Trail Talk

I was the first skier to arrive at Wilderness State Park on Saturday morning after this corner of Emmet County was blessed with three inches of lake-effect snow the night before. I stepped into my skis and headed south on Swamp Line Trail, alone in the woods, surrounded by winter’s stillness.

Jim DuFresne

I was more than a mile from the trailhead before I noticed the dog prints following the same path I was. There was something unusual about them and at first I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it hit me.

There were no boot prints accompanying the tracks. This was no dog.

I paused and studied the prints more closely, immediately regretting not packing along a field guide to identify tracks. But I have seen wolf prints before and there was no reason to believe these weren’t made by the same species.

At some point after the snowfall had subsided early in the morning this wolf was the first down the trail. I was the second.

When wolves finally returned to the Lower Peninsula after being extirpated in the early 1900s, most biologists believe Wilderness State Park was their door step. It may have been in 1997, when a Coast Guard helicopter pilot reported sighting a pair of wolves along the shoreline of the park after they had apparently made the 5-mile trek across the frozen Straits of Mackinac.

Swamp Line Trail in Wildernesss State Park.

In 2010, U.S. Forest Service biologists verified that a pack of wolves living in the tip of the mitt had been successful breeding and the pup, most likely the first born in the Lower Peninsula in more than a century, has been radio collared.

They’re here and for all I knew this was one of them.

I followed the prints for more than a half mile, so mesmerized I almost never took my eye off them. If I was more knowledgeable about tracking, I probably could have determined the animal’s size, the pace he was walking at, maybe he’s age. But I’m not.

It did appear at one point as if the wolf paused or at least cautiously slowed down. In the beginning the tracks were clean and almost perfectly spaced as if they were made by a steady gait. Then suddenly there weren’t and at that point the wolf made a sharp turn to the right and entered the tangled cedar wetlands that Swamp Line Trail passes through.

I peered into the woods, wondering what made him leave the easy travel of an old two-track like Swamp Line Trail for the thick underbrush and deeper snow he was now in. I couldn’t figure it out so I skied on and 30 yards later I stopped again at another set of tracks.

A snowshoe hare had run across the trail in the same direction as the wolf, leaving prints almost as clean and sharp as his. Suddenly I realized I was witnessing life, death and survival in a place called Wilderness.

I was definitely not alone in the woods.

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Wilderness State Park is a wonderful place to visit in the winter for a backcountry skiing adventure. But when you want to retreat to someplace warm and comfortable, there’s no better choice then Crooked River Lodge  (866-548-0700).

Located right on the banks of its namesake river in Alanson, the impressive log lodge is on US-31 and only 20 minutes from the state park. It features large, comfortable rooms, a hot breakfast in the morning and not one but two hot tubs.

One is located indoors adjacent to the pool, the other is

The outdoor hot tub at Stafford's Crooked River Lodge.

outdoors overlooking the wooded banks of the Crooked River, a great place to soak away sore muscles after a day of breaking trail. This is a Stafford property, the same family who also operate the Perry Hotel in Petoskey and nearby Bay View Inn, so you know the service is impeccable.

Editor’s Note: Jim DuFresne wrote and filed this blog for MichiganTrailMaps.com on Friday morning, Jan. 27. That evening five inches of snow had fallen on most of Emmit County and on Saturday Mother Nature added two more. There is good Nordic skiing from Gaylord through most of the northern half of the Lower Peninsula. For an update snow conditions report contact the Petoskey Visitors Bureau (800-845-2828; www.petoskeyarea.com) or the Gaylord Tourism Bureau (800-345-8621; www.gaylordmichigan.net).

By Jim DuFresne

When I left on my journey to find snow in northern Michigan, there was none around my house in Oakland County. Brown grass and fallen leaves were covering the ground.

