Day 5: The Old Man Snoring

We don the rain gear. A wet day.

 

It's raining, it's pouring

The old man is snoring

He went to bed and he bumped his head

And couldn't get up in the morning

My feet shot out from under me. I landed – “wump!!” – on my back. Like a flipped turtle.

I stared up at the sky, raindrops falling into my eyes. Through the wet blur, I saw treetops … a mix of golds, reds and greens. Then Bruce’s face hovering above, creased with worry.

“You OK?” he asked. “What happened?”  

Yeah, what happened? It had been going so well ….

***

We started watching the weather forecast a week or so before our trip, and then,  again, a few days earlier  in Munising.

Although the conditions for our first four days had been near perfect,  rain was expected today. We planned accordingly, double-checking the location of our rain gear – pants, jackets, the special covers for our packs – so we could don them quickly.

Morning broke; no rain yet. But changes had occurred since last night’s heavy winds and turbulent surf. The air was still, the sky overcast, the lake calm. Much smaller waves lapped gently ashore. The temperature had dropped  — 42 degrees.

We faced our longest stretch yet – 17.5 miles to Grand Marais, a once-bustling fishing and lumber town now home to only a few hundred residents. Its claim to fame these days is “the Eastern Gateway to Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore.”

It would be a challenging hike, but we felt the fates were with us. A rainy day, perhaps, but we’d end it at a motel with a hot shower and then restaurant food. The distance didn’t concern us much. We’d marched  16 miles yesterday, and today’s walk promised fewer hills.

Five fingers up!

We moved fast to eat our Quaker Oats and Cream of Wheat and break down camp, fearing the rain could start any minute. We posed for our five-finger selfie, and I launched Sweet P, who exhorted us as usual to move our butts.

The trail cut through our camp, so we were on it in seconds. We paused at the first  clearing to view the lake to our left. Flat, like glass.

How this lake does change! I thought.

The trail tightly paralleled the shore, and we’d walked just 15 minutes when we came upon a tent planted in the small space between the path and shoreline. Odd … regulations say you aren’t supposed to camp just yards from the trail, especially when a campground is just a short hike away.

Flat like glass.

A couple came from behind the tent.

“Good morning!” they said.

It was the Newbies – the over-equipped, super-inquisitive hikers that we’d seen at Miners Castle. They had somehow managed to land themselves beachside the night before.

I immediately wondered what gear they’d sacrificed to get this far. 

The Newbies are a youngish couple – I’d say mid 40s, if that’s youngish. Mister is much taller than Missus, though Mister is not very tall. Which would make Missus quite short. And while short doesn’t mean weak, there was no way physically that Missus could have hauled a 50-pound pack to this spot, I thought. Some things must have been jettisoned.    

Mr. Newbie seemed embarrassed. He explained that they were hiking west toward Sevenmile, intending to camp there, but “we ran out of gas and daylight.”

“I know we’re not supposed to do this,” he said, nodding toward his tent location, “but we just couldn’t keep going.”

He asked how far it was to the campground. Just minutes down the path, we said. He grimaced.

We assured him, though, that they did the right thing. Hiking any trail in the dark can be dangerous.

They then started peppering us with more hiking questions. Because we had a tight schedule, we gave short answers and clear body language indicating we needed to move on.

In parting, though, we learned we’d missed a fine showing of the Northern Lights the previous night.

The downside of going to bed at 8:30 p.m.

We said our good-byes and picked up the pace. It wasn’t long before the rain started – a light, sporadic sprinkle.

***

Staying dry on the trail is critical. All of the literature preaches it. It’s serious business, because wet clothes mixed with cold temperatures can bring on hypothermia or worse.

We reached Twelvemile Campground and its beach, and the rain began falling more steadily. We stopped to put on our pack covers and our rain jackets, then continued our march – past the Benchmark Campsite and over the churning Hurricane River.

Soon the rain was strong and consistent. Our upper bodies were rainproof; not so below the belt. We found a campground kiosk with a small roof at Hurricane River Campsite and huddled under it, using the shelter to slip on our rain pants.

Rain pants ... and wallpapered warnings.

The kiosk was wallpapered with warnings:

“Bears Are Active in This Area. Be Bear Aware!”

“Cliffs May Be Undercut By Erosion And Unstable. Stay Back From Cliff Edge!”

“Plant Alert! Wild Parsnip (Pastinaca Sativa).” This one described how the plant’s sap causes severe chemical burns.

Pity the pessimist who hikes this trail, I thought.

The signs didn’t concern us. Bruce and I had bear spray; we all have an aversion to plunging to our deaths; and – now – we had on an extra layer of clothing to guard against perilous parsnips.

It’s here, though, where I took stock of the multiple-step process each of us followed when putting on or taking off our backpacks. Maybe I noticed because we had to do it so quickly in the wet.

