Long Lake Leviathan

Something from the tackle box:

       For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;  The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land,  (SS 2-11-12 KJV)

       There is an old man who has been fishing the waters around my place on Long Lake for much longer than I have, or even my grandfather who owned the place for many years before I did.  For all I know, he may have been fishing Long Lake since before my grandfather was even born, back in 1912.  I believe so.  He was present on the lake, and known by all to be an ancient fellow, way back when my Grandfather first bought the place and I began going there to relax and fish as a youngster.  He’s still there, fishing the waters in and around the cove where my cottage sits.  Everyone who lives on the southwest side of the lake knows him.  I call him - the Old-timer. 

       Indeed, the Old-timer might not be an old man at all.  I do not know enough about turtle anatomy to tell a male snapper from a female one.  But, if women in general are more naturally law abiding citizens then men are, he certainly is an old man, because this old fisherman is an unrepentant thief, a stealer of other folks’ caught and caged suppers.  He has been that way for as long as I can remember.

       The cove my cottage sits by, which I call Delmar’s Cove in honor of my grandfather and to differentiate it from several other good fishing coves around the lake, marks an inlet to the lake from a large spring fed marsh on the other side of the road.   There is a large culvert that allows the water to pass under the road from swamp to lake.  I believe this culvert is the Old-timer’s trail from his home to his hunting grounds.

       There was a reason that my granddad always cleaned and refrigerated the fish he caught on Long Lake just as soon as he came in off the water, even if there were only one or two of them to clean.  You could not leave your catch on a stringer tied to the end of the dock for very long before the Old-timer would catch the scent, move in from underneath, and quietly start munching away on your pan-fish.  And he has quite an appetite, let me tell you. 

       As a younger man, back when my grandparents still owned and spent their summers at the place and I just visited, I remember catching a nice smallmouth bass right from the dock.  It was no giant, but I think it was the first bass that I’d ever landed up there, and I wanted to show off my catch before letting it go (no one in my family eats bass).  As everyone was in town and wouldn’t be back for a bit, I poked the metal clip of a chain link stringer through his bottom jaw, tied him to the dock, and went into the cottage for a root beer.  He would be comfortable enough swimming in circles until everyone got back and I could lift him out of the water to the “ooohs” and “aaahs” that I coveted.  But when the grand moment for my glory finally came, with parents and grandparents gathered at the shoreline, I went to pull that fish out of the water, and found nothing but half of his head still attached to the metal clip, his tail fin lying on the lake floor beneath it.  The Old Timer had added me to his long list of victims for the first time, - and it wouldn’t be the last. 

       I don’t mind cleaning fish at all, but I am not as enthusiastic about cleaning one or two fish at a time as my grandfather was.  If I go out in the morning and catch a couple of perch, and plan to go out again after dinner, I would just as soon save the few I already have alive to add to that night’s catch, or even the next mornings catch.  I’d much rather clean half a dozen or more fish all at once than set up shop several times to clean two or three at a time.  It’s just the way I’d prefer to do it.  But my methods require letting the early catch swim around in fresh lake water for half a day or more, you can’t just keep them that long in a bucket of stale water, they won’t make it.  The usual method it to keep them in a wire mesh fish basket tied to the dock.  Well, - if you fish at my place, - it had better be one sturdy piece of work to keep the Old-timer out, more of a fish Alcatraz than the Pumpkin Corners County Jail!