Jim DuFresne

It’s been horrible year for cross-country skiers in Southeast Michigan. At Independence Oaks County Park, my home trails, we’ve had exactly one day skiing when three inches had fallen the night before. Not enough for the park staff to groom and barely enough for some diehards to show up with their rock skis and take a loop around Crooked Lake.

So last week I jumped on I-75 and headed north and saw nothing for the first 100 miles. Then at Mile 191, there it was, in the woods, small patches and mounds of white.

Snow, it’s what allows some of us to endure everything else about winter.

By the time I passed West Branch the ground was white, at Grayling there was four to five inches and at Harbor Springs, my base of operation for the next five days, almost foot in most places. But a thunderstorm (you read that right; a thunderstorm with lightening and heavy rain) had occurred two days before I arrived and the snow was hard and icy.

The first trail on my list was more ice than snow so I ditched the Nordic skis and stepped into my snowshoes. The second was further north in Emmet County and further inland but the snow was still hard and crusty and the skiing was laborious. On the downhills I was taking my life into my hands, on the climbs I had work at my herringbone to dig the edges of my skis into the crust.

A cross-country skier on the beach at Petoskey State Park.

I was ready to call it a day when suddenly the sun appeared and on impulse I pulled into Petoskey State Park.  The park has such a limited trail system that in the winter it’s where the locals go for a quick ski. Everybody else who has driven this far north searches for something more extensive.

This year the staff has set up a 1.4-mile loop, a ski trail that winds through the closed campgrounds, into the woods and then back along the unplowed park road. The trail is used enough that there is usually a decent set of tracks for classic skiing.

In the time it took me to park at the trailhead and step into my skis, the sun had already softened out the snow. I marveled how fast conditions can change in the winter and then glided into the woods on tracks that required only a few strategic kicks to keep the momentum up. Under a blue sky and with large pines whisking pass me, I found that Nordic rhythm that makes cross-country skiing such wonderful activity.

 It was my first ski of the season and like that first cup of coffee in the morning, it never gets better than this. Even if you are only in Petoskey State Park.

When the trail entered Tanner Creek Campground at the south end of the park there were tracks everywhere. To add additional mileage some skiers where heading east into the dunes for more challenging elevation. Most headed west to check out Little Traverse Bay.

I headed west and skied between tuffs of brown beach grass along the low fore dunes. On a rounded, white mound that are the dunes in winter I stopped to take in the view; Little Traverse Bay with a shoreline of jumbled ice formations that were slowly taking on the pinks of January’s early sunsets. As far as I could see nobody else was around.

It was quintessential northern Michigan. Without snow spring can’t come fast enough. With it, summer and those humid days in July can wait.

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 In every room at the Best Western of Harbor Springs there is a sign asking skiers “to please use caution with boots, skis and poles.” No doubt about it, this motel knows its clientele in the winter and caters to them shamelessly.

If you’re looking for a place to stay in Petoskey area, this Best Western (231-347-9050) is an excellent choice. The rooms are large, the breakfast will provide enough carbs to keep you going all day, there’s an indoor swimming pool and, more important, a hot tub.

 The Best Western is located on M-119 just south of Harbor Springs, making its location ideal for both the downhill areas and major ski trails. I highly recommend it.

After a flight halfway down the world and another halfway across Argentina, an all-night bus ride and jaunts on subways and taxis, after dreaming and planning about this day for over six months, there I was—finally—standing on the banks of the Rio Malleo in the foothills of the Andes.

The river was roughly the width of the Au Sable’s Holy Water stretch near Grayling and just as clear. But it was slightly deeper, possessed a much stronger current and its bottom was composed of round, slippery rocks and small boulders. I immediately regretted not bringing a wading staff. I stepped into it gingerly and cautiously moved toward the center of the river with my guide, Marco, urging me on from behind with what little English he knew.

Jim DuFresne

On my first cast I was still getting organized when a trout took the No. 14 parachute Adams, a dry fly Marco selected and tied on for me. I totally missed the fish. On my third cast I was ready and after setting the hook watched with amazement as the trout leaped out of the water repeatedly and then ran with surprising power before I could reel it in to Marco who was standing guard with a net.

