“Alligator humanoids with sniper rifles.”
“Alligator humanoids….with sniper rifles?”
“Yes”
So began a week and a half filled with smiles, laughs, tears,
disbelief and awe. A movie premiere, wedding, memorial service, beginning
stages of hypothermia and a tempestuous Lake Superior, stretched over 11 days
and 1600 miles with music from Horseshoes and Hand Grenades playing in the
background.
“Restless spirit you push me on and on, I must be traveling to another
setting sun
Before I end my days, I will not find a place, to rest my weary spirit
and my bones”
It was the first of November, a Friday, and I had stopped down
to see the regulars at the Come Back In. They come out in force on Friday
nights and this was no exception. I caught up with Baker Dave as the main
conversation rolled around the sports world, never settling on any one topic
for very long. Baker Dave left and I soon followed as I had other places to go.
I found an open seat at the Brass Ring and settled in. Andura,
my favorite, was working, bringing a smile to my face and a beer to my hand. I
had some work I wanted to get done (I usually get a lot accomplished at the
bar), but the guy next to me had other ideas. The conversation started ordinary
enough. He was in California in the 60’s and hung out with and worked for folks
like Quicksilver Messenger Service and New Riders of the Purple Sage – sounded
plausible to me. He went on to claim he was a predecessor of the Merry
Pranksters, drove Ken Kesey’s bus and had to “take care” of Kesey’s wife
because he was too busy writing. Ok, less plausible.
He brought out a bag of VHS tapes and left them on the bar.
Metallica, Black Sabbath, the Eagles, Three Stooges, and the Little Rascals
were all displayed. It was the largest collection of VHS tapes in one place
since Blockbuster was still around. The conversation was about to need a VCR.
“Eisenhower hired me to kill Kennedy.”
“You were 14 at that time,” I replied with knowledge gleaned
earlier in the conversation.
“Exactly.”
Uh huh.
When he started talking about the 12 species of animal
humanoids that we control (to fight the aliens of course) I turned up the heat
and began questioning what he said. The alligator humanoids lived on Neuropa, a
moon next to Europa, orbiting Jupiter (In case you were wondering, it takes 38
days to travel from Earth to Neuropa).
The enlightening chat finally ended as he left to go find a
jukebox suitable to his music needs (his dad was the Everly Brother’s manager).
The workers at the Brass Ring said I had the record for longest conversation
with the guy, as he was known for his craziness and driving away customers.
With my attention released from the ramblings, I could return my focus towards
more pleasant things.
Andura finished her shift and came around the bar to join me
for a drink. She had big news, the drawing she had made for me was finished and
wanted to present it to me. My cube at the office was rather drab and
unexciting and I wanted to brighten it up. The best thing on the wall was the
pizza menu from the Plover MSC event in August. It needed something
interesting, something unique, something…special. Cue Andura. Through many
conversations at the bar, I learned that she likes to draw and sketch but never
gets around to doing it, so I asked her if she would create something for me.
Our drinks finished, we headed to her place for the unveiling
of the artwork. Annie, her dog, yipped and danced around, looking for food and
attention as Andura offered me a beer. With beer in hand, she grabbed the
drawing and gave it to me. For not the first time that night, a smile flashed
across my face. It was perfect.
Bits of our shared memories were depicted, collaged from edge
to edge. To someone else it would look like a bunch of random scribbles and
shapes, but to me they meant everything. I tried expressing my thanks, but I
never have the right words to say to her - smiles and unintelligible grunts
were all that escaped my mouth.
I made it home, making sure to protect the drawing – it was
priceless to me. Bed beckoned, as tomorrow was another busy day.
The second of November was more sorrowful. A few weeks prior, a
sister of a good friend of mine from Eau Claire passed away rather
unexpectedly. In late August she had been experiencing back pain and went into
the doctor. She was diagnosed with colon cancer. They immediately began
treatment, but it had metastasized. She tragically passed away on October 14,
leaving behind her husband, 3 year old daughter and family.
She had lived in Los Angeles and the family was having a
memorial service in the Eau Claire area for her. People packed the Seymour Town
Hall to give their farewell and support the family. It was a tearful event, yet
laughs permeated the air as fond memories of her were relived. No one can
anticipate something of this magnitude ever happening to someone they know, but
life can throw a curveball and change everything. At those moments family and
friends can act as a crutch and keep the family upright and moving forward. I
can never know the sorrow of the family, but I can be there for support and
help when needed. It was a day no one wishes to be a part of, but it happened
and all we could do is share in some of the family’s burden.
Alone in the car on the ride back to Madison with the
headlights dimly lighting the road, my mind wandered around the topic of death.
