My First Trout by Dawn

We had lots of trout at Brookwood. We watched them grow from little swimmers to truly decent sized fish, including a granddaddy that no one could keep on a hook. You might catch him (those occasions were few and far between) but you couldn’t keep him!

I “caught” my first trout near the bridge with the water wheel. With Dad by my side I baited the hook with a wriggly earthworm and excitedly held my bamboo pole anticipating bringing in dinner for the day. Dad got me settled then went on to watch from a distance, purportedly to do some chores. With my bait in the creek; I waited, and waited and nothing happened. Being a kid I began to lose interest, beginning to yearn for explorations in the leafy forest. My Uncle Carl had been watching all this with impish humor dancing in his eyes. He suggested I dig the butt of my pole into the bank and leave the line to dangle. That way I could both fish and play. I thought this was a fabulous idea and followed his suggestion. So, planting the pole into the grassy bank, I ran off to play smoke jumper.

A short time later Dad called out to me, “You’ve got something on your line!” I quickly came running back to the creek side. Wow it was true! There was my bobber gaily bouncing up and down in the water! Dad came along to give me a hand and we hauled in my line. Ta Dah! I had caught my first trout! It wasn’t a huge fish; my memory banks suggest about 10 inches or so. I was so happy! What a beautiful fish, sort of a greenish brown with rainbows shining on its gills. I had caught it, ME a little kid! All by myself! Proudly I turned the fish over to Uncle Carl who would clean it and give it to Mom or Aunt Martha to include in dinner.

Dad and Carl were chuckling in that sort of proud adult way. But they also looked mischeivous somehow and although I caught that look I was too excited to mull it over. Later, of course, after I got a little older; I realized that the fish I had caught was probably caught by Uncle Carl. Once I was safely away and playing elsewhere a trick was pulled. The trout had been hung on my hook and dropped back into the creek to become my first trout.

That first trout from the banks of McCarty Creek tickled my fancy and I continued to fish. I tossed my line into the creek many times, and at the little pond over across the property line on Kragness property. I also tried my hand at fly fishing from our sawmill property, which was on the banks of the Sauble River. Dad took us to a trout farm when we were young that also had a petting zoo and some other activities for kids. I didn’t enjoy that as much although I loved to toss the bread into the water to watch the trout feed. It just wasn’t a challenge. Toss in your hook and pull out a fish. Great for kids that were starting out I guess, but I had passed that point.

I don’t think I will ever forget the anticipation and then the ecstatic excitement involved with catching my first trout! I honor Uncle Carl and Dad for the gift they gave me that day. Hats off to them!

Treva McCarthy and McCarthy Creek: Is There a Connection?

On a day known as April Fool’s Day, I thought a brief examination of my mother’s maiden name was in order by way of considering her family roots in relation to McCarthy Creek inLakeCounty.  Dawn, a guest author on our website, often refers to her childhood at Brookwood located right alongside McCarthy Creek.  But my mother’s relationship with that creek’s name has no real bearing as she grew up inLibertyville,Illinois, for it was my father who spent some of his childhood at the family farm onBigBassLake.

My father ran away from the family farm at age twelve to work inDetroit.  In our day that would have been unheard of as family services would be called in to correct that situation.  My father had no love for the family farm so it is quite ironic that all our family vacations were at that farm and that my mother who only had a relationship with that area through marriage was made to endure all our times there.  My father dropped us off there and returned to work in whatever city we lived in at that time.

So my mother endured outhouses before we had indoor plumbing at the farm and also came to know my Grandmother Noreika far better than my dad did and that was his mother.  As for our last name being Norris, my father, and his brother and sisters, all changed their name from Noreika to Norris to better fit in with workingAmerica.  That happened in the 1030’s and 40’s.  My grandmother held the original name Noreika till her death in the 1980’s. 

It is ironic that McCarthy Creek bears my mother’s maiden name but that is where the resemblance begins and ends.  Anything else is just water under the bridge on this particular April Fool’s Day.

Going “Nuts” Over Squirrel Stew by Dawn

This would be very similar to my Aunt Martha’s stew we ate at Brookwood.