       I learned this lesson by loosing a couple batches of fish to the Old-timer.  The first time I suffered a basket break in, I had been fishing in the morning with limited success, just two six inch Sunfish and one very nice foot long perch.  I came in about ten-thirty to go to lunch in town with my folks and didn’t have time to clean the fish first.  I could have left them in the bucket on the deck and they would have probably been all right until I got back, but I wanted to get right back out on the lake upon getting home and didn’t think they would go all day.  Then I remembered seeing an old wire fish basket with some of Gramp’s old stuff in the storage shed.  Why not give it a try?  It might do the trick, and the Old-timer might not even come around this afternoon anyway.

common fish basket

       I went to the shed and, sure enough, it was there, though it looked a lot more rusty and fragile than I had remembered it being.  Still, I figured it would do the job.  I put my fish in it, hung it in the water, and went to town.  Well, guess what!  I came home from lunch and found that basket chewed up like the scraps left from someone’s rusty wire spaghetti dinner.  Little bits of perch were suspended in the water over the busted up strands of wire.  The sunfish were completely gone, - hopefully escaped.  I might as well have tried keeping those fish away from the Old-timer in a brown paper bag tied off the end of my dock.

       The war was on!  I figured that perhaps the Old-timer’s total destruction of my fish jail was due to the extremely decrepit state of that antique basket from the shed.  Perhaps a new un-corroded one, fresh from the store, would hold up better.  My next trip to town would see me make that purchase. 

       Well, that was twelve bucks down the drain! The Old-timer may not have chewed it into little bitty pieces, but the very fist time I put fish in it off the end of my dock, I returned to find it ripped open from top to bottom cleaner than if the local handyman had taken his wire nippers to it.  I actually watched the old poacher swimming away from the scene of the crime!  Turtles can’t smile, but he sure seemed pleased with himself.  As I turned my attention back to the torn open basket I saw that he had left one fish-head and a couple of fins inside to add insult to the injury!  He was mocking me!

Dad's super fish basket

       Then I had an ally come to my relief.  I am not handy with tools at all, but my dad can build just about anything he puts his mind to, and he put his mind to building a fish basket that would keep the Old-timer out.  Heavy gage, galvanized, welded, animal cage fencing, cut and formed into a barrel, with a flip open top and heavy-duty latch.  I didn’t ask him to make it for me, but the Old-timer had gotten a bit too brazen, and I think he felt that something of the family honor was at stake.  It is impressive.  I have had my new industrial strength fish basket for two seasons now, and have caught the Old-timer poking around it twice, looking and figuring.  He hasn’t enjoyed any more fish dinners on my tab to date, — but I’m not too sure he’s really tried all that hard, either.  Time will tell. 

      

Something to take home in your creel:

       When I was a much younger man, in my twenties, I had nothing against catching a snapper and eating him.  It was quite a chore to dress one out, but turtle meat is very good and it was worth the work.  The Old-timer has done more to deserve this reciprocity of treatment from my hands than any other edible critter I’ve ever encountered.

       But, - I just can’t do it now.  Once the ruddy blush of youth began to noticeably dissipate from my own physique, thirty or more years ago now, and I began to comprehend the nature of my own mortality, I came to feel that it is a crying shame, if not a downright sin, to eat anything that is older than you are.  And the Old-timer is certainly that. 

       As I said, the Old-timer has been hanging out in the cove just to the west of my place since I first came here as a teenager.  He was big back then, maybe the biggest snapping turtle I’d ever seen, and he’s grown in the forty plus years since that time. He is a grand sight, a fixture on the lake, and is now considered to be an honored resident by all who share the lake with him, his fish stealing ways notwithstanding.  Delmar’s Cove and its nearby waters, including my dock, is where he is most often to be spotted by those who are looking to catch a glimpse of him, as many do when they paddle or putter by on the water.

       This past summer, on an afternoon when my wife took our five-year-old grandson, Nolan, out for a spin in the peddle-boat, the Old-timer decided to check them out, and spent several minutes swimming around near the surface within a few feet of their craft.  They were delighted with his presence and it was an event they will both remember for a very long time. The Old-timer now has actual fan base in my own family.  Maybe I’m getting to be one, too.  My wife has recently painted a portrait of the Old-timer to grace the walls of our home, and I am not opposed to hanging it up. That mossy backed old sinner has nothing to fear from me, — the Thief!

"I Don't Want to Go Down the River!"

