Tag Archives: Illinois state park
Fly like an eagle
February 6, 2010
At some point midweek on Facebook I mentioned Eagle Watch Weekend at Starved Rock State Park next January (for me, everything is off in the future). J. responded, “Can we visit the bald eagles this weekend?”
How could I turn down a plea like that? So we did.
First, however, I had to get to Homewood, which saves J. from driving about 26 miles to Chicago, then all the way back to get to I-80. I tried to catch the earliest train I could, given my starting time, which would have been the 8:42. That is, if I had read the schedule correctly.
Which I had not.
J. called while I was in the bathroom, but I didn’t have time to return the call. I ran out at about 8:21, which was going to be closer than I liked as it was. At the back of the Flamingo, where I can cut through the garden to 55th Street, I met with a locked door, so I had to walk around the building (adding a minute or so). At 55th and Everett, I confronted a sidewalk covered with the kind of ice that makes every malicious effort to pull me down. I went into the street’s bike lane, where I thought I was going to have to compete with a group of Spandex-clad, cold-weather cyclists, but they stopped further back to greet a comrade. I walked as fast as I could, which wasn’t fast as I’d been cramped in office chairs all day every day all week and felt it. Then, at the walkway to the train platform, I found myself facing a long river of slick ice, with no way around it. I walked very slowly and very gingerly down it until I got to the shelter with the ticket machine, where a glance at my iPhone showed that I had just enough time to buy a ticket (and avoid the $3 surcharge Metra claims to charge on the train). I had lots of change, but proved to be 40 cents short of the $4 fare and had to dig around for a dollar — as it turns out, my one wheresgeorge.com bill.
By now a train was coming, and I hustled down the spottily iced platform as the conductor held the door open at the very front. As I got closer, I yelled, “University Park?” “No, South Chicago,” he yelled back as he let the doors close and the train take off.
After a moment or two it began to seem odd to me that I was the only person on the platform and that by 8:45 there was no sign of either waiting passengers or train.
I called J., who said he’d been trying to let me know that the eagle tour trolleys are at 9:30 and 11, so under perfect circumstances (unlikely), we might make the 11. Then I broke my bad news — perfect circumstances were off as I must have misread the train schedule and that the next train was at 9:42. The 8:42 train was Monday through Friday only.
That settled the question of the trolley, although we agreed we’d still be able to see the eagles, but not the question of how I’d kill time until the next train. I wasn’t going to skate back down that walkway on my ass.
In my frozen stupor, with the wind biting through my hands to the bone, I headed toward the 57th Street end, where I found a warming shelter and then the stairs. Perfect! I spent 25 minutes downing coffee and a chocolate muffin at Istria Café under the tracks. I even had a chance to get rid of some coffee before trudging upstairs.
A stopped freight seemed strangely close to the platform; the freights run on the far track to the east, away from the electric lines. Something way back in my mind on the borders of conscious thought clicked, and I’d realized I’d gone up the TO CHICAGO stairs instead of those FROM CHICAGO.
I gave my left knee, which doesn’t like descending stairs, another workout. Fortunately, I’d allowed time.
A South Chicago train appeared, and a woman from the 55th Street side began hoofing it desperately. The conductor asked if she wanted South Chicago, she said no, and he told her she could stop rushing — she wanted the next train. That’s twice a conductor held a train for a scrambling passenger. There is hope for humanity.
J. was a little late picking me up, although he’d want it pointed out that it was under 10 minutes. After a detour to the Caribou Coffee in Homewood (coffee and scone for him, kettle chips and cans of hot chocolate and tea bags for me), we took off west for Harlem Avenue and I-80 — the, ahem, “scenic” (longer) route. Along the way we made a few stops for gas and in search of warmer, dry socks (not for me, as I was wearing these) and arrived around noon or 12:30 p.m.
This time I was drawn into the gift shop first, ahead of J., attracted by a discounted book on national forests of the eastern U.S. and Audubon’s Elephant: America’s Greatest Naturalist and the Making of The Birds of America by Duff Hart-Davis. I spotted YakTrax, which had tempted me before, and subsequently I had heard from a marathon-training co-worker that they really do work. I asked the gift shop attendant about conditions, which she said included ice and packed snow in places. She added that the YakTrax are great and that they’d sold out of them in January. SOLD! J. picked up an eagle photo (that to me looks like a painting) in that shop and socks (for him) and a scarf (for me, by request) in the other. After a trip or two back to the car and a delay on an outdoor bench while I figured out the YakTrax, we were ready to set out.
