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Indian Trails
January 22, 2001
By: Squeak Smith  
 

I remember Grandpa Claude saying, "always build on high ground".  I guess my Father took his advice seriously because he purchased, and built our home on the highest piece of land in the township.  In the rich, flat farmlands of central Michigan "high
ground" didn't mean a mountain by any means. However, the 200'x200' parcel, situated on a twenty-five foot bluff overlooking the river, provided adequate elevation, and insured the intermittent river floods never swept us downstream. As I would much later learn to appreciate, for a man with only an eighth grade education, Grandpa was indeed a very wise man!
 
The location proved ideal from a home security standpoint, but more significantly, it gave me the venue for unlimited exploration and adventure for over twenty years.  Thinking back fondly on those formative years, I honestly believe Dad just "knew" this locale, and the myriad opportunities it offered, would positively influence and define my life. He was right!
 
From perfecting the fine arts of seducing frogs, turtles, and fish, to witnessing the negative impacts man's encroachment could have on a watershed, my angling expertise and environmental attitudes were firmly ingrained.  My daily sojourns to the water's edge were undertaken with the childlike passion of inquisitiveness, always open to the mysteries and secrets that ever moving body of water might choose to divulge. Years of exploration and adventure on and around that river instilled in me a love and respect for water and the environment that defines my life today.
 
Legend had it (and Grandpa confirmed it), the crude earthen trails that closely followed the river's edge, and twisted through the underbrush along its banks were old Indian trails. Who could be sure?  After all, it was the 50's,TV was new, and cowboys like Roy Rogers and Indians like Tonto were "real" to my friends and me. Unlike the politically correct attitudes of today, way back then, it was perfectly normal for a kid to imagine "injuns" sneaking along a riverbank trail in search of game or looking to scalp an
unsuspecting pioneer.  I for one believed it, and continued to propagate the theory.
 
The bank of the round, half-mile diameter cove behind my house was laced with these narrow, primitive footpaths.  They were my highways to exploration as a child. And over time (as Mom allowed my ventures to expanded further from "the yard"), I quickly learned every nook, cranny, and hollow up and down the river for miles. For some unknown reason, I was continually fascinated and amazed by the trail's complexity. I fully believed "injuns" had strategically selected each foot and handhold along the trail to make the dangerous passage possible. I developed a great respect for their creative ingenuity.
 
I overheard Grandpa tell a story one day about his Great Grandfather Ephraim, and I had an epiphany.  Ephraim had been an early settler in the region and was married to (or lived with, I never did find out), a local Chippewa squaw. Grandpa was part Indian!  Had my ears deceived me? No, it was a fact, and I too, had some "injun" blood coursing through my veins. This sudden disclosure made me reevaluate the basic prejudices and ideas I held regarding Indians.
 
By accepting my newly discovered heritage, I began to better appreciate my fascination with exploring the primitive trails my unseen ancestors had quite possibly laid down so many years before. I opened my ears, and listened to the secrets the Indian trails were willing to share and it was then I first heard the river talk. I still hear it today!
 

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