By Glen Wunderlich
The month of February had a way of making us Michiganders forget about all that mild weather we received earlier in the winter season. Here in Mid-Michigan we may do our share of bellyaching about cold and snow but in comparison to our brethren in the Upper Peninsula, things don’t seem that bad. The latest report from Marquette County shows the snow totals for the season approaching 200 inches!
Having traveled through all parts of the U.P. on various hunts, the people always seemed helpful and friendly. Maybe it’s a result of togetherness developed by Yoopers fighting the elements. Or, maybe it’s the vastness of the open spaces and wilderness that actually has a way of bringing people together in times of need. One memorable excursion to the U.P. comes to mind supporting my theory.
After two successful deer hunting seasons in the far reaches of Iron County, friend, Fast Frank, and I planned a bear hunt for September, 1988. Part of the plan involved an old friend, Big John Stenvig,
Big John Stenvig, Big Alice (John’s wife) and Fast Frank (hat) cleaning fish from the Keweenaw Bay
who lived in Baraga, and had agreed to do some bear baiting before our arrival. Unfortunately, when we arrived at Big John’s door, we learned that he had passed away; we also learned no baiting had taken place and it was time for plan B – whatever that would involve.
Off to the local watering hole, where we sat to ponder the immediate future. While there, we met two local gents that offered to give us some bear bait – a necessary ingredient for a hunt. We followed them to their home, laughed it up a bit with the boys, and left with one large can of fish-smoking brine water. It was a start, but where we were to hunt was still a mystery.
Back at the Baraga tavern the mystery began to unfold, as we talked to a gentleman trucker who needed a ride home, because his 18 wheeler had broken down and was being serviced in Crystal Falls. The stranger, turned friend, said that if we were to take him home, he’d put us in some bear country.
Off we motored to the small town of Tapiola in the Keweenaw Peninsula with our new-found friend packed into the front seat of our 1971 Ford pickup camper.
1971 Ford Camper
As we rolled into town, our friend directed us to pull behind the local lodge, where he promptly used a key to open the back door of the empty building. Within minutes, people began to fill the room, including the mayor, who offered advice and shared tall tales. Sure was a friendly bunch.
We didn’t stay long, before our trucker friend had us following him along a desolate two-track road to Nowheresville. The trucker met his obligation and departed and we began exploring the area. Sure enough, there was plenty of bear sign – tracks and claw marks on trees right where we would camp.
After several days, that can of fish juice was gone and so were our hopes of taking a bear. Frank and I agreed to pull out but that ol’ truck wasn’t in a cooperative mood. We determined that we needed a new alternator, but there sure weren’t any in Nowheresville; we were just plain stuck! And, this was before cell phones had been attached to everyone.
Fortunately for us, however, our trucker friend knew we were short on bait and returned to our camp with some family members and a load of frozen meat they’d salvaged after cleaning out their freezer. Dang considerate of them, but our immediate concern was our lack of transportation. The trucker’s son mentioned that he had an old Ford truck at home and that he’d take the alternator from it and bring it to us. Imagine that!
A little while later he returned with the device and we fired up our vehicle. We had to repay the man, so we got directions to his house, purchased a new alternator in Houghton, replaced the donated alternator with the new one and then delivered and installed the donor unit in his truck.
By this time, we had had enough fun “bear hunting” and headed for home expecting never to see these friendly folks again. But, wouldn’t you know it, hours from Tapiola heading into Crystal Falls, we crossed paths with the trucker on US 41. Apparently, his rig had been repaired and he was driving it to his home in Tapiola, noticed our one-and-only camping rig and waved as he passed us traveling in the opposite direction. I waved back, too.
Most hunting trips are remembered for all the experiences apart from any trigger pulling; this was one of those I’ll never forget, because of the friendly folks of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.
