In eastern Wisconsin, a peninsula known
for cherry orchards and apple wine juts out into Lake Michigan.
Comprising three-quarters of the Door peninsula, Door County is known
for rocky shorelines, lighthouses, and fish boils. Given the tourist
whimsy of Door County, the origin of the its name is surprisingly
sinister. Just north of the peninsula's tip is a chaotic strait known
as Porte des Mortes-
literally, "the door of the dead." Though the strait has a
grim reputation as a harbinger of shipwrecks, the name is apparently
linked to a battle between two Indian tribes occurring early in the
19th century, in which warring parties were swept out into the deep
due to an ill-timed wave. But despite shipwrecks, tribal wars, and
killer waves, the county remains a place synonymous with rocky
shorelines, good fishing, and quirky Midwest charm.
When I was fifteen, during a
particularly snowy winter in the mid-90's, I had the privilege of
visiting Door County with my best friend Mark and his family. The
Ericksons had ancestral ties to the land, and retained the property
of Mark's now deceased grandfather. Situated just north of the Mud
Lake State Natural Area, the property was substantial, and
wonderfully arcadian. A two-story farm house with wood floors and
lots of windows was flanked by a tool shed and encircled almost
entirely by pines. Before it crouched the shell of a stubborn old
barn, austere in looks and purpose, replete with thick doors, wood
ladders, and a hay loft.
Mark, his younger brother, and I spent
the morning in the grandfather's workshop- a single storied, one room
hovel clad with gray pine weathered by the bite of one hundred
winters. A porcelain doorknob gave us entry, the groan of old hinges
heralding our arrival. Work benches lined both sides of the workshop
entirely, every inch occupied with industrious clutter: Ball and claw
hammer, hacksaw and hand drill, drivers and cutters and jointed
rulers. On the back wall and on the rafters above hung tools of less
delicacy: Shovels, rakes, McLeods and pulaskis- every handle oak and
every head rusty. I imagined, and still do, a skilled artisan
fashioning wares of rustic charm here, a bearded man of mirth, wisdom
and gentleness, filling the air with the sound of wood manipulated
and the low hum of a Scandinavian folk song now forgotten.
Today, however, the air was filled with
the clumsiness of youth. Ambitiously we set to work, creating
instruments with which to bludgeon any potential foe. Rambling packs
of wolves, helm-horned goblins, or pagan forest tribes like the
Ostrogoths of old- enemies of all sorts could be lurking in the
wildlands of this peninsula. Fair time was invested in our weapons,
and broom handles didn't stand a chance. Clamped and cut with the
rusty teeth of a old saws, they would now serve more noble, pressing
purposes. Lee the youngest, red-haired and bright, finished first,
the end product resembling nothing more than a blunt wooden club
wrapped in electrical tape. Mark his brother-wiry, quick, and a bit
less white than snow- used three yards of rope to attach a rusty tow
hook to a rod of oak. Two lengths of doweled pine connected with
chain hammered into the ends by thick staples was a monstrosity I
beamed over, and we burst from the shed swinging wildly, ever aware
of the unnerving range of Mark's death hook.
A row of pines at the edge of the
Erickson property marked the end of civilization. Passing through was
akin to reaching the end of Lewis' wardrobe. A steep embankment
before us marked the beginning of a snow-crusted prairie filled with
yellow grasses waist high. Ringing the edges in a circle, like the
enveloping arms of an overbearing mother, was a phalanx of pine and
white cedar. Wind rushed up to meet us, less a greeting than a
warning, as we slid down the rocky bank onto the tussled rye below.
While we had no destination, it was understood that up here, we
belonged to the forest. So we crossed the wild grasses, pausing for a
moment to take in the fullness of what lie ahead.
The fallen snow creates a shady canopy,
a low-lying cover that gently holds the forest floor in its grasp.
Peering inside, a strange world appears, cavernous yet dappled with
diffused brightness, blue and silver, ivory and brown, and everywhere
the virgin white of a million snowflakes. Few things entice as the
winter forest. It is a kingdom unto itself, with clearly defined
borders, dukes and baronesses, stalwart monoliths towering over the
saplings below. It is no wonder the forest finds itself so often the
setting for stories mythical. Sherwood, Mirkwood, Black. Thieves and
elves and Will-o'-the-wisps. A place of healing or where one meets
one's end. It is wise to enter with nunchucks.