How would I deal with knowing I only had a few weeks to live? Would I tell
people? What would I do with my last days? My vision clouded with tears off and
on during the 3-hour drive. These thoughts brought up memories of my first two
Split Lip Rayfield concerts in 2006. I had never been to their show, but had
heard good things. My friend Kris and I went to see the band play at First
Avenue in Minneapolis. The show was so intense and full of emotion. Kirk
Rundstrom, the guitarist, was terminally ill and on his final tour. The doctors
told him if he wanted to live longer, he should stop playing with the band, but
being a musician was his passion. It is what gave him life. Instead of taking
it easy and elongating his last days, he gave everything he had into the music
and continued doing what he loved. The show was so powerful that Kris and I
drove down to Madison the next day and waited in line for a few hours to get
the last tickets to the show there. Those two shows really stuck with me. Love
gives our lives meaning, whether it’s your wife and kids, family, friends or a
deep passion – love makes life worth living. Kirk Rundstrom died 2 months later
while on tour.
I’m not sure where I’d spend my last days, but I know damn well
it wouldn’t be in a building.
“I can see the mountain in the distance, sometimes I wonder if it’s
time.”
Sunday came shrouded in fog. Daylight savings ended so that was
like Christmas morning (You only win an hour once a year). I needed to get out
and do a little walking. Parsing my way through the dense fog, I found
Gibraltar Rock to photograph the amazing work accomplished by the Ice Age Trail
Alliance volunteers at the year-end Mobile Skills Crew event a week earlier.
369 volunteers contributed to the project – and you can tell. The Ice Age Trail
weaves its way from a new parking lot on the west side of the property to
wide-ranging vistas of the Wisconsin River Valley, past massive boulders and
through a stately maple forest on the way to the top. Faint wisps of fog hung
in the air, hazing the long views and “ruining” the pictures. Reentering the
woods as I continued up, the forest transitions from white pine and oak to
maple as the microclimate changes from the orientation of the bluff. It’s quite
striking. Adding to the mystique is the cliff remnants, boulders scattered down
the hillside like toys left from giants of yore.
Textbook rock work lines the Trail, helping hikers up the hill
and protecting the footpath from erosion. Where rock was not available, black
locust logs were placed and secured as a retaining wall, ensuring the long-term
sustainability of the Trail.
I’ve been to the top of Gibraltar dozens of times over the past
few years and it always invites me to stay a while. I don’t know what it is
about sitting atop a bluff that towers 400 feet above the landscape that speaks
to me, but it does. I know it’s not the bigness that the Rockies have, but it
still makes me feel small. The views lend themselves to contemplation, to
looking beyond a few feet in front of your face and realizing there are more
important things than your cell phone and Facebook.
I followed the trail around the bluff edge and began the
descent. The cross slope is less extreme here as the trail meanders through
pine, maple and oak woods, hemmed in with prickly ash. Before I reached the
bottom, I cut cross-country to find the Ice Age Trail again and followed it to
my car. Natural Bridge State Park was next on my list.
The small park is not on many people’s must-see list when they
travel around the Baraboo Hills, maybe it should. In full disclosure, my trail
crew with the DNR redid the trail system there last fall. We eliminated
unsustainable trails, created new ones that were comfortable and lasting,
reopened overgrown trails on the south side of the road and installed
split-rail fence to protect the historical and natural features. I hadn’t been
back since.
Before I got out of the parking lot, my friend Fluff Tater
ambled in. This wasn’t a huge coincidence seeing that I had recommended Natural
Bridge as a great hike with the late fall colors, but it was a pleasure running
into her all the same. Fluff had been at the park the last 4 hours, enjoying
everything it has to offer with a quiet patience fitting of a Sunday morning.
We parted and I set out to see the park myself. I was excited
at how well the trail had held up. Angela, Jake and I did good work last year
and it was showing. There were a few places where I wanted a McLeod to do a
little maintenance and reaffirm the trail, but that would have to wait for
another day. Natural Bridge had come a long way over the past year and has
become a hidden gem, overshadowed by nearby Devils Lake. If you’re looking for
a quick day hike or a serene jaunt on the snowshoes, let me humbly suggest
Natural Bridge State Park (You can send any complaints my way).
“Well I’m home with the rivers and the valleys; they hold a little
piece of my soul”
The weekend ended, but the traveling did not. By mid-morning
Monday, I was outside of Mishicot in Manitowoc County (too much alliteration?)
for work. There was a mile of new Ice Age Trail to lay out to get the ball
moving on a Mobile Skills Crew project for 2014. The local chapter folks met up
to introduce me to their thoughts and give a tour of the property. Very quickly
I discovered this would not be an easy endeavour. Trees were flattened and
piled in heaps (I’d say “flattened like match sticks” but when is the last time
you saw a tree without branches or a match stick with arms?) from a big wind storm/tornado
a few months earlier. We picked our way through the carnage, heading south
along the East Twin River. Soon enough, a monster silver maple anchored along
the river edge, presented itself. We took out a tape measure - it was 14 feet
in circumference.
I looked for a hotel room that night, but they were all booked
or outrageously priced. What the hell was going on on a Monday night in
Manitowoc County? The Packers playing the Bears at Lambeau on Monday Night
Football may have had something to do with it. Duh. I got a hold of my brother
and it turned out he lived in a southeast suburb of Green Bay, 20 minutes from
where I was working. Perfect.
