Relentless the great glacier pulverized the cap of a continent. Shoving, pushing tentacles hundreds of miles long, inched their destructive way southward. Lands which had been green and moderate of temperature, felt the glacier's breath and froze.

Life stopped and terrain changed. Unseen beneath the immense stretch of ice, vast valleys were scooped out of the rock, the sand. Ever so slowly the force of nature's powerful bulldozer was stopped by the very enormity of its task.

Five new inland seas were formed as the ice melted. The valleys filled with water.

We are overlooking Lake Michigan this bright blue Sunday afternoon. The beige of the shoreline stretches for miles before and behind us. Irregular lines of white caps bare their teeth and sink their fangs into the soft shores, eating and clawing, carrying the earth deep into the innards of the great lake, only to spew it forth again, throwing the sand yet higher in a new spot.

The power of wind and water was never more aptly demonstrated. The lake below us is a living, heaving thing. Beautiful in repose; terrible in anger.

Northeast of Michigan City, up the graceful curve of the lake is the new Warren State Park of Michigan. We can see the huge, square concrete parking lot, nestled among the sheltering dunes. A white road curls between the hills tying U. S. Highway 12 to the only civilized spot for miles along the lakefront wilderness.

The deep, blue green of the lake begins in an indefinite union with the sky and water, far out at sea. Today not a cloud punctuates the broken skyline. The bright edge of sand weaves a basket pattern between water and woods. Miles of forest inland accents the beauty of the lake and dunes.

This is a popular spot for airplanes. A few moments ago an aristocratic airliner moved surely and steadily on its way toward Chicago--the city we just can't quite see from here. Coming from all directions are small private planes. Some see the concrete ramp at Warren Park and circle slowly, satisfying their curiosity.

I am not writing this afternoon from an airplane as I would like to be, but from a vantage point high on a dune which is almost all my own.

All mine and Jerry's, Kenny's, Alice's and a little hunk of sand is shared with our friends, the Valparaiso Clarks--Howard, 'Pete," this is Mrs. Clark, and pretty dark daughter, Dorothy, who was a summer student at Petrie band camp. Aunt Kate is here too. Yes this dune is all mine, almost. Only Snuffy-the-dog isn't here.

I have watched so wistfully as each plane went over and put on such an act of martyrdom, that the senior pilot of the family and comptroller of currency --Mrs. M. --has consented to a Sunday aloft next time. I'm so fascinated by this fresh water ocean, that we are going to fly the length of it one of these fine fall Sundays. Today's column is a preview.

The following Sunday, or as soon as Jack Frost trails his colorful fingers across southern Indiana, we will fly the other way to Brown county, Port-O-Wood airport and other Hoosier beauty spots.

The trail of Fred Strauss,Jr., and Merl Stookey, both of Warsaw, is well and pleasantly marked through Canada. The two recently purchased an airplane as a joint venture and set off for a trip to the north. What a small world it is, for Mrs. Kitty Jontz, 411 South Columbia street, has handed me the following clipping sent to Warsaw by his sister, Mrs. L. D. Wertenberger--all the way from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada:

"Edmonton, the 'gateway to the north,' has won the hearts of two young American pilots. Flying their own plane, Merl Stookey and Fred Strauss arrived in Edmonton three days ago from Warsaw, Indiana.

"Originally plans were to stop-over just long enough to gas up before continuing to Fairbanks, Alaska for a fishing and hunting trip.

"We like Edmonton so well that we hate to leave" Mr. Stookey commented. Intending to depart Saturday morning, the flight was canceled, 'for at least another day; he said."

I wonder if these two adventurers wouldn't be kind enough to tell us all about their fine trip in a future column. How about it?

Warsaw Daily Times September 27, 1948