respects and noticed Lou grow older, getting gray and a little stooped. He still smoked his pipe and was so gracious when you would meet. Wanted to know how you were, what you were doing, how the family was, my mother and father. He was an easy man to love.

I would remind him from time to time about the Million Dollars. He had forgotten. When I would retell the story he would chuckle and say that some day he might collect. Lou may have forgotten, but I never have. I will always remember that kind, gentle, pipe smoking man who loved life, loved my brother, and was a very good man. Lou got to know my father and mother-in-law as they were postmasters too. They would see each other at meetings held in various parts of the Upper Peninsula and talk about Alger County. It was through my in=laws that I learned of Lou's passing from cancer.

My brother died from a stroke in 1982, and I lost touch with Lou as the common meeting point no longer existed. However, I was sorry to hear of his passing, and wished I had been more outgoing or concerned and made contact with Lou. He was a very special man.

A Thanksgiving Tale

This story is true. but I cannot remember the exact year - probably in the mid 60’s. I think Bonnie and I were married, but it is not relevant.

Michigan's deer season had been in since Nov. 15, and Bonnie and I were in Shingleton, MI for Thanksgiving. I was also going to do some deer hunting and was truly looking forward to the experience.

Shingleton, MI is a small community of 5-600 located on M-28 just east of Munising. Munising is a small town, at the time perhaps 4500 - 5000 souls located on the northern side of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan on the shores of Lake Superior about 50 miles east of Marquette, MI. The distance from Munising to Shingleton is about 12 miles. South of Shingleton toward Manistique lie extensive hunting lands that many from the Lower Peninsula hunt for the elusive Michigan whitetail. This is remote hunting, swamps; bogs and uplands abound. While roads crisscross the area, they tend to be two rut roads that loosely follow the terrain and can be impassable at times.

Tom & Glady Dolaskie, my wife's parents, owned a general store at the cross road of M-28 and M-94. There was a Post Office in the store and Tom was the postmaster. However, Tom's background as an outdoors man is legend. He grew up in the logging camps that were located in the area and made his living for many years cutting logs for the timber industry. He hunted and fished the entire area and was as familiar with the surrounding countryside as you would be of your home.

We had all gone to bed after the usual evening of card games and much talk. Our plan was to rise early, breakfast and then go hunting north of Star Siding back in large swamp area that ran north to Lake Superior. Sometime after we had all fallen asleep we were roused by a knocking at the back door. It was perhaps 11:30 PM. The knocking did not stop. I heard Tom get up and go down the stairs. I could hear voices at the back door, but the location of the bedrooms did not permit me to overhear the conversation.

A few minutes later Tom came up the stairs and knocked on our bedroom door. He asked me to come downstairs. Of course by this time Bonnie and Glady were awake, so we all traipsed down the rickety old stairwell. There stood a man dripping wet and quite wound up. About that time I remembered being awakened by a freak thunderstorm that moved through the area just after we had gone to bed. I lay in bed listening to the crashing and booming and wondered what that would mean to the hunt the next morning. There was a good amount of snow on the ground, I wondered if it would all melt away. Of course, you just knew the woods would be sopping wet, and you were in for a muddy day of slogging trails.

The man and his hunting partner had camped south of Shingleton near a place called the Red something or other, I cannot recall. It was located in a very backwoods area that I had been to before, but it had been some time. Tom knew the area very well and knew from the description the man gave just where they were camping.

Glady called the ambulance service, and they would send an ambulance. I was to accompany the man back to their encampment and render what assistance I could. Being a young man and not trained in any first aid or CPR, I really had no idea what to do except to provide company. Tom would wait for the ambulance and accompany the driver to the campsite in the woods.

Munising has a small hospital, and the few doctors who service the area tend to be General Practitioners. The ambulance service is provided by the local funeral home, Bowerman-Halifax, and what serves as an ambulance is also a hearse. The vehicle was a gorgeous black Cadillac hearse with the small, tasteful sign of Bowerman-Hallifax funeral home on a bronze hood ornament.

