Every year for a long time now, Don Zipp took a ride up to his cabin for the closing of trout season which is around the last weekend in September. He has a three-room cabin with running water; you run down to the creek, fill up your water jug and run back. What really impressed me about his place though, were his "facilities". The lucky bum's got a two seater, and conveniently located so as not to distress the other inhabitants of the cabin. Such a concept! My wife would love it if I had one of those. Anyway, for as long as I have worked with him, he's always made an open invitation to join him in the weekend. Last year, a bunch of us took him up on his offer. This year it was longer.

At noon on Thursday, almost all of the landscapers at Site Planning, plus one carpenter, the mechanic, and one old guy who works in the barn, locked and loaded and headed north. With Charlevoix behind us, we convoyed up to the Mackinac Bridge and talked to each other by radios about what we were going to be doing. Evidently, Don didn't have a radio but he did remind us about the coming weekend soirée' at the Bear Butt Bar.

Half way across the bridge; at the apex, 2 1/2 miles from the Lower Peninsula and 2 1/2 from the upper, Jamie Crandall started reaching into his pocket. I started reaching into mine when Jamie said, "It’s my treat." After a moment he said, "A buck and a half; the cheapest price you'll ever pay for a ride like this."

At first I thought he was a talking about the bridge itself, and to some extent, I was right. The bridge is impressive, both from afar and riding over it, and the view is worth twice the price. The ride he was talking about started at the top of that bridge and continued until we were on the southbound side looking down at the rest of the world.

The topography changed immediately as did the vegetation. Many of the same trees are found in the lower peninsula but not at such great numbers. I could tell from how they grew that their yearly life was short and times were hard while they rested. Along the highway on both sides were rock outcroppings with cedar and lichen growing upon and out of them. It looked to be a place where the mind and soul could quietly visit with the other and not be distracted by trivial matters. Trivial matters had all been exorcised by the time we got to The Fall Inn (which, by the way, has) and by the time we went by the Bear Butt Bar, Don already had. Honest to God, I’ll NEVER forget the vision before our very eyes. Jamie and I were tooling along down the highway when Don’s very white and clean asshole goes flying by. The amazing thing about it was the noise that we heard. Picture a 55-gallon drum traveling down the highway with the vent hole open. Kind-of-a deep hollow sound to it, with a vibration.

The landscapers and the old guy all piled out of their vehicles and started getting the place ready for a weekend worth of hunting, fishing and lying. As the kitchen was stocked, a campfire was started and all the ingredients needed for the weekend were prepared. Don had given us all a grocery list which included a lot of steaks, a ton of potatoes, two chickens, chips and soda, and eggs and sausages for breakfasts. Among the items brought out were smoked whitefish, a whole school of 'em. Last year, as we'd pulled into the campsite, Don had waved us into the yard with the biggest whitefish I'd ever seen and we never did get around to cooking them. Evidently, he had heard me lamenting the event and not ten minutes after we were there, a smoked one was sitting before me. Already the weekend was a success. I had brought along an American flag that was my Grandfathers and we proudly displayed it at our site. Alaska and Hawaii weren’t included in the flag but we were in Michigan, and it was.

After we finished with that our attention was immediately focused on what the weekend was all about. Across the road there is a population of woodcock inhabiting the brush, but we weren’t nearly ready to ply our skills against them. Kent Seymore grabbed the clay pigeons and the thrower as Dan Cox, Brian Darrah, Denis Mallheux, Jamie Crandall, Don Zipp, Dave Crandall, and myself grabbed our weapons and ammo. We all proceeded to the trap range and saw that we had the place to ourselves. We could have checked down range for people but I don't think there was a human within 20 miles of the place. We all took our turns and most of us faired pretty well, but woodcock don't fly like those pigeons do. As the weekend progressed there was hardly a time when there weren’t a couple of the guy’s throwing and shooting. A couple of the guys ended up using all their ammo shooting clays and for as much luck I had with the real birds...

Just as we were finishing up with our target practice, two more members of the weekend arrived. Doug arrived with his pager and cell phone all charged up and in working order. His wife was due with their first child so he was there "on condition". If her condition changed, his would too; so he was never far from either. None-the-less, he enjoyed us and we him. Mike Pitschner was next to arrive and a welcoming ceremony was given to the one Carpenter who dared cross the line into the brotherhood of Landscapers. I would describe the ceremony itself, but the rule: "What goes on across the bridge, stays across the bridge" has been enforced.

What a joy it is to associate with a group of men who enjoy and respect each other as these guys do. Getting along at work is something you get paid for. Enjoying the outdoors and all that has to offer along with the guys you work with is something that just can't be bought.

