Sept 12-15: Final stretch. Ludington MI to Muskegon and Lexington, MI

Note: this is my last blog post about my summer 2021 tour in the U.S. West and Midwest. To read a list of bests-and-worsts, scroll to the bottom of this post. To read other blog posts, click on a particular month you'd like to access from the selection to the right. 

I camped again with my sister, and her boyfriend, the following night at Buttersville Campground in Ludington. On Sunday morning I was on the road again. 

Emotionally, it was difficult to push off. By now I was firmly in the territorial sphere of friends and family who offered generously to pick me up if I asked for it, wherever I might be. I began cycling the rolling hills and quiet highways of Lake Michigan cottage country and realized that I’m most unhappy in circumstances like these, when I’m too close to family and it would be so easy to throw in the towel. I began considering taking the ride and then resolved not to — and then I would consider it again.

Now, I was entering southern Michigan. A place not known for nature. For those who don’t know, most Michiganders live in this region, a dense belt across the southern and central swaths of the Big Mitten. It’s a place known for suburban sprawls and rotting rust-belt infrastructure — and deep poverty in its inner cities. It’s far flung from the idyllic northern cottage country offering respite for wealthier Detroit suburbanites and Grand Rapids folk. 

I also became lonely and emotionally raw. Past beautiful Pentwater, on the coast, I had the opportunity to begin striking east but instead I followed the sirens’ call to a perfect rails-to-trails path through forest and small towns to Muskegon. I rode alone, continuing south, blasting King Krule’s new live album. And I felt something yield in me. I was alone yet tantalizingly close to my destination. If I just put my head down and dug in, and stayed strong enough, I would reach Detroit. 

And I felt the weight of all those days before me when I’d dug in and pulled from a deep well of strength somewhere inside of me. All of those days, from Washington to Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin and the Upper Peninsula. Over 4,500 miles. I felt it not intellectually but in my bones, in my marrow. I put my head down and began crying out of exhaustion and joy but chiefly wonder at the vastness of it all. The towering mountain passes of the Cascades and the Rockies and the heat and the vastness. It seemed to me that I was wearing the imprint of those places, in my tanned skin, in the rough palms of my hands and my scrawny wrists. Like pendants. I felt minuscule and as if the land had offered me passage not with full hospitality but by opening a sliver of space and time I was able to slip through.

When I reached Muskegon I realized that riding this far south was a mistake, and one that I would pay for over the next two days.  

The sky became dark again — the storms move in fast in Michigan, I’ve come to learn. Downtown Muskegon seemed to be a ten-block radius of breweries and expensive bar-and-grills, and white people in vibrant colors coalesced around a convention center housed in an impressive old stone building. Beyond this sphere Muskegon seemed mostly Black and poor, with the unmistakable rust belt atmosphere of huge stone cathedrals and desolate mansions in Queen Anne style. I rode a bike path east, through a rough part of town. I saw two guys on crappy bikes. Both white, they both were rail-thin and covered in tattoos and they watched me unsmiling as we passed each other. By 6:30 the storm had brought premature night and I sped on dangerous roads to the home of a family who agreed to host me last-minute. The heavens unleashed their hell literally within five seconds of me docking my bike on the side of the house. I hadn’t even made it indoors when the storm exploded. Peering out from underneath an awning, I glimpsed two young girls pull back the blinds behind a window and wave at me. The door squeaked open and a woman holding a baby shouted at me “Thank god you made it here.”

Winnie and her family gave me good space to do laundry and get some sleep early. In the early morning she prodded her baby in English and then Spanish. The child sat wide-eyed in a high chair, her eyes flicking between me and her mother while her fingers probed into a cup of water. “Quien es?” The mother asked her. The baby sat dumbfounded and knocked the water over. 

I sat at a diner early that morning filled with old blue-collar Muskegans. I felt good. But it seemed to me that getting into Detroit would be impossible at worst and very dangerous best. 

The first order of business that day was skirting a dangerous road that was apparently my only route to another rails-to-trails into Grand Rapids. I winged it and decided to investigate a pair of dead-end roads that almost connected. Luckily, I was able to connect them via a dirt path on someone's land, and when I popped out at the other side, a man with bad teeth on a bicycle approached me. I never asked his name, but he was so stoked on bike touring, and I answered all of his questions for about half an hour, us standing in this weird little cul-de-sac. I told him what I tell everyone interested in biking across the country: it’s awesome, go for it. 

I rode the bike path and relished in the surroundings as the land turned from dingy suburbs to quiet cornfields and hamlets. Without warning the land turned dark and thunder howled metallic above. The heavens once again opened and I stood under a tree for some time, but then decided to damn it all. I was soon wet beyond wet and stood under another tree as somehow the rain yielded to harder and harder rain and the wind throttled the deciduous canopy above. The tree wasn’t offering any protection, so I sallied forth and was elated to find a rare overpass that offered total respite. A woman sat on the floor in there with a University of Michigan umbrella and I bummed a cigarette from her. “When in Rome,” I told her, and she laughed. She left to walk back to work and I sat there eating a peach I still had from up north and I read a little bit. 

The storm passed some 45 minutes later. I found Grand Rapids to be unremarkable — which disappoints my friends from Michigan, because it has a reputation as a cool and affluent city. 

