Memories from gravel roads and the creekbank

 

If someone had told me when I was sitting in my business law classes in college that one day I’d find myself wading a stream to get good pictures of a bridge as a normal part of my work day, I would have of course said they were nuts. I mean, for what reason would a Fortune 500 CEO have need to take pictures of bridges? Yet, as I found myself tracing through the country roads in Carroll County one warm fall day, that particular stream awaited me as part of a contract I had to aid in development of a travel guide of historic sites. I was, indeed, fortunate and the CEO, CFO, CAD monkey, grunt on the keyboard, chief cook and bottle washer, and janitor of a certain company. The number is insignificant.

My wife’s family were from Carroll County and at least in the first few years of marriage, we had Christmas at her Porter grandparent’s “town” house in Flora, to which they moved after leaving the farm. This is significant, evidently, because in the building years of working in the land of my wife’s ancestors, I quickly became known as the guy who married into that family….newspaper articles noted that I was the grandson-in-law of former Carroll County Commissioner Mark Porter. Grandpa Porter shared that he wasn’t disappointed to not serve longer than he did…a sentiment I share myself. County commissioners are executives by function, with full responsibility, but one of only three in making a decision, so with virtually no authority. Whoever thought up that system should be hog-tied, tarred and feathered.

I was given a list of sites that needed photographed for the travel guide. I wandered all through the countryside on gravel roads and thinking now how nice the technology of google maps would have been. At one point, as the gravel crackled under my tires, I found myself winding along a narrow stretch of road following Wildcat Creek with no homes, or vehicles, in sight. Was this even a public road? A farm boy, bare chested with a ball cap and shorts, riding an ATV came sliding around a curve I was approaching in the road. He had a giant grin on his face-all teeth, and hollered out with a quick wave, returning his hand to the handlebar to maintain control. That smile was infectious, and I didn’t even care that I heard the ping of gravel against my truck as he raced past me. With my windows down, I enjoyed catching glimpses of that cool bubbly stream winding itself as if it had carved the road….and, indeed it sort of had.

Wildcat Creek, which I had the fortune of kayaking once with a buddy, has a storied place in Indiana history. During the battles and skirmishes with Native Americans in the region in the early 1800s, Wildcat became the scene of a devastating massacre. In November of 1812, as a result of an offensive against Native American villages in the area, a scouting party of Colonel Miller’s forces had been fired upon by Native Americans along the creek bed. One soldier was killed and the others retreated. When the party went back to reclaim the body, they were met with the sight of the soldier’s head mounted on a pike with an Native standing next to it, taunting the party. They gave chase only to be found in a narrow canyon area of the creek where they were ambushed my members of the Kickapoo, Winnebago, and Shawnee tribes. In total, American losses were 17 dead and 3 wounded in the Battle of Wildcat Creek. A monument commemorating the battle was erected at the little village of Pyrmont.

Moving on from Pyrmont, my last stop of the day was the historic, restored, Adams Mill and nearby covered bridge over Wildcat Creek. My wife and I had visited before, with our three-month old son, after a visit to her grandparents in Flora. Adams Mill was built in 1845 by John Adams…no a different John Adams, with a sluice that used water from Wildcat Creek to power a mighty wooden wheel, churning and rolling those heavy millstones to grind grain to flour to sustain the little farming community that popped up during the 1800s. The mill churned out its last bit of flour in 1951, but with the aid of an always-engaged and preservation-minded populace in Carroll County, the old mill was restored and runs again, spinning and churning with great creaks and groans. The covered bridge, in eyesight of the mill when trees have dropped their foliage, was built of massive timbers in 1872 by order of the county commissioners.

I parked at the vacant gravel lot near the mill and took several shots of the grand red and white structure. As I walked the narrow winding road from Adams Mill to the covered bridge over Wildcat Creek, the late afternoon sun dappled through the dense tree canopy overhead. It was a warmer than usual September day and the sun's rays were quickly absorbed by my black t-shirt. With my camera to my side and the camera strap causing beads of sweat to form between the shirt it was pressing against and my back, I became acutely aware of my surroundings.

At first the silence in the vale seemed only broken by the few birds perched high in the canopy, and then by my own footsteps on the road surface, but then ultimately it was my own breathing I heard until I reached a point where the ripples in Wildcat Creek drowned out the other incidental noises I had become aware of. As I approached the old covered bridge the smell of aged timbers wafted through the air. I walked slowly across the bridge to absorb both the history and scenic vistas offered through its portals. The floor boards, even under my light steps, creaked appropriately to inform me of my surroundings.

