When I returned home, not only did I get a chair cut, I trimmed my beard!
On Tuesday morning, April 14, after filing an extension for my taxes, I boarded the northbound Crescent, in Danville, Virginia. At Union Station in Washington, DC, I had long enough a break to eat before catching another train bound for Chicago. My destination was South Bend, Indiana, a city I arrived in a little before 8 AM on Wednesday. I had planned to get a sleeper. When I first looked at this trip, I could have done each leg for about 400 dollars, but after the debacle of airlines and unpaid TSA agents, train travel became more popular. Two weeks later the cost for a sleeper on each leg jumped to 900 dollars (over $1800 total) and I decided I could travel coach.
The ride was smooth despite some bad storms which caused the train to slow down as it cut through the Alleghenies and through Pittsburgh and Cleveland. There were tornado warnings, but all I saw between naps was a lot of lightning and some heavy rain. Once in South Bend, I had to wait at the station till after 8 AM to call Enterprise Car Rental to come pick me up. They did. And by 8:30 AM, I was on the road. On Wednesday night, I planned to stay with Jerry and Janet, friends who go back to our seminary days, in Kalamazoo. Knowing they had church duties that morning, I drove to Eckhart hoping to see the New York Central Museum which was beside the train station in the town. It was closed that day, so I drove north to Three River’s Michigan, and spent a few hours in Lowry ‘s Bookstore.
Stairs inside Lowry’s
For such a small town, this is an amazing bookstore with both new and used books.At Lowry’s, I found a copy of Lucius Beebe’s classic, Mix Trains Daily: A Book of Short Line Railroads. This I will add to my growing collection of Beebe’s railroad books, published in the 1940s and 1950s. After Lowry’s BookstoreI had a wonderful lunch at Rooster’s Wing Shack next door. Then I drove to Jerry and Janet’s. We spent the afternoon birding in a nature area in Portage, then fixed dinner and spent a lot of time talking.
The three of us are moving toward retirement. Jerry and Janet plan to retire this summer and I plan on retiring after Easter next year. On Thursday morning, we said our goodbyes. I then headed to Grand Rapids for the Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin University. On the way north, taking backroads, I came across one area where a tornado had ripped through the area the night I was on the train.. While the main road was clear, the side roads were blocked and workers were repairing electrical lines.
I have attended the Festival of Faith and Writing many times. It’s held every even year and Calvin brings in around 60 authors. They don’t have to be Christian, although most are. The one requirement is that the authors write seriously about faith. As with the other years, this year didn’t disappoint. As before, there those authors I wanted to hear and meet. In addition, there were other authors I didn’t know, whom I heard and are now interested in reading their works.
The festival opened with its first plenary speaker, Laurie Halse Anderson, who writes historical fiction for young adults. I was not familiar with her work, but she has won the Nobel Prize in Children’s literature. She has written some interesting books around the American Revolution. Her success, she credits, is with doing the research of a non-fiction writer to assure her stories are factual. She also focuses on the “ordinary.” Instead of writing about Washington or Franklin, she tries to bring in the common people, especially women, children, and minorities. Through their eyes, she shows how they perceive the events of the day. She also talked about how writing one book leads to another. Having written about the Revolutionary War, she became interested in a Yellow Fever epidemic in Philadelphia a few years later, which resulted in Fever 1793. I plan to read that book.
In addition to four plenary speakers, the Festival offers numerous concurrent sessions throughout the three-day period. The first afternoon, I attended a conversation by two young adult writers (Kate Albus and Dana VanderLugt) discussing the craft of writing fiction and how it can be used to draw younger readers into the past.
Next, I attended a presentation by Carrie Fountain titled “About a Million Blessings a Day.” Fountain is a poet who sets out every morning to write a poem. She acknowledges, most are not very good, but she feels the need to get something on paper and overtime has a collection of material with which to work. I enjoyed listening to the poems she recited and came away with an autographed copy of her book of poetry, The Life. Fountain charmed me by asking where I was from when I was having her book signed. She then complementing me on the sound of my voice. The next day a guy I was talking to during a break stopped me in mid-sentence to ask if I read Audible books. I thought he meant listening and I said I generally have one going all the time. Then he said, I don’t mean listening, I mean reading, you have the ideal voice. I laughed and said it would be ideal until I butchered the punctuation of some word.
That night, the plenary speaker was Robin Wall Kimmer. The title of her talk “The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World”is also the title of her latest book which I read and reviewed (link above) in January. Of all those authors in attendance, Kimmerer was the one I really wanted to hear. She’s both a scientist and a Native American and draws on both in her books, of which I have read all three. I read Gathering Moss in 2021 and Braiding Sweetgrass (her most popular) in 2024. While Kimmerer titled her talk after her book, it wasn’t a recap of writing. Instead, she presented a thesis around what the writer can do to help heal the world. Her first rule: always begin with gratitude. She encourages writers to help people know their place on earth. For nature writers, she suggests we celebrate the living world, foster kinship, incite wonder, inform, sound the alarm on danger to the planet, seek justice, and defend wild places. She also peppered her talk with startling statistics such as the average American child can identity only 10 plants but knows around 100 cooperate logos.
Kimmerer (in the middle) talking to Debra Rienstra and Kyle Meyaard-Schaap
Kimmerer also spoke of the danger of linguistic materialism, moral exclusion, and how the colonial experiences around the world have damaged native languages which were more earth based. Of all the presenters over the three days, I took far more notes (4 whole pages) on Kimmerer’s talk. Most other talks I only took a single page of notes. After her talk, I checked into my hotel and then walked over to a nearby Olive Garden where I had dinner with a former colleague. MaryMartha served with me when I was the pastor in Hastings (2004-2014), serving as the church’s adult ministry coordinator. Several years ago, when her husband Larry began to decline in health, they moved to a continuing care center on the southside of Grand Rapids. Larry has since died. I enjoyed our late dinner and talk, but was ready to crash when I got back into my room.
This July, our nation will celebrate its 250th anniversary. But before signing of the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia on July 4th, battles occurred between British loyalist and colonists. Most these battles occurred in the New England states, and in New York and New Jersey. But one small yet significant battle occurred in Eastern North Carolina. This Friday will mark the 250th anniversary of this skirmish.
