Glen Arbor Sun

November 08, 2007

Wrapping the Fall Classic

By Jacob Wheeler
Sun editor

How fitting that on the very night in October the Boston Red Sox captured their second World Series championship in four years Alex Rodriguez, the most talked-about and highest paid athlete in America, shunned the New York Yankees and opted for free agency. The old guard is in disarray, and the epicenter of baseball in this new century has officially moved two states north, to Beantown: goodbye Joe DiMaggio, hello Manny Ramirez; eject Paul Simon, and welcome back James Taylor.

Entire libraries have been written about the rivalry between the Red Sox and Yankees: the Bostonians selling their rising star Babe Ruth to the New Yorkers in 1918 for cash, and the subsequent 86-year drought wrought on the banks of the Charles River as Ruth went on to invent the homerun and the Bronx Bombers tallied 26 championships; the countless near misses and late-season heartbreaks in New England, and parade of superstars turned goats, Bill Buckner, Bob Stanley, Grady Little.

But the curse of the Bambino is a twentieth century museum relic now. The Yankees have been eliminated in the first round of the playoffs for three years running, and the deckhands and captain, former skipper Joe Torre, have been jumping ship since the season ended early this autumn. Meanwhile, a ragtag, blue-collar bunch who often neglect to shave, wash their batting helmets, or button up their jerseys are America’s new team.

They are unorthodox, to be sure: dreadlocked slugger Manny Ramirez stumbling around left field as if he had smoked a joint before the game; menacing closer Jonathan Papelbon dancing an Irish jig in his Speedos for the media; designated hitter David Ortiz, who looks something like an armchair sofa and rarely plays in the field, though he packs a Ruthian swing; Japanese pitcher Daisuke Matsuzaka who wiggles his hips back and forth before throwing toward home plate.

The Red Sox walloped the Colorado Rockies in four games during the 2007 World Series and looked like a teacher towering over their student. The Rockies, whose franchise is only 15 years old, landed in the Fall Classic after winning an unprecedented 14 of 15 games to close the regular season and then swept the Philadelphia Phillies and Arizona Diamondbacks — each surprises in their own right this season — for a date on the ultimate stage. But a week off after disposing of the rattlers hurt Colorado, and just like the Detroit Tigers last year, the Rockies looked rusty, or intimidated, in the World Series. Their young phenoms collectively stopped hitting, or maybe they woke up one morning during the extended in-season vacation and realized that their late-season run was so unlikely, that it was nothing more than a mile-high dream. The Rockies never really showed up to the World Series, and their quick defeat cost me a bottle of scotch to my father. I had made the grave mistake of betting on numbers (the Rockies’ winning streak) and not on baseball wisdom (the Red Sox were clearly the better, and more experienced team).

We haven’t seen a close Fall Classic, now, since 2003, when the Florida Marlins knocked off the Yankees in six games. In fact, the last couple contests have been grossly under-played by the losing team and, at times, tedious. Four of the seven postseason series (eight teams qualify, meaning three rounds of games) this year ended in sweeps, and only one match-up required the maximum number of games: Boston’s comeback victory over the Cleveland Indians in the American League Championship Series. I ought to be writing about that contest instead.

So once again the recently departed baseball season will be remembered less for its climax and more for its buildup. This season — to no one’s surprise and to everyone’s relief because we’d finally stop hearing about it — the smug San Francisco Giant Barry Bonds eclipsed Hank Aaron’s all-time homerun record on Aug. 7 amidst allegations of steroid use that threw sports fans and non-sports fans alike into a moral frenzy. The fan who caught record-setting blast number 756 was a 22-year-old stockbroker visiting the Bay Area from New York who eventually sold the ball online to fashion designer Mark Ecko for $752,467. We live in the age of netroots democracy, and Ecko let baseball fans decide via an Internet poll to brand the cowhide with a demeaning asterisk (for Bonds’ alleged performance-enhancing drug use) before donating it to the baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY.

But perhaps this baseball season’s greatest moment came on April 15, which Major League Baseball named Jackie Robinson Day in honor of the African-American who broke baseball’s color barrier as a Brooklyn Dodger 60 years earlier. Cincinnati star outfielder Ken Griffey, Jr. asked Jackie’s widow Rachel for permission to wear his retired number 42 for the day, and baseball commissioner Bud Selig later invited all players to do so. Three clubs elected to have their entire team wear number 42 to honor Jackie Robinson: blacks, whites, Latinos, Asians alike.

For baseball is a universal game now, played by athletes from around the globe, even though its top league is confined to North America. From the colonial streets of Havana, to the jungles of Nicaragua, to the fish markets of Japan, kids play stickball and emulate their heroes in the big leagues, only now those heroes are more likely clad in Boston Red than in Yankee pinstripes. Indeed, “where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?”

Posted by editor at 03:42 PM | Comments (0)

August 23, 2007

The fight to save Tiger Stadium

From staff reports

September is just around the corner, and for the second year in a row, our beloved Detroit Tigers are eyeing the playoffs, and if the pitching holds up, another trip to the World Series (they haven’t done that since 1934-35!). But while baseball’s all the rage downtown at stylish Comerica Park, her predecessor, old Tiger Stadium may be on its deathbed.

Photo courtesy of Flickr.com, circa 1987

The 95-year-old park, which was recognized as an endangered historic place in 1991 by the National Trust for Historic Preservation, birthed a lifetime of memories for countless Michigan sports fans, yet hasn’t hosted Major League Baseball since 1999 (or any baseball since 2000 when Billy Crystal’s movie “61*” about Roger Maris’ chase of Babe Ruth’s single-season homerun record was filmed there) and could face the wrecking ball soon. The Detroit City Council voted 5-4 in late July to demolish the stadium, keep the playing field for youth baseball and use the rest of the land for low-rise housing and stores, according to The Detroit News.

Enter 89-year-old Hall-of-Fame broadcaster Ernie Harwell, the voice of the Tigers from 1960-2002, who is lobbying Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick to redevelop the site and save the old “house by the side of the road” from oblivion. Harwell and his attorney are seeking funding to keep Tiger Stadium alive. In the spirit of historic preservation, and baseball memories, we hope Harwell succeeds.

Here are a couple stories about the old ballpark to put you in a nostalgic mood:

Play Ball
By Jack Lessenberry
From Michigan Radio, August 1

Tiger Stadium didn’t get as much press coverage as the owners would have liked when it first opened. Seems the front pages were dominated that week by the sinking of some boat called the Titanic. Still, the opening of what was then a magnificent state of the art baseball palace in Detroit caused quite a stir 95 years ago.

The year before, a rickety wooden structure known as Bennett Park stood in the same spot, on the corner of Michigan and Trumbull.

But in 1912 that vanished in place of a new concrete wonder, first called Navin Field. It was named after the Detroit Tigers principal owner, shrewd, penny-pinching old Frank Navin, a man who loved to gamble, but who would fight a player for months over a thousand-dollar raise.

Stadium financing was rather simple in those days. Navin wanted a new field, so he paid for one. After he died, the next owner finished enclosing the ballpark and renamed it Briggs Stadium after himself. Not till 1961 would it officially become Tiger Stadium.

Now, all indications are that it is about to become rubble. Ever since the Tigers played their last game there in September 1999, there have been countless schemes for redeveloping it.

Photos by Sarah Schenck, The Michigan Daily

I never thought any of them would become reality, for a number of reasons. The people talking about turning the ballyard into luxury condos or boutiques had everything they needed except financing.

And men with money don’t commonly invest it in that part of Detroit. One who does have money and is willing to invest it is Mike Ilitch, the current owner of both the Tigers and the Detroit Red Wings, The Little Caesar’s pizza baron has poured millions into Detroit.

For the first six years after Comerica Park opened, the Tigers were a wretchedly bad baseball team. If someone had put an independent minor league club in the old park and charged eight dollars a ticket … attendance at Comerica might have swan-dived.

Now, however, things have changed. The Tigers are American League champions, and virtually every game at Comerica is sold out.

If there is anything Detroit doesn’t need, it is another vacant lot. Baseball is about history, and the place where Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Mickey Mantle once played doesn’t deserve to disappear.

I think Ernie Harwell’s restoration project might well work, if done right, and it might well help revive the old Irish neighborhood called Corktown that surrounds the stadium. And in any event, it would be worth a try.

Just remember baseball’s two greatest maxims:

It ain’t over till it’s over, and … you never can tell.

Check out more of Jack Lessenberry’s columns from Michigan Radio at www.jackshow.blogs.com

Last Hurrah at the Corner of Michigan and Trumbull
By Jacob Wheeler
Sun editor

This story originally ran in the Glen Arbor Sun in the fall of 1999.

DETROIT — Baseball immortal Kirk Gibson stood in the red dirt behind home plate at Tiger Stadium on the last weekend of the season, toeing the ground where he's walked many times before slugging a ball into the upper deck.

Yet the retired outfielder, whose gritty style of play epitomized the city in which he began and finished his career, wore tan, shiny loafers and a sport coat - looking more like he was attending a funeral than a baseball game.

There was talk of death in the family two weekends ago at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull, and the mourners showed up in the tens of thousands to say good-bye to a staple figure in their lives. The Tigers abandoned their beloved park after the season’s last home game on September 27th.

“Sparky used to tell us, ‘The Babe is buried but baseball lives on’,” said Gibson, referring to longtime manager Sparky Anderson — the last skipper to guide Detroit to a World Series championship, in 1984.

Nostalgia also was in the air as some of the greatest Tigers in history were named to the All-Time Team before the second-to-the-last game. There were Gibson, Jack Morris and Alan Trammell: household names on the 1984 championship team. There were Al Kaline, Bill Freehan and Mickey Lolich from the 1968 championship team. Relatives of Hank Greenberg, Charlie Gehringer, Hal Newhouser and even the infamous Ty Cobb — the man who once screamed racial slurs at baby-faced Babe Ruth from an opposing dugout — showed up to honor their names on the all-century lineup card.

Tiger players in the ballpark’s final game wore the All-Time Team’s jersey numbers, according to their positions in the field, with the exception of number-less Gabe Kapler who took Ty Cobb’s old spot in spacious centerfield. Cobb played in the days before teams wore numbers on their backs.

The final game hinged upon strikes, balls and outs. Like any other summer day, managers called for stolen bases and sacrifice bunts to push runners into scoring position. But in the course of three hours, those players, executives and fans who paid homage to this ancient ballpark reflected on entire lifetimes of composite summer afternoons. It inevitably brought some to tears.

“We have nostalgic feelings,” said Hall of Fame announcer Ernie Harwell, who’s described nearly every play to many devoted Tigers fans with his soothing, grandfather-like voice. “I’ve spent more time at this park than I have at home. But you have to go on with your job.

“As fans, we’re going to miss the feeling of being right down by the players. The number one characteristic at Tiger Stadium is the double decks all the way around the park.”

But Harwell, who has been in the announcing business since 1948, is excited about the move to Comerica Park next year.

“I like these new stadiums,” he said, referring to similar new models in Texas, Baltimore and Cleveland. “They’re throwbacks to the old era with limited seating capacity, not ‘cookie-cutters’ like the stadiums in Cincinnati, Pittsburgh and St. Louis.”

The current Tigers team also is enthusiastic about moving to the new ballpark, and it played like it the last weekend at The Corner. With an 8-2 victory in the last game and 6-1 and 11-3 shellings of Kansas City the two previous days, the Tigers looked like an inspired team playing in the heart of the pennant race — not the dismal team that lost more than 90 games and narrowly avoided the American League Central Division’s cellar this year.

“The atmosphere was like 1984,” said Tigers manager Larry Parrish. “It meant a lot to play well here this week with all the fans.”

The demise of Tiger Stadium drew 45,000 to the last game and more than 41,000 fans to the other games during the last series — an incredible contrast to earlier in the season when the team played poorly and fans saw little reason to visit the ancient shrine.

“The biggest thing for us is having people in the stands and consequently we’ve been playing some pretty decent baseball,” said Tony Clark, the team’s power-hitting first baseman. “That's something we don’t have a lot because of how the ball's been bouncing for us.”

The Tigers out-slugged and out-pitched the Royals in each of the last three games, behind two homers on Saturday and three home runs on Sunday and Monday.

