During this period I went the longest stretch of my journey without showering and wearing clean-ish clothes. I think I didn’t shower for about eight or nine days, and I wasn’t able to wash my clothes for ten days or perhaps two weeks. The UP is very remote — wild, even, the territory of black bears, white tail deer and hooded wood-folk. When my sister picked me up in Petoskey, she claims that I didn’t look too dirty. Swimming in the lakes every day has helped keep me clean. The tepid, turquoise water of Huron and Michigan is good for the body, good for the soul. It’s everything I fantasized about when grinding across the hazy, drought-stricken West.
I traversed what may very well be the gem of the Upper Peninsula. From Marquette, I rode south along the coast of Superior and through rolling hills of thick, pristine forest. At Munising, I turned east and devoured a fried fish sandwich on the banks of South Bay, sitting with the seagulls and watching the tourist vessels skirt Grand Island. Perfect blue sky, perfect blue water.
I was under the impression, stupidly, that one could bike the coast trail through Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. The park of sea cliffs and idyllic forest is a conflagration of National Park, wilderness and mixed-use land along Superior’s rugged shore. It’s one of Michigan’s most-revered treasures and one I figured I could bike. In reality it’s highly-regulated. A bespectacled ranger dispelled my myth and, crestfallen, I limply took the park map she gave me. “There’s no cycling on any trails in the park,” she said. All camping was by reservation only. There was hardly any potable water in the park, and even less food. There was no shoulder on the main drag, a crumbling road. She suggested I go completely the other direction, which I scoffed at.
There were only a few moments this summer when I felt like sitting down and crying. This was one of them.
Eventually I stopped whining to myself and struck up a series of steep and merciless hills. I battled for an hour or two on the road, which, in my opinion, is not safe. It is too hilly, too narrow, too curvy. Eventually I reached the five-mile, dirt turnoff to Chapel Rock. Eventually I reached the trailhead.
I hiked for some time in the woods alone and wisely turned back before sundown to pitch a tent in a sub-par spot in the bush. That night I watched a movie I’d downloaded, ate a meagre meal and hung my food in a tree for the first time since Yellowstone on account of the bears. I ran out of water and had very little food. I was tired and dirty. And after the stress of the whole day, my heart continued to race long into the night.
The morning found me back at the Chapel Rock trailhead begging for water. The first person I asked had slept in his car and literally just popped his eyes open when I called to him. I surprised him and he blinked and looked through me as if I was a disembodied voice. He staggered to another car and knocked on the window, where a woman was sleeping. Dazed, she handed me five bottles of water and two sleeves of Club crackers. As she began to wake up I spoke with the man. Scruffy, wiry, in his late 30s perhaps. He said he’s lived in his car for 15 years. He doesn’t trust cities because he thinks the government is “crowding everyone there to fry us with 5G.”
I hiked the three miles out to Chapel Beach. The dirt path turned to sand and then I reached the wind-swept coast and everything opened to me. The beach was perfect, a cove bounded by tall, tan cliffs. I laid on the beach and watched a seagull pull little crabs out of the surf. I gave myself two hours there and, when walking back, I realized I’d been devoured my sand fleas. It’s fitting. Everyone warned me about the bugs in Pictured Rocks. Even though my legs and arms are covered with little welts, like pox, I think I got off lucky.
I rode that day to Grand Marais, a hamlet on a big bay. It was heartbreakingly beautiful there. I crossed my 4,000 mile-mark and my three-month mark and promptly avoided a serious crash by the skin of my teeth. Cars weren’t involved. It was my mistake.
It was a wakeup call; I was losing focus. There was some mental marker hidden at three months. I felt like I’d accomplished what I set out to do. And the outside world has since began to call me back. Some journalism projects I’m working on may need immediate attention upon entering Detroit.
None of this mattered in Grand Marais. I sat on a picnic table in the cloudless evening and watched the blue sky transform into a kaleidoscopic sunset. I walked into the warm water and said goodbye to Superior.
In the morning, the barista paid for my coffee. I planned that day to get as close as possible to St. Ignace, the tail end of the UP. The land was flat wetlands, and the highway I’d picked had a good shoulder. I put down 45 miles by 12:15 and, having few options, I ate a meal of sardines and Club crackers, canned peaches, canned apricots and Snack Pack puddings. When I ate all the food I sat in the grass in the growing heat and looked down at the remnants of my lunch, and I was surprised that I was actually full and happy. Not bad for $8.
