Day 11: Final Day, Final Thoughts

I awoke from my sleep with a start, snapped conscious by a tumultuous dream  as full of ups and downs as the prior day’s trail.

More on that dream in a bit. The intensity of it, though, packed the punch of a couple of espressos. I quickly reached for my phone; ideas and questions were buzzing through my brain.

Need to jot them down quick!

I opened the notes app on my iPhone and went to work.

Outside the tent, the sun was just coming up. Our final morning. In just hours, Robbin would be here with the car. And it all truly would be over.

My note-taking was accomplished in less than 15 minutes. More on those notes in a bit, too. I stumbled out of the tent for the final time, no more graceful than I’d been the morning of Day 2.

We gulped down our breakfast, a special treat of freeze-dried eggs and bacon. Not so good, it turned out. We fortified the yellow mush with leftover oatmeal and Cream of Wheat.

We inventoried the remaining food, dumping it in a pile on the table … some energy bars, a few beef jerkies, some leftover Skittles that I’d been using for an occasional sugar kick. Some dried fruit, too. But not much was left. I’d take it home.

Our hike this morning would be about an eighth of a mile, if even that, to the campground’s main parking lot. Not a hike at all, and so an official total of 142 miles over 10 days. There we planned to sit at a picnic table until our ride arrived.

Just as we finished packing up, a big guy with a dog no taller than his boots walked up, the pup on a leash.

He and his friend were out for their morning constitutional; they and his wife had spent the night in a nearby RV.

He asked about our hike … where we’d come from and how long we’d been on the trail.

Impressed by our answers, he remarked that he’d always wanted to have that kind of adventure. But he was a retired plumber.

“Going up and down those ladders all those years did a real number on my knees,” he said. “I just can’t do that kind of walking anymore.”

He didn’t say this in a sad way. It was more an acknowledgment that his job needed doing, and some sacrifices had to be made. 

But he did seem nostalgic, perhaps thinking of younger days.

It’s hard not to be self-satisfied during such a conversation.

You can check this hike off your bucket list, I told myself with some relief. Your knees held up.

***

Folks familiar with my phone-texting prowess know I move with the speed of a sloth. But my note-taking that morning seemed rapid-fire – an urgent series of jotted reminders of things related to the hike to consider, to write more about, to pursue.

·      “Would I do this again? Not next year. Two years? Maybe.”

·      “You have to really describe what it’s like to walk in a root-rutted trail at 3 mph.”

·      “Your pain, this morning, at the end: Start at the bottom … heels, big toes, stiffness across all toes, ball behind the right big toe, upper legs, gluts, lower back – always the lower back – left and right shoulders, wrist from the fall.”

·      “Lack of wildlife except on first night … flushed a lot of grouse, saw a toad, saw many tracks … cat, deer. Deer in hiding – they know the season.”

·      “Describe how you use the poles … all angles, up hill, down hill. Stability – often what keeps you from going over the edge.”

·      “Compare irony of road vs. trail – road faster but boring – and lakeshore hiking vs. inland hiking – prettier, but those damn fallen trees.”

·      “Knife … visions of fending off a bear, but used it for just two things – to slice open the shrink wrap on the jerky, and to whittle two sticks to roast hot dogs. Both tasks helped satisfy the stomach, so the knife’s purchase was well made.”

·      “Blog title?  ‘And Then We Went for a Walk.’ ”

So they were a scattering of musings.

But a few topics deserve more attention here:

We three

As I noted in a prior post, the fact that Bill, Bruce and I walked this walk and did not utter one foul word in anger or frustration at each other says much about our personalities, I think. We’re low-key kinds of guys.

That said, I believe there’s more power – and more elbow room – in three hiking a trail than two or even one. This was confirmed for me after the hike, when Bill and I attended a hikers’ club meeting in Traverse City. The speaker was one of two guys who attempted to hike the entire length of the North Country Trail, starting in North Dakota and heading east to New York.

They gave up in Michigan.

Although there were many reasons why they stopped, he admitted that the two grew tired of each other. Going it alone, or with three guys, might have been better, he said.

Our threesome was a perfect match. Yes, we were cool, calm and collected. But when there are three hikers around a campfire, the possible lines of conversation multiply exponentially. And if one of us wanted to simply stay mum for a bit, that was OK, too. Talk didn’t need to stop.