In the season’s home finale, Mike Moehler held Kansas City to two runs as Luis Polonia, Karim Garcia and Robert Fick hit longballs. Fick, recently called up from the minor leagues, hit a grandslam onto the roof that would be the last hit ever at Tiger Stadium.

But more important than the three victories, the Tigers also hustled on every play, even when the games were all but put away. When Dean Palmer climbed onto the Tigers dugout and dived into the stands after a foul ball, in the eighth inning on Saturday, he wasn’t trying to catapult the Tigers into the playoffs. He was paying homage to the kind of baseball that blue-collar Detroit has relished for decades.

Posted by editor at 11:06 AM | Comments (0)

May 24, 2007

Fleet-of-foot Treece boasts Olympic dreams

By Nadine Gilmer
Sun contributor

On my first day as a cross-country runner at Glen Lake High School two years ago I was told that, without a doubt, Marissa Treece was going to win the race. I assumed that just meant she was “pretty good”. So I watched that race. Indeed, Marissa was the first person to finish, but I was confused because she was all alone — really alone. A few minutes later the second-place runner came down the shoot. “Wait a second … was Marissa in the same race,” I asked. The rest of the team smiled knowingly at me. She was, in fact, part of that race.

Photo courtesy of Pete Edwards

And now, as Marissa’s heralded high school running career comes to a close with the state finals on June 2, the Maple City native has her eyes set on even bigger races: NCAA Division 1 accolades, and maybe even medals in Beijing in 2008 or London in 2012.

For two years I’ve participated in almost every single track and cross-country race that Marissa has run. I know how hard it is to run those three-, two, one-, half-mile or the 1600-meter relay races, much less maintain the pace she keeps.

She is an amazing runner in the truest sense of the word, and she excels at more than just running. Marissa’s grade point average during her senior year at Glen Lake is 3.97 and she was a central part of the girl’s basketball team before she focused on cross-country. Marissa, who will run at Notre Dame next year on a full-ride athletic scholarship, is known simply as a winner. Her recipe to success is simple: “I am not really afraid to be around people I don’t know. I am comfortable with myself and I’m not worried about getting embarrassed. I’m pretty outgoing, so if I want something I always strive to get it … and people can recognize that passion in someone.”

That passion, and the opportunity to work with northern Michigan running guru Joe Shay of Central Lake over the past year, secured her Michigan’s Female High School Athlete of the Year award on May 14. The Detroit Athletic Club chose her among thousands of seniors and many sports, not just for her running talent but also for her grades and extracurricular activities. Marissa and five other nominees were presented on stage, and interviews with each student-athlete were shown before the product of Maple City was announced as the winner.

Comprehending what this honor means is so difficult that Glen Lake held a full school assembly to promote it. Thirty-two pairs of running shoes were lined up on the gym floor before Athletic Director Paul Christiansen announced to the crowd that 32 was the number of running shoes Marissa has gone through during her high school running career. And these shoes had their miles cut out for them. Her miles over the past four years add up to roughly 6,000. That’s from here to Orlando, Florida more than four times.

“I hated running for the longest time,” Marissa admits. “Now it’s definitely my favorite sport,” because of, “the success I have had and the competition I go against. It’s really fun to be with good competition and know that you are giving it your all, plus it forces you to be in good physical condition.” Of running seriously, Marissa remembers, “I was never really excited about it until freshman year when I won states ... but even then I thought I was going to be a basketball player. I got really excited about it after my sophomore cross-country season and then got more serious about it after I lost the state track meet my junior year.”

Serious training is no light jog, and it requires very specific personality traits to obtain the kind of success Marissa has enjoyed. “I am very competitive,” she says, “and I’m always interested in becoming the best that I can possibly be. Most people hear 60 miles a week and they are amazed or dumbfounded. But it’s not like I just jumped in — I worked myself up to that point, and if I did much less than that I wouldn’t be where I am now. I know that it will pay off in the long run.

“Plus, I just feel better after I go running. For sure, there are days when I don’t want to go on a speed workout or when 10 miles seem like they are taking forever, but I always try to keep a positive mind. Only once Joe Shay saw me lose and decided he would help me did I finally realize that I would go somewhere with my running and that I needed to focus in order to become the best I could be.”

She certainly is going somewhere. Marissa plans on becoming an All-American at Notre Dame and going on to become an NCAA champion in track and cross-country, and eventually running in the Olympics — 2008 or 2012, “or hopefully both”.

With the lustrous possibility of glory in Beijing or London hanging over her head, Marissa gets a lot of attention. Fellow track athletes have come to her asking for autographs, and she has become something of a celebrity among runners in the area. “I try to be as humble as possible, say ‘thank you’ and always try to remember what I was like when I looked up to the high school athletes. And I try to be a role model for all the younger the kids.”

It’s rare to find someone who could very possibly be in the next Olympics or someone that breaks impossible records. To really understand her achievements, I guess you would have to walk a mile in her shoes — or in her case, run 6,000 miles, fairly quickly, in what would take 32 pairs of Marissa’s shoes.

Posted by editor at 08:03 AM | Comments (0)

Fighting off the bear with Internet technology

By Carol Purcell
Sun contributor

One beautiful week last September I headed to the Upper Peninsula for a solitary camping trip. The Hurricane River Campground is a small campground reached by dirt roads, 12 miles west of Grand Marais, right on Lake Superior in the Pictured Rocks. It has 11 sites, one water spigot and one outhouse — basically in the middle of nowhere. At this time of year there are very few campers. Nevertheless, I could tell that the site next to me was occupied although it was 50 feet away and screened from view by trees and brush.

I had been swimming in the lake and messing around in the river until about 6:30 p.m. when I went back to my site to change. I was changing at the picnic table because no one was around, and I had just pulled on my pants when I heard a noise behind me and turned around.

I should backtrack here and mention that my sister Chris gets very concerned when I go out into the woods by myself. She is very afraid that I’ll be killed by a bear — a most horrible death in her mind.

She does have some justification for her nagging … Last year I camped at the same spot at the same time of year. I had some equipment failures that included my air mattress popping. I attempted to buy a new one in Grand Marais, but came up empty. Luckly a nice lady at the local bakery offered to give me some foam that came with her packed waffle cones. She told me she had made the same offer to other campers and she figured they had worked pretty well. So I accepted the lady’s offer and actually slept fairly well for the rest of the week. When I returned home my sister pointed out that I had spent the week sleeping on something that smelled like food and proceeded to refer to me as “Waffle Cone Woman” for the next several months. At least she refrained from using her favorite saying about me: “Six years of College for this!”

Because of my sister’s nagging I promised her that I would go online and learn all that I could about dealing with bears should I encounter one, and that I would take all the necessary precautions.

Fast forward to 6:30 p.m. at the campground … I heard a noise and turned around, and there he was, about 16 feet away (I paced the distance later on). He was beautiful, on all fours about the height of a Great Dane. He looked very healthy and his coat was lush, glossy and very black, though I thought he looked rather small.

Not being an expert or having much experience, I assumed that if I encountered a bear he would be in the range of 400-500 pounds. This guy probably weighed 200 or 250. The thought crossed my mind that he was just a yearling and I briefly considered worrying about Momma bear. I learned later that an adult bear in the Upper Peninsula can weigh anywhere from 125 to 500 pounds.

If you read what the experts say about bears or talk to locals who live with bears, they always tell you the same story. Bears are shy, reticent, easily startled and are more afraid of you than you are of them.

Not!

But I wasn’t really afraid. Looking back, I remember feeling focused, alert and aware. I knew that I was in a potentially dangerous situation and that I had to do everything right. He wasn’t aggressive or threatening. In fact, he looked like he was in an agony of indecision. He was sniffing the air like a dog sometimes will, and I knew he could smell the food in my trunk. Naturally, I had not left the food in the body of the car because I had read that a big bear will sometimes tear off the car doors to get at the food inside. My trunk was closed but not latched.

The bear really wanted to get that food, but to do so he’d have to go through a strange looking creature (me) who was by now following Internet instructions and yelling at the top of my voice such intelligent things as “Go on Git!” (“Git” What the heck is “Git”?) and “Bad Bear”!

But even more baffling to the bear, he’d have to get through the hammock that I had strung between two trees. I think that’s all that kept him from walking right up to me when my back was turned. He came up to the hammock and didn’t know what to make of it. Startled, he made a kind of blowing noise that bears do when frightened, and that’s what I heard that made me turn around.

You can’t run from a bear, they’re too darned fast. They can run 30 miles per hour and climb trees very well. So your only option, if you can’t back quietly away, even if they charge is to stand your ground, and stand I did — loudly. But the bear was not impressed. So I went to the next item on my Internet list and picked up one of the stones I had collected just in case a situation like this occurred. (I confess that my stockpile was pretty small because I was only collecting stones to keep my word to my sister and I didn’t expect to have to use them.)

My pile was small but adequate, as it turned out. At this point I was about 12 feet away from the bear and I began to wonder if I could actually hit anything with a rock because I’d never tried before, and I had no idea if my aim was any good. I figured I could hit him from only 12 feet, though successfully thumping him in the side with a rock said more about the size of the target than it did any latent skill of mine. Yet my rock attack only backed him up another 20 feet or so. Hmmm. This was not the way a bear was supposed to act. All of a sudden he began heading over to the site next to mine.

I hadn’t realized at the time that he had come from that campsite in the first place. The next site was occupied by a young German couple whom I later got to know pretty well. Michael had been building a fire when he turned around and discovered a bear only 10 feet from him. Michael and Bettina apparently didn’t have sisters who nagged them repeatedly about the dangers of bears because I don’t think they knew what to do in that situation, other than to get their cameras and take pictures. (I didn’t see that on my Internet list so I didn’t think to do so).

Or maybe they were just too polite and civilized to yell at a bear, unlike myself. I began yelling, “Hey you people over there! Bear coming your way!” and continued yelling out instructions to them on what they should be doing, like making noise, prefaced with the words, “The Internet says you’re supposed to …” Yes, that’s me, big bad wild wilderness woman.

Suddenly I heard a voice in my head … perhaps the voice of reason? It told me, “Carol, I know that’s a small bear but it’s still a bear. You might want to put some shoes on and give yourself an escape route by finding your keys and unlocking your car doors.” “What an excellent idea,” another voice in my head responded. “You just hit a BEAR with a ROCK! Are you INSANE?” the first one asked. I told that voice to shut up and I put on my shoes. While I was at the car, I laid on the horn. The bear didn’t like that and it backed up another 20 feet. But, he still was not leaving. Hmmm. Very persistent. He was now 45 to 50 feet away and angled into the woods between the two campsites.

I opted for number three on the Internet list and started beating on my metal camp coffee pot with the butt of my hatchet. The bear was still undecided. He kept his distance and began to circle my site to the right, moving in total silence in a kind of bumbling but graceful manner, as he went back and forth trying to decide whether it was worth returning for the food. Finally, Michael came over to my site with a whistle and that made the difference. I think because there were two of us now, both making noise, the bear decided we weren’t worth it and moved on.

To this day my coffee pot is bent out of all recognition.

Bettina and Michael and I bonded after chasing away the bear and they offered to let me sleep in their RV. I also briefly considered sleeping in my car, but after standing off a bear with a pile of rocks and a coffee pot, giving up the ground I had so valiantly fought for seemed rather faint hearted.

I had also read that bears go to sleep two hours after sunset and rise a half hour before dawn, so I figured that I’d be OK if I built a good fire and stayed up late, to prevent the bear from coming back. Of course, that information came from the people who insisted that bears are more afraid of me than I am of them. Hah! Anyways, I did sleep in my tent that night and there was an absolutely glorious thunderstorm with lots of heavy rain. I’m sure the bear took refuge somewhere that wasn’t my tent.

I found a ranger the next day and made my report. He agreed with me that it was very “unbear like” behavior and said he would consult the wildlife biologist. The ranger came back the next day to check on me and gave me the following information:

This is pre-hibernation time for bears and they are very focused on eating as much as possible. It’s also bear hunting season (I saw the hunters and their dogs) and the bear are rather stirred up.

There had been many bear sightings in the campground that summer but the bears had kept their distance and not approached humans. The ranger thought the bear had come close because there were fewer people around.

The Department of Natural Resources usually handles these kinds of situations by relocating the bear, but they won’t tranquilize a bear to move him within 30 days of hunting season for obvious reasons.

And so, because the bear hadn’t done hurt someone the ranger told me they would keep an eye on him.

