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Burning Amber "You can't be lost if you don't care
where you are." The morning dawned raw. I slipped on a pair of Nashbar full-fingered 'storm-shelter' neoprene gloves. It was only the end of August, but autumn's colder temperatures were already on the way. When it was light enough to ride, we discovered only a short stretch of road had no shoulder. Before long we were riding on a three-foot-wide road edge of smooth pavement. It was a very good thing. Traffic wasn't light. But, instead of our gale-force tailwind like the previous day, we had to contend with a brutish headwind. In the cool morning air my sluggish legs felt like they had ran a marathon during the night. Has my bike put on weight? I wondered, lamenting my lack of sleep. We left Wisconsin, fighting a fugacious headwind into Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Approaching Ironwood, the wind died and the sun finally peeped out - a welcome sight indeed. We pulled into a Michigan Welcome Centre to obtain a road map. The not too-welcoming attendant tossed one our way. Perhaps mornings weren't his forte either? "Maybe he thinks he's working at a Michigan Unwelcome Centre," Sharon said once we were back outside. An info centre plaque provided us with insight into ironwood. Wood as heavy as iron, it read. What grabbed my attention was the bit stating, 'Boats built from ironwood will not float.' "Hey!" I declared. "That's probably what Farley Mowat's boat was made of!" Pleased that I had solved Farley's perplexing little conundrum of The Boat That Wouldn't Float, we sat at a picnic table to eat brunch - the sun feeling especially good. I was tired. So tired, in fact, I felt like indulging in a siesta (I already knew I was going to like Spain!). But, instead of napping, Sharon somehow coaxed me into patching three tubes. The sun disappeared, replaced by slate grey clouds dribbling rain. "At least it's not snow," Sharon grimaced as we departed the frosty Welcome Centre. I smiled. "You always look for the bright side." In downtown Ironwood, the spatters of rain turned into a full-scale assault. For the better part of an hour we huddled under the overhang of a grocery store. "No sense riding in the rain when shelter is so close by," I said. "Remember when we used to ride in all weather conditions?" Sharon asked. (One time, along the coast of Oregon down Highway 101, we had ridden in rain for twenty-one straight days). "We were rugged. Now we're such wimps." "I prefer to think of it as older and wiser," I sniffed. While debating the merits of waiting it out or hitting the road, a Tombstone Pizza truck rolled up. Sharon chuckled. "I wonder if their motto is 'Pizza to die for'?" The sombre clouds broke. We rose like the dead and pedalled out of Ironwood. I spotted a sign: Superior Circle Tour. Sounds good, I thought. Abandoning plans to follow busy Highway 28, I made a quick left onto the unplanned detour. The roadway was ultra-smooth. Perfect, I thought. This 'Superior Circle Tour' will connect us with a route that follows the shore of Lake Superior all along Michigan's Upper Peninsula. We'll just follow it east and head back into Canada at Sault Ste Marie. Traffic was practically non-existent. "Michigan is great!" I raved. "The roads are so quiet." "Perhaps too quiet," Sharon mused. Somewhere, way back in one of my mind's dusty recesses, I heard a small tinkling bell. But, instead of listening to that cautionary note, I blithely carried on, sweeping down oak-treed lanes awash with leaves of burning amber. Superior! Michigan enchanted us. "This reminds me of Washington state's backroads," Sharon said. "All it needs are a few crystal clear brooks," I responded. But we didn't pass any crystalline creeks - or even names that inspired such thoughts. One waterway - clogged with rustling brown reeds - was named Montreal Mud Creek. Dead snags reflected in the stagnant water. Another waterway was named Black River. Rather dark, I thought. We cruised, enjoying the traffic-free environment ... mainly downhill with the wind (more clues!). Perhaps lack of sleep, or maybe just wishing to have a good ride, allowed us to ignore the warning signs that something was not right. Sharon eventually concluded something was seriously amiss (besides the tailwind). She flagged me to a stop. "Either the sun is in the wrong place," she said, "or we're headed in the wrong direction." "Who cares?" I said, squinting, and following her gaze skyward. "With this road and tailwind, I could pedal forever." "Yeah," she agreed, "but we're headed back in the direction we came from this morning. Hand me the map, Tonto." Whimsical, spontaneous route setting is not without its downside. Progress, in the conventional sense, is not always made. Like Joe Kurmaskie says: "All who wander are not lost ... but many of us are skimping on our medication." On the plus side, we did get some excellent riding in that helped us remember that when cycle touring, it's the journey, and not the destination that is most important. Even without a GPS, Sharon was able to pinpoint our location. We were on our way to Little Girl's Point. It was nowhere near where we wanted to be headed. We had cycled 20 kilometres in the wrong direction. Sharon scrutinized the map. "The road loops around not far from here. We may as well continue to Little Girl's Point." Legend has it that the point's name comes from a many moons ago event. A hunting party, returning from an expedition, rounded the point in their canoes. They glimpsed what they took as a small girl standing in the mist. Thinking her lost they beached their canoes to rescue the little one. But after scrambling up the steep beach, and even though they conducted a thorough search of the point and surrounding forest, they could find no one. When the men arrived home they learned one of the hunter's little girls had gone missing in the nearby forest that day. She was never found. And since that day ... Little Girl's Point jutted into Lake Superior like a broken anklebone. We limped around the turn and pedalled back toward Ironwood. "Must be some magnet in that ironwood," I said. "At least we sure seem to be attracted to it." On our second attempt we broke free from Ironwood's magnetic pull. A short nineteen kilometres down the road a municipal campground in Wakefield reeled us in. The cheap showers helped lure us. They cost one thin dime. We staked a claim on a hillside overlooking the sultry lake. On a hot day it would have made a great spot for a dip. But the day was cool; we wanted warmer water. Sharon wasted no time rustling out her towel and scavenging a few dimes from the bottom of her handlebar bag before hustling off. She returned a half-hour later, a broad grin across her face. "A superior end to our circle tour!" she declared. Dead tired, we called it a day. By 8 pm we were dozing, snug in our sleeping bags. Rain pattered the fly. We slipped off to dreamland, listening to the happy sound of singing raindrops. |
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