I saw a beaver among the wetlands that day and made it to Ionia, a surprisingly large country town. That night I stealth-camped in the state fairgrounds outside of town, tucked in between the abandoned horse and goat stables. I was sick of riding in cities and suburbs and, after speaking with Matt on the phone, I decided to end my trip about 70 miles north of Detroit in Lexington, on Lake Huron’s quaint coast, where our families have long enjoyed little manufactured home cottages. 

That morning I rushed out and forgot my riding gloves. RIP. I bought them in Worland, WY. 

And the joy of cycling returned to me. Far out in the country again, among the field corn, I watched with satisfaction the swelling indigo bellies of huge scattered thunderstorms. I was able to weather the only storm that hit me from a safe vantage point in a diner called Grandma’s Kitchen, or something to that effect, where I ate everything but the plate and the table. A group of old-timers sat next to me and were delighted that I’d come so far on a bicycle. 

That evening was lovely. The sunset seemed to linger for hours, as if the world was suddenly preserved in amber. 

This would be my last night in my tent. I had nowhere to stealth-camp but I wasn’t worried. I decided between one of two cemeteries and arrived at nightfall in Montrose, north of Flint. A huge public park offered a better position that the cemetery, I figured. 

A storm was projected to hit me that night. So I decided to take the risky approach of commandeering a pavilion, in clear view of whoever passed through the park’s parking lot. I’ve seen these pavilions became totally inundated with water in Michigan storms — in other words, even a twenty-by-forty-foot structure isn't enough in these circumstances. I decided I needed to get my tent off the ground and set myself to erecting a one-man shanty town by way of pulling together two picnic tables and pitching my tent on top of them. My backpacking-style tent also needs to be staked-out to retain its structure, so I meticulously cinched down its ends with a combination of bungee cords and strips of paracord. This took some time. The result was somewhat solid but an illegal occupation. I hadn't seen anyone yet. 

My solitude didn't last. I heard the rush of a vehicle approaching and watched with dread as an SUV slowed to a stop in front of my pavilion. I knew immediately that it was a cop car because of the high-beam light on its roof, no doubt designed to cast light far into the reaches of darkness and root out rats like myself scurrying in the periphery. The light burned with the ferocity of a star, and I could only make out the shape of the vehicle.

I thought about ducking behind my tent and realized that was the stupidest idea I've had in a long time, which is saying something. So I turned off my headlamp and sat on a picnic table and ate Bugles, waiting for my fate. 

The light burned and the car sat there in its shadow, idling. Unmoving. Some time passed and finally a figure walked out of the driver's side door. It padded away from me and toward some bathrooms. 

I realized that the cop somehow hadn't seen me. I sat there on a picnic table still, in silence, watching. The figure slammed and locked the bathroom doors and approached its car. And, putting the thing in reverse, it backed up. And I knew then I was doomed because the cop would have to swing his vehicle around in my direction to leave the parking lot. 

The headlights washed over me and I waved. The cop abruptly stopped. The car idled for a moment and from somewhere behind the blinding white light a voice called. 

"The park's closed," a voice called. A man's voice. 

I pretended not to hear and cocked my head, slowly and deliberately approaching the car. I was conscious that the cop might somehow interpret the bag of Bugles as a semiautomatic firearm, so I sort of put my hands up and told the person I couldn't hear him. 

"The park's closed," the voice barked again. "You have to leave." 

My entire range of vision was absorbed into the white light, and I slowly put up a hand to block it. And I began my spiel. 

I told him things that were true. I was riding my bicycle across the country, and, you're not going to believe it, but this is actually my last night on my bike. I'm rolling into Lexington tomorrow afternoon, where my grandmother has a cottage. I told him a huge storm was coming to hit Montrose in an hour or two, and this pavilion was my best bet to avoid getting struck my lightning. 

And then I lied to him. I was slated to stay with a host family but, would you believe it, one of them began having flu symptoms and was worried they might have COVID-19. That put me out here with nowhere to go. 

I spoke in a mellow, relaxed voice to lessen my risk of being shot to death or perhaps tased. 

At some point the cop turned off the searchlight and I saw him for the first time. In his upper 20s, perhaps, a white guy with hawk-like eyes and a strong chin with stubble. He mildly slurred his words when he spoke, like a frat boy with a heavy tongue. 

I made headway with him and I could see him slouch his shoulders and relax. He was confused by my biking across the country. He apparently could not see the shantytown I'd erected behind me -- thankfully. 

"To be honest with you," he said, "you're very strange." 

He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. He was tired. "Riding a bike across the country. And this is what you do: you camp in parks?"

Hardly ever, I said. Circumstance. 

I received his blessing to stay there for the night, in a roundabout way. And then he became interested in me and my trip. 

His prodding kicked off a 45-minute conversation between us: him, a silver profile in his cruiser illuminated by the glare of an MPD laptop, and me, in my dirty clothing and attempting to eat an entire bag of Bugles out of anxiety. 

This man was judgmental, paranoid and rough with women. He almost demanded that I carry a gun when traveling and told me vehemently he'd never allow his daughters to do something like this out of protection against "sexual predators." (I'm not proposing that risk doesn't exist to women, but I did meet many traveling alone by bike or car this summer who were in high spirits.) He probed into my personal life and abruptly concluded that I broke up with a girlfriend earlier this year because she "got fat." (That's not why.) Then he told me emphatically that, when his wife gains weight, he'll tell her unequivocally that she "let herself go." He demanded to know whether certain women I met on the road were sexy. I told him I made several new friends who were women, which he did not understand. 

"Women," he told me. "You don't need them. They're only good for one thing -- let's be honest." 