The Starved Rock overlook is only one-third of a mile from the information center, but the first part is up a somewhat steep paved hill, which happened to be covered in slippery packed snow, just like the attendant had described. With the YakTrax, I was transformed from a tentative, fearful plodder into a reckless, confident strider, forging ahead of J.
We found the eagles right where they were supposed to be, roosting on the trees of Plum Island. A brown bird, which I thought was a juvenile judging by its mottled plumage, flew toward us. I pointed this out to J., only to be corrected by a pair of women nearby, who claimed it was a hawk. This seemed unlikely to me because: (1) The bird was too large and mottled to be any hawk I know of, although I admit I’m terrible at identifying raptors, (2) I would guess that large hawks and eagles rarely share territory for long periods, and (3) it seemed possible there would be juveniles. With my usual abundant self-confidence, I conceded the point and apologetically told others that they’d said it was a hawk. Even as my inner voice remained skeptical, even more brown birds with awkwardly mottled plumage soared overhead. By now the first pair of women had walked off, and a second pair had arrived, carrying binoculars. I heard them refer to the juveniles, and I told them how I had been corrected repeatedly by other visitors. “Hawks!” Snort. “They’re juveniles.” They added that they knew people who could tell the difference between a two- and a three-year-old, which I could see as likely as some were more heavily mottled than others, while some appeared to be on the verge of adulthood. Later I saw an eagle and a “hawk” soaring in tandem, like fighter pilots performing maneuvers at an air show. Magnificent.
I’d brought Audubon Society-endorsed 10 x 40 binoculars that I’ve had for nearly 20 years, while photographer J. carried both his digital camera and his film camera equipped with a zoom lens that he’s not yet comfortable with. In the powerhouse department, however, we deferred to a young man with an enormous telephoto lens and a strap-on pole support. I told J. I’d wanted something similar for my Minolta, but those lenses had been in the $2,500 to $5,000 range. Later, when J. asked him, the young man said he’d paid $3,500 for it that a Nikon would have been closer to $5,000. Vindicated about both the juvenile eagles and the cost of the camera lens! Sometimes I am right after all. Sometimes.
When you aren’t focused on taking photos, you’re able to live in the moment, although of course you have to rely on your memories and/or the photos of others because you didn’t take any. I could pay closer attention to the eagles and where they were headed, often spotting them for J. At times they flew low over the water toward the dam; at others they soared high above. One of the adult tree sitters took off briefly to skim the water’s surface along the opposite shore. Perhaps he’d seen something with his truly eagle eye. A few directly overhead, although volunteering for the photo opportunity. While I loved the adult and juvenile I mentioned earlier soaring in tandem, my favorite moment came later when a juvenile floated sideways directly above us. The move reminded me of a vaudevillian performing a hat-and-cane sidestep from one side of the stage to the other. What our upturned faces on our craning necks looked like to the young bird will remain a mystery.
After more than an hour of standing on ice in the wind, both of us had to admit that our feet — and my left index finger — were too cold to continue, so we bid the eagles farewell but peered over other overlooks on the way back. This time we both walked on the crunchy leaves rather than the packed snow — I didn’t want to test the YakTrax on the downhill side.
While taking off the YakTrax, I noticed a couple staring at a group of trees that had bird feeders dangling from their branches. As J. wandered off the other way, I checked it out. A voracious flock of snowbirds worked on the feeders while we humans looked on from behind a barrier. The flock consisted of the usual suspects — black-capped chickadees, nuthatches, downy woodpeckers, dark-eyed juncos, etc. Eventually J. wandered over, and we watched as birds worked their way up and down the tree trunks, waiting for their turn, or perhaps for an opportunity. Snowbird flocks, which I seldom see, remind me of home, where we watched them at the feeders from my parents’ bedroom window. My mother especially loved the chickadees, which she described as “comical.” All I can add is that it’s the only species I’ve witnessed mating in the wild (Wooded Isle) — talk about cute.
Next “quick” stop — Matthiessen State Park, where I stayed in the fort (cold) while J. disappeared for 50 minutes to see what he could see and to take photos. He found frozen waterfalls, which I would have liked if I hadn’t been tired and had realized “quick” would still mean long enough to walk around. It’s as easy (almost) to freeze at the foot of the stairs (lower dells) as at the head.
