For my first big adventure since surgery, I decided to tackle a 150 mile section of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan that I had fallen in love with years before. As always, Ted had offered me a lift, and we chatted easily on the long ride from my ending point to the start of the trip at the Wisconsin border. Ted would be in the car for at least 8 hours that day shuttling me and getting back to his house, and I was extremely grateful for that. Finally, we reached the starting point in the rain, and Ted got out of the car to give me a hug. I’m not much of a hugger, and I get the sense that neither is he, so there was a little bit of awkwardness there. He probably thought I was going to die, and was just saying his goodbyes. The forecast was calling for a lot of cold rain.
I headed up the trail at a trot, only a little put off by the rain. The trail paralleled the banks of the Black River, providing spectacular views of five magnificent waterfalls, and several smaller ones, on its way to the harbor. I paused beneath the Great Conglomerate Falls, so named because of the massive chunk of conglomerate rock that separated the two flows, briefly fantasizing about what it would be like to tackle the river in a packraft. It would be the last trip I’d ever take, I thought morbidly, watching the massive crush of water beside me.
I crossed the suspension bridge at the harbor, pausing to look out toward Lake Superior, calm in the evening mist, then made my way back upstream along the North Country Trail.
As darkness set in, I found myself somewhere along the connector trail between the Black River and Presque Isle. These less scenic sections connecting the more popular hiking areas were never as well traveled or maintained, and I pushed through the brush until I could no longer follow the trail easily, then stopped for the night.
The next morning saw me up early, en route to the Presque Isle River and the start of the Porcupine Mountains. The Presque Isle was one of my favorite rivers in Michigan, massive waterfalls flowing over a shale riverbed. As a side note for you non-Michiganders, to avoid sounding like a dork, it’s pronounced like “Presk Eel”. Leaving the river, I’d make my way through the Porkies along the Big Carp River, once again in the rain.
The day had been a satisfying, if wet one, and evening found me once again setting up camp in the dark along the Big Carp River Trail, nearing Lake of the Clouds. I scarfed down dinner, a spicy chicken with angel hair pasta, and was soon asleep.
A fairly typical minimalist setup that still manages to keep out the rain.
I woke the next morning and quickly made my way to Lake of the Clouds to intersect the Escarpment Trail. Clouds hung dark and low, warning of an impending storm.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to enjoy the views. As the thunderstorm rolled in, I stowed my camera and took off down the trail, making my way to lower ground once I finally reached the Lost Lake Trail.
As I sat eating my breakfast in the downpour, I suddenly heard “Dr. J!”. I looked up to see a veterinarian I had known as a student, coming down the trail with her significant other and two beautiful dogs, all decked out in rain gear. I was glad to see her, though a little self conscious about being seen as my “hiker-trash” alter ego. We chatted for a while about itineraries and old times then went our separate ways. The meeting had given me a boost, and I continued out of the park along another poorly maintained connector trail.
Finally I made it to a very overgrown crossing at the West Branch of the Iron River. I was out of water by this point but the river was unappealingly brown, so I continued onward, hoping to find a fresher looking water source.
I don’t know what gave the water its sh**- brown color, but I can’t say I was real excited to try it. Unfortunately, I had reached my limit for the day, and with no other water available, I would have to either make do or go hungry. I dubiously filled my bottle, grimacing at the fecal appearance that no amount of purification or filtration would remove. “Just tannins from the leaves,” I told myself doubtfully. The boiling brown water looked like something out of a witch’s cauldron, but I eventually poured it over my dehydrated pasta and tucked in. It wasn’t bad at all.
The next day found me at the start of the Trap Hills, the most highly anticipated section of my trip. It was sunny for once, a refreshing change from the dreary rain that had followed me thus far.
I was walking through a hilly section of the trail when I startled a young buck. He bounded away in alarm across the undulating terrain, white tail flagging, effortlessly leaping the low scrub in his path. I watched him go for quite a while. From my vantage up on the hilltop, there was no real cover for at least half a mile.
My stomach suddenly let out a long, guttural gurgle, like a child who had just learned how to curse in Dutch and was shouting it gleefully to the world. With all the dehydrated foods I ate on the trail, it was not unusual for my insides to be in a mild state of rebellion, and I often made my way down the trail blissfully passing gas from both ends.
But now, something was clearly wrong. The growling that was coming from my stomach had really started to intensify, like a cornered bear protecting her cubs. I scanned the terrain for a likely place to stop. No cover in sight, just low leaf-covered hillocks as far as the eye could see. I continued onward, starting to break a cold sweat. The pressure continued to build and I clenched desperately, trying to hold back the souls of the damned that were struggling to be free. Suddenly, my stomach let out a wet, keening gurgle and this time I needed no translation. “Stop the car! The baby’s coming now!”
I dropped into a shallow depression and just barely got my pants down when the gates of hell opened and pandemonium broke loose. It was like someone had tried to channel a volcano through a cocktail straw, and it burned just as badly.
I crouched there in agony, Melissa McCarthy in Bridemaids, if she had eaten a pound of ex-lax and thumbtacks instead of Mexican food, and if there were no bathrooms in sight. “It’s flowing out of me like lava!” I yelled, my legs kicking out in front of me. I was afraid to turn around, fearing that I’d find my spleen and other internal organs in a messy pile on the forest floor. At least the worst of it was was over, or at least so I thought. That was when I heard the voices.
What kind of sick joke was this? I had spend countless moments over the past few days not seeing a single soul, and this was the one where someone had to show up? I considered takIng off running, white tail flashing like the deer I had just seen, but it was already too late.