The man, who by the way was from Kalamazoo, MI, and I drove to the campsite. Down a barely passable two rut road we bounced and arrived at one of those spacious canvas tents that have sidewalls. We found his partner, barely conscious, lying on a cot beside a small potbellied wood burning stove. Lightening had apparently hit a tree nearby. Searching for ground, it came down the tree, hit the metal stovepipe leading to the stove, and then grounded through the cot and the man leaving a gash in the earthen floor of the tent. The man was injured, had difficulty breathing, and seemed to be in great distress. We were able to cover him with a blanket and tried to keep him awake so he would not go into shock.

We had been at the campsite for perhaps fifteen minutes when we became aware of a vehicle approaching the camp. After the thunderstorm had passed through which was apparently the leading edge of a cold front, the temperature plummeted. It was now about zero, and the roads had become covered with "black ice". Driving out from Munising had been treacherous. But, here we were, trying to care for an injured man and what pulls into the campsite? You guessed it, a brand new, black, gorgeous Cadillac hearse driven by the funeral home director, Footsie Bowerman. Tom had guided him without fail, but the real surprise was when the backdoor opened out stepped Dr. Olson, one of the physicians who serviced the Munising area. When Tom had told Footsie that a hunter had been struck by lightening, Footsie called Doc Olson and Doc Olson told Footsie to pick him up on the way out of town. Together they slipped and slid out to Shingleton. Then joined by Tom they maneuvered their way to the campsite, and there sometime after midnight on a bitterly cold November night Dr. Olson, delivered by a hearse, treated the hunter from Kalamazoo.

The men from Kalamazoo were astounded. Only about 30 minutes had passed since the man had left with me in tow to return to the campsite. Yet in that 30 minute time frame an ambulance that is not on duty that late at night was summoned, a doctor was roused and picked up, 12 miles of icy road were traversed, then another 8 or so miles to the campsite and here we all were. The fellows from Kalamazoo said you couldn't even get that kind of service in a big city where they had round the clock services.

The man hit by lightening survived, but was never the same. He suffered heart damage, walked with a limp, never regained full motor control of his limbs, and lived the rest of his life on disability, unable to work. But before the two left the area, they came by the store to thank Tom & Glady for their help. His hunting partner returned to the UP many times hunting and fishing. He always stopped in the General Store and visited with Tom & Glady. Their conversations often returned to that stormy November night and the outstanding service and care that Footsie and Doc Olson provided. The man eventually grew older, retired and stopped coming to the UP some years ago. Tom & Glady retired and sold their store, and contact was lost. The memory is still etched in my mind, and I put it in this blog so others of my family may learn about the care, concern and service to others rendered to strangers in the cold night of the Northwoods.

The people who live in the Munising area of the Upper Peninsula have a unique spirit formed in part by the remote and rugged life of the area. While some may be amazed by the effort, those who live there would say, yep, just like Footsie and Doc Olson. Footsie has passed on. I do not know about Doc Olson except I know he retired some time ago. But the spirit that drove those men on that night still lives on in the residents of that country.

Halloween Then and Now

When I was a little kid in the 50's Halloween was a great time. I had this cowboy outfit that had two pistols, holsters and a hat. So it didn't take much with a small mask to render me unrecognizable, ha! I discovered this summer that our neighborhood really consisted of the 800 and 900 blocks of Superior Street. The 900 block was about as far west in Munising you could go. So it did not take long to cover those blocks and get a pretty good load of loot. However, being perhaps 6 or 7 I ventured into other blocks looking to load up good. I went past Lincoln School and was getting some distance from home. Was I worried, naw, with my pistols and hat I was invincible. I approached one home and knocked, a man came to the door and I pronounced the age old request, "Trick or Treat." The man made me come into the home and do a trick before I could get a treat. So I turned a cartwheel in his living room. There were other adults there enjoying the festivities and while I thought my task a little strange it was no big deal. I remember coming home with a paper bag with the fiber twist handles that was about 3/4 full of apples, caramels, a few candy bars, some change, and other treats. It was great.

