Day 9 - Yo, Pain

A blue blaze and autumn splendor.

Let a man walk ten miles steadily on a hot summer's day along a dusty English road, and he will soon discover why beer was invented.

-       Gilbert K. Chesterton

There’s a secret I’ve not revealed here but one the guys and I knew before we even started hiking on Day 1.

That is, at lunchtime on Day 10, the plan was to share not just food but a beer – or two –at the Tahquamenon Falls Brewery & Pub at the Upper Falls in Tahquamenon Falls State Park.

We would hike the 2.2 miles from the Upper Falls’ wilderness campsite to the brewery that morning, have lunch, then walk the remaining, presumably easy, 5 or so miles along the Tahquamenon River to the Lower Falls – the final stop of our 10-day journey.

I mention it because – at least for me – the inspiration to arise early this morning, Day 9, was that promise of a brewery-pub just 30 hours and 16 miles away.

Day 9’s hike would not be a short one – 14 miles or so. But after what we’d gone through, we expected a 14-miler to be a mere jaunt. Better yet, we were away from the hazardous coastline on a well-marked path.

Plus our spirits were fortified by the prior day’s shorter hike, and we were still on a high from our arrival at beautiful Culhane Lake.

Bruce had even broadcast Jimmy Buffet tunes from his phone as we prepared dinner .

Although it might seem incongruous to hear Buffet’s nasal twang in such a pure setting, the music was welcome. We hadn’t played any tunes the entire trip.

To hear Buffet sing was like scratching an itch  we didn’t know needed scratching. It felt great.

Bruce’s song selection was impeccable.

 “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” wailed Buffet. “Heaven on earth with an onion slice ….”

***

Culhane Lake’s quiet beauty at sunset reawakened at dawn. The sun climbed through clear skies, its rays filtering across the water and through the campground’s dense woods.

The morning started warm. That gave me some pause. For the first time, we would be relying on sources other than campground taps for our water.

Yes, we could fill up at Culhane Lake. We each typically carried about two liters of water – usually enough to get us through the day, knowing we could resupply at dinnertime. But today’s hike would end at the wilderness campsite, which had no water.

We had surveyed the map and felt we could fill up at three spots along the way if necessary: Parcell Lakes, about 3.5 miles down the trail; the Little Two-Hearted River, which we would cross via a road in about 10 miles; and, finally, Loon Lake, about 11 miles from our start.

No worries.

Just to hedge, I filled my 3-liter Osprey bladder with a bit more than 2 liters. But no more. A liter of water weighs 2.2 pounds. I had no interest in carrying more weight given the mileage and my worn-down state.

We posed for our selfie, bid good morning to Sweet P and quickly found the trail at the campground’s far end. We would follow it for a half-mile as it angled southeast. It would then turn completely south. Judging from the map, the trail would be a mix of single-track and two-track.

Incredibly, we were still within the Lake Superior State Forest, which stretched all the way behind us to near Grand Marais, where we stayed on Day 5. We would remain in it until the final mile or so of today’s hike, when we’d enter Tahquamenon Falls State Park.

As we headed south, the forest’s autumn colors deepened into spectacular hues of burnt oranges, reds and yellows. The blue blazes on the tree trunks contrasted starkly, seeming  foreign and artificial. But spotting them proved easy.

The trail was not too hilly – a blessing given the heat, growing humidity and our soreness. One stretch along a two-track overlooked  thousands of plants yielding seeds attached to silken threads of white hair, built to catch the wind.

The field was mesmerizing … Oz’s poppies again came to mind.

In our zeal to snap pictures of it, we stepped off the road into the field and quickly sunk ankle-deep into mucky water.

“Whoa!” I yelled, retreating. We didn’t know the plants were likely cotton grass, which thrives above a marsh. 

The bog extended beyond our eyesight, and we marveled that such a thick field could float atop such a vast bed of water.

At this point, the heat began to take a toll. The warm weather had stirred up black flies, mercifully absent from our trip until now. We weren’t bombarded, but they visited me enough to prove a nuisance.

Down to single layers of clothing, we sweated more heavily – also rare this trip. Our rest stops seemed more languid and sleepy; it was harder to restart our engines when the break was over.

Naturally, we drank more water … needed to. We’d passed Parcell Lakes in the first hour of hiking, but didn’t think of resupplying because we’d just left Culhane Lake. We had passed the marshes – a surprise water source – but didn’t even consider pumping from its brown muck.

By Mile 10, we passed over the Little Two-Hearted River. The river ran very small, deep below a road viaduct; getting down to it would have entailed major bushwhacking. Even though our water supplies were low, we knew Loon Lake was not far ahead. So there was no enthusiasm for fighting to reach the river’s edge.

The map indicated, with a camera symbol, that the Loon Lake stop was a “Scenic Area.” Much of the trail to this point had been along two-tracks, with tall stands of trees on either side. But now we were back on a single-track that angled east and then south. We were again in deep and hilly woods.  And while the trees’ colors were beautiful, we couldn’t see much beyond each current hillside.

We knew, according to the map, that there would be a sharp bend in the direction of the trail – from south to northeast – at the tip of Loon Lake, as the path made its final way into Tahquamenon Falls State Park.

And so we marched on, expecting at any minute to arrive at that turn and see a lake before us.

We never felt the turn … and never saw the lake.

Our much counted-upon water source was nowhere to be found. To this day, we’re not sure why. Kettle lakes, like Loon Lake, can grow and shrink depending on the rains. Perhaps it had shrunk to nothing.

And maps can be deceiving, suggesting that a smallish lake like Loon can be aside the trail when, in fact, it can be hundreds of yards away and so, in these thick woods, completely hidden.

