A hermit’s haven
What remains of a manís home is crumbling in a field of prairie grasses and weeds in Wisconsinís far northeastern corner. To find it, drive straight north from Green Bay on Highway 141 a couple of hours until you hit the hamlet of Beecher in Marinette County. Turn east on County Z, drive another 8 miles or so, and youíll see itóor whatís left of it. It stands alone in a low spot, protected to the north by rocky outcroppings, just a mile or two from the Menominee River, which marks the border between northern Wisconsin and Michiganís Upper Peninsula in these parts.
Iíve seen this place each of the last two Octobers, and it made me wonder about the former owner. Who lived here?
A hermit, says my buddy Dave, a high school friend who owns a place on the nearby river, where we fish for crappies and walleyes each autumn.
Dave remembers the fellow from when he spent summers in Marinette County with his aunt and uncle. Dave was just a boy of 8 or 9 then, back in the 1960s. The man was old then, short, stocky and bearded, Dave recalls.
ďHe usually wore bib overallsóthe blue ones with white pinstripes,Ē so common in the countryside in days gone by.
Dave didnít recall that the man drank, that he had a job or even a car. He seemed content just to tend a big garden, guarded by scarecrows, and shoot his deer each season to provide meat to supplement the produce.
Dave and his aunt and uncle would pay visits to the man every once in a while. The man would invite them inside to, as Dave put it, ďshoot the breeze.Ē He seemed to never have much contact with folks, so these visits always seemed a highlight in his life, Dave recalls.
The manís place was more than a cabin, but it was still a small home, despite dormers suggesting a modest second floor. Dave isnít sure if the man built the home himself.
ďIf he did, it was built to last.Ē
But alas, it wonít last. Itís deteriorating, month by month, season by season, year by year. It had a lean-to porch facing the county road, but that has collapsed, the shingled porch roof now sheltering, on that side of the home, exposed studs that resemble ribs on some human corpse.
Dave could ask his aunt and uncle more about the fellow, but like the man himself, theyíre long gone. After leaving Daveís river place last month, I stopped to take a few photos of this hermitís haven. I could see the chimney deep inside, though I dared not step in lest the whole structure decide that was the best time to tumble. I figured raccoons and perhaps possums make it home these days.
As I strolled around, I saw remains of a smaller fallen structure nearby. Perhaps it was the manís outhouse or a chicken coop.
The guy never married, as far as Dave knew. Thus, the man fit Websterís definition of a hermitóa person who lives alone in a lonely or secluded spot. But as I snapped photos, I wondered: Was the man single by choice? Had he been, unknown to Dave, divorced or widowed or spurned by some young love interest and thus never wed? I wondered, too, if the spirit of this man long gone might be wandering the field, watching me at work with my camera. I paused to listen, but my senses sensed nothing but a gentle breeze and the start of a light rain on a dark, gray day.
As I travel Wisconsinís rural northern roads, I see places like this from time to timeóan abandoned cabin; a crumbling barn; a shuttered business. I think about the people who built such places, who poured much or most of their life savings into these dream places, only to later abandon them, apparently without being able to pass them on to interested heirs or sell them to willing new owners.
Eventually, nature will swallow them.
Winter is hurtling toward us. So far north, a layer of snow likely already covers this hermitís former home off County Z in Marinette County. If so, that bed of snow might not melt until the walleyes start running next spring. That old home wonít last too many more winters, Dave and I agree. It canít.
One day, it will be goneólike all of us.
Click here to view a gallery of images of the house.
Greg Peck can be reached at (608) 755-8278 or email@example.com. Or follow him on Twitter or