Fast forward to Sturtevant, WI. The time was the latter part of the 70's. My children are 6 to 8 years old and it is Halloween. They have costumes. Their eyes sparkle in anticipation. The routine in the neighborhood is for Dad to escort the kids and Mom stays home and gives out candy, or vice versa. So out we go, me escorting beautiful angels, fairies or whatever the creature was. I stood back on the sidewalk as my two princesses went home to home collecting treats. We circled the block, we went through all of the blocks in the area and finally pleading fatigue we headed home. Time had changed some things. When I was a kid we just took all of the goodies as untainted. Now with stories of foreign objects put in apples, or unsealed items we sorted the loot first. We tossed apples and other fruit that was not in a sealed package. Not much got thrown out, so the kids had plenty of sweets for enjoying. We did that year after year for four or five years. I got such a kick out of my little ones full of enthusiasm running from house to house checking their bags and running home to show their mother their goods. They would sort their stuff, eat some of the candy and then collapse into bed. God, what a good time they had and what a joy they were.

Fast forward to 2000. Terry and I live in Jackson, MS. A new wife, a new life. My children are grown. Terry's kids are grown so now we are relegated to giving out the treats. Our next door neighbor has an audio/video studio and has rigged up lights and music outside of his house. Children running up to the home get almost to the porch when a light show comes on and the booming voice of Dracula comes out and music blares. Some little kids turn tail and run back to their parents. We have a pumpkin and our lights are on. We enjoy the little ones coming and yelling the age old "Trick or Treat" and opening their bags with enthusiasm. There are some older kids with no costumes running as fast as they can just gathering treats. I have a feeling they come from poorer families and perhaps are supplementing the treats the whole family may enjoy.

Fast forward to 2008. We live in a log cabin. We are at the very end of a private drive. It is dark up here, we have no outside lights such as yard lights. We do have lights that come on if something or one triggers the sensing device. We live back in the dark wooded area. No kids come. We are at peace. We eat the treats. No kid would dare come back here, it is just too dark and the house to creepy. We'll leave it that way.

The 30/30 Feeling

I guess I was about 10-11 years old when this event took place. That would mean it was the early 1950's. There is a little community in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan called Rock. It sits on M=35 just north of Gladstone, MI. In the early 1950's community members formed a Lion's Club. My father was a member of the Lion's Club in Munising, just to the northeast of Rock and was a very active member.

Rock's Lion's club held a festival to help raise funds to develop some financial underpinning for the organization. So one Saturday my Mother, Father and I got in the family Ford and drove to Rock to take part in the festivities and support the fledgling club. It seemed as though my Dad always knew people someplace. It wasn't long before my Mother and Father were visiting with people, spending a little money on some games and had given me five dollars to try my hand at what games of chance I might enjoy.

My Dad always told me that whenever you see four Lion's together you'd always find a 5th. So I am sure there was a little imbibing going on. It was a good time. New territory, games of chance, small rides, and food. What more could you ask for in a small town.

I was deep into outdoor lore then. I had many magazines that extolled the excitement surrounding fishing and hunting expeditions. I read Outdoor Life, Field and Stream and other outdoor magazines with gusto. I could imagine being on a bear hunt in Alaska, prowling the swamps and hardwood forests of my native UP looking for the elusive whitetail. A shotgun in the crook of my arm as I ambled through the fall color hunting the startling Ruffed Grouse, known in my area as a partridge. My imagination flamed with the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the kill and the reward of the fine food afterward.

As I walked through the throngs at the festival I happened by the stage area. There was the object of my dreams, a Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 rifle. It was first prize in a raffle. A raffle ticket cost $1. I still had $4 in my pocket so I bought four tickets. I than set out on a quest. I found empty pop bottles that I could turn in at food vendors for a nickel deposit refund. I scrounged and begged and tried all I could to come up with more money. I knew nothing about statistics and chance, I just knew that the more tickets I had the more opportunity I had to win that rifle. I invested heavily (emotionally) in that rifle. My Dad gave me some more money. I do not think he knew what I was doing with it. I feel like had he known he would not have been so generous because while he bought a raffle ticket or two he didn't see much future in the game as an investment or a sure thing.