Something from the tackle box:

       I am not anyone’s slave.  But I have become a slave to everyone, so that I can win as many people as possible.  When I am with the Jews, I live like a Jew to win Jews.  They are ruled by the Law of Moses, and I am not.  But I live by the Law to win them.  And when I am with people who are not ruled by the Law, I forget about the Law to win them.  Of course, I never really forget about the law of God.  In fact, I am ruled by the law of Christ.  When I am with people  whose faith is weak, I live as they do to win them.  I do everything I can to win everyone I possibly can.  I do all this for the good news, because I want to share in its blessings.  (1Corinthians 9:19-23 CEV)

a man happy in his work

       My oldest son, Zac, is a geologist living in California.  Now at the age of thirty-four, he has either been studying or working in the geology field for sixteen years.  Undergraduate studies at Western Michigan University, Graduate work with the Mackay school of Mines at the University of Nevada, work doing EPA mandated monitoring of industrial and landfill sights in Michigan, precious metal assay and evaluation work in Nevada, and now, helping the state of California deal with their ongoing water shortage problem as fairly and humanely as that crisis will allow.  In addition to the states mentioned, his profession has taken him to places in Mexico and Australia for study and work experience.

Zac in the field again

       Zac is a good fellow and a nature loving outdoorsman.  As a lad he was active in scouting from tiger cub through star scout.  He was often off exploring the woods, camping, or canoeing with his good friends, Craig, Ben and others.  He thoroughly enjoys the ‘in the field’ aspects of his work, as well as spending time on retreat to commune with God in the quiet nature surrounded settings of various monasteries near the communities that he has lived in. Being outdoor activity loving people too, his mother and I are very, very proud of our son and how he has turned out.  But we were not so sure that he would turn out this way in the early days of his life. 

       We will always remember one of the very first times we took our son on an outdoor adventure.  Zac was only three and a half years old (or was it two and a half) when Kathy’s older sister Connie, along with her husband Thom, invited us to join them, their three year old son David and a few of their other friends, on a weekend trip that would include an afternoon paddle down the Little Muskegon river through the woods of the northern lower peninsula here in Michigan. 

       It was to be a soft and pleasant introduction to living the adventurous outdoor life for both young boys.  The section of the Little Muskegon we would be canoeing was deep and gently flowing run.  The occasional rock had to be avoided, but even a pair of beginning canoeist could navigate the stretch without too much danger of upsetting their craft.  Zac would sit in the middle of our canoe, lifejacket firmly strapped on, and enjoy being ferried on his inaugural trip through a wonderful stretch of Michigan’s great outdoors.  -  Or so we thought. 

       It started out fine enough.  When we arrived at the canoe livery to be transported to our starting point, Zac was in great spirits.  He and his cousin David were glad to be on an adventure, playing and bantering together as happily as only three year olds can.  The ride in the canoe livery van pulling the rack of canoes behind us was marked by high spirits all around.  Who could doubt that a great outing lay before us!

       The tenor of the day began to change as soon as the canoes were being unloaded and set up on the bank of the river for we adventurers to board and depart on our trip down the Little Muskegon.  We had gotten all of our lifejacket firmly fitted on when, as she was carrying him down towards the river and the waiting canoes, Zac grabbed his mother's face in his hands and turned it to look into her eyes as he asked, “What are we doing now?”

       “Why Zac!  We’re all going to go down the river in those canoes!” was her appropriately smiling and cheerful reply. 

       Zacs little face went very serious at this news.  He looked at his mother.  He turned and looked at me.  He looked back at his mother.  He thought, then took her face in his hands again and very somberly whispered, “But I don’t want to go down the river.” 

       “Oh Zac!  It’s going to be such fun!  You’ll like it!  You’ll see things you never saw before!  We’re all going to go down the river together!”

       A look of dawning anxiety started to come over his face.  He looked at me.  He looked back at his mom.  He looked back at me again, and said a bit more emphatically than before, “But I don’t want to go down the river!”