And there were other, more practical reasons. Flexibility with job-sharing, for example.

In short, we were a civil, respectful, supportive bunch – three legs of a stool that stood up damn well.

I’ll be forever grateful to Bill and Bruce for their friendship, patience, accommodations, hearty optimism, and all-around good cheer during the trip. Oh, and also for their strong hands up when I fell on my butt.

My tumbles

I thought a lot about this during the hike … why I kept falling and the other guys didn’t topple once.

In fact, the topic was the longest entry in this morning’s notes frenzy – a burst of frustration, rationalization, theology, and pseudo-science. The highlights:

·      Pack positioning: “If a backpack is not tight to the shoulders, the center of gravity is behind you, not centered above the feet. It now seems that my pack was more separated from my shoulders than the guys’ packs – so the weight leaned backward, behind me. That explains the two slip-ups … feet shot ahead of me. Though not the two stumbles over fallen trees. Next time, tighten the shoulder straps.”

·      Just the way I am: Here, my notes speculated about my physical construction. “My feet are smaller than theirs. Or maybe I’m just not as strong. Or maybe less coordinated. Or perhaps my vision is narrower … my glasses a problem? Or maybe because I’m not as tall; my legs are shorter. It was always physics at work.”  

·      God made me do it: And then I offered the Norman Vincent Peale perspective. It was destiny that I would fall, totally out of my control, so think positive about what happened. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, basically. “Maybe it was just meant to be,” I wrote. “God’s way of allowing me to fall as a test of the ability to pop right back up again.”

Maybe all of these things came into play in some form – although honestly, I think God had bigger fish to fry while we wandered our 142 miles.

But if not, then I wonder about the need to bop me on the head with a mighty fist four times?

Twice would have done the trick.

Sleep

I haven’t really shared details of the quality of sleep during our journey. It’s a critical topic, with a hike of this distance. Just like good food, good sleep makes all the difference.

I did a lot of research before the hike into the components of a good night’s sleep on the trail – a proper tent, effective sleeping mattress, a warm sleeping bag.

I spent more money than I expected on the equipment. But the result was more than good. I’d rarely slept better. I know it added to my ability to tackle each day’s hike.

In fact, my hardest night sleeping was indoors at the Grand Marais hotel. Perhaps it was the beer and pizza.

In the tent, though, I slept more soundly than a black bear in January. Each night, I’d jot my notes and douse the lights by 9 p.m.; I wouldn’t budge until the alarm sounded at 6:30 a.m.

Warm, comfy, dreamless sleep.

Dreamless until the last day.

The dream was a strange one. Typically, I don’t dream much. But this reverie was full of contradictions and disconnects – vivid and sharp in a wispy, murky sort of way.

It was a person … but not. And it was talking to me without speaking. It wasn’t scary, but it also wasn’t warm or inviting. I think that I knew this thing; we’d met before somehow, somewhere. Maybe.

Whatever, we flew off side-by-side in a tunnel … up and down, all around, twisting and turning. Lights flashed by us, although the path ahead always remained black. It was like riding Disney World’s Space Mountain but without the fun – more ethereal, otherworldly.

And as we flew, I felt a deepening sense of melancholy and sorrow … of old things passing.

Suddenly, this thing, this specter, reached toward me and touched my shoulder – gently, even kindly – then pushed me hard, away. And in a flash, it was gone.

I woke up, startled, my eyes damp.

“Wow!” I whispered. “What the hell was that?”

I wasn’t sad, though. I was buoyant, energized, like I was the Ancient Mariner who had finally shed his albatross. I looked around the tent and realized again that I would soon be home.

Thoughts zipped through me, things I just didn’t want to forget about the hike. I grabbed my iPhone to take notes. As I’ve explained, I wrote much about many things in a short time.

But surprisingly, of the dream, I only wrote this:

“Sleep … usually blissful, but this time shattered by an endless, wild dream. An ending. A good-bye. To what?? Wistful, but it’s done. ”

I don’t know what the dream meant, nor have I tried much to decipher it. But I do know the feeling it imparted that morning.  

I told Cindy later, “It was like my soul opened and all the garbage fell out.”

