Can America think big anymore? The crash landing of our cosmic confidence

I didn’t want to be an astronaut when I grew up.
I figured by this time, I’d be a ship captain like Hans Solo and the term ‘astronaut’ would be historical.
There would be galaxies to explore. Aliens to pal around with. Cool, new ships to pilot.
I’d be an explorer for a new era.
That’s why it’s so discouraging to see that NASA is retiring the shuttle Atlantis and will end manned missions into space. The four American astronauts are now on their way back to Earth from the International Space Station, and when they return, a dream will have landed.
Obama and Congress can talk all they want about hazy plans to send missions into deep outer space, but that’s dependent on if we can figure out how to live together on this planet first.
Or, at the very least, in this country.
The saddest thing is that no one seems to care all that much. The only thing Americans are thinking big about are themselves.
Just look at the technological innovations we value. Are they rockets and manned missions into space?
No.
Want to know why? Because they haven’t found anything worth exploiting out in space yet, no planet with giant reserves of oil or nacho cheese. No one wants to fund an expensive program with lofty ambitions. When more practical concerns demand our attention, I fully agree funding something like the space program should be cut. It’s just sad that all these problems -- power grabs, climate change, financial meltdowns, earthquakes, warfare, welfare, abortions and Michelle Bachman’s presidential bid -- so consume our energies that we don’t dream big anymore.
Instead, our technology -- and our mentality -- goes sideways. We can play Tetris on our cell phones while driving, watch episodes of “Malcolm in the Middle” on an iPad in an airport and have face-to-face video Skype sessions with Mongolians.
Never before has information -- words and images -- been so easily disseminated across the world.
Meanwhile, the American empire crumbles.
Technology is all socially driven these days. It’s not shooting up in the air anymore, it’s ringing in our hands or flashing in front of our faces.
While social networking tools like Facebook have been credited with helping with the so-called Arab Spring revolutions in the Mideast recently, just how important are these technologies to mankind?
The only thing we’re using them for is to socialize. A new way for a single dude to pick up chicks. A new way to share a recipe with mom. Amusements and frivolities.
These proliferate with reckless abandon while the space program, once the innovator in technology, continues to lose relevance in our nation’s collective imagination. It therefore loses funding.
There’s an easy explanation for this: humans are narcissistic and vain. For the most part, we only care about ourselves, then our families, then our friends. We’re usually not walking around with Big Ideas about the fate of humankind and the great mysteries of existence that could be answered out in the deep blackness of space.
Most of us are walking around thinking about where to eat lunch or what gossip to Tweet from our smart phones.
Remember, all these superfluous gadgets are at the mercy of the satellites orbiting the earth.
And those satellites got there by thinking big.

Patriotism is not a competition: Celebrate independent thought this Independence Day

Like any other holiday, the Fourth of July has morphed into something different than what it started out as.
We think of fireworks, barbecues and getting together with friends and families.
It’s sometimes hard to remember that we are celebrating the birth of our great nation.
And even with all our problems, as I purvey the world scene, I’m still damn proud to be an American.
The most patriotic person I know is my grandma. In her 80s, she watches the news more than anyone I know. She holds deeply felt political beliefs. She will be the first to tell you that she loves America.
That same grandma also didn’t speak English until she was five years old.
That same grandma’s parents were born in Greece and came to this country in the 1910s for a better life.
They found it.
This is the type of patriotism I’m glad to be a part of.
Patriotism is a strange thing these days, though.
There is a certain element in our political culture that would have you believe they are more patriotic than you because they espouse certain “family values.”
There are some folks who seem to believe that to be an American you have to be white, Christian and heterosexual. These same kinds of people make up the ranks of “birthers,” the folks who can’t possibly believe our African-American president with a weird-sounding name could actually come from “their” country.
The patriotism that makes me grimace has most recently come from our friends in the Tea Party who will have you believe no one is more patriotic than they are. They dress up in silly, historical costumes and pull out the fife and drums at events.
Pack up the pageantry. Patriotism is not a contest. Bowing down before the flag and the Constitution with jingoistic fervor without questioning anything isn’t the way the Founding Fathers would want it to be.
What we fail to forget sometimes is that the dudes who started the Revolutionary War were, well, revolutionaries. They went counter to the status quo of a monarchy.
So, whose side do you think the patriots would be on?
The folks parading around in their costumes, or those trying to actually solve realistic problems instead of worshiping the past without any doubts whatsoever.
It would be refreshing if we had a little independent thinking this Independence Day.
And this goes both ways, both extreme sides of the political spectrum. Blowhards on the left are just as dogmatic about their beliefs (if they have any.)
They’re fixed on the evils of laissez faire capitalism and think every Republican sits up in a castle thinking about how to rid the land of minorities and homosexuals.
So, this Independence Day, think about everything that makes our country great, namely our freedom to have any such ideas and be able to freely express themselves.
Once you’ve become a U.S. citizen -- like my great-grandparents did so many years ago -- you are an American.
There is no way to be more American than anyone else.

