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.