|
Rails to Trails "The hardest thing to learn in life
is which bridge to cross and which to burn." I fell face-first into Sleepville at 8:30 pm, and didn't wake until a full 12 hours later. We required (and got) more sleep while cycle touring than when we had held down good paying jobs. Our breakfast spot of choice was a rest area overlooking smooth as glass Lake Michigan with a lighthouse gracing a distant island. Just as we finished, a fellow approached. When he heard our day's destination he asked if we knew Saint Ignace's five mile-long Mackinac Bridge - the longest suspension bridge in the western hemisphere - didn't allow bicycles. Nope, we didn't have a clue. Hmmm. What to do? All the way to the bridge, I worried, befuddled as to what would happen once we got to the dreaded no-cyclists-allowed bridge. Options spiraled through my head. Take our chances and ride across? Flag down a passing pickup? Catch a bus? How about a taxi? Maybe there was a pedestrian walkway? Could we push our bikes the entire five miles? But, as usual, my worries were for naught. Upon our arrival, the Mackinac Bridge Authority dispatched a truck to pick us up. The friendly driver shuttled us across the Straits of Mackinac for the pauper sum of one dollar. "Mackinaw City is the Fudge capital of the USA," the shuttle driver told us. "They call the tourists 'Fudgies.'" He laughed boisterously. "The radio station we're listening to? Its call letters are 'FGE.'" He laughed uproariously again. It was good to see someone enjoyed their job! Zipping along in the truck cab we glanced to our right and caught a splendid view of sparkling Lake Michigan; off to our left glittered sanguine Lake Huron. At mid-span our driver informed us we were 200 feet above the water surface. "In high winds," he added, "the centre portion of the bridge sways as much as 35 feet!" We had begun our five mile long Mackinac Bridge shuttle ride in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. When the driver dropped us off on the other side, we had magically been transported to Michigan's Lower Peninsula. We kindly thanked our driver, and set off, bucking a hell-bent for leather, knock-down headwind. I glanced back at the bridge to see how much it was swaying. Along Lake Huron's shore, we followed a route of flattened fauna: a nightmare of pancaked skunks, squished raccoons, and other non-identifiable remains smushed to smithereens. "Gosh!" Sharon exclaimed, crinkling her nose. "This stuff falls into three categories. Gory: fresh - hot off the tread, tongue still sticking out. Fetid: days old stench - hold your nose or lose your lunch. And Offensive: weeks old, name-that-indistinguishable-patch-of-fur." The carnage stretched for miles. Considering how close cars cut past our churning legs, I wasn't all that surprised. Near a mill, we spotted an abandoned railroad, and turned on to it, leaving the buzzing cars, relentless wind, and myriad squashed critters behind. Cycling through whispering deciduous forest, leaves in the magical throes of autumnal change, was relaxing. However, we paid for the lack of traffic with slow travel. The track consisted of little more than loose gravel and sand. Our progress slowed even more when my rear tire suffered a flat. While I changed it, Sharon amused herself by digging around in the sand. "Hey, look!" she announced, unearthing a rusty rail spike. "A memento for our first rails to trail ride in Michigan!" She handed me the iron object. I looked it over. She didn't really expect me to carry it as a souvenir, did she? "Whew!" I breathed, hefting the spike. "I think it's made of leaverite ... as in 'Leave 'er right' there." I tossed it back onto the trail's side to await discovery by some other lucky passerby. A porcupine waddled toward us. "Looks like a pincushion on legs," Sharon said. A marvellous defence shield made up for its poor eyesight. It padded closer, not worried about predators in the slightest. "Do you think he's going to plod straight past us?" I chuckled when the walking pincushion was ten feet away and still doddering onward without a care in the world. Then, six feet from us, he stopped and raised a pointy snout in our direction and squinted, staring. As if figuring we were an animal larger than he wished to tangle with, the little porcupine wambled off the track and squatted in the weeds. Tucking himself into a ball, he waited for us to pass - his quilled backside presenting a prickly defence against a suddenly hostile world. |
Book Info