The last stop of the day was at Starved Rock Lodge for dinner, a detour to the gift shop, and a rest by the fire — no outdoor story telling in February.
And so home. Once again I couldn’t keep my eyes open to make sure he was keeping his open behind the wheel; he seemed as tempted to nod off as I was.
Exhaustion is no deterrent. He wanted to do it again. I’ll make a woodsman of him yet.
February 13, 2010
As predicted, we returned to Starved Rock, primarily, I think, to try to get better photos. The day was sunny, somewhat warmer, and less windy. As we were driving through Utica, J. abruptly pulled into a mostly empty parking lot. It seems he had spotted a place the week before that he wanted to investigate — the LaSalle County Historical Society and Museum. It’s bigger than we expected, and we stayed for more than an hour. An exhibit of particular prominence and pride is the coach that carried Abraham Lincoln to the debates with Stephen Douglas. A music room showcases period instruments from the late 1800s and early 1900s, along with some early phonographs. A photograph portrays the first woman to record for a particular label, or perhaps using a specific technology (I’ve forgotten the details), with a note that she was from Peru. She looked like an ordinary Midwesterner to me, not at all Peruvian. Moments later it hit me that they meant she was from Peru, a town in that part of Illinois. I always think big . . .
The museum paid tribute to the region’s role in commerce, industry, and canal and rail shipping, as well as the local men who had gone to war. My cousin would love the handful of guns, sabers, bayonets, and other weaponry, dating from the Revolutionary War-era “Brown Bess” and the Civil War muzzle loader to the WWII and Korean War relics. Most of these are not just museum pieces; in several cases the name and rank of the man who carried the gun is included. Indeed, one gun belonged to a member of General Grant’s bodyguard.
The museum proved to be a worthy detour, even for someone like me who won’t admit any connection or attachment to Illinois.
When we arrived at Starved Rock, the eagles were flying over the river, but promptly settled onto the branches of Plum Island’s trees as J. was digging out his camera and film, where they remained for most of the afternoon. The man with the Rear Window-quality lens and support was capturing the action and inaction, although, when J. asked, he assured him that he’s not an official photographer. What a great title that would be — ”The Official Photographer of the Bald Eagles of Illinois.”
This time I spotted more adults and fewer juveniles. At one point eight adults contemplated their surroundings from the island, including two whose heads were so close together that they might have been mistaken for a single bird.
After watching them and what I think were common mergansers, J. expressed a desire to leave even as his body language and other indicators revealed a desire to stay a bit longer. My toes had turned into frozen nuggets, but they weren’t nearly as troublesome as my back, which decided to ache. Something made me say, “Let’s hang around another 10 minutes or so.” Having quit taking photos for the day, J. exchanged his camera for my binoculars.
It was then, of course, that the eagles, with their eyesight that is six times greater than that of a human, appeared to have sighted something edible, because most of the adults swooped toward the same spot on the river. I’d already wasted film with my convulsive trigger finger, but did snap some shots that should show four or five eagles over the water. I also tried to take a photo of an eagle perched on a conifer — good contrast — but it took off just as I clicked. I’m curious about how that turned out.
After abandoning the eagles, J. wanted to return to Matthiessen State Park. This time I accompanied him down the steps which seemed to have grown at some point between our descent and our ascent. At a level spot partway down, where a trail breaks up the steps, a cross country skier gave J. a vague answer to his question about what lay down the trail to the right.
We continued downward, taking photos from the bridge. J. wanted to know how people had reached the lower dells, while I wondered if that was ice they were walking on. Under the bridge, water burbled under an ice sheet, and it looked like it could be part of a creek between the walls of the canyon. Whether iced-over creek or solid ground, it looked like slippery and treacherous footing, judging by the way the explorers were walking.
Past the bridge we headed uphill along a path to the right. It was just steep enough in a few places for me to wonder if I could get up it or, with greater difficulty, down. Fading daylight and energy made me call a halt short of the Giant’s Bathtub, although J. lingered long enough to wander off trail down slope, always in search of a photo opportunity. Nothing that I could see seemed to be worth a potential broken neck, but then this area resembles parts of New York and Pennsylvania, so it’s more of a novelty to J. than to me. I also suppose it would be much lovelier in summer, at least to me, and the footing wouldn’t be quite so exhausting.