Perhaps that’s what the trail does best. It frees the soul.

“There is a way out of every dark mist, over the rainbow trail,” wrote American painter Robert Motherwell.

***

We hiked our short walk to the picnic table, packs on our backs as usual. And we sighed in chorus as we dropped the still-heavy loads on the table’s seat.

The weather and surroundings were magnificent – white puffs of clouds moving slowly across a blue sky, enormous trees showing off their brilliant oranges and reds; behind us, the Tahquamenon River quietly rolling east, calm now after descending the Lower Falls.

We sat patiently on one side of the table, facing the parking lot; our packs sat on the other.

We were like three birds on a wire, our heads silently shifting to take in the view. We didn’t talk much. We were just happy to sit, our arms folded against the cold.

Robbin’s Subaru eventually came into view. Bill jumped to his feet in greeting. We all shouted a welcome. We were ready to go home.

We had left extra clothes with Robbin, thinking we would change before the drive downstate. But Robbin did a quick smell test and told us not to worry about it. If necessary, we could crack some windows.

We stopped for lunch at Clyde’s Drive-In in St. Ignace, where we inhaled cheeseburgers, fries and shakes.

And, as we did 12 days earlier, we drove across the big Mackinac Bridge, although this time south. Waves danced below us, white caps along the Upper Peninsula bidding their good-byes.

And we sped through Mighty Mac’s beginning  … our rainbow’s end.

###

To see photographs of Day 11, click here. 

Day 10 - Turtlin'

But for each of us, isn't life about determining your own finish line?

- Diana Nyad

Our last day of hiking.

Just 2.2 miles to go until lunch at the Upper Falls, then another 4 miles along the Tahquamenon River to our final campsite at the Lower Falls.

After lunch, it literally will be all downhill from there, I thought as I arose from my sleeping bag this morning, Day 10.

For maybe only the second time of the trip, I forced myself to compute what day of the week it was. Until now, I counted the days by number … Day 1, Day 2 … and by campsite name.

Today was Tuesday. The 13th. Tomorrow, Bill’s wife, Robbin, would pick us up at the Lower Falls parking lot. And the trip would be over.

Soon, a return to reality. To schedules, cell phones, my job. For good or ill, back in sync with the world. Yes, back home, but sad in a way.

But not quite yet. We still had today.

And what a day it would be. Easy walking, a big lunch, a couple of beers, an early arrival at the campground tonight. Our last shot to relish life on the trail.

The morning broke cloudy; it looked like rain could dampen things a bit. We prepared our oatmeal and Cream of Wheat for the last time. Tomorrow we would share freeze-dried bacon and eggs to celebrate our final morning.

The length of today’s hike seemed so inconsequential that I didn’t start up Sweet P. No need, really. We would not miss her updates every 2 miles.

We did, though, take our selfie. Bruce deviated from his usual backward fingers and instead shaped a “10” using his right fist to form a “0” and left forefinger to form a “1.”  Only later, when we viewed the photo, did we realize that the mirror effect was in play – that he should have used the “1” on his right hand and the “0” on the left. Day 10 had become Day 01.

Wishful thinking, perhaps.

And so, after a leisurely breakdown of camp, we were off, wondering what might be on the menu at the brewery besides pulled-pork sandwiches and nachos. We were looking forward to seeing the mighty Tahquamenon River.

***

It wasn’t long before the rains came. They weren’t heavy, more of a thick mist that slip-slided through the vibrant layers of leaves above. But it was heavy enough to prompt us to put rain covers on our packs and don jackets.

Tahquamenon Falls State Park is a substantial place – about 50,000 acres, with multiple camp sites, dozens of miles of trail, and its showcase river, which tumbles through the park’s middle all the way to Lake Superior at Emerson, Mich.

We were as excited to see the Upper Falls as we were to chow down. We’d all seen the falls before. But viewing its majesty after hiking 140 miles of rugged trail was a fitting way to mark our finish – a climactic mix of grandeur and relief.

Our walk to the Upper Falls went quickly. We paused to read the Prayer of the Woods, just north of the river, its letters burned into brown timbers. The prayer, of Portuguese origin, can be seen on signs and placards at parks and forests around the world.

I am the heat of your hearth on the cold winter nights.

The friendly shade screening you from the summer sun.

