The people of Northern Michigan have lost an articulate and ardent spokesman for the outdoors. Don and his wife, Jean, tragically perished in a house fire on March 9, 2012. Don played an active role in the preservation and enjoyment of the northern Michigan environment. He participated in many outdoor organizations throughout northern Michigan and was an articulate voice in both community activism and his extensive writing. But Don’s career as an outdoor writer was not his only career.
Don was the son of Red Ingle, a clarinetist with Spike Jones’ band. Unlike his father’s interest in comic showmanship, Don built a career in straight jazz, playing the coronet with the group Frank Assunto and the Dukes of Dixieland. In the 1990s, Don played with the Michigan Nighthawks, appearing at events around the Midwest. The Michigan Nighthawks produced three albums.
Don graduated from Michigan State University in 1952. In the 1980s, Don had his own outdoor show on channel 9. Don also wrote a column for the Big Rapids Pioneer in the 1980’s. Like Don, his wife Jean was active in the community working for Child Protective Services in Baldwin. They were the kind of people who deeply touched the lives of everyone who met them.
Don was a personal friend and mentor to me, but his enthusiasm, his energy, and his knowledge of the outdoors captivated anyone who personally knew Don. Anyone who met Don, even briefly, became a friend. That’s the way he was. That’s the way they both were. Don and Jean Ingle are already missed.
Royal Dun
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
Christmas Day
On Christmas day, I drove to a local river intending to fish for a couple of hours. When I arrived at the stream, there were no other cars parked along the road. I imagined most of the fishermen were home with their families for the holiday, visiting with their families, opening gifts, and having a big turkey or ham dinner.
While gearing up, I felt a twinge of guilt as if I was stealing holiday time from my wife. She has always understood my need for solitary time, even when I knew that it bothered her. Home was calling me but I needed a little quiet time to refresh my soul before I left. I walked alone down the path that follows the river downstream.
The path follows the river downstream through a cedar swamp and the old cedars have tolerated anglers for many years. The noble, old trees have lined the path with roots and stumps to slow the humans down and trip them up if possible.
Along the worn path of cedar roots and slouching branches I walked that Christmas day. The swamp took on the feel of a cathedral decorated with snow that fell on the emerald arms of its elders. Except for an occasional bird reminding me to watch my step, the only sound was the river singing the ethereal, ancient litany of its devoted processional. Eventually, the river’s voice will dissipate as it enters the lake, then into Lake Michigan on its long, now silent, pilgrimage to the sea.
As I walked along listening to the river’s inflections, I came upon a small memorial stone sitting beside the river. It was not there a few months ago. It’s inscription read:
On the stone rested an unlit, but deeply melted candle. Above the memorial, six small ornaments hung from a cedar branch. Nearby, another elder Cedar held a string of lettered beads that spelled "James".
I reached into the pocket of my jacket and retrieved two wooden matches left there from the summer camping season. I lit the candle and stood silently beside the river listening to its soft resonant song. I instinctively knew how much James must have loved this river and others like it. He must have visited this stream often, certainly to catch trout, salmon, and steelhead, but I wondered how many times he passed by here to pause and rest his soul as I was doing.
I was meeting James for the first time, but as with all outdoorsmen, we are eternal kindred souls. I knew how he felt about this place. I knew he was the river’s friend and guardian. As I stood there, my spirit thanked his for leaving the river so pristine and wild.
Next to the beaded string hung a small silver heart engraved with the name "Emma". The little streamside memorial told me that his beloved Emma cherished James. She must have shared and loved this river with him and she also knew its secret peace. I said a silent prayer for her accompanied by the river’s unending melody. I felt her loss and sensed her weeping deep in my soul.
I sensed that the stream was not for me today. Today it belonged to those who went before me. I blew out the candle and walked quietly back down the path. By the time I returned to the road, I knew where I belonged. I removed my gear and then drove home to my own beloved who was waiting patiently for my return on Christmas day.
Royal Dun
While gearing up, I felt a twinge of guilt as if I was stealing holiday time from my wife. She has always understood my need for solitary time, even when I knew that it bothered her. Home was calling me but I needed a little quiet time to refresh my soul before I left. I walked alone down the path that follows the river downstream.
The path follows the river downstream through a cedar swamp and the old cedars have tolerated anglers for many years. The noble, old trees have lined the path with roots and stumps to slow the humans down and trip them up if possible.
Along the worn path of cedar roots and slouching branches I walked that Christmas day. The swamp took on the feel of a cathedral decorated with snow that fell on the emerald arms of its elders. Except for an occasional bird reminding me to watch my step, the only sound was the river singing the ethereal, ancient litany of its devoted processional. Eventually, the river’s voice will dissipate as it enters the lake, then into Lake Michigan on its long, now silent, pilgrimage to the sea.
As I walked along listening to the river’s inflections, I came upon a small memorial stone sitting beside the river. It was not there a few months ago. It’s inscription read:
"Your memory is our keepsake
With which will never part.
God has you in his keeping
We have you in our hearts."
On the stone rested an unlit, but deeply melted candle. Above the memorial, six small ornaments hung from a cedar branch. Nearby, another elder Cedar held a string of lettered beads that spelled "James".
I reached into the pocket of my jacket and retrieved two wooden matches left there from the summer camping season. I lit the candle and stood silently beside the river listening to its soft resonant song. I instinctively knew how much James must have loved this river and others like it. He must have visited this stream often, certainly to catch trout, salmon, and steelhead, but I wondered how many times he passed by here to pause and rest his soul as I was doing.
I was meeting James for the first time, but as with all outdoorsmen, we are eternal kindred souls. I knew how he felt about this place. I knew he was the river’s friend and guardian. As I stood there, my spirit thanked his for leaving the river so pristine and wild.
Next to the beaded string hung a small silver heart engraved with the name "Emma". The little streamside memorial told me that his beloved Emma cherished James. She must have shared and loved this river with him and she also knew its secret peace. I said a silent prayer for her accompanied by the river’s unending melody. I felt her loss and sensed her weeping deep in my soul.
I sensed that the stream was not for me today. Today it belonged to those who went before me. I blew out the candle and walked quietly back down the path. By the time I returned to the road, I knew where I belonged. I removed my gear and then drove home to my own beloved who was waiting patiently for my return on Christmas day.
Royal Dun
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