Just then, a man appeared over the ridge. He was wearing an orange-red jacket and khaki pants, and had the kind of patchy beard that men who don’t really need to shave will sometime try to grow. He waved and called out when he saw me, “Hey! You’re the first person we’ve seen out here. Gorgeous, isn’t it?” I waved back, trying to look nonchalant.
Two young women (Seriously?!!) engrossed in a conversation, appeared behind him. I think he was about to say more, but then stopped, a look of confusion on his face. The smell, like an army of zombies had just vomited their rotting intestinal contents into the valley, had probably just hit him. He said something I didn’t catch and gestured to the girls to move on. I waited a suitable length of time to make sure our paths never crossed again, then did the same.
Somewhere around this time, it started to rain again. Oddly, every time I got to a scenic spot, the rain would taper off, I’d pull out my camera, take the shot, then stow my camera again as the rain resumed. It was as if the heavens had taken pity on me after everything that had transpired, and were granting me a little grace.
After crossing a picturesque ridge at sunset, the drizzle turned into a downpour. I hiked in the darkness, trying to find a relatively dry spot to throw down for the night, or really any spot that wasn’t a giant mud slick. It took a while. Finally, I found a small grassy spot beneath some trees that was wet but not muddy. I pitched my poncho tarp, getting fairly damp in the process, then snuggled inside my quilt to eat. The calming pitter-patter of droplets on the tarp overhead quickly lulled me to sleep.
I woke up the next morning, glad to note that the rain had stopped, and scratched idly at the back of my neck. My fingers had found some kind of sore that was raised and oozing. I picked at the scab and it came away wetly on my fingernail. I studied it curiously. It was rust-colored and slimy. As I peered more closely at it, I noticed that it was pulsating a little. Then it moved. It was a slug.
I looked down in horror at my gear. Everywhere I looked, there were slick, rust-colored bodies. It was an invasion of slugs. Attracted by the dampness, they had congregated on everything I owned. They crawled over my tarp, sleeping bag, backpack, and even the insides of my shoes, leaving trails of orange slime in their wake. I tried to brush one off the tarp but it stuck tenaciously to my fingers. I quickly flicked it away with a satisfying squelch, noting with disgust the rust colored goo it had left behind. Curiously, I flicked another off the tarp, then another. This could work. The next 15 minutes were spent flicking slugs off my gear like little boogers, until they were all gone. I slipped on my shoes, ready to be off too. I would find out only later, once I took my shoes off, that I had missed a few.
Leaving Old Victoria, I made my way past the hydroelectric dam toward the Ontonagon River where I knew there would be a wet crossing. Nearing the river, I saw a young guy wearing cargo shorts and a large pack coming toward me from the opposite direction.
“Hi, I’m Hangman,” he said. Or maybe it was Hangnail.
“Do you know which way the trail goes from here?” He asked
I gave him directions around the dam, and he filled me in on what I could expect up ahead. “I ran into some trouble with beaver flooding where you are heading. It was hard to find a way around it!” He chuckled wryly to himself. We chatted about the trail conditions for a while, two kindred spirits sharing a love of the woods, then went our separate ways.
I took off my pants for this one because I hate having wet clothing as it nears bedtime.
After crossing the Ontonagon, the trail climbed steadily upward through a heavily wooded area. There were no reasonably flat areas to set up camp, so I hiked well into the dark. Eventually I found the tiniest of clearings in the trees, just wide enough to pitch my poncho, and settled down for the night. It had been an amazing day with all the views I could have asked for. As I lay in the dark, a chorus of coyotes echoed across the hills. Now everything was perfect.
The next morning found me hiking toward Okun-De-Kun Falls. I had been through here years before and had loved finding the falls, hidden like a gem in the middle of nowhere. Now something was wrong. In an effort to make the area more ”accessible“, a wide swath had been cleared through the forest with gravel laid down to create a path. There were even little footbridges over the damp areas. I felt like I was walking up somebody’s driveway.
The falls were luckily as I remembered them and I sat at the top eating my breakfast and watching the water fall away beneath me. As I sipped my coffee afterward, I noticed a figure down below. Figuring that I might be ruining his picture, I moved off the cliff and headed down the trail.
I ran into the man down below, setting up his camera gear. He introduced himself as a photographer, making his living shooting waterfalls for stock photos. He had just heard about this one. As his clicked away, a second man soon lined up behind him, clutching a tripod and video camera. He was apparently a professional waterfall videographer. He chatted with the first guy about the best positions to shoot from. Then a third person, you guessed it, another photographer, joined the line. Behind them were three elderly ladies with their nephew. That was it! Time to go.
Past the falls, the trail once again got pretty lean, and I pushed through, seeing lots of bear sign along the way. Finally, I reached a marshy area where beaver had dammed a small stream. Someone had thoughtfully laid some logs across the water where the path should have been. I stepped up onto one and immediately sank neck deep into the swampy marsh as the logs submerged into the deep hole they had been concealing. Back-peddling fiercely, my feet not finding the bottom, I dragged myself back onto land looking like a drowned marsh rat. I spent the next half hour trying to find a channel through the beaver swamp that was shallow enough to cross. Hangman/Hangnail hadn’t been kidding.
The next morning, as I ate my breakfast on the way home, I reflected happily on the journey. (It should be probably be noted that for many of these high mileage trips, the “happy” part usually follows the experience.) This had been an old school blend of suffering and scenery, trail moments and misery, and I still loved it as much as ever. 2019 had been a particularly rough year, but things were looking up!
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