I remained vigilant but didn’t see any more of our bear that week. I met several really wonderful and interesting people, and my friend Ingrid joined me on Thursday night. We had a wonderful time hiking on the trail along the top of the Pictured Rocks cliffs and saw some fantastic waterfalls. I can’t wait to go back.

Coincidentally, at 6:30 p.m. on that Tuesday night when I faced the bear, my nagging sister in Stanton, Michigan sent her boys out the door for a swim date and she then had an anxiety attack about me strong enough to make her cry and call Mom. I’m of the firm belief that the world would be a better place if everyone had a sister like mine.

Weeks later the Germans Michael and Bettina emailed me pictures of our bear, and I think I may have underestimated his size.

To conclude, I feel very fortunate to have seen such a beautiful animal up close (and lived through it) and I hope with all my heart that the hunters with their dogs didn’t get our bear.

Posted by editor at 12:20 AM | Comments (0)

September 15, 2006

Soccer, Mom?

By F. Josephine Arrowood
Sun contributor

As the crackling of a frenetic workday fizzles into late afternoon, witness a scene familiar to many soccer families in Leelanau: rush home from work, gather up scattered cleats, knee-high socks, uniform, shin guards, soccer ball, water bottle, nutritious snack, then head back out the door to get to the soccer game in Petoskey, two hours away. What’s missing from the car as I peel away from the driveway is my 13-year-old child. Yes, I’m a traditional, 44-year-old soccer mom – but tonight, I’m a soccer-playing mom.

My personal kickoff into this most universal of sports began somewhat accidentally last fall, when our family received a signup form for a kids’ winter indoor soccer league through TBAYS in late September. My daughter, still immersed in fall soccer, expressed disinterest, but I spied the words, “Adult League” at the bottom of the page. My only previous and rather dismal sports experience, many years ago, had been cross-country running at our all-girls’ high school - definitely a loner sport with few rules to master. However, after watching kids’ soccer for umpteen years (and even coaching a couple of teams with help from library books), I reasoned, “How hard can it be?” Yes, I decided, soccer would be Fun!

On a treacherously icy Saturday night in January, I arrived white-knuckled at the Just For Kicks building on Hammond Road in Traverse City. Inside, the arena was bright, warm, and boisterous with the shouts of players swarming across a field that resembled an Astroturfed hockey rink, lined with plexiglass and netting stretched from walls to ceiling.

I went into the women’s locker room to don my battle gear, which included shiny silver shin guards that made me feel absurdly and happily like a Roman gladiator. Then I thought about what unknowns lay ahead, and felt nothing but sick dread.

I’d been assigned to the “house” team, with our one-hour game scheduled for 7pm, so I forced myself out of the locker room and over to the players’ boxes. Staring at my 11 new teammates, I thought, “Where are the other women?” There weren’t any. I resolved right then to ask for no favors from these hairy strangers who stared warily back at me, and to give none, either. Then, at the referee’s whistle, several men rushed from the box onto the turf, and the game began.

Back in the box, one player, more cordial, introduced himself as Sam, and explained the peculiarities of indoor soccer: for two 25-minute halves, five players plus a goal keeper field each team; when a player is tired, he lopes out of the game, shouting “Sub, sub!” - the signal for a waiting teammate, who stands in a tense line of fidgeting players, to rush out and take his place. The ball is in fair play if hitting solid walls, but foul in the nets on upper walls or ceiling, and there are no “off sides,” (getting ahead of the ball at the opponents’ end of the arena). I realized that, despite my fears that no one would pass me the ball, it was inevitable that sooner or later, the wildly caroming orb would fly at me, and then what was I going to do with it? In a few moments, I heard the shout to sub in; Sam threw open the door — I began to discover just what to do with a soccer ball, with five determined men rushing at it, and five more exhorting me to “Take it!” “Pass!” “Hold the wall!” and “Shoot it!”

Over the course of the next eight weeks, I spent my days obsessing over the games that lay ahead, and marveling at the exotic vernacular, such as “Man on!” (even when you’re a woman, you can be a man on, closing in on an unsuspecting opponent).”Time, time!” was short for “You got time,” to dribble the ball, or better, ricochet it off the wall like a billiard ball to get it to your teammate, or the goal itself. “Hold the wall!” uttered frequently by Sam, our intrepid leader, meant, “Don’t let that guy get up the field by using the wall as his extra player!” Unaccustomed to the jagged rhythms of the sprinting, dodging, high-kicking game, I also nursed a few war wounds such as strained muscles, bruises, and stomped toes, but felt my strength and endurance increase with each week’s strenuous encounter. Despite every player’s intensity of purpose during the heat of the game, remarkably few of us were injured, and none seriously.

Playing on a largely men’s team (which, technically, was coed) had both rewards and drawbacks. Most on my team were taciturn about sharing personal details; in fact, I never knew anyone’s surname, much less their day jobs or family situations. I only knew that Junior played like a graceful otter, but could be a ball hog; Sam had a chunky, full-body style that bowled over the opposition; and Steve ran with “little feet,” short steps that kept the ball firmly welded to his ankles all the way down the field. Like mercenary soldiers, we were there for one reason: to take on the enemy and defeat them if we could.

To that end, we were in the thick of it as a team. My cohorts freely gave me encouragement, showed me their coolest moves, and shared their strategies. No one held a grudge, played dirty, behaved like a boor, or commented on the fact that I’d naively worn cleats during my first game. Players were from a surprising plurality of countries that included England, Mexico, Columbia, Guatemala, and somewhere in Eastern Europe. One fellow, on a formidable team known as Son of a Preacher Man, would swear in beautifully lilting Welsh while dashing for the ball, or shout (but not at me), “Ye play like a gel!” which I found highly amusing.

When the indoor soccer season came to its inevitable end, I realized that I was solidly addicted to this so simple yet so complex game. I wanted to know and learn and do more. Just For Kicks also hosts a women’s weekly drop-in session, which I promptly joined, only to discover quite a different flavor to the play. Much more informal, and lacking in the intensity I’d come to crave, the drop-ins were nevertheless an opportunity to practice new moves unselfconsciously, and to meet other women players who also wanted to advance their understanding and skills.

In May, nine of us decided to join the Petoskey Women’s League, since (incredibly) Traverse City has no adult summer soccer organization. Insane tactic, I knew, but rationalized that for only eight weeks in the height of summer, I’d spend Thursday nights carpooling to doubleheader games in a league boasting six full teams of women. Plenty of scope there to grow and learn.

And learn I did, sometimes the hard way. Anyone who strained a muscle would be fair game for goalkeeping duty. I happily performed this chore twice, and both times was hit stoutly in the face for my pains. While I rethink my affinity for intense situations, I’m leaving that position to more experienced players who own protective gear, and have health insurance.

After Petoskey ended, I joined a team in Kalkaska, a more sane one-hour drive away. We even have a coach who volunteers her time, and envisions a Traverse City-based regional women’s league within three to five years. Our goal for this year is to field a team at a tournament to be held at the end of September in Lansing. After that, Just For Kicks will be open again for the indoor season. This soccer obsession, it’s a keeper.

To sign up for adult indoor soccer, contact Just For Kicks at www.tbays.org or call (231) 933-8229. Interested in TC-based summer women’s league? Contact Lindsay at (231) 883-5193 or Josephine at (231) 228-4528.

Posted by editor at 04:19 PM | Comments (0)

Summer ’06 a biking extraordinaire

By Joel Gaff
Sun contributor

When the Tour de Leelanau cycle race comes through Leelanau County on Saturday September 16, don’t expect the riders to be doped up on anything other than fresh air and beautiful scenery. That’s right, folks — the Tour is back for its sophomore edition with an even longer and tougher course.

The Tour de Leelanau gets much of its influence from the Tour de France, a three-week long, 2200-mile stage race around France. Riders ride an average of around 110 miles a day at an average speed of about 24 miles per hour with only two rest days throughout the Tour. The winner is the rider with the fastest time for the 20 stages all added together. There are flat stages, extremely mountainous stages, individual and team time trials (riders’ start times are staggered and they race against the clock), and everything in between. Riders must overcome heat, cold, rain, wind, fatigue, hills and valleys to make it to the finish line in Paris. The similar Leelanau version of the tour is only one day long, with the men riding 104.1 miles and the women 66.3.

This year’s Tour de France was particularly intriguing. With the Legendary seven-time Tour winner Armstrong now in retirement, this year’s race was wide open. It opened up even more when several days before the July 1 start of the race, officials named 37 riders in an alleged doping scandal. Weather or not the accused riders actually did anything wrong is still in debate. Unfortunately, however, in cycling you’re typically “guilty until proven innocent.” Just ask Lance Armstrong about all the accusations he had to deal with.

The Tour went on nonetheless and cycling fans worldwide were glued to their televisions for three straight weeks. With live coverage every morning and enhanced primetime coverage at night, it didn’t leave much time for the regular programs on the Outdoor Life Network’s (OLN) normal lineup. In the 93rd edition of the Tour, there were seven lead changes throughout the 20 stages and it wasn’t until the last few days that it became apparent who would win.

American Floyd Landis, a former teammate of Lance, looked to be a favorite from the early stages. It would be no walk in the park if he wanted to win, however. As expected, the sprinters dominated the relatively flat first few stages. The race then moved into the sky-scraping Pyrenees Mountains on the French-Spanish border. Landis took the overall lead and put the yellow jersey on for the first time after stage 11. Two days later in a very hilly stage 13, a group of four riders, including Spanish rider Oscar Pereiro, broke away from the peleton (the main group of riders). At the end of the 138-mile long stage, the riders were nearly 30 minutes ahead of the peleton, an almost unheard of amount of time for a breakaway. Pereiro captured the overall lead and took his turn wearing yellow.

Stage 15: Landis gets the yellow back. There were only five stages left and the American had a good shot at winning the race. He had looked strong over the last few stages and he didn’t show signs of slowing down.

Until stage 16.

For the first 100 miles of the exceptionally mountainous stage 16, Landis was right in front with the leaders. Then, with less than 10 miles to go to the mountaintop finish, it appeared as if someone had thrown out an anchor from the back of Floyd’s bike. He slowed down tremendously and it was almost painful just to watch him slog his way up the mountain. When he finally labored his way to the finish line of the stage, he was down to eighth place overall, more than ten minutes behind the now-leader, Pereiro.

With four stages left in the Tour (the last of which is traditionally just a ceremonial ride into Paris), It appeared that Landis’ chances for victory had vanished. He would need a small miracle and the ride of his life to overcome a ten-minute deficit in the final three stages.

Stage 17 was another treacherous mountain stage and it started just like every other stage. Soon after the stage began, a breakaway of ten or so riders took off and left the peleton behind. The breakaway soon had a lead of over ten minutes on the peleton, which included Landis. After seeing how drained and fatigued Landis looked just the previous day, no one expected what would happen next. Suddenly Landis surged away from the peleton and a few riders gave chase. Landis’ surge didn’t stop, and everyone could see that there was fire in his eyes. Several riders stayed up with Landis and this second breakaway surged ahead at break neck speed in pursuit of the lead breakaway group.

They finally caught the lead breakaway, but Landis didn’t stop there. At this point, it was obvious that Floyd was riding with something to prove. Landis pushed on, bringing several riders with him.

Around 14 miles from finish, the last remaining rider dueling it out with Landis dropped off the pace. Landis was alone, in the lead, and not slowing down.

By the time he reached the finish line, Landis had put nearly six minutes between himself and the peleton. In the overall standings, he was now in third place, a mere 30 seconds behind the leader, Pereiro. His amazing effort that day has been named the “best performance in the modern history of the Tour.”

The following day in stage 18, Landis maintained his third place position. There then remained only one stage before the ride into Paris and it was an individual time trial. Landis is known as a strong time trial rider, and he would have stand up to that reputation if he wanted to pull out an overall victory in the Tour. Riders started two to three minutes apart from each other and raced against the clock on the 34-mile course. Landis would be the third-to-last rider of the day to start.

Landis cranked through the stage in his unique aerodynamic position only rising from the seat several times. By the end of the stage, Landis had beaten Pereiro by a minute and a half, and it appeared that Landis had just become the third American to win the Tour (after Greg LeMond and Lance).