To raise troops to suppress the rebellion, the British set their eyes on raising an army of 3,000 soldiers from the Scottish Highlanders who had settled in the Sandhills of the Upper Cape Fear River region of North Carolina. Many of these Highlanders moved to North Carolina following the failure of the Scottish Bonnie Prince Charlie to take the British throne in the Jacobite rebellion. After the Battle of Culloden in 1745, under the threat of death, many Scots confessed their loyalty to the British crown and left Scotland. Quite a few of them ended up in the Sandhills of North Carolina. Others, who had not participated in the Jacobite Rebellion also relocated on the promise of free land offered by the frown.
Cypress knees and ice, February 2010
The British governor of North Carolina, Josiah Martin suggested raising an army of Highland Scots from the Sandhills of North Carolina to help stabilize the Southern Colonies and give the British a base to quell the revolt. Martin hoped to raise an army upwards of 10,000, but his military commanders were only able to raise an army of approximately 1,600.
In late February, the troops lead by Donald McDonald assembled at Cross Creek (now Fayetteville) to begin their march to the port in Wilmington. The plan was to unite with a larger British force coming to the colony by sea. They found the main road, on the south side of the Cape Fear River blocked at Rock Creek by Patriots led by Col. James Moore. Unwilling to fight as only about half of his new recruits had firearms, McDonald moved his force northeast, crossing the Cape Fear, and then south, along another road which paralleled the Black River. There were a few skirmishes along the way.
Reconstructed Moores Creek’s Bridge
On the night of February 26, the loyalist found a small contingent of patriots camped in from of what known as Widow Moores Creek bridge. They sent a Messager asking the colonist to surrender. They laughed the suggestion off. Thinking they vastly outnumbered the patriots, Mcleod, who assumed command on MacDonald’s illness, planned to attack.
Two units of patriots had converged at Moores Creek, some twenty miles from Wilmington. The site was considered an ideal location to stop the Loyalists. The swamp around the creek would force the army to stay on the high ground. This allowed the patriots to create an effective field of fire. Col. Alexander Lillington and his unit of 150 men dug in along the eastern approach. These men were whom MacDonald’s scouts had observed on the 26th. What he didn’t know is that Col. Richard Caswell with 850 men from New Bern had dug in on the opposite bank.
Reconstructed earthworks on the east side of the creek
Thinking there was only a small contingent of men guarding the bridge, Mcleod’s soldiers prepared to attack in the early morning hours on the 27th. After a six-mile night hike on a spooky road running through a swamp with trees draped with Spanish Moss, they prepared to assault Lillington’s forces in the early hours of the morning. Instead, they discovered his camp deserted, but the campfires coals remained warm.
Col. Mcleod handpicked a contingent of men to cross the creek and to see where the enemy might be hiding. Dawn was just beginning to break, and a fog concealed the lowlands around the water. They carefully crossed the slippery timbers which had been greased with fat.
Road heading through the swamp
Coming off the bridge, they silently made their way through the fog and up the road out of the swamp. Maybe a twig snap. Suddenly, someone ahead shouted, “Who goes there?” “A Friend of the King,” was the response. At that point, knowing the enemy was just ahead, they drew sabers and charged up the road yelling “King George and Broadswords.” They were brave but foolish. But the patriots had dug in. It was a trap.
The patriots held their fire, hiding behind breastworks as the Scots came out of the fog. They charged like William Wallace reincarnated. When only 15 or 20 yards from the line, the patriots opened fire. In addition to their muskets, they were armed with two small canons loaded with grapeshot. With the road flanked on both sides by swamp, the Scots had nowhere to go. McLeod fell first, followed by fifty-some of his handpicked men. The rest of the Highlanders fled. The battle lasted only minutes. Over the next couple of days, they captured 800 or so of the Highlanders. They granted some pardons and went headed back to their farms. But many they banished to Nova Scotia, Florida or the West Indies.
It was a small engagement early in the war. But the battle discouraged the British from trying to conquer the Southern colonies. Their forces moved north where most of the fighting would occur for the next several years. The battle also helped the colonists in North Carolina by providing weapons and supplies. Interestingly, most of their Patriot weapons had been given to them by the British during the French and Indian Wars. That’s a lesson we still haven’t learned from history.
The battlefield is a National Park site. The earthworks are reconstructed. Numerous monuments have been erected, most given by the people of North Carolina in the great monument age (1890-1920). Two of the larger monuments are for Pvt. John Grady, the only death on the Patriot’s side, and for those Scots fighting as loyalists. After 120 years, old grudges died and the state (which after the Civil War entered a Scottish revival era) no longer harbored ill feelings for the losing side.
In addition to the battlefield trail, there is a small museum with several period weapons. There is also a short “Tarheel” interpretive trail. This trail focuses on the role the longleaf pine played in the development of the “naval stores” industry. Interestingly, all the native longleaf pines have been cut. There are younger longleafs growing, but all the mature pines are loblollies. The battlefield trail takes you along a boardwalk into the swamp around Moores Creek, allowing up close views of a cypress swamp. The water is stained brown from the tannic acid of the cypress trees. These trees also have “knees” that protrude up from the muck. The Spanish moss gives the swamps an eerie feeling. In the summer, there’s a good possibility of encountering snakes and perhaps, if lucky, of seeing an alligator.
I was last at Moore’s Creek in November 2018, with my father. We paddled up the creek from the Black River.
Speaking at the Savannah St. Andrew’s Society in November 2019
You must want to go to Harkers Island to get there. There are no major highways running to the island. Instead, you exit US 70 near its eastern terminus, drive south through marsh and over a bridge to reach the island. To go further, you must take a boat or be an excellent swimmer. Once you’re on Harkers Island, you’re closer by boat than car to Beaufort or Morehead City.
