THE MISSING LINK

I found the missing link one spring morning at Ed’s fly shop in Baldwin.  I was in town on the latest foray into the north woods that freedom that a car and driver’s license gives you. It seems I was always driving north seeking something. Somewhere in these woods was the answer I was seeking. There were plenty of clues: the romantic depictions of Mort Neff’s program, the adventure stories from Ben East and the great literature from John Voelker.  I had searched further; the northern tales of Sigurd Olson, the archives of Michigan Conservation magazine and the accounts of Ernest Hemingway.

There was a commonality of their experiences however, that eluded me, a draw to this country which none could resist. Half an hour earlier, I had stood at a landing on the Pere Marquette river, and felt that same longing for the answer welling up within. The sight of fly anglers there were what led me to this modest establishment. Nestled at the front of a bowling alley, it nonetheless oozed character.  And there on the counter in front of me was the revelation, a current issue of the North Woods Call.

I think that this epiphany set me back a quarter. But it was all here in some little biweekly newspaper from a mysterious drumlin in some ghost town outside Charlevoix. Owned by Glen Sheppard and his wife Mary Lou, the Call had all the ingredients right.  Here in these pages were the missing link to the curiosity I had of Michigan’s North Woods.

Within a month, I was a subscriber for over thirty years. Every issue was an event, waiting to see what news was now.  It was usually the first reporting of anything important up north. It was all covered: from the Pigeon River to the Yellow Dog mine. No other paper could deliver this.

I talked with Glen on the phone one day in the late 1990’s. He was contemplating retirement and was considering selling the North Woods Call. It was a fascinating conversation, as I considered his to be the perfect job. Ever the gentlemen, He invited me up to his drumlin for lunch,  an offer I never managed to take him up on. He never did give up his job, and I pity whoever may have taken it. It would have been as futile as was the poor fella who followed Ernie Harwell. As with Ernie, so is it with Glen, there can only be one.