The final stage was a 92-mile ride into Paris. The last stage of any tour is mostly ceremonial, with riders sipping champagne as they cruise into the French capital. At this point in the race, it is considered taboo to attempt taking the lead from the yellow jersey wearer. So, as Landis rode his special-made yellow bike onto the cobblestone Parisian streets, all he had to do was finish the stage. And he did.

Unfortunately, only days after standing on the podium as the winner of the Tour, Floyd Landis was accused of having an illegally high level of testosterone in his body during his amazing stage 17 ride. When this news came out, Landis vehemently denied ever having taken any kind of performance enhancing substance. He asked that his backup sample be tested to make sure that there was not a human testing error. The second set of results agreed with the original findings. Landis, who maintains his innocence, has been released by his team and is now appealing the case.

Just like the riders in the Tour de France, the Tour de Leelanau riders will have to conquer hills, valleys and any kind of weather Mother Nature decides to throw at them on race day. No drugs allowed, except for breathtaking views, adrenaline inducing hills, and roaring crowds. The men’s race starts at 10 a.m. in Leland and the Women get underway at approximately 11:40 a.m. at The Homestead resort near Glen Arbor. Both races finish at the Eagle’s Ridge Convention Center in Peshawbetown.

For additional information, visit www.tourdeleelanau.com.

Posted by editor at 01:49 PM | Comments (0)

Inaudible for two decades, the Tigers are roaring into fall!

By Jacob Wheeler
Sun editor

I couldn’t believe the spectacle before me. Late-August was upon us and almost 50 pairs of eyes at a rodeo-packed Art’s Tavern in Glen Arbor were fixated on the television screen above the pinball machine, watching Detroit Tigers baseball.

The Tigers, you say? The sorry team that has become the butt of professional sports jokes: the summer-long yawn that draws about as many fans as the week-long Traverse City Cherry Festival; the perfect metaphor for a city battered and abandoned by race riots? It couldn’t be.

But it was true. The eyes of hungry Michiganders from Motown to the Soo Locks, from the Crystal River to the Big Two Hearted River, and yes, from Hell to Paradise, were watching their sandlot nine — the owners of the best record in baseball — take it to their thuggish rivals from the south side of Chicago. (As of press time the state’s more traditional tourism destinations including Cherry Republic, the Michigan Boaters Association and Mackinac Island were filing a joint lawsuit against the upstart Tigers for stealing their summer recreational attention — Editor)

There was Justin Verlander, the tall and lanky rookie with the grit and poise of a third-shift autoworker, firing fastballs past the heart of the White Sox order. There was slugger Craig Monroe belting a homerun with so much velocity that the ball was still rising when it reached the bleachers. And there was Jim Leyland, the skipper with a face like worn leather, trudging along the pasture he knows so well between the dugout and the pitcher’s mound. He reminded me of an old northern Michigan farmer surveying his land.

And here at Art’s were a school bus load of tourists and locals alike, forsaking campfires on the beaches, fine dining at La Becasse, early morning tee times on the golf course, even forsaking the Art’s shot-ski full of Jaegermeister to concentrate and cheer for their baseball team as the all-important fall days loomed closer.

The Detroit Tigers have been on a roll all season, and even though previous teams hadn’t won as many games as they’d lost in more than a decade and hadn’t made the playoffs in almost two, merely creeping into October with a pulse wouldn’t be good enough for their newfound faithful — not after posting the best record in baseball most of this summer, not with the talented young pitching staff Leyland holds in his deck of cards, and certainly not with the still pitiful Detroit Lions about to kick off their season.

We want more. We want an American League pennant and a World Series appearance. We want to send the arrogant New York Yankee fans vacationing in our midst back to the Big Apple humiliated. We want Dimitri the young waiter in Greektown, just around the corner from Detroit’s Comerica Park, to burn his hand on the flaming cheese and yell “Opa!” extra loud because, his Athenian boss will tell him, “The Tigers are gonna win the whole damned thing this October. They’re gonna fly back from La Guardia having trounced the Metropolitans 3 games to 2 in the Fall Classic, and they’re gonna cruise down Woodward Avenue in a parade to end all victory parades. Tigers owner Mike Llitch will be there, pouring champagne over the head of his prized architect, General Manager Dave Dombrowski, and yelling “Opa!” himself. Llitch may even forget about the other team he owns in town: the Red Wings.”

We’ve waited so long for this, haven’t we Ernie Harwell, you sweet old voice of solace. God willing, you’ll get to see the Tigers win it all again before you return to the Georgia soil, the same ground where the Tiger great Ty Cobb walked while in the bush leagues. For the first time since 1984 you’ll get to use your catchphrases in October: “He stood there like the house by the side of the road and watched that one go by” … or “That ball is LONG gone” … or “The Tigers win it! The Tigers win it!” You deserve this more than any of us.

Stick around, Ernie Harwell. Stick around baseball fans. The leaves are turning colors and it’s getting cold outside. But summer isn’t over yet, for the Tigers are roaring.

Posted by editor at 12:54 PM | Comments (0)

August 24, 2006

Collegiate stars endure preseason training on our dunes

By Maggie Meyers and Jacob Wheeler
Sun contributors

Late August is the time to think about returning to school — stock up on notebooks, pens and lunchboxes, and after months of sleeping in, actually obey the alarm clock and make a mad dash outside to catch the yellow bus. Or for college athletes, especially those whose seasons happen during the fall, late August can be the most grueling time of year.

The sweat-covered football player running stairs or bulking up in the weight room while dreaming about the Rose Bowl and all its California glory is a popular image. But if you’ve driven down country roads in Leelanau County this time of year, you’ve probably also come across entire college sports teams training, and bonding, in our midst, before their seasons kick into high gear.

For almost two decades now The Leelanau School, the private boarding school just north of Glen Arbor on M-22, has hosted collegiate athletic teams who choose to train amidst the beauty of Lake Michigan and the Sleeping Bear sand dunes, and among them a few semi-famous athletes. University of Michigan’s cross-country and track star Kevin Sullivan graced our presence during the mid-1990’s, gave pep talks to Leelanau School students and, legend has it, streaked the campus during one warm August evening to ring the senior bell. At the peak of his career Sullivan broke the four-minute mile and ran for Canada in the 2000 Sydney Olympics.

Michigan running coach Ron Warhurst initiated the preseason getaway in 1991 in order to help his team focus on the upcoming season. Since then, the women harriers and the Michigan volleyball team also have taken part in weeklong sessions here.

“Ann Arbor can be quite hectic this time of the year because of the massive amounts of people in town,” Warhurst says. “It’s kind of nice to get away from that, because we’re going to have to go back and face it for the next nine months. This is a nice enclosed area where we can really focus on what we're doing.”

Both Michigan and Michigan State’s cross-country teams return to Leelanau every year, as well as appearances by teams ranging from small schools like Kellogg and Grand Valley State to powerhouses like the University of Virginia. Leelanau’s director of summer programs Duane Petty spearheaded the relationship with these collegiate athletic programs, and though he has vacated his post after more than 15 years, this unique local connection will likely continue.

“Futbol” aficionados were treated to a hard-fought exhibition match earlier this month at the Keystone Road complex in Traverse City between the Virginia and Notre Dame women’s soccer teams, both of which are ranked among the top 10 in the country. The lady Cavaliers, who reached the quarterfinals last year, have trained at The Leelanau School four times since 2001. Their connection with the area is that head coach Steve Swanson grew up in West Bloomfield and is married to Leland-native and the first Miss Basketball of Michigan (1982) Julie Polakowski, about whom local hoops guru Don Miller can rave for hours.

Coach Swanson has long considered Leelanau County a great environment for a team to both focus on training and promote togetherness among teammates. “From a coaching standpoint, Leelanau County has lots of attractions,” says Swanson. Access to Lake Michigan and the dunes are perfect settings for activities during the team’s downtime that help the players decompress and bond as a team.

Not to mention the cooler temperatures here in the Upper Midwest, whereas the weather in Virginia in August often reaches 100 degrees.

While at Leelanau the lady Cavaliers trained twice a day and bathed their aching legs in Sleeping Bear Bay after every practice because, Swanson says, the water “serves well to recover the girls’ legs” after arduous practices. That fit well with his metaphor of using this training period as “putting the boat in the water,” to set a good precedent for the coming season.

Being here “fosters growth for the team because we are so literally isolated and not spread out across a campus,” says senior midfielder Kara Frederick. That “creates a natural cohesion among the teammates, with nothing to do outside of practice but enjoy the area.”

The Cavaliers’ scrimmage against the Fighting Irish, who drove all the way from South Bend just for the match, ended in a 3-0 defeat, but the opportunity to watch top-notch Division 1 soccer in our backyard was no disappointment for locals. In fact, word of the match spread like gospel throughout southern Leelanau County, thanks in part to “Uncle Joe,” the University of Virginia bus driver, who dined at various local establishments and raved about the lady Cavaliers to anyone who would listen.

Coach Steve Swanson hopes this relationship with the area continues to thrive with the commitment of the school, the University of Virginia, and the local community. “Leelanau School has been as good a facility as we could ever hope to find. We get more done in one week’s time here than anywhere else including our own backyard. We are extremely fortunate to work with such accommodating folks.”

The Michigan Daily contributed to this report.

Posted by editor at 07:43 PM | Comments (0)

June 15, 2006

"Take me out to the ballgame"

By Jacob Wheeler
Sun editor

Play ball in northern Michigan!

Wuerfel Park, the new minor league ballpark in Traverse City and home of the Beach Bums, isn’t quite as glamorous as Chicago’s Wrigley Field or Detroit’s Comerica Park. The pitchers don’t throw fastballs as hard as they do in The Show, and that crafty batter laying a squeeze bunt down the third base line just a few feet away from your box seats will probably never play on national television.

Photo by Ryan Romeike

But you’ll forgive that, just as you’ll forgive the cookie-cutter architecture of Wuerfel Park that looks more like a subdivision development than a ballpark. You’ll forgive the radar gun behind home plate, which records erroneous pitch speeds of 40 or 50 miles per hour every time a gust of wind blows off Lake Michigan. For here you are in northern Michigan, no more than 45 minutes away from your house or cottage or campground, watching professional baseball. You are safe at home.

For $6 each the “bleacher” seats in the grass picnic area beyond the outfield walls are a steal. Or better yet, cough up an extra four greenbacks and place yourself in the box seats behind home plate so you can follow the intimacy of the game. Watch the pitcher shake off signs as the sweat rolls down his forehead. Watch the shortstop move a couple steps toward second base when he expects the runner to break on the next pitch.

These are rituals that bloom every spring in towns and cities, stadiums and sandlots across America: a rebirth, a budding of optimism that this year could be the one for your team. Out come the lilacs and forest green, and with them the t-shirts and grill kits, and the smell of leather gloves and peanuts.

Northern Michiganders finally got to honor this tradition on May 24, which was opening night for the Traverse City Beach Bums, as nearly 6,000 fans gathered at Wuerfel Park at Chums Corners to honor this greatest of all American traditions. It mattered not that the home team got walloped, 10-2, by the Kalamazoo Kings, for after years of patient waiting, team owners John and Leslye Wuerfel finally brought professional baseball home to Traverse City.

No one bellyached too much about the traffic on US-31 on the way here. And the fans shrugged off having to wait in different concession lines for their beers and ballpark franks. Instead, they cheered when starting pitcher Robbie McClellan opened the game with a strike and punched out the first Kalamazoo batter with an impressive curveball. They clapped for the Beach Bums’ hustling leftfielder Mike Reese who gave chase after a foul ball that dropped out of his range.

And the Traverse City fans confirmed their reputations as orderly and polite stewards of the game during the Grand Traverse Pie Company-sponsored “pie eating contest” between innings when two locals were invited to walk onto the field and eat more raspberry and cherry goodness than their competitor could, but both refused to even dirty their faces.

They were just happy to be here, not unlike the nine Beach Bums out on the diamond, chasing their dreams of playing in the Majors some day, even though they play for only a few hundred dollars a month and most will never make it past A ball.

For those players, and for all of us, baseball is a game that invokes our childhood memories — a fountain of youth in the heartland. The first time we see that green outfield grass we can’t help but think back to the very first time we caught a ballgame, even if it was eons ago.

