And Then We Went for a Walk: Day 3: Life on the Rocks

Close to the edge ... a view straight down, 200 feet.

The sandstone is 500 million years old. The water that seeps through its 200-foot-high cliffs leaches the colors of the rainbow – reds, oranges, yellows, greens.

The minerals in the water – iron, copper, manganese, limonite — cause the colors.

Native Americans from nearby Grand Island would press their thumbs against the rocks and use the resultant stain as a form of paint.

I learned these things while kayaking with Cindy at Pictured Rocks, just northeast of Munising, in early September.

“I’ll be walking there in a few weeks,” I told her as we paddled along the sheer walls, gazing up at the towering cliffs. “Imagine that.”

Back then, the hike seemed so distant … weeks away, sure, but also a long physical distance up. What would it be like, I thought, to walk with heavy packs along the precipice? To look out from the cliffs, not from down below, viewing scenes only those there can see?

A friend had warned that the path along Pictured Rocks can be dangerous at times, just yards and sometimes just a few feet from the sandy edge. A slight slip of the foot could cause a tumble to the giant slabs of shoreline rock below.

Yes, imagine that.

Now, as I packed my gear for Day 3, my imagination was running amuck. My training and two days on the trail had already taught me some lessons – how to adjust my pack occasionally to ease pressure points, how best to tape my feet, how to use my walking poles for stability and traction, the optimum way to secure my backpack so its weight was centered as tightly on my body as possible.

All valuable skills learned on relatively flat terrain.

But what would I learn on this day, when we’d begin a steady climb to the top of the cliffs, then traverse them – to dance a lumbering line-dance along their majestic brink? What food for the soul would I consume in those astonishing views of sun-washed blue waters and rainbow-streaked bluffs?

Perhaps most critically, how would we be tested physically? We had a 15-mile trek ahead of us, after all. What new tricks of the trail would we learn because of the incline and distance?

“After climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.”

Nelson Mandela said this as a metaphor to explain his great struggle for freedom in South Africa.

Mandela’s metaphor would soon, in a small way, be our reality.

***

Typically I’m not an anal kind of guy, the obsessive organizer of things. But because of Bill’s battle with fallen trees from August’s big storm, and Bruce’s distance away in Kansas City, I agreed to organize this trip.

So, with their occasional advice, I plotted most things – the places where we’d camp, the mileage we’d cover and the food we’d eat each day, the projected departure and arrival times. I even researched the times of sunrise and sunset.

It was all on a spreadsheet in embarrassing, fastidious detail.

I mention this because the spreadsheet listed breakfast on Day 3 as “Continental breakfast at hotel.”

I must have thought we’d find some doughnuts or something in the lobby of our little Superior Motel and Suites. But as we walked back from dinner, we noticed a Hardee’s across the street.

“There’s our breakfast,” said Bruce.

So the next morning, after loading up with fat biscuits, big breakfast platters and coffee – it’d be three days before we’d see another restaurant – we set out for Pictured Rocks. It was a crisp morning, 52 degrees, with blue skies and white, patchy clouds. Our destination that night would be the Mosquito River campground along Mosquito Beach.

As we’d learn, if a hike into town requires some miles along a road, so does a hike out. We followed M-94, then Highway 58 to the east, for about 2 miles. The blue blazes then steered us down a residential street tight against the shore of the bay.

Count 'em ... three!

At the end of the street was Munising Falls, the silver-water gateway to what would again be a path of deep woods and wilderness – and one of the North Country Trail’s most beautiful segments along its 4,600-mile span.

We quickly viewed the falls, then posed in front of it for our Day 3 selfie. Bill and Bruce stayed consistent with their separate finger styles. I gave up the grimace for something more, uh, goofy.

I switched on Sweet P.

“Start workout!” she declared. (She’s so enthused, I thought grimly. But she was right … now the real hiking would begin.)

We grandly marched past the wooden sign declaring that this was the NCT portal, then down a series of steps, along a plank bridge to … uh oh … crime-scene tape blocking the path.