TALE FROM THE TRAILS PART THREE: No sleep till Stronach: Walking the final miles summons reflection

In drama, the third act is when the action reaches a climax, leading to a resolution.
The prince finally slays the dragon and marries the princess.
In this story, three trail-weary gentlemen abandon their heavy backpacks and walk the road toward Stronach, more than 30 miles from where they began the journey at the Marilla Trailhead on Day One.
Stronach was our final destination, our unwitting princess. The trail, of course, was our dragon.
Day Three was different than the rest.
The first two days of our grand hike had been brilliantly sunny. The final day was overcast.
Day One, we got on the trail around 9:30 a.m.; Day Two, after the epic 20-mile hike, we didn’t get started until 11 a.m. On Day Three, we hit the road around 7:30 a.m., eager to bring the adventure to a close.
But everything was reaching a climax, mostly the toll the trip was making on our bodies.
There were blisters and bruises. Sore muscles and joints. Mental and physical exhaustion.
It was anguish pulling on the boots that last day. It hurt to breath. We took to River Road and moved slowly toward town.
We were loving every moment of it.



SLEEPING UNDER THE STARS

The night before, we were still firmly at the tail-end of Act Two.
We were camped on the Little Manistee River off of Little River Road, just a touch west of Six Mile Bridge. Despite having my old man and his Jeep along for the ride after our shameful five-mile shuttle down Koon Road, we weren’t living like car camping kings.
I haven’t yet mentioned the rations. You’d think walking 10 to 15-plus miles a day would mean our bodies needed thick juicy steaks and energy-giving carbs like pasta.
Not so.
Not only isn’t it practical (or sanitary) to hike with raw meat in your backpack, I think it would be unnecessary. (Bears, I’m guessing, would think otherwise.) Now, if you take a glance at me, you can tell I’m in the Clean Plate Club: no French fry left behind.
But on the trail, the body -- and the mind -- transform. Your normal hunger is vanquished. I just didn’t have much of an appetite.
Which is good, because all we had to eat were noodles and soup heated on a small backpacking stove.
Food on a backpacking trip, after all, is nothing more than basic fuel.
When “dinner” was finished, we hung out by the bonfire under a black canopy of night sky spangled with stars. Before crawling into our tents for the last night in the woods, we pondered Act Three. Unlike characters who live in the predetermined world of a drama, we free-willed human beings have the creative power to author our own tales.
Lives are rife with endless possibilities.
In the morning, we’d only have about a six or seven-mile hike to Stronach. Then we would be done. Our main decision was to relieve our backs from the burdens of our packs. We’d leave them in the Jeep. I was amenable to this -- especially after the shuttle. We’d already cheated. What did going packless matter?
Then suddenly, I was starting to get brave again.
“Kids used to walk to school farther than that,” I said.
Since we’d had a fairly normal day of hiking -- only 13 or so miles -- I was feeling cocky, though I may also have been emboldened by the flask of whisky I was sipping from.
Falling asleep that night, I had visions of myself jogging those miles not only to Stronach, but all the way to Lake Michigan where the entire town would greet me, hoist me on their shoulders and parade me around.
Ah, you gotta love a little snort of the good stuff before bedtime.
I never slept so good in my life.




