By Alan Campbell
John Hartig may hold claim to having done the most for Michigan anglers and hunters as a non-participant in either sport.
He’s an outdoor-loving academic more than a hands-on outdoorsman, the likes of Fred Bear or John Voelker, although all three were prolific writers. When it comes to legacy, Hartig’s name will forever be attached to the resurgence of the Detroit River as a Midwestern wellspring for walleyes, ducks and other favored targets of outdoor sports enthusiasts.
“John is just a champion,” said Mark Breederman, a 30-year educator with Michigan Sea Grant, a cooperative program funding research, education and outreach in the Great Lakes. “He’s able to articulate the science to the public. That’s one of his real strengths.”
Hartig, whose life path allowed him to lunch with Congressman John Dingell and shake hands with trash-collecting volunteers cleaning the Detroit River shoreline, gives his career an “ah shucks” description. He offers credit for the river’s remarkable comeback to the resiliency of a resource able to wash itself clean after decades of abuse.
Why shouldn’t ‘Up North ’be everywhere?
At an early age, Hartig could not know his path in life, and he didn’t like the nearby scenery.
“I lived in Allen Park, and the Southfield Freeway was our boulevard. Later, I would take my bicycle down (to the Rouge River) to fish. This was the 1960s, so you might ask why anyone would fish down there. Oil was on the water, and it smelled like petroleum. But it was something my dad and I could do together,” he said.
These were akin to “A River Runs Through It” moments, with John more the studious brother Norman than troublemaker Paul. Staying somewhat in character, John’s father was a Lutheran rather than a Presbyterian minister who taught his son a love for the outdoors.
Hartig was introduced to a pristine world as a grade-schooler attending church camp on East Twin Lake near Fairview. He wanted to bring those surroundings home with him.
“It’s like we were kids in the wilderness. I couldn’t understand why it was so beautiful and clean when I went up north, but when we were down here, it was so polluted. Why was that? Why would people let that happen?” he asked.
It was a time of environmental questioning for America, too. Hartig saw smoke when the Rouge River caught fire in 1969 and remembers watching an auto plant burn. The inaugural Earth Day was held in Hartig’s high school senior year in 1970, so studying biography and chemistry seemed a natural extension after enrolling at Eastern Michigan University.
“By the time I got to my junior year, I said, ‘I’ve got to take this seriously,’” recalled Hartig, who stayed at EMU to earn a master’s degree. “I would say to you that I received an exceptional education in the natural sciences and aquatic biology there. My experiences were second to none.”
In 1976, Hartig accepted a job with a University of Michigan program based on Great Lakes research. After a stint with the MDNR, he accepted a position at the University of Windsor, where he studied the effect of pollutants, including phosphorous overload, on Lake Erie. He finished up doctoral work at U-W,
Known for natural curiosity and exuberance, his acceptance into Michigan’s Great Lakes Nearshore Surveillance Program and eventual leadership role with the International Joint Commission (IJC) — for whom he worked for 12 years — seemed like natural progressions.
In retrospect, Hartig’s educational and early career paths seem tailored to prepare him for the role of a river navigator — yes, there is such a term, and perhaps it should be retired after John left his footprint. He steered governments, nonprofits and businesses through a bonding mission of turning a spoiled yet nucleus natural waterway for the Great Lakes back into a natural wonder.
Forging Great Lakes appreciation
Paula McIntyre has a soft spot for Hartig, having arrived at the doorstep of environmental science a generation later. Hartig is part mentor and part idol to her. She is communication director and strategy advisor for the International Association for Great Lakes Research, her employer for 25 years.
“He’s super passionate,” McIntyre said. “He’s tireless in this. He really cares deeply in restoring these ecosystems. He asks, ‘Why can’t we swim here? Why are some ecosystems so different than ours?’”
Hartig’s reputation as an environmental leader who spurred unity grew with his work with IJC, which set out to clean up 43 “areas of concern” on the Great Lakes from the St. Louis River at the far western drainage of Lake Superior to the St. Lawrence River downstream of Lake Ontario. Providing passage from the three largest Great Lakes to the lower basins was the 32-mile Detroit River, a national treasure pummeled into an industrial wasteland.
Lacking precedent, ISG scientists created manuscripts on safely removing heavy metals buried in the river bottom, monitoring and gauging pollutant levels entering the watershed, and surveying progress in returning the river and tributaries to their former grand selves.
A river-healing opportunity was created in 1997 when the EPA designated the Detroit River, along with 13 other waterways, as an American Heritage River. The selection came with a title for its project manager: River Navigator.
