From the Archives - UP Road Trip, Part VI

Part VI – We meet the Amazing Woody and the lovely Grace

Bill and I had directions to an old trailer at a dirt crossroads where Woody was to meet us and escort us the rest of the way to the camp on Frenchmen’s Pond. We were to be joined by Woody’s wife, Gracie, and his pal, board member Pmag, for drinks, a steak cookout, some rod casting, a little fishing, some lie-swapping and story telling… it promised to be an all around delightful evening.

So off we went, back up 510 to the 502. It was a lovely late afternoon in May, the sun was shining, the temperature in the seventies, and I was filled with anticipation and thoroughly enjoying the ride through unfamiliar country.

We made our way to the trailer landmark at the crossroads and there, across the railroad tracks, was the Amazing One himself, standing next to some sort of all-terrain vehicle festooned with a Confederate Battle Flag, a prodigious plug of tobacco in his jaw.

“Waalll, howdy fellers!” (he spat tobacco juice; most of it dribbling down his chin) “Hell fahr, it shore is mahty fahn to meet y’all!”

He then apparently swallowed some of his chaw as he was racked with a spasm of uncontrollable coughing.

“You ok, Woody?”

Red faced, unable to speak, the only response was more hacking and hiccupping accompanied by a nonchalant wave of his hand meant, I assumed, to dismiss our concerns.

Woody, at this point, seemed to be in severe distress, but waved off all attempts to thump him on the back and – still unable to speak – hopped onto his ATV and motioned for us to follow.

It was a short drive across a scrubby, recently cut section of jack pine forest, down a hill and around a bend, and there we were at the legendary Voelker’s pond.

The camp was every bit as homey, pretty and redolent of past good times as pictures I’d seen and my imagination had led me to think it would be.

Woody hopped off his little car, having composed himself by this time, and seemed none the worse for wear other than a slightly detectable greenish tinge, and began to introduce us to his wife, Grace.

“Fellers”, he said - although it came out more like “Ferrers” owing to the chaw - “Ferrers, ‘is is ma w…”

“Woody! Why are you talking like that?”

“Aw, Gracie”

“And spit out that disgusting tobacco”

“Ye…(patooie) Yes’m”

“And stop saying, ‘Yes’m’”

“Yes’m…I mean OK, Gracie”

Grace turned to Bill and me with a smile and said “You’ll have to excuse Woody. He’s been doing this redneck routine ever since we moved here. Trying to fit in, I guess. Drives me nuts”

“But people around here don’t speak with a southern accent”, I said.

“I keep telling him the same thing, but he just goes on watching these stupid Hee-Haw tapes…”

“Aw, Gracie; yore embarrassin’ me in front of the fellers…”

“Woody! Stop it!!”

“Awww…”

We managed to persuade Woody that he needn’t be a redneck on our account, and he actually seemed somewhat relieved – likely at the prospect of not having to chew Red Man for the duration of our visit. I don’t know if he would have survived.

Bill and I had brought gifts. Knowing that the traditional camp cocktail was an Old Fashioned, I had picked up a bottle of green crème de menthe, it being the oldest fashioned liquor I could think of. I had also brought one of my custom made, collector’s edition Formerly Clark’s Moderator t-shirts; one of my most popular designs, “The Ralphie”, unworn and still in its original plastic bag.

On the back, of course, was emblazoned the Formerly Clark’s Moderator Maxim, “Power Corrupts…Trivial Power Corrupts Trivially” and the Formerly Clark’s logo. A great shirt.

To my disappointment, Woody seemed not much interested in either the crème de menthe – which he didn’t even use when he made the Old Fashioneds, substituting bourbon - or the t-shirt, and instead made a big fuss over Bill’s gift which was just an old, used English fly reel. It didn’t even come in a plastic bag. Nonetheless, Woody and Bill seemed to bond at that point and were inseparable for the remainder of the trip.

My feelings were kind of hurt, to tell you the truth, but I got over it.

Next: Part VII - We are joined by the only-slightly-less-Amazing Pmag

From the Archives - UP Road Trip, Part V

Having told his tale, BHB offered to show me around.

The cabin was quite nice and beautifully located on what looked for all the world like a small lake, but which Woody insisted was actually the Dead River after the Hoist Dam burst in March of 2003. Whichever, it was really nice.

