FROM  THE  DIRECTOR

REFLECTIONS...Tom Bailey

Nature teaches us through the joy of spring–as well as through the warm fullness of summer, the hushed slumber of winter and the blazing, bittersweet glory of fall–that life is constant motion and continuous change. The comings and goings that make up the flow of life can be hard to understand at times, and even harder to bear. But nature shows us that slumber is always followed by a new awakening, and that for every parting there is a reunion.

In our culture, we tend to think in terms of opposites–happiness and sadness; meetings and partings. But as events unfold and life flows along its way, the message may be that happiness and sadness, meetings and partings don’t so much oppose one another as they define one another. Perhaps they even create one another, each one giving the other a richer meaning.

Given the events of the past year on both a personal level and on the scale of world events, it seems that life is trying to teach me some things about the circles and cycles through which we move. I struggle to come to grips with how it all fits together, and try to open myself to the way things need to be.

And now another loss. How sad I was to learn of the death of a dear and wonderful friend of the Conservancy, Robert D. Horner. Bob was a truly wonderful man: kind, gentle and generous. He was deeply committed to conservation and deeply committed to leaving the North Country a better place, its people in a better way, for his having been here.

Bob was a longtime supporter of the Conservancy and a key donor to our endowment fund. He was interested in establishing a positive balance between land development and land conservation in the North, and he truly cared about this community. How wonderful it was to know this man, to share ideas, and to learn of the many things we had in common.

We spent many memorable times together, but one which stands out is the day he mentioned the incident with the moose. To understand why, it is important to know that one of the most famous stories that was told during my years as a ranger at Isle Royale National Park involved a commercial fisherman named Milford Johnson who once took a dare to catch a ride on a wild bull moose.

Milford and some friends were canoeing across Lake Ritchie on the island’s south side in the 1930s as a bull moose was seen swimming across the lake nearby. The young men got to discussing whether one of them might be willing to exit the canoe and hitch a ride on the swimming beast. Wagers were discussed and, money being tight in those times, the amount finally rose to the point where Milford decided to take the bet. He dove from the canoe, swam up behind the moose, grabbed onto the antlers and held on for the amount of time the bettors had agreed would constitute a “ride.”

As Milford put it when I heard the story from him personally on one occasion, just before he was supposed to let go, the moose’s feet touched the lake bottom and things got “pretty interesting.” The moose, Milford noted, couldn’t do much while he was swimming in deep water except kick with its long legs in an effort to dislodge his passenger. Milford said, “I could avoid that by stretching my legs out along his back instead of straddling him like a horse.” The antlers were a danger, of course, but Milford noted that “he couldn’t shake his head too much while he was swimming.”

That changed when the animal’s feet found solid ground. Just as Milford was to let go and swim away, the moose was able to jump, kick, shake its antlers and otherwise protest Milford’s presence. It put on quite a display, sending showers of water in all directions as Milford was hoisted back into the canoe by his pals, feeling as though he had barely survived what he referred to on many occasions as “the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

The connection with Bob Horner came up on a beautiful summer day as we toured some property he had acquired in Friendship Township. When Bob mentioned growing up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, I noted that I had done most of my growing up in the UP. We began comparing notes on places and experiences, and when I mentioned my fond memories of Isle Royale, Bob said he remembered visiting the island in the ‘30s. He shook his head and noted, laughing softly, that he remembered being there when a fellow took a ride on a moose.

My jaw dropped, I turned to Bob and said, “I can’t believe it. You were there when Milford Johnson rode that moose!” Bob looked as surprised as I did and nodded, saying, “I think it was one of the Johnson boys!”

I had a few other delightful opportunities to talk about old times with Bob Horner–and, happily, more occasions to talk about the importance of land conservation in maintaining what we love about Michigan’s North Country. I looked forward to every visit, every phone call, and every opportunity to work with this kind and gracious man on projects ranging from conservation easements to gifts of land (see story p. 5) to generous donations to the Conservancy’s endowment fund. It was obvious in working with Bob that he truly loved the outdoors and wanted always to be surrounded by nature’s beauty. He recognized the importance of not only savoring the beauty of the North, but of working to save it as well, so that others may enjoy the natural heritage that has been entrusted to us.

I reflect on those times and miss Bob Horner. I think of other losses and partings, and look to nature for answers and for meaning. Everything has its purpose, I am reminded; everything fits into place. It’s all adding up to something, and the only constant is change.

The bittersweet of meetings and partings is an important part of what is meant to be. I think of the many wonderful people I have met through my work at the Conservancy, and of the profound synchronicity of it all.

Bob Horner’s kindness, his care for the North Country and his community spirit touched me deeply, as did his stories of Isle Royale and the simple joy of sharing a visit to one of the North’s special places. The natural land that Bob loved reveals its secrets and its wisdom readily to anyone willing to listen, absorb and observe. Nature shows us balance and that everything has its purpose.

We mourn our losses to the same extent that we savor our connections. As we feel enriched by the presence of the people who come into our lives, so we feel bereft when we lose them. Knowing, as nature teaches us, that everything has its purpose can help us to find acceptance, help us to appreciate what we are given, and help us in our struggle to understand the importance, significance and necessity of everything that unfolds in our lives.