Lake Sixteen
I had often wondered if in this area there was a Lake One, Lake Two, etc., but to the best of my knowledge there was only Lake Sixteen.
Today if you traveled on US 31 North out of Montague, Michigan, you would come to a very small town called Rothbury. Just before you come to this ‘drive through town’ with a yield light to warn of a crossing, there is a road that leads to a lake. Thirty years ago I took this road and went back to Lake Sixteen and revisited a place that was very much a part of my childhood. I was surprised to see that Lake Sixteen was surrounded by homes. It didn’t look the same as I remembered it as a young girl.
By now, if you have read some of my earlier stories, you have learned that we were not wealthy. My father would arrange activities for us that did not cost much money. One of these activities was fishing at Lake Sixteen.
On a Saturday afternoon my mother would pack a picnic lunch and we would all climb in our 1935 Ford and head for the lake. Before we left it was our job to take a coffee can and dig worms for the big occasion. About a block from our home was a creek with very dark and rich soil on its banks. Dad would take my brother, Jim, and me down there and as dad dug we gathered the worms. I learned very early in my life that worms were not something to be squirmy about. They were a much needed part of a fun activity.
Mom and dad had no fancy fishing rods and lures. They both had bamboo poles with the line wound around the ends, and my fishing pole was made from a straight tree branch. Dad’s fishing equipment consisted of an old rusty tackle box that held extra fishing line, a stringer for fish, sinkers, and different sizes of hooks.
The road that led to the lake was a two- track dirt road. If it had been raining the night before, we were in danger of getting stuck in the mud. There were times when my father would stop the car, get out and check the road before continuing.
About one mile down the road there was a driveway that led to an old farm home owned by Mrs. Warren. From her farm home you could see Lake Sixteen. Mrs. Warren lost her husband and she became the caretaker of the farm. She would have been a perfect picture for Norman Rockwell to paint. She was tall, mannish, appeared muscular and strong, and every time I saw her, always had on men’s work shoes that were very dirty. She had a floppy old straw hat and her long cotton dresses seemed tattered, torn and somewhat big on her. She never wore makeup and her hair was always pushed up under that old hat. She was very tan and her skin was wrinkled from the sun. She had a low booming voice that scared me. However, my dad assured me that she had a heart of gold and I was not to be afraid of her.
Mrs. Warren charged my dad fifty cents to rent a rowboat for a day. Lake Sixteen wasn’t a public facility, but was open to friends and neighbors. There wasn’t a home built on the lake, and as far as I know, the Warren’s were the only ones who had access to it.
On the edge of the lake were four or five overturned wooden row boats. Mrs. Warren would tell my dad to see if he could find a boat that didn’t leak. Mom and dad would carefully look over each boat and when dad found a boat that he felt was safe, my brother and I had the job of finding matching oars.
The oars were lined up neatly on the outside wall of the farm house. My brother and I were careful to find just the right ones, and he would carry one oar down to the boat and I would carry the other.
My dad showed me how to put a worm on the hook and how to sit still and wait for the fish to bite. I was to slowly move my pole back and forth to entice the fish. This was serious business for my father. He loved being on the lake and we loved the serenity and quietness. We caught perch, bluegills, sunfish and once in a while a sucker. It seemed we always had enough for a fish meal for the next day.
My dad taught me how to row a boat when I was very young. I would sit next to him and he would take one oar and I the other. I couldn’t get the oar in the water most of the time and he showed me how fun it was just to go around in circles with him doing all the rowing. However, as I got older I became quite proficient as a rower, and my dad actually would rent another boat for us kids to have fun in. The rules were to stay close to the shore and to stay far away from where mom and dad were fishing.
