Ken Pierpont's Blog, page 135
August 26, 2013
Mud Room Observations
When I was a boy we lived for a while in a wonderfully unique parsonage. It was a farm house, the old home-place of one of the families of the church, the Parmalee family, on a back-road west of Wayland, Michgian. They farmed the ground and we enjoyed living in the house. It was complete with a tire swing in a gnarly old Maple, barns, cats, a windmill and a lane that went back and back to a dark and mysterious forest. Along the lane was a rock-pile where I once saw a snake. I kept a close eye on that rock pile whenever I passed after that.
The house had a mud-room with an old-fashioned sink. Mom would always say; “Wash up for supper.” I would run hot water into that sink. I would stand on a little stool to reach the bar of soap at the back of the sink and lather up my hands while the sink filled with water, then I would float the soap in the water like a little raft. The soap didn’t sink like other soap. No matter what you did to it, when you let go of it, it would rise to the surface.
You may go through great hardship or testing. God may even need to discipline you and teach you in ways that are not pleasant, but if you are a believer you will always rise to the surface. If you are a believer you have the blessing of God on your life in Christ. God can do nothing but bless his Son and we are in Him. You can suffer chastisement, but it is for your ultimate good. Nothing can happen to you that is not ultimately for your good if you are in Christ.
Of course you know that the bar of soap in the old mud room was Ivory soap. In 1891 the company started billing it as “The soap that floats.”
When I’m going through hard things it helps my heart to know that ultimately in Christ I cannot be defeated. My spirit will never die. Nothing can reach me that God has not ordained for my good. He is in control of everything that touches me and when he is done with me I will bob to the surface like the soap that floats.
Ken Pierpont
Granville Cottage
Riverview, Michigan
August 26, 2013

August 12, 2013
Bikes Outgrown
Saturday I spent a little time working on organizing the garage. It’s time consuming, not so much because of the work itself, but because I keep finding things that tug on my memory. There were letters and pictures. There were bikes outgrown by Wes and Hope. Over in the corner leaned a baseball bat discarded long ago. There was an old sweatshirt Chuk used to wear. A pair of rollerblades reminded me of the three older girls and their inseparable friends Courtney and Mariah Webster from Fremont. They spent hours skating around the neighborhood. On a summer evening they would draw other youngsters from all over the neighborhood and laugh out in front of the house under the street light until long after dark. Of the five girls two are married and by Thursday the number will be three.
I rolled the bikes out to the street and stood there looking at them with a lump in my throat. Hope drew up a “Free” sign on cardboard. These memories are too sacred to sell. Wes drove away to college this summer in an old F-150 pick-up. Every day Hope mentions him with a little tone of mourning in her voice. I stand and imagine a young dad running down the road after his girl, her hair is blowing in the wind. She is riding Hope’s old bike. He’s trying to keep her up-right. He won’t be able to keep up. She will get away from him. He will have to stand and watch her go. The memory of it will tug at him and he will stand and watch with a lump in his throat.
I go and make a hospital call. When I get home the bikes are gone. The memory will never fade.
If your heart ever gets hard or if it’s been a while since you had a good cry, go out and paw through the stuff in your garage for a few hours. You’ll see what I mean.
Ken Pierpont
Granville Cottage
Riverview, Michigan
August 12, 2013

July 30, 2013
Fair Week
I love to take Hope on the Farris Wheel. It’s a tradition we started back in Fremont where she was born. High over the midway we are above the throng up in the night air. The smell of sausage and grilled onions wafts up to us. We laugh. She’s always pretty, but when she laughs she’s radiant.
When the ride is done and I’ve made a loop through the prize tomatoes and goats and chickens and such I’m ready to go somewhere quiet.
Where I’m sitting right now I can hear the fair. Small planes circle overhead dragging signs for Charlie’s Restaurant and Roger’s Chevrolet. I’m a mile away in a park watching the river run by. I guess I’m finally maturing, but I’d rather spend an evening with my toes in the river than shoulder my way down the midway trying to balance and Elephant Ear and a Lemon Shake-up.
A couple guys just slid kayaks into the water and drifted downriver fishing. A couple dozen martins are diving over the water like fighter jets. This is my idea of a near-perfect summer Evening. Still I will never be too old to ride the Ferris Wheel with Hope America.
