Witch of November

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down

Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee

The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead

When the skies of November turn gloomy

Gordon Lightfoot

Bored to death and itching to get outdoors, I found an excuse to drive from KI Sawyer into Marquette to get a couple of things.  It was November, but so far we had not had a lot of snow.  The snow that had fallen was just a light dusting and the roads were clear for the forty mile round trip into town.  

If you have never been to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, you will be in for quite a shock.  Marquette is the largest town in the U.P. (as we called it) and it is a port on Lake Superior. One of the most notable things about this town of over forty thousand was the fact Marqutte was the last place to see the Edmund Fizgerald before it disappeared in the lake with all hands on deck.  A few years later, Canadian Balladeer Gordon Lightfoot immortalized the tragic event in his song, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” 

I climbed into my Dodge Ram and headed out of the trailer court where my roommate and I lived in an old trailer on base.  There was a back gate to the base that led to the main road into Marquette passing the flatland of family farms and frozen forests that dotted the now barren landscape.

The radio warned of a storm moving in. 

I had been stationed at KI Sawyer for about ten months.  My friend had talked me into coming to this base where we could live like kings and the truth was we were doing pretty good, better than I ever had in uniform.  He bought this trailer that had plumbing and heat and was comfortable for the most part.  The trailer had two bedrooms on either side of it with a common area in the middle of the medium sized abode.  

He had planned to spend five years here, but I wasn’t so sure.  There were stories of people who had been here a while who saw snow in each of the twelve months.  Yes, June and July could bring flurries if Lake Superior acted up.  

I must admit it was unusual to have so little snow in November.  Usually November was considered a snow month as winter would blast us with at least one good snowfall.  Sometimes we could get several feet of snow in one storm that could bury some of the one story buildings.

When I drove up here from California, I did not see a single snowflake until I came to Marinette on the border between Upper Michigan and Wisconsin.  I got to Escanaba and slid through a stop sign.  Pulling into an all night market, I asked the clerk, “How the heck do you stop in this stuff?”

“Ya gotta hit something.” He shrugged.

And he was correct.  In order to stop, I had to hit a snowbank.

The base was part of the Strategic Air Force security net that was a deterrent against a possible Soviet attack.  We flew B-52 Bombers and KC-130 refuelers.  Bombers could not take off with a full tank of fuel, so they would take off and be met by the KC-130 refuelers who would fill the bomber with jet fuel.  

We had an alert pad where two bombers would be housed and ready for takeoff on a moment’s notice.  A few yards from our trailer was an electric fence where they stored the nuclear armament that could be loaded on a bomber.  

The Edmund Fitzgerald was built to the maximum length allowed on the St. Lawrence River passage measuring about 730 feet or about the size of two football fields.  Once while driving to Houghton, I saw a giant freighter chugging along the horizon.  It was summer, but the song warned about the Witch of November.

Once October set in, the Witch who was said by the Presque Isle natives to live in her icy palace until she would make her appearance by sending down snow and ice upon anyone who dared cross Gitche Gumee during her reign over the lake.  Once under her deadly spell, those doomed by her icy wrath would be lost forever below the waves of the lake. 

French missionaries tried to dispel these superstitions, but the Witch of November would not be dispelled. There were stories of a few ships that disappeared in the previous two centuries.  I had heard from some of the locals that Lake Superior never fully melted during the brief summers and that there was a large ice mass a few hundred feet below the surface of the frigid waters. 

Could the ship be a part of that ice mass?  

Northern Michigan University was one of the largest employers in Marquette offering four year degree programs in quite a variety of academic endeavors.  I had taken a couple of courses, but the travel over the roads at night could be challenging and so I decided not to continue taking classes at the university.  They offered courses on base I could take and I felt that would have to do. 

From out of the flatlands, a wind began to whip up coming from the lake which oftentimes would create its own climate.  My Dodge Ram was a sturdy vehicle that could handle a little wind.  After about forty minutes, I saw the town dead ahead.  Flakes of snow mixed in with the arctic wind.  

I played my tape of Bruce Springsteen as he sang “Never Surrender” which was a fitting anthem for this part of the country.  

The Edmund Fitzgerald had a deadweight capacity of 26,000 long tons and a height of thirty nine feet from stem to hull.  I can only imagine how it must have looked like a skyscraper from the big city as it proudly navigated through the rough waters wearing the title of Queen of the Great Lakes. I am sure this infuriated the Witch of November who felt that this queen must be humbled.  From her palace, she created a wind that would bring the ship to her destruction.  

The captain, Ernest S. McSorely wired back to the port that the weather had suddenly turned rough on the open waters.  He had ice forming on the deck and rails that was a hazard to his crew.  He also reported the winds to be reaching 52 knots with waves reaching over ten feet. Ships along the route had harbored up for the night due to the weather conditions.

It all took place on November 10, 1975.  

I drove out to the pier in Presque Isle Part on the Eastern Shore of Marquette.  At the end of the pier was a lighthouse that was no longer in service. I had heard it was operating on the night of November 10, 1975 and became the last visual contact with the ship. 

The icy wind made my eyes gloss over a bit.  Standing near the pier, there was nothing between me and the brisk wind that swept over the park.  Though it was just three o’clock in the afternoon, the skies turned black and threatened to unleash a winter storm.  

The pier to the lighthouse was made of rock that was stacked up about ten feet over the breakers that splattered against the face of the boulders. The turbulent waters turned to foam between the gaps in the rocks.  

Wearing just a light sweatshirt, I shivered with each blast of the wind.  When I left my trailer, everything was calm, but standing here I saw the storm moving in quickly.  

Captain McSorely reduced his speed as two hatchways began taking on water.  He was also informed that the Soo Locks had been closed due to the weather leaving the captain with no safe anchorage anywhere.  He and his crew were now at the mercy of the Witch of November.  