STRONACH CALLING

Everyone woke early.
Six a.m.
There was no grumbling, just precision-like packing up. Two days in the woods had turned us into a well-functioning unit.
Our bodies still quaked with pain, but we had a few measly miles left, and we weren’t going to lollygag.
It was Stronach or bust.
Chris couldn’t even pull his boots on one more time. He’d bought a new pair for the trip and they weren’t properly breaking in.
“I’m going to throw them at the salesperson’s head when I get home,” he said.
Instead, he wore a pair of sneakers. We loaded up the Jeep and hit the road.
Walking without a pack was strange at first. The pack gives you purpose.
Instead, we just looked like three dudes walking down a rural road. I’m surprised we didn’t get stopped by the cops for being suspicious characters.
Little River Road follows the Little Manistee River on the north side into Stronach. It’s mostly federal forest on either side until you get closer to town, when homes and cottages appear inside the trees.
It was a casual walk. There was no great mileage we needed to achieve.
Our journey was coming to a close.
It began to settle in when we reached Stronach Road. I had forgotten to mention to the fellas that it’s a trucking route.
A semi whooshed by us, nearly knocking us on our backs. There were more houses and barking dogs.
We were back to the world humans had built.
The Jeep scooped us up near Water Street and we were whisked into town without any fanfare. We were too tired for anything other than a shower and cheeseburger. Our feet and legs were numb. Our spirits weary.
But I definitely felt a subtle spark.
We had made it.
We had finally made it.

AFTERMATH

The journey is never over.
It’s part of memory, part of my story.
And that’s one of the reasons I had proposed the hike to begin with: to alter my personal narrative a little bit.
Our post-industrial lives are filled with dread and monotony. We work, we watch TV, we scoop processed food into our mouths and we sleep.
I like to think that there’s more, that if we break out of the quotidian, we can better understand what this living business is all about.
The frontier may be settled, and there may be no lands left to explore, but the mapped world gives us the opportunity for inward exploration as we check out the non-manmade world.
We humans are shrewd manipulators of nature, so shrewd that we assume we are not a part of it anymore. That’s why it’s so easy to listen to arguments that will lead to the destruction of our habitats.
As a culture, we tend to think of nature as a thing which we don’t have a connection with anymore. It sadly becomes a “lifestyle” choice.
“Oh, I’m into the outdoors. I’m into nature.”
Well, we’re all part of nature, and nature is a part of us. No amount of movies, make-up and Chevy Malibus will change that.
What also made me want to go on the trek was to experience the land around me in a more intimate way.
I can safely say that Manistee County is one of the most beautiful and rugged areas in the state. The woods, rivers, meadows and glades are a treat.
I will carry them with me internally forever.
As for the fellas, we’ve been in constant correspondence since our adventure.
“Dude, I’m gonna come back up there and walk those last five miles to make it official,” Moldovan e-mailed me when he saw yesterday’s installment.
My brother was more ambitious.
“What other areas up there need to be hiked,” he wrote me the other day. “I’m ready.”
I told him it’s a big county.
I’ll be up for it as soon as my feet are.

TALES FROM THE TRAILS PART TWO: Aches and pains, but it was worth getting moving after grueling first day