Not that there’d been a crime – the tape was probably donated – but it seemed our triumphant march had quickly hit a detour. A portion of the trail had been washed out, said a small sign. We were directed to go back to the road, head a short distance along a side street, and we’d find a temporary path up the hill.

So we did. And it was there that we saw our first backpacker coming east to west (while we walked west to east.)

The poor guy looked exhausted, leaning hard into his poles as he limped along. He acknowledged our greetings, but just barely.

Whoa, I thought. This guy’s really been through the ringer. Is the trail that bad ahead?

Only later would I realize he’d probably been hiking since dawn. We’d crossed paths at about 9 a.m., and the closest campground up trail for him would have been 5 miles away, at the Cliffs campsite.

But his demeanor didn’t dampen our enthusiasm. Heck, his sour puss might be from a sour stomach, I reasoned, not the trail.

We found the trail’s new access point, and began the climb.

***

Here is where I must share the appeal and elegance of the hiking, or trekking, pole.

Walking sticks have a wonderful history, from the Australian Aboriginal’s waddy to the American supplejack, Scotland’s kebbie and Ireland’s shillelagh. Back in Boy Scouts, we used a single, stout pole of maple, oak or hickory.

Me and my friends, the poles.

Today’s state-of-the-art trekking poles don’t feature knotty staffs of wood, of course. Instead, their design is sleek and compact. Made of aluminum, they weigh less than 2 pounds. Much like ski poles, they come with rubber handgrips, straps, and hard-rubber baskets and metal tips at the ends. Most are adjustable for height.

My set is the Leki Cristallo Speedlock 6.5 that I bought at Backcountry North in Traverse City. Black aluminum with blaze-orange striping and handles. I think I paid $130 for them.

Cindy later noted that I could have bought them at Sierra Trading Post’s online store for $80. Yeah, well … at least I bought local. Bruce pointed out that his wife, Sue, bought his poles – a different brand – for $12. OK, that hurt.

So mine were pricey. But from the point when we started up Pictured Rocks, I never regretted the decision. They were my lifelines, my extra set of arms and legs. I firmly believe I could not have done the hike without them.

Let me describe this stretch of the trail to explain why.

Unlike in the flatlands of Day 1 and 2, here it was quite narrow and hard-packed. Because thick stands of oak, pine, maple and birch hug the trail, their roots intertwined and often laid bare across the path.

A tough trail at times.

Now add in the continual dampness of the deep woods, slicking up those roots and the many rocks, too. And consider the low, thick ferns that encroached upon the path, tightening the trail even more.

Finally, factor in our packs – 40 pounds of extra weight that, though strapped close to the body’s core, still felt like a bulky appendage that left you top-heavy. It could instantly get you out of kilter if you weren’t careful.

So to walk such a narrow, bump-filled trail at the pace we were setting – we walked quickly, at 3 miles per hour – was not a leisurely, carefree jaunt. Head lowered, our eyes continually shifted from just yards ahead to obstacles immediately below.

Miraculously, our feet would take their cue from our eyes, deftly landing on a root, a rock, or the edge of a pothole, always pushing us forward. I once witnessed pack mules being led by rangers on horseback down a steep, thin trail in the Rocky Mountains, the mules' four hoofs expertly finding sure footing. It was like that.

But the poles helped this happen – or at least reduced the odds of mishap. To make a sharp left turn, I stabbed the ground to the right to offset the pack’s pull away from the turn. To step sharply on a wet root, I planted both poles to avoid slipping. At cliff’s edge, I used my poles wide, to broaden my center of gravity and avoid a deadly misstep.

And they had other uses. To power up a steep hill, I alternatively pounded the points of the poles down like pistons – right, left, right, left, in tandem with my legs – each pole punching the ground, my shoulders and arms adding muscle to the climb.

To descend was trickier, because my pack wanted to toss me forward, headfirst and down the trail. So I bent my knees, crouched a bit to keep the weight of both butt and pack over my feet, and planted my poles carefully and methodically ahead of myself – turning two legs into four.

It was indeed a lumbering dance across Pictured Rocks – at times delicate, at times clumsy, rough and not real pretty.

Pretty or not, though, I couldn’t have danced without my poles.

