"Who owns the other islands?" Stanton asked as he studied the view.
"Most are owned by the United States, now. It's become a park...'The Apostle Islands National Lakeshore'," said Jake. "There are still a few private cabins on Rocky, South Twin and Sand Islands, and I think there is still one on Cat Island, but I think those just have life estates anymore."
"When did that happen, the park, I mean?" asked Stanton.
"Just in the last few years." Jake slowed and executed a curve in the road as they entered Bayfield. "Not all of the islands are owned by the government. As I said, most of Madeline is privately owned. Wisconsin DNR is negotiating with the federal government over transfer of lands it owns on several islands. There are a few islands that are Indian Land. There are two local bands of Lake Superior Chippewa here. The Red Cliff Band is just north of Bayfield. They own the land there and have a harbor and small marina in Buffalo Bay. The Chequamegon Band is further up and over near Raspberry Point. They also own Hermit Island and I think part of Oak and Stockton."
"Any trouble with the Indians and the Park Service?"
No, no," said Jake, "it was just less land the government had to condemn. The Indians don't have anything on their islands. The DNR is the bigger problem for the Lakeshore acquisitions."
Jake turned down the main street of Bayfield. "Look at this," he told Stanton.
They were high on a hill, looking down Bayfield's Rittenhouse Avenue several blocks to the water's edge. A harbor, boats, breakwaters and Madeline Island in the distance could be seen in a single glance.
"It's beautiful!" exclaimed Professor Stanton.
The street before them was lined with shops and houses with trim of filigree and ornate, carved woodwork. It descended straight and gradually to the water's edge, where boats were docked and a few lay at anchor in the harbor. Out on the lake, white triangular shapes of sailboats moved back and forth on the wind. A large black and white ferry carrying automobiles and passengers was coming across from La Pointe, on Madeline Island.
Tourists crowded the sidewalks and walked through the gift shops and art galleries. They were dressed in all different fashions. Some were dressed for the golf course or tennis courts, some were dressed in soiled jeans or work clothes, and there were the inevitable "sailors" or those who dressed like sailors, wearing raw wool sweaters or white slacks, or yellow foul weather jackets, or Greek fisherman's caps and always leather Topsider deck shoes, looking very salty, indeed.
A half a block before the water, Jake turned left to follow Highway 13 out of Bayfield.
"There's Basswood Island," Jake pointed out another island as they drove north along the shore. "Hermit's just beyond that."
Not far out of Bayfield they took a cutoff to the right and followed a gravel road up past Red Cliff Bay and around to the left until they were heading west. A sign proclaimed "Bay Harbor - 3 miles" with an arrow pointing north. Jake turned right and drove north into the tiny town of Bay Harbor.
Stanton watched as the town came into view. He was pleased at what he saw. Jake's description had been very accurate. Ahead he saw the waters of Raspberry Bay and some islands beyond the mouth of the bay. On the left side of the street were several small buildings that looked commercial. Off the end of the street on the water were what looked like a marina, a boat crane and some buildings on the waterfront. On the right side of the street were small rustic homes built up the hillside. The whole place was small and cozy, nestled in the shelter of the hillside on the corner of the bay.
"I'm impressed," Stanton said. "It's just as you described, Jake. Very pretty. And, after Bayfield, that's saying something."
"It's a lot different from Bayfield," Jake said. "You don't have the crowds of tourists here."
Jake turned up the hillside before they actually got into the town. He passed the first two side streets that traversed the hill. He turned left on the third and highest tiny alleyway that traveled behind the top row of cabins. He stopped behind the last cabin on the street, turned off the engine and said, "We're here."
They carried their things into the cabin. While Jake fussed with getting the electricity turned on, Stanton looked around.
The cabin was small, but comfortable. There were two small bedrooms in the back with a bath between. The living room had a fireplace faced by a plaid covered couch and two comfortable stuffed chairs arranged for maximum enjoyment of both the fireplace and the view. And the view was gorgeous, a view overlooking Raspberry Bay and the waters of Lake Superior beyond. The kitchen was also on the front of the cabin with the same views from the small kitchen table.
