Scope and ContentMT. BALDHEAD Bald? Not recently, but when I first saw "Mt. Baldy" in the summer of 1930, a seemingly endless slope of pure golden sand, sandwiched between green forests on each side and towering over them, it was beyond BALD; it was NAKED,. To me, a child, it was the most glorious, the most tremendous sandpile in the world, and a challenge I couldn't ignore. Setting out to get to the top, I took giant steps, I crawled, scrambled, and inched my way. As every step forward slipped back at least half the distance, a strange cry could be heard underfoot, the kind of sound produced on a beginner's violin. It was this half squeak, half musical note that gave Saugatuck a name that means (according to some local lore) "the singing sands." Associated with untouched and untraveled places, the magical sound is only rarely experienced today. Once standing on the wind-smoothed dome, I felt like the first human being to set foot on unexplored territory; there was no footprint other than mine. On both sides, and below where I stood, the leafy treetops of the forested hills swayed and fluttered. The steep, almost glassy slope I had climbed held a few toilers less than half way up, and the meandering river at its base was bordered by a miniature village. To the west, Lake Michigan was dark blue, flecked with random bits of white. The lake side of the great dune had been scoured concave where the swooping winds constantly carried sand granules up to rest on the top, displacing others which slid gently down the front. The process was almost unnoticeable, except that every surface was smooth and unmarked. The exciting descent from this commanding height was even more memorable, especially to an active child. Leaping, sliding, and a few moments of actual FLYING brought me all too speedily to the bottom, contributing, all unaware of course, to the glacier-like slippage and inexorable forward movement of the dune. The "city fathers" of the 30's decade must have been fearless, farseeing, and strong: they planned and implemented a number of huge, costly projects which had far-reaching effects. Of these, the problem of Mt. Baldhead's march to the river was the most urgent, as it constituted a dangerous threat to the whole community. Measures to remove sand from the lower levels of the dune proved insufficient to halt its encroachment on the park at its base, and drastic action was demanded. Dramatic changes rarely take place speedily, but it was only one short year later, the following summer, when I found, to my great disappointment and serious displeasure, that the golden giant was now shackled and fettered like Gulliver among the Lilliputians. A wooden stairway (367 steps?) marched up the center, and staked bush and plantings webbed what had been a glistening, unblemished slide. The wide wind channel on the lake side had not been spared. Only a narrow service trail was left midway. Running down the sand or disturbing it in any way was forbidden, except on a specially designated route. Climbing the long stairway had already become and remained for many years an important resort activity. Paris had its Eiffel Tower, Saugatuck had Mt. Baldhead. Efforts were often made to count the steps, but a definitive total was rarely achieved as people simply lost count on the trek up. A wooden observation platform decorated (and additionally pinned down) the dome, where weary but triumphant climbers could sit to rest and admire the view. Although the structure was new in the summer of 1931, many visitors had already incised their initials and the date of the ascent on the railings and benches. That the project pleased tourists was fortunate, but of course the point of it all was that the dune should be effectively stopped in its tracks, and it was. The massive conservation effort paid off. Mt. Baldhead no longer stands out from its wooded neighbors, nor even towers over them much. No one picnicking in the park at its foot today could even imagine that it was once not only bald but dangerous, tamed by the determined townspeople of a little more than sixty years ago. -- Helen Gage DeSoto