JOHN PEPIN

“I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when.” — Johnny Cash

On this chilly afternoon, there wasn’t much I could tell the gusting wind that it didn’t already know. It seemed to be everywhere at once.

From the top of a bare ridgeline down through the white pines along the river to this stretch of drifted, snow-covered road where I was standing, the sharp and stinging, cold breaths of winter air made it clear that somebody somewhere had left the freezer door wide open.

At the same time, the sun was shining, at least on the east side of the road. There was a bank of dull-gray clouds rolling in from the west that would eventually cover the blue patches now visible off to my left.

Feeling the rays of sunshine on my face was wonderful. It’s strange that such a simple thing like warm light on my face can extend the glow throughout my entire body.

The occurrence didn’t last long though before the gray clouds won out in this battle of who would dominate the afternoon skies.

Like young children, maybe nature sometimes gets tired of watercolor painting or drawing only pretty, blue skies, warm yellow suns and puffy, white cotton-ball clouds?

Maybe nature started the morning out painting that fresco, but was impatient today and wanted to mix all the sky colors together into a blue-gray slurry of blah?

I was out on a winter reconnaissance mission. I wanted to visit some of the places I haunt during the summertime, mostly when trout fishing, that I hadn’t recalled ever going to in winter.

Specifically, I was looking to see and hear rushing, open water to lift a wet blanket of wintertime blues off my shoulders. I also hoped to see some signs of animal life.

I was guessing my ability to look at the surrounding countryside would be comparatively enhanced given the absence of thick, green summer leaves to obscure my view.

To get anywhere near what I call “the golden country,” I needed to drive for a good while on snow- and ice-packed blacktop roads.

Along one of the main roads, I was able to see ice-covered lakes that are seldom visible at all during the summer. The rims of those lakes were dotted with summer cottages now vacant.

I noticed that many of the side roads I frequently drive down in warmer times of the year were now covered in a thick, white blanket of snow, with lines of deer or fox tracks decoratively stitched into the scene.

The first opportunity for encountering open creek or river water was a waterfall of disappointment. The white-green and aquamarine spray that tumbled over the black, moss-covered rocks to plummet 20 feet or so during the summertime was now locked up tight in ice and snow.

Downstream, where the creek wound between the tag alders, at the edge of the blacktopped road, plow trucks had pushed snow over the bank. This snow will melt in spring and help swell and revitalize the creek.

However, sand and salt from the road, applied to help drivers maintain traction on snow and ice, will also end up in the creek.

Sand from road washouts and situations like this can be harmful to fish populations, especially those like trout that rely on gravel-bottomed creeks and rivers for spawning.

Continuing to drive, the creeks I saw were all frozen over and covered with snow. Animal tracks crisscrossed these scenes.

Once the turn was finally made from the blacktop road to the dirt road, I could feel my body begin to relax almost immediately. It was as though I could smell the dirt coming up through the snow on the road.

I hadn’t realized how much I missed being out in this place.

It was the same kind of feeling I get coming home after being on a long trip.

All the same turns and straight stretches were there waiting for me like old friends, stepping up to smile and greet me. Though we were all a little older, we recognized each other immediately.

I felt so good to be back here.

As I continued to drive, I’d guess the winds were keeping many of the birds down in the more sheltered parts of these woods. I didn’t see much beyond a flock of goldfinches lift off from the trees at the edge of the road as I approached.

Loggers had felled a good many trees, making a clearing where one hadn’t been before. Numerous trees were left standing, which will make homes for birds, like northern flickers and eastern bluebirds.

I stopped at a place where a creek crossed under the road. The upstream side is usually slow but determined in its flow, while the downstream glance is typically a rush of rapids.

Today, it was all surprisingly frozen over and silent.

I moved onward.

The farther I drove and the more I looked at the landscape, I realized that my view of the creeks and rivers wasn’t that much better, even though it was winter.

I observed that the places I fish in this area have a lot of cedars, spruces, hemlock and firs growing along the stream banks – trees that don’t lose their needles or other greenery during this time of year.

I approached a bridge where I often stop to check the height of the water before I drive farther up into the “golden country.”

A snow-covered road to the right, which heads upstream, was now temporarily blocked by a fallen tree that had likely toppled during a fall or winter storm.

At the bridge, the upstream-downstream dynamics to the river flow are much like those I described from the last creek I crossed. However, there was one big difference here to report.

The stream was frozen over, but the sound of the water rushing beneath the ice was still clearly audible. The fresh, exciting noise of water tumbling over the rocks and racing between boulders delighted my ears.

Like the sunshine, this sound traveled through my entire body, lifting me up.

At a bend in the road, I saw my turn to the heart of the “golden country.”

The road was not plowed, but tire tracks showed at least a couple of drivers had made the trip before me. After moving a short way down the road, I noticed the snow deepening and the footing under my tires slipping.

I decided to back out of the idea of going any farther. It would be several miles before getting to where I wanted to be.

Instead, I returned to the road I had been driving down to follow the river some more.

Another bridge was coming up. I didn’t see any animals out today, except for either a northern shrike or a gray jay that flew quickly over my vehicle, but here were tracks from animals all over the landscape.

I presumed most of these trails in the snow were laid at night or early morning.

At the bridge, more snow, ice and silence.

I had one more place to check before I planned to turn around, with the light already starting to flicker and dim in the sky.

I drove past more timber cutting, more solemn woodlands and quiet scenes of boarded-up deer-hunting camps, gated and snow-covered roads and rolling hills and dipping gullies.

I was surprised that none of the river crossings had thus far produced a view of rushing, open water. Though I thought this last bridge might be the best chance, given the strong and wild nature of the river’s flow on the downstream side of the old bridge.

As I opened the door to my vehicle, I could immediately hear what I had come to see – rushing water. It looked as though the ice had been opened to a wider extent not too long ago.

Nonetheless, the rapids were open, and the river was singing, promising a springtime to come. I soaked up the sights and sound deeply.

I made a big turnaround at an intersection nearby and moved ahead.

The fading light presented a beautiful opportunity at a late moment in my journey. Off to my left, I saw the coloring of the sky, bark of aspens and the winter’s snows all combining in an awe-inspiring scene I wasn’t anticipating.

I pulled over to the side of the road, grabbed my camera and walked through the deep snow to get farther inside the stand before shooting. The snow was up to the tops of my thighs.

In capturing the scene, those moments swept away any lingering blues I might have been harboring. I felt only freedom, contentment and gratitude in being where I was and for what I was experiencing.

It was another humbling and rewarding revelation I encountered within nature’s grand sanctuary. Perhaps I will one day learn that this is where I always need to be.

Editor’s note: Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.