Due to Valentine’s Day, we weren’t able to get into the dining room at Starved Rock Lodge until after 8 p.m.,so we checked out the wary zebra finches in the reception area (one of which was peeking out of a little basket) and warmed up with hot chocolate in the café.
Determined to get some good or better photos, J. bought a new lens and wants to return this Saturday. I’m game, although right now I’m not at peak. It has occurred to me that, if I could drive, I wouldn’t mind life in that area (or one like it, perhaps in New York). I could work at a regular job and worry less about people, their irrational ways, and their insane office politics. I could use all that wasted energy to explore my own neglected abilities, and I could recharge myself at any of the three state parks nearby. Even with less money, I think I might perhaps worry about that less, too.
In times like these, it seems like a plan. Just me, my non-challenging low-wage job, the canyons, the waterfalls, the rivers, and the bald eagles.
First visit to Starved Rock State Park
In his answer to the 2005 Edge question, “What do you believe is true even though you cannot prove it?” Kai Krause articulates exactly how I think about the past, present, and future. I’m feeling less than philosophical about the “now,” however, because today started less than ideally. A lot less.
I had decided to celebrate the end of a difficult week by leaving early and stopping at Argo Tea for a breakfast wrap. At a little past 7 o’clock, I walked out into a driving wind that was scuttering sheets of water northward down the street. I thought about waiting a few minutes indoors, but I did want to leave early, and I couldn’t count on the wind or the rain letting up soon. I found myself blown toward 55th Street (the closer bus stop) because the wind was swirling mostly from the south. By the time I had walked to 55th and Hyde Park Boulevard, of course both wind and rain had dissipated into a drizzle with a bit of a breeze.
But during that eight-minute walk down two and one-half blocks, a gust had broken a rib in my favorite everyday umbrella. Grrr.
Although it’s a little further away, I prefer the 56th Street stop because it’s in the park with a view of trees and the Museum of Science and Industry, the stop itself is crowded, and as it’s an earlier stop on the route the buses are less crowded, too. But I would have had to have fought a powerful head wind three-quarters of a block and then a slanting one in the open the rest of the way. So I was blown down the path of least resistance toward 55th.
Where I not only discovered that the wind had broken my umbrella, but within moments a crazed man, or a fabulous facsimile of one, thrust his face into mine, muttering odd things about sainthood and finally throwing in a pitch for money. I wasn’t his only target; he besieged the male half of a young Asian couple, the only other people around. A few minutes later he came back for a second go at me, this time with a straight leap into the saintly rant and no interruption for a pitch. There’s no feeling that compares to being trapped under a bus shelter in the rain with a wide-eyed, self-proclaimed (I think) saint.
My pencil lead broke as I was writing this. Yes, the “now” was going to be a day of small annoyances.
This “now” seems to be one of those times when my highest aspiration is to be a turtle, with head pulled firmly into shell (there’d be no fooling me into peeking out). So this is a good time to forget the “now” and remember the “then,” in this case, last Saturday the 17th.
For years I’ve wanted to visit Starved Rock State Park, after I read about it in either the Chicago Tribune (back when that paper had content of interest) or a local magazine. I thought I’d mentioned it to J., but apparently I hadn’t because he’s been bringing up a trip there as a new idea for the past few weeks. He’d never been there, either, and his late mother had piqued his curiosity with her fond recollections of it. So we set Saturday the 17th as the date to go. And we did.
I met him again at the Homewood Metra station, after which we made a detour to Caribou Coffee. He had his cup and enormous vacuum bottle filled, meanwhile contributing to Amy’s fund. I opted for a bathroom visit and a pumpkin cooler. Next came the tricky part — finding the entrance onto the expressway. The Google Maps text explanation seems a little off to me, and the entrance itself is tucked away almost as though it were meant to be missed. The brightness of the afternoon sun also glared off the iPhone screen, making it almost impossible to see. But, after I had him turn the car (the little blue dot on the map) around, J. spotted the ramp, and away we went.
I feel like this has been a dreary autumn, but even as we angled southwest down the highway, the clouds continued to break up into interesting patterns, with the sun breaking through enough to give me headache as I peered at the iPhone screen. The more sun, the warmer the air — it was turning into the perfect fall day for a walk in the woods and a little bit of an adventure.