And my fruits are refreshing draughts quenching your thirst as you journey on ….

We ogled century-old white pines, taller than 120 feet, and posed for pictures next to them.

The trail was easy and wide – well-used, obviously, given the park’s popularity. Interestingly, though, we did not run into a single hiker or tourist until we could hear the roar of the falls.

There, the trail emptied onto an asphalt path. And we saw a steady line of visitors with their umbrellas up. Bruce had been reintroduced to civilization last night when he came here to fetch water. But for Bill and me, these were the first folks we’d seen in any significant number since Grand Marais, five days ago.

They gave us interested stares as we walked along – three gray-bearded men with large backpacks, our trekking poles pumping.

We spent some time admiring the falls and taking pictures. But we knew the brewpub was just around the corner. And although it was a bit early for lunch, our stomachs told us it was not.

Tahquamenon Falls Brewery is housed in a rustic, comfy state park complex replete with massive wooden beams, pine paneling and lots of rocking chairs. The brewpub is at the western end. Inside are high ceilings, an enormous stone fireplace at one end, and a long bar with a row of 10-foot-tall, stainless-steel beer tanks at the other. Animal pelts of various kinds and sizes stretch along the walls. The requisite buffalo, deer and moose heads look down from above. 

Months ago, when I plotted this stop, I worried that by Day 10 we’d smell like a fertilizer factory on a sunny afternoon. We hadn’t had showers since Grand Marais. Yesterday’s hike was an especially sweaty one.

We must have been ripe. But darned if I could tell. They say your nose gets used to any stink if it sniffs it long enough.

We warned our waitress of the risk as we walked in. But she seemed to take it in stride and ushered us to a long table by the windows. She’s probably suffered through hikers’ stench before, I thought.

We leaned our packs and poles against the wall and fell into the chairs with a sigh. It’d been awhile since we’d enjoyed a real chair.

We ordered ice water. The waitress, now sympathetic, brought us big pitchers full. And we got down to business. First came the beer – Peach Wheat Ale followed by a tall chaser of Black Bear Stout.

Then came the food. Now, realize that our stomachs had shrunk some since the hike’s start. But that didn’t dissuade us from packing it in:

·      Bruce ordered a whitefish-dip appetizer for the table, then requested the Lake Superior whitefish dinner, French fries, green beans and salad.

·      Bill ordered the grilled pork in a Kentucky bourbon sauce, baked potato, green beans and a salad.

·      I ordered the pork dinner, too, but requested French fries instead of baked potato.

·      For dessert, huge slices of pie with ice cream – and lots of coffee.

And just like that, we’d transitioned from a meager lunch routine of a slim beef jerky and dried-out energy bar to a combined 5,000-calorie spread.

It was tasty. It was perfect. We toasted the hike, the good life and our round stomachs, then burped quietly to ourselves. 

We did worry briefly about the consequences of carrying this caloric load on the trail for 4 more miles or so, along with our 40-pound packs.

But we vowed there would be no regrets.

“Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like,” wrote Mark Twain, “and let the food fight it out inside.”

***

As I mentioned, I’d been to the Lower Falls with Cindy back in August; we’d stopped at the Upper Falls as well.

At both places, I noted the wide, smooth, well-established path – going up the river from the Lower Falls, and going down the river from the Upper Falls – with large signs marking “North Country Trail.”

From that, I assumed the trail between the two falls would be as wide and smooth. After all, I figured, hundreds if not thousands of folks hike between the falls each year. It should be like an elephant highway – fat and flat. It goes downhill, sure, but the river descends but 50 feet between the two falls, so quite steadily. Why wouldn’t the trail follow along?

It took us just minutes to learn how pea-brained I’d been. The trail was every hikers’ nightmare … in some respects, the worst we’d seen in our 139 miles.

It was thinly narrow, it fell and jumped sharply, it curved tightly toward the river and then away. Because it ran very near the river’s banks, erosion had laid bare thick, gnarly tree roots all along the way.

Add to this mix the steady mist of rain and dense autumn leaves, and what we navigated was a slippery, muddy, twisty, bumpy, roller-coaster track that took every ounce of concentration left in us.

Bill was in the lead; I was in the middle, with Bruce bringing up the rear.