He laughed and I laughed nervously. And quickly he added: "I have two daughters. I shouldn't say things like that." 

I began pushing back on him, gently, so as to assert my beliefs but avoid being extrajudicially gunned-down in a parking lot. 

He also proposed that I should have "caught my own food" this summer with a fishing pole and, producing his iPhone, he swiped through photos of himself and his daughters holding large fish. 

"Do you fish?" He asked me. I lied and said I did in an effort to make myself as normal-sounding (to him) as possible. "What do you fish out West?" I thought about it for a second. "Trout," I said. The only fish I could think of at that moment. 

Once he understood how far I'd come, we listed off all the states I'd traveled through. And he suddenly approved of me and my voyage. "Dropping out of society" is what he called it. 

Eventually he told me that the groundskeeper would arrive at 4:30 a.m. and yell at me. But he said I had his blessing.

"Alright brother," he said, fist-bumping me. "Next time I see ya, let's go fishing." 

And he rolled away. 

I stood there and exhaled and watched him leave. A strange, strange man. He did not give me renewed faith in American police departments. 

And I promptly moved my tent into a much better stealth-camping spot, now likely hidden from this groundskeeper. Damn the storm. As I assembled my items and tucked myself in I understood what this trip might have become if I were not white and capable of explaining that I actually have money. A one-way trip to the morgue at the behest of paranoid and trigger-happy property owners and bored cops. The storm never arrived. 

The next day, my last, I rode 80 miles, mostly on gravel. 

I shook my head, incredulous, when I realized I had 15 miles left. I picked apples in the countryside and out-ran several terrifying farm dogs. I rode in silence in the sun, under an array of immense but latent storm clouds scattered between the horizons. 

A deep calm washed over me. 

I coasted into Lexington, a place I've spent so much time in what felt like past lives. And every fiber of my body harbored a deep satisfaction at what I'd accomplished. I pushed my bike onto the narrow concrete harbor jutting far into Lake Huron and snapped some photos. Two military jets rocketed south, directly above me, and I laughed at having won an accidental fly-over. I didn't speak to anyone and stood in silence, humming with a quiet joy I intend to harbor like a secret. 

*** 

Thanks for reading, everyone. 

This won't be my last bike tour. I'll fire up the blog again when I'm back out there. I'd chewing on either Alaska or a big ride from LA To Patagonia in a few years. 

If you'd like to get in touch with me for touring or other questions, my email is stringer.grantj@gmail.com. I'm on Twitter @Stringerjourno and on Instagram @grantj_stringer. My website is www.grantstringer.com. 

***

SUPERLATIVES 

-miles: about 4,700 

-miles hitch-hiked (not included in above tally): about 350, mostly due to fires 

-biggest day: 105 miles

-favorite day: can’t say 

-favorite state: Wyoming 

-worst day: Entering Dillon, MT while the entire region burst into flames 

-flat tires: 3

-crashes: 0

-bike glove pairs: 2 

-tire pairs: 1 

-worst physical challenge: numb hands (abated with seat adjustments)

-almost-crashes: 1 serious biff in Pictured Rocks. I rode it out. 

-most dangerous campsite: Kooskia, ID, where a guy was swearing and pacing around my tent all night. Needless to say, I did not sleep well. 

-longest pass: Washington Pass, North Cascades National Park. 30 miles up and 20 down w/no services 

-hardest day: purely subjective. Bonking on a small pass outside of Prairie City, OR when I was hungover after the 4th. 

-tallest pass: Big Horn mountains, WY, 9,666 feet

-windiest day: Highmore to Huron, SD. Nasty crosswind/headwind

-strangest regional food: kuchen, a cake in South Dakota. 

-national parks: 10

-favorite national park: Yellowstone

-most generous town: Ivanhoe, MN

-whale sightings: 1

-mountain lion sightings: 1

-porcupine sightings: 1 

-bear sightings: 1 (black bear, WI)

-worst loneliness: Chelan, WA or Suttle Lake, OR

-most days without a shower: 10, between Duluth and Interlochen, MI 

-scariest farm dog: back-to-back days in central Michigan 

-favorite art museum: Minneapolis Institute of Art; Buffalo Bill Center in Cody, WY a close second 

-least favorite town: Yakima, WA

-worst mosquitos: Yakima, WA

-worst people: Yakima, WA

-best regional bike path: Olympic Discovery Trail, WA

-favorite meal: Thai food in Huron, SD

-worst mechanical failure: front derailleur cable became frayed after 4,000 miles. I replaced it. 

-favorite regional news story: South Dakota’s attorney general killed a man walking on the side of Highway 14 — which I rode — and botched a coverup. Ongoing.

-biggest rain storm: leaving Traverse City, MI at 9 a.m.

-biggest hail storm: Big Horn mountains

-worst official campsite: Yakima Sportsman State Park, WA

-best official campsite: tentatively, Mammoth Hot Springs Campground in Yellowstone

-sketchiest stealth-camp: my very last night, in Montrose MI

-worst sunburn: leaving Montevideo, MN

-most ubiquitous bug: harvestmen 

-favorite regional beer: Moose Drool, MT

-best new skill: opening starburst packets one-handed 

-best swimming hole: undisclosed dragonfly hot spring in Boiling River, Yellowstone; Black Rocks cliff jump in Marquette, MI 

-best hidden gem: yeah fucking right 

Sept. 7-12: Traverse City MI to Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes, Ludington MI

Note: I since finished my trip, but my last week was absurd and deserves the full treatment. For the purposes of this blog just imagine I’m still stealth-camping in horse stalls and pedaling past infinite rows of corn. 