Day 2:
The sun was up.
I heard voices.
I grumbled and rolled back over and went to sleep in my tent.
Who cares about walking across Manistee County? I thought to myself. What a dumb idea.
I did not spring up Sunday morning raring to hit the trail. Far from it.
My body ached like never before. My legs were burning. My shoulders hurt.
When I fell asleep, I was telling myself that we probably wouldn’t be able to move the next morning, let alone get back on the trail with our heavy packs on.
We stayed the first night at Sawdust Hole where we had met my old man, a backpacking veteran. On this trip, he was our spotter in case things got, well, spotty.
They did.
When I finally pulled myself out of the sleeping bag and stumbled out of the tent, howling and hobbling, feeling like I was 93 instead of 33, I looked at the old man’s Jeep parked near our backpacks and had the fleeting thought of surrender.
Twenty miles was enough.
We could toss the packs in the Jeep, stop at the Taco Bell and get a Nacho Bell Grande and go sit in the air conditioning and watch “Air Bud.”
“So, what’s the plan?” I asked the boys, who had also just woken up and were making coffee around the picnic table.
“What do you mean?” Chris said. “We hike.”
I yawned and stretched. I didn’t think I could walk 13 feet let alone the 13 miles to the Six Mile Bridge area on the Little Manistee River.
Those were my shoddy calculations, though. Moldovan was going over the maps with his mad navigational skills. He determined it might be farther.
“Yeah. OK,” I said, not believing myself.
None of us were very gung-ho to get going quickly, though. We puttered around the camp for an hour or so. I drank some coffee and ate some Nutter Butters and felt better.
The plan was to hike as far as we could and call in the old man if we got too tired.
We begrudgingly strapped our packs on and hit the trail.
We walked.
And I’m glad of it, even if we did have to cheat to get through the day.




A FABULOUS MORNING

In our post-trip correspondence, the fellas and I have decided that the hike between Sawdust Hole and Highbridge Road was the best.
As soon as we left Sawdust, we were only in the woods a short time before the world opened up and we were in this wonderful meadow.
Birds flitted across the tips of the tall green grasses. Much of the trail was now a path of wooden planks.
We were in the land of the bayous.
There was a sign: “Sawdust Pile: In the early 1900s this bayou was the location of several sawmills. Lumber was hauled by narrow gauge railways and local merchants.”
Beautiful landscape and a sense of history. Who could ask for more?
The trail soon wound next to the river. It was wonderful walking.
My joints were loosening up. My muscles didn’t ache so much anymore. The sun was out.
Twenty miles yesterday didn’t mean a thing anymore. I was feeling up to 20 more.
The elation was short-lived. We were getting nearer to civilization now.
We stopped for a break at the spot where High Bridge used to cross over the valley. We pulled off our packs, sat down and ate trail mix while drinking from our water bottles. The roar of cars could be heard in the distance. We milked this break for at least fifteen minutes.
There were paved roads, cars and people to contend with soon.
We wanted to savor a fabulous morning while we could.




THE PAINS OF CIVILIZATION

We started to name our pains.
The red raw chafing on my, ahem, upper thighs -- which required an emergency trip to Kaleva Meats in the Jeep that morning for diaper rash ointment and Gold Bond Powder-- was dubbed Gary.
Chris’s shoulder pain was named Phil. He called his malodorous body stench Saginaw after the town near Bay City where we grew up.
I had two pains in my shoulders where my pack was strapped that I named George and Doris, after the fellow we saw failing to get his boat going at the High Bridge River Access, where we stopped for a break.
It started as another lovely respite from walking. I stripped down and cooled my raw legs in the cold Manistee River. I imagined smoke rising from the water as I dunked in my derriere.
“Ahhh,” I said.
We all waded in the river. Chris and Moldovan hadn’t slept very well because their air mattresses had leaks, so they blew them up and rolled them around in the water to find them.
Moldovan was walking up the very wide cement boat launch to patch the hole when “George” started backing in the motor boat hitched to his truck.
“George” had more than enough room to go around Moldovan, but instead basically forced him to move out of the way.
Moldovan restrained himself, walked up to the picnic table where our gear was strewn and calmly continued fixing his air mattress.
“George,” an average-looking middle-aged dude, plopped his boat in the water and parked the truck. His lady-friend was around the same age, with hopeful gold jewelry around her neck and wrists. She wore a sun hat for a day of boating.
While we went about messing with our gear and washing up in the river, “George” attempted to get the boat’s engine started -- and failed.
“Well, so much for getting out on the river,” he said to “Doris.”
He pulled the boat out of the river and they went on their way.
We had spent most of the last 24 hours in the secluded woods. Still, had “George” not tried to run Moldovan over, I’m guessing we would have hardly noticed them. Now, though, this seemingly minor incident and these strangers stirred our imaginations.
Wives and girlfriends sometimes ask what their menfolk talk about while together in the woods doing manly things. Here’s a (censored) tidbit of what our conversation may have sounded like as we reached the woods on the trail again:
“That guy was totally taking that chick out on a date. He borrowed that boat and couldn’t get the engine started.”
“She was totally a washed-up divorcee looking for some love.”
“He was planning on dropping anchor on a secluded bank and ravishing her.”
They suddenly turned into 1950s soap opera characters with deep, hysterical, exaggerated voices.
“Oh Geooorge! Take me!”
“Oh, Doooris. But what about my wife?”
“I don’t care about her, even if she is my best friend.”
“Oh, Doooris, you’re so bad!”
“Oh, Geooorgie! Naughty little Georgie. Kiss me now!”
So, when my shoulders started hurting later on that day, I named my pains after two people completely unknown to me who may have been brother and sister for all we knew.
But when you’re on the trail, creating such elaborate scenarios is your only entertainment.
Otherwise, you’re just thinking about what hurts.