I showed up at the house he and his fiancé, Christina, had
moved in 2 weeks earlier. Without a tour or settling in, leftovers were warmed
and a Scrabble game began. My brother is a worthy opponent in Scrabble (he
proposed to his fiancé, well, now wife – more on that later – during a game) as
he beats me from time to time (or maybe it’s I beat him from time to time). The
Packer game commenced and ended quickly when Rodgers went down. I felt like a
Bear, Viking or Lion fan for a bit, adrift at QB for a game (or a few). I took
heart knowing that’s how folks in Chicago or Minnesota feel every week, every
year and I only have to deal with it for a few weeks.
Tuesday was spent in the woods, wandering around cedar swamps
and riverbanks. Darkness fell with much work remaining. It was another night at
my brothers, another Scrabble game and another loss. I had bingos in my hand
twice with no place to lay them. That’s the game though. At least I still beat
Christina, even after passing 4 times.
Christina had a friend flying in late that night ahead of her
and Scott’s wedding that weekend. My plan to wake up early was threatened when
Christina and her anonymous friend made it back from the airport. I’m a picky
sleeper and with nothing to block out the chatter, and what sounded like the
emptying of the dishwasher, sleep refused to come. I was not happy (I can get
ornery when sleep is lacking), but it’s hard to complain about free room and
board at my brother’s house. Sometime after 1, sleep finally settled in.
The sun rises early in the swamp so I, begrudgingly, got up
especially early. The sun doesn't shine very bright through a veil of rain
though. The sun also does not help much hidden behind clouds, with rain, a
steep wind and temps falling into the low 40’s. I trudged around to the north
for a bit, coming across a wind-blown wasteland. I turned south, with the goal
of turning the thoughts of the previous two days into a walkable line, laying
down pin flags as I went.
By the time I got back to the truck, 4 hours later, my hands
were near useless. I had devolved into something less than primate as my
opposable thumbs lacked mobility. My pants felt like they were put through the
wash with cold water, slowing my stride and movement. The only part of me doing
well was the torso – the most important. I tried changing into dry clothes but
the lack of opposable thumbs made it extremely difficult. 15 minutes later, I
began to resemble a functioning human again and headed into Mishicot to
continue evolving and grab some lunch.
After lunch, I trucked around town, visiting with the locals
about the upcoming project and gathering information on possible base camp
locations. The rain of the morning had finally faded away, leaving cold,
blustery, but dry conditions. To complete my trip to Manitowoc County, I needed
to tie up a few loose ends. I headed back to the future project area, monitored
an easement and took pictures of the flag line for permitting needs and to
create a baseline for the project. I got back to the truck as the sun was
setting and sky began to clear. I made it back to Madison in time to stop over
at a friend’s house to say hi. We ended up watching Jack the Reaper, a terrible
horror movie with all the high school stereotypes – and then some (the albino
may have been over the top).
“I’ve always been one for traveling on, but I can’t get the distance
from my mind”
November 7th was a doozy. I had a lot of miles to travel by the
end of day, but before I could start ticking them off, a staff meeting was in
order. The staff meeting got underway at 8, moving as swiftly as a staff
meeting can. Most folks hate staff meetings, but I actually like my coworkers
and job so they hold my attention and are interesting. This day though, I was
itching for the meeting to end at a decent hour.
My piece of crap Intrepid fired up at 1:30. Duluth was the
destination, more specifically, a movie premiere, at 7. Two “profoundly rugged”
men
kayaked around Lake Superior in 2010, filming their journey as they
encountered solitude, storms and the challenge of surviving the treacherous
waters of the world’s largest lake. They had a Kickstarter campaign to fund a
documentary of their adventure, and that fruit was coming to bear. I also
happen to know one of them.
I first met Greg Petry right after his voyage, at a wedding -
in Mexico of all places. We slowly became friends over the next year or two (at
least I’d like to think we’re friends). When he announced the premier, I jumped
at the chance to attend. Luke, his cohort on the epic journey, and Greg had
been working on the film since they finished. The Intrepid chugged onto the U
of M-Duluth campus just in time for the curtain.
The documentary was great, showing the highs and lows of Greg
and Luke’s 97-day expedition. It was a testament to setting a goal and
achieving it. They had talked about kayaking the lake for years, but those were
hollow words until they finally set out in 2010. Dreams are just that until
they are brought from the mind to reality.
I see Greg once or twice a year, at
Boats and Bluegrass the
last weekend of September and (hopefully) in the Boundary Waters over the
winter. A couple years ago I met his friends at the Boats and Bluegrass
Festival and had a grand time. They were real, good, people and I always look
forward to seeing them again.
After the premier, I met Greg’s girlfriend Anna and a few of
the Boats and Bluegrass crew before we heading over to Greg and Anna’s house
for a party to celebrate. Greg and Anna had a Blue Australian Heeler pup that
kept picking a fight with his brothers’ much larger dog. The big dog would play
for a bit, but every now and then had to remind the pup that he was just a pup and
pin him to the ground.