The end is nigh. As of writing I have two days left. And I’m coming off the heels of an adventure along Lake Michigan’s glittering coast with two of my favorite people on the planet. 

To tell this story I have to begin on top of a skyscraper in Minneapolis. I rode the elevator up to the 30th floor of the Foshay building and walked the steel stairs to the 31st. I pushed open a door there and was assaulted by wind, and I tip-toed to the edge of a cement cat-walk that offered 360-degree views of the Twin Cities. There was no reason to leave. I stood there for perhaps half an hour, watching rush hour traffic snarl the metro’s interstates, and my longtime friend Matt called me and told me he wanted to ride a stretch of road with me when I was in Michigan. 

I was surprised. And, to be honest, I didn’t think he would go through with it. He didn’t have a bike — for starters — or backpacking gear, or much cycling experience. I wasn’t sure he would enjoy cycling in the rain or enduring buzzes from big trucks on small roads. 

Thankfully, he insisted and I resolved not to call him off. 

This gets to the heart of this magical friendship we have. He’s lived in Michigan his entire life, which is to say: not once in our lives have we lived in the same state, and we hardly see each other. But we’re very close. We first met and became virtually joined at the hip at the age of five, when our parents dumped us in a trailer park on Lake Huron for the summer. My Michigander grandmother lived there, and Matt’s mom had a spot nearby on the beach. So, whenever I came to the lake as a kid, I spent as much of the summer as I could with Matt. We’d bomb our bikes down a towering hill into a gravel parking lot and compete for the longest skid-mark, or throw knives at trees in the woods, or sneak off and play as much Mario Kart was we could before some adult found us and cast us outdoors once again. 

As we got older, his parents would fly him out to Oregon to ski or surf on the coast with my family. I loved seeing the West through his eyes. As a midwesterner, he was always so dazzled by the rugged beauty there. As teenagers in Portland we bamboozled our way to having my house to ourselves for a night, and we threw one of the biggest house parties I’ve ever seen. At one point a cop parked in front of the house. The red-and-blue lights provoked a hysterical, drunken stampede through my neighbor’s fence. The cop turned out to be friendly, but Matt and a few dozen kids had already romped through the backyard and let the neighbor’s dog out in the process. To bring the point home, a friend of mine was so drunk off Hennessy that night that he threw up all over a stack of my mother’s unpaid bills. It was, truly, a great party. My mom and aunt will still yell about it if we stir up their old memories. 

Since then, Matt introduced me to his long-time friend who would also join us on this excursion. Also named Matt, he goes by his last name when he’s around us. It’s Murph, from Murphy. We became close. In college I visited them in East Lansing and Ann Arbor, and they would fly to Denver and ski for a few days in the Rockies with me. 

They’re not seasoned outdoorsmen, but I’ll be damned if any of you dogs suggests they don’t have gumption.

What you also need to know, as a last preface to this story, is that I have a reputation with Matt for leading him astray. It’s a big joke between us. Some of the sketchiest things I’ve ever skied, I’ve skied with him. Notably, we skied the East Wall of Colorado’s Arapahoe Basin on a low-snow year. It was gnarly. Matt is battle-tested but he sometimes freaks out in high places. He always makes it. 

And Murph somehow has the abilities to endear him to every person he meets and throw himself into scenarios outside of his comfort zone and emerge cool as ice. These qualities also play an important role in this story. 

By the time I reached Michigan, they were acquiring a laundry list of gear. I couldn’t believe they were going for it. 

“It’s once in a lifetime,” Matt said one night over the phone. “I mean, when else are we going to do something like this?”

“Probably never,” I said. 

Matt made a herculean logistical effort to get themselves, and their bikes, to Traverse City, which is many hours away from their metro Detroit homes. So, last Monday, I saw their bikes before I saw them: Two mountain bikes parked in their friend’s garage. They were adorned with identical cheap panniers, identical rain flies, identical helmets and identical lights — all freshly ordered online and ready for destruction. 

***

DAY ONE: THE STORM 

We stayed up too late the first night and overslept. By 9 a.m., we were poised to leave. The sky was shrouded in an ominous darkness and the doppler radar confirmed our fears: The storm of storms was barreling toward Traverse City. 

Matt fiddled with his panniers in the garage and Murph and I stood in the driveway dumbfounded by a sinister, almost unnatural skyscape: the black clouds had warped themselves into sickening ripples and between them the sky glowed green like nuclear waste.

“Why the hell are we leaving in this?” Matt yelled — at me. “We’re gonna be fucking soaked the second we leave the house.”

He was right. But the forecast called for rain during four hours that day. I told him that, no matter how hard it poured during the storm, we would be wet.

Ten minutes later day turned to night. The wind throttled the trees above the bike path and bolts of lightning split the sky in every direction. The roads flooded. Within 20 minutes we reached downtown Traverse City and there seemed to be no division between us and the water pouring from everything, into everything. My body felt permeable. Matt confessed that the cheap panniers he’d bought him and Murph were not waterproof. And Murph confessed that he did not have a raincoat. 

We solved the latter problem and hid from the rain at the LuLu Lemon store in Traverse, of all places.  The cashier wore tight-tights and ripped Murph off. At a cafe next door we passed some time arguing about the Afghanistan withdrawal and eating bagels. The rain subsided somewhat. 