It was 12-inch rainbow, a beautiful fish with a bright pink splash of color along its sides. A 12-inch trout is a nice fish on Au Sable. A 12-inch trout is a great fish for me on the Au Sable. But before I could get my camera out Marco had removed the hook and slipped the trout back into the river, saying three consecutive words of English for the first time that day.

“Call your momma,” he said as the fish darted off.

A 12-inch trout was not a great fish to Marco.

Up to then, my only experience with guides was as part of a driftboat float, targeting steelhead. I had never had a guide for wading until Marco showed up at 11 a.m. my first day in Junin de los Andes, a small town in the Patagonia region. He was supposed to pick me up at 10 a.m. and that’s when I learned everything runs an hour late in Argentina.

We drove north of town, to within 20 miles of the Chile border, to a stretch of the upper Rio Malleo that Marco obviously knew well. The river was part of the country’s famed Lakes District. Preserved high in the Andes within Lanin National Park were a dozen huge lakes whose rivers descended towards Junin de los Andes.

They were rivers with cold, clear water and filled with rainbows and browns. Every one of them was designated flies-only and catch-and-release, the reason this small town is known as the fly fishing capital of Argentina.

Within the first hour there I hooked and released a dozen rainbows. I also managed to snag my fly a half dozen times in a branch which wasn’t easy, considering the lack of trees along most of the bank. At first it was embarrassing. Marco would rush over and retrieve the fly and untangle my tippet or replaced it. He also insisted on untangling my wind knots and, with a steady breeze throughout the day, some were ugly.

Jim DuFresne with a brown trout from a river in Argentina's Lakes District.

Often our conversation in the beginning was little more than me saying “sorry” for another wind knot and Marco replying “no problem, no problem.” But after a while my embarrassment eased up. Having somebody untangle your tippet was nice.

Other times he would say “mend” which I knew well but was struggling to do in the wind. Or “coast too close” which I quickly realized meant he wanted me further from the bank or else the trout I was casting to might spot me.

I spent seven hours that first day slowly working the pools and runs with him a couple yards behind me, watching intently. When my cast was a poor one, he’d quickly say “again.” When I nailed a particular hole he’d say “good cast” and eventually hearing a complement was almost as satisfying as catching a 12-inch rainbow.

When we broke for lunch, Marco set up a small folding table and chairs on the bank of the river and covered it with plates of crusty bread, thin pieces of chilled beef that had been coated and cooked like chicken-fried steak and marinated potatoes. We washed everything down with cans of ice cold beer that been sitting in the river.

For as little as we knew of each other’s language it was amazing how much we conversed.  I learned he was 30 years old and his wife was expecting her first child. He once attended a university near Buenos Aires but hated the sprawling city so much he returned to Junin de los Andes within a year, vowing never to leave the Patagonia again.

He learned this was my first trip to Argentina and possibly the only chance I’d ever have to fish his rivers.

By early evening the wind had eased up and we were working well as a team.  I had found my rhythm, casting steadily and needing only one or two false casts to re-position the fly and lengthen my line. From behind I heard a constant “good cast…good cast…good cast” as I caught and Marco released numerous trout in the 12-14 inch range and an occasional 15-16 inch fish.

When we came to a tree that fallen into the river we both instinctively knew there was probably a trout in the patch of quiet water it created. I managed to drop that fly right against the tree so it could float across the smooth surface. From behind I heard “best cast.”

 I smiled and might have turned to say something to Marco but almost immediately a dark, elongated shadow darted from underneath the fallen tree and slurped in that fly. I set the hook and it ran hard downstream.

The fish never broke the surface but one point I was within a few feet of my backing. I patiently work line back, only to watch the trout take it out again at will. At times it sat so still on the bottom of the river I thought the hook was snagged on a submerged log.

