The damp pavement this morning was evidence that rain had fallen considerably overnight, yet we awoke again to patches of blue in the distance. The 40% of rain had fallen, and the 60% of clarity was moving in.
We had breakfast at the restaurant attached to the motel - we paid for it, but I had eggs. And freshly thawed "field berries." The coffee was free refills, which spread my smile even wider.
The morning ritual of packing up began. Our rituals are pretty much identical methodologically, although each contains its own slight gradations, and they do not necessarily occur in the same order. Generally speaking, they consist of this: anything unpacked returns to its home, the bikes are uncovered and the rain covers are put away, the luggage is strapped in with bungees and/or ratchet straps (and in my case, the saddlebags are clipped back on - Snake's are leather and attached, whereas mine are suitcase-style hard plastic, and buckle in and out), the more immediately accessible items are put in their place (in my case, the faring, which holds my glasses, camera, goggles, hat, cell phone, and any small things in need of accessibility like cough drops or chapstick; passport and waterproof case holding license, cards, and cash all go in the jacket), an idiot check is done of the room for anything that may have snuck out of range of the initial survey, and the bikes are fired up (and Moose is rubbed). This is almost entirely done in silence, which allows time to reflect on the previous day and sweep the mind clean for the day to come (among the mental housecleaning is often the residue of the previous night's dreams, as we both have been dreaming vividly every night). This is one of the primary reasons Snake is the ideal co-pilot for me on this journey. We have lived together on and off for 7 years; we have done a number of hikes together, several of which meant days of hiking without uttering more than a sentence to each other, breaking silence only for necessary conversation, or at times just for affirmation. We have a mutual understanding that needs no verbal utterance. Both respect each other's space, and generally, each knows when to give it to the other. I have many wonderful people in my life, but few who have this combination of an easy-going disposition and self-sufficiency with an understanding and respect of my eccentricities - it makes Snake who he is. We can be sitting in a room for hours, each doing his own thing, occasionally chatting to share news, discuss a thought, or just check in on what's up. Many of the stories, web pages, and blogs I read prior to embarking on the excellent adventure advocated going it alone over the burdens the come with another person or a group. I understand the point, and respect it, but am grateful for the solidarity that Snake brings. This morning after breakfast and a review of the day's course, the only words uttered were "I'll go drop the key off and check out," and "Day 4." And that sufficed to put us on the same page for the day to come.
One unfortunate irritation this morning was the realization upon checking our bank accounts that both of us had been charged at an Esso gas station for $97 dollars. He once, me twice - both of us at one Esso, and me at another. The status of these charges is currently "pending," so the good folks at Bank of America (yes, I know, get rid of BOA... believe me, it's in the near future) could not provide any explanation on how this could have happened. We just had to wait and see if they went through, then file for dispute. Had it been just one gas station, we could have blamed the attendant and her silly faux-hawk for jacking our digits, but the fact that it happened twice in a row to me meant something greater was amiss. At any rate, it seemed to affirm the prudence of our decision to leave Canada behind. We couldn't let something petty like money interfere with the excellent adventure, could we?
17W, the Trans-Canadian highway, was a continuation of the pleasant scenery of the previous day. The weather was lovely - high 60s/low 70s, and partly sunny. Several hours later, we arrived at Sault-Ste-Marie, a town on the border of Ontario and Michigan, our lunch destination. We stopped at Mr. Sub, the Canadian version of Subway (although there are nearly as many Subways in Canada as their are Tim Horton's... the equivalent of Dunkin' Donuts in the New England area). The proprietor (as he later came to be called, the Mr. Sub himself), saw us scanning a map, and came over for a conversation. I have heard "Eh" (pronounced like the letter A, if you didn't catch it) used as a substitute for quite a few terms since arriving here, but this man used it so much that I had to withhold smirking for fear of insult. In the way a Valley girl would use "like" 10 times in a sentence completely subconsciously, this man uttered the quintessential Canadian catchword. "Where you headed, eh?" "To San Francisco." "San Francisco, eh! You're a long way from home, eh? Which way you plannin' on goin' there, eh?" We explained that, in an effort to save time and a concern for unfavorable weather, we were going to cross back into the US and go through Michigan. "Ehhhh, can I suggest something eh? You should really be goin' this way eh," pointing to the continuation of 17, which traced the rim of Lake Superior. I told him that we had originally considered that route, but didn't know for time's sake and because of the potential inclimate weather if it'd be a good idea. "You KIDDIN', eh? You'd be kickin' yourselves if you didn't!" I thought to myself, I don't know how that's even possible if we never see it to begin with, but I saw his point. I asked him if there was much to see in Michigan if we chose that route, and he balked at the idea. "But you go this way - what a view! And moose everywhere eh." Moose?!? My ears perked straight up. "Matter o' fact, my sister was ridin' her Harley eh (yes, he used "eh" mid-sentence... more than once), and she slammed right into a bear right around here, eh" (pointing to a spot on the map, with a tone of "eh" that made me wonder if he was asking or telling us). "People slam into Moose all the time." Not the response I was anticipating. "Is your sister all right?" "Oh yeah, she's... shaken no doubt, eh. 5 grand to fix the fender... and she killed the bear. Last memory was the bear's nose right in front of her before she blacked out, eh. Course if you're going into Michigan, eh, you have to look out for the deer eh. The first one runs out, and that's when you slam into the second or third, eh. People hit them all the time. Matter o' fact, my cousin hit a deer down there years back, eh." This conversation was going downhill fast. "But I don't believe you're looking to hit anything, eh?" We all laughed, but I don' t think for the same reasons. Or maybe so - it was a ridiculous comment no matter how you dissected it. "Also, if you're going into Michigan and you're packing anything - joints or any of that - be careful. They have a zero tolerance down there... they're realllly strict about that stuff. So hide the spliffs if you're headed that way, eh. I'm serious, eh. (or maybe, "eh?") We assured him that we had nothing on us, then we all had a quick giggle at the open turn the conversation had taken. Mr. Sub then wished us happy riding, and urged us again to consider rerouting before he disappeared into the backroom. We measured it out - it was roughly the same distance to go around Lake Superior and down than it was to go through Michigan. On the excellent adventure, the name of the game bar none is malleability. We decided to stay in Canada and head north.