And it continued to subside over their first twenty miles.  

In Sutton’s Bay we gorged on hot food and clutched coffees for warmth at a restaurant. I’d spent the previous night in the town, and since I’d left, the hamlet seemed transformed from the sunny destination for cyclists and yachters into an Elliot Smith song. People looked at us, soaked liked drowned rats, and commented as such. 

“It was great here yesterday,” one woman said. “I promise!”

We were in high spirits, especially after our food. My boys had knocked out their first twenty-something miles and, so far, our trip had endured no calamities — other than the lightning storm that made regional news headlines. (People we met on the road have since texted me photos of the storm and remarked on its strength. James wrote me: “Noticed a constant low frequency rumble that was slowly getting louder….When it hit us it was like night time due to its dark thunder head clouds. Constant lightning but not too windy probably due to all the trees slowing the wind on my property. Hail came, some quarter size then dumped Heavy rain pouring from the skies.”)

We saddled up at the restaurant and left quickly. Perhaps too quickly, as we later learned. 

The bike path ended and I began instructing the boys about reading the road. I told them if either got hit by a car, I’d haunt them. And I warned them about Michigan’s cruel hills. Of all the state’s I’ve ridden through, Michigan roads reliably contain the steepest grades. 

Immediately, we hit one. It wasn’t big at all, but it totally gassed them. And riding behind them, at a snail’s pace, I remembered that first day of my trip. How exhausted I was at the slightest uphill. How I stopped to lay spread-eagle on the weeds next to the road while logging trucks thundered past. 

Both of them began chirping about their bikes, convinced that something wasn’t right. I understood; I’ve been there, too. In Ten Sleep Canyon in Wyoming, I was convinced that my bike was slowing me down somehow, that my tires were deflating, that my brakes were rubbing. I pulled over multiple times, swearing and sweating, and found nothing. I was riding so slowly because I was gassed. 

So we pulled over into a gravel driveway in front of someone’s home. I rode Matt’s bike around and found that his front derailleur would only shift the chain to the third chainring on some tries. Only when one pressed very gently against the trigger would the chain leap to third gear. 

But Murph’s bike was even worse. Not only would his front derailleur not shift to third, it wouldn’t even shift to first. He was trapped in second gear. That effectively made his 21-gear bike a 7-gear bike. Not ideal. 

I grimaced and handed his bike back to him and told him I’d try to fix it later. He remained jovial and shrugged it off. I knew that he would be walking up a good-many hills in the next three and a half days if I couldn’t fix it. But try as I could the next morning, the derailleur moved only in paltry movements. I concluded that a cheap gear shifter was to blame. 

We rode more than 50 miles that day and reached Glen Arbor, again on the coast of Lake Michigan. An affluent summer community of huge cottages on shady lanes. The clouds had since parted completely and bathed us in a perfect sunshine. We dove in the lake before we ran any errands. It was perfect. I was really proud of the boys for enduring the first of their brushes with cars and big hills. They were glowing, happy as could be. 

Afterward we loitered in front of the grocery store debating where to stay and what to eat. A man approached us.  Probably in his 60s. I knew he was the local bicycle guru because he wore a rail-to-trails t-shirt. (They’re bike paths converted from old rail lines. A big thing in the midwest in particular, although they’re all over the country, in various forms of pavement or total degradation.) A really nice guy, he chatted me up while Murph tore through his panniers looking for something. Eventually I overheard him confess to Matt: he’d left his phone and wallet at the restaurant in Sutton’s Bay. 20 to 30 miles away. 

The sun was dipping and it was out of the question that we would ride there. The restaurant also would not pick up the phone. 

The man grinned and said goodbye and walked away. Kudos to Matt who, in a moment of quick thinking, suggested that our new friend might drive him to grab his phone. Murph rushed over and back and, amazed, said that the guy had agreed. 

20 minutes later the man arrived in a Subaru Outback. We were still sitting in front of the grocery store. My tent was drying out, draped on my bike. 

“My wife won’t let me put a stranger in the car,” he said. “So I’ll just go and get it for you.” 

We thanked him profusely and told him where we would be: site number three at D.H. Day Campground in Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes National Lakeshore. He pulled out. 

The next time we saw him, he pulled into the wooded campsite and handed over the phone and wallet. He resisted their attempts to pay him. 

“Pay it forward,” he said. Off he went. 

Murph and Matt acquainted themselves with their gear and made camp. I slept great. They didn’t. 

***

DAY TWO: THE CLIFF 

The next morning, I had but one mission. To sprint down and crawl back up the colossal  dune at Sleeping Bear. 

This was perhaps at the top of my bucket list for traveling this summer in Michigan. It’s a place that had mythical status for the Ojibwe and for me as well. I was there as a really young kid and all I could remember was that I was literally frightened of the shear size of the dune. My mom recently confirmed that I was too small to go down the dune, which leads to a narrow spit far below on the coast of Lake Michigan, because one also has to hike back up. My dad stayed with me, she said, and she took my two older siblings on the journey. She said she threw up twice on the way back up. 

We rode a perfect bike path through the National Lakeshore and quickly arrived at an a freaking huge dune. Families were crawling up it. 

Matt and I were confused. I was under the impression that people hiked down the king dune — not up. Neither of my comrades had been there before. Regardless, we brought some water and some food and hiked up. It wasn’t easy. 