At Wuerfel Park on opening night I found a cameraman/aisle attendant/grounds crew worker named Dale manning his post by the Beach Bums’ dugout on the left side of the field and looking out for any errant foul balls that he hoped to snag with his ancient left hand, marred by broken, purple fingernails but every bit as good as a mitt. Dale thought back to when he was in sixth grade and his father, an automobile worker in Flint, took him to old Tiger Stadium for the first time. He was scared, he remembered, as they drove down Trumbull Avenue through the bad part of town, until he passed through the turnstiles and spied the green grass, that is, and he couldn’t help but smile.

Dale is retired now, but his wife encouraged him to get this part time job and pushed him out of the house, just to give him something to do. Worried about the chance of rain, he showed up early to the ballpark on opening night, just as anxious as any player on the field. For this game, in this setting, means as much to the hometown fans as it does to the men in the dugout.

Posted by editor at 11:23 PM | Comments (0)

Dreaming of cheeseburgers at the top of the world

By Jacob Wheeler
Sun editor

Peter Richards was dying.

He wasn’t spouting blood or hearing his last rites read to him, nor was he watching all 19 years of his young life flash before his eyes. But the Glen Arbor-raised adventurer had lost 15 pounds in just a few days and he couldn’t continue climbing toward the top of the world. Eighteen thousand two hundred feet up at Camp One would have to suffice. The Summit of Mount Everest would have to stay in his imagination.

“I was having dreams about food. All I wanted was an Art’s cheeseburger and a root beer float,” Peter remembers about his trip to the Himalayas last fall. “I’d been eating dried and powdered stuff: granola bars, goo, carbohydrated energy and protein that you chew. But I just couldn’t gain any weight because my metabolism was so fast. I had lost so much weight. My body was going through what would be equivalent to sprinting for days at that altitude. And I couldn’t go on.”

Peter Richards, now 20 years old, who recently finished his sophomore year at Northern Michigan University and is currently spending the summer in Telluride, Colorado, was part of a group of four that attempted last September to reach Everest Camp Three, at a mind-numbing 22,500 feet, where the air is so thin and the climate so harsh that yaks, not humans, are the most dominant species on the food chain. Ascending past Camp Three to the Summit (29,035 feet) costs tens of thousands of dollars and you have to use axes and crampons and rope yourself to someone else in the group because the path is all snow and ice and rock.

The Midwestern delegation was led by Bill Thompson, 40, who owns a sporting goods store in Marquette called Downwind Sports and actually reached Everest Camp Two four years before this trip, a police officer from Green Bay named Joe, 35, and another student from Northern Michigan named JD, 21.

Thompson gave a slideshow presentation at Peter’s Outdoor Recreation class in the fall of 2004, the beginning of his freshman year at the school notorious for adventurers and environmentalists. Climbing Mount Everest happened to be number 15 on Peter’s “list of things to do in my life,” which he had compiled the previous spring. On a whim Peter approached Thompson after the slideshow and told him he wanted to go, as much for the adventure but also because Peter is a photographer who aims to shoot for National Geographic some day. “He laughed at me first,” Peter remembers, “but I was at his store at 8 the next morning to get information for the trip.”

The problem was the cost.

Flying all the way across the Pacific Ocean and into Chinese-occupied Tibet and hiring guides to take them (partway) up the world’s tallest mountain would cost $8 thousand per person — no small feat for a poor college student. So once Peter asked (told, actually) his parents for permission and secured it as long as he could raise the money himself and prove he was healthy enough, the ambitious kid worked four jobs all summer long (including at Empire’s Surf & Kayak Shop) and secured donations from local businesses Boone Docks restaurant and Cherry Republic.

Peter reached an agreement with Boone Docks’ owner Bob Ewing that he would bring home a picture of himself waving a Boone Docks banner at Everest Base Camp, and he trained all summer long, running up and down the Dune Climb to prepare his lungs and heart, and willpower, for Everest. Peter kept a small picture of the great beast of nature in his room in Glen Arbor with the words, “Reach for your dreams” under it, and by the fall he was ready for the great human challenge.

On September 25 of last year the Midwest team left Marquette and traveled through Detroit, Tokyo and Beijing before arriving in Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, two days later (not including another day lost to the International Dateline). They stayed in Lhasa for three days to acclimate themselves to the elevation of 12,000 feet and took in the local sites, including visits to the Potala Palace, which was home to His Holiness the Dalai Lama before he was forced into exile in 1959, (the Chinese only keep the place open today because it brings in so much tourism money) and the Ganden monastery outside Lhasa, which was destroyed by Chinese artillery. There the delegation witnessed a debate between Tibetan monks.

From Lhasa they drove for five hours on dirt roads in their minibus, crossing over the Lhasa and Tiger Rivers, to Shigatse, Tibet’s second largest city, in the foothills of the Himalayas. There they visited an 85-foot statue of the future Buddha and stayed for a day in a 10 x 10-foot hole in the wall without electricity before driving up into the mountains to Shegar, or New Tingri. On one mountain pass where they stopped for lunch at 17,120 feet, the clouds parted, giving Peter his first look at mounts Everest and Lhatse.

The men descended to Rongbuk, at 16,350 feet, where they camped outside for the first time, on the gravel plain just below Everest. They were the only westerners there because this was the off-season, and at night they heard wild dogs yipping and fighting each other.

The steep climb from Rongbuk up to Everest Base Camp (16,900) took Peter, Bill, Joe and JD four hours of hiking over shale rocks (“much tougher than the Dune Climb,” our local hero attests), and they camped there for three nights in a little Tibetan tent village to acclimatize themselves and drink as much water as they possibly could. “I had three Nalgene bottles with me and every day I would fill up and down each of them twice. That’s what kept me alive,” Peter remembers.

There at the Base Camp of Mount Everest, in a place that seemed light years from northern Michigan, Peter met a Tibetan guide who carried a backpack with the words “Traverse City” written on it, and that amazing coincidence instilled confidence in him.

But once the group of four began ascending toward Camp One, at 18,200 feet, Peter was reminded how far he was from home. “We just kept hiking, up and up for eight hours, with my pack that probably weighed 40 pounds.” Their only guide at that point was a yak herder and his three beasts of burden that carried most of the group’s haul bags. “There are two walking speeds on that trail: slow yak pace and fast yak pace,” Peter jokes. “The yaks take up the entire path, so you can’t pass them.”

By the time they reached Camp One on the north side of Everest eight hours later, as Peter tells it, “I’d never been so happy to see a barren rock field in my whole life.” Relief was in store for them in the form of a mountain stream of glacial runoff another mile up the path — “the coldest water on earth.” In fact, this water was so pure that Peter filled a jug of it and brought it home with him.

The group of four camped for three days and nights at Camp One, during which time Peter experienced the most bone-chilling nights he could ever imagine. Despite wearing four pairs of socks, all his fleeces, jeans, a down jacket, hat and gloves, all while cocooned inside his sleeping bag, he still froze. The thermometer inside his tent plunged to 20 degrees Fahrenheit.

Meanwhile, Peter was losing weight like a snowman in a sauna. And when it came time to leave for Camp Two, he couldn’t go on. He told his companions to continue on without him. But of course, Bill Thompson’s gang wasn’t going to leave anyone behind.

Despite feeling disappointed and guilty for letting the group down, Peter and his fellow Northern Michigan student JD also looked forward to returning to a more hospitable climate, and their descent to Rongbuk took them only four hours. “No worries,” JD told Peter along the way. “Of course we all wanted to go higher, but this has already been so much fun. And it was smarter to come back down than to go any higher.”

Peter Richards didn’t reach Everest Camps Two or Three, but his trip to the tallest mountain in the world was far from a waste. He still treated himself to countless once-in-a-lifetime experiences. In Rongbuk Peter sent postcards from the highest post office in the world — a 6 x 6-foot corrugated metal tin shed with only a bed for the postmaster, a grumpy and anal retentive man, says Peter, who charged $10 per postcard.

The 19-year-old slowly regained his weight in Rongbuk and Shigatse by shoveling down yak, noodles and steak as fast as his slender frame would permit, and Peter was glad to sleep in a bed again, though it felt as hard as a rock. Back in Lhasa the group toured famous Buddhist monasteries and the Barkhor market square, where everyone walks in a clockwise pattern through the kiosks and shops, and the stupa in the center. Their guide Lakpa introduced them to more monks with whom they dined and drank tea at the high monastery in Lhasa.

And thanks to the extra time the group had in Lhasa, Peter stumbled on what he now considers his calling. The group visited the Dickey Orphanage, Lhasa’s only privately-run orphanage, which is home to 80 kids, one of whom was only 24 days old and had been abandoned in a toilet and saved by Lakpa. Many of these kids had physical handicaps, birth defects or are blind, according to Peter. Not to mention the Tibetan poverty and pressure from the Chinese government for a family to have (or keep) no more than one child. The director of the orphanage was a businesswoman from Lhasa who had met the Dali Lama in India and was encouraged by His Holiness to start an orphanage.

Upon hearing her story, Peter realized that what he wants to do with his own life is document the suffering of orphans all over the developing world through his photojournalism.

In falling short of one great quest, he inadvertently embarked on another.

Not bad for a sophomore in college.

Posted by editor at 10:19 PM | Comments (0)

May 25, 2006

Glen Arbor serves up Ping Pong

By Jane Greiner
Sun contributor

Every Wednesday is Ping Pong Night at the Glen Arbor Town Hall. As soon as Gene Thompson arrives to open the doors, the tables are rolled out and the fun begins. Ping pong lovers of all ages gather for an hour or two of fast and friendly sport.

It’s a casual atmosphere in which everyone gets to play. We play friendly but competitive singles or doubles according to the number of players available. We have all ages — teenagers up through seniors, and both men and women. Everyone gets to play and has a great time.

The program, which started last winter, has gradually attracted players as people learned about it. The Township Board had talked about getting a ping-pong table for the Town Hall and, according to Township Clerk Bonnie Quick, who has served the county for over 20 years, the board decided to go ahead and buy one. As they were making the decision, Fire Chief John DePuy and his wife pledged to buy a second one. Thanks to the Township Board and the DePuys, we now have two sturdy, high-quality ping-pong tables, which are getting a good workout.

Wednesday night ping pong is free and open to all. Anyone who wishes to play can just show up at 7 p.m. There are paddles and balls available so you do not have to bring any equipment. Come on in, pick up the paddle, and see if you can slam and spin like you used to.

Posted by editor at 12:07 PM | Comments (0)

July 15, 2004

Disc Golf: A Totally Different Spin on a Familiar Sport

By Torin Yeager
Sun staff writer

In an area populated by more than a few picturesque golf courses, it is generally not surprising when yet another large expanse of neatly tended greens appears. However, when a course is created that puts an entirely new spin on a time-honored sport, interest grows substantially.

A disc golf course has sprung up in the heart of Leelanau County’s Myles Kimmerly Park near Maple City, and draws a surprising number of players from the entire Grand Traverse region and beyond. The course was designed and built by Cal Benke, an avid disc golfer from Kalkaska. Benke approached the Leelanau County Parks and Recreation Commission in April of 2001 with his idea of a disc golf course at Myles Kimmerly. He brought along a basket, some discs and let the Commissioners try them out on the courthouse lawn in Leland. The response was extremely positive. The members of the Commission agreed that a course could be a terrific asset to the park, providing another recreational activity for many people. As well as County funding, local businesses gave money to sponsor holes. During 2002, Benke designed and constructed the course. Several of the holes are in the open, while most wind through the hills back in the woods. He prefers to leave the large trees and obstacles, such as fallen logs, while removing only the small brush that would hinder the flight of the discs. This makes for quite a scenic and challenging course. The holes vary in length from approximately 250’ to over 400’. The new course officially opened in the spring of 2003 and is immensely popular with area disc golfers. The parking lot is rarely empty.

“But, what exactly is disc golf?” asks the uninformed. Unlike conventional golf, with its long metal clubs and small dimpled balls, disc golf equipment consists of an assortment of Frisbee-like discs of varying weight and balance. Otherwise, the basic concept remains the same: move from the tee to the “hole” with as few tosses of the disc as possible. The rules of etiquette are similar as well. The tees typically consist of a 4x4 anchored in the ground, which you must stand behind when you throw your disc. The “hole” is actually a heavy metal basket about 3 feet in diameter, attached to a 5-foot tall metal pole. Lengths of chain are suspended above the basket to cause the disc to drop down into the basket.

