Before my time?Pembine is the waterfall capitol of northern Wisconsin. Just north of the eastern end of Hy 8 a couple of miles on north on HY 41 as it continues to Niagara and then over the Menomonee River and the MI border to Iron Mountain. Way up north in pastie country, but not as far north as Cornucopia WI near Bayfield as WI land lies.
I have rebuilt a cabin roof in Pembine, transplanted pine trees, paneled a living room with old outhouse boards, made an outdoor shelf case next to a back door out of a sawed-in-half waterlogged rowboat, and dug 30 feet in the wrong direction to uncover a small septic tank that was right aside the house.
I have been chased and stung by many angry bees living in a rotting log I stepped on.
I have become submerged after calling to friends to “Follow ME!” into an unplumbed creek.
I’ve seen a pileated woodpecker, had him fly along-side of my jogging back road, from tree to tree until he tired of the sport.
I’ve seen a circle-hunting wolf leap over my head on a dipping logging trail, unaware, I think, that I was running by beneath him.
I’ve heard owls calling on a crisp midnight by moonlight while I sat outside going to the bathroom on a chrome kitchen chair with the seat off, while listening too to the clicking sounds from the cooling down VW engine. In winter when the heat and water were off.
I’ve had another owl fly up behind me in the woods and snatch my fur hat from my head, then drop it on the trail in front of me - rejected as his surmised supper.
I’ve snorkeled in little Lake Lundgren, where I saw the largest and perhaps oldest lunker northern pike, swimming leisurely with a necklace of snapped fishing lures stuck in his massive breast and mouth. A boastful suit of chain mail, an indomitable you'll-never-catch-me fish.
All thes things and more I’ve seen in Pembine. But I’ve never seen an Indian like the one in the above postcard bought in the general store there.
I have rebuilt a cabin roof in Pembine, transplanted pine trees, paneled a living room with old outhouse boards, made an outdoor shelf case next to a back door out of a sawed-in-half waterlogged rowboat, and dug 30 feet in the wrong direction to uncover a small septic tank that was right aside the house.
I have been chased and stung by many angry bees living in a rotting log I stepped on.
I have become submerged after calling to friends to “Follow ME!” into an unplumbed creek.
I’ve seen a pileated woodpecker, had him fly along-side of my jogging back road, from tree to tree until he tired of the sport.
I’ve seen a circle-hunting wolf leap over my head on a dipping logging trail, unaware, I think, that I was running by beneath him.
I’ve heard owls calling on a crisp midnight by moonlight while I sat outside going to the bathroom on a chrome kitchen chair with the seat off, while listening too to the clicking sounds from the cooling down VW engine. In winter when the heat and water were off.
I’ve had another owl fly up behind me in the woods and snatch my fur hat from my head, then drop it on the trail in front of me - rejected as his surmised supper.
I’ve snorkeled in little Lake Lundgren, where I saw the largest and perhaps oldest lunker northern pike, swimming leisurely with a necklace of snapped fishing lures stuck in his massive breast and mouth. A boastful suit of chain mail, an indomitable you'll-never-catch-me fish.
All thes things and more I’ve seen in Pembine. But I’ve never seen an Indian like the one in the above postcard bought in the general store there.
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