Part of the way is along the Illinois and Michigan Canal National Heritage Area, designated on August 24, 1984. This strikes me as a fabulous idea, allowing the many towns along the way their historic and industrial due. J. noticed a sign for a radio station dedicated to tourist information, so he tuned in. As I watched our blue dot skimming along on the map, I felt a teeny bit like an explorer when I told him, “We’re going to cross a river shortly.” This proved to be the Fox, known to me mainly for its propensity to flood (making its banks the ideal spot for a Mies van der Rohe monstrosity).
Probably more so than the Corridor, Starved Rock is a well-loved attraction, drawing millions of visitors a year — not all, I suspect, from Illinois. If J. and I recall correctly, Starved Rock was on ex-Governor Rod Blagojevich’s short list of state facilities to close or curtail, which amazes me. Here you have millions of people who want to visit, and I noticed that the towns along the way tout their proximity to it. A different radio station is dedicated to its tourists. It’s reasonable to assume that these local economies benefit from Starved Rock’s visitors passing through, dining, shopping, perhaps even spending the night as Starved Rock Lodge is often fully booked. The park drew J. and me to an area we otherwise would have had no reason to visit. What would cutbacks at the park have meant to how many people? What good could come of cutting its funding and services? Cut off nose, spite face — perhaps I’m missing some of the details, but that’s how it seems to me.
Starved Rock State Park is still fully functional, but the first sight in the visitors center made me sad — the enormous cross section of the trunk of an elm dating from before the Civil War that had succumbed to Dutch elm disease in the early 2000s. To the lower right, you can see a black-and-white photo of the living tree in its prime, when, the exhibit notes, it sported one of the largest crowns in the country. Oh, to have such a tree under which to while away free time in the summer and upon which to look and ponder in the winter.
We took a quick walk through the gift shop and exhibit that were to close in a few minutes at 4 o’clock and picked up a map and advice on where to go. We had about an hour and three-quarters before dark, so the woman we spoke to steered us toward French Canyon, which she thought we could manage in the time left, or possibly Starved Rock itself. She alluded to slippery footing at French Canyon, but I couldn’t quite tell what to expect.
It turned out to be a gorgeous spot, a place like I might expect to find in parts of New York.
At first it looked like I wasn’t going to make it into the canyon at all. It wasn’t that it was hard, and those in good condition and with sure feet could bound about fairly easily. I’m not in any condition, but what holds me back is a combination of physical weakness and emotional fear. With a little difficulty, I made my way down the steps, some steep, leading into a lower canyon, like a vestibule, where a heavyset woman sat with a stroller (occupied or not, I couldn’t tell). The footing was angled and slippery and seemed treacherous to me, and when I tried to go around her, I ended up grabbing the stroller to steady myself — not a very smart move!
French Canyon itself was up a little waterfall and around a wall of rock, so I couldn’t see it. The woman with the stroller told us that it was lovely, and everyone returning seemed impressed. As I stood there, I thought about how I’d wanted to come here for years, how I’d finally gotten the chance, and how upset I would be later if my weaknesses and fears, both real, kept me from experiencing the joy of the moment or seeing something that should be within my reach. I also saw with painful, stark clarity that if such tiny feats are difficult for me now, they will cross the line to impossible when I’m older — perhaps in five years, maybe ten. My time is shorter than I care to know.
For once in my life I decided to go for the gusto. It’s easy for me to laugh at myself because it really wasn’t that hard. But I have pain and moments of weakness in my back and legs, and no confidence in my body or its abilities, and so I was afraid and had to overcome that fear. The memory of falling on my front teeth last year doesn’t help.
But, using both hands and my rear as a stabilizing platform, and getting all of them dirty, I wound around the woman and stroller, used the worn human footprints as steps up the mini-waterfall, and emerged into one of the loveliest sites I can imagine, at least in Illinois — a tiny, steep, narrow canyon darkened by the remaining leaves on the overhanging trees and tinkling with the 45-foot fall of water at its end.
I could see immediately why Starved Rock is popular. And popular it was on this autumn day, as a group of adults and adolescents descended on us as we were about to venture forth, as a young couple stood at the base of the waterfall, as another young couple set up a tripod and camera — as people came, expressed their wonder, and left. Except perhaps on the coldest, bleakest midwinter day, I doubt one could find solitude at French Canyon — or anywhere else at Starved Rock.