My first experience with disc golf was a very enlightening one, as I had never played any kind of golf before. John Lee, a 13-year-old friend, enthusiastically acted as my mentor. John first learned the game at Camp Hayo-Went-Ha, a YMCA camp on Torch Lake he attended two years ago. He took an immediate liking to the increasingly popular sport. The next year, when he discovered the new disc golf course at Myles Kimmerly Park, a mere stone’s throw from his home, he was hooked. John jumped at the opportunity to share his knowledge with me. My passing familiarity with Frisbees had given me the basic skill of throwing a disc, but everything else was new.

We walked to the first tee, studied the sign showing the “hole” map, and observed that it was a par 4. I watched intently as John stepped to the board, took up his stance, and threw his disc toward the unseen target. It sailed straight as an arrow. Next came my turn. With confidence, I moved into position, aimed, and flung my disc into the air. I suddenly noticed the gusty wind out of the West. Maybe that’s what caused it to hook to the left. John instructed me to locate my disc and continue on toward the basket, which remained elusively out of sight beyond a small group of trees. I searched in the tall grass and realized the importance of having a brightly colored disc. After another two heaves of my disc, the basket was finally in view. John, of course, was already within putting range. He took out his “putter”, a slightly heavier disc that willingly drops into the basket. He achieved par with no problem. My fourth toss landed amazingly close to the basket. I was sure I would finish my first disc golf hole ever with a bogey. However, as I released the disc with a little too much force, it bounced off the chains and I watched in agony as it rolled further away. I finally made it into the basket with a score of 6.

After my first few “holes”, I became aware of the fact that the tilt of the disc was causing all of my drives to fly off course to the left. This gave me no choice but to employ some difficult tomahawk shots to get through the trees. (A tomahawk is a shot where you throw the disk overhand, on its edge.) Sometimes my curving disc would ricochet off a large tree and actually land in a good position. To improve my control, John showed me how to hold my disc level as I released it, thus allowing it to fly satisfyingly straight. The more spin I could put on the disc, the more stable its flight as well. My drives continued to get better as I progressed through the course. John and I completed the entire round of 18 holes in less than two hours. I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon and definitely planned to play again soon.

If you would like to try disc golf yourself, you can start with just one long-range driver disc as I did. You can expect to pay around $12.00 for a starter disc. Disc golf discs differ from your garden variety Frisbee in that they are smaller, heavier and made of a different type of plastic. I bought mine at Tillie’s Party Store in Traverse City where they have a good selection of discs and knowledgeable people to help you make a selection. You can also purchase discs online from a number of suppliers. If you like the game as I did, you may eventually choose to add other discs to your collection. Some discs are weighted to curve to the left, some to the right. They sell long-range drivers, short-range drivers and everything in between. They even have discs called “rollers” which start out with a level flight and roll onto their edge. (I haven’t figured out what they are used for yet.) Then, of course, there are numerous putters from which to choose.

If you wish to learn more about disc golf, visit the Professional Disc Golf Association web site at www.pdga.com. The site is loaded with information and links to related sites. Additionally, a tournament is scheduled for Saturday, August 28 at the Myles Kimmerly course if you’d like to see experienced disc golfers in action.

Posted by editor at 06:08 PM | Comments (0)

July 01, 2004

Nighttime visitors: the legacy of the flying squirrel

By Torin Yeager
Sun contributor

We all enjoy watching the variety of birds we see every day at our feeders. From the common chickadees and sparrows to rose-breasted grosbeaks and orioles. What most of us don’t notice are the nighttime visitors to our feeders. The occasional raccoon or opossum might stop by, but the smallest diner could be the flying squirrel. Looking like chubby mice with oversized eyes, they make a comical sight while stuffing their mouths full with seeds. They are very protective of their food and if an unknown squirrel tries to sneak a seed, the first squirrel goes into fits of rage; squeaking shrilly and chasing away the offending intruder. However, if a human approaches them, they appear completely indifferent and allow you to get quite close. When you have gotten too near for comfort, the squirrels will leap off the feeder, spreading their legs apart so the flap of skin that attaches them allows the animal to glide to the nearest tree (which can be up to 100 ft. away). Their flat tail acts like a rudder and steers the squirrels to their destination. Since the flying squirrel is nocturnal, its primary enemies are owls and cats. It lives in nests made in stumps or hollow trees. The females and males live separately in the summer, but during the winter they will nest together. The flying squirrel lives mostly in hardwood forests because of its love of maple sap. Since my house is in the middle of a hardwood forest with lots of maples, it is an ideal spot to watch these tiny critters.

The first time I saw a flying squirrel, I was looking out on our deck to watch for the raccoon that made it a regular stop for sunflower seeds. Instead of seeing a raccoon, I saw two tiny, bug-eyed creatures with white under-bellies and light brown fur. They sat poised; ready to leap, but afraid to move. I quickly turned out the light and instead pressed my face to the glass to get a better look. There they were, eating sunflower seeds at our bird feeder. I silently got my shoes on and tiptoed out onto the deck. I thought that they would run away as soon as they saw me, but I got so close that I could have reached out to touch one. I hesitated to go closer for fear they might leap at me. It seemed to me that they were eyeing me for a possible perch. I held my breath and took a step backwards. This movement seemed to give the signal to run and before my eyes they scampered along the deck railing and dove off the side. That was when I finally figured out that they were flying squirrels, for they did not hit the ground but instead “Velcroed” themselves to a tree. I quietly went back inside to savor what I had just witnessed. I hoped they would come back again.

Luckily the squirrels came back the next night and have been coming ever since. It seems they are almost impossible to scare away now that they have taken the feeder as their own. They have become a regular sight at our feeder and one that I will always welcome gladly.

Posted by editor at 06:25 PM | Comments (0)

June 17, 2004

River, lake water levels high as cats’ backs

By Jacob Wheeler
Sun editor

The Leelanau County rain gods were generous last month, bestowing gifts on the Glen Lakes and the Crystal River for all to enjoy. As a result, for the first time in years canoers and kayakers were actually able to shoot through the culverts under the county roads on the Crystal River’s path to Lake Michigan when this issue of the Glen Arbor Sun went to press.

“We’re certainly happy about the high water levels this spring,” says Matt Wiesen, who now owns the Crystal River Outfitters, located next to Riverfront Pizza in Glen Arbor. “None of our customers have dragged bottom like they have in past years.” Wiesen confirms that current water levels are high enough to carry boats through the narrow pipes under the roads, yet his outfitter business doesn’t allow it because of the potential dangers involved.

According to figures supplied by Stephen Blumer, Chief of Network Operations for the Department of the Interior’s United States Geological Survey based in Lansing, the water level of the Glen Lakes rose from 0.58 to 0.97 feet above the survey’s fixed gage level between May 10 and 24, thus reaching its highest level in May since 2001.

The high water levels are especially good news for the Dam Committee, which regulates how much water will flow through the new hi-tech dam near the corner of 675 and Dunn’s Farm Road, from the fragile Glen Lakes into the Crystal River — an unenviable task during a drought.

“I wouldn’t say we’re high, I’d say the water levels are just right,” says Mike Sutherland one of four members of the Dam Committee, which is divided evenly between residents who live on the Glen Lakes and residents on the river. “We have the perfect amount of water for going into the high summer season.”

Sutherland raves about the new dam: a set of iron gates on a cement spillway that are controlled by a cable and can tweak the amount of water flowing through them by as little as a quarter of an inch. The Dam Committee used to rely on a series of 4x4-foot boards that it would insert or remove to control water flow into the Crystal River.

Two years ago when the rain gods hardly shed a tear all summer, the Committee had to survive a high-wire balancing act, trying to please, or appease, hundreds of boat owners and sunbathers living on the Glen Lakes as well as those who enjoy the river. The Pandora’s Box led to bad blood in our little town, and prompted a court order ensuring that the surface of the lakes remain 596.75 feet above sea level

But, as Sutherland says, the court order has never spoken to the river, and only seeks to maintain the height of the Glen Lakes. “If we keep the lakes at a certain level and it doesn’t rain for a week, the river will suffer,” he says.

On the other hand, too much water could spell disaster. “If we take the lakes up to our comfort level and it rains another inch of water that night, people could lose their yards,” Sutherland added. Ditto for the river. “Too much water in the Crystal for two days would have the larval fish population just barely hanging on along the shoreline or washing into Lake Michigan. You try to avoid those big changes so things don’t get washed away.”

Luckily, these problems haven’t arisen, thus far, in 2004.

“With this new dam we’re able to manage things. But the long and short of it is that Mother Nature controls the lake level. If doesn’t rain for a week, everything will be low and both the lakes and the river will have to suffer.”

Posted by editor at 11:39 PM | Comments (0)

May 27, 2004

Triple-treat yourself to the Treat Farm Trail

By Jane Greiner
Sun staff writer

This is the time of year when spring wildflowers uplift the hearts of nature lovers everywhere. One of the best places to see them in delightful profusion is along the Treat Farm trail just south of Empire. The trail offers the triple treat of a woods walk, historical farm buildings and a magnificent Lake Michigan view.

The walk in to the farm is a pleasure in itself. It takes you on a gentle uphill dirt road through beautiful woods where white Trillium (named for their three leaves and three petals) cover the hills all along both sides of the trail. Tiny pink Spring Beauties grow rampant, not to be outdone by an abundance of shiny white Dutchman’s britches, and their cousins Squirrel Corn. Many Jack in the Pulpits also line the edges, and patches of blue Myrtle (Periwinkle) are visible. The ground is covered with the spotted-leafed yellow Trout Lilies, banks of big-leafed Bloodroot and patches of Large-Flowered Bellwort with their droopy yellow flowers. The abundance of wildflowers is as exciting as the variety.

For those who can’t get enthused over flowers, there is the fun of visiting the old Treat family farm itself. The barn is the first thing you see. The National Park Service has restored part of it and torn down some of the later additions.

You can take the steps to the white farmhouse, which sits on a small knoll beyond the barn. The NPS has maintained the old farmhouse, and you can sit on the front porch and try to image what it must have been like to live there in the shadow of the dunes with the farm fields spread out before you. Did the farmer and his wife take the pleasure in the sheer beauty of the surroundings as we do today, or were they too busy with the heavy demands of farming to even notice? Did the children love the woods and the dunes and the Lake, or did they hate the isolation? And what were those interesting round outbuildings built for? Were they springhouses, fruit cellars, or what?

On the far side of the field is a wall of high dunes with Lake Michigan just on the other side. To continue to the Lake, you can follow the path across the field below the house, which takes you to the foot of a dune. Rather than climbing the dune, follow the trail walking along below it. Before long it curls out around the end of the dune to a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan over 100 feet below. The view is spectacular. You look down over a few treetops to the sparkling waters far beneath your feet. Birds fly below you. From this high angle, you can see right to the bottom of the lake for quite a distance from shore. You can also see miles up and down the shore and out over the lake.

The Treat Farm trail is not heavily used. We sometimes pass another couple on the trail or sometimes see no one at all. The distance from the trailhead to the farm to the Lake is only about half a mile long, making for a one-mile round-trip. Although the first part presents a slightly uphill-grade, it is one of the gentlest slopes in the National Park. Dogs are allowed on leashes. The combination of beauty, ease of access, and low usage makes it one of my favorite trails in the entire Park. One caution, there is plenty of poison ivy along the trail later in the season.

How to get there: The trailhead is a gate at the west end of Norconk Road. Norconk (Stormer) crosses M-22 about a mile south of Empire.

Posted by editor at 06:27 PM | Comments (0)

August 28, 2003

An Afternoon Drive on South Manitou Island

By Mike Buhler
Sun extreme sports correspondent

Driving up the Glen Arbor boat ramp at 8 p.m., Hugh Gordon is greeted by a score of laughing, curious onlookers. As he parks and exits his 1967 Amphicar, the crowd immediately gathers, and like a carnival barker, this experienced salesman greets their curiosity with a familiar patter.

“Why yes, this is the Amphicar, made in Germany. Where else can you get the complete package: boat, trailer, and car? It gets 30 miles to the gallon, and the seats fold down so you can sleep in it.” It takes Hugh no time to convince the crowd that they all need one.

We departed the boat ramp (after paying our $5 launch fee, naturally) at 11 a.m., and on the trip to South Manitou, I was able to learn the history of this man and his machine, as we headed to a picnic by the Valley of the Cedars.