Cape Lookout Lighthouse from Harkers Island (roughly five miles away)
People come to Harkers Island in order to get to Cape Lookout lighthouse or the old lifesaving station near the Cape Lookout shoals. Others come to walk the beach along Shackleford Banks where wild horses roam. In the fall of the year, most people come to fish for blues or trout in sight of the lighthouse or to hunt ducks and geese in the marsh along the Atlantic flyway. And if you come in December and hang around till dark, you’re treated to an incredible light show as the island decorates itself for Christmas.
Decoy ornaments
The people on Harkers Island are creative. Known for carving duck decoys, they also know how to put on a good Christmas light festival. Homes and utility poles on the island often sport anchors created by Andy Scott and Richard Gillikin. During the holidays, blue lights accent these anchors. Lights decorate old boats abandoned on empty lots. Lights decorate docks and homes. And outside the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center, flapping geese pull Santa’s sleigh. Behind the sleigh, porpoises jump. And you can’t miss the huge Christmas tree built out of stacked crab pots.
During December, dozens of crab pot trees are showcased inside the Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center. Local families, businesses, churches, schools, and community organizations sponsor and decorate the trees. Trees recall those who died from cancer and old ghost towns like Portsmouth, now a part of the National Seashore. One tree celebrates the dark skies around Cape Lookout. On a night with clear skies, the stars seem more brilliant without much light pollution. One tree celebrated the life of Alma, who baked hundreds of wedding cakes for the community over the year. Other trees celebrate those who worked on the waters around Harkers Island for a living, families who built boats, and the Jim Dandy’s family who stores is one of the oldest businesses in Carteret County.
The museum, located on the east end of the island, has more than Christmas trees to offer. The main floor contains an outstanding collection of duck decoys along with history of hunting along the Core Sound. The second-floor exhibits highlight the folks who made up the small “down east” communities such as Bettie, Cedar Island, Davis, Lola, Sealevel, Smyrna, Stacy, and Williston. And for those who are healthy, there is an observation deck two stories higher, providing views of the marsh around Harkers Island.
My father started to come up to Lookout to camp and fish back in the late1980s. At the time I was tramping around the country and either living in Nevada or Pittsburgh. But every few years I tried to get home during this time to enjoy a few days of fishing. As everyone aged, they stopped camping and instead rented a house on Harkers Island, which became a base for fishing.
This year, my time on the island began with a gale (my sister and I did some shopping in Morehead City and visited Fort Macon on Emerald Isle. It’s been at least 40 years since I was at Fort Macon. On Tuesday, the rains came and we along with my brother checked out Beaufort. Sadly, we found the Maritime museum closed but we could watch them work on such boats across the street and toured galleries and stories along the waterfront.
On Wednesday, we were up earl, running through Barden’s Inlet for a day of fishing around the jetty on the southside of Cape Lookout. We caught a few trout that were not of legal size and had to be thrown back, along with some blues. We talked a lot about my dad during the four days I was on the island. It was good to be back in familiar waters.
One house we worked on was located near here, where the road is still washed out.
I’ve been away this week, working on a Helene rebuild mission out of Burnsville, North Carolina, so I don’t have time to write anything new. I wrote this piece many years ago and some of you may have read it in another blog. I tried to update and clean up the language a bit before reposting it. Recently, I learned another friend had spent time working around Tonopah, Rachel, Caliente, Nevada on a government contract. He, too, was surprised that not only did I know of these places but had been there many times. Thinking of him, I thought I’d republish it.
The last time I was in Rachel was in 2010, as I drove across Central Nevada, heading from Death Valley to my old stomping ground in Cedar City, Utah.
Rachel, NV during daylight. Photo from the internet
I see the lights of Rachel a good ten miles away, soon after crossing Queen City Summit. “The bar will be open,” I say to myself, “I’ll grab a cup of coffee and stretch my legs and take in some of the night air.”
It’s after ten, early September 1995. I still have two hundred miles to drive to get home, having spent the past two weeks backpacking along the John Muir Trail in the Sierras. When I got off the trail, I learned my parents were driving in the next day, which meant an all-night drive. In the hundred miles since Tonopah, I’ve only passed a couple of vehicles. I roll my windows down and stick my head outside, trying to stay awake and alert. I pop cassette tapes in and out, playing them loudly and trying to find something to keep me awake. Nothing comes in on the radio, except some distant AM talk station from Los Angeles.
I try to stay awake for nobody’s likely to see if you run off the road in this country. Making it more dangerous, this is open range. I share the road with cows. They’re hard to see at night and often seek the blacktop for warmth. If I run into one of these beasts and die, my estate will get to pay for the cow.
“Thank God for Rachel,” I mumble, thinking about how this is one of two stops in the next two hundred miles where I can get coffee. I topped off my tank in Tonopah. Experience taught me the few gas stations along this stretch will close before I drive through.
Entering town, I pull off at the “Little A”le’Inn,” the center of Rachel’s night life. I’m shocked to see so many cars and people mulling around. Normally, there might be a car and a pickup or two out front. Tonight, I must search to find a parking place. The line to the bar starts at the front door.
What’s going on?” I ask the guy in front of me.
“It’s Labor Day weekend,” he says, “people come from all over on Labor Day and Memorial Day weekends to check out the UFOs.” I’d noticed just outside the front door, mounted on a tripod, a parabolic listening device. These people are serious. Many of them have cameras and binoculars dangling from their necks. At the booth closest to me a guy cleans the lens for their cameras I consider telling him not to bother, as I’ve yet to see picture of a UFO taken through a clean lens. But I hold my tongue.
“Do you think they’re really UFOs out here?” I ask the guy in front of me.
“I’m not sure, but you see some strange things,” he says, adding that he mostly comes up from Vegas to enjoy the party.
I look around at the eclectic crowd. There are dudes with pencil protectors in their shirt pockets talking to guys with tie-died t-shirts. Some look college-aged. Others probably have great-grandchildren. Many appear to have been strung out on drugs since the 60s. A few may have come straight from a desk job at IBM. It looks like a lot of fun, and I imagine myself as a reporter for the Rolling Stones, getting to know these people and writing about their shindig. Unfortunately, I must get back home.