Conversation and booze flowed freely as folks mingled and
drifted around the house. A couple of the guys at the party I had met once
before - in the Boundary Waters,
at 35 below zero. As crazy as it sounds, we
excitedly talked about getting back out there and winter camping again. I
enjoyed the evening because the people I was around were just so good. They
were all smart, talented people; love the outdoors and live life to the
fullest.
I awoke to the morning light, curled up on the floor, and next
to the others also sprawled out on the floor. Slowly everyone rose, stretching
out and continuing the conversations from the previous night. Gretchen grabbed
the guitar off the wall and began singing, filling the room with her beautiful,
warm, sincere voice. Steph joined in, adding to the sonorous wake up call. It
was sublime.
As consciousness resumed, I looked around the room with a smile
on my face - I could do this everyday (we actually talked about the feasibility
of everyone moving in together). I’ve been blessed in my travels to meet some
awesome people and Greg and his band of merry doers continues the streak. The
sheer kindness and adventure seeking of the gathered folks is something to
behold.
The smell of breakfast soon filled our noses, adding to the
pleasantries of the morning. Bacon bits and pancakes were on the menu. The
mound of food was soon dismantled, leaving only a few small scraps of bacon.
Steph walked over and grabbed the last bacon morsel and said, “I love being a
vegetarian,” eating it with glee. The morning was getting on and it was time
for everyone to part. Gretchen and her contingent were heading back to
Minneapolis. I was heading to Iron Mountain, Michigan, leaving Greg and Anna in
peace (except for their rambunctious pup). Heartfelt goodbyes, hugs and smiles
were passed around the house before piling into our cars.
Leaving Duluth, I was tired from the lack of sleep, but felt
inspired after being around such fantastic people for an evening and morning.
I’ll see them, when the 2014 calendar is about to turn to October, at Boats and
Bluegrass, but I hope to see them sooner.
“I know that freight train is bound for leaving, and I know it’s
heading down the line”
My brother was getting married in the UP, so I figured I better
make it there. I had to stop in Ashland, though, at the
South Shore Brewery to
pick up a growler as I have a new habit of collecting growlers. When I got
there, I realized they had some beers I hadn’t tried before and had the
bartender fill one up for me. His coworker came over and remarked how I looked
like Luke. Now, I work with a Luke who a lot of people say looks like me
(including most of Lodi’s school kids who Luke told that I was his dad). Weird.
I left with a growler of Nut Brown Ale (a fantastic beer) and re-hit the road.
Crossing into the UP at Ironwood, a gentle snow blanketed the
cars, houses, trees, and giant Stormy Kromer (yes, a giant Stormy Kromer),
signaling the entrance of the Snow Belt. Ironwood is the birthplace of the
easily identifiable hat and they have a big display along the main drag. I had
to pull over and take a picture for my friend Matt who has a Stormy Kromer for
every day of the week.
Traveling east, I kept one eye on the clock and one on the
landscape (the road was secondary). The wedding rehearsal was at 4:30 and I was
already running late. The forest was coated in a veil of white, reminding me it
was November and winter was bearing down. I wanted to pull over and take some
pictures but I always thought I would find a better spot (plus there was that
rehearsal). When I finally pulled over, I thought of the beauty I had surpassed
as I tried to frame the lacking scenery in the best way I could. Ugh.
Back on the road, I passed a beautiful little river, lined with
spruce holding tightly to the snow. I put the car in reverse and pulled into a
turn off, hopped out of my car, crossed the road and took a few pictures (they
didn’t do the river justice). Well I was definitely missing the rehearsal now -
at least I was only an usher.
I passed through Florence, WI and thought of the one time I was
there previously, when a friend lost my GoPro while floating down the Pine
River… Shortly I was in Iron Mountain
(with a new GoPro in my bag) and at the Pine Mountain Ski Resort, where most
folks were staying. I showered and headed back over the border to Wisconsin and
the restaurant where the rehearsal dinner was being held. I was one of the
first arrivals and the first one to start drinking. Soon enough, people from the
rehearsal began filtering in, when I got a phone call from my brother, calling
me up from the minors. I was promoted from usher to groomsman.
I’ve been in a few weddings in my day and I think it’s easier
to be a groomsman than usher. Groomsmen’s (other than the Best Man) have no
responsibilities other than escorting a pretty girl down the aisle. An usher
has to ask the guests what side they are from and then seat them, trying to
gauge how full to fill a row and who to seat next to whom. Plus, if there is
someone at the wedding you don’t want to see, you can’t avoid them when you’re
an usher. Anyways, dinner was fine as I met a few of the bride’s friends and
family.
We headed back to Pine Mountain for a nightcap or 5. The bar
had 22oz. taps of Widowmaker from the
Keweenaw Brewing Company – for $3.50. I
love the UP. Not to mention, Widowmaker is a damn good beer. Shots were ordered
and beers bought for others because you can’t pass up cheap booze and beer
(After my cousin found out the 10 shot round of Jameo he just bought was only
$37.50, he ordered another round).