       “Oh Zac.  All you have to do is sit here on this pad and hold on to this bar in front of you," I said as I placed him in his seat.  "You’ll have such fun seeing new things.” I continued with a confident smile.  “We’re all going to have a wonderful time going down this river.” 

       And that’s when the wailing started.  As I shoved off and got in the stern seat to steer us towards the other canoes, already heading downstream, the declaration, “I don’t WANT to go DOWN THE RIVER!” was being made repeatedly and in double forte volume.  It continued this way despite his mother and my constant stream of cheerful reassurance. 

       Little Zac continued clutching the center brace of the canoe in a white knuckled death grip and shouting at the top of his lungs, “I don’t WANT to go DOWN THE RIVER!” for quite a while.  Until, of course, he ran out of three-year-old steam, and the wailing degenerated into a more pitiful, albeit somewhat lower volumed, sobbing.  “I don’t want to go down the river.  I don’t want to go down the river.  I don’t want to go down the river,”  he wept, as an unstoppable flow of tears flooded down his rosy cheeks to soak the collar of his T-shirt all the while. 

       What could we do?  We were on a river in the woods.  The van and trailer had taken off for the destination site before we had even embarked.  Remember, this was before the days of cell-phones.  We couldn’t even call for them to meet and pick us up at some bridge over the river along the way. 

       We knew how emotionally determined our three year old could be once he was in a particular frame of mind.  We would just have to make the best of canoeing in company with a desperately unhappy little boy repeating his mantra of, “But I don’t want to go down the river,” over and over between sucking air and sobs.  To be sure, it was a visually wonderful and audibly wretched afternoon for everyone on the trip.  

       Finally!  We made it to our pick-up point. The van and trailer were their waiting to load us up and take us back to the livery and our cars. Other than the collar of Zac’s shirt, we had all made the trek as dry as a bone.  Physically, it had been an easy run.  Emotionally, we were all in a state of exhaustion.

       We paddled hard the last few yards to run the bow of the canoe high up on the sandy landing site.  Kathy jumped out, grabbed Zac and lifted him in her arms to comfort the poor little fellow’s belabored sobs.  “It’s alright little man.  It’s over.  We’ll go back to the camp now.  We’re all done going down the river for today.”

       But the sobbing had already stopped!  The second that he was in mom’s arms, with her feet planted on solid ground, Zac gave his mom a puzzled look.  He gave me a puzzled look.  And then, as new understanding dawned on us all, he observed in a calm voice, “We didn’t go down the river.” 

       A big smile broke over his face as he again grabbed his mother’s cheeks in both hands, and this time all but shouted in triumph, “We DIDN’T go DOWN the river!”

Something to take home in your creel:

       As many characters have said, since Strother Martin first said it in the movie, Cool Hand Luke, - “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate!”

       The water was deep and somewhat murky on the Little Muskegon that day.  When we told our little boy that we were going to ‘go down the river.’ and ‘see things we’d never seen before,’ we meant that we would float along with the river, and see the same trees and critters that he could seen from the land, only from a different point of view.   But three-year-old Zac naturally concluded that we were going to go DOWN – to the bottom of the river – and see new things, things that couldn’t be seen from above the surface.  That would have been an adventure that the little duffer was not prepared for, and he told us that he didn’t want to go down the river. 

       Looking back at that declaration, from Zac’s understanding of what was about to happen, neither would his mom or dad want to go down the river!  But how could his child’s mind understand that.  Since we had insisted that we would all go down the river together, he could only assume that we had our minds made up to drown ourselves in community!  What other interpretation could his three and a half years linguistic experience put on it?  What joy he must have felt to be held in his mother’s arms again at the end of that trip – on solid ground!

       A great deal of all the anger, agony, suspicion and grief that takes place in this broken old world is caused by failure to communicate.  As important it is to speak in the language that others understand when you are trying to express your ideas and beliefs to them, it is even more important that you critically examine what you are trying to say, and how you intend to say it, from their cultural, emotional, and cognitive points of view – at least as far as you are equipped and able to do that. 

