Chapter 8

 

I’d begun keeping a Forest County map in the car. Although many of the county roads are in grids of a mile square, there are quite a few that aren’t. Rather than bisecting farms these wandering roads often follow waterways or meander through cool green forests. Also, some roads seem to be through routes, but often they are in non-contiguous segments, with long breaks across swamps or hills where no road has been built. And there are so many rivers and creeks crossing the area that one can never be sure the road you want has a bridge. It was good to be able to check the map. Some of the time it was even correct.

The easy part was to return to Kirtland Road and drive south until I crossed the Petite Sauble River. Then I only had to explore westward until I connected with the roads south of my house, or until I bumped into Centerline. If I got that far west, I could just turn north and go home the familiar way.

“Want to play a game?” I asked Paddy. He didn’t say no. “Let’s just take the first road west after the river and see where it takes us.”

That corner was marked Turtle Dam Road. I was pretty sure I knew where that road led because Turtle Lake is the largest lake in the state forest, and is hard to miss when you even glance at the map. The road was paved and we followed it all the way to where it ended at an expanded turnaround beside the dam, with parking. Several official-looking buildings dotted the neat lawns, and I noted a number of trucks and cars in the parking lot. I saw signs indicating where a foot trail began, and although I wasn’t dressed for outdoor activities, I parked, and Paddy began to whine and wiggle.

“Yes, we’ll take a short walk,” I agreed as I opened the car door.

The dog tugged on his leash and headed toward some people who were clustered near the edge of the parking area. When we reached that spot, I saw it was an overlook above the water. Turtle Lake, with two large islands and several small ones, spread to the northeast. Behind the dam, alongside the lake, was a large grassy lawn with picnic tables, grills, pavilions, a swimming beach and restrooms. A paved trail wound through the area, and I could see camping trailers and tents beyond that. Apparently I’d stumbled onto the main recreation facility.

“This will be a great place to bring Star and Sunny,” I told Paddy.

Just then two kayaks, one red and the other a bright yellow, came into view around the corner of an island.

“What fun!” I said. A man next to me turned and looked around to see whom I was addressing. He must have decided he was the one.

“You can rent canoes and kayaks from the north side of the lake,” he said. “It would be a lot more convenient if the rentals were here by the camping and picnic areas, but that’s the state for you. People like to canoe to the islands.”

“Thanks for the information,” I answered. “I know some girls who might really enjoy learning to paddle.”

“Get ‘em while they’re young,” he added, and walked away.

We stood there a while longer. I watched the kayakers, and Paddy seemed content for a few minutes. When he began to whine I walked him across the dam and found a kiosk with a map showing a large network of foot trails in the forest.

“Not today, Paddy,” I said. “You’ve always got your hiking shoes on, but I sure don’t. Let’s see if we can find our way home.”

Since the dam road was a dead end, I drove back east until I found a road that went to the south. There was no sign on the corner, but the dirt road looked graded and smooth. In a mile I found another unmarked road going west and took that. It ran straight for a mile and turned back to the north. There was no other choice, but it wasn’t signed “No Outlet” so I took the corner. It ended abruptly at the river. To my left a track marked “Seasonal - Road Not Plowed in Winter” wound its way along the riverbank. It was smooth dirt, but not as wide as the road I was on. I pulled out the map.

Sure enough, the seasonal road was labeled East South River Road, the same as the road I lived on. But I was pretty certain it didn’t connect with my piece. According to the map, however, it did go through to Mulberry Hill Road. That sounded interesting, so I nosed the Jeep past the warning sign and began to bump my way along beside the river. Except for a few large potholes the road wasn’t bad at all. Driving slowly was desirable anyway because every so often there was a break in the trees, and the river could be seen shining in the afternoon sun. A dark blue kingfisher swooped low as we passed one of those openings.

The road became narrower and narrower. Soon, branches were occasionally brushing the sides of my vehicle. Paddy seemed to be enjoying the drive, if I could judge by his eagerness to sniff the air and poke his nose out of the window.

“We have a Jeep,” I said to him. “We might as well keep going until we can’t get through.” The truth was, I was enjoying this adventure as much as Paddy. I’ve always liked knowing my local area, and I hadn’t had much time to explore Forest County yet. I hoped Mulberry Hill would be marked because I had forgotten to check the mileage when we turned onto South River Road. There were two-track vehicle paths leading into the woods every so often with no indication as to whether they were roads, driveways, or abandoned logging tracks.

We crept along carefully, but the road didn’t get any worse. Finally, we passed an abandoned house on our left. The white paint was mostly gone, the front door was open, and one section of roof on an attached shed was collapsing. The lawn was grown up to weeds and small shrubs. In another tenth of a mile we reached a small turnaround at the river, separated from the water by a guardrail.

“I think we missed our turn,” I said. “But let’s check this out.” I grabbed the map and walked with Paddy to the river’s edge. I slipped his leash over my wrist, thinking it wouldn’t be a good plan to let him go in the river. Clearly, South River Road used to go through. There were still two concrete bridge abutments in the middle of the river. I was a little confused, because I had already crossed the Petite Sauble River, back on Kirtland Road. So, had the road wandered north again and I hadn’t noticed, or where was I?

The map quickly revealed that there was a small river, the Thorpe, coming in from the southwest and flowing into the Petite Sauble. I was only about two miles from my house, and could have driven right home if there were still a bridge. I could see a matching dirt road with a guardrail across the water and realized it had to be the seasonal road that continued beyond my place.

I looked upstream on the Thorpe River, which was wide and straight in this section. The spreading, shallow water rippled over sandbars and around a few large rocks. Much to my amazement there was a bridge less than a half-mile away. With a shake of my head I looked at the map again, and saw that it was a railroad bridge. I’d been told the trains hadn’t run for years, but the bridge was still in place. I wondered if it was safe to walk across. There was a bit of a path along the river, but I suspected it had been made by fishermen rather than hikers.

“I think there’s a nice walk in your future,” I told Paddy. “But let’s go home now.”

This time I remembered to watch the mileage and easily found Mulberry Hill Road, which did, indeed, go up a steep hill. There were even two switchbacks before I reached the top, where I turned west on Shagbark. After exploring such an assortment of routes, I’d had enough adventuring for one day, and followed the map closely, taking good dirt roads till I reached my house.

The construction crew was gone for the day. Not only were the trusses in place, but they were topped with a plywood roof covered with tarpaper, and a few rows of shingles stairstepped across the black underlayment. It really looked like a new house.