It was a late night as I reconnected with
Scott’s friends I’ve met along the way. Bed was calling but somehow I got
wrangled into going to Sam and Jesse’s room for another drink. I first met Sam
and Jesse a few weeks earlier at Scott’s bachelor party and had a good time
talking to the two, especially Sam. Now girls don’t usually attend a bachelor
party but I guess Sam got meshed into the group at some point in the evening.
Cursory plans had been made to have some beer and enjoy some vinyl (records) at
some point.
Anyways, back to the present. I passed on having another beer
as I was at my limit, but the laughter and mood forced my hand and I succumbed
to another drink. This last beer may not have been in my best interest.
“By now I know that whiskey won’t cure me, that scar runs deeper than
my spine.”
 |
| The stairs leading to the top of the ski hill are pretty intimidating when hungover |
Waking Saturday morning for the wedding was a struggle. I
somehow found the strength to get up and head down to the restaurant for
breakfast. A lot of bleary eyes welcomed me when I got there. The breakfast
burrito and copious amounts of coffee helped steer the ship away from the rocks.
With disaster averted, I showered and got dressed for the
wedding. I was sharing a room with my youngest brother Trevor and he apparently
came ill prepared. He forgot a belt, white shirt, shampoo and a few other
things. I called mom and dad to see if they had an extra black belt – they did,
but they were at the church already. Oh well. We were running a bit late so we
hurried up and went to jump in Trevor’s van. Turns out he had left the window
open and the overnight rain soaked the seat - I had to drive. No problem, I
just needed directions. Trevor had no clue where we were going even though he
was there the day before. I called mom again to ask directions. She sounded a
little stressed so a few minutes later, I called her and said we hit a deer and
to not worry. Trevor was gutting it out and we’d be a little late. She was not
amused, but after finding out we were kidding, she lightened up (a bit).
Mission accomplished.
Once at the church, my dad tried telling me what do now that I
was a groomsmen. I stopped to remind him I was in more wedding this year than
he has been to in the last 5. Being a Catholic wedding, it was boring. They are
the worst. When it came time for communion, I was in front and in the middle
making it hard to skip out. I didn’t want to look stupid asking for the
alternate blessing so I took the host. I’ll probably go to hell for that. Oh
well. It was the first mass I’d been too in a few years that I didn’t have a
crossword puzzle to work on (sometimes you have to find other ways to keep your
brain stimulated). The best part of the wedding came when my mom and dad walked
my brother down the aisle to get it started and my dad shook Scott’s hand and
said, “Congratulations David.” Classic dad.
The wedding party hopped onto a party bus (probably the nicest
party bus I’ve been on) and drove to a local dive bar. Sports paraphernalia
dotted the walls and the Badger game played on the big screen. We slammed a few
pitchers and headed across the border into Wisconsin, Spread Eagle, Wisconsin
to be exact. The bar we stumbled into was a definite townie bar. They had a
sticker on the wall from a bar in Seney, Michigan that said, “In Seney, you
don’t lose your woman, you lose your turn.” Yep.
The juke was plugged and songs that didn’t belong in an establishment
like that began to play. Dancing and shots ensued before we piled onto the bus
and headed back to Iron Mountain for the reception.
Two Hearted Ale from Bell’s Brewery was on tap at the
reception. It was going to be a good night (or rough, depending how you looked
at it). I made small talk with relatives I hadn’t seen in a while and laughed
with folks from the previous night. We were seated for dinner before I could
really tie one on. I guess that could wait an hour or two.
We had the whole wedding party entrance thing and I walked in
with a girl I had first met walking down the aisle a few hours ago. Words were
few between us. We did the ol’ girl-spin-the-guy move and tried not to look
ridiculous doing it. We succeeded (of course). Apparently I made a good
impression because during dinner, her husband was pretty excited about meeting
and bringing me a drink.
Dinner flew by with jokes told by Christina’s Aunt (They’re
Michigan fans so it was a joke about the Badgers) and speeches by the Maid of
Honor and Best Man. My youngest brother gave his speech and I was surprised
that it wasn’t that bad. Scott evidently has an impressive track record when it
comes to sporting events in Wisconsin. With the talking complete, we headed to
the dance floor.
It turned out that Christina’s friend who deprived me from
sleep earlier in the week was quite beautiful, so my ornery thoughts happened
to disappear (weird). Jamie was her name and we took up residence amongst the
dancing fools. Slow songs, polkas, bluegrass and whatever that crap is on “hit”
radio station’s kept us busy. In a break from the dance floor, I got pretty
worked up talking about the Ice Age Trail and glacial geology with someone who
knew me a lot better than I knew him.
Jamie ended up drifting away, leaving me to get even more
hammered. Conversations floated between Scott’s friends who I knew from
Scrabble games, Boats and Bluegrass (it really is a great festival), and random
beers. I’m sure plans were made, but I don’t remember any of them. With kegs
finished we hopped on the bus and headed back to the hotel. Drinks continued to
flow and people began to shutdown; full of booze and beyond their limits. This
is the route I soon took.
