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.
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