Ingredients:
2 squirrels cleaned and cut into pieces
1/4 cup flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
2 tablespoons oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 large onions, chopped
4 cups water
1 large potato cubed
2 large carrots, diced
2 ribs celery, diced
2 cups coral mushrooms, torn
2 – 14 1/2 ounce cans diced tomatoes
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
3 tablespoons flour

Directions:
Dredge squirrel in flour, salt and pepper
Heat oil and garlic in large Dutch oven and brown squirrel
Add onions and cook until soft
Add water, potato, carrots and celery
Cover and simmer for 1 hour
Add tomatoes, mushrooms and Worcestershire
Cover and simmer for 30 minutes
Mix 3 tablespoons flour with 1/2 cup cold water, stirring until smooth
Add to stew and simmer until slightly thickened
Season to taste with salt and pepper

VERY GOOD TOPPED WITH BAKING SODA BISCUIT DUMPLINGS!

Winter at Brookwood by Dawn

Many of the Michigan folk I know warn me that I would probably not enjoy an Irons. Michigan, winter. Heavy snowfall. Cold weather. Getting snowed in unless you have snowshoes, ski or snowmobile. Well, to be honest I don’t mind snow or cold weather. We don’t get that much snow here in the Chicago area, but we used to get a fair amount and with my 4 wheel drive it doesn’t bother me. If I didn’t have to worry about getting in and out of the house to get to work it probably wouldn’t be too bad. They do make snow blowers and plows. And I don’t mind hefting a snow shovel.

I love the soft, clean beauty of the woods clad in snow. The blanket of peace it covers me with is a warmth I truly savor. The way every thing seems so quiet and serene; and yet the way the sound travels better, more crisply without the interference of stereos and horns and televisions, without the hustle and bustle of urban life. The eerie and yet hauntingly beautiful hoot of an owl or the call of a coyote become things of audible joy.

I imagine being at Brookwood in the winter, with a mantle of snow and the dizzying spectacle of sun or moon reflecting from icicle. In my minds eye I am looking out on the clearing to see the ice crystals in the snow reflecting the light of the sun like so many jewels on a bed of white sable. Enjoying the deep prints of wildlife tracking here and there….the slender hoof of the deer that pierce the crust and cluster around the salt lick and the corn I have put out for them, and the tiny scratching on the surface of squirrel and birds, the large pads of a coyote with claw tips apparent, and the other miscellany footprints in the snow.

I look out to the creek and there I can see the spots along the bank where the rushing of the creek has undercut the snow bridges at the edge.

I feel the chill in the air on sleeping porch as I gather kindling from the wood bin to stoke the wood stove and percolate my morning coffee. Then I take my Kindle and travel to Grandmother’s chintz couch in front of the fireplace with mug, Kindle and a piece of homemade Johnny cake fresh from the oven slathered with jam. Tucking my feet beneath me I curl up in the cozy warmth and thank Heaven for another day enjoying the beauty of nature and life.

With a start I realize this was a trip in my imagination, a dream of what might have been, what could be; with a sigh I turn back to my day’s work in the suburbs tucking away my vivid dreams for another time I seek solace, peace and beauty.

The Black Bear and Outhouse at Brookwood by Dawn

Uncle Carl used to tell us there were black bear in the woods around Brookwood. As kids we all thought that was a silly scare tactic- after we got over being scared that is! Today, it is my understanding that it is true, there ARE bear in the Irons area.

As kids one of our least favorite things to do was to use the smelly old wooden outhouse. We had been spoiled with indoor plumbing! For me it wasn’t as much the smell as it was the critters you might find inside. There had been racoons, skunk and other small woodland creatures seen leaving the fenced area surrounding the outhouse. I was afraid I would surprise one of these animals, or worse that one might get trapped inside the outhouse and I would walk in on it. (The outhouse door was a push door with a spring similar to a screen door.) Worse, I feared that I would find wasps, spiders or other bugs inside. My biggest fear was a typical girl thing……I was afraid while sitting on the wooden seat a spider would crawl up from underneath and crawl onto me…….eeeew!

Then Uncle Carl added to our trepidations. He claimed that one weekend while at the cabin by himself he wandered to the outhouse with a newspaper…..and pushing open the door surprised a rather good sized black bear sitting on the seat! He said his trip away from the outhouse was much quicker than his trip to it…..and that he had to waitand watch for the bear to leave before going back.

We all have real or fictional tales of the bear in the woods, but for me this one takes the cake!