Gotta dart-she wants me to take her to the Demolition Derby and I don’t want her to suffer cultural depravation.

July 29, 2013
The Cross is Not A Ladder to God
07/28/2013 11:00 AM
The Cross is Not a Ladder to God
Ken Pierpont
Series: Matthew’s Gospel
Matthew 27:45-56

July 26, 2013
North Manitou Journal 2013 (Number 6) Quicksand and Fog
When we planned the North Manitou trip we planned only as much hiking as it would require to get to the west side of the island. Kyle and Chuk and I had such fond memories of it from our trip in 2001. None of us remembered the hike being difficult. We remembered the trail wide and level and easy—almost boring. When we were there last we hiked it fast. We were eager to make camp and enjoy a long stretch of very sandy, very beautiful, very private beach. We planned to have Kyle Kenneth along, who is five and even seriously considered bringing Oliver, who is three. Eventually Kyle decided to leave Oliver behind.
Since we didn’t expect much of a hike, we packed heavily toting along some luxuries; an umbrella chair, an extra stove, and more food than we could reasonably eat in a week.
If you have been reading these trail journals, you know that early in the trip we went right when we should have gone left and ended up in some real trouble. On the un-maintained trail loop there was a sharp climb. The ground rose to the left and fell sharply away toward the lake on the other side. At this point Kyle, Kyle Kenneth, Chuk and Wes had hiked on ahead of us. Daniel had stopped to help me around a fallen log so we were behind.
Climbing the hill I thought how awful it would be to lose my footing and tumble down the steep hill to my right. That thought was followed by another: how amusing it would be if I were to toss a log down the hill to make the others think I had taken a tumble.
At the same time Dan had the same thought, picked up a large log and tossed it impressively down the bank. It began to crash and roll and pick up speed and I made a series of guttural noises and grunts the way I imagine I would have sounded had I fallen down toward the lake.
Suddenly two heads appeared over the ridge from the trail ahead. Chuk and Wes had immediately dropped their packs and bounded back to help me. Daniel and I laughed until it hurt. Chuk and Wes were not even mildly amused. Within I was moved when I saw the concern on their faces. At the time I did not know how much I would depend on them just to get safely off the island.
By evening I would be in so much pain that I could not sleep and I could not walk. In the morning I still could not walk. We sat around eating breakfast trying to think of how to get off the island. We all really wanted the ride to be over. It wasn’t fun anymore. Our cell phones had no service or we may have made an emergency call. I knew I could not walk the rugged nearly six miles back to the dock. I had promised to be at Camp Barakel on Wednesday evening to speak for a week of camp.
It was a dreary morning. The weather matched our mood. The island was shrouded in fog and it was cold. We packed our things away and came up with a plan.
Someone said; “Let’s build a raft and float Dad out around the north end.”
“Do you think we can?”
“What else can we do? He can’t walk.”
For the next hour the guys gathered logs and driftwood and used paracord and our sleeping pads to fashion a very sorry-looking raft. The bottom of the lake on that part of the west side is sandy and level and slopes gradually out into the water.
For the next two hours we made slow progress. I was belly down on a raft half-submerged in very cold water, but I didn’t want to complain since the boys weren’t. Dan and Wes, wearing packs tried to guide the raft through the water around rocks. They had to wade deep enough for the raft to clear the bottom and shallow enough to keep from soaking their packs. That night they would have to share a sleeping bag because Dan’s was soaked helping me.
As we reached the northwest part of the island the bottom changed from sand to rocks the size of bowling balls and made wading impossible. We dismantled the raft and tried to build a sled to drag the packs so a couple of the guys could help me out without carrying packs. That didn’t work.
The fog at that point thickened and the wind picked up. The temperature dropped and we wondered if were going to get soaked with cold rain. This was the low point on our collective morale. This really had melted down and it was not fun. I imagined the tidy speaker’s quarters at Barakel, my cozy book-lined inner study at Evangel, and my recliner at Granville Cottage. I imagined lying in my firm warm bed beside Lois under a nice quilt.
Through the whole ordeal little Kyle Kenneth shuffled along without complaining, wearing his dad’s hat (because it was “Man-Week”), and playing with his new knife.