OUR CHEATING HEARTS

Five miles.
That’s the distance we covered the quickest on our trek across Manistee County.
But that’s because it was in the old man’s Jeep.
Five miles.
That’s all that’s keeping me from making a legitimate claim that I walked all the way across the county. Otherwise, I’d be standing up atop the Briny Building right now, shouting it out.
But, as I said in the Day One dispatch, we failed.
Here’s why: Gary had a blow torch, Phil had grown fangs, George and Doris had given each other hot, burning STDs and Saginaw was scaring away any wildlife we might encounter.
“Dude, my feet are en feugo,” Chris said at the Udell Trailhead, and for several miles afterward.
This is probably the only Spanish word he knows, by the way.
The stretch between High Bridge and Udell on the North Country Trail (NCT) is not quite inspired. It’s mostly walking past houses on roads. Several dogs weren’t too happy to see us coming.
So, we took a break at the Udell Trailhead, pondering our next move. We’d have to tackle a lot of uphill for the next couple miles. It was already late afternoon. As we sat on a picnic table comparing who had the angriest looking blister, it was decided: we’d call in reinforcements. The plan had always been to take the NCT through Udell Hills to Koon Road. Then, the itinerary had us walking about five miles down Koon and Skocelas roads until we got to the Six Mile Bridge area.
“Call the old man to pick us up,” Chris said. “Those are garbage miles anyway. My feet are really en feugo.”
We were all in agreement.
The hills were all uphill and very buggy. It was hot. My body was starting to feel the 20 miles from the day before, not to mention the 10-plus miles we had already done on Day Two.
It was a relief to reach Koon Road, pull out my cell phone and call the old man, who was there in about five minutes. We piled the packs inside the car and traveled the five easiest miles we had in two days.
I admit it: I cheated.
I’m glad I did.
So is Gary.

TALES FROM THE TRAIL: ‘Embrace the unknown’ Miscalculation ends up in epic 20-mile hike

We failed.
Or we succeeded with an asterisk.
It all depends on how you look at it.
We walked down a seemingly endless trail until our feet throbbed and our spirits waned. We walked until we started to hallucinate and tree stumps turned into trolls. We walked to the point of near collapse and still couldn’t officially make it.
We were beaten by the land, the hills, the very earth of Manistee County.
The goal was this: hike across the county from Marilla Trailhead to Stronach.
In this, we failed (see tomorrow’s Day Two installment for the details).
But we succeeded in so many other ways that by the end of the ambulatory journey no one cared.
I’ve never tried so stupendously hard at something. My body and mind have never been so pushed to the limits and tested for endurance.
I’m still around to write about it, so I guess I’m OK, though I’ll admit I’m slightly changed by the experience. There is no other way to know the land as intimately as this. You are not a spectator anymore. You’re part of it, moving at its speed.
I feel I’m now more joined with the land around me.
I’m also very tired.
In the end, we logged an estimated 39 miles in three days, most of them while carrying 30 to 40-pound backpacks. From the countyline around M-39 to the big lake down M-55 is approximately 28 miles. This is where the asterisk comes in. Had we walked the side of the road straight across the county, we would have easily made it.
Instead, on Day One, we contended with the hilly bluffs and ridges along the Manistee River valley. On Day Two, it was the heat, the bugs and the Udell Hills. The foe on Day Three was ourselves.
Our exhaustion. Our blisters. Our pains.
But it was all part of the journey.

