Episode Transcript
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[music]
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You're listening to End of the Road in Michigan, a podcast about the forgotten stories,
lost places, and quiet legends that shaped the Great Lakes State, brought to you by
Thumbwind Publications.
Today's story takes us back nearly two centuries.
To a time when Michigan was wilderness, Saginaw Bay was a frontier, and one young man,
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Part French, Part Explorer, and all guts, wandered the Thumb in search of a trade most couldn't find.
His name was Edward Petit, and his journey helped lay the path for settlement along Saginaw
Bay.
Edward Petit was born on February 7, 1843, in what is now Port Huron, Michigan.
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His family lived in a small log cabin near the foot of Court Street, a structure surrounded
by forest, bluffs, and a river that fed into Lake Huron.
He was the first European child born in that spot.
It was an isolated outpost of mixed French and indigenous influence at the time where trappers
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and traders mingled with the native Ojibwe.
As a boy, Edward lived between two worlds.
He spoke English in French, and by the time he was a teen, he had picked up fluent Ojibwe.
He learned to paddle and fish from the tribes who still lived near the Osabler River and
hunted along the interior.
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He was comfortable in the forest, and even more comfortable in the water.
By age 15, Petit was already working in the fur trade.
In the winter of 1838, a problem arose.
One of the largest fur trading companies in the Saginaw Valley, G and W Williams, had lost
contact with an indigenous encampment, believed to be holding an enormous cache of fur.
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Multiple traders had attempted to find the elusive camp, said to be led by an Ojibwe
elder named Ta-Was, but none had succeeded.
The camp had moved into remote, uncharted territory for the winter.
But those families were still trapping somewhere along Saginaw Bay and sitting on a fortune.
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Once when Petit stepped up, armed with a sack of provisions, a few goods for barter, and
a week's worth of determination, he took one companion, a one armed Ojibwe guide, and
left the cast river post on foot.
They traveled along the shores of the bay, eventually passing Shabionk, now long vanished
from modern maps.
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It was 1829 when Williams' company had built a small outpost there, a rudimentary shelter
run by native women trading fur and fish.
From there they moved toward White Rock following the frozen shoreline.
They built a temporary bark lodge to take shelter, but rain and sleep battered them all night.
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By morning, they had just one loaf of bread left, still they pushed forward.
Five more miles inland, deep into the forest, they finally spotted smoke rising through
the trees.
Petit was ta-was and his families.
What Petit found was a scene of hardship.
The camp had plenty of fur, Martin, Mink, Fox, but they were starving.
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Their only food was a small reserve of mousse talo and their brass kettles, issued decades
earlier by the British, were empty.
Petit shared his last bread with them, then opened his packs.
In a single trade he acquired over 500 Martin skins, he paid just $41 in goods.
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The same furse would fetch more than $2 a piece on the eastern market, a tenfold profit.
Petit only took the best peltz, leaving the rough stock for other traders.
It was one of the most successful solo trades in company history.
When he returned to the Cass River Post, G and W. Williams quadrupled his wages.
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Long after Petit's journey, the remnants of Ta-was' camp lingered.
In the 1850s, a man named Robert Morse uncovered a large brass kettle while clearing land
in McKinley Township.
It had been buried beneath the roots of a fallen tree untouched for generations.
Another kettle, found in Caseville during a basement dig, was later used for years by a settler's
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wife.
These relics told a story, one of British influence, indigenous tradition, and a trade
economy that depended entirely on the changing seasons and traveling men like Petit.
They were not just cooking pots.
They were artifacts of an era when fur was currency and survival depended on trust, risk,
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and the route finding across untamed land.
Though Edward Petit never became famous, his work helped define the region's early economy.
He was one of the first outsiders to build long-term, peaceful relationships with the Anishinabe
tribes.
He bridged two cultures, French and native, and showed what could be gained from respect,
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perseverance, and a little bit of teenage stubbornness.
He wasn't a conqueror, he wasn't a general or a governor, he was a boy with a paddle and
a trade pack.
And yet his story hints at the roots of Huron County's later settlements, like Sand Beach,
Sebel Wang, and Caseville.
Today, no statues mark Petit's name, but the rivers he walked beside, the cast, the
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sobble, and the inland trails near White Rock still flow.
And if you dig deep enough, the stories are still there, waiting beneath the moss and the
maple trees.
We'll be right back to our story after this message.
In our modern era, it's easy to forget how uncertain Michigan's early frontier was.
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Maps were incomplete, trails were overgrown, settlements rose and vanished within years.
For a teenager like Edward Petit, success wasn't about conquering land, it was about learning
from it, surviving in it, and earning trust among those who called it home long before he
did.
In many ways, his was the first true journey on Saginaw Bay, not to chart it, not to claim
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it, but to live in it, even briefly, as part of its rhythm.
Maybe that's why his story still matters.
Thanks for joining us for this episode of End of the Road in Michigan.
If you like this story, leave us a rating and share it with someone who loves Great Lakes
History.
You can find show notes and other episodes at Thumbwin.com and wherever you get your podcasts.
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Until next time, keep your boots dry, your eyes open, and don't be afraid to follow an
old trail to the end of the road.
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