It was just shortly before this that Chuk, who was striding along the shore on what looked like hardened sand, encountered a problem none of us had planned for. He stepped into a hole of quicksand up to his upper-thigh. There were places along the north shore where the sand was eroding and creating an illusion of a beach which was almost liquid sand. The sand was embedded with shell and gravel and when Chuk plunged into it he cut his foot. The cut filled with gravelly sand. He was not cheerful about that.
I was continually in prayer asking God for help and my heart was heavy with guilt that I had invited myself to the boy’s trip and then spoiled it for them. They were kind and respectful to me and none of them complained, but we were all very discouraged and began to talk openly of our love for fast food, hot showers, and flush toilets.
On the way over we chatted briefly with a Scoutmaster from Hart. I told him that I take my sons to North Manitou Island and my daughters to Mackinaw Island. Chuk said he wanted to go on the girl’s trip next time and didn’t ever want to see North Manitou Island again. We all agreed. I remembered the lilacs and Victorian rooms and cinnamon rolls and coffee shops lining the streets on Mackinaw Island and shook my head to clear my mind.
Our “Plan B” was to have someone carry my pack along with theirs and for two of them to help me “hop” around the north end of the island. We realized that it would take the rest of the day and likely all night, but we were out of options.
After a half-hour of hopping I discovered that I could hobble just a little if I didn’t put too much weight on my foot and I began the long, laborious, and most painful hike of my life.
For hours we slowly make our way around the rocky north end as the sun fell lower in the sky. The evening was beautiful. My pain abated. The sun came out and warmed our backs. Eventually we could hear the bird songs, the surf and the wind. We could feel the warm sun. We could smell the fragrances of the outdoors. We followed the tracks of deer trying to avoid the places where they had floundered in patches of quicksand.
We walked into the early nightfall and then made camp just as a storm blew in. The clouds blew away in the night and the wind dried our gear. The morning was as beautiful as any I have every experienced in my life. My pain had slackened and I rose and started slowly down the beach. The others would break camp and follow.
The bright sun was coming up the sky. The wind was blowing fresh at my back. The lake was showing off stunning white-caps. Around the next couple points the dock came into view. It was a welcome sight. I prayed, thanking God for His help. Only a few hours before I had no idea how I was going to meet the ferry on Wednesday.
Within a couple hours we were all gathered on the soft grass near the dock. Kyle brewed us all come pour-over coffee that Chuk provided from Starbucks and the smiles came back to our faces.
Warmed by the sun, with coffee in hand, looking out on the Manitou Passage in a little cluster of the people I love most in this world my heart fell into thankful relief. The guys swam under the dock. Later they took some photos. One in particular touched me. Kyle wanted a picture of he and Kyle Kenneth. I had made a memory with him on North Manitou Island and he had made a memory with his Kyle. My fine, strong sons had shown me great love and respect and honor. We looked up and saw the ferry tiny in the distance, its engine growling, coming around the south point. All was well.
When we arrived in Leland we gathered in a circle and prayed. I embraced each son and asked his forgiveness. They were all young and strong and kind and would have none of my apologies, but lied and said it was a great trip. I got in my Jeep to head toward Barakel. The guys would head south to Grand Rapids. Later they told me that as I was rounding Grand Traverse Bay, they had stopped for lunch. Kyle Kenneth was eating his macaroni and cheese and stopped mid-bite and said; “I miss grandpa.”
A lot went wrong, but I must have done something right.
Ken Pierpont
Granville Cottage
Riverview, Michigan
July 27, 2013

North Manitou Journal 2013 (Number 5) Losing a Bet
Our trip to the Manitous will live for years as an unforgettable family tale, perhaps more so because it did not go at all as planned. While preparing for the trip, knowing that Kyle Kenneth, our oldest “grandbuddie,” would be with us, I thought of telling the great legend of the Sleeping Bear (you can Google that if you are the curious sort). Instead I wanted to tell impactful, true stories that would stir the hearts of the guys to live for Christ and make Him known.
Down the west coast of Michigan on the shore of Lake Michigan south of Muskegon is a Michigan “Holy Place.” It’s been that way since the 1940’s. It was then that a pastor from Pontiac, Michigan had a vision for a place to get away from the heat of the city with young people to make Christ known to them.
He was Dr. Henry Savage (also influential in the founding of the Hiawatha Land Baptist Mission). He influenced his church to purchase the property and it became a well-known Bible Conference, now known as the Maranatha Bible and Missionary Conference.