I reached the other side and didn't delay in snapping a few shots of what I thought would be clever perspectives, but knowing I could never capture the essence of what I was experiencing. My stride was quicker on the way back across and this time a motorist met me at the other side. The driver, an older lady with both hands on the wheel, smiled and nodded as if to say "I get it-I know why you're here".

I eased my way down the embankment to the edge of Wildcat Creek and began to walk its semi-sandy, slightly mushy edge guarded by massive sycamore trees whose gnarled roots held back the soil in drifts washed over by the rise and fall of creek waters. I had sufficiently waterproof boots on my feet, which allowed me to wade out into the shallower edges where wispy white waters bubbled over my feet. For a second or two I considered stripping off my shoes and socks and wading further out to get a direct broadside picture of the white span, but I had jeans on and the choice was to strip further, or get them wet. I chose neither. I turned toward the covered bridge again, snapped a few shots, and then climbed back up to the road. Heading back, again, my stride was quicker as I began to round the bend of the road and the mill came back into view....and then almost instinctively I slowed again as I noticed the sycamores roadside whose large branches stretched out above me. Their ghostlike white arms and distinctive aroma halted me in my tracks.

And I said aloud, though so perfectly alone, "I'm never more at home in Indiana than when I can hear the gentle churning of a creek and be shaded beneath the great outstretched arms of a sycamore."  And then like flood waters against my very soul, I was overwhelmed by a rush of memories that flooded my mind, some taking me back to my childhood, and I have to admit becoming a little misty-eyed to feel so blessed.

Sycamore trees are my favorite, by far. There was a large one that stood way off in the distance from the east window out of my parents’ kitchen. It was the direction we looked to scan for the school bus and you could always see the morning light catching its white form, turning it pink as if it were blushing. I always marvel at their form, never quite the same like other species of trees. Countless kayak trips always revealed those gentlemen of the river, like the four who stand together on a sandbar in Sugar Creek near Turkey Run. I always stop and pay homage to these trees I dubbed “the old men of the river” because I imagine they speak to each other until kayakers come into view, then fall silent until the last voyageur rounds the bend downstream, then they start again. I told my wife once that if we ever moved to the country, we’d call our place Sycamore Hill. She asked how that would work if there was no sycamore. I said I’d plant one. Fortunately, Sycamore Hill found us, and as if a sign from the Creator Himself, there stood a massive old fellow on the hillside just up from the creek. Oh, we still added to the stand of sycamores on the property when my son and I planted more to line the long drive back up the hill to the farmstead.

Indiana has an interesting fondness for sycamore trees. While not our official state tree, as I contend it should be, they are given the honor of appearing in both our state song, and in the song that many Hoosiers believe is our state song. I mean, we don’t sing that we dream about the gleaming candlelight, shining bright, through the tulip poplar trees, do we? And our famous Hoosier painter, T. C. Steele, focused on those beloved sycamores lining stream banks and the valley floors of southern Indiana. Sycamore Row, the venerable allee of trees south of Deer Creek, have an origin shrouded in mystery and hold such fond memories for people that traveled through their outstretched arms along the old Michigan Road, or State Road 29 today.

The largest sycamore ever recorded in the state was located on the Wabash River-it was a whopping 18’ in diameter, or larger than a tiny house today. The farmer got so fed up with gazers trampling over his crops to see the tree that he cut it down in 1897. Does that sound like a Hoosier to you? It would have been more advantageous to charge admission. When another giant, estimated to be over 300 years old fell in a storm outside of Kokomo, the hollowed out trunk was carted to the city and put on display, where it remains today, standing opposite of Big Ben, the giant steer. Now, that does sound like the Hoosier thing to do.

Back in my truck, I regained composure from the rush of emotion and started out toward the two-lane highway that would take me home, being a little more aware of the sycamore trees that stood sentry along the road, or dotted the banks of rivers I crossed. I think of our state’s roads and rivers as the veins that course through what we know collectively as our Indiana Home. The health of our communities depended on both to sustain life. They still do, though I think our relationship to each has been ruined by our own re-engineering of the same. Sometimes I think the best thing each of us could do would be to spend a day on a river, or make a slow drive down a road with no clear destination. We can discover a lot along the journey, and maybe a little bit about ourselves.

Road to Roan

 

I sought out a backroad short cut once on a way to my cousins’ house in Van Buren many years ago. Highway 19 was my link between Rochester and Wabash, but when it said go right, I went left, following across county roads. With another turn, my path took me through Stockdale and Roann. This is a path I’ve continued to take these many 30 years later, and it always puts a smile on my face. Memories abound on this little shortcut.