And we couldn’t even see the lake at the faux summit. Spanning the horizon was a dune-crested wilderness of cottonwoods and wind-whipped flora of leathery foliage. Not one building and not one person in view. Wind howled. In an omen, the weather became overcast and chilly. 

We chatted up a couple from Grand Rapids who confirmed that the big dune — my trophy — was two miles north. But a quick Google Maps search revealed that the star dune was actually more than eight miles by road, thanks to a scenic drive that wound and wound and wound its way through the wilderness. I became despondent; the boys didn’t want to ride there, although Murph later reversed his position and said he merely didn’t want to climb down the colossus if we made it there. Our man from Grand Rapids suggested that we could reach our destination by trodding across the dunescape. 

It wasn’t ideal. But we set off, barefoot, with some water in tow, on a fabulous marked trail of soft sand. 

The trail didn’t last and deposited us on a smooth pavement road — the dreaded scenic drive that spiraled its way to the dune. 

We walked and stuck out our thumbs. I taught Murph how to hitch-hike. Smile and grin with the thumb out as a car approaches and then, after they’ve passed you by, you drop the thumb and the smile and mutter something like “you goddamn sons-of-hogs” under your breath. Repeat as the next car crests the hill. 

No one picked us up. But we were in high spirits. Over Matt’s protests, I pointed us down a deer trail into the woods that pointed us directly — in terms of cardinal directions — toward the dune. The path ended in a sandy wilderness of shrub-covered hills. Not a soul in sight. Murph and I trucked forward at one point while Matt stood on a crest of the  wind-swept arena. “Guys. What the fuck are we doing?” He yelled. We turned around. Once again, the man was right. 

Back on the road, we resolved to turn back unless some driver quickly rescued us. We stuck our thumbs out. A car pulled over. 

She was from Nebraska in a — you guessed it — Subaru Outback. Very friendly and profusely apologizing for the state of their car as we crammed in. Her husband said next to nothing. 

Five minutes later, the Subie pulled into the parking lot. We thanked our saviors and speed-walked to the path from the pavement, through a band of forest and up a short and steep slope of sand. The sky broadened and the wind whipped up, and I vaguely remember seeing a sign warning unwitting hikers that a heli-vac from the bottom of the dune cost several thousand dollars. The sign was a blur as I rushed past it, elated as I was to see Lake Michigan stretch ad infinitum, and, reaching a precipice, I halted. The dune was so big that I couldn’t see it. It appeared to be a cliff. I tip-toed to the edge and relaxed. 

I’m not sure how tall it is, but it appeared to be several hundred feet in height. And while it is nearly vertical, there is actually a slope to it. 

We’d made it. It was a high moment in our trip and in my trip. 

We didn’t know at the time, but getting back to our bikes would prove to be a more challenging adventure. 

We stomped around and then sat in wonder at the thing. Truly a natural wonder. 

Suddenly we decided to damn it all and leap down to the water. So we did. Among the throngs of people on the edge, only two people were climbing up and two other people were climbing down. I could almost feel the judgement of the old-timers on the crest watching us hoot and holler to our dooms. No doubt they turned to each other and laughed and said “Well, they’re young. They might make it back up.”

At the bottom, we snapped photos and pitched ourselves into the warm water, which whipped up on account of the on-shore wind. 

And then, when we decided we’d had enough, we devised another plan. 

Instead of trudging up the dune, we decided we would walk the coast south through the wilderness. When the blue dot on Google Maps aligned with the latitude of our bikes, which we’d parked a mile inland, we’d climb whatever dunes might be in our path, thread a trail and find our way. 

The coast barely offered us passage, only a five-foot slanted spit between the sheer wall of the dune to our left and the waves rushing up the beach to our right. The surf was surprisingly powerful and loud. We walked for perhaps 45 minutes, all the while pushing a nervous pair of sandpipers without the wherewithal to dive into the waves and let us pass.  The dune remained so steep above us that little clumps of sand and pebbles danced down the talus to bite at our ankles. 

After some time we noted grimly that we had traveled the proper distance south. Our stuff was inland. The dune remained huge and looming. 

Matt proposed an alternate plan to walk further down the coast, probably tacking on a mile or two, and reach a legitimate trail we’d been told was less steep. 

But somehow we agreed that I would climb the dune in our immediate surroundings and see if it was feasible. I figured I could sprint up it pretty quickly. 

Clumps of sand trickled down the slope as I struck up it. Behind me, the wind accelerated and the sky became hidden behind robust clouds threatening hard rain. I had no trouble climbing the lower and middle portions of the dune and paused once or twice to catch my breath. Far below me now, the boys sat facing the teal water. 

The top,  however, was a debacle. The deep sand yielded to a wind-scoured, shear wall. Rows of hardened ridge lines crumbled beneath my hands and the shallow earth offered hardly any footholds. I was several hundred feet up standing on a fragile ledge when I wondered whether I was in any danger.  

I decided I wasn’t because, after all, it was just a really big sand dune. 

But the experience was comparable to the high-altitude scree fields I traversed in Colorado: dizzying height, vertiginous grades and slippery surfaces. 

I turned around and saw the boys had begun climbing up, making good progress in the plush sand far below. They saw me and gestured, asking about the conditions up here on the wall. I slowly gave them a thumbs-up and rotated it halfway to thumbs-down. The wind howled relentlessly and launched barrages of pellets into my eyes. I couldn’t hear them. They seemed unsure but continued up anyway. 

I barely made it to the top and found even more dune, but of a manageable grade. The precipice was too windy, so I laid behind a small bluff for some time and came back to check on their progress. 