The Amphicar was produced in Berlin from 1961 to 1968 by the Quandt Group, a post-war British-German cooperative. Based on a design by Hanns Trippel, the father of amphibious cars (or schwimwagens, as they are known in Germany), the car was a hit in the USA, with over 3,000 of the nearly 4,000 produced landing on our shores. Federal regulatory changes by the Department of Transportation and Environmental Protection Agency were too much for the Amphicar to overcome, so the factory closed in 1968.

Back in Detroit, on a snowy day in December, 1966, Hugh Gordon plunked down his cash and purchased his first Amphicar, and unwittingly charted the car’s course to survival. Purchased as a second vehicle to his stylish Mustang, Hugh eventually made the Amphicar his primary vehicle, as he drove the country selling Volkswagen parts to dealers and repair shops.

“I’d pull up in the Amphicar, open the bonnet, and sell parts right out the front of the car. Dealers would always remember me, and I’d get more orders because of it,” Hugh recalls. A few years later he added Mercedes-Benz parts to his line, “because I could make lots more money,” he notes.

With a degree in Political Science and Drama from The Principia, Hugh is masterful with people. The car is a natural icebreaker, but he engages total strangers so quickly that it is easy to see how successful he was as a parts salesman. However, trouble loomed.

Suddenly plagued with vision difficulties, Hugh had a series of detached retinas and even a cataract. “Here I was, at 40, and the doctors said I had the eyes of an 80-year-old.”

Fortunately surgery, a positive outlook, and his faith in God restored Hugh’s vision. Yet all the while he planned for sightless days. Knowing car parts, and knowing that he could talk on the phone, Hugh decided to move into Amphicar parts, and opened Gordon Imports in 1979.

Years earlier, in California, where Hugh had settled, he met his wife Jeanie. They wed in 1977, and Jeanie was instrumental in the formation of Gordon Imports. The couple work side-by-side, and except for this trip today, are nearly inseparable. “I wouldn’t be here without her,” Hugh says fondly. While Jeanie is happy to go on short jaunts around Big Glen in the Amphicar, she was just as happy to avoid the two-hour trip one-way to South Manitou, and read a book at their summer home on Harbor Island.

With determination, good fortune and the forging of an overseas friendship, Hugh was able to buy most of the remaining Triumph Spitfire engines that power the Amphicar, and many of the transmissions and other parts. Over the years, he and Jeanie, accompanied by one brother and an assistant at the shop, have managed to buy or remanufacture virtually every part for the Amphicar.

He shared all this history while puttering out to the island at a leisurely 5 knots, the twin nylon propellers of the schwimwagen propelling us forward, and the front tires serving as rudders. We did detour long enough to say hello to a down-bound Hunter 37 called Sundance, but its spinnaker gave it much greater speed than we could achieve.

Nearing the lighthouse at South Manitou, we took a tour of the bay, and when we saw the boat ramp, our hearts sank: it was two feet high and dry, a victim of the low water levels. After consulting a variety of perplexed swimmers and waders in the bay, we decided to give the sand a whirl. Halfway there the car dug into the sand and we were stuck. As luck would have it, Boy Scouts were at hand, and four kindly lads from Kalamazoo gave a small push, and we were onto the hard roads of the island.

For our land and sea adventure, the Amphicar was packed to the gills. In the boot (trunk, up front) were a spare propeller, come-along, five gallons of gasoline and a whole host of tools. In the back seat were our lunch, life jackets and, of course, towels, bug spray and sun-block. In my wallet, the annual National Park pass, and some emergency phone numbers. The Amphicar, titled in Michigan, is licensed for both land and water. The Park pass allows us entry to the island, and the roads belong to Leelanau County, so nary a law was broken or even bent. The roads are not of the best quality, but certainly passable, allowing us clear travel all about the island.

We were able to see historic farms and barns, Florence Lake, the wreck of the Francisco Marazon, the Valley of the Cedars (note to Road Commission: please cut the tree—I had to hike one mile), the lighthouse and several beautiful vistas across reverted farm fields. A few stunned hikers, and a wonderful and curious Park Ranger were also encountered. [Park regulations prohibit publication of the Ranger’s photo or remarks without prior approval from the Superintendent—ed.]

Upon completion of the island tour we topped off the gas tanks, put the top back up, secured the doors with watertight latches, and Hugh shifted into first gear and engaged the PTO for the propellers. The Amphicar zoomed down the boat ramp, glided effortlessly down the sand, and once in the water, Hugh put the drivetrain for the wheels into neutral, set the truest form of cruise control, and piloted us back toward Sleeping Bear Bay. With a smooth lake we made great time on the return trip, and left the windows down.

Between sips of Diet Pepsi we discussed weather, philosophy, religion, California politics and how the Gordons came to Glen Arbor.

“Oh, that was easy,” Hugh relates. “Both of my younger brothers attended The Leelanau School, and I had come up to visit them.” I was regaled with tales of Hugh and an unnamed brother pushing a junk car over the bluff of Pyramid Point, and of the Amphicar driving right into the Marazon, mooring, and a failed attempt to liberate the ship’s wheel. The veracity is not as important as is the wry humor with which the tales are told. Then, there are the legal ramifications, so one has tread carefully, and this reporter does not wish to pry.

Approaching Glen Arbor the sun lights up the wooden hulk of Le Bear Resort, and the pointing throng that gathers on shore is easy to spot. Once on land the propellers are disengaged, the bilge pump is shut off, and with the top down, we race down Harbor Highway into the sunset, smiling.

Posted by editor at 10:39 PM | Comments (0)

August 14, 2003

“Roughin’ It” in the Sleeping Bear Dunes

By Torin Yeager
Sun staff writer

There are times in one’s life when a sudden thirst for adventure arises from deep down in one’s soul. This is generally known as a mid-life crisis, but at age 15, I certainly do not feel middle-aged. I haven’t been lacking for adventure lately, but a little more excitement wouldn’t hurt, so I decide to go on a trek through the shifting sands of Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. I stow my camera in my pack, as adventures must always be recorded, and set off on an epic journey, sure to be retold for at least a day or two.

My travels begin at the foot of the Sleeping Bear Dune Climb just a few miles west of Glen Arbor. License plates from New York to Oregon fill the sprawling parking lot while voices speaking languages other than English (German, for sure, and another so exotic that I don’t recognize it) are audible, evidence of the lure of this massive pile of sand. If I had a map I would plot my course from the steaming parking filled with lounging picnickers to the shores of Lake Michigan, but who needs maps when there’s a whole wave of people making their way up the first dune? Many climbers jettison their footwear at the base, but I opt to retain my sturdy sandals, which won’t collect heavy sand like ordinary shoes. I join a crowd that follows another group up the main dune climb, much like a flock of sheep. The sight of throngs of kids running down the slope while their parents attempt to keep up proves very amusing. The hill is quite steep, and the climb’s summit leaves a few people panting, but most continue on. After trudging past the first blue-tipped wooden marker buried in the sand just a hundred yards from the parking lot, my spirits are up, but the scent of over-applied sunscreen reminds me that I neglected to bring any Ultraviolet protection of my own. No problem though, as the lake is just over the next hill.

But as I crest this mound of granulated minerals and prickly dune grass I see… more hills, and more. A collective groan comes from my fellow hikers as the realization hits them like a tidal wave from the lake that our oasis is much further ahead. A few of the weak-at-heart turn back, but the story for me is not over yet.

After two more hills and countless blue-tipped posts, I begin to wonder why I hadn’t just turned around earlier, like most of the other travelers. My view from one of the hills offers no sign of any lake, or anything nourishing for that matter. Instead I see more hills covered with endless grass and scraggly trees. My desperate mind begins to drift as if I were in a desert even though the trees and other plants are the typical flora of Leelanau County. Sand is no stranger to the soil in these parts, but this lonely place in the middle of the dunes certainly contains more than I’ve bargained for. Soil drainage is so efficient here that all the plants I see are stunted from lack of water. Their trauma inspires me to reach into my pack for water, only to find that I forgot to pack any kind of food or refreshment for my trip. I am startled out of my reverie by a man hiking in the opposite direction who tells me, “There are only six more hills to go!” Despair often hits people in the middle of nowhere, but I am determined to reach the lake at all costs, so I run to catch up with the remaining people in the crowd, although our ranks are so thin that we hardly qualify as a crowd anymore.

As we tread slowly across the desert wastelands, I spot yet another blue-tipped post, although this one is lying at an angle, like a forlorn cross. One hill later, I see a post that is almost completely buried in the sand. Apparently all signs of civilization are growing more and more faint the further into this shifting landscape I go. But I move on, in hopes of someday reaching the lake. At this point only a few members of the original group are still standing, some in front, some behind me, while fewer still are returning from the beach. All of those returning travelers speak of the cool waters just over the next few hills, and I sincerely hope they tell the truth.

After treading carefully along the path as it winds through a particularly lush patch of poison ivy, which I have learned to avoid from a previous article in the Glen Arbor Sun, I make my way up another rise. The cool breeze at the top brings a different smell to my nose. It is salty like the sea, but I remember that the Great Lakes are filled with fresh water, and the salt is from my sweat. But what of the cool breeze? … A lake!

It’s true. The vast blue expanse of Lake Michigan stretches out in front of me as I run down the last slope to the beach. The man miscounted the number of hills between myself and victory; there were only three! I dash a few yards into the refreshing surf before remembering that cameras like mine do not fare well when submerged. Then, while standing knee-deep in the cold water, I notice the staggering difference in numbers between the masses of tourists climbing the first dune by the parking lot and the dwindling adventurers resting on the beach. Our elite group made it through everything the Sleeping Bear could throw at us. We’re the few, the proud… and the ones with the longest hike back … You just can’t win out here.

When all attempts to see through the haze for a glimpse of the Manitou Islands prove futile, I succumb in defeat, and realize the only adventure left is the long march back to the trailhead, where civilization and air conditioning await my return. I am regretting not bringing any water with me, and most of my fellow hikers have already used up their small supplies of bottled H2O. As I slog back in the humid air, my heat-addled brain ponders in confusion why all of the memorable landmarks that I had followed, such as the half-buried and forgotten trail marker posts, are now found on the opposite side of the path. What was once on the right going one way is now on the left going the other direction. Strange.

Each step I take and every hill I climb brings more people attempting to make the very same journey that I just survived. I make out the phrase, “Just one more hill,” uttered by more than a few weary travelers. I can only speculate as to how many of these poor souls will actually reach their destination before turning back.

Barely noticing the passing scenery, I finally make my way back to the flat, sandy plateau overlooking the main steep slope of the dune climb. Now all that is left for me to do is get down this last hill and out to the parking lot teeming with visitors. However, there are many different ways for me to do this. I could take the traditional long-strides down in a slow, stately fashion, or I could dash headlong into the weeds at the bottom of the hill. Better yet, I could roll all the way down like most of the six-year-olds visiting the park. Or, how about cartwheels? The method I choose, of course, is a crazy half-running, half-falling tumble to the end of my trek.

I savor a cool drink at the fountain before looking back at the majestic giants of sand behind me. I have conquered them today. Gloating over my latest accomplishment, I check a map in the National Park Service building at the base of the Dune Climb to view my path from beginning to end. As it turns out, the trail does not cover the shortest distance to the lake, as a crow would fly, but angles northward. Is this an attempt at humor by some Park Ranger? The truth is that a steep bluff stands at the shore directly west of the main Dune Climb. To enable hikers to reach the water’s edge, the longer northern route must be traveled. Still, my journey has taken me over seven hills for a round-trip distance of a mere 2.5 miles, over a time period of an hour and a half. There’s nothing like the harsh facts to spoil a truly fantastic story. Until next time, Sleeping Bear.

Posted by editor at 05:42 PM | Comments (0)

July 31, 2003

Biking the Crystal River, no seriously!

By Lance Legstrong
Sun extreme sport Correspondent

(Editor’s note: the following tongue-and-cheek article is a jaunt into the ridiculous and should not be interpreted as having any bearing on the real-life controversy over low waver levels in both the Glen Lakes and the Crystal River).

In the perennial visage of Northwest Lower Michigan occasions abound for newfound excitement. The challenge comes in acquiring sufficient time to appreciate all there is to do in this cornucopia of outdoor opportunity. For maximum efficiency, one can find activities that combine several summer exploits.

An annual favorite is the melding of quality family time with the game of hide and seek, into “find Dad in a crowd of 79,000 people at the cherry festival” day.

