Any trip to the U.P. means a side trip to Blaney Park, where a special memorial sits in front of the old Blaney Inn.

It marks the place where four deans of Michigan outdoor journalism gathered one winter evening in 1944. Kendrick Kimball, Clarence “Frenchy” Paquin, Don Gillies, and Lloyd Eagen met to discuss forming a state organization for outdoor writers. They came back the following year, drawing 30 other members of the outdoor press to Blaney Park, where they formed the Michigan Outdoor Writers Association (MOWA).

I’ve been a member for 35 years, and have had the pleasure of knowing and enjoying the great characters and admirable talent among the members, from those active now to those who have gone to a loftier copy desk.

Michigan’s outdoor communicators have produced many critically-acclaimed works. But a visit to Blaney Park also recalls the wonderful pranksters and characters of MOWA who delighted us over the years. I cannot forget the likes of one whom Country Lines columnist Jim Hough would remember well – Frank Mainville.

Mainville, long-time Lansing State Journal photographer and outdoor columnist, was a sweet little man–short, chubby, and the guy fellow outdoor writers loved to josh with. He never took it personally. In fact, if no one kidded him or pulled pranks on him he’d ask if there was something wrong.

One winter Frank rented skis and boots for his first-ever try at Nordic skiing. As our group started out, Frank took two strides and fell on his ample rump, again and again, each time leaving round tush depressions in the snow. That night we proclaimed a new MOWA honor, the Frank Mainville Sitzmark Award, for making “the biggest impression on the ski trails of the Pigeon River Forest.” Frank loved it.

Skiing brought Detroit Free Press outdoor writer Tom Opre, Charley Gunther, top conservation cop for the DNR, DNR publicist Mac Frimodig and me to Wilderness State Park. We planned to ski to a remote cabin up a two-mile trail.

Charley, who had never skied, attempted to break the Mainville Sitzmark record right off the bat. So Mac told Tom and me to ski ahead and he’d help Charley get started, then join us up the trail.

Tom and I weren’t halfway up the trail when the swishing sound of speeding skis was heard as Mac went flying past us. “Charlie gave it up, so I’ll just ski ahead, take a look at the cabin then ski back to the car,” he said, disappearing up the trail.

Before we got in sight of the cabin, a flash of poles and skis passed us as Mac streaked back down past us, a moving blur of Norwegian in ski overdrive.

On the way back to our motel, I told Mac he had impressed me with his skiing. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, you being a Yooper and no doubt skiing all your life.”

“No, never skied when I was a kid,” Mac said. “That was something the old Finns and Swedes did. We just skated or tobogganed.”

“Well, you must have picked the skiing up somewhere,” I replied.

Mac rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Well, I guess maybe the three years I spent in the 10th Mountain Division in the War might have had something to do with it.”

James A.O. Crowe, Detroit News outdoor writer, was one of the first to welcome me into MOWA. He spotted my Scots surname. “Welcome in, laddy,” he said, “come have a wee dram with me – we Scots have to band together.” (Crowe was a native of Scotland.)

On a goose hunt in Texas in the ’70s, our four MOWA hunters had a last-night dinner in a Corpus Christi restaurant. I heard an organist playing birthday and anniversary requests, and decided to pull a prank on Jim.

When he went to the men’s room, I told the waitress we had a guest who was celebrating his 85th birthday and could she ask the organist announce it? “Certainly. Just give me the high sign when it’s time,” she said.

When Jim came back to the table, I signaled the waitress and over the loudspeaker came this: “Please join us in singing a happy birthday to Mr. James A. O. Crowe of Royal Oak, Michigan, who is celebrating his 85th birthday tonight.” (Jim was still under 60.)

As the entire room joined in singing “Happy Birthday,” Jim glared around our table; then, smoke coming from his ears, he locked on me and cussed me out in Gaelic.

Jim, Mac, and Frank are gone now, but remain close in fond memory, memories rekindled anew at each stop at Blaney Park. Fine colleagues all; it was my great, good fortune to call them friends.