For those of you who know the area, the cabin is just off the 502 in Negaunee Township. The 502 is, in turn, off 510 – not the 510; just 510. Distinctions like that matter in the UP. It’s not as bad as in France, though, where if you called the 502 just 502 they’d pretend to not know what you were talking about. On the UP they will just correct you.

We had a wood fired Sauna by the lake/river front.

The inside of the cabin consisted of a living room, dining area, kitchen sleeping loft and small bedroom on the main floor. One floor below was a master suite with a private deck overlooking the lake/river.

“Having gotten here first, I just threw my stuff in the room downstairs. I thought it would be more comfortable for you near the kitchen.” Said Doctor Bill. It came as no surprise to me that my friend would exhibit that kind of consideration and unselfishness.

Above is a picture of my modest but comfortable room and one of Bill's slightly more opulent suite.

After a couple of Two Hearted Ales, chosen to honor the location, and some conversation liberally laced with numerous poetical quotes and allusions that were absolutely mystifying as to their appositeness or indeed even their meaning, it was finally time to head out to the legendary camp at Frenchman’s pond where we were to meet the only slightly less legendary Amazing Woody for a cookout and some fishing.

From the Archives - UP Road Trip, Part IV

“I can see by the look on your face, my faux-Gallic friend, that you are nonplused by my accent”

“Well, uh, yeah, Bill, I…”

"Doctor Bill, please!”

“…Doctor Bill. I was under the impression that you were from the Black Hills of South Dakota – indeed I’m pretty certain that you’ve claimed as much - yet you sound like Henry Miller”

“Ah, CI,

In the long journey out of the self, There are many detours, washed-out interrupted raw places Where the shale slides dangerously And the back wheels hang almost over the edge
At the sudden veering, the moment of turning. Better to hug close…”

“Bi…Doctor Bill, I don’t mean to be rude and interrupt, but how about an explanation that doesn’t rely on warmed over Roethke of dubious relevance?”

“You don’t like Roethke?”

“I like Roethke fine, that’s not…”

“…Winding upward toward the stream with its sharp stones, The upland of alder and birchtrees…”

“Doctor Bill!”

“Sorry! As Wallace Stevens said…”

“Bill!!”

“Doctor Bill!!!”

“Doctor Bill!! Stop it!!!”

“OK, OK. Jeez, you’re as testy in person as you are on the forum, aren’t you? Ah well, no matter.

I was indeed born in the town of Deadwood in the Black Hills of South Dakota, but at the age of five we pulled up stakes and headed east to NY where my father had been offered a position as a fish-scaler at the Fulton Market. This promised to be a significant step upward economically for the family, as in Deadwood my father was a self-ordained minister and we were dependent on the charity of the local Lutherans who – in common with Lutherans everywhere - did not have a charitable bone in their respective bodies.

We settled in Brooklyn, in East New York, and as I grew up I assumed a position of leadership on the streets, due as much to my quick fists as my nimble wits. My pals and I became known as “The Black Hills Bunch”, partly in homage to the place of my birth, but also due to the slightly higher elevation of East New York relative to our rivals in neighboring Brownsville. We were a wild crew, we were; feared and admired in equal measure.

Although my father and mother half-heartedly tried to rein me in, at this point I had become the primary source of support for the family which had grown to include my thirteen brothers and sisters as well as my great uncle, Black Hills Paul, a notorious drunk and ne’er-do-well.

I was surely headed for prison or worse, when in my nineteenth year a serendipitous occurrence led to an epiphany that changed my life.

Having mugged a local burgher and stolen, among other things, his brief case, I was ensconced behind a building housing a kosher slaughterhouse perusing its contents which consisted primarily of papers of neither interest nor value. I was about to toss the whole thing aside when I came upon a small leather-bound volume entitled “The Collected Poetry of William Morris”. Desultorily flipping the pages, my attention was arrested by the following:

Wearily, drearily,
Half the day long,
Flap the great bannersHigh
over the stone;
Strangely and eerily
Sounds the wind's song,
Bending the banner-poles.

While, all alone,
Watching the loophole's spark,
Lie I, with life all dark,
Feet tether'd, hands fetter'd
Fast to the stone,
The grim walls, square-letter'd
With prison'd men's groan.Still strain the banner-poles

Through the wind's song,
Westward the banner rolls
Over my wrong.