“Cigarettes don’t buzz like they used to lord, before I understood the
times”
 |
| It was a shotgun wedding. |
Blarg. I felt like crap Sunday morning. It turns out hammered
sleep isn’t the same as normal sleep (who would’ve thought). My parents and others were gathering for
breakfast downstairs so I thought I better make an appearance. Coffee, food and
family did not help. I struggled with existence and trying to figure out where
I was heading to from Iron Mountain. The boss man had given me Monday off so I
had a day to explore something, somewhere.
My original plan was to putz around the Northwoods of
Wisconsin, but I was already in the UP and didn’t want to waste my northerly
latitude. Why not head further north? The Keweenaw Brewing Company gave me the
idea of heading up the Keweenaw Peninsula – the UP of the UP. Consulting a map
and realizing daylight was a premium, I decided the Keweenaw was a bit out of
my range. When I eventually make it there, I want to fully envelop the
landscape, seascape and tavernscape.
I remembered my rock/ice climbing nerd coworker from last year
raving about the awesomeness of Munising and
Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore.
It also happened to only be a 3-hour drive. North. Perfect.
I slowly packed up my stuff and transported it to my car;
weighed down by a hangover, but buoyed by a new adventure ahead of me. With
gruff goodbyes out of the way, I set my sights for points north; my trusty map
at my side and fingers crossed that the crappy Intrepid would finish the trip.
Trumbling through Escanaba, I was reminded of one of the great
fart scenes in movie history. “Escanaba in da Moonlight,” Jeff Daniels Magnus
Opus, may not have been a great movie, but when Jimmer let loose with the
ferocity of a UP winter gale, a classic fart scene was born.
One of the good things about the UP is the availability of
Packer Radio on the dial. Listening as Lake Michigan faded in the rearview
mirror, Wayne and Larry grew more disgusted with the Packers play, nearly
causing me to change the station to try and boost my spirits.
Nearing Munising, a sign for Wagner’s Falls pulled me off the
road. I walked down the trail leading to the falls, critiquing it with my trail
eyes (they’re hard to turn off). The short jaunt was paid for with a sweet
cascade, tumbling 20 feet down the bedrock. Now this is what I came for.
Waffling for a bit, I let the sound and visuals take hold, washing away my
disgust with the Packers. Mother Nature has a great calming effect.
I saddled back up and made it to Munising proper (At the next
intersection after Wagner’s Falls, there’s another waterfall for you to enjoy
as you sit at the stop sign). The Pictured Rocks Visitor Center was closed, but
I checked out the kiosk and harvested as much info as I could. Munising Falls
was down the road; might as well stop there. Glad I stopped.
The waterfall fell some 50 feet off the sandstone cliff, before
settling into its final, short journey to Lake Superior. It reminded me of the
waterfalls at Wyalusing State Park, albeit on a grander scale. The most
interesting part was that a trail used to take hikers behind the Falls,
granting a view not commonly witnessed. Citing fears of falling rocks hitting
visitors, the Park Service closed the trail. Like most closed trails, it was
closed only in name. Footprints gave away hikers movements. Light was failing
as I left and moved on to Gitche Gumee.
At some point during the day, I had passed through a time warp
and ended up losing an hour - some call it the Eastern Time Zone, I call it
alchemy.
The beach grasses wavered in the breeze, presenting a golden
silhouette to the steely blue of the frigid Lake and the gray Rorschach Test of
the sky. A lonely volleyball net poked out of the sand like a forgotten totem
of warmer weather. The contrast pushed me towards the black and white settings
on my camera (black and white reared it’s head multiple times at the colorful
Pictured Rocks). I wandered around,
snapping photos in vain trying to capture the beauty I viewed. The beach was
sublime, but I came for the 200-foot bluffs of colorful sandstone on the
Pictured Rocks postcards. Miner’s Castle satisfied my craving (for a while).
I pulled into the large parking lot, finding nary a car. The
sun broke free from its cloudy prison, casting its brilliance onto whatever
would take it. I hustled over to the cliff edge, seeing (and hearing) a lake
unsettled, lashing the shore with powerful, thunderous blasts. The dying light
gave life to the cliffs, splashing a Crayola box onto the lakeshore. The
brilliance faded quickly, but I took heart knowing I was the only one to take
in that evenings’ show.
Twilight encroached as I arrived at the next stop – Miner’s
Beach. I wanted to see the growing waves close up. I was not disappointed. The
roar was deafening as wave after wave whomped onto the beach, keeping my feet
back and curiosity of the water in check. I could sit and watch the Big Lake
sing all day (and night).
Darkness had fallen and I still had no idea where I was staying
that night. I had never camped in a Wilderness Area and Pictured Rocks had
Beaver Basin Wilderness, 11,740 acres of protected wildness. The road leading
to its outskirts was labeled “rough,” but what did the Park Service categorize
as rough? Well, my hunger had to be squelched before I could answer that
question.