       You need to understand that, as clear and reasonably as you think you are making your case, others often hear something totally different than what you think you are saying!  Preachers who don’t learn this lesson early on in their calling are in for big trouble!  But don’t get mad about this fact.  Have some compassion on people when they don’t get your point.  It’s probably your fault.  Be humble, try again, and do better.

       As a side note; my son’s anxiety about going down rivers in canoes didn’t last for long.  As a teenager he and his good friend Craig once decided to take one of Craig’s dad’s canoes for a short run down the full, raging, and ice filled Thornapple river – in the middle of a Michigan winter!  They overturned, got soaked, and nearly froze solid trying to get the canoe righted and out of the water.  All four parents of these wayward explorers were aghast, and doled out appropriate punishments, once the facts became known.  But Craig and Zac both considered it a grand adventure to have done it, to take in all of the wondrous new sights on hand, going DOWN such a gloriously beautiful river.  

Birdseed and Bear's Breath

Something from the tackle box:   

       You created the moon, O Lord, to tell us the seasons.  The sun knows when to set, and you made the darkness, so the animals in the forest could come out at night.  Lions roar as they hunt for the food you provide.  But when morning comes, they return to their dens, then we go out to work until the end of day.

       O Lord, by your wisdom you made so many things; the whole earth is covered with your living creatures.  But what about the ocean so big and wide?  It is alive with creatures, large and small.  And there are ships, as well as Leviathan, the monster you created to splash in the sea.

       All of these depend on you to provide them with food, and you feed each one with your own hand, until they are full.  But when you turn away, they are terrified; when you end their life, they die and rot.  You created all of them by your Spirit, and you give new life to the earth.      (Psalm 104:19-30 CEV)

       Up on Long Lake this past summer we’ve had a problem with bears. Some folks think that you have to go to the Upper Peninsula to see a Michigan black bear, but the U.P. does not have a monopoly on that particular critter. Even though we are in the troll populated part of the state (everything below the bridge) we are just barely so, and the tip top part of the mitten shaped portion of Michigan has a decent sized wild bear population too. 

       This summer the folks on the south shore of Long Lake in Cheboygan County, where my place is, have had an issue.  We’ve got a big old sow and her large yearling cub (bear cubs stay with mama bear two years before heading out on their own) that have made a decision that lake front bird feeders will be their main source of nourishment. 

       This hasn’t been an issue around here for quite some time.  Back when I was a kid, when my Grandpa owned the place, you had to be more careful.  There weren’t all that many places on the lake back then, way more woods than cottages, and there was no weekly garbage pick-up.  When you cleaned your fish you didn’t just toss the offal off into the nearby trees.  If you did, you’d soon have a bear problem, the same with table scraps or any other garbage.  We had a local dump a couple of miles down a dirt road from any dwellings, and that’s where everyone took their garbage and left it.  That’s where the bears would come and eat it.  You could watch them there in the evenings if you liked. 

       But that was a long time ago.  The number of homes and cottages has grown from a couple dozen to well over a hundred, the roads are paved all the way around the lake, and every Thursday morning the sanitation truck will come and pick up your garbage right at the end of your driveway just like you were living within the city of Cheboygan ten miles away. 

       Everyone knows you still have to wait until morning to put your garbage out and not the night before.  The bears are still around and will get into it under cover of darkness if given the chance.  But, if everyone follows the rules, there is no more local supply of fish guts and leftover pizza from The Pines Bar and Grill for the bears to subsist on in our neighborhood.  Nope, the local bear population has had to go back to foraging for wild nuts and berries to live on for several decades now, and they pretty much have done just that, staying away from the people on the lake for the most part. 