I don’t know what possessed me, but I began to scale the rocks in order to reach the long dead lighthouse.  The footing was doable and I had no problem reaching the lighthouse.  There were a few seabirds sitting on the railing near the beacon which no longer lit the waters around the harbor.  

I was standing triumphant at the base of the tower which was only about twenty feet high.  Water began to push higher on the rocks, soaking my shoes.  Looking out onto the lake, I could see angry waves ready to swamp anyone daring to venture out into waters.  The ice pellets began to hit my skin, making my face sting and ache with each salvo. 

It was time for me to head back to my truck.

But the Witch of November had me in her grip, a bone to be chewed.  Was that the phrase Lightfoot used to describe the horrible fate of the crew?  Water washed over the rocks.  If I would try to walk the pier, I would be swept away by one of the waves that was now steadily pummeling the rocks.  I grabbed the lighthouse hoping that the waves would not reach where I was standing.  The wind screamed around the shore.  Would the last sounds I would hear be that of the harsh shrill of the witch’s voice.

“I warned you to stay in safe harbor, but you did not listen.  Now you belong to me.  They will never find your body.  Never!” She cackled  as lightning streaked across the black sky.  My hands began to slip away from the lighthouse as the waves washed over the ancient boards.  

Warm tears washed over my aching cheeks as waves pounded across the rocks.  

She had me.  The Witch of November had another victim to lay claim to. A wave caught my shoe and I stumbled, falling to my knees onto the sharp rough rocks.  Bullets of ice fell on me without mercy.  I was not able to escape her icy clutches.

In desperation, I decided I would have to scale the pier if I was ever going to get out of this predicament alive.  I had not counted on having to fight for my life this afternoon, but if I stayed out here any longer I would freeze solid as the wind continued to howl like a banshee.  It was her voice I was hearing.  Her howling that rang in my ears dripping with cold lake water and melting ice pellets.  My fingers were red and completely numb.  With the ache and numbness, it would be nearly impossible to grab onto the rocks as I made my way back to my truck.  My clothing was now soaked.  If I didn’t go now, I would not make it back.  

The pier was only about a hundred feet in length, but it might as well be a mile.  

I stepped onto the first rock as a wave splashed up from between the gaps nearly washing me into the drink.  

Slowing down the Edmund Fitzgerald, Captain McSorley hoped he could pump out the water that was flooding the two open hatches.  He had a long career on the Great Lake waterway, but no matter what he did, it did not seem to work.  His crew was in peril.  The ship was in peril.  He said a prayer, but the bow disappeared under a large wave.  He could hear some of his crew screaming as they were washed over the side of the monolithic freighter.  Soon the icy fingers of the witch would be clutching him as well.  It was all a matter of time now. 

I got down on my hands and knees as the rocks became slick and wet.  No one was there to hear my prayer as my foot slipped from under me.  The darkness fell over me like a giant shadow.  

“I don’t want to die.” I coughed as more water washed over me.  It was getting harder and harder to hold onto the slick surfaces of the rocks.  

“You pathetic little man!” I heard her voice boom out in the thunder. “What makes you think I will spare your life?”

Afraid to move ahead, I held my position trying to catch my breath.  As the wind pushed me, I knew I would have to find my courage and forge ahead. 

I had managed to cross about half way on the pier.  I began to have hope that I actually might make it, if only my hands would grasp the remaining rocks. I heard the screeching of the gulls overhead.  If only one of them would reach down and pluck me off this pier.  If only…

I managed to put my leg on the next rock, but my foot slipped again and I was left dangling for a moment as the water gushed below me.  If I slipped I would not survive the frigid water.  I could see ice starting to form in the surging water. 

There was nobody around to help me.  I was completely on my own.  Why had I decided it would be a good idea to explore the lighthouse?  What tempted me to come out here?  There was nobody here to acknowledge my feat, my foolish short-sighted accomplishment except for the gulls who would cackle at me if I fell into drink.  

My foot rested on the next rock, but in shifting my weight, I might start to fall.  In a moment of determination, I pushed myself onto the next rock.  I was nearly there.  I could see my truck where I had parked it.  All I had to do was just go a few feet more and I’d be on the shore. I’d be safe.  I would start up my truck and let the heater run until I was warm.  

Looking over the rock, I could see the cold gray water reaching to the sky like a hand of death.  

“Come to my embrace.” The witch whispered into my ear, “I will keep you as I kept the crew of that ship.  You can trust me.”

“Nooo.” I jumped to the next rock and then to another before letting go and feeling my feet light on solid ground.  I walked as quickly as I could to my truck.  I opened the door and turned on the engine with a twist of my wrist.  Within a few minutes, I felt the heater warm my aching skin.  I put my head on the steering wheel and gave a short prayer of thanks.

“You have escaped me this time.” The wind howled, “But next time you will be mine.” 

Upon that I drove away from the park, grateful to still be in the land of the living.  As I drove from the town, the snow started to fall.  From the density of the flakes, I knew it would be a snowstorm for sure. 

No one knows for sure when the Edmund Fitzgerald sank since there was no radio contact in the final hours.  The following day several vessels conducted a search for the lost ship, but they found nothing in their efforts.  In many of the public places in Marquette, MI there were artists’ renditions of the final moments, but no one will ever know for certain. 

“Hey, just got home from duty.” My roommate greeted me from the kitchen where he was heating up one of his frozen pizzas, “Where the heck have you been?”

“Here and there.” I answered.

“How did you get so soaked?” He gave me a strange look.  

“Started raining when I was walking in town.” I shrugged. 

“Storm due in.” He pulled his pizza from the oven.

If I told him the truth, would he believe me?  There are times when in my half dream state, I can hear her voice calling to me.