The history and heritage of Maranatha is a fascinating Michigan story. One day a few years ago while visiting the Conference grounds, I discovered an interesting sub-plot to the Maranatha story. It would have been a great Michigan story to tell if we had not been rained out our second night.
As I tell it now try to imagine a perfect night with the stars over the silver and purple water of the Manitou Passage. We are in a circle of people we love most in the world sweetly weary from a long day of swimming in fresh water and hiking in fresh air. The surf laps gently and steadily on the shore and the wind stirs the leaves in the trees behind us. All else is silent as we slip into story.
One summer day when we lived in Fremont we took the morning off to drive to Maranatha and attend the Bible Conference during Moody Week. After the session ended a man walked up to us and told us that he had come to Maranatha in an unusual way many years earlier as a boy.
He said; “The first time I came here I was with my friends and we camped here overnight without permission. In the morning he was playing tennis when a man came up who was obviously official and said, “Do you boys have permission to camp here and play here? Do you realize this is private property?”
The boys were speechless before this apparently stern and official-looking man. He looked at them without smiling for a moment and then said;
“If I can beat you in tennis you have to stay here and help for the week…”
“Deal,” they said. Then he beat them both having “lost” the bet they stayed and that week the found Christ as their Savior there on the sandy shores of Lake Michigan.
The “stern official” was none other than Dr. Henry Savage himself, the founder of the camp. The man who told me the story still lived there in a yellow house just next to the Conference grounds.
I love that story and whenever I think of it I want to live the part of Dr. Henry Savage, the pastor with vision, passion for Christ and compassion for boys without Christ. On our hike we took trail names like they do on the Appalachian Trail. My trail name is Barnabas—the name means “Son of Encouragement.” I want to be a “Great Heart” like pastor Savage so I can make Christ known to people all over Michigan. I hope you will join me with your life now and keep serving Christ faithfully after I am gone.
Ken Pierpont
Granville Cottage
Riverview, Michgian
July 26, 2013

July 25, 2013
North Manitou Journal 2013 (Number 4) Porcupine for Dinner
You can’t build a campfire in the North Manitou Island backcountry. Fires are only allowed in the small village camping area near the dock on the east side of the island.
Our first night on the island we were determined to get to the west side and compensate for the campfire restriction with a beautiful sunset and some pour-over coffee prepared by Kyle on his Jet-Boil stove.
I looked forward to the trip and prepared stories for the waning moments of day like this. Things had not gone as I expected but I was determined to have a simple “telling” before the sun set and we crawled into our tents.
When dinner was done and daylight was fading we leaned back and I told them a story of Northern Michigan. It went something like this:
In 1855 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow penned an epic poem The Song of Hiawatha about Native American life in the northern Great Lakes. He called the area the Land of Hiawatha—his name for the hero of the poem, an Ojibwa Indian chief.
Arthur Glenn first went to the land of Hiawatha, specifically Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, just before WWI. He was a single man and, at the time, a backslidden believer. He worked in the raw and dangerous logging camps. The camps and communities were filled with rampant drunkenness, immorality and irreverence.
Years later he would return with his wife Florence as a pastor. They would live and work among the people there. They met other families working to foster churches in a very difficult place of service.
In 1940 an incident took place that would change his life and impact the whole region for Christ. He stopped by the home of Fred and Stella Kinkel, missionaries in Newberry. He usually stopped at mealtime. They were normally warm and hospitable. On this day they were slow to invite him in. It was because they had so little. Their meal would consist of a few old potatoes and a porcupine that Fred had clubbed to death.
Later Arthur would say that he felt the incident was arranged providentially by God to stir him to go to Lower Michigan and make the needs of the missionaries known and raise money to help them.
With the help of Dr. Henry Savage of First Baptist Church of Pontiac he would form an organization to support missionary church efforts in the Land of Hiawatha. They would name the organization Hiawatha Land Independent Baptist Mission.
Arthur was killed while serving the mission ten years later in an automobile accident, but the mission would go tenaciously on planting gospel-preaching churches all across our beloved Land of Hiawatha.
Today the mission had broadened its reach across the North American Continent and it is known as Continental Baptist Mission. We will never be able to calculate the impact of their vision this side of eternity.