Mom & Dad watch birds at the cottage

       Unfortunately, not having to be so careful about bears any longer is at the root of this past summer’s issue.  Let’s face it; three quarters of the people who have a place on the lake now are relative newcomers.  They don’t even remember the days when you did have to be more careful of the local bears.  Aside from following the official instructions not to put their garbage out the night before, they tend to live their lives for the summer days they spend up here just as if they were still at their more urban and non bear populated homes further to the south, - myself and my parents included!

Rose Breasted Gross Beak at a feeder

       People in Michigan love their birds!  And we have a very wide and beautiful variety that will come to a bird feeder almost anywhere in the state, town or country.  Lots and lots and lots of people feed the birds around their homes, including my mom and dad.  To be frank, I like to watch the birds around the feeders at the cottage myself, especially the rose breasted gross beaks.  What a beautiful songbird.  My dad is very generous with the seed, as are many of the folks along the lakeshore, and the result is that we have enjoyed a delightful proliferation of wild birds, along with the ubiquitous squirrels and chipmunks, for many years now. – And this year – a couple of bears to boot!

       They come at night and they smash the birdfeeders up to get the seed.  My dad’s birdfeeder was just a big open pan on top of a metal pole, so they didn’t have to bust it up, just bend the metal pole over and lick it clean – which is what they’ve been doing. 

Grandson Nolan doesn't worry about bears

       Informal emergency sessions of the Long Lake Association (neighbors meeting and talking at the end of their driveways) have resulted in a mandate that the feeding of birds around the lake must cease, and cease for a long time, as bears will remember and continue to check out an old food source for up to seven years before giving up on it for good.  (sigh)  Such is the price one pays for developing a lake that was once mostly fishing camps and old-folk’s cabins into a summer home site for prosperous urban families with young children who have the summer off from school.  Oh well, - I guess we can’t let the bears eat the neighborhood kids.  – And that brings me to a story from my own childhood.

       My dad grew up on a farm in the eastern Upper Peninsula, one of the twelve children of Eino and Goldie Jarvie.  That’s a big family.  And when you factor in Grandpa Eino’s siblings, and all of their kids and grandkids, you can find Jarvies almost everywhere in the U.P.  In 1992 we had a big extended family reunion and had to rent the Chippewa County fairgrounds to hold it on.    

       Anyway, when I was a kid growing up in the troll lands, one of the highlights of every summer was the weeklong trip to the U.P. to see Grandpa, Grandma and a bunch of my aunts, uncles and cousins.  Grandpa and Grandma lived in a small house on the farm my dad grew up on.  The old farmhouse next door was where my uncle Delbert, aunt Jean and three of my cousins lived.  A mile to the south, in the woods, was uncle Art, aunt Jerri and four more cousins.  A mile to the west of the farm was uncle Darrel, aunt Darlene and four more cousins.  And while we were up there others might show up from further off just to see us.  It was a lot of kids to have fun with, - and we did. 

       One of my favorite places up there was my uncle Art’s place in the woods, about a mile south of the old farm.  If you walked down there from the farm the first half mile was dirt road through pastures and hay fields, the second half mile was dirt road through dense woods, - and there were bears in those woods. 

       We knew there were bears in those woods because uncle Art used to leave food out for them in his back yard, and if you were staying the night down at his place you could watch them eat by moonlight from the windows on the back of the house.  Uncle Art liked the bears – couldn’t understand why anyone would want to hunt one.  He said they never bothered anyone in the daytime and if you were inside after dark, like you were supposed to be, you’d never have a problem with them.  I guess it must be so, as all four of his kids grew up in that house without ever getting eaten by a bear, but when I was a kid I wasn’t quite so confident about that – even in the daytime. 

       I forget how old I was the day I found out what it feels like to almost get eaten by a bear, but I certainly wasn’t a teenager yet.  Two of my cousins and I had decided to walk from the farm down to the old hunting cabin the family owned. (I have forgotten which two cousins it was, but if either one of them remembers this incident I would appreciate them reminding me)  To get to the cabin you had to walk the mile south to uncle Art’s place in the woods, then turn left where the road turned at his place and walk another quarter mile or so east, still in the woods.  It would be a nice early-morning jaunt, almost an adventure. 