The Sawmill at Brookwood by Dawn

Grandfather and Dad were both sometime loggers. Both were employed in this profession at times when jobs were hard to come by and money was tight. But the job was a natural thing for them because of their respect of nature and interest in the forest. They were able to work at thinning a forest and at the same time manage it to help it become more healthy. Back in the day many smaller logging companies actually seemed to care about the land they cut upon, unlike today when large conglomerates clear cut and hack away.

When it came to Brookwood Grandfather made sure the forest was properly managed. Trees that were cut down were appropriately replaced with diverse trees of a type that were natural to the area and grew at different rates.

Grandfather later allowed other logging companies to come in and log on Brookwood, or to come through Brookwood to get to the site of their logging. But since it was his land he once again controlled the manner of cutting, what was cut, how it was replaced…..and the way in which those huge trucks tore through the forest. The trucks were capable of making a huge mess and causing a lot of damage if not controlled. We must have had good forests because even with those constraints there was still some logging at Brookwood. It was far enough from the cabin that one rarely saw them- you had to be in that area.

Grandfather bought a sawmill at some point. I have the feeling from what I have read in family records that the mill was already outdated before he bought it. I believe it must have been a hobby for him. Most milling jobs were for trade of one kind or another. In the 1960’s my Dad had tongue and groove pine paneling cut to finish the second floor of our home in Illinois. It may have been one of the last jobs turned out by the mill. Grandfather died in 1963.

Dad inherited the sawmill and the 40 acres on which it sat. We would go over occasionally on trips up, look over the mill, take a gander at the rusting Doodlebug and Dad and my brother would talk about restoring it, maybe fish in the Sauble River (on the banks of which the mill sat)…….just kick around a bit. The Sauble has great trout fishing! Then we would leave. I can remember being terrified to enter the sawmill because of the large wasps nests that inhabited it!

After Dad died my husband, myself, Brent (my brother) a friend and my husband’s brother went there for a weekend of rough camping. We had a blast! It was husband Lou’s first ever rough camping experience and he enjoyed it- and he learned a lot about camping out in nature. I can remember too Lou and his brother Jeff chasing a snake along the river bank and me having a fit. I knew that was probably a rat snake of some kind but I wasn’t very comfortable with them chasing a snake and trying to catch it when they didn’t know what it was!

Shortly after that my brother planned a camping trip to the forty…..and Mom informed him she had sold the property. It was sad to see the last of the Michigan property leave the family. I think she said she sold it to someone in the Tuckey family (the were related to us but we didn’t know them very well). Zahn Tuckey and his sons did not live far from the mill. And so the last of our piece of Michigan fell through our fingers.

Brookwood’s McCarthy Creek

I enjoy hearing of Dawn’s exploits at Brookwood and you can find them all in our category section under Brookwood on the sidebar. Last winter, I determined within myself to find this mystical place that Dawn writes so fondly about. Mike and I parked our truck on a nearby road and crossed some private property to get to our goal. Knowing it was winter, we knew that few live in this area year round but instead migrate to places like Florida to hibernate from the cold.

All we left behind on that property we crossed were our footprints going both ways.  Dawn had written about McCarty Creek but neither Mike nor I could find that stream in Lake County but we did locate a McCarthy Creek.  Even in the winter time I could visualize all that Dawn had written about.  She spoke of how cold that creek was and in winter it was still very cold. 

Yet only through the eyes of one that lived through those times can one gain the proper perspective of this Brookwood area.  I would urge all of our readers to read what Dawn has said about both Brookwood and McCarthy Creek.  It will warm your soul which is what Mike and I intended to do once back at our truck.  That was a very cold and windy visit to McCarthy Creek that day but one that I can honestly say I shared albeit for such a short time.  Enjoy all that Dawn has to say on this area for I sure do.

It’s McCARTHY Creek, Not “McCarty” Creek

I’d like to thank my pal, Mike Reynolds, for piping me aboard Big Bass Lake and Beyond as a regular contributor instead of an occassional guest author.  It feels good to become part of the group that writes here.  For the longest time I’ve been following the exploits you and had become engaged with the writing of another guest author by the name of Dawn and her stories about Brookwood.  It made me want to know more about McCarty Creek.

I visited the Lake County Courthouse and Library to learn more where that creek might be but could not locate it anywhere until I found a McCarthy Creek and it was at the same coordinates that she described McCarty Creek.  I think she was just a letter short when she typed out the name of that creek.  It’s about ten miles southeast of Alice Lake as the crow might fly.

