Car Talk by Dave Graf Wolf Ridge Naturalist Wolf Ridge Almanac Fall 2002

Car graphic from The Automobile Book. The Curtis Publishing Company.

"Yeah, I don’t like it either."

"Hmmm," I responded to those two fifth graders, "I doubt that."

I saw them run around the bend. Muddy sneakers kicked and scraped stones. I peered at the empty place in the woods where their shadows had just been. I had told them that the wide leaf strewn trail they were walking on was a bona-fied highway eighty years ago that connected Lake Superior to Finland. Immigrants hoping to start new lives traveled it. I suspected as they ran away from me, that none of my talk made any difference. My suggestion of finding something odd ahead made them disappear. Off they went, like kids do, bound for glory.

I managed to round the bend just in time to see the first one skid to a halt, framed in the alder thicket far ahead. Her jacket had slipped to her elbows. She was pointing into the swamp. Even at that distance, I knew the look on her face and smiled as her first words floated back to me.

"Whoa, it's an old car!"

"Look! It has bullet holes in it!"

I nodded in silent satisfaction, but stood a little longer, waiting for them to forget that I had been there before. Then it came.

"Hey teacher," one hollered, "We found an old car with bullet holes in it!" She spoke as if it were an unalterable truth, a statement not open to negotiation.

"Is there an old-fashioned phonograph with a record of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in there?" I hollered back, as I began to walk towards them. I chuckled as they turned wide-eyed towards each other, jaws slack at the mere possibility. They both stole a peek.

By the time I had caught up to them, both were posed impatiently, arms crossed, shifting their glances from me to the car and back.

"Imagine, if you two had been standing here eighty years ago, you might have been run over," I pointed out to them. "Or worse still, shot...on accident."

I was startled to see their eyes bulge out like that. Then suspicion clouded their faces.

"Are you telling the truth?" one demanded with a glare. Her tone held the promise of dire consequences if I proved to be a fibber.

Feigning innocence, “What! You must have heard those Bonnie and Clyde tales. No, Silver Jack Driscoll was a mean old logger who pounded people into the sawdust, had hands like anvils, chewed on leather, and grew hair like wire out of his ear. He was a thief and a cheat, but none of that interests you. You don’t like history. Remember?” I should have felt guilty, but there are subtle joys in teasing a ten year old.

They clenched their jaws and their eyes narrowed dangerously to something between a squint and a stare. With their backs to the wall, what could they say?

“No, we just don’t like boring history. Who’s Silver Jack Dracula or whoever? Did he really chew on leather? Is that his car? Did he make those bullet holes?”

I pretended not to hear but simply scratched at my beard and whistled as I proceeded to notice some insignificant piece of metal peeling off the decaying shell of the Model A Ford. I was enjoying the suspense, so I stayed silent a while longer.

“He’s lying, Wolf Ridge put this car here,” she said. Apparently she thought she could bait me. I sighed and shook my head. How jaded some fifth graders could be.

“O.K., O.K.!” I sputtered in mock exasperation, and aimed my hands like pistols into the air, “Silver Jack didn’t blaze those bullet holes with his six shooter; it was Yellow Streak Harry Platburger who put them there after Jack’s wolf gang stole the logging camp payroll off of Harry, and nailed his boots to the roots of a yellow birch tree. That coward Harry managed to pop off a bunch of shots before he lost his balance and fell over backward. Harry almost shot his own head off. That swampy spot there is where Silver Jack’s car started on fire; see the scorched metal?” I pointed for good effect.

Looks of mixed disbelief and wonder had returned to their faces. “Well?!” one finally demanded.

“Well what?” I replied.

“Well what happened to Silver Jack? Come on! Tell us!”

“I didn’t think you were interested.”

They had their hands on their hips now. Both wore disturbing, scrunched up, wrinkled nose, teeth showing, and threatening looks on their faces. I laughed out loud.

“You two look the way Silver Jack Driscoll must have looked when he found out his record player was busted, and all his records were melted in the trunk. All that was left was the smoldering car. No money, no phonograph, no tracks, no Silver Jack Driscoll. Gone. I don’t know what happened to him….”

I shrugged apologetically, and turned to wander up the old highway to join the rest of the class waiting at the benches. I turned around. The two had just begun to walk away from the car. I watched them as they stopped in a muddy puddle of orange leaves. Both took one last lingering look at the quiet rusty car sunken into the woods. Then they looked at each other and smiled.

“Come on,” I heard one say, “Let’s go see if there’s any more history on this old highway!”

As the girls joined the group at the benches, I explained that the car was indeed a 1929 Model A Ford. Wolf Ridge had not placed it there or the bullet holes. And the trail we were currently following was the original road that leads from Crystal Bay. The ship America stopped to deliver early immigrants and supplies. The ditches and car are evidence attesting to the status of this being a road.

A student waved his hand. “How come that car is there,” he demanded. Several others concurred with, “Yeah, why?”

“Well,” I conceded with a mischievous grin toward the two girls,” we really don’t know but perhaps these girls can fill you in on what might have happened.

Students have the opportunity to view and imagine about the car’s history when they participate in our Superior View Hike Class.

Dave Graf is the adventure education coordinator at Wolf Ridge. The pursuit of kayaking, skiing, climbing and numerous other activities as well as his active imagination keep Dave busy. Dave has a degree in English Literature. He is an active member of the Silver Bay ambulance and rescue squad.