By the time evening came and the stage show took place I had accumulated probably between 15 and 20 raffle tickets. I was absolutely sure I had more tickets in the raffle than anybody else. I had spent the day investing time, effort and emotion in collecting items to turn in, scrounging money and buying raffle tickets. I was dreaming of stalking whitetail deer in the swamps of Alger County. I pictured myself aiming the rifle, is spoke loudly and I was deadly accurate. My hunting knife was fastened at my belt, I had the traditional red plaid wool jacket and cap on, and the snow crunched under my boots as I came upon my kill. God, I could imagine that scene, it still excites me to this day. So I stood with my parents waiting for the drawing for the prizes sure that my name would be called when that Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 rifle was given away - to me!

There was the queen contest, the watermelon eating contest, gees my folks were making like we had to go. I persuaded them to stay till the drawing. I think they were beginning to see the level of importance this drawing had for me. Finally, it was dark, the park the festival was held in was lit with Christmas style lights and music played everywhere. The announcer intoned that the drawing for the raffle prizes would take place. I do not remember how many prizes were drawn for. I won none, and that was OK because I was going to win the rifle. The Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 rifle. When the person reached their hand into the drum to pull my winning ticket it seemed like the world stopped. A spot light came on and when my name was announced I would proudly walk to the platform, accept the rifle and receive the applause of many for my effort. Here it comes, the winning name, ME!

NOOOOO! It was someone else's name. Not mine, how could this be. I'm sure I had more tickets in the drum than anyone else. A mistake was made, but I knew there could be no redraw, no recount, no rifle, no Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 rifle. I was crushed. I couldn't show it. We turned and walked to the car. It was about an hour's drive home. I was in the backseat of the car with my dashed dreams of adventure and fun. I lay in bed that night working through my head what could've gone wrong. Maybe a few more empty pop bottles, maybe and another ticket, maybe, maybe, maybe.

I remember that feeling to this day. I remember wanting something so hard that it was a fervent prayer on my lips that needed answering. I remember the dreams and the desire so intense that it became the sole focus of my effort that day. I have had a few days in my life when I have had similar intensity in my wants. Not many, just a handful, perhaps less than 10. However I measure all similar situations against that one experience back in the 50's. I measure everything of similar intensity against what I call my 30/30 feeling.

As a postscript, on my sixteenth birthday my Dad and Mom gave me a Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 for Christmas. It was a thrill, I hunted with that gun and sometimes just took it and held it. It looked like the rifle used by Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, Lash-la-Ru, John Wayne, Gregory Peck and Jimmy Stewart. It didn't have as many shots, but it looked the same. It's weight felt solid and secure and I hunted with it a lot. I never killed anything, but it went to the woods with me just the same. In 1966 my Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 was in a storage unit in an apartment in Milwaukee where my parents lived along with some other firearms I owned. It was stolen.

I have never replaced it. However, my Winchester Model 94 Lever Action 30/30 remains the gun of my dreams and I use that experience to measure all intense emotion I experience. I have thought about buying another, but I just don't think it would be the same. I have thought about going to gun shows and finding an older model and purchasing that. That idea has appeal to me, but it is not "the" gun. I do remember exactly, however, the 30/30 feeling.

A Recent Memory Made

This week, October 6-10, 2008 my wife Terry has been on vacation. She has had a pleasant week at home pretty much tackling chores she wants tackled. One of the chores has been the processing of apples. she has made four batches of apple butter which we packed into pint glass jars and processed through a water bath on Saturday. She was at chores all day Saturday ending in the evening with her cutting my hair. Finally we settled down for the evening. I took a quick shower to get rid of the aftermath of the haircut and she took a quick shower to freshen up and feel decent.

I roasted 18 of our fresh chestnuts from our trees. Wisconsin was playing Penn State on TV and she does not make a fuss when I watch college football as she knows I dearly love that sport. As I was sitting in my usual chair at my computer watching the game she came into the room after her shower in her pj's and sat in her favorite easy chair. Our dog Cilia was dutifully picked up and place in her usual position next to Terry. So here we sat, a small family in Arkansas with me enjoying my Big 10 game.