How you do it is a big deal. Recall that these packs carry the weight of four to five bowling balls. Or if you’re weary of that analogy, two automobile tires. You don’t want some muscle to go “sproing!”

Pack off: For me, there are typically seven steps involved here:

1.     Unclip the strap that links your two shoulder straps across your chest.

2.     Unclip your hip belts.

3.     Lean one shoulder slightly lower than the other, and slip that arm out from under the shoulder strap.

4.     Immediately grab the other strap with your now-free arm.

5.     Pull your other arm free while clinging to the single strap.

6.     Guide the pack to the ground.

7.     Sigh in sweet relief: “Yaaahh …. okey dokey, then.”

There are few things more pleasurable.

Pack on: Here the reverse happens, in six steps, although this time you get no help from gravity; she’s your foe:

1.     Bend your knees … you’ll need those leg muscles.

2.     With one arm, grab the horizontal strap sewn into the back of the pack around the neck area.

3.     Gradually stand up straight, simultaneously yanking the strap and slipping the free arm through its shoulder strap as you rise.

4.     As the pack climbs from the momentum, slide your other arm through its shoulder strap. The pack will fall hard on the shoulders; bend your knees to absorb the shock.

5.     Clip together hip belts and the chest strap.

6.     Shake your rear like a dog to get everything settled in the right spots.

Oh … Steps 2 and 3 are always accompanied by a yell, grunt or holler. Whatever it takes to succeed.

I favored a grunt, although mine was more of a deep “I’m-being-strangled-by-an-ape” grunt – a gaggy mix of “ohhhhh” and “errrgggg” and odd gurgling noises.

I’ll let the guys describe their grunts. Suffice to say, though, when we all hoisted our packs at the same time, we sounded like three angry, constipated baboons.

Our rain gear on, our packs back in place, we left our small shelter and headed to the trail and our next way spot just 2 miles distant – Au Sable Point and lighthouse.

***

We arrive at the lighthouse.

The lighthouse has a rich history – built in 1874, it helped keep ships from grinding ashore on the sandstone reef that extends a mile into Lake Superior and, in parts, is only 6 feet below the surface.

Early ships that relied only on eye contact with the shore for navigation found greater comfort once the lighthouse was built.

It’s owned now by the National Park Service, which has restored it to its original state. There’s a small gift shop inside the main building; today it had an “Open” sign, though there was but one car there … probably the shopkeepers, I thought.

A soggy day for tourists.

As we walked past, the door popped open, and a man and woman stood just inside.

“You can come in if you’d like,” said the woman.

It was enticing. We were cold, wet. I imagined within there’d be a fireplace and logs aflame. Probably hot coffee, too.

I told them we appreciated the offer, but I was afraid we’d lose our momentum. A lot of miles still to go, I explained.

The keepers.

The pair seemed lonely, eager for visitors.

“Are you the keepers here?” I asked.

“Yes, for another week,” she said. Volunteers can staff and help maintain the building for one- or two-week stays. A dozen or so Michigan lighthouses, including Grand Traverse Lighthouse near Traverse City, participate in the program.

It sounds enticing. But in early October, when visitors are few, life on a cold, windswept point can be desolate.

They asked about our hike – starting and ending points – and seemed impressed. They wished us well. After snapping a few pictures, we found the trail at the station’s eastern edge. We encountered another bear-warning sign, then headed slightly south as Superior’s shoreline wrapped its way around the point.

Soon, off to the left, we could see the Grand Sable Banks loom over the shoreline. The banks, or Grand Sable Dunes, cover a massive 5-mile stretch that starts just as the shoreline again bends eastward to a few miles shy of Grand Marais.

The banks formed during the glacial retreat, the hills shaped and shifted by northwesterly winds. They now stand about 300 feet tall. The North Country Trail scales the dense woods on the dunes’ western edge before settling behind the sands in the forested flatlands leading east to Grand Sable Lake.

Grand Sable Dunes.

We slowly climbed the 300 feet almost straight up, it seemed. The trail was made worse because it was a detour. Part of the original trail had fallen into Lake Superior, so the new path ran uphill through raw territory, with short stumps of trimmed trees jutting up under our feet.

It was also muddy-slick in spots. “Like crawling up a playground slide with the pack pulling you backwards,” Bill remarked.  

It was by far the toughest and longest “up” we’d encountered on the trail – so vertical and root- and rock-prone that Bruce thought to warn a group of backpackers heading the other way that they might want to use ropes to descend.

After huffing and puffing to the top, we came upon the Log Slide Overlook at the banks’ western edge. Loggers in the late 1800s had built a wooden slide to send felled trees shooting down the banks to the lake below. The National Park Service now maintains the overlook, which includes an open-sided shed displaying sleds and other tools from those days.

Back on the trail.