Both the kitchen and living room had sliding glass doors that opened onto a deck that ran the length of the front of the cabin and wrapped around the south side extending to the back of the cabin where the car was parked in the short drive. A person could walk onto the deck without going into the house.
"This is marvelous, Jake," said Stanton from the deck outside the living room. "Whose cabin was this?"
"My grandmother Reynolds still owns it but she quit coming here after Grampa passed away. She's in her late eighties, now. I think my cousin Mike will end up with it when the estate is settled," said Jake stepping out onto the deck to join Stanton. "That would be good. Mike has always liked it here, like I do. It was my Gramma and Grampa Reynolds' place. They built it and they loved it. They liked the view and being out at the edge of the town. They bought enough land so no one could build out beyond them."
Who put in the sliding glass doors?"
"Grampa Reynolds did, but long after the original construction." Jake pointed to the doors. "There were doors, there," he pointed. "They were just ordinary ones, not sliding glass doors like these."
Jake moved to the railing. "Grampa Kingsley's place was right down there." He pointed down to the left. "My folks have that place now," he said.
Jake pointed to the marina. "See the wooden mast in among the fishing boats on the dock away from all those aluminum masts?"
"Yes." Stanton squinted at the boats in the harbor.
"That's the sloop. We'll take her out tomorrow, weather permitting."
They finished unpacking and Stanton cooked the steaks on the grill on the deck. After a big meal on top of their long trip they retired early for a well-deserved rest.
The next morning, they went down to the docks. The old wooden sloop rested easily in the water alongside the dock in amongst the fishing boats. Two boats that Stanton had seen the night before from the deck were gone.
Jake introduced the professor to the old wooden sloop. Grampa Reynolds had kept the thirty foot wooden sloop at Hanson's until his last years, when he gave it to Jake. The gift was, his grandfather had said, "To carry on the love of sail in these islands and the pursuit of their quiet enjoyment."
After some preliminary lessons in line handling and docking, they started the sloop's outboard and motored out into the bay. Stanton learned his sailing duties quickly. He too enjoyed the islands and "...the pursuit of their quiet enjoyment under sail...," as Grampa Reynolds had called it.
"No legal theory and analysis here," the young graduate said after they anchored near the Raspberry Island sand spit. "Pure simplicity and truth. Good thing Grampa wasn't a lawyer."
Before responding, Stanton had surveyed the surroundings with care. The bluffs of Oak Island, the wooden sloop resting comfortably at anchor with islands all around close at hand.
"He would have made a good one, I expect," he said, "Pure simplicity and truth. I agree. What else do you look for in the law?"
"Nothing, except to identify it, for sure."
"Well, I'm happy to see that with graduation you haven't quit looking. I expected nothing less of you. However, don't despair if you don't find it quickly. Don't stop looking." He looked around again from the cockpit of the sloop. "I don't think your grandfather did."
"Neither one of them," Jake replied, thinking how much Jake Reynolds and Bill Kingsley would have liked this man. After some scrutiny
, and they scrutinized everything, they would have approved of this imposing and outspoken man as their grandson's mentor.
Later they tied up at the dock on Raspberry Island's west side and walked up to the lighthouse. The path led them up a steep hill onto manicured green lawns between the buildings, the storage building, which once housed the powerful old batteries for the light, and the lighthouse itself. A vegetable garden had been put in near the storage building. The cleared area was bounded on one side by the steep hillside dropping to the lake and on the other by dense hardwood and evergreen forest. Dominating the pastoral scene was the towering lighthouse of red brick and white trim with its enormous light at the top.
"Incredible!" The professor was still catching his breath from the climb. He looked up at the lighthouse. "I've not seen anything like this before. It's like out of a postcard picture."
"It is kind of neat," said Jake. "This light has been helping mariners for many, many years. There are several more in the islands. There's one at the north end of Rocky and one on Outer and Sand."