J. noticed that getting down the worn footprints was trickier than he expected. For me, descending is usually much more difficult than ascending, and the downward slant of the notches added to their slippery precariousness. By now, I had impressed myself with my teeny feat of daring, so I moved a little more confidently — but not without engaging hands and rear when necessary.
Next we headed toward Starved Rock, but when J. spotted an almost picturesque bridge, we followed it, thus being detoured toward Lovers Leap. A “leap” implies height, so we found ourselves climbing — or descending, depending on the immediate terrain — what felt and looked like interminable stairs. From comments I’ve read since, these boardwalks and steps are an innovation implemented to stem the increasing erosion of the park, which is primarily sandstone. It’s not hard to picture the damage millions of feet a year over many decades might do to such a landscape. In this area, at least, the rule is not to leave the walk to wander off through the woods. Starved Rock State Park is being loved to death.
J. came upon an overlook of sorts, although I pointed out that it wasn’t labeled Lovers Leap (or anything else) and that the river wasn’t visible, as promised. I heard laughter from below and spotted flashes of colorful clothing between the branches and leaves. “That’s the Lovers Leap overlook,” I said as decisively as I could, based on intuition. This platform offered a treetop view of a variety of conifers. As the trees grow, it will be more of an eye-to-crown perspective.
Now we headed toward the voices, flashes of clothing, and hints of river — if I remember correctly, Lovers Leap was slightly below the conifer spot. This overlook is below a dam and across from a point where the river splits. On what appeared to be a large flat stone island, hundreds of gulls had congregated, and hundreds more wheeled over the water below the dam. At first I thought a large object in the water was an enormous lone bird such as a swan — I had no sense of size or perspective — but a look with my binoculars revealed that what I’d taken for the “swan’s” back was a rock, upon which stood a great blue heron, its head tucked toward its wing if not quite under it. Although we stayed for at least 10 minutes, if not more, the heron never budged. Either it was sleeping, or the river’s fish were onto its sly ways.
Unfortunately for us, it was too early in the year for bald eagles, but soon, soaring above the confusion of gulls, came a flock of giant birds big enough to make the gulls look like sparrows. Even with the binoculars, I never got a good look at them — they were always flying away by the time I could get the glasses trained on them, so I saw them mostly from behind, once or twice a little more from the side. My impression was of short bills and legs, big bodies, and outsized bills. Indeed, my impression was of pelicans. PELICANS? In Illinois? I’d seen pelicans only once before, during dinner near Pompano Beach in Florida, when they landed and stood on the pylons. That was almost up close and personal, while here they flew en masse in the middle distance. I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t shake the impression of pelicans. Later at home I found sources online that mentioned October sightings of flocks of 25-30 American white pelicans at Starved Rock.
I’m still not certain. But maybe I’m not as bad a birder as I thought.
By now the witching hour was approaching, so we started to descend all those steps we’d walked up. At one particularly steep step, I couldn’t bring myself to take it. I froze. J. set his bag down along with my purse, took the binoculars I handed him, and held out his hand, although I was afraid my ankle or knee would give and I’d fall on top of him. Then I heard a sound, which I finally realized was his coffee from his tilted cup spilling onto the ground. While he turned his attention to checking if anything important had gotten wet, somehow I took the step just like that. I surprised myself, then felt silly for freezing in fear again.
Partway down, J. hinted he wouldn’t mind taking a brief detour to Starved Rock, but by then it was just a few minutes before sunset, and I wondered, as I often do, why someone as impractical as I am still manages to have common sense when others don’t. We speculated on the unlikely presence of wolves or coyotes, but I learned later that there are no dangerous animals, including venomous snakes, at Starved Rock. How disappointing. Don’t bobcats wander through Wildcat Canyon? I suppose millions of visitors a year serve as a deterrent to larger predators, although the wanderings of the animals aren’t limited to the trails and stairs.
Having avoided darkness and nonexistent predators, back at the visitors center I used the women’s room while J. sated his incurable need to stimulate the economy singlehandedly in the gift shop. As I left the ladies’, it occurred to me that I’d walked around in the chilly air for two hours without thinking about a bathroom or having an urgent need to get to one. Thank you, Dr. M. and team.