I was stunned! Clearly this was the voice of providence speaking directly to me! Eagerly I began to read another poem:

I am the handmaid of the earth,
I broider fair her glorious gown,
And deck her on her days of mirth
With many a garland of renown.

And while Earth's little ones are fain
And play about the
Mother's hem,
I scatter every gift I gain
From sun and wind to gladden them.


I had never read such beautiful words in my life! There and then I vowed to put aside my life of crime and wantonness and devote myself to courting the muse of poetry - and such I did."

"That’s quite a story, B…Doctor Bill (although the Morris poetry is worse than three-day old tripe) -- is any of it true?”

“Weeeeelllll, CI, I suppose it depends on what you mean by ‘true’. As Plato said, “Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history”.

“In other words it’s bullshit?”

“Every word of it, my friend…every word”.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

A Cloozoe Supervised Investigation yields, at long last, the unvarnished truth. But another in what will be a long, maybe too long, series of crack investigative reports to lay before you the essential facts needed before placing any orders with your Tackle Commodities Futures Dealer.

Dear Reader, as promised by Himself, no stone will be left unturned to bring to you (plural or singular) the very best that our investigative skills might produce. Toward that end, we were tasked with seeking to find the true maker of all those silly reels stamped with a “D”. You know, the ones that have had their value artificially and rapidly inflated by a bit of chatter.
So, we sent out feelers to our operatives and confidential informants (“C.I. in warrantspeak), questioning whether the man born in Coventry, England in September 1860 could have possibly produced what is claimed.
Tips started coming in and were quickly discarded. Some suggested the reels were made by the Devil, thus stamped “D,” but this was soon rejected. Others spoke of Dante or his cohort Beatrice, but the reels seem newer than that, and likely not of Italian manufacture.
Then we struck gold. A meeting was arranged with a completely unreliable C.I.. At the meeting held in a Sunoco Station in the Catskills, the C.I. spoke softly, eyes darting back and forth to maintain security as taught by the Chief Inspector himself (a completely different type of C.I.), and he told a tale of a secret hollow in Joisey that might hold the answer. At first, thinking he was speaking of the Jersey Islands, we immediately assumed our British-speak role and responded, “Beautiful! Spot on, Sir!” disrupting all other diners within 1/4 mile. Advised the informant was referring to New Jersey, we reverted to the normal Sunoco-site language and the hushed tones required of all such investigators.
The location of the hollow in question was written in white ink, carefully scripted on the flat of a Taylor Quad to avoid the slightest chance of detection. The C.I. was paid with the usual payment received by any participant in an investigation performed on behalf of you, Dear Reader, and we parted our ways. He back to Formerly Clark’s, and yours truly over to Mikey’s for a touch of coffee.
Days later, and with all proper surveillance equipment in place, we headed off in the night to the location in question having carefully de-scarfed the rod section holding the vital information. The clue was now pocket-sized.
Three days later, two of them spent in traffic in New Jersey, we arrived. We awaited the fall of night, or nightfall should you prefer one word when four can easily do the descriptive job, then watching shooting stars, space trash and worried by a forecast for acid rain, we slid down a slick mud and skin piercing gravel embankment into the very den of the “D”. And “D” could well have stood for total darkness, Dear Reader, since during the whole of the night we could see nothing, save a strange fire that would glow, dim, glow, dim and so forth. You get the picture. Occasionally sparks would fly off and we feared that Beelzebub himself was in charge. Sidebar for a moment. I just realized that I have been using the editorial “we,” that some of you may find to smack of talking of myself in the third person. Tough – get over it.
Now back to our modest adventure.
As rosy fingered dawn approached (I am not referring to Dangerous Dawn from Paterson, but adopting a literary image), we could finally see a small creature across the hollow. Muscular and covered in hair, we momentarily speculated that we were beholding a Yeti, in troll-like form. But then, as the sun began to rise our vision cleared. There the creature was, resplendent in a Pink (yup, we using that word again) Tutu, bent over an anvil, Vulcan’s very hammer in hand, banging away. From time to time, he, or perhaps it, would grunt, pick up a small object with tongs and place it over the glowing embers of a charcoal fire, and then back to the anvil with more work to be done.
