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Pasties "This life is yours. Take the power
to choose what you want to do and do it well. Take the power
to love what you want in life and love it honestly. Take the
power to walk in the forest and be a part of nature. Take the
power to control your own life." We swept out of Wakefield through a whispering forest. In nearby Covington our calm route joined a busy highway - trucks, campers, and car traffic inundated us from all directions. But it wasn't the metal behemoths scraping past our churning legs that drew our attention. No, rather, it was the numerous roadside signs advertising Fresh Pasties. "What the heck are 'pasties'?" Sharon wondered aloud after we had passed what seemed like our tenth sign in as many kilometres. "Maybe that's how they spell 'pastries' in these parts?" At the next roadside joint shouting Pasties in red six-foot-high vertical lettering, we pulled in to find out exactly what pasties were. They turned out to be a locality specialty: meat pies. Hot, scrumptious, filled with mystery meat and diced vittles. After inhaling three pies each we felt like a pair of leopards - those meat pies hit the spot. A local informed us that pasties originated in Cornwall, England, and were a favoured food of workers there. Cornwall miners even hauled pasties into the underground tin mines for their lunches. "A good thing about pasties," he told us, "is that they travel well and can be eaten with dirty fingers." (I looked at my hands and immediately ordered two more.) When folks from Cornwall came to work in Michigan's Upper Peninsula's iron and copper mines, they brought pasties with them (they really do travel well!). The peninsula mines have long since closed, but the pasty tradition lives on. The meat pies must have been high-octane fuel - they powered us down the road for over a hundred and fifty kilometres. When we arrived at the tiny Lake Michigamme rest area it was dusk. The water, blanketed in a thick mist, appeared ready for bed. In the deserted picnic area we downed a couple more meat pies before bushwhacking along an overgrown lakeside trail, searching for a spot to spend the night. At a grove of juvenile curly maple we found an opening just large enough to wedge our two-person tent into. "Ah," Sharon sighed as we settled in to admire the swirling fog. "This is the good life." "I have to agree," I said, patting my stomach. "Do you think the meat pies in New Zealand are going to be as good?" |
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