EMBRACING THE UNKNOWN

The three of us started out with such noble intentions and high aspirations.
These were completely obliterated after Day One.
Before I get to our grueling first hike, let’s go through the cast of characters for this particular adventure.
My brother, Chris, is a construction guy from Detroit. If you ever get to the casinos down there, take a look around at the drywall and acoustical ceilings and it might just be the handiwork of the company he works for as a project manager. He’s the more experienced backpacker, having logged several more trips to Isle Royale than I have. He’s also tackled part of the famed Appalachian Trail.
A few of the trips he’s taken to Isle Royal National Park -- an island completely devoid of cars in Lake Superior -- have been with John Moldovan, his friend from the old neighborhood, Livonia.
I’ll use his last name to avoid any confusion with my own. Throughout our trek, my brother constantly had to say our full names.
“John Moldovan, do you have the water pump? Take down the tent, John Counts.”
That sort of thing. This will make it easier.
Moldovan is currently a PhD candidate in molecular biology at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, where he works in a lab doing stem cell research. Before that, he served for nine years in the Air Force, where he was stationed in Kyrgyzstan, Alaska and Little Rock, Ark.
While he was in the Air Force, Moldovan was a navigator, which means the mapping duties should have been immediately delegated to him.
Since the cross-county trek was my harebrained idea and I was in close proximity to set GPS coordinates, it was left to me, though.
Bad idea.
But I’ll get to that.
The mood was downright jovial when we got to the Marilla Trailhead Saturday morning. The beginning of a journey is always filled with expectations: “What kind of strange, wonderful, scary things will happen to me,” you think.
Our mantra, as we headed toward the Big Manistee River through the woods, was: “embrace the unknown.”
By the end of the day, I was cursing the unknown.
What we thought was going to be about a 14-mile day to Sawdust Hole turned out to be a lot longer.
It would turn out to be the longest hike any of us had ever taken. Eleven hours. Twenty miles.
There was only one way to describe it when we finally did get to Sawdust Hole: epic.




AS THE CROW FLIES

The bluffs drop dramatically down to the mighty river. An eagle soars out of trees and over the water across the valley (we saw three of them). The trees reach heavenward toward a fabulously blue sky.
The Manistee River Trail is truly rugged and beautiful.
Much of the trail seems uphill both ways, but it’s worth it. We made our way across the suspension bridge and followed the river south, where there are fantastic views of the river and some very nice camping spots.
Around 3 p.m, after five hours of walking, we stopped at one of these sites for a rest. We’d run out of water already, so we pumped some from the river with a water filter. Chris pulled out a four-piece fly rod and made a few casts. Moldovan and I took a nap.
We should have stayed there overnight. Instead, after a half hour, we packed back up and ended up walking another five and a half hours.
My main mistake was relying too heavily on the GPS unit, which said it was around 14 miles to Sawdust Hole from Marilla, where we would have to get the first night if we wanted to walk the whole county.
But it was 14 miles ‘as the crow flies,’ not as the actual trail went. My first mistake was assuming that because our destination was listed as 13.5 miles from Marilla on the North Country Trail that it would be roughly similar if we hopped over to the Manistee River Trail.
Around 5 or 6 p.m., it was obvious we weren’t making the kind of progress we had intended.
We were tired and weary, but still had a long way to go.
That’s around when Moldovan told us the story of Lance Sijan.




