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Pictured Rocks "On the shores of Gitche Gumee, We slept in, getting good value for our money. When we finally got underway, our panniers bulged with food - we were lugging at least a three day supply. "I may have gotten a little carried away on our anniversary splurge," Sharon allowed. We followed a bike trail along Lake Superior, coasting along in silence, enjoying the expansive view and lack of traffic. Before long, Sharon complained that with all the food she was toting she felt like an Overwaitea grocery store. (I figured she was more like a small Trading Post.) We stopped, and she rifled through her panniers. We consumed the watermelon, but otherwise made little dent in her cache. Underway again, our silent mode of travel
allowed us to glide right up to a huge bald eagle. Hunched in
a ditch, he was ripping into lunch, engrossed in tearing apart
some meaty roadkill. When we were scant feet away, the great
bird of Jove finally spied us. Startled, he sprang sideways.
His four-foot wingspan pounded the air, thudding like a chopper
on takeoff; sinewy legs braced like steel rods; sharp, hooked
talons flexing; brown eyes piercing with a baneful glint. "Feeling a tad Rudolphish with that red schnozz?" I kidded. We hit Munising's Park Centre for information about the condition of a gravel road leading into Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. With all the rain in the past few days we thought it might be a tad mucky. The ranger didn't go out of his way to reassure us. "Maybe mountain bikes could make it through," he mulled. "But I wouldn't recommend tackling it on touring bikes." He shook his head. He looked at his watch. "And, at the moment," he added, attempting to put a final nail in the coffin, "there's strictly no camping in the park." With that information and the "no camping" warning ringing in our ears, we took a vote, decided to ignore his professional advice, and struck out for Pictured Rocks. On the muddy road, littered with puddles and potholes deep enough to swallow a Volkswagen, a ranger flagged us to a halt. "You know there's absolutely no camping in the park?" "Yep," Sharon replied, nodding vigorously. "We're camping outside the park,"
I assured him. I squinted. "Looks like a television tuned to a test pattern." "Maybe the pictures are only available during the tourist season?" Sharon mused. We climbed a viewing platform and had better luck spying Miners Castle, a fortress-shaped outcropping of Cambrian sandstone. Over the past 500 million years, wind, ice, and water - relentlessly scraping like sandpaper - had carved numerous caves, arches, and castle-shaped formations. Dirt clumps, resembling giant flower pots, surrounded individual alders and hemlocks. "Those are the largest bonsai I've ever seen," I kidded. "At least you wouldn't have to water them," Sharon said. Our tittering died as a ranger approached. "No camping in the park," he said. I had heard the line so many times, I almost beat him to the punch. To ensure we made it out of the park before darkness swallowed us, we abandoned plans to cook our steak at the well-appointed picnic tables. Under the ranger's watchful eyes, we indulged in a high-fibre snack of cake doughnuts, instead. "We serious athletes have to watch our diets," Sharon joked, washing it all down with slugs of chocolate milk straight from the container (touring brings out the best in one's table manners). We abandoned Pictured Rocks to the rangers and more imaginative minds. As darkness fell, we were still on the road, red VistaLites blinking. Chilled to the bone, we cheered each time we got to a hill. An hour later - night having descended around our slender shoulders like a black cape - we reached the edge of the park. Quietly schlepping our bikes off the road, we slipped into Hiawatha National Forest, and set up our inconsequential tent. |
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