Day 6: The Zone

Bruce and Bill after again reaching the Lake Superior shoreline.

The 6:30 a.m. alarm woke me from a fitful sleep. It seemed odd to surface in a bed. The motel room was black as pitch; everything was unfamiliar.

But my iPhone’s incessant beeping gradually reminded me of place and time.

I tapped it quiet and clicked on the bedside lamp. The light threw shadows on equipment strewn every which way – rain gear draped on coat hangers; tent spread over the small table by the window; ground cloth, rumpled, cast across the floor.

All were wet last night. Now dry. Time to pack.

Despite the heavy dose of pizza and a real bed, I felt weary. Sure, we’d accomplished a lot. We had powered through 65 miles of beautiful but taxing terrain in just five days, with no discussed injuries save the hit to my pride from the fall.

We were getting stronger physically. I felt it in my shoulders and legs, and I needed fewer notches on my waist belt. It was also simple math: When you burn 4,000 or 5,000 calories a day and eat but 2,500, something’s got to give – although last night’s pizza binge was a setback.

I was also sure that we had succeeded in narrowly avoiding bears. All the posted warning signs suggested they were out there, in high numbers. I’d been studiously looking for bear poop since Day 1 to confirm our proximity. Before the trip, I’d even Googled to see what bear poop looked like. Seeing none so far, I now assumed the bears were too smart to dump on the trail. They didn’t reach 9,000 strong in the Upper Peninsula by leaving calling cards for hunters.

Still, I felt done in … beat … a bit like Rocky Balboa after a few rounds with Apollo Creed.

Part of the problem, I figured, was the psychological impact of what was ahead today: another 17- or 18-mile trek. We carried heavier packs, jammed full with a resupply of food – five days’ worth.

We planned this long hike deliberately – the second longest of the entire trip – figuring our motel stay would recharge our batteries. A carb-heavy dinner was also supposed to help.

But as I swung my legs to the floor, then stood on aching heels and calves as stiff as 2-by-4s, I second-guessed our plan. Seventeen miles seemed like 50.

I also thought of the Newbies, suspecting that they were snoozing in the same motel. I imagined their day today: a warm, dry car; more sightseeing; more ribs.

Damn them.

I shook it off. Maybe the Pabst was the culprit.

I hobbled to the can and the coffee maker. At least the coffee would be quick, hot, plentiful.

***

By 7:30 a.m., life looked better. Bill had bought cinnamon rolls the size of bricks the previous night from a bakeshop across from Dunes Saloon. We each got one to save for breakfast.

That explosion of sugar, coupled with two cups of coffee, cleared my head and my mood.

Time to hike.

We posed for our selfie – six fingers – and I bid a good morning to Sweet P.

“Start workout!” she replied.

The sun was just rising as we circled Grand Marais Bay along Canal Street, passing a row of houses facing bayside. We paused to capture sunrise photos, and walked along downtown’s waterfront before bending around the bay to the east.

We followed Highway 58 for a mile and a half until the blue blazes steered us back to the woods, on the right. We paused there to adjust our packs.

I took the occasion to grab a hunter-orange vest from my pack and tie it to the pack’s top. Bow-hunting season was in full force, although I hadn’t worried about it until then. Maybe I was impressed by the many hunters I’d seen in Dunes Saloon the prior night, concerned that their Wild Turkey might result in wild arrows the next day.

I took the lead per usual and set a quick pace, fueled by the sugar and caffeine. It was a beautiful day for hiking — sunshine, blue skies,  cotton clouds — and we found the trail to be relatively easy: gentle hills, lightly wooded, though heavy at times with ground cover.

Within 2 miles, we crossed back over Highway 58 at Grand Marais Creek and began to angle north. We knew that, soon, we’d spill out on the Lake Superior shoreline and parallel the beach for about 2 miles.

We looked forward to that; to again hear the waves and feel the unhindered breezes. Although the morning started cold, temperatures were heading to the 60s, according to the weather forecast.