Both were clinging to the slope by sheer force of will. Matt craned his neck upward and found me and began yelling, I think, but I couldn’t hear anything, so I went back to my hidey-hole. 

When I returned Matt had reached the top. I saw his mouth moving before I heard him. His eyes were wide. He was genuinely terrified. 

“Dude, I swear to god, I almost fucking died out there man. I’m telling you. It’s so fucked out there.”

He was tweaking out. I’ve seen it before, many times. I told him he did great and he’d made it. He seemed not to hear me in the howling wind, him standing with his hood drawn tight around his head in perfect embodiment of pure anxiety. I didn’t blame him. I knew that, if I’d glimpsed the possibility of a very fast and very long fall down the talus, he’d fixated on it. 

“Dude,” he shouted. “You gotta go rescue Murph.” 

I looked down and saw him on the crux of the climb, among the awful crumbling ridges of almost-sandstone.  I felt comfortable and began picking my way down what looks like a cliff but is in fact a very large sand dune, as I told myself, sending trembling deluges of sand clumps around Murph, who watched me from above. Above, I could hear Matt yell “I wouldn’t do that…” and then a barrage of swearing. 

I reached Murph and found him in good spirits, but demoralized. I apologized for the little avalanche of sand I’d sent his way and, climbing just above him, I paused at each step to carve deep footholds into the slope. We reached the top quickly. 

Both of them were exhausted and convinced that they’d skirted death. I could see in their eyes that they weren’t joking. 

A short climb had us at the very top of the dune. To our dismay, the land was a sandy plateau of scrubby shrubs. The wind died down. We were very hungry and paused to eat an awful lunch of tuna packets and tortillas — a solid food option but one even I hate most days when biking or backpacking. Our water was dwindling. 

Unprompted, Matt confessed that his deepest fear was that his loved ones would never find his body. This had me laughing hysterically and I could see the light return to his eyes. 

“You’re not at all freaked out right now?!” He asked. 

“Dude,” I said, pulling out my phone. “This is an extremely small area that we’re in. We are literally one mile from our bikes. Here. No, come on, look at this. See? One mile. And I’m not saying it’s going to be a good mile. We’re gonna be walking on plants and shit. But it’s not far. And — when have I ever led you astray? — we’re going to hit that main trail. Remember that? The nice sandy one with the posts?”

“When have you ever led me astray?!” 

To be clear: I’ve massaged the reality of challenging situations many a time with Matt, or with similarly strong but freaked out people. But here, there was no bullshit. 

We set off across the scrubby plain. Not a soul in any cardinal direction. Not a trail. Matt dragged behind us. By now our feet began hurting and every once in a while Murph would hop around and swear. The sand was pock-marked with rocks, and some of the shrubbery was prickly. 

That’s when the storm hit us. Out of nowhere. 

The rain plastered our backs and rushed almost parallel to the ground, fueled by the onshore torrent of wind like sparks from a beach fire. 

 

Matt began yelling that he hadn’t put the rain cover on his panniers. Swearing. Swearing more. 

His tone degraded. He became, as my backpacking buddies call it, “broken.” He’d reached his wits end. I heard the barrage of swearing behind me and grimaced. 

Not long after I crested a hill and cheered. The main trail was down there among the dunes. 

And the clouds parted and the land became sweet with the scent of fresh rain. 

We made it back to our bikes. Matt’s mood improved and we all began frantically confessing our worst thoughts during the voyage, our sketchiest moments, like veterans. 

And, when finding his gear dry, Matt admitted that traveling by foot is extraordinary. 

“No one,” Matt said, “did Sleeping Bear like we did. To the extent that we did.” 

It’s true. 

When you don’t have a car, what might otherwise be a sleepy and brief excursion to a tourist trap can become a journey through rugged wilderness. You can become close to the elements. 

Of course, when I’m old and boring, I’ll just drive my electric car of plant plastics and illegally-mined Bolivian lithium.  

We got on the bikes and rode perhaps eight miles on the bike path to Empire and reached a bar and grill just as another malevolent storm pounded the village and lightning split the sky. We got a hotel room that night. 

***

DAY THREE: THE HILLS HAVE EARS

You may not have the most charitable view of my leadership skills — at least, in outdoor situations. It’s fair. I’ll pass the buck and attribute this compulsion to a certain family member who shall remained unnamed. A person who, when I was young, encouraged me to attempt ski runs and subsequently endured the full-scale melt-downs of a petrified ten-year-old. Perhaps out of Stockholm Syndrome I’ve adopted the habit of intentionally broadening the comfort zones of those who once trusted me. Of course, everything is relative; in college and in years since I endured tagging along with more experienced skiers, backpackers and mountain climbers into increasingly trying terrain. This process amounted to some modest achievements: climbing some of Colorado’s more difficult 14ers, backpacking for a week without a map in the rugged canyons of the Escalante and, of course, this bike trip. 

I should also note that Matt and Murph elected to join me for a few dozen miles on their on accord, which surprised me. I wasn’t sure that they would appreciate how difficult the days can be. And this third day was a case-in-point. 

We rode almost 70 miles this day. After a late start we put down 22 alongside drop-dead gorgeous lakes to the village of Frankfort, where we relaxed for too long at a Jewish bakery and deli offering decadent subs, huge danishes and perfectly-ripe peaches. Matt was struggling but pushed through. I checked his bike again to make sure that nothing was rubbing or slowing him down. I came up with nothing but put some more air in his tires, which concerned me because the tactic put him more at risk of getting a flat. 