There is also the weekend long version of this game. 

Plainly put, there is a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it. It is with the awareness of stiff competition from ageless favorites such as swimming, canoeing, and being rescued off the sand dunes that I offer yet another activity to occupy your summer days: riverbiking. Do you like biking but not riding in traffic? Do you like exercise but not the sweat? Are you so much on the forefront of new trends that you are already preparing for next year’s handlebar moustache revival? If my experience in retail shoe sales has uncovered one truth, it would be that the chance to enjoy our area’s rivers while obtaining the benefits of bike riding is too tantalizing to let pass.

Almost everyone knows what a river is, and nearly an equal number are familiar with bicycles, so the concept behind riverbiking is simple. Most area residents and seasonal locals have also partaken in a leisurely float down one of our area’s rivers in a canoe or kayak. This is a wonderful activity, but so overdone that the traffic along the Platte or Crystal Rivers often rivals a Friday afternoon commute in Chicago. Riverbiking solves these problems and creates new ones. 

What you will need: a bike, get one with nice wide tires and it is preferable if this wheeled watercraft belongs to someone else. Water shoes are also essential as you may get wet. Wear comfortable, yet stylish clothing, because you are a representative for the entire riverbiking community.  The most essential element is a helmet. This is not to discourage the average touring cyclist or overprotective mother, but just to show others that riverbiking is an extreme sport, requiring extreme headgear. I feel comfortable saying it is an extreme sport, because I recently found this same adjective on a bottle of milk, our country’s most unpresumptuous drink.

So after strapping your neighbor’s bicycle to the back of your car, head off to your favorite river. The theory of riverbiking is simple: ride your bike down the river. The actual act is more involved. Before entering the river you must set aside all you know to be true of biking and physics. These antiquated notions will only keep you and the bike dull and dry.

You must approach the act as if you have been riverbiking for years. This is required to impress the throng of people who will gather, watch, and assume you were a bit soggy before you got wet.

Of course, if time permits, you could practice in your bathtub or a hotel swimming pool, but the only true way to get the feel for riverbiking is to plunge into the moving water and commence riding. Though it will be slow and you may try to recall who proposed this as fun, you will find it quite possible.

Of the few sanctioned attempts personally undertaken, only limited success was attained. This was not due to the water though, but more so to the frequent logs and generally “unsound” bottom of the river. In fact, river bottom was found to be the number one cause of catastrophic failure. The water will resist you, but keep peddling and you will move forward, at least until you meet Mr. Submerged Cedar. This will end the limited momentum you had built by churning water for 50 feet and send you to the shallow bottom, where you will discover one of the distinct advantages of riverbiking: no nasty scrapes and bruises from falls.

Only a wet helmet and additional chortling from the canoeing onlookers.

After a few failed frolics in unbecoming areas of the river though, you will find a nice spot to show off your skills, regain your pride, and look for your soggy left shoe. You may want to practice entrances and exits as well, which can be devastating if unmastered. I have found myself quickly underwater from a poorly planned plop into an unknown section of seemingly stable riverbed.

I have been petitioned by several intimidating fish and accompanying aquatic things to remind folks that river bottoms are extremely fragile ecosystems which can be easily damaged by things much less invasive than a 2 1⁄2 inch wide rotating tire and the occasional agitated person tearing through the bottom. It is best to find spots that are either void of all biological activity (unlikely), or that have a lot of foot traffic anyway -- such as the entrances and exits used by those annoying kayakers and canoers who passively enjoy the river. Please write your congresspersons and obtain use easements from local fish before attempting any of this subterfuge. Tread with care.

Depth. Although originally thought of as a sport limited to shallow water, the challenge various water depths bring to the extreme sport lead to interesting combinations, such as shallow rocky, deep sand, underwater muddy, and crouching-through-the-culvert.

Contrary to pre-river conjecture, deep water actually provides interesting benefits. Balance is optional in 4-foot water, a great help as you move slower than the river. Another advantage arrives from being fully submerged; it is almost like having a body air conditioning system, only wetter.

Stemming from this phenomenal activity is a series of similar other biking hybrids, such as lakebiking and treebiking. While the latter is only in its prototype phase (still trying to decide if the tree should be horizontal or the bike vertical), lakebiking can be as productive as riverbiking. The few failed attempts in Lake Michigan have almost eliminated it as a possibility, but many inland lakes have sufficiently rocky bottoms, allowing easy peddling between docks.

Once the next dock is reached, you will have to decide if it is better to forage around the end or to portage, which incidentally finds the bicycle at an enormous advantage to more traditional watercraft. The portage, that cumbersome lurch from water to water that taxes the weekend kayaker is your place to triumph as a riverbiker. Your borrowed bike will quickly regain its landlubber memory and take you quickly over the dry ground, right back to your raucous river ride. Let’s see another rivergoer portage without leaving their canoe. This is only one instance in a litany of riverbiking’s superiority over outdated waterway travel, making this extreme sport a perfect Northern Michigan addition; if only my neighbor quit complaining about a little water in his bike frame.

Posted by editor at 07:10 PM | Comments (0)

July 17, 2003

‘Ladies of Leelanau’ celebrate the Solstice by running, and running.

By Ashlea Turner
Sun staff writer

The Summer Solstice, June 21st, is always cause for much celebration as we honor the longest day of the year. This year’s Solstice brought much reason to celebrate for the ‘Ladies of Leelanau,’ a local running team. For the second year in a row, the ‘Ladies’ completed the North Country Trail Relay in historic fashion. Among 30 teams, we were the only all-women’s team to succeed in completing the long and arduous race.

The North Country Trail Relay is a 77-mile long race that begins just west of Mesick and ends near Baldwin. The race is run entirely on the North Country Scenic Trail and celebrates trail running and team spirit. This particular section of the trail runs through the Huron-Manistee National Forest and is quite hilly with lots of switchback trails, views of the Manistee River, beautiful hardwood forests and lots of roots. It is open to foot traffic year-round. Sections of the trail are also open to mountain biking and offer wonderful climbs and sweet descents.

Traditionally, teams of six runners complete between 10 and 13 hilly and “visually orgasmic” miles per person. This year’s five members of the ‘Ladies of Leelanau’ were empowered to run about 14 to 16 miles each. Team members Laura Hood, Jessie Houghton, Patty Sutherland, Evie Rhynard and myself absolutely love the challenging hills and the gorgeous scenery that the North Country Scenic Trail provides.

How do we ladies prepare for and finish the race? All of us enjoy distance running, especially on trails, and train by running regularly and running longer on the weekends. All of us have run at least one marathon, including the Anchorage Marathon in Alaska, the Detroit Marathon, the Bayshore Marathon in Traverse City and the North Country Trail Marathon that takes place in September every year. We also stay fueled by drinking lots of water, eating Scoobie Snacks, pounds of trail mix, and of course, bananas. Most importantly, however, we empower each other.

At 3:10pm on June 21st (the official beginning of summer), the ‘Ladies’ howled like wolf goddesses in honor of summer’s arrival and the power of the all-women’s team. But the ‘Ladies’ still had about three more hours of running ahead of them in order to complete the race. After about 12 hours of running, navigating old fire roads, and laughter, the ‘Ladies of Leelanau’ completed the race and were ready for their next challenge. Jessie Houghton, the Alpha runner of the group, summed up the day perfectly by saying that she was “proud to be a member of the only all-women’s team.” What a perfect start to healthy summer.

The ‘Ladies’ are looking for more women to run against us in the race next year. Come on, ladies. For more information, go to www.truheat.com/nctrcourse.

Running like the locals

If you’re a runner living in Chicago, you probably run between Lake Michigan and Lake Shore Drive through Lincoln Park, with thousands of other runners. If you’re a runner living in New York City, you probably run through Central Park, with thousands of other runners. But if you’re a runner living in Glen Arbor, where do you run? Well, wherever you run in the Glen Arbor area, I can guarantee that you won’t be running with thousands of other runners. This area is home, however, to both great road and trail running. Although the local runners are reluctant to give away all of their secret running haunts, here are a few.

For a classic trail run complete with beautiful vistas of both Lake Michigan and Big Glen Lake, try Alligator Hill, where it’s always a bit shady and always very challenging (read HILLY). One can access the Alligator Hill trail network from Pierce Stocking Drive or from Forest Haven Road, both just south of Glen Arbor. Looking for a trail that has something for everyone? North of Glen Arbor and The Homestead lies the Bay View Trail network. One can park at the trail head off of Thoreson Road and run short, run long, run hilly, flat, or a little bit of both. Jessie Houghton, a local runner, loves the Bay View trails because “there are just so many possibilities for a great run.” And don’t forget to stumble up the hill to Lookout Point. It’s worth it.

Too often runners can be found in the sunniest and most traffic-ridden places in the summer. For excellent road running, free of traffic and direct sun, try the following routes. For a shady, flat and scenic road run, try Northwood Drive along Big Glen Lake. If you’re looking for a good road workout complete with long hills, try the Pierce Stocking Scenic Drive. Long hills are accompanied, of course, by long descents. Have fun. You can park at the entrance and run the 7.4-mile loop, stopping at the inspiring lookouts for a break. Make sure not to go in the middle of the day when the drive is void of wildlife but full of tourists. There are even bathrooms. Perfect.

Several of these trails are part of the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore and require a parking pass. Consider buying a year-long pass for $15. This will allow you and your family access to all of the trails and beaches in the Lakeshore for the rest of the year.

For a healthy summer of running, drink lots of water and don’t run in the middle of the day when the sun is beating down. One last piece of advice: Don’t forget to jump in the big lake after your run. You’ve earned it.

Posted by editor at 02:39 PM | Comments (0)

June 19, 2003

Leelanau School students harness wave energy to light bulb

By Kristen Counts
Sun contributor

Imagine you are a student in a classroom on the first day of school. The teacher says, "Your objective in this class is to light a 100-watt bulb using the power of waves on Lake Michigan. The only help I will give you is in acquiring materials that you determine you will need."

To me, that sounds more like a quest than a class; an ordeal through which someone might suffer on one of those reality television shows. As a mathematically challenged student, I probably would have bolted, no pun intended, for the door.

Impressively, Alex Levin-Koopman of Ann Arbor, Lindsay Simmons of Traverse City and Jon Wohlfert of Kalamazoo -three enterprising seniors at The Leelanau School - took on just such a challenge. Their math-physics instructor Nick Counts said he handpicked the students because of their combination of practical knowledge and “book smarts".

Simmons, the group’s unofficial spokesperson, commented, "I and my classmates decided on the materials ourselves because there was no set way to make it. We conducted the whole process through trial and error." Simmons, who had learned the basic concepts the previous year in Counts' physics class, created the design for the "wave generator". She is on her way to Michigan Tech University in the fall,

Wohlfert listed the materials used: “Copper wire, magnets, a PVC pipe, a metal rod, washers and nuts, rope, a pickle barrel, a dishwashing glove and a rotor from Mr. Counts' old Honda Passport."

The rotor served as the anchor. Wohlfert, always the joker, added, "We had to go with the '94 Passport to get the maximum anchorage. The '95 just wouldn't do."

Some materials for the project were generously donated. The students received copper wire from John Rutheford of Lake Leelanau, a pickle barrel from Art's Tavern, and Rob Csortos, the Vice President of Duramagnetics in Toledo, Ohio, donated a high-power permanent magnet and offered advice along the way.

After a school year of planning and constructing, the day finally arrived to put the students' wave generator to the test. On that drizzly, windy day in late May, I asked the students if they thought their project would work. Could light up a 100-watt light bulb with the power of the waves on Lake Michigan?

Levin-Koopman thought so. Wohlfert confidently announced, "I know it will work for a fact."

Always the realist, Simmons thought for a moment and answered, "I'm not sure."

But the battle plan never plays out just as it does on paper.

On the Lake Michigan shoreline as the wave generator awaiting its christening, the three suddenly realized that, despite all their high-tech constructing, they had nothing with which to cut the rope. A vicious two-out-of-three game of rock, paper, scissors was played to settle who had to go back for a knife.

Finally the big moment arrived. Levin-Koopman had imagined a warm, sunny day when he volunteered to take the wave generator into the lake earlier in the year. No dice. Unwilling to wear a wet suit, he braved the chill of Lake Michigan for the sake of science and, of course, his