We took advantage of the shed’s dry interior as a lunch spot, and Bruce heated water for coffee. A few tourists walked by as we ate, and we stopped two Minneapolis guys to see if they could tell us the latest on the baseball playoffs. (Last we’d heard, the Kansas City Royals – Bruce and I are fans – were still in the mix, as were the surprising Cubs.)

They gave us updates – the Royals were still in it; the Cubs weren’t. So close, Cubbies, so close.

Lunch done, I volunteered to lead the stretch to Grand Sable Lake. Although the rain kept falling, the path was straight and flat – the terrain much like what we’d seen just west of Miners Castle Overlook. Easy peasy, I thought.

I set a rapid pace. We had made good time so far, and I wanted that to continue.

Head down, eyes on the trail, we marched on, the rain sliding and slipping through the trees. We got into our usual rhythm on straightaways … right, left, right, left. Feet moving, poles pumping.

And then it happened. In microseconds. A root, I think.

My right ankle slid and twisted hard to the left. Then both feet flew out from under me.

I fell back sharply, almost levitating – like I was in a Sam Peckinpah slo-mo death scene.   

Then … “Wump!!”  I slammed to the ground.  

Amazingly, I felt no pain.

The beauty of plunging backward with a 40-pound pack is that you have 40 pounds of gear – including a down-filled sleeping bag – to cushion your fall. Like having air bags tied to your back.

I almost started laughing, surprised at how quickly one’s fate can change on the trail. After more than 50 miles of sometimes treacherous walking, including just conquering the mother-of-all-hills near Log Slide Overlook, I lost it on the straight and narrow.

“You OK? What happened?” asked Bruce.

He saw my ankle twist … feared the worst.

“I guess I slipped on a root. I’m OK. Help me up.”

The other consequence of hauling a 40-pound pack is that it takes two people to pull you to your feet. Bruce and Bill each grabbed an arm. Once upright, I tested my ankle. It seemed fine.

“I’m good. Let’s go.”

The first tumble of the trip. The honor was mine. Well, at least that’s out of the way, I thought. I can learn from it.  

***

After a brief rest overlooking Grand Sable Lake, we steered north toward Grand Marais. We stopped briefly at Sable Falls, then followed Highway 58 into town.

Our motel, the North Shore Lodge, was about a half mile out on a peninsula. We knew this because we’d dropped our food there – provisions for the second half of the hike – before starting our Day 1 hike at Au Train.

Because we didn’t want to walk to the motel, shower, then walk back into town to find a restaurant, we hatched a plan. Maybe we could convince one of the restaurants to deliver food to the lodge.

The saloon.

We saw a big “Pizza” sign outside Dunes Saloon. I volunteered to check it out while the guys visited a nearby camping-goods store.

Inside I found Tara, a waitress, and struck a deal: If she could get pizza and six cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon out to North Shore Lodge in about an hour, I’d tip her $25.

“Sure!” she said. So I turned toward the door to find out what kind of pizza the guys wanted.

And there, sitting at a table by the front window, were the Newbies, who we’d left on the trail in misery18 miles ago. Now looking bright, cheery and considerably well-fed.

Mrs. Newbie had a big pasta dish, it appeared. Mr. Newbie had the best-looking plate of barbecue ribs I’d ever seen. (Being from Kansas City, that means a lot.)

“Hi guys,” I said with a reluctant wave.

They must have driven here, I thought. Probably reversed course on the trail, got back to their car and spent the rest of the day in dry sight-seeing mode.

Their eyes grew wide and their questions shot out like machine-gun fire. How’d you get here? Did you really hike all the way? Didn’t the rain bother you? How’d you stay dry? Where are you going next? Where are you staying tonight? How’d your equipment do?

Wet, cold, hungry after nine hours on the trail, I was in no mood to play Twenty Questions. In a nice way – really, I was nice – I said I needed to go because we still had a hike to the motel.

I found the guys outside, got the pizza preferences, ducked back into the bar, found Tara, placed the order, paid, and said “bye” one more time to the Newbies and those ribs.

We arrived at last at North Shore Lodge and a hot shower. We spread our wet gear in our rooms to dry. Then we met at the motel’s vacant restaurant – it was closed for the season – to await our pizza. The owner had kindly loaned us a restaurant table and the bar TV.

Three pizzas and PBR.

Tara was running late; I was nervous. We’d paid in advance. But then her pickup arrived; we met her outside – “Sorry, the bar got busy,” she said – and she handed us the six-pack and three pizzas.

Three 14-inch pizzas. Enough pie to feed a dozen people. The smell was heaven-sent. And six cans of PBR to wash it down.

Our stomachs had arrived empty. They soon would be gloriously full. We did not eat like normal people this night.

And what a day.

Sometimes raining. Sometimes pouring.

Now soon … very soon … three old men snoring.

###

Sweep P's Log - Day 5

 

Next Sunday, Day 6 - The Zone

To view photos of Day 5, click here.