The Dead River
One of my readers asked about the Dead River. I don’t know where the name comes from, but it’s probably safe to assume it derives from the dark, slow-moving water. The earliest name I can find is Ne-ka-Men-on -a nod to the Noquet Indian tribe, who summered in the blueberry fields north of the river. They also give their name to the Noquemanon trail system and local cross country ski marathon, as well as Bay de Noc, south of here on Lake Michigan, the tribe’s winter quarters.
The Dead River from Space
The river today has been dammed and blocked and cajoled into shapes useful to humans. At least five dams are maintained by the local power grid, segmenting the river into lakes and basins. The largest, the Dead River Basin (reservoir, for you southerners), is big enough to put fear into the hearts of my drought-ridden Western readers. It’s a tepid thing, warm and silty, filled with the kind of water that makes you think of crocodiles and leeches. And indeed, leeches are common; I’ve found several on the hulls of the canoes I’ve borrowed from my Aunt and Uncle who summer in a cabin on the basin.
The first summer we moved back to Marquette, a dam on the river - west of what I could fit in the picture - failed, sending eight billion gallons of water down the river to Marquette, where it drains into Lake Superior. At the time, we lived a mile from its path. If we’d lived three blocks closer, we’d have been evacuated from our house. As it was, we were afraid. Flood insurance isn’t a common thing around here, and we didn’t have any. Reports were coming in that if one more dam broke, the bulk of Marquette - including our house - would be under a foot of water.
We were lucky, and the last dam didn’t break, but the flood still did plenty of damage. The most visible is the complete destruction of the basin at Tourist Park. We yoopers don’t go in for fancy names - Tourist Park is what it sounds like, a park for the tourists to park their RVs and pitch their tents when they come to visit. Nestled in the woods on the north side of town, it used to have a basin suitable for swimming and boating. We practiced our kayak strokes there, paddling around and sometimes spying swans living on the far side. The dam at the edge of the basin was destroyed by the flood, and what used to be the basin is now a huge field with a river meandering through.
North of the river and the city of Marquette is mostly uninhabited, at least by city-folk standards. The town of Big Bay is about forty miles north, and a little north and west of that lies the Huron Mountain Club - a retreat for Old Money, and a place us honest yoopers don’t get to see unless we’ve taken one of the summer jobs they offer. Much of the land not owned by the club is the property of the local logging companies - not as bad as it sounds, as the state of Michigan gives them tax breaks if they allow their land to be use for public recreation. Essentially, it’s a Big Woods, open to whatever we want to use it for.
Our camp lies ten miles out of town to the north, in the logging camp lands. My Dad and his step-father spent countless hours in the woods, both logging and hunting, fishing, and engaged in other woodsy pursuits. Besides the Dead River, hundreds of lakes, rivers, and cricks crisscross the woods. It’s a wet place - even on the four-wheelers we’ve encountered mud and swamps that we don’t dare attempt to cross. The trees are tall and thick enough to drive any plains-living native batty with claustrophobia. The land itself is hilly, with gorges steep enough that walking up them is tough. Scattered here and there are rocky promontories, tricky to climb but worth it once you get to the top and can see for miles over the tops of the trees.
I like it here.
The Dead River from Space
The river today has been dammed and blocked and cajoled into shapes useful to humans. At least five dams are maintained by the local power grid, segmenting the river into lakes and basins. The largest, the Dead River Basin (reservoir, for you southerners), is big enough to put fear into the hearts of my drought-ridden Western readers. It’s a tepid thing, warm and silty, filled with the kind of water that makes you think of crocodiles and leeches. And indeed, leeches are common; I’ve found several on the hulls of the canoes I’ve borrowed from my Aunt and Uncle who summer in a cabin on the basin.
The first summer we moved back to Marquette, a dam on the river - west of what I could fit in the picture - failed, sending eight billion gallons of water down the river to Marquette, where it drains into Lake Superior. At the time, we lived a mile from its path. If we’d lived three blocks closer, we’d have been evacuated from our house. As it was, we were afraid. Flood insurance isn’t a common thing around here, and we didn’t have any. Reports were coming in that if one more dam broke, the bulk of Marquette - including our house - would be under a foot of water.
We were lucky, and the last dam didn’t break, but the flood still did plenty of damage. The most visible is the complete destruction of the basin at Tourist Park. We yoopers don’t go in for fancy names - Tourist Park is what it sounds like, a park for the tourists to park their RVs and pitch their tents when they come to visit. Nestled in the woods on the north side of town, it used to have a basin suitable for swimming and boating. We practiced our kayak strokes there, paddling around and sometimes spying swans living on the far side. The dam at the edge of the basin was destroyed by the flood, and what used to be the basin is now a huge field with a river meandering through.
North of the river and the city of Marquette is mostly uninhabited, at least by city-folk standards. The town of Big Bay is about forty miles north, and a little north and west of that lies the Huron Mountain Club - a retreat for Old Money, and a place us honest yoopers don’t get to see unless we’ve taken one of the summer jobs they offer. Much of the land not owned by the club is the property of the local logging companies - not as bad as it sounds, as the state of Michigan gives them tax breaks if they allow their land to be use for public recreation. Essentially, it’s a Big Woods, open to whatever we want to use it for.
Our camp lies ten miles out of town to the north, in the logging camp lands. My Dad and his step-father spent countless hours in the woods, both logging and hunting, fishing, and engaged in other woodsy pursuits. Besides the Dead River, hundreds of lakes, rivers, and cricks crisscross the woods. It’s a wet place - even on the four-wheelers we’ve encountered mud and swamps that we don’t dare attempt to cross. The trees are tall and thick enough to drive any plains-living native batty with claustrophobia. The land itself is hilly, with gorges steep enough that walking up them is tough. Scattered here and there are rocky promontories, tricky to climb but worth it once you get to the top and can see for miles over the tops of the trees.
I like it here.