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Contrary to the latest statistics, printed news hasn’t died
yet. There are still people who put their reading glasses on,
get lost in a story, and enjoy coming in contact with a piece of
paper—no cord, no wireless—just newsprint to wash off their
hands. People may
still use newspapers as packing material (those who actually
still mail things) and we know The Northern Camper has
been used to start some really good campfires. As long as you
read it first and patronize our sponsors, it’s all good.
Following is an article
that finds a reader—and a darn good journalist—who noticed our
little magazine. He may have somewhat of a print prejudice, but
he writes a story of when you might pick up a paper and read it,
especially if you are heading up north.
Thanks Tom Rademacher and The Grand Rapids Press.
And Tom, Whitetail Realty has a listing for that
cabin you mentioned. It comes with a pie iron.
 Northern Michigan reels me in
By Tom Rademacher
The Grand Rapids Press
May 16, 2010
If you dare to venture out of the city, this is a dangerous time
of year. It happened
to me one day last week and now, when I am supposed to be
focusing on home chores and writing assignments, all I can think
about are morels and walleye, canoes and creels, shotguns and
hiking and campfires.
Thanks a lot, Northern Michigan.
I got stung inside Garlets Corner Restaurant at M-37 and M-55
near Hoxeyville, one of those ubiquitous but charming ham-n-egg
joints where they lure you deeper and deeper into the woods with
bottomless coffee, cheery waitresses and, oh yeah, seemingly
harmless publications like “The Northern Camper” and “Michigan’s
Hooks & Bullets.”
My waitress said nothing as I flipped through both, but I knew
what she was thinking: “Another catch.”
Not that I was going home with her. But in her eyes I saw a hint
of knowing, that I’d be back this way, my car loaded to the
gills with golf clubs and fishing poles and the most important
outdoor item of all, a pie iron.
It’s bad enough that the May/June cover of “Hooks & Bullets”
featured Mari Romanack holding up a pike the size of an I-beam
that she caught while casting a crankbait off a rocky shoreline.
But inside drove me even crazier, with ads enticing me to
patronize “Deer Tracks Ranch” and “Rustik Wooden Kreations” and
“Uncle Bob’s Smoky Mountain Premium All-Purpose Sauce” and
“Kelley’s Ketch” and “Wiggly Dicks’s Bait & Tackle” and, no, I
am not making any of this up.
The ads inside “Northern Camper” were a bit more subtle, but
just as diabolical, perhaps “Whitetail Realty” more than the
others. I mean, how can you even say the name of that Lake City
business and not picture yourself in a cabin or cottage warmed
by a woodstove and boasting hand-peeled beams and stocked with
cast iron cookware — and Hollie, are you listening?
The issue I perused featured a profile on “Spikehorn” Meyers of
Clare County, who died in 1959 but not before reportedly
establishing a reputation for (a) hosting a park with wild bear,
(b) inventing “a contraption to snare children trying to steal
his watermelons,” and (c) offering a $50,000 reward during the
1940s for the live capture of Adolph Hitler.
In other words, he fit into the Northern Michigan landscape just
fine.
At Garlets Corner, I figure they get characters somewhat like ol’
Spikehorn, or at least inventive enough to answer like the man
across from me, who said this when the waitress asked how he was
doing:
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
The term “Northern Michigan” is subjective, of course. If you
live in the U.P., you’re not there until you can sniff the
southern shore of Lake Superior. But for those of us south of
where birches flourish naturally, north is just beyond Muskegon,
Howard City and Greenville.
And the draw is inescapable, our senses overcome by the scent of
pine, the taste of something atavistic. Soon, we’ll be topping
our trucks and minivans with bicycles and floats and
disappearing in search of idyllic woods and waters. People are
taking their RVs out of storage, priming their outboards,
inventing ways to be sick on Friday and (cough, cough) the
following Monday.
We’ll spill from our vehicles and feast our eyes on nothing that
is of brick and mortar. We will leave deadlines in our wake,
stare into campfires just because and announce ourselves in
little whispers that both acknowledge we’ve arrived, and can
hardly believe it’s true.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
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