Minutes into the ride, Mr. Sub suddenly assumed the retrospective role of a prophet. Lake Superior was incredible - aqua waves crashing ashore, the body of water extending to the horizon in one direction, an autumnal-toned foothill range in the other. It was absolutely magnificent. We had to stop several times to take it in, and to thank St. Sub for changing our course for the infinitely better. The lakeside highway was a biker's playground - long, slow winding roads, gorgeous views rounding nearly every corner. And the foliage this high up was in peak, moreso than anywhere else thus far. We were in heaven, the small exception being the crosswinds that nearly blew us off our bikes during instances when the view opened up to the Greatest lake I had ever seen. It is still borderline inconceivable to me that a lake can can be so capacious as to pour over the horizon, have its own waves and tides, and carry such strong breezes - ultimately, be any refraction of lunar energy that otherwise seems so great as to only be reserved for the largest bodies of water on the planet. But, then again, small town, lake Massapoag - it's all relative.
We passed several bikers, and chatted with two in particular whose course traced our own. We first saw them at a waterfall stop, where we paused for quite a bit to take it in. There were a handful of photographers with professional gear, awaiting "that one moment when the clouds pass right over the sun." As we were there, the one who relayed this information to me got his moment, and it was wonderful to share it with him. We also met an elderly couple with a half-beagle, half-German Shepard named Kramer; a disposition of kindness to rival the best of 'em. "He's 13 and has arthritis," (he was limping as he hopped about the rocks) "but he just loves being out here, like we all do." We all do. Kramer didn't have to be a human to understand the divinity of the free simplicity of a sunny day in the natural world. Maybe he knew even better than us.
Our biker friends caught up with us at the next scenic turnoff - a cliffed area resembling something one would see on the PCH, with a marvelous panoramic view of the mountainous rim of this side of the lake. Our friends were both riding Goldwings, with huge lighting rigs on the front and rear and headsets in their helmets to communicate on the road. Snake and I had our bikes, and used the good old "pull up and yell" method, both of which seemed a bit primitive in the presence of our technological superiors. I heard a voice behind me say over his engine, "I'm pulling off'," as the first one pulled up, his friend soon to follow. The other man rolled in blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival, and I expressed my approval of his musical taste, "Creedence.... niiiiiiiice." He smiled, and said, " 'S an old beemer, eh? What year is it?" "It's a '77." "Eh! How many miles on that thing?" "Odometer says 92k and change, but it broke a number of years ago." "Ha! good thing eh! Keep riding!" "Yeah! (what?) Enjoy the ride!" We passed them, and they us, several times on our way into our destination for the night, a quaint mountain town named Wawa. It conjured up thoughts of the grocery store in my relatives' town in NJ, which featured as its logo a Canadian goose silhouette backlit by a sun. As we rolled into Wawa, there was a giant Canada goose statue. Coincidence?
We have our first camp night tonight - a site to ourselves - everyone else at the site is in an RV, and we are alone in the camping section - right on a small river. The view I will wake up to looks just like one of those gift shop paintings of the Canadian wilderness. As we rolled into town to pick up a few provisions to accompany our dinner by the fire, the passing sprinkles gave way to a violet sky over the mountains and a full rainbow. The clouds are now passing, and we have our first view of the stars uninterrupted by light pollution. They remind me why I set out on the excellent adventure in the first place. It was not in search of something I didn't yet have per se, but to magnify what I have found so far, so as to articulate in in a way that I can share it with others. This is what I hope to do by writing, and this blog is the brushstroke. The imperfections, the run-on sentences, the tangents, all of it is part of the effort in action. It is a gift I hope to polish. I have been given many gifts for this trip - blankets, knives, clothing layers, Dad's leather jacket, a traveling guitar to play, words of wisdom and caring admonitions. My mother above all others was disapproving of the trip, but despite that she remained mostly reticent out of confidence and respect for my decision making as a budding adult. The subtle nuances of maternality - putting the desire of the other before your own, even if it hurts. This has been the greatest gift I could have possibly been given from her, and if my future writing endeavors have any measure of success, it will be an echo of this loving act of grace. For now, I will let the stars do the talking.
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