It takes me a while to get up to the bar and then I must wait for the bartender to make another pot of coffee. Then he fills my Maverick[1] insulated cup. I head outside, climb into the car and drive eastward into the darkness, over Coyote Summit and across Tikaboo Valley. It’s sad to leave the lights behind, for even if they don’t see a UFO, they’ll going to have a good time.
In my travels between California and Utah, I stopped at Rachel a dozen or more times. In the late 90s and early 2000s, there were only two businesses in town. The gas station sat on the east end. It includes a store which would make a 7-11 appear to be a supermarket. I’ve never seen it open after dark and their hours seemed to be irregular, another reason why I topped off my tank before heading this direction.
The Little A’Le’Inn sat on the west end of town. A combo restaurant, bar, casino, and motel, it reminds me of a scaled down version of Bruno’s Country Club in Gerlack, Nevada. The Inn seemed thrown together and wouldn’t make the Triple A Guidebook. But people come here because Rachel is the closest town to the supersecret Area 51, where some believe our government holds intergalactic aliens as POWs. Others think the government made a secret pack with some space race to dominate the world. I don’t believe it, but there are strange things seen in the skies along this highway.
Driving along this stretch of highway, I’ve been scared out of my pants when a jet, flying what seemed to be 50 feet above my car came up behind me. I first noticed the. shadow. Because of his speed, I didn’t hear him until he’s gone.
Once, while checking out the mining sites in the Timpahute Range northeast of Rachel with Ralph, we watched several jets in apparent dogfight. I’ve never seen such aerial maneuvers, as they turned and swirled back and forth. One jet climbed almost straight up like a rocket, only to turn and come back to earth at supersonic speeds. When the jet disappeared behind the mountain, we looked for a fireball. We assumed it crashed. Then, to our surprise, the plane pulled back up and climb again as two jets made the same maneuver. Neither of us could believe that a plane could perform like that.
Sun setting amongst Joshua Trees in Central Nevada
This is barren country. The government controls all the land land south of Rachel. This is a training ground and bombing range for Nellis Air Force Base. They tested stealth fighters and bombers here. The vast area also contains the Nevada Test Site, where nuclear weapons used to be regularly tested.
Rachel is a relatively new town. In the 1860s, the town of Tempiute grew up around a vein of silver to the northeast. That petered out. Later, a tungsten deposit was discovered. Until the 1980s, Union Carbide ran a mine there. Most of the miners lived in Rachel. A few ranches dot the countryside along 375, but it takes a lot of this poor arid soil to produce enough grass to feed a cow.
Every time I stopped at the “Little A’Le’Inn” I meet interesting people. Once there was a family from Germany who came to see UFOs. Another time there were several young adults from the Netherlands. One evening, there was a couple at the bar who had driven up from Las Vegas. They were nearly out of gas. The gas station had already closed for the day (and the owners had headed to Vegas for dinner), so the couple rented a room at the motel and made the best of the evening by drinking heavily. They probably saw some good sights that night as well as some bugs on the wall in the morning.
The bartender is always willing to offer advice as to the best places to supposedly see UFOs. And the walls of the place have pictures and clippings about UFOs and even a signed photograph of Spock from Star Trek. In the mid-1990s, Nevada 375 became known as the “The Extraterrestrial Highway,” a move which helped draw in the curious to support Rachel’s businesses.
I’m sure most people who drive across Nevada 375 think it’s the worst road to travel, but I find comfort in the desolation. US 50 crosses Nevada way to the north. In the 1960s, Life Magazine dubbed US 50 the loneliness road in America. Compared to Nevada 375, Highway 50 is a crowded freeway.
Each end of Nevada 375 is located at a hot spring. The road begins at the site of Warm Springs along US 6. A gas station with a swimming pool sat at the junction, but by the 90s had closed. You can still stop and soak your feet in the warm sulfur smelling water as it runs through a ditch. Crystal Springs is at the other end of the 98-mile highway, at the junction with US 93, which leads south to Vegas and north to Ely. The springs are huge, with deep pools of warm water creating a large wetland and bird sanctuary which never freezes.
For those interested, there are other hot springs in the area. Just south on US 93 are the communities of Ash and Alamo, both of which have hot springs. Further to the east is Caliente, another town with hot springs located in cement pools at one of the towns 1950ish hotels.
trains passing through Caliente, Nevada
If you travel this road, be prepared. It’s a long way to help. Limited services can be found in Tonopah (108 miles west of Rachel) and Caliente (98 miles to the east of Rachel). The nearest city is Las Vegas, 140 miles south of Rachel, on the other side of the government’s testing area which is closed off to the public.
[1] Maverik is the name of a chain of gas stations and convenient stores.
Easter Sunrise Services (a part of this article recalls Easter Sunrise Service in Virginia City in 1989)
The Revivals of A. B. Earle (an academic paper published inAmerican BaptistHistorical Society Quarterly, part of these revivals were in Virginia City in 1867)
I’ve taken this week off to officiate at a funeral in Georgia, which is why there were no sermon posted on Sunday. I’ll be back next Sunday.
James Taylor Concert
In addition to the trip to Georgia, we made another trip with friends to Raleigh, North Carolina last Thursday night, September 4, to attend a James Taylor concert. Although the singer has aged, he’s 77, he put on a good show. And whenever he sings, Carolina in My Mind,” in North Carolina, the crowd erupts as they did this past Thursday. Before the concert, a friend warned there would be no standing ovations as no one in the crowd would have the knees to get on their feet more than once. But that was not the case. He brought the crowd onto their (our) feet repeatedly. I loved all his songs about the road and travel. I appreciated his humor and political insights. When speaking about Carole King, he paused, looked to the crowd and said something like, “Oh, by the way, NO KINGS.” It was a good night.
Most of the summer we have been attending concerts at the Blue Ridge Music Center, which is mostly bluegrass, so it’s good to get back to a bit of rock-n-roll and the music of my youth.
The group of us waiting for James Taylor
Derick Lugo, The Unlikely Thru-Hiker: An Appalachian Trail Journey,
narrated by Derick Lugo, (2021), 7 hours and 12 minutes
I picked this book up on a two-for-one sale from Audible. It sounded interesting and humorous. While it doesn’t quite reach the humor of Bill Bryson’s, A Walk in the Woods, I enjoyed reading about his hike and recalling my own hike on the trail nearly 40 years ago.