Next on the agenda was something I’d seen on the online calendar — Irish storytelling around a fire at 7 o’clock. I warned J. I probably couldn’t last for more than 15 minutes in the cold — the temperature had dropped precipitously after sunset — but as it turned out I was able to hold out for almost an hour.
After circling the Lodge down the road and becoming a little confused, we found the storyteller, Trish Kelly, at the top of a circle of chairs around a smoky fire. As she waited for more people to appear, she told us that she’d lived in the area all her life and had spent a lot of time clambering about Starved Rock — she may have worked there at some point. She mentioned numerous bones she had broken, multiple times in a few cases, from her ankles and elbow to her jaw, as well as cameras, binoculars, and other valuables dropped and lost in the park. Although I doubt she knocked herself out at French Canyon or on the stairs to Lovers Leap, still, I used the story of her injuries to pride myself on my bravery, such as it was.
As the group stabilized at around 15 to 20, with some continued comings and goings, she regaled us with the story of her adoption from Ireland as an infant, with J. interrupting her to find out that he’d been within 20 miles of her birthplace, and how she’d become a storyteller. She mentioned that she knew no others, which makes me want to contact her and connect her to Bill Watkins. As she warmed up — so to speak — she slyly worked in her first encounter with a ghostie at the home of a childhood friend. She showed us a poster-sized photo of Hegeler Carus Mansion, where she works, and told us that no one had thought it to be haunted — until the night her office lights would not stay off, and a female voice bid her, her friend, and a La Salle police officer “good night.” The audience seemed skeptical, but perhaps the fire crackled a wee bit louder in a momentary silence.
Slipping into a discreet Irish accent, she told the tale of the fearful son of a fearless ghost hunter. I can’t remember his given name, which also rhymed, but the father dubbed him “Rigor Mortis the Tortoise” for retreating into his shell at the first sign of a supernatural presence. Rigor Mortis the Tortoise dislikes this nickname, thinking it will hinder any potential relationship with a girl he might meet whose description sounded suspiciously like our storyteller.
It was at the end of this tale that my chattering teeth and shivering body finally got to me, and I whispered to J. that I had to leave.
I was a bit skeptical about the story of her adoption from Ireland, I told J., although it’s quite likely true. “With storytellers, it’s hard to separate fact from fiction, reality from fantasy,” I said. “I don’t mean that she’s lying, you know. She’s telling a story.” There was a bit more silence than usual at this point, I felt, so I added, “Besides, there is one thing I know to have been a blatant lie.” “Oh?” “Yes. When Rigor Mortis the Tortoise was frightened and the hairs on the back of his neck stood . . .” dramatic pause “. . . that was a lie. Tortoises don’t have hair. Aha!”
He seemed relieved and wondered if the young men of the area appreciate her and her talents. “How do you know she’s not married?” I asked. “She wasn’t wearing a ring,” he replied.
Hmmm. He wasn’t held so rapt by the stories that he didn’t notice these important details.
We drove around the Lodge’s extensive, segmented parking lot again, looking for and finding the restaurant part, then walked under a long, lighted archway toward dinner.
The Lodge is suitably rustic in a strangely elegant way, with a fireplace the central feature of the busy lobby/living room, where numerous people were hanging out, socializing over coffee or reading. Later, I found the lounge and patio in the back, the former also full of people, some watching a flat-screen TV that didn’t quite blend in with the wood beams and décor.
We must have arrived at the restaurant not far ahead of the last seating because we were among the last to leave, shortly after 9 o’clock. I ordered chipotle meat loaf — comfort food with a twist — while the more adventurous J. picked, I think, bluegill (not sure), which he’d never had before. I can’t comment specifically, other than to say it looked and smelled like fish. For dessert, he asked for pecan pie, which our server explained, in apologetic tones, was served in a cup. We didn’t know what to expect, but the pie crust was a cup rather than the conventional wedge. Perhaps that meant it was bought vs. homemade, but it didn’t seem to matter to J., who approved.
After a trip through long, narrow hallways to the front desk lobby, where an older couple was playing a board game to the splash of a koi fountain, and a brief (very brief) detour through downtown Utica, we finally headed home. I provided my usual navigational advice up front, but after a few miles I fell asleep — a great help to the equally tired driver, I’m sure.
When finally I could keep my eyes open for more than a few moments we were already deep into city lights, and the world of French Canyon, Lovers Leap, river pelicans, and Rigor Mortis the Tortoise already seemed a millennium and a million miles away.