I visited my sister and brother-in-law in northern Michigan a couple weekends ago. Carol and I were at their house on Friday when she got a phone call. Black River Ranch was on fire, the caller told her. A moment later, Paul walked into the house and she shared the news with him. “I just came from there!” he said, in astonishment.
“There were some people putting into the river when I left; I hope the fire didn’t have anything to do with them. And there are brush piles around the property from a recent cleanup. That would just act as tinder.” With that, he turned around and went back to the ranch, to see if the folks fighting the fire could use help.
Before long, he returned to the house; it was to be an all-professional firefighting effort. Paul sat down at his computer and started tracking the smoke from the fire. Soon it spread to the Pigeon River State Forest, over two counties, and into the Straights of Mackinac. We watched the smoke that night and the next day. Helicopters were dropping so much water on the fire that it showed up on the radar as light rain.
“This is us,” Carol said in anguish. “We’re on fire.”
“Now I know how people feel when their church is burning,” Paul answered. Both Carol and Paul are deeply, deeply involved in conservation and “the resource”—Michigan’s state land and waters and all that lives on it and in them.
Carol and I had sturgeon to watch swim up the Black River to spawn on Saturday, so we went and watched. The river and the fish are fabulous parts of the resource. The fish are, thanks to the coordinated efforts of many people and organizations, making their way back from the brink of extinction. It was a privilege to watch the sturgeon go by and to spend time with folks involved in insuring the fish can make this annual journey in peace. And always in our minds was the fire, still burning.
We had lunch in Alpena and realized afterward that the weather had changed radically while we’d been inside. The wind was up, and the dark and lowering sky silhouetting a church steeple looked like something from a scary movie. We ran for the Jeep and headed for home.
Just as we left town, the skies opened up. Enormous blobs of rain began to pummel the car. “Thank you, God! Thank you, God! Thank you, God!” Carol shouted. “Put that fire out!” It rained so hard that we quickly joined a long line of stalwart, truck-driving, northern Michiganders in pulling off the road, hazard lights flashing.
Carol took the opportunity to call Paul. “Guess what it’s doing here!” she said. “It’s raining. In fact, it’s pouring. Big, fat drops. This should really help. Is it raining there?”
“Not yet,” he said. “But the fire is out.”
It had burned 2,300 acres. The anglers Paul had seen putting into the river did not start it. The cause was determined to be a lightning strike during a thunderstorm on Thursday. Carol had chatted with a firefighter at the sturgeon viewing who told her that if lightning hits, say, a white pine, the tree can smolder for hours before flames are visible. So, despite DNR fire-spotting flights, the fire didn’t show up until Friday.
And speaking of raining cats and dogs, various trees around here are raining catkins—hickory, alder, birch. They decorate the trees for a time, then fall to the sidewalks, the grass, and the forest floor. From which surfaces our dog vacuums them up with his fur. His feet and undercarriage look like they’re sporting dreads. He tries to remove them on his own, but half-heartedly and without much success, as the little cuties weave themselves into his hair. We pull catkins off him by the handful. He does not care for this process and feels it should involve treats. He feels that life in general should involve treats.
Next door, we have the care of the neighbors’ cat while they’re away. Herbie is such a sweetheart that he was named after Disney’s love bug. He’s happy to see us when we go over, delighted to be fed, and regards lap time as a treat. We sit on the sofa while he eats, and he sits on us afterward, rearranging himself as necessary to make sure all surfaces get petted. He is exceedingly soft and his purr loud and constant, so we are happy to oblige.
And thus we have rain, cat, catkins, and dog.
29 May 2022