The land that afternoon, and that evening, took my breath away. I’ve been to Normandy once, in the north of France — the southern UP looks like that. Idyllic is the proper word. I truly have never seen such beautiful fields of alfalfa. And the roads were literally perfect. I picked whatever country road was most convenient. Every once in a while, a farm dog would chase me, but their hearts were never really in it. At one point, I saw ten cars in like three hours.
I’d bought some weed in Marquette and I decided to imbibe, even though I rarely smoke anymore. When my road turned to gravel I looked down the infinite line to the north, then to the south, and, seeing nothing and no-one, I decided to get stoned.
This was a mistake. The drug hit me and I realized with horror that I had such little food, such little water, and no service. My phone was dying. I looked at my arms and my hands; so tan, so thin, they looked like someone else’s. In the mirror my beard looked dingy and my clothes were ragged. I looked around and wondered where I was and I wondered if what I was doing was still cool, if it was still what I wanted. It suddenly became very hot. The gravel road warped in a mirage miles away into a steep grade.
These were typical circumstances. But I had The Fear.
I rode a few miles and felt limp. The heat was out of the ordinary for the midwest, and I shrunk from the blaze reflecting from the huge silver mirror of the now-paved road, searing my skin. After some time I reached a lovely alfalfa field and laid beneath a row of huge pine trees in the shade. A farmer smiled and waved at me, which made me feel better. I snacked a bit and drank some water, and covered myself in sunscreen. I donned my sun shirt, my bucket hat and raised my buff over my nose. I sallied forth, looking like a desert rat.
I climbed a hill and the road became smooth, textureless, and I glided into a valley of plush fields and barns of fresh red and white paint. Beyond, the land swept into timbered bluffs exhibiting their first hues of autumn. In a green field beneath the scarless sky, a white horse stood alone in silence and watched me. Wind whipped its mane into tendrils like groping fingers.
In my state, the horse seemed a harbinger of some benevolent, divine energy. A spirit guide. My heart rate slowed, and I glided to a slow stop. I sat there for a while watching the horse, cock-eyed, and I breathed. We looked at each other and then she began grazing, as before.
In all, I rode 90 miles that day. I lightened up and enjoyed it.
Since then, I’ve experienced an uncanny tranquility. The drug — or perhaps the horse — afforded me a valuable psychedelic perspective on the gamut of some old insecurities. For the moment I have put aside anxiety, that ever-present parasite of my generation. I intend to cultivate this well-being as best I can. Of course, everything is cyclical.
This calm has since carried me on the ferry to Mackinac Island and persisted even as I stood star-struck in a sudden throng of tourists on bicycles and horse-drawn carriages. I began walking my bike up Michigan’s absurd hills when I feel like it — hills so steep, it’s a wonder the road can cling to the grade. In the Tunnel of Trees, a narrow 20-mile road through dense forest, I watched a porcupine waddle to a tree and shimmy up the bark. It’s Labor Day as of writing, and I’ve enjoyed this wonderful tourist zone of Harbor Springs, Petoskey, Traverse City and Interlochen. The traffic seems awful but, hey, I’m on a bicycle, and there are excellent bike lanes here. And there is nothing better than swimming in Lake Michigan.
These last days have proven magical. My sister drove all the way from Detroit to Petoskey and picked me up in the rain. We stayed that evening with her friend in Interlochen and had a blast drinking beer and then slurping down a few jello shots. We wandered onto the campus of Interlochen, a well-known, private arts school that resembles a cash-flush college campus. A mustached security guard chased us out — the campus is closed — but only after we hung out in their nursery amid strange flowers and purple basil plants.
It felt really, really good to be with her.
Today I’m decamped in Suttons Bay, where a family opened their gorgeous home to me despite them not being there. I’m alternating between a cafe and a bench in the sun and the breeze next to the marina, the green, shallow water. I’ll ride the 15 miles back down to Traverse City and meet my two friends from Detroit who will arrive on a Greyhound bus near 7 p.m. For some reason, they’ve convinced themselves that they want to ride with me for four days. I can’t wait to see them.
From there, I’ll ride probably four or five days into Detroit.
And then: that’s that.
I’m emotionally ready for my next chapter, to come back to real life, to work, to make myself useful again, to spend time with good people. Perhaps I will even be able to incorporate lessons gleaned from months of overcoming challenges and introspecting on two wheels. Perhaps I can repay a sliver of the good karma I’ve accrued in these months. Perhaps I can stave off a post-trip depression.
A sincere thank-you to everyone for reading and supporting me.
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