My initial journey of discovery, that left turn instead of right, took me straight past an orange-colored brick 19^th century church, abandoned, at the edge of a hillside graveyard. The building looked sad, but inviting. Those arched windows of wavy glass pointed at their tops to the heavens, as if to be continuing some lost sermon when the doors closed for the last time. I wasn’t looking for anything particular on that drive, but here was something of note that presented itself to me. So, I pulled over and turned onto the dirt drive of two ribbons worn by tires, crowned by a long ribbon of grass down the center. I drove slowly, to be certain not to bump any stones of the departed, and in so-doing, read the names of pioneers. And then I read those of my own ancestors. And it stopped me, literally, in my tracks. I knew ancestors were in this region, and there they were.

This made me made me a believer in genetic memory, a term I coined, which is a memory, or sense of place, that is passed down through genes. As if my ancestors were directing my path from the left turn, to this place. Even recently, on taking the right turn, then right again, did I find my great, times four, grandfather’s house at a point where three counties come together…and it appears just as it does in an early engraver’s print in a Miami County history book.

This part of the state is the hearth of the Brethren denomination. Jonathan Swihart, the ancestor I stumbled across by going left, and his two brothers were the first ministers to bring the Brethren church across the border from Ohio to Indiana, and it was here they settled, though one, Mathias, continued northward and founded the first Brethren church in Marshall County, now Walnut Church of the Brethren. Jonathan’s son, Aaron, married Mary Myers, who grew up in the house found in the engraving. Aaron also continued on to Marshall County and ascended in the Brethren church, becoming a leader of the church in the Great Lakes Region. And it was Aaron, who was accidentally shot by his son while on an expedition to establish a Brethren colony in Michigan. Elder Aaron exclaimed “I am worse hurt than you” as he dropped to the ground with a head convulsion. His body was brought back to Marshall County aboard a train.

Leaving the little orange brick church and further down the shortcut, I came upon an old mill, the Stockdale Mill, as I rounded a corner to turn back east. It was built between 1855 and 1857, and remained in operation until 1964. It was restored in 2002. Then a mile from there, I went through Roann, graced on its northern edge by a covered bridge spanning the Eel River. So with great regularity, as my work took me to Wabash and points south, I would take this picturesque shortcut over and over again. While still my fiancé, I took my wife, who packed a small basket, to picnic at the little public parking area looking back at the mill on the north side of the river. It was just as charming as I recalled 10 years prior.

Once while passing through, I noted a sign announcing Roann’s fall festival was scheduled for a weekend in 2007. My wife was to be gone that weekend, and I thought it would be a good distraction for our two little kids, so I asked if they wanted to go to a small fair. They did, so we did. Now, I don't want to seem to be picking on this little town, but, talk about a small town festival! There were four or five food booths set up on main street and about the same number of craft booths. I will admit, I was impressed with the enormous turn-out for the mud volley ball tournament and tractor pull. Tractor pulls are done right, here in the Hoosier state. But, it was the carnival rides that the kids wanted to experience. Their eyes both immediately landed on this streamlined mini train.......which, I could imagine my dad riding in the 1940's. I paid the outrageous sum for the two kids to climb into the engine and second car. The carny sounded the whistle, which appeared to be a siren scavenged from another ride, and off they went. They had the train all to themselves.

While I was waiting for the kids to finish their adventure, the carny struck up a conversation with me about where the rides were going next in Indiana, then their circuit through the Michigan festivals and how they should be done by the end of October. Then he gave me the low-down on what had happened at the festival the night before and how he and two of his buddies "went lookin' for a troublesome young buck" who threatened a girl with a knife. Having nothing more to say to him, than "hmmm, wow." he continued to tell his great tale of finding the kid in the alley and threatened to drag his sorry butt (I cleaned this up) to the sheriff and they'd give him "a good beatin'". Hmmm....wow. I said again.

Meanwhile, I had noticed the kids' adventure seemed to be declining, the magic had now gone from their eyes-I mean, it had been about 10 minutes at this point going in circles. The carny noticed this too, so he thought to reignite the joy by sounding the siren again. He turned to me and continued his fantastic tale from the dark alleys of this town of about 600 Hoosiers. Soon I began to feel a little sorry for the troublesome buck. I'm not so sure that I'd want to have a run-in with three carnys in a dark alley-although I saw no sign of the bearded woman or yak girl in and among the carnival grounds. I did notice that my little girl had her arms stretched out wanting out of the little train. My son sat with his chin in his hands-at this point the carny rung the little bell on the front of the engine and said "whoo who!" Finally, the carny's story ended. And so did the magic train ride........about 12 minutes, I'd guess. The next little girl got on, her ride lasted about 2 minutes.