REMEMBERING LANCE SIJAN

As part of his Air Force training, Moldovan was required to read a book called “Into the Mouth of the Cat: The Story of Lance Sijan, Hero of Vietnam.”
Sijan was a 25-year-old Air Force pilot when his plane went down over Laos in 1967 on his 52nd combat mission. According to the book, he suffered multiple injuries, including a fractured skull and a compound fracture of his left leg. He didn’t have any food or water with him.
He survived for 46 days in the jungle.
He was captured and then escaped after overpowering the enemy.
He died getting pneumonia in his weakened state after being recaptured.
“We have, like, a few more miles to go,” one of us said. “Sijan was in the jungle for 46 days with broken limbs, crawling around on rocks.”
It became our rally cry. Whenever someone started to complain or baby cry, someone would say, “You think Sijan would be bellyaching like that?”
And there was a lot of time to complain.
We hoofed for hours, dogged tired, through the forest. At times our conversation was very animated (and, for the most part, many of the words unprintable in a family newspaper), but by the end of Day One, it was a silent trudge through the forest. We left the river behind us and reconnected with the North Country Trail. Here the woods were a lush, fertile green. The trail seemed interminable.
When you’re quietly hiking in file down a trail, you aren’t looking around you so much as you’re looking at the boots of the guy in front of you. If you’re setting the pace, you mostly look down at the trail.
Then, around mile 18 with nothing but some granola and filtered river water in your gut, the trees start talking to you. The enchanted elves and fairies of the woods come out to greet you and lead you to an imagined land of Barcaloungers, cocktails and steaks. You don’t have thoughts as much as you have short, quick jolts of mental activity that don’t connect.
“Just take another step,” you think. “Take another step. Another step. Step. Step. Step. Step.”
Then, someone says, “This sucks.”
“I’ve got blisters on my blisters already.”
“My hips are killing me.”
“Dude, think about Sijan. He had broken limbs, crawling around in the jungle. Don’t be such a wuss.”
We pushed on and finally got to Sawdust Hole where my old man, who was spotting us with his Jeep on our journey, had been waiting for hours.
We quickly set up camp and ate. No one was up for too much conversation. I slipped into my sleeping bag half-delirious.
There were serious doubts about whether or not we’d be back on the trail the next day.

Shaking in my (hiking) boots

This morning, as you are undoubtedly snuggled comfy in your bed, I am taking to the forest.
That's right, I've quit the modern comforts of life (for the next three days, at least) and will be roughing it as my backpacking brethren and I walk clear across the whole county.
This morning, we start at the Marilla Trailhead of the North Country Trail. By Monday, we hope to be moseying into town.
But between the beginning and end of the trip, who knows what will happen.
The woods are full of mystery.
And there's always something about the mysterious that arouses fear.
This is one of the reasons why men and women go off into the woods, away from the safety of lights and the comfort of human voices.
It's always good to confront the mystery head on and contemplate the insoluble, existential quandary of our earthly purpose. This is best done in solitude, with nothing but quiet, the trail ahead of you and woods around you.
Then there are the other more baseless fears, namely bears and bank robbers.
Let's start with bears.
For the past week, my brother and our friend have been studiously planning the trip. The subject of bears came up. My brother and our friend asked if they should be prepared.
"Nah," I said. "We should be all right. I don't hear much about bear."
Soon after, as I was driving to Brethren to cover a school board meeting, I was headed east on the Coates Highway when I spotted something black and moving on the crest of a hill.
The bear lumbered slowly across the road without any fear and into the woods.
Now, I've always contended that I could easily take a bear in a wrestling match — as long as you removed their teeth and claws. Until that happens, I will respect their space. I warned the fellas, and the proper precautions have been taken.
But I can't promise the thought of a black bear with a taste for human blood charging me while I amble along the trail won't be far from my thoughts.
The very next day after seeing the bear, there was a bank robbery in Wellston. The crook ditched his getaway car in the national forest. Knowing that the woods was the last place some desperate, armed criminal was seen is unsettling to someone who will soon spend three days in that same national forest.
But my resolve is strong. I will walk the county despite any petty, unreasonable fears.
And you can follow me. I'll be posting updates about how it's going on Facebook and on Twitter throughout our journey. Next week, I’ll also be writing a series of stories about the trip for the print and web edition.
Check it out.
And wish me luck.