In addition to arming ourselves, we'd
given each other names as well. Though I no longer recall what they
were, I suspect grand titles such as "Grim the Unflinching"
or "Throgg the Bloody" were not far from the mark. We
tromped through the magic like a jolly party of medieval troubadours,
mockingly singing a pop song we'd heard on the radio during the trip
up, violently felling any dead tree so brash as to stand in our way.
For hours it went on like this, our energy and warmth sustained and
our imagination boundless. Eventually we stumbled upon a circular
glen within the forest, within which stood a solitary aspen. It seems
such a perfect anomaly now, a single tree within a single circle
within such a remote forest. I half expected the greeting of an elf
king, or the tightening of a wood troll's trap around our ankles.
We paused here, transfixed with the
scene around us. A short distance away lay a curve of limestone
rising from the forest floor like a giant turtle, its shell large
enough to accommodate a war council. In the other direction we could
just make out the point at which the forest ended and Mud lake began.
Mark swung his hook weapon around a weak tree limb and yanked. The
branch crashed to the ground with a dense thud, breaking the still
wintry quiet.
I read a lot of J.R.R. Tolkien during
these years, and an awful feeling had swept over me as I neared the
end of his "Rings" trilogy. This fantasy that I was so
invested in, that surged through me during every moonlit walk and
caused me to wonder what really dwelt
in earth's most remote corners...was ending. It's obvious now
that I found, like so many others, an escape in the pages of Tolkien,
a place to abide where, if only momentarily, my own hangups were
abated. Perhaps this is why, looking back on the forests of Door
County, I can't help but bemoan the reality that I saw no goblins or
furry tribesmen. I longed for a place (and still do) where the myth
becomes reality. The mall, the television, video games- none are
worthy escapes. But the woods-the quiet places where owls and hawks
and badgers dwell, where the artifices of man do not sully and the
roar of machines are largely unheard- these are of a myth worth
getting lost in.
I've pondered for years that odd
fondness for the monster, wondering why there should exist any desire
whatsoever for encountering the foul things of Tolkien's
Middle-Earth. It's probable the answer lies in the endearing
simplicity of a world of such clearly defined evil. Consider that the
irredeemable enemy is one who's destruction conscience can never
disgrace. Kill the monster, and you've engaged in heroism. Not so
with the serial-killer or pedophile or sex-trafficker. Hurt them
outside the imposed bureaucratic boundaries of today (or oftentimes
even within) and look forward to a lengthy legal proceeding, or
worse. In our modern world, the heroic act can often be one of
complication and dubiousness. But it is hardly so complex in
Middle-Earth. Roving bands of orcs with diabolical intentions are to
be met with but one, mortal solution, for theirs is a mind outside
the reach of rehabilitation.
But I'd like to think that my reveries
and the cathartic forest adventures paralleling them went deeper than
mere escapism or the facile categorization of good and bad. The
question begging to be asked, of course, is why does anyone want
to escape? And further, when
they do, why do they want to kill goblins? Obviously, as these
questions probe topics existential and spiritual, an answer of true
substance is outside the range of this memoir, but it may be
sufficient to just simply say I often felt uselessly unhappy at this
age, and that in the winter woods of Door County there was a
place where an insecure, overweight, and angry adolescent could part
company with his own monsters, and join with the hero, the
adventurer, the goblin-killer.
We walked on frozen Mud Lake and the
wind grew increasingly stiff. Around our feet, in bushy patches here
and there, wind-bowed coon's tail and burr reed fought the ice's
choke. In warmer days, emerald dragonflies roost here, but in
December, they slumber as nymphs below. Our weapons, splintered and
cracked as they were, required the attention of old tools and new
electrical tape. A gravel road which winded through the timbers saw
us safely to the farm house, and a tiny foyer was suddenly cluttered
with cracked leather boots, cumbersome dark coats, and bright-colored
flannels. Hours later, the dining room became the gambling hall of a
Mississippi river steam-boat, and we haggled over disputations akin
to a river boat gambler. The din of poker chips, shuffled cards, and
southern accents spilled into the living room where Mr. and Mrs.
Erickson, each lost in a book, found their own escape.