       After the first half-mile, as we got near the end of the farm land where the woods took over to the south, someone suggested that there was a deer path that lead from the pasture on our left directly through the woods to the road right near the cabin.  If we climbed the gate to the pasture and walked just a hundred yards or so along the edge of the woods that bordered the pasture we could pick up the trail and take a more direct and adventurous route to our destination.  I didn’t think it sounded like that good of an idea (I was a bit of a chicken as a kid) but I climbed over the fence to follow my two cousins rather then take the road through the woods by myself.

       People who live in the country know that the edge of a wood that borders an open field can get almost impenetrably thick with foliage.  Underbrush and small trees take advantage of the clearing to soak up the sunlight and often form a wall of leaves that you can’t even see into, let alone through.  Such was the case along the south border of this pasture.  It looked ominous to me, but my cousins assured me they knew where the deer path broke through the fence, and so we walked towards that spot.

       We had covered most of the hundred yards through that pasture along the edge of the woods until even I could see where the deer trail came through, just ahead of us.  We smiled and picked up our pace – until we saw the underbrush that was just this side of the opening start to shake violently!

       “BEAR!” one of my cousins yelled.  All three of us turned tail and ran as fast as we could towards that fence gate we had climbed over and the road back to the farm.    

       No one can outrun a bear!  No one!  But even at that young age I knew that if you were in a group being chased by a bear, you don’t have to outrun the bear, you simply have to outrun at least one other person in the group. 

       DANG it!  Why did I have to be born so SLOW!  Both of my cousins were up and over that fence while I was still twenty yards away!  I could hear that bear coming up behind me on a run!  It sounded like a HUGE one!

       I gave it all I had.  When I was just a few feet away from the fence I could actually feel that bear’s breath on the back of my neck.  I started to pee my pants as I jumped and grabbed the top board of that gate with both hands at once!  As I made to swing my first leg over the top board and hurl myself into the road ahead, I actually felt that bear’s tongue lick the hair on the back of my head - as he let out a low and throaty - -

       “Mmmoooooooooo“ - - - - - - - -

       My cousins laughed way harder than I did. 

Something to take home in your creel: 

       There are peculiar dangers associated with living out close to nature, just like there are dangers associated with living in the urban jungle, or any place in between.  Let’s admit it, the whole world can be a dangerous place, no matter where you live, city, town, farm or forest.  The world is a hazardous place, and people do get hurt, - even killed.  Occasionally people get killed by tigers, sharks, elephants, rhinos, - and even bears. 

       That being said; it’s important not to get too worked up about the situation.  It’s been this way since the fall when Eve started stomping on snakes instead of having conversations with them over coffee and apple pie.  

       It’s important to remember that God’s creation was good in the beginning, - as a matter of fact, it was very good, - and for the most part it remains so!  There are dangers, but MOST of what’s out there is not against you.  Fallen world or not, most of what’s out there is actually intended for you, perfectly willing to live along with you, and be inherently on your side when it comes to all of us living out our lives on this broken old world together.

       Yes, sometimes it is just about the food.  Big fish eat little fish.  A shark will eat me just like I will eat the perch I catch on Long Lake, and perhaps he will enjoy the process just as much as I enjoy catching the perch.  This is as it should be, the way fallen creation works for the time being, and that can be a scary prospect for both people and perch it would seem.  -  So be it.

       But bears are different.  Even the wild black bears, who make pests out of themselves by raiding your bird feeder, don’t lurk around your place at night with any intention of harming you.  You are not food to a bear.  They just get scared and react poorly sometimes, - like we all do.  The only real difference between bears and people is that we’ve been given the ability to do better than simply reacting poorly when we get scared, or feel threatened, when we’ve really got no good reason to be.  We can do better.  -  And, if not us, then who?