Regardless, we missed it. With our water supplies extremely low and our dry campsite still a couple of miles to go, we plodded on.

For the first time, I felt an inkling of panic.

***

Pain is a funny thing. OK, not so funny. But curious. Even mysterious.

We were in pain this day. Another 14 miles of hiking on top of the 120 miles we’d already traveled proved a cruel twist; we thought it would be easy trekking.

Not that the trail was overly hard. More the opposite, with long distances of two-tracks and gradual ups and downs. But the heat slowed our steps, and the humidity seemed to add pounds to our packs. Shoulder straps dug deeper, boots burned hotter. My upper thighs protested with every ascent.

Psychologists talk about how one can learn mind-body techniques to lessen pain. Positive distractions especially can be helpful.

Water was now my distraction, and although hardly positive, it took my mind off the pounding of the trail.

I felt some responsibility. I’d plotted our stops months ago in my office, using the maps and factoring in water supplies. I felt confident that we would have three sure shots at getting water on Day 9.

What I didn’t count on was Loon Lake’s disappearance. You should have checked with a ranger about Loon ahead of the trip, I told myself.

That marsh water miles back now seemed very attractive.

I mentioned to the guys that the map showed an unmarked, small body of water just off the trail about a mile beyond our wilderness campsite. So the plan was to reach camp, do some scouting to find the lake – probably more a pond – and fill up if we could.

We also would inventory our water to see just how desperate we were.

We found the site just after entering the park. It was indeed wilderness – barren except for a fire ring and a state-provided bear bag.

Oh, the state did kindly plop a toilet stool above a hole about 50 feet east of camp, behind a thick stand of trees.

“A howling wilderness does not howl,” wrote Thoreau.

Yeah, but I bet this one has trumpeted on occasion.

Water was Job #1, so we passed on setting up camp right away; we also were bone-tired. I volunteered to hunt for the pond; Bill said he’d come along. Bruce took a brief rest. We’d all compared notes, and combined, we didn’t have enough water to fix dinner let alone breakfast. And we all were thirsty, hesitant to take our last swigs. Finding water was urgent.

Bill and I headed down the trail toward the Upper Falls, scouring the woods to our left in hopes of seeing a glint of a pond. We walked by and beyond where the water existed, according to the map, and judged that it had dried up.

We arrived back in camp with the bad news.

“No water?!” Bruce asked. “Well, give me some bottles.”

Bruce slowly got to his feet and announced he was headed to the Upper Falls. Before we could register the decision, off he went, unsteadily, it seemed – and initially down the wrong trail.

He quickly corrected himself, and he was gone around the bend.

I then looked at my watch and did the math – he’d have 2.2 miles down, 2.2 back, walking at maybe 3 miles an hour. So he’d be on the trail at least an hour and a half, assuming he walked fast.

Dusk was near; it could be dark before he got back, I thought.

I yelled after Bruce to share my concern, but he already was past earshot.

Bruce’s unsteady state from exhaustion, which Bill and I also felt, and the ticking clock convinced me that I should head down the trail after I set up my tent. I would meet Bruce halfway on his return with a flashlight. At least I could help him carry the water.

Bill also thought this wise. So I grabbed two lights and headed out, eventually arriving at the junction of the main trail and a side trail that went to the park’s stables. I decided to stay here, concerned that Bruce might have turned toward the stables in search of water – a shorter distance by about a mile – than going all the way to the Upper Falls.

So I sat on a stump by the path and waited, worried … and waited some more. The sun was now down below the treetops, sinking fast. No one else passed me; it was too late to be hiking.

Your mind does strange things in such situations, like fearing a tragedy even when it’s unlikely. All I could think of while I waited were Bruce’s wife, Sue, and his kids and the devastation they would feel if anything happened to the big guy.

I checked my watch again and calculated that he should have come around the trail’s bend by now. Impatient, I decided to bet that Bruce headed to the falls, not the stables. So I would head toward the falls until we met.

In five short minutes, there he was. And Bruce was hardly the dog-tired guy I’d seen leave our campsite more than an hour before. He bounded toward me in big strides, traveling at twice the pace of his usual gait.

He was surprised to see me but sported a huge grin. He happily shared some of his load, handing me a package with an incredible aroma.

“I got us three pulled-pork sandwiches,” he announced.

He added with a sly laugh: “I also ate some nachos and cheese at the bar while I waited.”

Oh … he managed to fill the water bottles, too.

Feeling a little foolish, I explained why I was there. I then fell in behind him, kept up with his fast clip, and greedily sucked in the smell of barbecue.

We beat the sun’s descent, arriving back in camp just as Bill was tending the fire.

Bruce proudly revealed his surprise – Bill’s expression of shock and awe was perfect – and immediately divvied up the sandwiches.

I think we devoured them like land sharks, with wide mouths and huge gulps and satisfied burps. In minutes. Standing up.

It was fitting that Bruce brought us our Cheeseburgers in Paradise this day of all days. In minutes, we would go from thirsty, exhausted and disheartened, to satiated and very happy – three pigs in mud because we had just consumed, well, pig.

Tomorrow, we’d hike our final stretch.  A mere 6.8 miles. Easy-peasy, we thought – especially with a brewery as a lunch stop.

In my tent that night, feeling my oats, I wrote down recollections of the day. The bright morning, the optimism for an easy trek, the heat, humidity, lack of water, growing thirst, escalating desperation, my near panic, and Bruce’s triumph of the will … and pork.

I then added some bravado and triumph of my own, born of nine grueling days on the trail – a low-risk sentiment, I felt.

“Yo, pain? You can bugger off now.”

I hoped it was listening.

###

Sweet P's Log - Day 9

Next, Day 10 - Turtlin' ... to publish Jan. 24

To view photographs of Day 9, click here.