I made it to the main road through the Lakeshore, which
according to the Lakeshore Newsletter, was finally paved in 2010. Now this was
the UP I expected. It’d be like driving into your favorite Wisconsin State Park
on a gravel road because it wasn’t worth paving with the massive amounts of
snow that turned the road into a snowmobile trail during the winter. The road
was now paved, but that didn’t stop it from being unplowed and a snowmobile
route. The last bar before the plowing stopped was the Bear Trap so I stopped
for a drink and food.
The Bear Trap is a big restaurant/bar that must do great
business in more conducive times of the year (a Sunday night in November is not
prime time). A regular was crowing that the Lions were now NFC North Division
Leaders. Being a Packer fan, leading the division is something I expect, not
something to cheer.
The radio had mentioned a Lake Effect Snow Advisory for the
next few days, adding something to the sleeping thought process. I mulled
things over as my burger that had a brat as a topping was being cooked. A few
girls were shooting pool and asked if I wanted to join, but I wasn’t in the
mood (I can get a little ornery sometimes). The burger arrived and I was quite
pleased with my choice.
I got talking to the locals, as they were interested in what a
stranger was doing in those parts on a Sunday night. I entertained them with
stories of my travels and laid out my plans for the evening, which consisted of
“camping in the woods.” Wolves and bears were brought up (why are people scared
of these animals?), so I mentioned I had seen a few wolves in my day, including
once where I was sleeping while deer hunting (I’m a die hard hunter) and woke
up to find a wolf staring at my from 30 yards away. The Lions fan was adamant
that I was making it up (If anyone lives a lie, it’s a Lions fan thinking their
team has a chance). I finally had enough and made my way to the exit, not sure
what my next move was.
Precipitation had begun to fall, undecided between rain and
snow. My personal indecision lifted and I headed down the “rough” road towards
the Beaver Bay Wilderness. Decisiveness was short-lived as I came upon a big
mud hole. There was no getting around this one.
It was hard telling where I was on the map, making me unsure if
I was on private, state or federal land. I was in the middle of nowhere, but
was too chicken to risk camping illegally. The precip had paused for the moment
so I decided to walk down the road a bit and see how close I was to my
destination.
The moon peeked out, allowing me to travel without a headlamp.
I kept surrendering to the “maybe it’s around the next corner” thinking,
pulling me further from the car without an apparent end. Strange noises made
the hair on the back of my neck stand up, driving my mind crazy with the
possibilities of the culprit of the sound (I really am scared of the dark).
After 20 minutes of fruitless walking, I decided it was time to turn around.
Back at the car, I looked at the map of the Lakeshore and
headed east towards the legitimate campgrounds at Picture Rocks. I blew past
the markers signaling the end of the plowed section of the road, pushing
towards a safe haven (hopefully). Another 30 minutes of driving, nearly to a
campground, I pulled over to a lookout and realized A.) It’s dark and I can’t
see much and B.) I could see enough to realize I was at a beach, not a bluff.
If I’m going to camp in a strange place, I want to camp at a sweet strange
place and a beach is not it with 200 foot bluffs in the area. Back to the car I
went.
East was not the answer so I retread my steps and headed west.
It was getting on 10:30 pm and I didn’t think I could find housing in Munising.
My last option was back where I started at Miner’s Castle. The North Country
National Scenic Trail passes through the area, providing a few campsites.
Thirty minutes later I parked my car and readied my pack for the night. My mind
divided between what I needed to survive and whether I should turn around.
There was a big hill between civilization and myself that wasn’t going to be
plowed again until spring. Screw it; my piece of crap Intrepid would make it.
So into the wild I went.
The moonlight stayed harbored behind the clouds as I made my
way along the rough trail. After some stumbling along flat terrain (critiquing,
again), the trail sharply rose, trying to gain purchase up and on top of the Pictured
Rocks escarpment. My headlamp, empowered with new batteries, led the way.
With plateau attained, the trail leveled out and I soon came
upon a spur trail to a campsite. Yep. After all of this rigmarole, I finally
had a place to rest. I put my tent up quickly in the darkness as the storm
began to grow angry. I settled in for a night with temps in the 20’s – not bad
sleeping weather.
Sleep was elusive as the wind battered my tent with sleet and
snow. Around 2:30 the storm ramped up, bringing more wind and less sleep.
Swaddled in my sleeping bags and long underwear, I was too warm - and too lazy
to remove a layer.
“Home is where the heart is they tell me lord, but I don’t know where
that is”
Dawn broke with the wind still howling. No one knew where I was
so I texted Fluff Tater to let someone know of my location and plans. I told
her that if she didn’t hear from me by the end of the day, I was either
stranded or dead. She didn’t seem too concerned. The dead part struck eerily
close to me.
In the overnight hours, about a mile as the crow flies from me,
two guys were camping (illegally) near the top of Miner’s Falls. When the storm
hit at 2:30am, one of the guys went out looking for firewood,
slipped and fell 80 feet to his death. The police said alcohol was a factor. There were three
people camping in Pictured Rocks that night and only two of us survived. Wow.
I poked my head out of the tent to assess the snow depth and my
chances for escape. A couple of inches had fallen and I felt fairly confident my
car would make it out. This confidence, perhaps undeserved, allowed me to
strike out deeper into the Lakeshore and really get to see its majesty.