Lugo is an African American, which makes him unique on the trail. While I met a few African Americans while hiking, most were only out for a day. The exception was Felipe, a reporter for Springfield Massachusetts, who hiked through his state to write an article about the 50th anniversary of the trail. While he seemed to get on the nerves of other hikers, I got along with him. When done, he sent me a copy of his articles along with a wonderful black and white photo of me resting against my pack as I wrote a letter.
1987, on the AT
Lugo was a city dweller. He had spent little time outdoors, which makes him an unlikely hiker. But he is open to learn from others. Furthermore, hiking the trail these days are different in that there are a lot more people on the trail. This allows him to learn from others the skills necessary for such a hike. Furthermore, he appears to be a genuinely nice guy. He strove never to use bad language and respected other hikers. His attitude paid off and he had a wonder trip, telling his readers about this journey and the people he met along the way.
If interested in the Appalachian Trail, I recommend Lugo’s book. An excellent storyteller, the book is a delight.
Gary D. Schmidt, Okay for Now
(New York: Clarion Books, 2011), 360 pages with chapter illustrations.
I have enjoyed many of Schmidt’s young adult books (Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, The Wednesday Wars, Orbiting Jupiter , and Trouble). His books deal with serious issues facing adolescence boys and the larger society. He reminds me of a male version of C. Lee McKenzie, who also takes on such topics with adolescent boys and girls. Lizzie Bright deals with racial issues in early 20th Century, Maine. The Wednesday Wars are played out against the backdrop of the Vietnam War. Orbiting Jupiter deals with teenage parents. And all the books deal with boys coming of age. I met Schmidt a couple of times when I was in West Michigan as he taught in the English Department at Calvin University. I had not heard of this book, but learned about it from Kelly’s blog and immediately picked up a copy at my local library.
Doug Swieteck is a young teenager who adores the New York Yankees, especially Joe Pepitone. The middle brother steals a hat of his that was a gift from Pepitone. It’s the 1960s. His oldest brother serves in Vietnam. While things don’t look good for him, it gets worse. He moves with his parents and older brother from Long Island to a town in Upstate New York when his father accepted a job in a paper mill. He doesn’t want to move and his first impression with his new town are not good.
In time Swieteck makes a friend, Lil Spicer. He takes a job with her father delivering groceries on Saturdays. The people in the town seem weird to him, but he gradually warms up to them. He also becomes enamored with the paintings of John James Audubon and with the guidance of a man who works at the library, learns how to paint.
Swieteck has much to overcome. His father steals from him, taking the salary from his Saturday job (even though he hides the tips he receives). His father’s friend, who got him the job at the meal, is a jerk and seems to egg his father on. The young Swieteck becomes a friend with the manager at his father’s mill at a company picnic. He introduces him to horseshoes, which Swieteck excels.
For a kid who seem to feel the entire town hated him, Swieteck has amazing experiences. Though one of the clients whom he delivers groceries to, he finds himself on Broadway in her play makes its debut (and Joe Pepitone is in the audience). Also, by the end of the book, things with his family seem to have improved, despite the fact his oldest brother has returned from Vietnam without his legs. But things are not all well, as his friend Lil suffers for an illness that threatens her life.
This is an easy read. Growing up is seldom easy as Schmidt shows. But a few helpful adults, hard work, and the right attitude can make a difference.
Joseph Heller, Catch 22
(New York: Simon Schuster, 1961), 443 pages, Audible edition (2017), 19 hours and 58 minutes.
I don’t know why I never read this book. I’ve seen the movie several times, but it’s been 15 or 20 years since I watched it last. The book, I think, funnier than the movie, which is hilarious. As this is a novel about war, it’s dark humor.
Yossarian (I love that name) is a bombardier on an island in the Mediterranean. The commander of his unit keeps raising the numbers of flights required before they can return to the states. Feeling he’ll die in combat, and that he has already flown more missions than others in the operation theater, he tries everything to avoid making more flights. His fear is heightened by the death of Snowden, a tail gunner on his plane. Yossarian comforts him and bandages up his leg, telling him he’ll be fine, only to discover a mortal wound under his flight jacket. The incident haunts Yossarian. Yet, when Yossarian is offered a deal to go back to the states, he can’t accept. The deal would be dishonest and not be fair to his fellow airmen.
This book has a legion of characters such as Major Major (named by his father as a joke) who becomes a major. One can imagine the confusion. Doc Daneeka, the flight surgeon, hates flying and bargains to be added to the flight rooster without flying. This allows him to receive his flight pay. His gig works well until the plane he’s supposedly on is shot down. The army declares him dead. His wife is notified and finds herself the recipient of all kinds of life insurance and burial benefits. She and the kids move without leaving a forwarding address while the doctor is stuck on a war theater without pay.
And then there is the dead man’s stuff in Yossarian’s tent who took off on a flight without having been officially received in the unit. His flight crashed and no one can touch his things since he wasn’t in the unit. And then there is Milo and ex-PFC Wintergreen, who run black market operations who trade with anyone, including the enemy. While they are making a profit (and everyone has a share in Milo’s operations), there are also missteps as when Milo buys all the Egyptian cotton one year and then is unable to unload it.
There’s plenty of sex in the story. The whores in Rome, cause some of the airmen to fall in love. One, Nately, dies in a plane crash. Yossarian has the unpleasant task of telling “Nately’s whore” of his demise. She, in turn, tries to kill Yossarian, and continues to try to kill him to the end of the book.
There are also relationships between airmen and nurses. The wives of their superiors are also tempting, especially the ignored young wife of training officer back in the states who insisted on drilling the cadets every Sunday afternoon. Violence and sex go together in the book. One officer rapes a maid, then throws her out of a window to her death. Yossarian confronts him as the sirens wail in the distance. Expecting him to be arrested for murder, the MPs march by the dead woman on the sidewalk and up the stairs. They arrest Yossarian for being in Rome without a proper pass. The book is filled with such surprising twists. of events.