A long walk: Staff writer plans a cross-county backpacking trek

We will walk.
When we don’t want to walk anymore, we will still have to walk. From the border of Wexford and Manistee counties to the lake, we will walk.
You’ve heard it here first: I will hoof across the entire county.
I will carry my beer belly, my creaky knees and arthritic ankles all the way from the Marilla Trailhead down the North Country Trail, hook a right at the Little Manistee River on a to-be-determined course and keep on walking.
We’re guessing it will take three days to make it across the county with everything we need strapped to our backs.
My brother, one of our buddies, my dog, Rudy, and I are planning on making the backpacking trip the weekend of June 25, an experience I will chronicle in the News Advocate.
So, the main question I’m guessing you’re asking yourself is: why?
Why walk across the county?
Because I’ve already driven across the county.
Because hiking 12 to 15 miles a day transforms your perspective about your body and your soul.
Because walking is closer to the speed of life, the speed of our thoughts.
Because, at a certain point, one tires of cheeseburgers, video games, Facebook, music, cars, politics, movies, gin and tonics, conversations, work, combing your hair and ice cream sandwiches.
For three days, I’ll be far away from all these things. Instead, I will have one goal, one need, to get from point A to point B.
All I will have to do is follow the trail.
The fellas and I will also get to experience the beauty of our county in its fullest, not just in little snippets.
Stopping at a scenic pull-off in your Hummer that is dragging a motor home is like looking in the store window.
Being immersed in nature for days at a time is like owning the store.
We’ll start at the Manistee River Trail, hook back up with the North Country Trail at Red Bridge, and hopefully get to Sawdust Hole by the end of the first day to camp. The next day, we’ll go from Sawdust Hole down near the Little Manistee River. From there, we’ll probably have to walk the back-roads west toward the lake.
When we were planning the trip, we imagined walking straight to the lake, stripping down to our skivvies and rushing into the water after three shower-less days.
But if we get to Stronach Park, I’ll be happy.
You see, there’s been a glitch: getting my aging, once athletic and agile body, into shape.
The last time I’ve been on a trip kind of like this one was when my brother and I backpacked Isle Royale up in Lake Superior ten years ago.
Ten years ago I was a healthy, virile 23 years old. Since then, there have been too many bags of Funyuns and cans of Pabst Blue Ribbons. And, with apologies to my doctor, my lungs and the American Cancer Association, there have also been too many packs of smokes.
So, a month ago, the training began.
As far as diet, I’ve tried cutting down on the booze, cigarettes and junk food, the holy trinity of guilty pleasures in a guilty age.
I needed to start some sort of exercise regime, though. I’ve always dismissed jogging as kind of a corny, New Age type of activity. None of my health heroes from the 1950s like Jack LaLanne (who passed away in January at the age of 96) or Charles Atlas seemed like they would be caught dead out in a pair of hundred dollar sneakers running around.
An exercise bike costs money. I’m too cheap for that.
A mountain bike costs even more money. Plus, those dudes are always pedaling around in Spandex. You don’t want to see me stuffed into a Spandex suit. Trust me. The shapes would be downright inappropriate.
As far as swimming, it’s still way too cold.
So, for the past month, Rudy the Wonder Dog and I have taken to the trails to get into shape. Rudy, a mutt we got from Homeward Bound Animal Shelter here in Manistee County, just turned one and needs to get worn out everyday anyway.
He bounds and leaps through the woods. He runs up and down hills with the greatest of ease. Frequently, he has to stop and wait for me, looking at me with an expression that says,”Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”
At first, I’d be far behind, trudging along, wheezing, cracking and sweating. And that was only a half mile in.
I found it was easier with each day trip I did. Last week, I did eight miles up on the Manistee River Trail, where we’ll be starting our journey. The legs burned a little the next day.
But I kept walking. The next day I found time for three miles.
And I’ll keep walking.
All the way across the county.