When I finished my story we sat quietly and sipped our coffee and watched the colorful afterglow of the setting sun in the clouds. I told the guys that I hoped they would each dedicate themselves to making the story of Christ known, perhaps here in the region we have grown to love so much. We all prayed. We told Him our burdens, ambitions, fears, goals, and dreams. We expressed our love to Him and then we crawled into our tents to sleep.
Tomorrow would be a day none of us will ever forget. I’ll tell that story next, but you won’t believe it.
Here is the main source of my story:

Stories From My Trail Journal: Porcupine for Dinner
You can’t build a campfire in the North Manitou Island backcountry. Fires are only allowed in the small village camping area near the dock on the east side of the island.
Our first night on the island we were determined to get to the west side and compensate for the campfire restriction with a beautiful sunset and some pour-over coffee prepared by Kyle on his Jet-Boil stove.
I looked forward to the trip and prepared stories for the waning moments of day like this. Things had not gone as I expected but I was determined to have a simple “telling” before the sun set and we crawled into our tents.
When dinner was done and daylight was fading we leaned back and I told them a story of Northern Michigan. It went something like this:
In 1855 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow penned an epic poem The Song of Hiawatha about Native American life in the northern Great Lakes. He called the area the Land of Hiawatha—his name for the hero of the poem, an Ojibwa Indian chief.
Arthur Glenn first went to the land of Hiawatha, specifically Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, just before WWI. He was a single man and, at the time, a backslidden believer. He worked in the raw and dangerous logging camps. The camps and communities were filled with rampant drunkenness, immorality and irreverence.
Years later he would return with his wife Florence as a pastor. They would live and work among the people there. They met other families working to foster churches in a very difficult place of service.
In 1940 an incident took place that would change his life and impact the whole region for Christ. He stopped by the home of Fred and Stella Kinkel, missionaries in Newberry. He usually stopped at mealtime. They were normally warm and hospitable. On this day they were slow to invite him in. It was because they had so little. Their meal would consist of a few old potatoes and a porcupine that Fred had clubbed to death.
Later Arthur would say that he felt the incident was arranged providentially by God to stir him to go to Lower Michigan and make the needs of the missionaries known and raise money to help them.
With the help of Dr. Henry Savage of First Baptist Church of Pontiac he would form an organization to support missionary church efforts in the Land of Hiawatha. They would name the organization Hiawatha Land Independent Baptist Mission.
Arthur was killed while serving the mission ten years later in an automobile accident, but the mission would go tenaciously on planting gospel-preaching churches all across our beloved Land of Hiawatha.
Today the mission had broadened its reach across the North American Continent and it is known as Continental Baptist Mission. We will never be able to calculate the impact of their vision this side of eternity.
When I finished my story we sat quietly and sipped our coffee and watched the colorful afterglow of the setting sun in the clouds. I told the guys that I hoped they would each dedicate themselves to making the story of Christ known, perhaps here in the region we have grown to love so much. We all prayed. We told Him our burdens, ambitions, fears, goals, and dreams. We expressed our love to Him and then we crawled into our tents to sleep.
Tomorrow would be a day none of us will ever forget. I’ll tell that story next, but you won’t believe it.
Here is the main source of my story:

July 24, 2013
North Manitou Journal 2013 (Number 3) Decorating With Maps
The morning of July 7th I woke eager for the week to begin. I taught the membership class in my study and then preached. When I finished I had lunch with the girls and then aimed my Jeep toward Grand Rapids. Chuk and Wes had left the night before. We would all meet in Grand Rapids, spend then night, and head north for a three day backpacking and hiking trip to North Maniou Island.
We ended the day together gathered at a big round table at Famous Dave’s BBQ. A platter full of barbecued brisket was the perfect way to begin a manly adventure. In the morning we had breakfast and headed north on US Route 131 towards Cadillac. 131 is a wide lightly-travelled highway that undulates through beautiful countryside. About 20 miles south of Traverse City the rain began and pounded the car is we drove north.
The sun came out as we drove into Leland. We ate and headed out into Lake Michgan toward the Island. It’s an hour-long ferry ride. When we arrived at the Island we readied ourselves, checked our map, agreed on our route, and strode into the woods.
We had all agreed that we would take the most direct route to the western shore where we remembered a vast stretch of sandy beach reaching well out into the clear, cold water. We wanted to spend as much time there as we could and hike directly out on Wednesday morning to catch the ferry-ride back.