The book, obviously reflecting on the anti-communist sentiment of the McCarthy era, has intelligent officers trying to trap everyone into confessions, from the airmen to the chaplain. Milo, with his syndicate, displays a weird loyalty to capitalism. He will do anything for a profit, including lifting morphine from the plane’s first aid kits. And why he tries to create his own monopoly, even buying and selling products among his own businesses, he doesn’t want to deal with other monopolies as that wouldn’t be capitalistic.
The incompetent rises to the top, such as the special services officer, who oversees entertainment and such pushing out the general over aviation to claim the spot. Absurdity wins. The classic “Catch 22” holds that you can’t fly if you’re crazy, but if you claim to be crazy, you can’t be crazy because only a crazy person would fly over enemy territory. Of course, in the book, everyone is crazy which drives Yossarian crazier. The book ends with Orr, who everyone thought had died when his plane crashed, is found washed up in Sweden, a neutral county. Of course, no one knows how Orr make it from the Mediterranean to northern Europe, but it’s enough to give Yossarian hope that he too can make it.
This is a classic book which I had a used copy for decades. I have no idea why it took me so long to get around to read and listen. I recommend it with a warning. The contains dark humor. Adult situations are numerous and there’s plenty of violence within the pages. The later should come as no surprise as the book is about war. The writing is amazing. Heller can twist a sentence and a delight to witness.
I spent the last half of June mostly in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. While I have already written about my solo kayak trip around Drummond Island, I thought I’d share some of my other adventures.
Jim at Richies Koffee Shop
I arrived in Michigan on June the 18th, staying with my friends Bruce and Katie on Jordan Lake. We enjoyed dinner and sitting out by the lake, along with a late evening boat ride around the lake. The next morning, I headed early into Hastings to have breakfast with my friend Jim, at Richies Koffee Shop, a place I often ate breakfast when I lived in Hastings. As I drove up, Dave and John were at the table by the front window. They wondered who pulled up with a sea kayak on top of their car. When I got out, John said to Dave, “Oh, it figures, it’s Jeff.” I talked with them along with Sandy, my favorite waitress, until Jim arrived. Then I moved over to a booth and caught up with my old canoeing partner.
I left Hastings a little before 9 so I could make it to the Upper Peninsula (UP) by 2 PM. It rained most of the way, but I made good time.
Me, Gary, Ron at Snows Bar and Grill
At 2, I had lunch with Gary and Ron. Gary and I were in the fire department on Skidaway Island and paddled together several times in the Okefenokee Swamp. I hadn’t met Ron before, but he also lives on Skidaway during the winter and on an island outside of Cedarville, Michigan in the summer. Gary and his wife were traveling through, visiting friends in Michigan before going on into Canada. We met at Snow’s Bar and Grill in Cedarville, a great place for white fish and walleye. It enjoyed catching up with Gary, who grew up in Michigan. We said goodbyes at 4:00 PM. I stopped by Cedarville’s grocery store and arrived in Detour Village a little after 5 PM.
On Thursday, I rested and checked out my gear for my trip around Drummond. I realized I had forgotten to bring a battery pack to recharge my cell phone. On Friday, I paddled around Detour Point early in the morning. Then I headed to Sault St. Marie for Walmart, where I picked up a battery pack and the rest of what I needed for my trip. Afterwards, I decided to travel over to Point Iroquois Lighthouse.
Point Iroquois Lighthouse
I’d been here once before but forgotten the reason why it was named after a native American tribe found much further east. In the 17th Century, facing pressure from European settlers, the Iroquois tried to extend their territories further west. Here, on the east end of Lake Superior, the Chippewa, the native tribe of the Great Lakes Region, stopped the Iroquois advancement after a bloody battle. Then, in honor of their dead foe, the Chippewa named this point along the lake, Iroquois. With all the talk about changing or not changing names to make it more “American,” I had to salute the Chippewa graciousness. The next week, I would learn that Drummond Island was named for the British General in charge of northern Michigan. At the end of the War of 1812, he was ordered to move his garrison back into Canada.
On my way back that Friday, I stopped for dinner at Cozy Corners in Barbeau. I’d eaten at this place before, but never on a Friday night. The place was packed. I sat at the bar, talking to my neighbors, watching the Detroit Tigers play on TV, while also catching glimpses of two southbound freighters. I ate fish tacos made with walleye.
The Manse
On Sunday, in exchange for staying at the church’s manse, I preached at the Union Presbyterian Church, using a sermon I had preached a few weeks early at home. On Monday morning, I headed over on an early ferry run for my paddle around Drummond.
If you didn’t read about my Drummond Island circumnavigation, you can catch up here: Days 1 & 2, and Days 3 & 4
I came back to Detour from Drummond Island around 2 PM on Thursday. I laid out my gear in the garage and the sunporch to dry, showered, and took a nap. Around 5:30 PM, I got up and drove over to St. Ignace to pick up Bob, a friend of mine from Hastings. He took a bus up to the UP from Grand Rapids. He was scheduled to arrive at 10:10 PM, so I decided to go over early and eat dinner.
Of all the times I have been across the Mackinaw Bridge, which crosses at St. Ignace, I have never been into the town. I exited I-75 at Castle Rock and drove through the town and realized soon it was a mistake. The place was packed. I found myself at the end of a parade of old cars, not knowing that this was the first night of a four-day car rally. All the restaurants were packed.
I stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few supplies, then decided to try the St. Ignace Truck Stop. It, too, was busy, but by 9 PM had slowed down as patrons left. I sat at the bar and ordered walleye. I was finishing my meal at 9:45 PM, when Bob called. The bus arrived early. Thankfully, he was only a couple of blocks away. I picked him up and we headed back to Detour Village.
Friday was wet and foggy. I spent the morning reading while Bob, who’s an editor, worked on a project. Occasionally, Bob shared his frustration at the book he was editing. He felt he had to rework too much of the author’s words. But he had been hired by the publisher to get the book ready for print, so he kept at it. Around 2 PM, we took a break and headed over to the Detour Village Inn for one of their great hamburgers.