"Can we go inside?"
"Oh, sure," said Jake. "We can probably get the tour."
And they did. The Park Ranger on Raspberry Island showed them all around the grounds, told them the history of Raspberry Island Light, and let them go through it and climb the tower.
They sailed the old sloop up towards Rocky and South Twin Islands that afternoon, finally turning toward home and Raspberry Bay, sailing on a broad reach in the westerly breeze all the way into the bay.
Stanton stepped onto the dock with bow line in hand as Jake used the outboards reverse gear to slow the sloop's approach to the dock and bring it to a stop.
"Cleat it!" called Jake.
Stanton complied, wrapping the bow line around the dock cleat and completing the single clove hitch knot.
Stanton's first day on Lake Superior was completed by a meal of poached Lake Superior Lake Trout filets which Jake prepared on the stove at the cottage.
"What a wonderful day!" Stanton lifted his dry martini. "The weather was perfect, the islands were beautiful, and the sailing was great. Say no more, Jake, I'm hooked."
"I told you," said Jake. "It's a great place to be."
The next day, the weather was the same. The temperature was in the low eighties. The clear blue skies had only an occasional puff of a cloud. A gentle wind blew from the west.
"What incredible weather," said Stanton as they motored out of Raspberry Bay.
"It seems like it's always like this in the Apostles in July and August," said Jake.
They sailed slowly around the end of the Bayfield Peninsula and down the West Channel past Hermit and Basswood Islands.
"Just look at these lush green islands in the sunshine on the clear blue water," Stanton said as he waved a hand towards Basswood Island. "You'd think we were in the Caribbean."
"Jump in the water and you'll find out in a hurry you're not." Jake smiled. "A body can only last twenty minutes in that." He nodded toward the cold water of Lake Superior.
"Really?"
"Well, here in the shelter of the islands, it's probably not as bad, but out in the open waters of Lake Superior, that's about it. That's why they say. ‘Lake Superior never gives up its dead.’"
"What?"
"’Lake Superior never gives up its dead.’ That's what they say. The water is too cold to let the bodies decay and create the gases that cause them to float."
"That's a gruesome thought," said Stanton, looking at the water with new respect.
As they approached the south end of Basswood Island, Jake pointed past the sloop's bow. "That's Bayfield up ahead, there. We'll be going into the harbor you saw the other night when we were driving down the main street."
"I remember," said Stanton looking ahead at the buildings and houses on the green hillside and the forest of aluminum masts down at the water level.
With the jib tied on the foredeck and the mainsail tied to the boom, the sloop entered Bayfield Harbor under the power of its outboard motor. Stanton sat on the deck leaning back against the mast taking in the view.
The entrance was at the northeast end of the harbor. They passed the wide concrete public dock at the base of Rittenhouse Avenue. It was wide enough for cars. Here one of the Madeline Island ferries was loading cars and passengers for the trip across to the island.
Jake said, "During the height of the summer tourist season, the ferries run every half hour from early morning until late at night."
"How many boats are there?"
"Usually three in service. At least two are running at the same time. It's about a twenty minute ride across."
They passed the ferry dock and entered a small open harbor between the public dock and a large private marina. The harbor was protected by substantial man-made breakwaters. On the shore side was a grassy hillside with a stretch of sand beach. The hillside was carefully tended with scattered shade trees and flower gardens. A memorial to Bayfield war veterans stood prominently located near one of the flower gardens. At the north end of the grassy area at the bottom of Rittenhouse Avenue stood a gazebo just above the public dock. A small group sat in the shade of its roof eating ice cream cones enjoying the view of the harbor and the marine traffic. Beyond the gazebo, Stanton could see the crowd of tourists mingling on the sidewalks by the shops and art galleries that lined Rittenhouse Avenue.
A loud horn sounded a long sustained blast.
Stanton looked at Jake for explanation.