I’d warned the boys about Michigan’s hills. They are relentless and, although small, very steep. We’d ridden so far, as a group, without encountering really bad ones. 

This day, we got the royal treatment. The hills were not only very steep but very long. They swept up in walls ahead of us and, when you finally reached what you thought might be the top, they would wind further and further into forest. 

Remember, Murph’s chain ring was stuck in second gear. So he would race toward the hill and sprint up as far as he could and then resign himself to walking. He called huge hills “Johnnie Walkers,” which I loved. We whispered when noticing a lack of a major hill for some time out of superstition that the hills have ears and sprout like weeds in response to whining. Matt walked most hills alongside Murph but began cresting some of them on two wheels. I was stoked. 

We were in a race against dusk. But after 40-something miles, I witnessed something very special. I saw their bodies relax on their bikes. Their movements became more fluid and economical. We screamed and laughed and shouted at each other all afternoon and evening. Only every once in a while would would of them remark that their assholes were widening to the size of dinner plates on their cheap bike seats. After more than 3,000 miles of solo riding, I could almost cry with joy to be in a good pack of my best friends, doing what I’ve come to love so dearly. I rode in the back, mostly, and flagged cars for my comrades. We created a chain. I would bleat “CAR” in some dumb voice and Murph would echo me ahead. 

A family friend of Matt’s was set to host us south of Manistee, a pretty and surprisingly authentic town on Lake Michigan’s coast. 

We had apparently learned nothing from our prior day’s trauma on the dune. 

As we approached the home we noted that our host lived in an isolated cul-de-sac that arbitrarily tacked on four or five miles to our route. And at the end of a very long day, that became unacceptable to us. 

Matt zoomed in on Apple Maps and found a direct route that amounted to about a mile of riding. The problem was that, for several hundred feet, the road simply ended. 

We investigated and found as such. A woman pulled up and eyed us suspiciously and told us not to go in there. Not only would it be trespassing, she said, but the area is a “swamp.”

“You might be able to get through on the golf course,” she said before driving away. 

There, tantalizingly close, was the course. I consulted my Google Maps situation and found that, indeed, traveling through the course would put us right onto the connecting road and save us several miles of riding. 

We told Matt we would ask permission, but when we rolled into the parking lot, Murph and I accelerated onto a cart path. Once again I could hear Matt imploring us to turn back. I paid him no mind. We were now on a mission.

The concrete path became dirt and then led us to the service area where we “sped” past a maintenance worker who paid us no mind. My heavily-loaded panniers rattled hilariously. 

And then there was a sea of green. A fairway. Matt’s voice was shaking and he begged us to turn back. I looked at my GPS app. We were squarely in the middle of the course, and I told him. Murph and I looked forward and found a group of old white men with grey hair setting up to tee off. That’s when Murph’s eyes found the cart track resume on the other side of the fairway. 

We pulled forward and directly into the green where these old timers would have preferred to launch golf balls. Instead they paused and probably watched us, shaking their heads, muttering something about green-haired youth a la No Country for Old Men and mourning the moral deficiencies of kids these days. 

The fairway was actually pleasant to ride down. 

“Dude,” Matt yelled at me. “Don’t ride down the middle. The fucking grass.” 

He was right. 

The final boss was a group of old white men with grey hair who appeared almost vibrating with the serenity of their wooded golf course while I rattled toward them. They silently studied the green and prepared to putt. My adrenaline was up and I abruptly shouted to Murph and Matt something about there not being a track. A man was preparing to putt. 

Murph rolled up and shushed me, correctly. 

“I can’t putt with this fucking shit going on,” the man said loudly in our direction. Apparently he missed the shot. 

Matt begged us to go back — even though we were like a hundred feet from the exit. After one uncomfortable stretch along some sand traps, we made it. 

Afterward, Matt confessed that he’d taken a business golf etiquette course in college. Bike touring down the fairway was apparently not included in the curriculum. 

DAY FOUR: CARS AND CLAWS

We only rode 30 miles that day, our last together, to Ludington. It was sunny, lovely. The traffic, however, was dangerous. I steered us on and off the road in response to certain scenarios and eventually chose a series of gravel and very small country roads. We made it. 

From there we had to ride another seven miles to a great campground on a spit of land across from the port. Matt’s knee revolted, him wincing in pain, and we took our time getting there. My bike was heavily loaded down with alcohol and some snacks. 

And then: we were done. 

The campground had a perfect beach. There we laid, drinking, until our friends from Detroit showed up with pizza, a bottle of Cuervo and White Claws. We watched a huge ship, the size of a skyscraper, silently cruise into the harbor, its towers visible over the beach-front cottages and oak trees before disappearing behind a hill. The sunset was magnificent. I later texted my dad, who rode cross-country in the 80s. He said he took a ferry from Wisconsin that landed in Ludington. That may be the last time our routes intersected, although I have to confirm this. Dad, drop me a line. 

We stayed up until four a.m. that night. 

And that wrapped our voyage together. 

I’m really proud of these two guys, two of my best friends, who leapt into the unknown and accomplished something really impressive. That’s why I wanted to write these four days in some detail. I’ll be cracking up about these days until they load me into the crematorium. 

Two more posts to come in the next days, and then I’ll turn to writing for money again. If you’d like to read some of my journalism, my website is www.grantstringer.com.