At Mile 6, we took a break. Just two hours into the morning, and already we’d covered a third of the day’s hike. Good! Maybe the rest of today would be as easy.

We snacked, then set out again. I fell back to third place.

Because the path was somewhat predictable, we each entered into our own little worlds of thought as we pounded away with feet and poles. Left, right, step, step. We were on autopilot, each in our own head space.

This was now a common occurrence on the trail, this departure into ourselves.   

We’d entered what we later would call The Zone.

***

We all do it, of course. Briefly daydream to escape reality. But I wasn’t prepared for how intense this escape became on the trail.

Keep in mind that we had been hiking seven to eight hours each day for more than five days, with little rest except at night. Our packs had pressed bruises into our shoulders and hips. Our ankles burned, our heels were numb, and our lower backs throbbed; nerves in our toes shot occasional needles through our feet as they were bent, stretched and, too often, smashed.

Daydreaming by now was not a luxury but a necessity. We knew when we entered The Zone that it was like retreating to a quiet, welcoming cave of softness, devoid of the drumbeat of left, right, step, step, and other things painful.

We did it when long stretches of the path became easier. Not necessarily flat, but navigable, without the need for intense focus. Like highway driving.

Bruce said entering his zone was a time of prayer. He had a routine in which he prayerfully accounted for each member of his family – words spoken to God, but I suspect words returned as well. There also were thanks for being able to do this hike in the first place, given his battle with cancer.

Bill’s zone was not religious but more like mine. Perhaps spiritual, given the broad use of that term these days. But his immersion was less ethereal and included an interesting mix of Gordon Lightfoot tunes, famous operatic arias, and Maria from the West Side Story. Soft song-clouds floating in his head, I imagined.

My zone seemed more hard-edged. I favored Sousa marches and the theme from “Bridge Over the River Kwai.” So plenty of thought bubbles, but they were pounding out sounds in time with my feet.

I also developed what my family has long called “moronic humming,” mastered and taught to us by a dear friend. Here I took any 10- to 30-second, catchy tune – the more made up the better – and I kept repeating it over and over again, just under my breath. Like the guy who whistles “Three Blind Mice” but won’t stop.

Comparing the three, I think now my zone wasn’t as rich or comforting. Sustaining, yes. Inspiring, maybe. But not as soothing or cheerful.

Regardless of what we did, The Zone was too serious – too deep – to call it simply daydreaming. It was our refuge, our friend, our survival tool.

I’m convinced that our equal ability to “go there” when the need arose did the most to keep our spirits strong, our energies focused and our words civil.

***

The terrain grew hillier the closer we got to the shore. Rounded dunes, some steep, loomed – all thick with low-growth vegetation.

It was here that we began to notice a problem. The blue blazes, for five days so faithful in guiding our course, began to falter.

A quick aside to help explain: The nation’s national trails are not consistent in terms of landscape, of course, but they are definitely not consistent as to maintenance. The trail system is kept up primarily by pockets of volunteers who love to hike. But that requires, well, lots of volunteers. And their commitment varies.

Our stretch through the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore was an exception and so no problem. There the National Park Service has the manpower and budget to keep the trail in good shape and well marked.

But now, out of the park, the blazes were spaced sporadically. Some were hidden by tree growth, or the blue paint had thinned to almost nothing.

A strong hint of directional challenges to come happened when we spilled out onto   the shores of Lake Superior. The blue waves were again up, white and frothy, the winds strong. It was magnificent, refreshing. The sun shot rays of warmth through the trees from the south.

But it wasn’t obvious as we arrived where the trail east continued.

We didn’t worry at first. We wanted a break and to admire the view. We shed our packs, found trees to lean against, and stretched our legs, our faces to the sun. 

But once rested, we had to wander a bit before finding the trail a good 100 feet from the shoreline, marked mainly by a crevice in the terrain.

What also was different was the flipside of Lake Superior’s power and vastness. We quickly encountered, in surprising numbers, felled birches and other trees tossed across the trail by the lake’s muscular north winds.