Peter Stroh, patriarch of Stroh Brewery Company and an avid outdoorsman, recruited Hartig for the role.
“I said, ‘What the heck is a river navigator,’” Hartig said. “He said, ‘John, we’re going to have amazing fun, but you have to leave your current line of work.’”
Hartig became a federal employee who worked closely with former Detroit Mayor Dennis Archer.
“We just hit it off. He had this vision that I shared of the greater Detroit River area. We brought together 25 stakeholders from both (U.S. and Canadian) sides and asked: ‘If we could give you one thing: what would that be?’ That was the challenge. We finished with the Detroit River Wildlife Refuge. It was to be shared by America and Canada,” Hartig said.
The refuge was signed into existence in December 2001. Major credit goes to John Dingell, whose father was a congressman and namesake for the Dingell-Johnson Sport Fish Restoration Act of 1950, which captures an excise tax on fishing equipment that, in turn, funds recreational fishing management programs across the nation. In the early 1960s, the younger John Dingell fought to have Grassy Island designated as the Wyandotte Wildlife Refuge; it constituted all of the American share of the fledgling international refuge.
The two-country refuge came with a restriction that slowed its progress yet ensured community and business participation.
“This was the first (international) one in North America. It was founded differently than other wildlife refuges. You could not force people to do anything they didn’t want to do with their land. We were restricted to public-private partnerships. But we were bringing conservation to cities,” Hartig said.
That was his ultimate goal.
Said Breederland: “The area became the Detroit River International Wildlife Refuge. That was going to have staying power. Within an hour and a half drive are seven million people. That’s the population of a lot of states. What a great opportunity. It’s from Toledo up to Lake St. Clair.”
Hartig reluctantly yielded his “river navigator” title, which he held for five years, to become manager of the Detroit River International Wildlife Refuge. He oversaw a natural area with one 72-acre island on the American side and not much acreage in Canada. It was his to build — with help from friends from all walks of life.
Turning around the Detroit River
Richard Micka played a key role and held a front-row seat in the assembling of the refuge, having been a founding member of the Friends of the Detroit River nonprofit organization. In fact, Hartig included Micka’s advocacy to clean up the River Raisin among the stories of 14 environmental actionists within the book, “Great Lakes Champions: Grassroots Efforts to Clean Up Polluted Watersheds.” The book was released in 2022.
“John knew the corporate people (and) he was very interested in all people,” Micka said. “He worked around the clock. He was unbelievable, and it went on for 14 years. And there were always obstacles to overcome. You had to have a sense of humor to make it through.”
The Friends group gained notoriety for its spirited opposition to draining the last mile of untouched wetland along the Detroit River shoreline on the American side. Hartig knew he needed help in preventing the development.
“John Hartig was confronted with all that. He said, ‘What are we going to do? ’So he got ahold of a fellow … who was heavily involved with the Democratic Party in Flat Rock. The first thing that happened is (they) created a Friends group for an area that went roughly from Mud Island to Toledo, which is about 40 miles,” Micka said.
The struggle to save the swamp started in 1997 and culminated with its purchase as the anchor of the refuge in 2004.
Hartig was unrestrained by precedent — “it was wide open,” is how Micka described Hartig’s toolbox — in establishing and growing an international refuge.
“He did a lot of big jobs, and I can’t tell you all of them. He got a property that was an old paint plant, and it was all contaminated. All John had to do was figure out how to clean it up, and that took 10 years. The University of Toledo donated 19-acre Gard Island. John was able to get 200 acres from Consumers Power that they couldn’t fill or use. Then he came up to Monroe, and the Board of Commissioners gave him a lot of property off Dunbar Road. The county bought it for a jail, but it was wetlands,” Micka said.
Hartig was reversing a 150-year assault on the Detroit River shoreline one parcel at a time. He remembers asking Ford Motor executives to donate a 240-acre marsh. “We said, ‘What are you going to do with this property? You can’t fill it, you can’t build on it. ’They eventually gave it to us, and it was called Ford Marsh,” he said.
The international refuge has grown from 300 acres to 18,500 acres.
Perhaps the most notable transformation in shoreline occurred within the city of Detroit, where parking lots and abandoned factories gave way to nature trails, public parks, fishing piers and other outdoor opportunities.
More than the health of the Detroit River turned around. People who had turned their backs to the river — then a smelly and unhealthy cesspool — now embrace facing some of the finest opportunities for urban outdoor recreation in America. From the Dennis W. Archer Greenway to the Aretha Franklin Amphitheater to the expansive Milliken State Park — Michigan’s first urban state park — the Detroit River is not your father’s waterfront. Hartig wrote about the Renaissance in one of his books, Waterfront Porch.