A few years later, in 2011, I was asked to complete a project for the little village of Roann. Roann was originally platted in 1853 by Joseph Beckner.  The small village was a rival to a nearby Stockdale, which had been settled in 1839 and had the advantage of a functioning mill on the river.  Beckner, himself an early settler, owned 600 acres of land between the south edge of the Eel River to about one mile south of present day Roann.  He established a tavern along an American Indian trail near the south edge of his property.  A town in the vicinity of Roann had been proposed for some time prior to the plat due to the location of a bridge over the Eel River in the same area.  When the Detroit, Eel River, and Illinois Railroad was projected to come through the area, Beckner seized the opportunity to establish the town on his land between the river and the proposed railroad.  The most valid story on the origins of the name for the community is from the name of a young woman who worked at Beckner’s tavern and Beckner’s daughter.  Both girls’ names were Ann; the worker’s last name was Roe.

The covered bridge, a Howe Truss design, was built in 1877 to span the Eel River and provide better access to the new village of Roann. It was listed on the National Register in 1981 and less than 10 years later, suffered an arsonist’s fire. It was quickly rehabbed and is one of few covered bridges remaining in northern Indiana. It played host to a dinner of assembled preservationists a few years back, and despite the cold spring evening, was still quite stunning.

Having gained some appreciation for the village, and fulfilling a desire to experience another Indiana river in a kayak, I talked some guys into floating a stretch of the Eel from near Laketon to Stockdale, gliding under the covered bridge which sounded as though it was hosting a wedding party that afternoon. We finished our float at that public parking site opposite the Stockdale Mill, but one guy, soaking wet from disembarking from his kayak, needed to change before he drove his truck back to the put-in site. Taking a long look around, he dropped the rest of his clothes to put on dry shorts, and I leaned over in the truck, which he was using as a partial blind, and blew the horn just to announce to the folks visiting the mill, that my buddy was baring it all in the parking lot. It’s not that he wasn’t agile, but blowing the horn caused him to be more hurried and his toe caught the waistband of his underwear and down he went.

This shortcut also took me past my grandpa’s sister’s home east of Rochester. As grandad got older and drove less and less, he would ask if I could take him on a drive to visit his sister, so I knew this path well. After grandma died, gramps remarried a woman who had been single most of her life. She was as set in her ways as grandpa was. And grandpa wasn’t about to let her drive her compact car to his funeral, so he went out and bought her the largest Ford manufactured at that time. She hated driving it, and went and bought herself a new compact car. Therefore, the Ford sat in the garage….a garage he built to house it….and it became known as the funeral car. The two of them decided each was too set in their ways, so they parted theirs, but the funeral car remained in the garage. Except for times when gramps wanted me to take him to his sister’s house. Once in their conversation, his sister mentioned that someone, recently, had written her name on a bathroom stall door “for a good time call.” Given that gramps was given to story-telling, a trait I got from him, I assumed this was an embellished story. At least I hope it was. Once I put grandpa and his sister in the car and drove to the nearby one-room brick Prill School, named for their great grandad. They enjoyed that, and I have a great picture of them standing outside of it with my dad, his brother and my cousin.

Both the Prills and Garners are buried along this stretch of road, just outside the little burg of Athens. My great grandad, times three, rests beneath an old cedar tree in the center of Hoover Cemetery. Often, not always, but often I’ll pull the truck into the cemetery to pay respect to this old veteran of the civil war who late in life got around by walking with two canes. He’s yet to talk back to me, but I leave informed all the same. Life is short. We forget that, I think, in our daily toils of life. It wasn’t that long ago I was making the trips to Rochester with gramps. He probably thought the same when visiting his grandad in the same town. And probably his grandad thought the same when visiting his grandad outside Athens.

Athens was known as Hoover Station until 1896 when it was renamed for the ancient Greek city. The cemetery still carries the Hoover name, and named for the first white settlers in the region. The Hoovers were Quakers who came up from Tippecanoe County and established a mill on the east end of Lake Manitou, and founded Hoover Station when the railroad came through in the 1870s. The cemetery dates much earlier, into the 1840s. The Hoovers and Prills married, then the Prills and Garners married, then the Garners and Swiharts married, then the Garners and Bryants, also at Hoover Cemetery, married, and then almost a hundred years later, I drove into the cemetery.

Over the last few years of making this my normal route, it seems that I hit this stretch of road closer to sunset each time, whether late in the summer evening when the sky turns the most glorious colors, or late afternoons in fall when the long shadows being stretched across the landscape connect you more so to the Creator, and it feels as though the heavens are washing you in the same gold colors washing across the canvas. I often slow down to a melodic roll, with windows down, allowing my tires to play the road in harmony with whichever song is on the radio. And occasionally, the landscape invites me to sing along.