One does not visit Beaver Island casually. It lies 32 miles
off the northwest coast of Michigan, and the ferry, which costs $31 each way
for an adult, takes more than two hours to make the crossing. At these prices
and distances, Beaver Island is not for the uncommitted.
This was especially true in June of 2014, when the
aftereffects of an unusually harsh winter included a population explosion among
mosquitos. Anyone venturing outside could expect to be met by a literal cloud
of aggressive insects. If a strong wind from the west caused their numbers to
dissipate, the return of calm would include the clearly audible hum of a
million tiny wings vibrating in concert in the still air.
The mosquito onslaught begets a siege mentality, and with it
a feeling of solidarity among humans, dogs, and any other warm blooded creatures.
Even the briefest excursion required the
donning of protective clothing and dosing with DEET, which evoked a kind of “walking
dead” sense of apocalyptic menace to one’s normal activities.
“Normal” on Beaver Island is different, and not only because
of the bugs. “Normal” on Beaver Island includes the unearthly cries of loons,
mingled with the more familiar sounds of foraging gulls. Here, “normal”
includes the heavy splashing of giant carp as they cavort in 3 inches of water
along the Lake Michigan shore, as well as the very un-Michigan-like behavior of
the Islanders who, without exception, wave and smile at any person or vehicle
they encounter. And where else does one encounter signs warning against any
interference with the nesting habits of certain birds, posted by “The Loon
Ranger”? Finally, on my second day on the Island, the man at the ice cream
store, perceiving correctly that Nancy and I were to become regulars, offered
to run a tab for me! But such trust is normal for islanders… .
On an island, you have no choice but to make it work. On an
island, the inhabitants are stuck with each other.
We had ample opportunity to test these observations whilst
on Beaver Island. Our sturdy Buick Rendezvous, normally reliable, developed multiple
malfunctions, which led to our forming a bond with Adam at Beaver Island Marine
in the Village, where one may take a lawn mower or a 60 foot marine crane to be
repaired, rent a vintage minivan or tiny Geo, and buy live bait. Although ours
was a labor intensive job, Adam accomplished it, like the Resurrection of
Christ, in three days’ time.
There are at least five inland lakes on Beaver Island, and I
fished in three of them. On Barney’s Lake I managed to entice five lunging
strikes from the same large bass nesting in the reeds along the shore, but came
home with nothing to show for it but a long line of swollen mosquito bites
right along my belt-line… apparently I had neglected to tuck in my shirt. “The
wages of sin…”! Actually, under no circumstances would we have kept a bass
caught at this time of year, as this remains a “catch-and-release” species
until the end of June. Perhaps the fish on Fox Lake knew of this regulation,
for when we fished there we were graced with some amazing large fish, each displaying
the blackest coloration I have ever seen on a bass from any lake or stream.
We
also had excellent results on Font Lake, although the fish from that larger,
shallower lake were of a more typical coloration.
It was on Font Lake that I encountered a large beaver that
went serenely about its watery business until something startled it, leading to
the typical tail-swat on the surface of the water. Having witnessed such
beaver-behavior before did not prevent my jumping nearly out of my DEET-coated
skin when this occurred, and had I possessed a large flat tail myself, this
would have been an occasion for its employment.
It is at Font Lake that the Loon Ranger is most active, and, if the
numbers
of loons present are an
indication, his efforts have not been in vain. I am referring here, of course,
to the numbers of endangered
waterfowl, not to my fishing companions and
myself.
In many years of fishing in waters of every sort, I have had
a snake in my boat only once or twice. At Beaver Island, every time I went out
in a boat, there was at least one snake that eventually emerged from its hiding
place to see what all the commotion was about. None of them was dangerous, but
I prefer to fish from boats that are snakeless, thank you.
The Episcopal Church at Beaver Island is a congenial place,
nicely laid-out and tended-to. On the walkway leading up to the front door, it
has rows of small, gaily-painted stones laid out, a feature I had not witnessed
anywhere else. This display prompted my friend John Dickison to write a
comment: “On this church I will put my rocks.”
(St. James' Church does not normally lie upon its side)
On the Sundays I was present, the congregation at St. James’
included a high percentage of intellectuals: a priest on sabbatical; a lay person
studying for a theology degree at the University of the South; and a law
professor from Wake Forest University in North Carolina. All of them expressed
appreciation for the unique environment of the Island, and all contributed to
enthusiastic singing to familiar hymns played by the ELCA organist. If the
mosquito problem persists in such magnitude into the future, I would recommend
that this congregation make use of the ceremonial fans on long poles that are a
regular feature of worship among the Ethiopian Orthodox. Otherwise, the ceremonial swat will become as much a
liturgical fixture as the sign of the
cross, and the theological implications of killing God’s creatures in the
context of worship will have to be explored.