Interestingly, at least for me, I couldn’t detect any mental fog from the two beers. My eyes were focused, my mind sharply attuned to each root, each rock, and where my feet would land next. Perhaps it was the tank of coffee I drank.

I was very intent on not falling for a fourth time. A fall here could be truly dangerous. The trail moved above and along the swift river; in some cases a misstep could send you tumbling into the water.

So we moved cautiously while keeping a steady pace.

At the 3-mile mark, with just 1 mile more to go, we stopped for a breather and a picture. Our last mile of our now 141-mile journey. We’d made it … we’d live to tell about it. A grand, glorious adventure. We all felt pretty good.

Bill turned to me.

“As the organizer of this trip, you should do the honors, Doug. Take us along the final mile.”

I appreciated the gesture, and jokingly muttered something like “Yeah, and watch me fall a fourth time.”

I took the lead and we marched on. The river, to our right, soon turned into a series of small rapids as we approached the upper portion of the Lower Falls. Unlike the Upper Falls’ singular grandeur, the Lower Falls are a series of smaller descents spread over a very broad area as Tahquamenon’s flow gets split by wide and thin islands.

The rapids introduce you to these many falls as you approach from upriver. It was hard not to get excited; the rising noise of the water seemed to match our own eagerness to get to our finish line.

Despite our closer proximity to the Lower Falls, the trail continued its rooty, rocky ways. I stepped carefully, aware of just how close we were to being done. Easy, boy, easy, I told myself. No falling for you! That would be way-too embarrassing in this last mile.

At last, we saw the sign indicating we were entering the Lower Falls area. And sure enough, the trail ahead transitioned from mud, roots and rocks to a wide plank byway that would guide us in.

For the first time since lunch, I relaxed.

We reached the planks – a step down from the muddy trail – and I eagerly bridged the two. The Eagle has landed, I proudly told myself.

And my feet went flying. My backpack yanked me backward, again, and I landed hard … like an elephant, not an eagle. Fat and flat. Splat! 

The planks, made slippery by the rains, did me in.

Fall-on-your-ass score: 4-0-0.

I cursed, turtlin’ again, gazing up at the sky. I grew angry – at myself, at my ineptness, at the boot manufacturer who clearly had made a boot prone to slipping.

I slowly unhooked my pack, stood up, checked to make sure nothing was broken, and in my discomfort, I stupidly blamed the shoe’s soles for the fall.

Bill, feeling my pain, was sympathetic. But he quietly pointed out that my shoe had no less grip than theirs did.

I knew in seconds he was right.

And, surprisingly, it really didn’t matter any more. I could fall five more times between here and the campsite and it wouldn’t diminish the joy I now felt that I’d made it … all 142 miles. That I had seen wondrous things, suffered considerable pain, achieved spectacular victories, and felt emotions so deep that they were now burned into my soul.

What’s an occasional fall when the journey – such a sweet journey – lifts you up so high?

We reached the heart of the Lower Falls, posed in front of the official sign – my stocking cap still askew from my spill – took many photos of the falls, then walked on to find our campsite.

As we did, we passed a young couple – a guy and girl. They asked us where we’d been hiking. We briefly told them the story: Started in Au Train 10 days ago, hiked 140-plus miles along Lake Superior, through thick woods, along sandy two-tracks and narrow, twisted paths. And arrived here … the finish.

They were impressed, their eyes wide.

“Congratulations!” she said enthusiastically. “You should be proud!”

We were.

***

That night, as I sat in the tent for the last time, my light strapped to my forehead, I wrote my usual notes about the day. About our dinner – chicken and dumplings. How Bill had made contact with Robbin to make sure she would arrive tomorrow.

How there’s probably a lesson in my fourth fall.

“Don’t ever think too highly of yourself,” I wrote.

“Or maybe it’s just, ‘It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.’”

    

And then I scratched what would be the last few words in my log, a forever reminder that I will long ponder the “why” of this trip.

“What did it all really mean?” I wrote. “I think I need some time to figure that out.

“But right now, I want to be back home – to Cindy, to the dogs, to Chandler Lake.

“To all the things I love.”

I snapped the light off, and tumbled softly to sleep.

###

 

Next: Day 11 – Final day, final thoughts

To see photos of Day 10, click here.