The Village Inn is a baseball themed park. Tim Grisdale (Grizz) started the inn after he hung up his glove having played minor league baseball in the Detroit Tigers organization. In addition to running a bar and grill, he was a big supporter of baseball and softball in the town. He died in 2018, before I started coming up to Detour Village, but his memory lives on. There’s the Grizz burgers and lots of photos and newspaper clippings posted on the walls.
Whitefish Sandwich at Snows
After lunch, we headed to a preserve off Prettiss Bay, where we stayed exploring till almost sunset. Plants seen included wood lilies, thimbleberry, yellow coreopsis, yellow lady slippers, shrubby cinquefoil, red osier dogwood, along with irises, columbines, and shinleaf. Then we drove over to Cedarville and I had a whitefish sandwich for dinner at Snows Bar and Grill.
You might think that Snows gets its name from the extreme winters of the UP, but that’s not the case. There is a “Snows Cut,” which runs between the islands, just south of the joint. I have always found this interesting since I grew up just north of “Snows Cut,” where the Intracoastal Waterway cuts from Myrtle Grove Sound to the Cape Fear River, just north of Carolina Beach. That cut was named after the engineer who directed digging this part of the waterway in the 1930s.
Bob playing the Sax on Drummond
On Saturday, after a morning of reading and editing, we took the ferry over to Drummond Island and met Dave and Sandy, who took us to a potluck dinner hosted by Lighthouse Church. The dinner was outside. Bob, who is an excellent saxophonist, did a short concert.
On Sunday, I again preached at the Union Presbyterian Church and Bob supplied special music. He had come up with me in April 2024, so folks on the island knew him and enjoyed his music. Afterwards, we were invited to join a group at the Mainsail Restaurant for Brunch.
Botanist Bob
In the afternoon, after a nap, we explored the fins along Lake Huron, just east of Albany Creek. A fin is a wet boggy area. In this case, it’s separated from the lake by a series of dunes. This place is rich of wildflowers, especially carnivorous plants. While Bob has worked much of his life in the publishing business, he is the best botanists I know. Not only does he know the names of all the plants, but he also knows most of their Latin names.
Al
Albany Fin
Plants seen: Northern Pitcher Plant, Butterwort (rare), round leaf sundew, linear leaf sundew (rare), horned bladderwort, rose pogonia (orchid), and pitcher thistle (rare).
After exploring the Albany fin, we came home and fixed steak for dinner. Monday, we lounged around reading and editing. On Tuesday, we packed up and headed over to the Detour Village Inn for lunch before driving south. On our way south, we stopped at Wilderness State Park to look for some rare plants which Bob had seen there years earlier. He found the plants, but it was after they’d bloomed. I stayed at Bob’s Tuesday night.
Wednesday morning, before leaving Hastings, I had breakfast with “Doc,” my former associate at First Presbyterian Church. Now confined to a walker, “Doc” or Jim, cares for his wife who struggles with dementia. But Doc still gets around some and remains in good spirits. Then I started the long drive home.
Selfie at Hocking Hills
I decided to spend one more night out in the woods, so I headed to Ohio’s Hocking Hills. I’ve heard about this place before and wish I could have spent more time there. The hills are beautiful with some interesting rock formations around the creeks. I slept in my hammock and enjoyed dinner at the lodge as I watched the sun set. I arrived home on Thursday afternoon, after racking up almost 3,000 miles over 16 days.
On the way back, I discovered Southern Ohio is filled with Covered Bridges. I’ll have to explore these some other time.
I planned to finish up my tales from my Michigan trip, but the week has been too busy, so I bushed and edited a piece I wrote back in 2017. On the trip, I was coming home (to Skidaway Island) from a conference at Calvin College (now University) in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The route from Pittsburgh to Cumberland paralleled the bicycle trip I took in May with my brother. Click here to read about that trip.
The train arriving in South Bend
I wake up, realizing the guy in the seat next to me is gathering his stuff. Looking out the window, I see we’re running alongside a river. It must be the Ohio. I pull out my iPhone to check the time. It’s 4:45 AM, we’re approaching Pittsburgh.
“Getting off in Pittsburgh?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answered. He was asleep last night when I boarded the train in South Bend. I was tired myself and had quickly fallen asleep. I vaguely remember train stopping at Elkhart, and totally missed Waterloo, along with longer stops in Toledo and Cleveland and several quick stops in smaller towns. We pass the Emsworth Lock and Dam. I’ve been here many times before. I’m surprised to see the barges are still running on the first of February, but then it’s been a warm winter.
“Live in the ‘burgh?” I ask.
“No, Philly.”
“But you’re getting off here?” I resisted the temptation to make a disparaging remark about the Phillies and Eagles.
“Yeah, I gotta catch another train. I have a two-hour layover. You from here?”
“Nah, but I lived here for three years when I was in school back in the ‘80s. It’s a great city.”
We talk for a few minutes. The train slows down and then pulls away from the river. I learn he’s a long-haul truck driver. They found a beer in his truck when it was being serviced. He said it was left over from New Years, but it’s a violation and they terminated him. But it’s okay, he says, as he’s already has another job lined up with another trucking company.
As he talks the train swings to the right and soon, we on a bridge across the Allegheny River.
“The Three Sisters,” I say, pointing out the identical yellow bridges below us. The train slows, stopping at the Pittsburgh Station underneath the massive building which used to house offices for the Pennsylvania Railroad. The conductors and engineer change crews here, providing a fifteen-minute break. After all the passengers depart, I get off and walk for a few minutes along the tracks enjoying the fresh air. Most passengers remain asleep, but a few shuffle around on the platform enjoying an infrequent smoking break. It’s odd to be outdoors in the predawn hours on the first of February without a coat. When the conductor shouts, “All Aboard,” I step back onboard and take my seat. Soon, I’m back asleep.
I’d boarded the train the evening before in South Bend, Indiana. I’d taken the train up from Savannah the week before to attend a conference at Calvin University. While I could have taken the train into Grand Rapids, it would have required an extra day each direction with a long wait in Chicago. Instead, I got off in South Bend and rented a car from Enterprise. They picked me up early in the morning on my arrival.