Having been up all of four days, mostly stuck in traffic, we grew weary, leaned back against a tree and dozed off. I assure you this well deserved rest was not caused by medicinal nips from the nickel silver flask always carried with the Cloozoe surveillance kit. Speaking of nickel silver flasks, I have been able to collect eight of them, all bench made by Flaggon of Pewksberry who started his career as an arbor pin maker for Heaton. They are stamped “FOP” on their bottoms and are simply the most beautiful bench made flasks ever made. One, and only one in my collection, features the famous and rare red agate screw top and is, believe it or not, left hand wind. Keep an eye out for these and if a couple of us discuss them back and forth who knows what will happen to the value. Sorry. I hope you’re still with me since the end, the truth, is in sight from what we next saw at the site and will shortly reveal to you.
We awoke to the croaking of a two-headed toad that had apparently emerged from the small stream running nearby having finished its feast on Luna moths. It was a strange land we were in. I said to myself, here’s a maze trod indeed through forthrights and meanders, by your patience I needs must rest me. (I ain’t going to look it up but I think that’s a rough statement uttered by Gonzago, a member of the Genoa Bar in The Tempest. I simply, because of my responsibilities to you, Dear Reader, had to throw in something of legal nature. It’s part of the job description.
Looking about, the strange Specie Tutuman had vanished, the embers had died to the flat color [colour for our international readers] of a properly oxidized non-swiss ferrule and all was silent, save the alternating hiccups from the toad’s two mouths.
Across the hollow stood the evil black anvil with a small object perched on top. We extracted photographic equipment necessary to capture the evidence and approached cautiously. Through the sparse and toxic weeds we spied vast numbers of bent, rusted and unfinished horseshoes, all bearing a stamped “D”. Odd we thought, but took careful note of the evidence. Scattered here and there were hand-forged fishing spoons with names engraved upon them. “Hendrikson beater,” “Creative Cahill,” and one, with a small hinged compartment labeled “real cow dung.”
An object stood upon the anvil, a hammer at the ready, and we carefully took the above photograph submitted for you, Dear Reader, to preserve the scene and provide you with demonstrative evidence.
We previously, using gifted intuitive skills, had thought long and hard on the fact that many of these “D” marked reels were held together by what is known as the “Horsehoe Latch.” The clues were coming together.
The object upon the anvil, as you may see, is a hand-crafted fishing reel, the inside stamped boldly with the infamous “D.” Cleverly disguised, it has a latch made to look like a 19th Century telephone. Not the giveaway Horseshoe latch.
The final proof. A loud fart from the rim of the hill above us startled us and drew our attention to a modest shack, teetering on the brink. A scream pierced the silence of the glade. “Free me, free me!!!” a female voice proclaimed. In response an inhuman grunt was heard with words believed to be, “screw you Roberta, bring me more breakfast, I’ve been hammering out more stinking reels all night long.”
Out came our telescope, and when extended and placed to the eye, one could see over the door, hanging loosely by a single hinge, a worn and decrepit sign of no welcome that said, “Defazio’s Domain – Keep Out – Right Wing Central.”
So we finally have the answer and have now given it you, Dear Reader, for all time. It is Dezazio the Farrier himself, and his infamous “D” that is imbedded in these very reels as it is upon the shoes he fashions for the feet of animals. Before word should get out, we advocate that the three of you who may have come across this news unload quickly any such reels on the closed market, before the crash in value takes place and you’re wiped out.
This small piece is just another contribution to help you, Dear Reader, in your quest for the best.

In Defense of Bamboo Rods As An Investment Strategy

This is the second in a series of hard-hitting and incisive analyses of some of the major developments in the sport today. These detailed whitepapers are designed to provoke thought and stimulate debate… or, maybe it’s stimulate thought and provoke debate… well, maybe it’s just provoke… among you, the recognized cognoscenti and, as noted earlier, the final authorities on all things bamboo.

...................................................................................................

In Defense of Bamboo Rods As An Investment Strategy


Well, let’s see… there’s uhhh… hmmmm.

I, uhhhh… lemme see… I, uhhhh… well… hmmmm. Wellll…

Anyone? Anyone?