Kent moved into the kitchen as we tended the fire, and began a process that lasted well into the night. Some of us go north to hunt, some to fish, some to do both; Kent goes to cook. I was raised in an environment where cooking was done to prepare sustenance, not create something that was designed to make you forget why you were there to begin with. As we were sitting there next to the fire enjoying the steaks, Kent headed for the travel home and proceeded to start on the camp chili. I haven’t a clue as to what he put in there but as the evening progressed the combination of aromas helped us forget how stuffed we were. As the weekend went on Kent, and later, Don would continue to surprise us with their culinary prowess, and in-between, I ate the smoked whitefish.

The next day arrived early for some of us and as the morning wore on we began to wonder when the late sleepers were going to get with the program. At nine it was decided to sound the alarm clock. Fortunately, I brought my alarm clock with me: a 16ga Stevens with side by each. Kent immediately stuck his head out the door and headed for the kitchen, Denis came out a few minutes later with his earplugs still installed. He remembered from last year about my alarm clock. He's going to need more than that next year; I'm bringing my grandfather’s alarm clock. It's a 12ga model 21 Winchester with its barrels cut off for grouse and woodcock hunting. As I returned the alarm clock into its carrying case, John Hamlin, Steve Johnson (Jeremiah), Steve Manson (Bubba), Jamie Montieth, and Pat Elliot arrived. Now the entire roster of this weekend’s events had arrived. They all being landscapers of the group, no other arrival ceremonies were needed.

After breakfast we divvied up into groups; some of us would head down to the river (the east branch of the Tequhamenon), some to a lake that held a vigorous population of splake and some off to the brush in pursuit of woodcock. If Charles Shultz had been a hunter of Timberdoodles, Woodstock would have been drawn with a long beak and named Woodcock. He had the flight pattern down cold. Unfortunately, it began to rain that morning and would continue for the entire weekend. The river was high and turbid so stream fishing was soon abandoned and a change of tactics ensued. The group of very soggy bird hunters decided to join us and we headed up to Whitefish Point.

My son, being a lover of lighthouses, had told me many times about the lighthouse there and that if the opportunity presented itself I should go see it. Even in the rain it was worth the trip, just to see that. We walked out onto the pier not very far south of there and gave the fishing a try. I'm glad I took pictures of the lighthouse and the lake it was designed to protect against. No luck at all with the fishing, but it didn't seem to matter. On our ride back we opened a county map book and started checking out two tracks.

Riding two tracks is an easy way to find out what the countryside really looks like, what's growing and living there, and how many dings and scratch's you can put on that beautiful paint job on your vehicle. First off, don't take a fancy S.U.V. into the brush, take a vehicle that can handle the job, and a driver that is willing to take a chance once in a while. During one of these excursions we came upon an area of mature oak. In it lives a population of squirrels that has never seen a man with a .22. Next year, when we come back up, I'll be spending an afternoon adding a little something to the group’s dinner.

Further on along that ride we noticed that the center of the trail was all tore up with animal tracks! At first I thought that a horse had traveled along the road so we stopped and took a look. Moose tracks! Not long before we had come down that trail that animal had moved along there. I've never seen a moose in the wild and seeing those tracks was like seeing it itself.

Later along that trip we stopped at a public launching site on one of the inland lakes in the area. Jeremiah had brought along a canoe with him this year so while we fished along the banks, he and Bubba tried on the other side. Unfortunately we didn't find what they were hungry for but the lake has a lot of promise. Next year I'm bringing my canoe too and a larger variety of panfish bait.

During dinner that night we all gathered around the fire and shared the stories of the days events as the bounty of their adventures were prepared for dinner. Although some of the guys who'd gone trout fishing had some luck, Don won the award for both numbers and size. Several woodcock had been harvested and were added to the feast; all I could add to the evening's meal were moose tracks and as all hunters know, you can't eat those. Along with all this, Dan put the chickens in the deep fryer. Next year we’re going to have to either add another day, bring less food or hope that more people join us.

Sunday morning we awoke to the sound of rain dripping out of the trees and leaking out of the sky. It was nothing new because it had been raining all week, but it was nice to see it wasn't going to change with us leaving. As we stood around the fire that morning our thoughts and conversations centered on what was going on around us locally and globally. We were all very grateful of where we were and what we were able to do and see. I think as life gets more complex and dangerous, that it’s important that we share and enjoy what we have around us. So, next year I'm bringing my .22mag, a canoe and tackle, my "new and improved" alarm clock, more friends, and the fare for the bridge. Jamie was absolutely right; "It is the cheapest price you'll ever pay for a ride like this."