The farm house is gone now. The path through the woods to the outhouse is no longer there. The barn where Mrs. Warren had the cows and pigs is gone. The chickens, ducks, and geese no longer wander around the property. The paths that we took for exploring are nothing but a memory now. Lake Sixteen is still there. People that live on that lake are collecting memories of their own. However, I believe I have the very best of memories when I think of being with my dad, mother, sister and brother on a Saturday afternoon, sitting around an old picnic table, eating fried chicken, and talking about the big ones that got away in Lake Sixteen.
Today if you traveled on US 31 North out of Montague, Michigan, you would come to a very small town called Rothbury. Just before you come to this ‘drive through town’ with a yield light to warn of a crossing, there is a road that leads to a lake. Thirty years ago I took this road and went back to Lake Sixteen and revisited a place that was very much a part of my childhood. I was surprised to see that Lake Sixteen was surrounded by homes. It didn’t look the same as I remembered it as a young girl.
By now, if you have read some of my earlier stories, you have learned that we were not wealthy. My father would arrange activities for us that did not cost much money. One of these activities was fishing at Lake Sixteen.
Mom and dad had no fancy fishing rods and lures. They both had bamboo poles with the line wound around the ends, and my fishing pole was made from a straight tree branch. Dad’s fishing equipment consisted of an old rusty tackle box that held extra fishing line, a stringer for fish, sinkers, and different sizes of hooks.
The road that led to the lake was a two- track dirt road. If it had been raining the night before, we were in danger of getting stuck in the mud. There were times when my father would stop the car, get out and check the road before continuing.
About one mile down the road there was a driveway that led to an old farm home owned by Mrs. Warren. From her farm home you could see Lake Sixteen. Mrs. Warren lost her husband and she became the caretaker of the farm. She would have been a perfect picture for Norman Rockwell to paint. She was tall, mannish, appeared muscular and strong, and every time I saw her, always had on men’s work shoes that were very dirty. She had a floppy old straw hat and her long cotton dresses seemed tattered, torn and somewhat big on her. She never wore makeup and her hair was always pushed up under that old hat. She was very tan and her skin was wrinkled from the sun. She had a low booming voice that scared me. However, my dad assured me that she had a heart of gold and I was not to be afraid of her.
Mrs. Warren charged my dad fifty cents to rent a rowboat for a day. Lake Sixteen wasn’t a public facility, but was open to friends and neighbors. There wasn’t a home built on the lake, and as far as I know, the Warren’s were the only ones who had access to it.
On the edge of the lake were four or five overturned wooden row boats. Mrs. Warren would tell my dad to see if he could find a boat that didn’t leak. Mom and dad would carefully look over each boat and when dad found a boat that he felt was safe, my brother and I had the job of finding matching oars.
The oars were lined up neatly on the outside wall of the farm house. My brother and I were careful to find just the right ones, and he would carry one oar down to the boat and I would carry the other.
My dad showed me how to put a worm on the hook and how to sit still and wait for the fish to bite. I was to slowly move my pole back and forth to entice the fish. This was serious business for my father. He loved being on the lake and we loved the serenity and quietness. We caught perch, bluegills, sunfish and once in a while a sucker. It seemed we always had enough for a fish meal for the next day.
My dad taught me how to row a boat when I was very young. I would sit next to him and he would take one oar and I the other. I couldn’t get the oar in the water most of the time and he showed me how fun it was just to go around in circles with him doing all the rowing. However, as I got older I became quite proficient as a rower, and my dad actually would rent another boat for us kids to have fun in. The rules were to stay close to the shore and to stay far away from where mom and dad were fishing.
The farm house is gone now. The path through the woods to the outhouse is no longer there. The barn where Mrs. Warren had the cows and pigs is gone. The chickens, ducks, and geese no longer wander around the property. The paths that we took for exploring are nothing but a memory now. Lake Sixteen is still there. People that live on that lake are collecting memories of their own. However, I believe I have the very best of memories when I think of being with my dad, mother, sister and brother on a Saturday afternoon, sitting around an old picnic table, eating fried chicken, and talking about the big ones that got away in Lake Sixteen.
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