Dick Christian persuaded us to explore Port Sheldon. No amenities. No slips. We motored in the narrow manmade channel and found ourselves in sweet little Pigeon Lake. We anchored on the north side of the lake at 17 feet. Famished from the day's fresh breezes, we fired up the propane grill and soon two thick pork chops were sizzling. Fresh Michigan asparagus and slivered carrots bathed in olive oil and balsamic simmered in the veggie grill pan. The pork was succulent! The veggies were crisp and colorful. Later the sky darkened. The moon put in a sudden bulbous appearance. Within three minutes she had hoisted herself above the distant tree-lined shore. Shimmery clouds veiled her face. Finally she stretched a beckoning path across the lake to Speakeasy's bow. But we were not beguiled. We went below and went to sleep. We awakened and went on deck. A thick layer of coal dust covered Speakeasy. Last night we'd heard Caterpiller Frontloaders as they shoved coal into hoppers up the tracks to the top of the power plant to heat the water that had been sucked in from Lake Michigan to create steam to create electricity so that the folks in this area can watch TV instead of the sunsets. Progress at the cost of paradise.