I glanced over at Terry and she had the recliner fully extended. In one hand was a magazine with recipes, next to her was Cilia and she was munching on one of our favorite seasonal snacks, fresh roasted chestnuts. I never said anything, I just watched her sitting there studying the recipes, slowly munching chestnuts. She was truly at peace and looked so comfortable. It was one of those scenes that makes sense of why we work so hard to provide for ourselves and our loved ones. The only other thing that would've been more traditional would've been to have a fire in the fireplace. However it was still about 80 degrees and we don't have a fireplace. The memory is burned into my long-term memory and it made for a fitting end to a pleasant week of vacation.

Remembering a Lip Warmer

It seems hard to forget but July 1969 I left the United States for a 13 month tour in Korea. It was called a hardship tour because family was not allowed to come along. Why couldn't it have been Germany, or some other place in the world where my wife and daughter would have had the experience of living overseas. Besides, my wife spoke German. Regardless the 13 months are etched in my mind with scenes of Korean life, way too much drinking, carousing, and friendships that did not last but were very important at the time.

It was while I was in Korea that I decided to grow a mustache, lip warmer, cookie duster, and crumb retention unit. I had that mustache until 2004.

Terry and I were sitting on the porch about 7 AM drinking coffee enjoying the cool morning air and the hint of the clear sunny day we should experience. We have a book called "The Book of Roses." It is a book we bought years ago when our flower beds were filled with rose bushes and we were into tending them. The book has activities associated with growing roses divided by months of the year. Terry in her own way has made the book into a little record of events that have occurred over the years. For example, when the Hummingbirds first show up in the spring is recorded. When we harvested our first chestnuts. There are no pages made for notes so her comments tend to be written at the head of a chapter or in the margins. Over the years when something happens of interest in nature or around the yard either of us will make an entry in the book. It does not contain too many entries but it is the kind of book that our children might come across when they clean up our estate after we are gone and become a personal memento of our time in this home.

Terry got the book out while were were sitting on the porch because it is about this time of year we take in the Hummingbird feeders and we were wondering if we had made note of the time of year they left in the book. We had not, only their arrival. However as we sat there drinking coffee Terry looked through the book and found an old Dear Abby article about things you mother taught you. It was tongue in cheek and humorous and we enjoyed it as she read the article. Then she came across a poem that my brother-in-law Chap had written. A short paragraph at the end of the poem mentioned he was saddened by the demise of my lip warmer. The note was sent in 2004. Terry and I remarked that it seemed a lot longer ago that I had shaved my mustache off. But it had been only four years. I began to think back, my children never knew my until they were in their 30's without a mustache. I wore that "cookie duster" for 35 years. I recall I debated with myself for several years about shaving it off. I always felt it looked a little unkempt and it had grown so white I thought it made me look older than I am. Shaving it off did not apparently help that. Anyway it is gone. I wore a mustache for over half of my life. I'm glad it is gone. I feel better without feeling that hair on my lip. It is amazing though how attached we can become to some thing.

A Sheboygan Marsh Adventure

From 1982 through 1987 I lived in Sheboygan Falls, WI. West of Sheboygan is an area known locally as the Kettle Moraine area that has many geological formations created by glaciation. One area that I spent some time at was the Sheboygan Marsh. It is a wildlife area and abounds with pristine marshland, excellent canoeing and some interesting hunting opportunities.

One of my favorite upland game birds is the Ruffed Grouse also known by locals in Munising, MI, my hometown, as the partridge or pat. I have hunted Ruffed Grouse in Sheboygan marsh with a friend and we had chased up a few, but they are sparse. That's OK, it is more about being out in the wild than the taking of game.

One winter day I decided to take my Golden Retriever Captain and go see if we couldn't chase some grouse for a few hours. It was in January as Grouse season stayed open until sometime in mid-January or the first of February. Regardless, we were into a good old Wisconsin winter. Snow lay on the ground and the temperature hovered around 18 degrees Fahrenheit. I was dressed with layers of clothing and what I know as snow pac boots which are a combination of leather and rubber with a felt insert for insulation.

Captain and I parked on a country road that bordered the swamp and walked a trail frequented by snowmobiles to get back into the swamp area. The snow was not deep, inches only. Captain and I got off the trail and started walking some woods and channels. I say channels because apparently back in the 1920's large dredges were brought in and an attempt to drain the swamp was attempted. Obviously it didn't work but you can get a flavor of what the intention was. All around the swamp area are neat Wisconsin dairy farms and field filled with corn and pasture land. As a result of the dredging attempt the marsh is crisscrossed by channels created by the dredging attempt.