"It's the excursion boat." Jake pointed to a large old fashioned looking red and white boat with two levels for passengers, one lower, covered level with windows and an upper open deck. An advertisement on the boat's side proclaimed "Apostle Islands Excursions". The boat began to slowly back away from the concrete dock. Passengers sat on benches on the upper level in the sunshine.
"It takes a couple of different cruises around the islands," Jake said, "some for a couple hours, some longer. There's one trip that goes all the way out to Rocky Island and stops at the dock for lunch."
Jake brought the sloop up to the end of one of the long docks of the private marina. Finger docks on both sides of the long docks were privately leased boat slips. The end was reserved for transient docking. They cleated bow and stern lines. Spring lines were added from both bow and stern to a central cleat.
"This is 'City Marina'," said Jake, gesturing around at the many slips filled with sailboats of all sizes and descriptions. "Actually, it is the Apostle Islands Marina, but everyone has referred to it as City Marina as long as I can remember. There's a yacht club over that way," he pointed south across the marina parking lot. "Some more boats are docked there."
Jake finished closing up the boat. He turned to look up at Professor Stanton on the dock. "How about lunch?" he asked.
"Thought you'd never ask, Jake." Stanton grinned, patting his paunch with both hands.
"Let's go." Jake stepped onto the dock. The sloop rocked back and forth with the shift of weight.
"Where, may I ask?" Stanton looked down the dock at the town.
"About two blocks past the ship's store there by the gas dock. We'll go to Junior's"
They walked down the long dock, past beautiful sailing yachts, some single-masted like the sloop, some with two masts rigged as ketches or yawls, all much bigger than the old wooden sloop. All were newer boats made of fiberglass with huge stainless steel wheels at the helm and winches for the sheets with mirror-like finishes. There were people scrubbing decks, oiling teak and still others with the sense to relax and read in the cockpit. Stanton had not been this close to such a collection of boats before.
They passed the ship's store and crossed a street to the sidewalk on Manypenny Avenue.
"Up there at the end of the next block," Jake pointed.
Stanton looked ahead and saw what appeared to be a small, green house on the corner. The front door opened on a raised concrete stoop with a metal pipe railing.
"That?" he asked.
"Yep," Jake responded. "Looks like a house, doesn't it?"
"It certainly does."
"Well, trust me. It has a bar and tables and great food."
"Okay, I'm in your hands," said Stanton as they reached the stoop and climbed the steps to the entrance.
They entered an open room with tables covered with red and white checkered table cloths. One wall was lined with booths. At the back of the room was a large old fashioned bar with a brass railing along the bottom for a foot rest.
Jake and the professor took stools at the bar and ordered Leinenkugel's beer while they waited for a table. Junior's was enjoying its usual summer lunch crowd.
When a booth opened up, they took their beers and sat and talked about sailing and the Apostle Islands.
They ordered burgers and more beer. Junior's had its usual collection of sailors, fishermen and tourists. People were waiting for tables. The tables were full of diners enjoying the food, the drink and the atmosphere.
Stanton wanted to learn more about the Apostle Islands, the geography of the area and its history.
"I noticed that the mainland immediately east of Bay Harbor is completely undeveloped, Jake," he said. "It seems to be that way as far east as where we turned to the south toward Bayfield."
"That's right."
"Why? It seems like ideal land."
"Most of that is Indian land. It is part of the reservation of the Chequamegon Band. Some of their land went to the United States in the treaty in the 1800's. Some was acquired by the government from the Indians in the early part of this century. Parts of the land are leased to private citizens, but that's usually for hunting which is the best on the other side of the highway. So, it's public and Indian land, but it's not part of the park. That's only the islands themselves and the Little Sand Bay Ranger Station west of Bay Harbor."
For the next week, the two men, the graduate and the professor, sailed the Apostle Islands and enjoyed the beauty, the solitude and their own company. Jake showed Charles Stanton the caves of Devil's Island, the secluded beach on the north side of York Island, the singing sand beach at Julian Bay on Stockton Island, the 'Cathouse' of Cat Island and more.
The Ultimate Resolution Page 8