Hartig has one regret, but it’s not one of his making. That is the recent arrest of the Detroit Riverfront Conservancy’s chief financial officer for fraud. William Smith has been fired by the board and awaits trial, and Hartig hopes much of the stolen money will be returned via a civil lawsuit aimed at Smith’s investment. While the allegations have caused the Conservancy board, of which Hartig is a member, to make significant changes in its financial framework, the organization’s future in continuing the Detroit River makeover remains undaunted.
Plans include continued development of a 5.5-mile riverfront trail, of which 2.5 miles have been completed.
The Conservancy is also the recipient of a $50 million grant in the memory of deceased Buffalo Bills owner Ralph Wilson. The grant’s first priority will be developing 22-acre Ralph C. Wilson, Jr. Centennial Park.
“That park is on schedule, and it’s going to be amazing. Think of inner-city kids, and a lot of them can’t go to Disney World or parks up north. This will be a park they can discover on the Detroit River, where they can explore the outdoors and nature. The work of the Conservancy will surely thrive in the future, creating a world-class gathering place for people and wildlife,” Hartig said.
Anglers, hunters are beneficiaries
Downriver Detroit, once articulated by a flaming River Rouge, is now best known for walleyes and ducks. A lot of walleyes and a lot of ducks.
“The duck hunting is awesome,” Micka said. “Diving ducks come in by the millions from Canada. The lower Detroit River is famous for diving ducks.”
The opportunity is appreciated by hunters. The Monroe chapter of Ducks Unlimited raises close to $250,000 at its banquet held annually at the Monroe County fairgrounds. Micka said about 1,200 people are expected to attend the next event, set for March 15.
The Michigan Charter Boat Association lists 23 captains who ply the Detroit River for walleyes, for good reason.
The River is known as one of the finest walleye fisheries in the nation and draws a crowd of anglers all year, but especially in the spring.
Hartig deserves a page among Michigan conservation legends even though his accomplishments aren’t discussed over a tin cup of bourbon at fish camps or with Thermos coffee in storied downriver duck blinds.
Accolades come aplenty for the river navigator — so much so that it’s difficult to sum him up with a few closing words.
He’s a prolific author, having penned 150 publications on the environment and written eight books, including “Burning Rivers,” “Honoring Our Detroit River” and “Caring for our Home.”
He’s a scientist by trade who has had a hand in establishing accepted standards in environmental remediation that survive the test of time.
While a non-hunter, his trophy room could be filled with awards. They include the Community Peacemaker Award from Wayne State University in 2017, the Edward Voss Conservation Science Award from the Michigan Nature Association in 2016, the Conservationist of the Year Award from the John Muir Association in 2015, and the Conservation Advocate of the Year Award from the Michigan League of Conservation Voters in 2013. His most recent book, “Bringing Conservation to Cities”, won a gold medal from the Nonfiction Authors Association.
His favored book theme hasn’t changed through the years.
“What percentage of people in the world live in urban areas? The answer is 64%. So, where will the next generation of conservationists come from? It’s going to be from urban areas. So what are we going to do to inspire a sense of wonder in them? We have to reconnect them to natural resources, the marshes and woods. Now we have an amazing place in Metro Detroit to do that,” Hartig said.
More important than his academic skills, Hartig has a rare ability to ignite conservation passion within the many types of people interested in downriver Detroit — from auto workers to executives, from shotgunners to scientists.
Communication director McIntyre recognizes the gift. She recalls attending an award ceremony with John for a colleague.
“He’s a catalyst kind of guy rather than being the one with a big ego. He could have been the one on the stage giving an acceptance speech. Instead, he was thinking, ‘This is awesome.’”
While retired as refuge manager, Hartig nonetheless maintains a vigorous schedule. He’s a visiting scholar at the Great Lakes Institute on Environmental Research at the University of Windsor, continuing to focus on the remediation of stubbornly polluted areas of the Great Lakes.
Hartig continues to write often, including a monthly column for the “Great Lakes Now” publication that spotlighted a welcome find in the Detroit River in October. He spotted a mink along the shoreline, which he turned into a teaching moment to share that mercury concentrations in St. Clair walleye have decreased more than 80 percent.
And while he doesn’t fish, he enjoys the sport from the view of his home on one of the 23 islands on the Detroit River. He and his wife, Pat, a retired assistant attorney general who still volunteers in immigration law cases, have three grown daughters.
“I kayak now. I don’t hunt and haven’t fished in a few years. But I watch all the fishermen, and I get a lot of enjoyment out of that,” Hartig said.
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