Well, I found it and might have broken a few trespassing rules, but I came across where Brookwood might be and sure enough there was a section that I almost stepped into that was for all the world like quicksand.  It ate up a branch that I stuck into it.  Better the branch than me!  And that creek was as cold as ice just as Dawn described it.  Coming upon it I felt just like Ponce De Leon. 

I hope McCarthy Creek clarifies the error that was once known as McCarty Creek. 

McCarthy Creek by Dawn

I believe I have found a picture of the elusive McCarty Creek in Michigan and for a story on this area I have copied a post by Dawn over at Memories of Michigan (Blogroll) which I highly encourage you visiting from time to time to read her posts on her memories of Michigan. Here is her post on McCarty Creek.

McCarty Creek ran through Brookwood. It was a pure, spring fed stream with frigidly cold rushing water. That water served many purposes for the Bartlett clan. It provided pure, spring fed, sand filtered drinking water that was unbelievably delicious. I have never enjoyed any water better- and I love water! I have tried many bottled and purified waters as well as tap waters. When served up in those tall, cold, vintage anodized aluminum glasses water from the creek would quench your thirst like nothing else. I remember that the glasses of water were so cold the glasses would immediately bead up in sweat. In fact, the water was so unusual, so beloved and so enjoyable, we filled 5 gallon containers to take home with us between trips. It never lasted until the next weekend!

McCarty Creek was gorgeous in the early hours of the dawn when you watched out the back porch windows and saw trout leaping after bugs and mink playing in the creek. What a wonderfully picturesque view!

We fished in the creek. I think all of us caught our first trout there. And across the creek, a short way into the Kragness property (shhhhhh! he never caught us there!) there was a wonderful little area where the creek pooled creating a quiet pond in a lush wooded setting. It was a great place to fish! The banks were covered in places with deep green, soft moss making it very comfortable to settle down and await a nibble on your hook!

Another use for McCarty Creek was as our refrigerator. We didn’t fire up the propane fridge while visiting, there was no need. If an item was perishable it would be put in a container and floated in the creek in a mesh potato sack. That creek kept everything fresh and safe to eat. It also housed our milk, any soda and the beer for the grown-ups. All of it rose dripping from the creek at the perfect temperature.
Very occasionally on a very warm day you might find us dabbling our feet into the creek- but you cooled off very quickly- or froze your feet! Those who were not weak of heart were sometimes found wading in the frigid water. Brrrr!

Brookwood in Summer by Dawn

There is a photo of the view as seen from just outside the front door of the cabin looking out toward the creek. You can see the roof of the generator house in the foreground on the right, and then the wooden surface of the bridge where Dad had built his water wheel.

There is a wide expanse, almost pond-like of the creek surrounded by split rail fence and you can almost see the bridge over the creek that leads to Wash-Out Trail in the back of the photo. The hilly dune that contained the Smoke Jump and the Fox Hole would be to the left of that bridge as you are facing it.

Evening Tide by Dawn

In the evening at Brookwood we would gather together as a family- or an extended family if my aunt and her gang were present; and we would enjoy pursuits that many today might think odd. But they were warm, cozy, family entertainments. No television, computers or cell phones. Dad might make up a batch of popcorn over the fire in the long-handled basket. We would sit around as a family and listen to tales of Dad’s interesting adventures. Or we might listen to songs he played on the crank operated Victrola. The kids might play checkers or read a book. There were a few games and toys to occupy us. I could literally sit for hours and watch the fire flicker. We would listen to the cozy drone of our parents in conversation, and it felt like home.

I miss those evenings now. I walk in my house after a long nights work and hear the television blaring in the living room, see my husband bent over the keyboard and find my daughter blasting her iPod or her own television in her room with the door open. They can’t seem to live without the noise and the electronic stimulation. I hide in my room, reading a book on my Kindle (yep, there’s those electronics again) and try to block out the cacophony of noises. And remember so fondly the days of peace we had at the cabin when I was young!

My Brookwood by Dawn

Brookwood,Sauble Township, MI. A name that is often on the lips and dwells in the minds of my family. I often dream I grew up in Michigan. In my dreams I wander back roads and drink in the scent of white pine forests. The dream is partially based on reality. I did not grow up in Michigan- at least not full time. But weekends and summer vacations saw us spending magical days and nights at Brookwood, my grandparent’s property. My grandparents owned 350 acres of wooded land in the midst of the Manistee National Forest, on the banks of McCarty Creek and near such small towns as Peacock, Cadillac & Baldwin.