Back at Pictured Rocks, a fallen tree – there were only a few – would be chain-sawed clear by NPS rangers. Here they were everywhere and obviously had been sitting for weeks, months even, waiting on the rare volunteer crew.

So although we had just 2 miles to cover along the shoreline, the hiking was frustratingly slow. These lifeless trees were not just hurdles but foes.

Typically you had two choices when circumventing a tree: Step over it, or walk around it. Some were too broad, with multiple branches, to step over; walking around usually required bushwhacking a new trail.

It wasn’t long before these birches, oaks and pines, which we had admired in abundance since Day 1, became targets of our invective. I was hurling f-bombs right and left.

Perhaps that’s why one tree in particular snagged my boot and wouldn’t let go, like I was Oz’s Dorothy in the angry grip of the apple tree.

Unfortunately, I had some momentum going. Stopped short, I tumbled – for a second time. I pitched forward, crashing to my side, my right hand stupidly trying to slow my fall.

I settled amid the branches – a birch, I believe. Well crap, I thought. The fall-on-your-ass score was now 2-0-0. Yay me.

I don’t recall how I got up. Bruce helped, I remember. But I think I was at an angle where gravity, plus Bruce’s pull, got me on my feet. Bill was ahead a ways, trying to circumvent the next downed tree.

My right wrist was stinging, but there was little time for pain or hurt pride. We pushed on.

***

It would take close to two hours to pass these obstructions. Relief came when the trail turned slightly south, away from shore. At least that’s where the two stair-stepped blue blazes told us to go – turn right, follow the deeply rutted road.

We decided to break for lunch, exhausted. We found a slight hill along the road where we could prop up our packs and ourselves.

After downing jerky, dried fruit and energy bars, the heat of the air plus the food caused us to do something we’d not done midday since our start: snooze.

We were out only for minutes … no self-respecting cat would call them naps. But it was a telling sign of our fatigue. I longed for caffeine.

We mounted up again and headed south along the curvy road, confident that we’d soon spot a blue blaze. Our map gave little guidance, showing a slight dip south, then an almost straight line east to our destination, Lake Superior Campground.

After walking a good half-mile along the two-track and finding no blaze, we gave up on the trail, officially declaring ourselves “lost” for the first time.

We stopped to strategize. We knew from GPS that Highway 58 was to the south, and that it would guide us to the campground. We also assumed that the two-track would eventually connect with 58. It was pointing that way.

And so we plodded on, at times pushing through the road’s thick, loose sand.

Eventually, we heard sounds of the occasional car distant in the trees.

Assumption correct; highway found.

We now faced 2 and maybe even 3 miles of boring walking. We weren’t sure.

It’s here where my zone conjured up the devil – John Denver and his Country Roads. Walking this road was drudgery, pure and simple. A trail offered variety, at least. Here, your path was straight, flat, unrelenting. And as soon as I touched asphalt, Denver’s twang entered my head. There it remained on an endless loop, also unrelenting, even punishing.

It was the worst cliché imaginable for this particular stretch.

“West Virginia … mountain momma … take me home … country roads.”

I tried to get unstuck – attempted moronic humming, Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever; I even whistled the “River Kwai” tune. But Denver’s nasal voice kept creeping back.

I gave up … gave in. As I mentioned, I hate it still.

We would arrive at Lake Superior Campground. We would set up camp, make dinner, fall into our tents, weary, totally spent.

We wouldn’t even bother to look at Superior’s sunset this night even though the beach was just yards away. The lake’s winds and the trees had conspired to make today grueling, even brutal. We could all use a break from each other.

I scratched my usual notes, recounting our fast start, the fallen trees, the poor signage, my second tumble.

My ego was bruised by the fall, but I must have retained some pride.

Because, defiantly, I wrote what I knew to be true that day:

“We did not lose the trail today. It lost us.”

###

Sweet P's Log - Day 6

Next Sunday, Day 7 - Of Death and Living

To view photos of Day 6, click here.

To hear the theme song from "Bridge Over the River Kwai," click here.