From the Archives - UP Road Trip, Part III

Upon crossing the Mackinac Bridge onto the UP, one enters the picturesque village of St. Ignace, where seemingly every other ramshackle store featured a hand-painted sign advertising in large letters, “PASTIES”. I couldn’t help but wonder how many strip clubs there could possibly be in the UP to support all the pasty establishments. But after a diligent, extended search failed to turn up a single such club – and I looked hard, selflessly willing to delay arrival at my ultimate destination in the spirit of rigorous academic inquiry – I decided that perhaps the UP was home to a huge pasties manufactory and wholesale distribution center, much the way Castroville in California supplies the world with artichokes.

It further occurred to me that perhaps the various pasty establishments had photographs of their offerings being worn? Perhaps even live models! I veered back onto the road – still possessed of the aforementioned spirit of disinterested inquiry - and decided to pose as the owner of a chain of strip joints in need of lots of pasties, and go check out the wares.

Imagine my surprise to learn that in Yooper parlance pasties are not like those in the first picture but rather foodstuffs as in the second one. They were created to be eaten for lunch by Cornish miners but their appeal has apparently spread, since I didn't meet a single Cornish miner during my entire stay on the UP.

Having - with some admitted disappointment - gotten to the bottom of the pasty puzzle, I continued on. The initial part of my trip across and upward through the UP took me along the northern shore of Lake Michigan. It was a warm, sunny day (the last such day I would see) and the lake was almost as blue as the Caribbean.

The Driggs River crosses route 28 somewhere between Seney and Shingleton and I intended to stop and commune, or perhaps even do a little pre-arrival fishing there. My host-to-be, the Amazing Woody, had assured me that it was marked with a sign. But although I reëxamined the map quite a few times, and drove back and forth along a ten mile stretch of route 28, I never did find a sign identifying it. This was mystifying since I slowed at every small bridge and saw signs for, among other notable bodies of water, “Duffy’s Creek”, “Ya, Sure, Brook”, “Busta’s Trickle”, and “Clyde’s Mud Puddle”…but no Driggs. Perhaps the explanation is that anyone but a “troll” (Yooper-humor-speak for anyone who lives “below the bridge” – get it?) could find the Driggs without assistance, but Clyde’s Mud Puddle would be otherwise easily missed by even the most astute cognoscenti of UP high-lights. At one point I came upon a decent size, if somewhat muddy stream about where I reckoned the Driggs ought to be and followed a logging road along it for a way until I found myself axle deep in good, wet, clingy UP clay and figured I’d better try and get out of there, so my only lasting reminder of the Driggs, if such indeed it was, was the drying clay thickly caked on the wheels and undercarriage of my car, large hunks of which would break off every few miles for the rest of the trip.

Arriving at last at our rented cabin on the shore of a small lake which Amazing Woody insists is a river, I was pleased to see that Black Hills Bill had already arrived and was coming out of the door to greet me.

He looked much as I had imagined he would – vigorous and distinguished. The last picture is a close-up taken of him upon the occasion of his being granted a long-delayed doctorate in post-structural deconstruction and obfuscation from the Millard Fillmore Academy of Literature and the Tonsorial Arts, a correspondence school with accreditation pending in three southern states.

But although Black Hills Bill’s (or Doctor Black Hills Bill, as he insists on being called) appearance jibed with my preconception, nothing could have prepared me for the effect his opening remarks were to have:

“Chief Inspectuh! It coitainly is a pleazhuh to meetcha! In da woids of da Belle a’ Amhoist,

SOFTENED by Time’s consummate plush,
How sleek da woe appeahs
Dat t’reatened childhood’s citadel
And unduhmined da yeauhs

From the Archives - Road Trip to the UP - Part II

It was with great relief and a sense of having made substantial progress toward my destination that I bid adieu to Ohio and crossed into Michigan, although five hundred miles remained from that point to Negaunee in the northwestern Upper Peninsula. To put that in perspective, Wyoming – which I’ve driven across more than once and think of as a big western state – is 364 miles across from east to west. (And by astonishing coincidence measures exactly the same from west to east!)

I immediately encountered much more fodder for contemplation than in the entire state of Ohio. One is first struck by the complete and utter absence of foreign cars. I had anticipated this, but it still proved to be somewhat jarring to behold as I live in an upscale town in NJ where the automobile breakdown by make goes: Lexus – 36%; Mercedes – 23%; Others (BMW, Jaguar, Range Rover, Humvee, Infiniti, Porsche, Volvo, etc) - 40.999999999%; Toyota - 0.000000001%. The Toyota is mine.