Brookwood is in Sauble Township, MI. nestled in the midst of the Manistee National Forest. We entered at the main entrance, near Peacock, MI. The last time I was there you entered next to a mobile home retirement community that had sprung up. The two track sand and tree root track has been there as long as I can recall. There were some hair-raising twists and turns, sudden bumps and drops from tree roots or rain wash outs and a few branch-off’s. But once on the trail any of us Bartlett kids could get you through to the cabin.

It was a charmed, quiet, green and lush property carefully tended by the family. The land was treated as a nature preserve in many ways. We did not allow hunting. We did our best to keep a low carbon footprint (of course in those days it was known as living close to the land) and we replaced what we took.

Grandfather and Grandmother had a homestead on the property. This area became known as Home Hill in my time, but I don’t know that it had the same name in their time. It was a small farm where they raised a few goats and sheep, chickens and rabbit as they needed for their own use. I recall from what my father said that they were fairly self-suffucient on these things. Grandfather was often on the road, plying his trade, shearing sheep. Grandmother was an educated school teacher but to be honest I am not sure that she continued with her profession after their marriage. I got the impression that once children came forth she stayed at home. Dad was born on the property. Many babes were born at home in those times. It was 1912. At some point, before the Depression their home burned down. All that remained was the foot print of the chimney.

The Bartlett family went through life as an adventure. They followed Grandfather as his star rose. They moved from place to place including Butte Montana, Capetown South Africa, outside of Chicago IL and Ludington MI. The property in MI was retained but they never lived there full time again.

During the Depression my father wanted to rebuild the family home on the property. He built a roomy cabin on a sandy hill overlooking McCarty Creek. It had a refrigerator powered by propane, a huge old wood stove, a sink with a big red pump to provide water, and an outhouse. He also built a generator house and erected a water wheel on a bridge at the bottom of the hill. His plan was to pipe running water from the pure and chilly McCarty Creek, to install a septic system, to electrify the cabin using the generator and the wheel. There was a stand-by generator that burned gasoline.

The cabin had a large combination living/dining room with a very large heatilator fireplace which Dad had built. There was a wooden crank telephone next to the fireplace that had been connnected by cable to the operator. A single private bedroom that was large enough to hold an enormous brass double bed but little else had a small walk in closet. The porch had two twin beds, and there was a daybed in the living room. The cabin was decorated with items from their lives. Antique furnishing including a four stack oak barrister book case, an oak treadle sewing machine, a large satiny finished round oak dining table with pressed back chairs, a painted pressed back rocker. Near the rocker stood a dark oak Victrola, on which Dad often played 78rpm records. A lovely chintz covered couch before the fire with an Egyptian inspired saddle back stool in the arts and crafts style. A couple of other small pieces of furniture that aren’t retained today in my memory. The softly glowing wooden floors were covered here and there with brightly covered Indian rugs that were given to and purchased by my Grandfather on his Southwest sheep shearing circuit. The walls were covered with African shields, Blue Racer snake skins and a woodsy oil painting by my father who was an artist. The kitchen contained the aforementioned appliances, a Hoosier cabinet and a hand crafted breakfast booth. The porch contained the wood box and the kindling box. It was warm, inviting, cozy and filled with love.

It wasn’t modern, the modern conveniences were not installed and it wasn’t in or near a city. Grandmother chose never to live at the cabin and rarely visited in my day. She was very unhappy with the lack of toilet facilities. I guess she had been spoiled by the life of convenience and comfort in which she now lived. I assume she just moved on, felt as though leaving Brookwood behind was progress. Many a person would feel that way and I understand that. For me though the lack of conveniences was well compensated by the charms of the woods, by the freedom and security that was afforded by living on a large, gorgeous piece of property. Of course, I was not a grown up. I was an child enchanted by the lush green woods, by the crisp refreshing water of McCarty Creek, by running free after chores and simply returning home when the car horn was honked. I was a youngster who drank in the scent of the white pine, watched in awe as the deer came to the salt lick, squealed with joy at catching a trout and delighted in the simple things of life surrounded by a place of such beauty and warmth.

Welcome to Brookwood! Welcome to the place of my dreams