Malcolm James Thornwhistle (of the Downhampton Thornwhistles) was a world renowned adventurer and Olympic water balloon shot-put contender.

He was best known for his discoveries of the completely immersed Can’t-Tread-On-Me Islands, in the upper St. Joseph River, and his last place finish at the cherry pit spitting competition at Tree-Mendus Fruit Farms.

Malcolm made several up-river expeditions by means of a small, flat-bottomed, Jon Boat, powered by a trusty seventy-five horse power Evinrude outboard. With each excursion of slowly navigating the previously uncharted waters of the Mighty St. Joe, Malcolm considered upgrading to the supercharged four-stroke power and torque of a Mercury Verado — words stolen directly from the glossy Mercury Marine brochures that cluttered his kitchen table.

However, in spite of his intrinsic desire for more power, he was very much aware that more power would turn the usually tranquil river current into a migrating goose Jacuzzi.

Rounding a turn near Turtle Bay, just downstream from what would become known as Wren Haven, where the Sauk Trail crossed the river at Bertrand’s Ford, Malcom encountered two men sitting along the riverbank in a half-submerged birch bark canoe.

“Ahoy,” he called out, because that is what the Jon Boat manufacturer’s instructions said he should do when stumbling upon half-sunk boaters.

“Ahoy,” he called out a second time, just in case the occupants of the canoe had not taken the time to read their own manufacturer’s instructions (which is, sometimes, apt to happen).

“Ahoy yourself,” called out one of the soggy and nearly sunk canoeists. “I must insist that you turn off your engine. This is a no-wake zone.”

Malcolm looked around for a sign that would indicate that he had entered the dreaded no-wake zone (a place where 300 HP Mercury Verados fear to churn). None seemed to be posted.

“I didn’t see any signs,” began Malcolm in a polite, friendly, and a what-the-heck-are-you-talking-about tone of voice.

“This river has been a no-wake zone since the glaciers receded,” interrupted the other half-fast mariner. “We are members of the ‘Leave-it-Alone’ Party, and we are here to return this river to its natural, pre-human, condition. We are here to enforce the original no-wake zone”

“We are here to return everything to its pre-human condition,” chimed in the other sunken sailor. “Before industrialization, before over-population, before oppression, before…”

“Before flush toilets?” interrupted the intrepid adventurer, as he pointed the Jon Boat upstream and slowly worked the throttle to stay even in the current.

“Pre-human condition?” Malcolm was barely able to veil the same what-the-heck-are-you-talking-about tone of voice that he failed to suppress, earlier. “What the heck are you talking about?”

OK, he didn’t even try to suppress it.

“People have destroyed our planet,” lamented the first wet-bottomed boater. “We intend to correct all of the damage by returning the earth to its original condition. Humans will no longer be able to come in contact with, and therefore, no longer be able to alter this beautiful natural resource.”

“Leave it alone. Leave it alone. Leave it alone,” the second water sitter began to chant.

“What about the trout?” Malcolm asked.

This stopped the chant and replaced it with an inquisitive, “Huh?”

“Do people still get to fish the water, relax by sitting on its banks, or cool off while floating downstream on a hot summer day?”

“It has to be left alone. The river is for fish and only bears get to eat the fish. Bear lives matter.”

Malcolm wasn’t sure which one of the sunken birchers made the last comment and even less sure about the numbers of bears in the neighborhood.

“Guys,” Malcolm began slowly, “I like your idea of protecting this beautiful natural resource. But, you do realize you are sitting half-way up to your elbows in the river, don’t you?” Malcolm tried to hold back laughing at the irony of the situation. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

OK, he didn’t even try to suppress it.

“You want to abolish all use of this river by people, while you litter the riverbed with your own wet butts?” With this observation, Malcolm turned the throttle just enough to push the Jon Boat smoothly against the current.

“What are you doing?” the two canoeists called out in unison.

“Leaving it alone,” Malcolm replied, as he continued on his explorations.

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.