I found it easier to prowl the channels because the snow in the marsh was deeper and the swamp grass made for difficult walking. I noticed black spots on the ice but did not pay them any attention. Captain and I were enjoying being together, the weather was cold but clear and the marsh land was gorgeous in its winter coat.

I was walking with my shotgun cradled in my arms enjoying the sting of the cold air and the crunch of my boots on the crusted ice. As Captain and I walked down one channel I noticed one of the black spots nearby and had to cross it to get to the bank of the marsh. As I moved across the ice a huge cracking sound reverberated in the winter air and the ice disappeared beneath my feet. I went straight down into the water. The only thing that kept me from being immersed was I leaned forward as I fell and with my gun acting as a cross piece I caught myself on the ice at chest level. From my waist down I was in the water and I did not feel any bottom.

Stunned by the sudden collapse of the ice I lay there a few seconds trying to analyze my situation. Captain had been thirty or forty feet in front of my when I went down and I looked directly at him. He immediately turned and started back toward me. I realized from the look in his eye that he was coming to save me. I do not know what he would've done but I immediately had a sense that his weight might be enough to further break the ice and we'd both be in the drink. At least half my body was out of the water, if I went in fully I was afraid the weight of my clothing would make my chances at getting out a real struggle. So, I called "Captain, Stop." I had to repeat the command several times and Captain finally stopped about ten feet away.

I kicked my feet, I could move but I was afraid to move too much of my upper body as I didn't know how thick the ice was under my chest area. I kicked my feet, rolled from side to side and the ice held. Captain stood ready to help. After repeated tries, rolling gently from side to side I began to inch myself out further and further on the ice. Finally after what seemed to be many minutes but was probably 90 seconds or so I was able to crawl up on the ice. At that point Captain came forward and checked me out. I used his neck to brace myself to stand up. Thank God for a powerful dog.

It was then that I remembered what the black spots on the ice were. The channels had been dredged 60 years earlier. The channels had silted in as the slow moving water brought silt downstream. Because the water was slow moving the silt settled slowly and did not compact. This happens a lot in northern lakes and slow water areas and the silt can be very deep. We home boys call it "loon shit." Deer traversing the swamp would use the channels as crossing areas. One reason the swamp could not be drained 60 years earlier was the area was populated by numerous springs. As ice formed the thickness of the ice would be much thinner over a spring due to the movement of water in that local area. Deer would fall through thin ice, and the "loon shit" would cling to their legs as they thrashed there way out of the water leaving a dark stain on the ice. I should've known.

Captain and I began walking back to the station wagon I was driving. I was wet through to the skin from the waist down. It was 18 degrees. We had about a 30 minute walk back to the car. As I walked I began to realize that my pants were freezing. My body was warm as the layered clothing I had on retained my body heat. I would be OK for some time from the cold, but my heavy canvas insulated coveralls freezing stiff were becoming more and more of a problem. A snowmobile went by, the driver was unaware I was in trouble and waved as he passed. I didn't realize I was in trouble so I didn't flag him down. On Captain and I went, both now quite tired from the emotional stress of the dunking.

Finally we got to the car. One of the first things I had to do was get my keys out. My pocket was frozen shut. I used my fingers and dug through the frost until finally after several minutes I could extract the car keys. My fingers were stiff and operated very slow. I got the car door open but I couldn't bend my knees to get in the car. I couldn't bend to get in the car. What the hell! Finally I leaned forward, caught the edge of the roof and leaned into the car. I fell forward so I was laying on the front seat. Then I could get the keys in the ignition and start the car. I turned the heater on full, and had to lay there for about 20 minutes until my coveralls thawed. I then took off my coveralls and was able to drive home in my long underwear. I was not worse for the experience, but I was so impressed with Captain.

I do believe that if I had let Captain come to me he would've grabbed my coat with his mouth and helped pull me out. He was a loyal and loving friend.