Day 5 - Grand Marais, MN

Last night, after finishing my post from the small phone booth on the campground that allowed me a power outlet, I noticed the visibility of my breath as I walked back to our site. The temperature had dropped noticeably. I took heed, and bundled up to read a bit before passing out. I awoke at an uncertain hour to my nose so cold it was nearly numb. It was frigid. The process repeated itself multiple times throughout the night, each awakening prompting me to retreat further into the fetus position. Both of us slept poorly, but when we awoke to the picturesque scene of sun rising over a misty river, the mist looming as far back as the distant hills, the previous night became more trivial than upsetting. The frost quickly thawed from the outer layer of our tents from the sun's brilliance. As we were boiling water for breakfast (Snake has a Jetboil - a staple for any camper), a man wandered over - peppered hair, a handlebar moustache, and a zip-up fleece. I extended a greeting: "Hi there!" The man perked up: "OY! Came to check out tha rivah." He was Australian. Call it superficial, but it is undeniable that accents shape our perception of others. I happen to love Australian accents - they are reminiscent of adventure. "Thought I saw a couple o' blokes roll in heah last noight. I thought to meself, 'wish that was me!'" He owned two bikes, and had toured all over Australia. At present, he had flown into LA with his wife, rented and RV, drove it up to Denali in Alaska, back down to Vancouver, and was en route to Toronto, where they would drop off the RV and fly back to Australia. And he wished he was us. We traded stories for awhile, one of which was of particular interest to me: "A BMW yeah? Chum o' mine's got one... 300,000 on it and still going!" There were more than a few prior to our departure who thought the excellent adventure was audacious, if not flat out crazy. Now, on the road, we were finding more and more encouragement that what we were doing was not crazy at all - note that we planned extensively beforehand - but was, like all excellent adventures, a matter of a calculated risk-taking. We dreamt big, and we followed through. Into my mind sprang Walter Sovjek reciting Theodore Herzl in The Big Lebowski: "If you will it, Dude, it is no dream." He was (they were) right - within the scope of possibilities of a given human life, all yield the potential of realization. But as wood only becomes fire with a spark, possibilites are only realized through one's willing them into existence. There have been many theories constructed regarding the will, but when considered not as a faculty inherent in a human being, but an action, one's will is the captain at the helm. Our Aussie friend sent us off with "Ay, have a great ride - stay upright!" I will.

The sun didn't warm us for long. Clouds set in, and dominated a majority of the day. At 30 mph, it was brisk enough to warrant the introduction of the face mask and extra layers to the trip. At 70-75, it was damn cold. Most of the scenery consisted of yellow-leaved birches and evergreens - everything else was either virtually non-present as a species or seemed to have fallen to the ground. Our patron saint, Mr. Sub, had responded to our weather concerns the previous day with, "Nahhhh, it wont' be to cold, eh. You got yer leathers, eh? You'll be fine, eh!" When questioned about the rumor overheard at a gas station that Calgary already had a snowfall, he retorted, "Nahhhh too early for snow there, eh." This temperature this morning made us second-guess his gospel.

The scenery was as gorgeous as promised, but - as is true on any trip - taking it all in was compromised by the immediacy of the physical. We were cold, and increasingly hungry. We stopped to gas up before our lunch break - a small gas station/restaurant/cabin combination overlooking Superior. "Quite the view," I remarked to the attendant/owner. "It is. Cold out there today?" "Oh yeah." "Wet snow on the forecast tonight." "Tonight? We're headed toward Thunder Bay." "Forecast was for there. They said rain today though, eh." As he said this, the sun protruded through the cloudscape. We both looked up, then at each other. Silence.

The clouds were ominous, and before too long, the telephone game of daily forecast rang true. Freezing rain pelted the little bit of exposed skin between sunglasses and helmet. Visibility was tough. The road was slippery. We were wet again. St. Sub, thou hast deceiveth us!

The stinging rain continued on and off for a half hour, then ceased; the clouds, however, gave no indication that we were in the clear. We nixed the plan to stop at Nippigon, a town roughly two-thirds of the distance from Wawa to Thunder Bay, and continue straight through. We had been on the bikes for hours, with no lunch. Our bikes were fueled, but we weren't, and fatigue was setting in. We rolled into Thunder Bay exhausted and famished. I had researched images of the town back when we were in the planning phase, and it looked pretty outstanding. I also attributed to the area Hulk Hogan cruising around in a speedboat a la Thunder in Paradise. Needless to say the expectations of Thunder Bay were pretty high. However, the view of the lake was obscured by the sprawl of industry along the downtown strip. It seemed as though there may have been a park where one could view the spectacular site of Lake Superior, cliffed rims, and an island in the middle of the bay, but we were to tired to pursue it. We stopped for Mexican food, which arguably made us more exhausted, although our bellies were full. We resolved to push another hour or so and cross the border.

Once outside the city, the road to USA was lovely. The reality of the duration of the trip was beginning to sink in; and with it a totally altered sense of time. For the last few months, I have established a steady (and, at times, hectic) routine from week to week. When a routine is interrupted, the day's events that violate the perfunctory goings-on alter the accustomed sense of temporality to a point of surreality. When we arrived at the border, we could have kissed the border patrol officer for freeing us from the cold North - even though it had only been 3 days. That is, until he reiterated the job question to Snake. Then all bets were off - no smooches for this guy.

The Minnesota side of Superior was no less marvelous, with a quainter feel than the Canadian side. Perhaps it was because we knew we were on our native soil. We stopped at the first inn we could find - a place called Naniboujou, a National Historic lodge overlooking the lake. They were booked solid. It was leafer season. We had not anticipated that it was a Friday in October, and we were looking for a room near a Great Lake. Yikes. We broke out Snake's GPS, and the first 5 places we tried calling were booked solid, with one exception - a woman had a king bed with a jacuzzi in the room. "But jeez, it's kinda of, well, romantic. I don't know if it's suitable for a couple of fishin' buddies, if you know what I mean." She had inferred that we weren't a couple. We were willing to buck up for the floor, but I didn't get into it as the price was too high. The sixth call held a room for us, and gratefully accepted. Tomorrow, we plan the quickest route to our first destination on the excellent adventure - Glacier National Park.