Scope and ContentGrapevine Swings by Helen Gage DeSoto I suspect that children today are too entangled in electronic diversions to be acquainted with Tarzan, but many members of earlier generations were entranced by his mystique. The aspect of Tarzan movies that I liked best was his ability to traverse the jungle thrillingly and speedily by swinging on vines from treetop to treetop. When I first spied the thick, fibrous grapevines hosted by the tall trees in Saugatuck's wooded hills, I though that my dream had come true, that I too would be able to swing heartstoppingly through the forest, but I soon found out otherwise. Different than Tarzan's loose lianas, these were wild grapevines, solidly rooted in the ground, and although their tentacles were tightly meshed with the upper branches of the trees they had grown up with, they could not move. At my insistence, my father cut one off for me, but as we had not understood that the vine had to be located in a certain kind of place, on a hillside, the ride that resulted was aimless and far from exciting. Eventually I came across one which was properly (and noisily) in use. My cousins and I, walking along the dirt road that leads to Ox-Bow, heard and saw some kids partway up the slope across from the semicircular rest seat that commemorated the original winding route of the Kalamazoo. They were swinging high up and far out, and, although we were too shy to interrupt them then, we returned the following day to find the vine which someone had cut for their enjoyment in what we saw was an ideal place. The vine had grown near the bottom of the hill among some well-spaced large trees. It had been cut several feet above its roots so that it would not drag on the ground when carried to a perch high enough to assure a wide arc of swing. We enjoyed that grapevine several times that summer, but never encountered the ones for whom it had been prepared. From then on, a favorite project each summer was to search for a well-located grapevine and ready it for takeoff. Sometimes scratchy bushes and saplings that stood in the flight path had to be eliminated. It took serious exploration to find one that could be made into a desirable swing, and some summers we were more successful than others. None was, unfortunately, any good the next year, as the dead vine lost its grip on the parent tree and a a risk taker might boldly launch, only to be gently let down as the canopied tangle gave bit by bit. This amusement was so much a part of our regular summer pattern in Saugatuck, that my daughter thought it would be a universally known source of fun. As a back-to-school assignment one September she and her 4th grade classmates were asked to mime some activity that they had especially enjoyed over the summer. Not only the students, but the teacher as well, were mystified by Lisa's pantomimed search, testing for strength, sawing, and gripping with both hands held high while moving back and up (she stepped onto a chair.) Those Californians knew nothing of the possibilities in Michigan woods. One more recollection: the last time I was in Saugatuck, some seasons back, I came across a beautifully prepared vine, carefully caught up on the branches of a sapling. I was walking the Fishtown Trail, the remnant of an old wagon road. This path forks off from the Old Water Tower Road and leads to the lagoon, or what was in busy river days the docks. Cut out of a steep hillside, the trail itself is flat and easy to walk with a deep ravine on one side, and the temptation that I faced here was serious. I was already entering my so-called "golden years" and probably should not have been contemplating flight. How old was the vine? Would it take my weight? Could I hold on for the wide arc this vine would provide? Did I dare? You bet! I couldn't resist and stayed for quite a while enjoying several glorious flights. I looked a few days later but was never able to find it again, but I have always remembered my last, great grapevine experience, an unexpected gift from an unknown benefactor. Tarzan's jungle had nothing on Saugatuck forests! - by Helen Gage DeSoto