I noticed that it was a little over five miles across the island. I didn’t remember it being a very difficult walk when we visited before. I walk about 3.5 to 4 miles a day so a five-mile hike didn’t intimidate me. Our packs were a little heavy because we didn’t intend to do any more hiking than necessary to reach the paradise of the west shore, swim, eat, drink coffee, tell stories, pray and watch the sun set. The guys let me go first even though Kyle was the man with the map who had done the planning. I didn’t want to fall behind the young guys.
About twenty minutes into the hike I went right when I should have gone left and added an extra loop of trail to our hike. It was a bad mistake. The trail tacked almost two miles of very difficult climbing on unmantained trail to our walk. It seemed to me they tilted the island since we hiked it last and the trail was all up hill. Trees had fallen across the trail. The heavy rain had washed away large parts of it. A very wet spring made portions very difficult and overgrown. It was just hard hiking.
After a couple hours we all stopped noticing the sound of the birds, the fragrance of the forest, and the occasional views of the lake. We just lowered our heads a trudged on wondering how long it would be until the western shore would come into view and we could drop our packs and plunge into the water. And it was a lot longer than any of us thought. We were weary and winded and the overgrown trail just kept climbing up.
All of this difficulty would have faded into a happy memory when we reached the refreshing lake if it were not for what happened next. After trudging seven miles of our five-mile hike we still had not reached the lake. Occasionally, perhaps two or three times a year, I have a flair up of gout or inflammation in my right foot that makes normal life difficult, and walking impossible. It feels like something is broken or dislocated. When it happens it is extremely painful and I will be off my feet for a day or two until it has abated. It goes away almost as quickly as it comes and within a day or so I’m pain-free and back on my feet. It’s a painful mystery to me.
About seven and a half miles into the hike the pain began and by the time we reached the lake I could not take another step. It took me about an hour just to make my way up the beach to where we were forced to make camp and I knew we were in trouble. I had no idea how I could get off the island. I couldn’t take a step.
I was in pain that would not go away and began to pray for some way to get off the island. As far as I was concerned, at that moment, the whole trip and all my dreams for it melted down. I had imagined swimming, laughter, dinner, coffee, conversation, stories, qqScripture, prayers, a glorious sunset, and drifting off to sleep to the sound of the surf and wind. In my pain I managed one story and then literally crawled unto the tent to lie awake until sleep finally came at about 3:00 a.m.
We eventually did get off the island. How that happened will be an entertaining story for another day. Right now I’m sitting on our shady screen porch in Granville Cottage. The weather is ideal. It’s a cool morning. Breeze is making music in the trees. Our little fountain is singing harmony. I just enjoyed a jar of juiced vegetables. I had a good night’s sleep. I took Hazard on a brisk walk around the pond this morning. I’m just a short walk away from a wonderful flush-toilet. There’s cold water in the fridge.
In the comfort of our home I have time to think. What went wrong? We planned but we should have planned just a little more. We should have gone to school on the most direct route across that island and we should have very carefully followed the map to avoid adding the loop on the un-maintained trail. If we had made those simple adjustments we would have avoided the melt-down and we would be telling a much different story.
When you are suffering through an experience like that there is nothing funny about it but upon reflection, there is an amusing irony to the whole affair. When we last hiked North Maniou Island it was such a memorable experience that we saved a large map of the island and the map hung on the wall of the boys room for years. For years every night the boys would go to sleep under a map North Manitou Island. If we had studied the map and if we had carefully followed the trails, what a difference it would have made.
That’s something for people with dusty Bibles to think about. A Bible is like a map. It’s nothing more than a decoration if you don’t follow it.
Ken Pierpont
Granville Cottage
Riverview, Michigan
July 24, 2013

Stories From My Trail Journal; Decorating With Maps
The morning of July 7th I woke eager for the week to begin. I taught the membership class in my study and then preached. When I finished I had lunch with the girls and then aimed my Jeep toward Grand Rapids. Chuk and Wes had left the night before. We would all meet in Grand Rapids, spend then night, and head north for a three day backpacking and hiking trip to North Maniou Island.
We ended the day together gathered at a big round table at Famous Dave’s BBQ. A platter full of barbecued brisket was the perfect way to begin a manly adventure. In the morning we had breakfast and headed north on US Route 131 towards Cadillac. 131 is a wide lightly-travelled highway that undulates through beautiful countryside. About 20 miles south of Traverse City the rain began and pounded the car is we drove north.