***

We reached the top of Pictured Rocks and moved swiftly along the trail, snaking into heavy trees, then popping out occasionally along the cliffs, where we could admire the water and skies and rugged terrain. Grand Island, immense, sat stoically to the west.

Bill admires the view.

My impression of the trail while kayaking was that, once up there, it would be flat. It was not. More like a roller coaster, really, as it dipped and climbed and banked to the left, then to the right.

It was not unusual to rumble down a short, steep hill, then carry that momentum up the next.

Because our eyes were fixed to the trail, views of the scenery required a complete stop. And so our rest breaks were saved for the best views.

Our goal was to reach the Miners Castle overlook for lunch. And interestingly, along the last mile or so before the overlook, the trail forgot its up-and-down ways and became straight and flat and astonishingly beautiful.

A thick carpet of maple sprouts.

Walking that stretch was like treading through the poppy fields of the “Wizard of Oz.” The trees thinned out, but at their feet lay a carpet of maple sprouts, ferns and other greenery, the path cutting a distinct, brown border between left and right. The dense canopy of trees and the thickness of the undergrowth softened the sounds of our strides.

Miners Castle was inspirational, of course. But we’d all seen it during prior visits, and we were hungry. So we glanced at its greatness, then found a picnic table to savor our jerky, dried fruit and energy bars. Bruce heated water for coffee.

It was there that we met a couple that I’ll call “The Newbies.” It was a guy and a gal, maybe in their 40s. They peppered me with questions about our backpacks, the trail, the distance we were going and so forth. “How long have you been doing this?” asked an intensely curious Mrs. Newbie, assuming I was a veteran backpacker. If she only knew.

It seems Mr. Newbie had plans for him and Mrs. Newbie to backpack the NCT. But when he spread out the new equipment he’d purchased for the hike on the hotel bed the previous night, he discovered he couldn’t fit it all into the packs. What did fit weighed more than 50 pounds each.

Miners Castle.

Discouraged, they stayed another night in the hotel and drove to Miners Castle instead.

You’ll learn that we’ll see the Newbies again in future days – in surprising places.

The rest of the afternoon was spent en route to Mosquito Beach. The views continued to amaze – long, steep cliffs of smooth, bare sandstone topped by thick crowns of hardwoods and pines. At their feet, the mighty waters of Lake Superior, though today the lake was placid, almost still. You could see straight to the bottom — and detect the huge slabs of rock that had sloughed off the cliffs over time.

“Imagine the splash those would make,” I said dumbly.

Here, though, began the test. We’d exceeded not just the 7 miles of prior days, but now 8, 9, 10 and 11. And we still had at least 4 to go. The trail soon became a blur, and our feet went numb. Shoulder and neck pain crept in. Like sponges, we sucked in water with each brief stop. We traded nary a word during this stretch. No point. But we desperately wanted to hear from Sweet P – hear her milestones, no matter how odiously cheery.

“Come on, woman!” I thought in my fog.

Bill led the last leg; as usual, I’d fallen to third. Heads again lowered, we pushed on, each in our own little mind zone of thought and pain. We knew we would need to descend from the cliffs rather sharply to reach Mosquito Beach. And when that final, steep hill was finished, we began to relax, our moods brightening.

We’d made it. The lapping sound of Mosquito Beach’s soft waves greeted us through the trees as we arrived.

I’d seen the beach before when I had kayaked. I knew of its beauty – its broad sweep of pristine sand, and how the Mosquito River moved smoothly and swiftly through its east edge to the lake. I was excited.

Bruce cools the toes.

We immediately wanted to soak our feet in Superior’s cold shallows and savor the view. We also needed water for eating and drinking.

But it would be dark soon, so we set up camp first. Then we walked to the beach. How odd and light it felt to tread with no pack. It had been nine hours since our start that morning.

I pulled off my shoes, socks and tape, and waded quickly into the smallish waves rolling ashore. I plunged the Platypus into the water, filled it up, then sealed it. And relished the coldness on my battered heals and toes.

Bruce and Bill did the same – to a chorus of “ahhhs ….”