Then it would run again.

Finally after 10 minutes, the fish tired and I was able to work it in close enough for Marco to scoop it up with his net. It was a 22-inch brown trout and for a minute or two we both just stood there gazed down at the fish.

It only the third time I had ever caught a trout 20 inches or larger on a fly and I suspect Marco sensed this was a personal trophy for me.

He smiled and said “day awesome, huh Jim?”

I laughed at hearing another unexpected word of English and there was only one thing I could say.

“Day awesome, Marco. Day awesome.”

On a day when the wind was nonexistent, when the woods were covered by a fresh inch of snow, when the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds every now and then –  in other words, a perfect day for Nordic skiing – I was on some of the best trails in Northern Michigan but nowhere near my skis.

Jim DuFresne

Instead I was chugging along in a Pisten Bully groomer. Dave Forush was at the controls, preparing his trails at Forbush Corner for the weekend crowd who would begin descending on the Nordic center early Saturday morning. I was in the seat next to him, measuring them with a GPS unit for MichiganTrailMaps.com.

By the end of the day I had been on every trail of his twice, all 24 kilometers of them, and recorded my coordinates. I was also given a lesson in the art of grooming.

Laying track is definitely not just pushing snow around. The art of grooming is part science, a touch of meteorology, some old fashion crystal ball gazing and in the end a steady hand around hairpin turns.

Dave studies various weather web sites, checks the temperatures, measures the base that’s on the ground now and the shape it is in. Then he tries to anticipate what snow might arrive Friday night before the crowds do on Saturday morning, plots a strategy and we hop in the Pisten Bully, one of two groomers at Forbush Corner.

A groomed track at Forbush Corner.

The first time around, he rolled the trails with a huge cylinder on the back of the groomer that weighed more than a ton. Powdery fluff might be an appealing image for downhill skiers but for Nordic tracks you want the base compressed and the snow consistent with as little air in it as possible.

Dave’s mission was to work a pair steering levers so he didn’t gouge the sides of the trail that would result in dirt and debris on the newly compacted base. At times he looked like he was playing a video game.

My mission was to hang on. At one point we were pitched at the edge of a bottomless hill called Screamer and it was like being in a roller coaster at Cedar Point, only we were in the middle of the woods. When we started down I instinctively grabbed the dashboard in front of me.

At 2 p.m., when we finished the first run, we went right back out again. This time we set the skater’s lane and the tracks for classic skiers.

At one point when the sun came out briefly we paused and looked at the artwork behind us. The trail was a thing of beauty with the unmarred corduroy-surface of the skater’s lane and the crisp edges and smooth sides of the classic tracks.

“That’s as pretty a track as you’ll ever see,” said Dave.

It was indeed.

We finished around 5:30 p.m. after having spent more than eight hours in the groomer. That evening three more inches fell and Dave was back out grooming at 6 a.m. on Saturday so when the first skiers arrived three hours later they found perfect tracks and lanes.

The Pisten Bully groomer at Forbush Corner.

That’s why it is so stunning when occasionally somebody enters the Forbush Corner lodge, sees that there is a trail fee to ski and then says thanks but no thanks and leaves to find some place to ski for free. As if perfect tracks and $180,000 groomers, not to mention Dave’s time, weren’t worth anything.

For too many of these people the sport of Nordic skiing is synonyms with shuffling along on the crusty surface of a golf course or breaking trail for an hour in the woods. Something you do for free or for a small donation tossed in the fee pipe at the trailhead.

I have nothing against backcountry skiing and do it often, particularly on the state forest pathways. But until you have spent a day on a well-groomed trail that allows you to discover the natural rhythm that is Nordic skiing, you haven’t been Nordic skiing.

You’ve been slogging it in the woods.

This winter stride instead of shuffle with a visit to any Nordic center that puts even a third as much effort into grooming their trails as Dave does. It’s more than worth the price of the trail fee.

You may never ski a golf course again.