The snow caked the trees and landscape like a delicious
frosting, making the scenery even sweeter. The roar of the tempestuous lake
beckoned me down the trail with promises of impressive views (or at least
impressive waves).
The trail veered towards the escarpment edge. The copse of
trees that had hemmed in the view, unraveled to reveal a thrashing lake colored
with the entire spectrum of blues. Tipped in white, the waves rolled and
smashed into one another, churning the water into a frothy maelstrom. I inched
my way along a social trail that lead right to the cliff edge, unsure of my
footing and not wanting to make my text from the morning come true. Snow
squalls danced across the lake, acquiescing to the discretion of the wind.
Awesome.
Stepping back from the edge, I continued on, eager for more
views.
I crossed a small stream that attempted to cascade off the
escarpment into Lake Superior, but the wind wasn’t having any of it. The 50 mph
wind picked up the wisps of water and blew them back where they came from,
coating the trees and trail with a thick coat of ice. The water would have to
wait for a warm up before making it to the lake.
I wanted a closer look at the would-be waterfall and the ice
formations so I pushed my way through the brush towards the edge. The reverse
waterfall pelted me as a rogue wind gust blew towards me. I had trouble getting
close to the edge with the battering ram of the wind pushing me back. To lower
my profile, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled as close to the edge as
I dared. It was literally breathtaking as the wind gusted away my attempts at
breathing while the colorful cliffs stretched out before me.
Like an addict, I headed back to the trail, hoping more beauty
lay ahead.
The sun peeked out from time to time shining its light around
the landscape like a searchlight looking for the most beautiful area. Vistas continued
to hold me. I could sit and watch the waves play at the base of the cliffs all
day. Such immense beauty makes it hard to worry about life’s problems.
The further along the Lakeshore I traveled, the farther from my
car and the impending drive back to Madison I was. The map showed the trail
eventually made it down to a beach, so onward I went.
The power of the waves is evident from atop the 200-foot
bluffs; being up close and at eye level more than reinforces their muscle.
Waves slammed against the rocks in a thunderous chorus, sending spray 40-feet
into the air. You could feel the
waves. The rocks gave way to sand and I ventured out for a closer look. Up the
beach was a small cove where a creek flowed into the lake and the bluffs began
to rise again. It was idyllic, and moderately calm; an outlier of the raging
tempest.
Not wanting to turn back, I pressed on. The trail began to
climb the bluffs again, but a social trail lead towards the lake. I couldn’t
resist. The short trail ended on a flat ledge that extended into the lake, 10
feet above the water. The spray had created a slick glaze of ice over the
ledge, causing me to think twice about being there. I snapped a few photos
before noticing a sliver of the ledge continued north towards an area that was
producing monster wave action. Hmm, stay back and take pictures from afar or
attempt the tricky scramble and hope I don’t fall to my death in the Lake. Ahh,
what the hell? May as well take the foolish option.
Picking my way along the gravel-topped ledge, I looked down to
see a wild sea, a few feet from my shoes, ready to catch me if I slipped. I
kept going. Successfully navigating the bottleneck, I made it to a larger ledge
providing an intimate view of the awesomeness.
A small bay lined by short cliffs opened up in front of me.
Waves rolled in, smashing against the rocks and then ricocheting back to hammer
against the next round of breakers. This created a perfect storm of waves,
sending water shooting into the sky higher and more violently than anywhere I’d
seen.
The power of the waves and beauty of Pictured Rocks made me
feel so small, so insignificant. And it felt good. With my place in the
Universe refreshed, I headed back.
It’s hard to leave a place of such magnitude (magnificence?). I
lingered on the walk back to the car, not wanting to relinquish the sights, the
sounds, the feel, of a special place. Home means many things to many people, I
felt like I was leaving home to return “home.” Miles rolled under my tires,
scenery changed outside my window and bluegrass played on the radio. My
thoughts drifted as I queued up Horseshoes and Hand Grenades’ album “Another
Round”. Songs about whiskey and drinking floated from the speakers until the
tune “Weary Bones” came on. The song ended and I started it again, and then
again and again. The last 11 days were coming into focus through the lyrics.
The placid waters of Lake Michigan stretched to the horizon on my left as my
mind came alive. Clarity came from the strings and voices of the bluegrass band
from Stevens Point.
There are moments that live on in your memory forever. A
perfect smile, a wry remark, a beautiful waterfall, solitude surrounded by
silence, a room full of laughter. They are landmarks we return to in good times
and bad. I had more than a few moments that I will return to from this trip,
from laughing with Greg and friends in Duluth, to memorializing a lost friend,
celebrating my brother’s wedding, staring in awe of Mother Nature in the UP, to
the perfect song at the perfect time. Death comes too fast to not live. It was
only 11 days, but it was 11 days of living. It is my life. This adventure may
be finished, but there will be more. I promise.
“Restless spirit you push me on and on, I must be traveling to another
setting sun
Before I end my days, I will not find a place, to rest my weary spirit
and my bones”