The sun came out as we drove into Leland. We ate and headed out into Lake Michgan toward the Island. It’s an hour-long ferry ride. When we arrived at the Island we readied ourselves, checked our map, agreed on our route, and strode into the woods.
We had all agreed that we would take the most direct route to the western shore where we remembered a vast stretch of sandy beach reaching well out into the clear, cold water. We wanted to spend as much time there as we could and hike directly out on Wednesday morning to catch the ferry-ride back.
I noticed that it was a little over five miles across the island. I didn’t remember it being a very difficult walk when we visited before. I walk about 3.5 to 4 miles a day so a five-mile hike didn’t intimidate me. Our packs were a little heavy because we didn’t intend to do any more hiking than necessary to reach the paradise of the west shore, swim, eat, drink coffee, tell stories, pray and watch the sun set. The guys let me go first even though Kyle was the man with the map who had done the planning. I didn’t want to fall behind the young guys.
About twenty minutes into the hike I went right when I should have gone left and added an extra loop of trail to our hike. It was a bad mistake. The trail tacked almost two miles of very difficult climbing on unmantained trail to our walk. It seemed to me they tilted the island since we hiked it last and the trail was all up hill. Trees had fallen across the trail. The heavy rain had washed away large parts of it. A very wet spring made portions very difficult and overgrown. It was just hard hiking.
After a couple hours we all stopped noticing the sound of the birds, the fragrance of the forest, and the occasional views of the lake. We just lowered our heads a trudged on wondering how long it would be until the western shore would come into view and we could drop our packs and plunge into the water. And it was a lot longer than any of us thought. We were weary and winded and the overgrown trail just kept climbing up.
All of this difficulty would have faded into a happy memory when we reached the refreshing lake if it were not for what happened next. After trudging seven miles of our five-mile hike we still had not reached the lake. Occasionally, perhaps two or three times a year, I have a flair up of gout or inflammation in my right foot that makes normal life difficult, and walking impossible. It feels like something is broken or dislocated. When it happens it is extremely painful and I will be off my feet for a day or two until it has abated. It goes away almost as quickly as it comes and within a day or so I’m pain-free and back on my feet. It’s a painful mystery to me.
About seven and a half miles into the hike the pain began and by the time we reached the lake I could not take another step. It took me about an hour just to make my way up the beach to where we were forced to make camp and I knew we were in trouble. I had no idea how I could get off the island. I couldn’t take a step.
I was in pain that would not go away and began to pray for some way to get off the island. As far as I was concerned, at that moment, the whole trip and all my dreams for it melted down. I had imagined swimming, laughter, dinner, coffee, conversation, stories, qqScripture, prayers, a glorious sunset, and drifting off to sleep to the sound of the surf and wind. In my pain I managed one story and then literally crawled unto the tent to lie awake until sleep finally came at about 3:00 a.m.
We eventually did get off the island. How that happened will be an entertaining story for another day. Right now I’m sitting on our shady screen porch in Granville Cottage. The weather is ideal. It’s a cool morning. Breeze is making music in the trees. Our little fountain is singing harmony. I just enjoyed a jar of juiced vegetables. I had a good night’s sleep. I took Hazard on a brisk walk around the pond this morning. I’m just a short walk away from a wonderful flush-toilet. There’s cold water in the fridge.
In the comfort of our home I have time to think. What went wrong? We planned but we should have planned just a little more. We should have gone to school on the most direct route across that island and we should have very carefully followed the map to avoid adding the loop on the un-maintained trail. If we had made those simple adjustments we would have avoided the melt-down and we would be telling a much different story.
When you are suffering through an experience like that there is nothing funny about it but upon reflection, there is an amusing irony to the whole affair. When we last hiked North Maniou Island it was such a memorable experience that we saved a large map of the island and the map hung on the wall of the boys room for years. For years every night the boys would go to sleep under a map North Manitou Island. If we had studied the map and if we had carefully followed the trails, what a difference it would have made.
That’s something for people with dusty Bibles to think about. A Bible is like a map. It’s nothing more than a decoration if you don’t follow it.
Ken Pierpont
Granville Cottage
Riverview, Michigan
July 24, 2013