It was as if a space ship owned jointly by the Big Three and the UAW zapped them all with a super-destructo ray leaving nothing behind but a few particles of imported leather, a handful of melted GPS devices, and a stray Starbucks cup and I was relieved every morning I spent in the state that no one had spray painted graffiti on my car during the night.

The speed limit went up to 70 mph, which made sense for a state in which the automobile plays such a prominent role, so I immediately upped my pace to a comfortable 85. One noticeable discordant note, though, was that gas prices immediately increased fifty cents a gallon as soon as you crossed the border. This surprised me greatly, as I assumed any state relying so heavily on automobile manufacture would do everything in its power to encourage their use including maximizing the efficiency of gas distribution and minimizing the tax on same, but such was not the case.

Michigan is expensive in another way as well. At every construction stretch along the highway there are signs reading “Kill or injure a worker - $7500 and 15 years”. Here in NJ you can kill a worker for $5000 and injure one for only $1500 – less, if you know the right people – although admittedly they don’t give you fifteen years to pay it off; it’s strictly cash on the barrel-head, delivered in a paper bag to a guy with a crooked nose.

I refueled just off the highway in a tiny crossroads town a little north of Saginaw at a gas station/general store which sported a large sign boasting “Second Largest Selection of Beef Jerky in the Country”. This suggested, of course, an obvious question and being the preternaturally curious guy I am I asked it of the clerk: “Where can I find the First Largest Selection of Beef Jerky in the Country?” He merely looked puzzled - clearly the sign in front had been there so long it had become as invisible to him as wallpaper. So I explained helpfully, “You have a sign out front claiming to have the Second Largest Selection of Beef Jerky in the Country. I was wondering who had the First Largest”. He paused, looked thoughtful, rubbed his chin and replied “Must be the place in Alger”. Hearing this impressed me mightily given the unlikely but now confirmed fact that both the first and second largest selections of beef jerky in the country were not only both to be found in Michigan, but in little towns within 50 miles of each other.

My thirst for arcane knowledge thus slaked, and my appreciation for the state growing by the minute, I thanked him and continued my journey. A little farther north, my radar detector burped. I had drifted up to a nice, steady 90 mph so I backed off a bit while scanning the road and woods ahead for any signs of the constabulary. I rounded a curve, and there he was, still a few hundred yards in front of me and busy with another customer that he had pulled over. I might have been a bit blasé about slowing down quickly, but did have it down to 70 by the time I drew abreast of him and passed him. Did you know the sheriff’s deputies in Michigan have double-barreled radar units that point forward and backward? I didn’t. As soon as I had passed him he pulled out, fired up the flashers, and pulled me over.

There are lots of kinds of cops and you can usually tell which kind you’re dealing with by their eyes. Maybe it’s not really their eyes, but the lines around their eyes. Of course if they are wearing mirrored sunglasses, you can’t see their eyes or the lines around them, but any cop who wears mirrored sunglasses is a hard-ass and you already know everything you need to. This particular sheriff’s deputy was of the decent sort: weathered, late middle-aged, with eyes that had seen everything from whole families mangled in wrecks, to the remnants of drunken domestic brawls at ramshackle trailers in the woods. He had eyes that would never be surprised by anything they saw ever again, but you could tell that the things he had seen had bothered him and always would. He called me sir, wished me a good morning, and without any tricky cop crap told me straightforwardly that he “had me at 82 mph back there”. I called him sir and wished him a good morning in return and apologized. When he returned to my car with the ticket he told me that although he “had me at 82 mph” he had written the ticket for 75 and that as such it wouldn’t impose any points on my license. I thanked him. He looked at me with those sad, wry, cop’s eyes of his and the merest hint of a smile and said, “Don’t thank me too much – it still carries a $110 fine”, wished me a safe journey, and we both went our ways. It was worth the $110 to meet him.

The rest of the trip through lower Michigan was uneventful. Nice country, and increasingly full of those unmistakable aspects of light, land and flora that let you know you are “up north”. I arrived soon enough at the Mackinac Bridge (which I’m told is pronounced “mackinaw” and is sometimes spelled that way, too) and headed across the straits to the Upper Peninsula. I got a kick out of being able to see both Lake Huron – the redheaded step child of the Great Lakes – and Lake Michigan simultaneously as illustrated in the two pictures at the top taken from mid-span.