The evening before, I had to turn the car by 6 PM, to get a shuttle back to the station. The train was scheduled to arrive a bit after nine. I had brought a sandwich for dinner and ate it in the station while I waited. It wasn’t a very fancy meal, but sufficient. I would have preferred to eat in the dining car on the train, but suspected it would be closed by the time I boarded.
Taking up a seat along the back wall, I pull out my book, Robert Harris’ Pompeii. This is the original train station and the seats are heavy, old, curved oak benches. While they look like church pews, they more comfortable. Every few minutes when the crossing gates just outside the station would begin to ring in announcement of another train. The ringing was followed by the horn of a train coming closer until it whisked by, followed by the waning sound of the horn and the clacking of the wheels. This was the main line serving trains heading from Chicago east to New York, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. The station was never very busy and only a half dozen of us who board in South Bend when my train, the Capitol Limited, arrived.
I wake up a little after seven and in the dark can make out a river that parallels the tracks. According to the timetable, we must have already stopped in Connellsville and are beginning the long slow climb over the Alleghenies. The river appears deep and slow, with just a few rocks, but I know that’ll change as we gain altitude. Snow dusts the ground. The trees are barren. Occasionally I’ll spot a pine or cedar, frosted with snow, but the trees are mostly hardwoods of some variety. In the dark, it’s hard to tell the specie. I take my book and notebook up to the snack car for breakfast, ordering a breakfast burrito and coffee. Sitting at a table, I eat, while watching the scenery change. As we gain elevation, cedars appear, and the water runs faster between eh rocks. Snow covers the ground with more falling.
The train slowly winds its way up the tracks, its wheels at time squeaking against the rails. We reach the village of Confluence. The morning is gray, foggy, and wet. Only a few cars are on the roads. As we gain more elevation, the river becomes smaller and swifter. We run through the first tunnel. On the top of the hills are many windmills. Mountain laurel covers the hillsides.
We enter another tunnel, a longer one, and when we come out, I notice that the river has changed directions. We’re heading downhill, but the engineer holds the train back, going as slowly downhill as we did uphill. The sun attempts to burn off the fog. Its golden reflections reflect from the ripples of the creek below. As we lose altitude, there is less snow on the ground. The train picks up speed. By the time we reach Cumberland, the snow is gone. We’re a bit early, so I step off the train and enjoy the fresh air. It feels more like spring than deep winter.
On my bicycle trip on the GAP, I saw these same windmills.
After Cumberland, I head back to my seat. The train runs quickly along the Potomac River. I continue reading Pompeii, picking up where I left off last night. A little over an hour later, we make a short stop in Martinsville, West Virginia, a neat looking old town. An old, abandoned roundhouse sits on the north side of the tracks. The business district runs along the south side.
Our next stop is in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. I look for the old hotel where I stayed when I was here while hiking the Appalachian Trail. The stop is short and soon we’re crossing the river and heading into a tunnel.
Harper’s Ferry
Below Harper’s Ferry, the train parallels the C&O canal. The canal seems to be filled with stagnant water covered in a green slime. The train makes its last stop in Rockville, before pulling into Union Station fifteen minutes early. I head for the food court for a quick lunch, before heading out to the National Gallery for the afternoon. I’ll be back at the station in time to board the train to Savannah. I’ll have better accommodations for this leg as I’ve booked a sleeper.
The fossil ledges which are found on the north and northeastern side of the island.
After the windy evening, the morning turned out calm. The calm mornings are normally the pattern, with the exception being on Thursday. But on Wednesday, I woke early, fixed coffee and oatmeal, read and wrote in my journal before beginning my paddle along the north shore of Drummond. Much of the paddling this morning was along the fossil ledges, where the alvar limestone meets the lakeshore.
For the first few miles, there was no one else in sight, but a couple of miles from Chippewa Point, I began to run into boats fishing just offshore. Chatting with two of the boats, I learned that no one had caught any fished. One said this was the worse for fishing that he recalled. Normally there were a couple of inland lakes along the north side which one could explore, but the lake was so low that wasn’t possible. I also saw two bald eagles during the morning.
I stopped for lunch on a rock bar between Chippewa Point. The wind was blowing out of the east, just strong enough to keep the bugs from bothering me. After lunch, I headed due south, across the wide waters of Potagannissing Bay. The bay is filled with islands. I kept my sights on Bald and Grape Island, setting a course between the two which would land me back on the mainland approximately where Pine Street met the water. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was heading as an address doesn’t do much good on the water, but I knew it was just east of H&H Boat Launch.
Approaching Chippewa Point
After three days of paddling, my arms were tired. I had considered exploring Harbor Island, which has a large inside lake which creates a safe harbor, but since I had been to the island a few years earlier when a member of the DeTour Union Church took me out on his boat, I decided against it. I paddled on, between islands and could make out the marina.
After about an hour of paddling, I found myself just east of the marina. There was a woman out with a toddler. I asked her if she knew the Ledy’s. “You must be Jeff,” she said and introduced herself as Irma. The toddler was her granddaughter. I pulled my kayak up on their sandy beach and spend the next couple of hours talking to her and her husband Clayt, while enjoying a tall Long Island Iced Tea. Clayt, a contractor, had spent time building mission projects in Ethiopia. His stories were fascinating.
That night, I joined them, along with Dave and Sandy for dinner. Dave and Sandy had brought the meal which included tender pork chops which were a lot better than anything I could have fixed. While their cabin was full, they invited me to camp on their porch. I decided my hammock strung between trees would be more comfortable and I could get up earlier in the morning and be on my way.
Thursday morning, June 26
The rain came at 4 AM. Not expecting it, I crawled out of my hammock and pitched out my fly to keep the water from seeping in. I checked the weather. Off and on showers through the morning, but winds only 6-8 mph. It’d be a good day to paddle. Soon, I was back asleep.
At 6:30 I woke. It’d been light for nearly an hour, but the dark low hanging clouds made it seem earlier. I wanted to get a good start to the day, as I was going to complete my circumnavigation around Drummond Island. I needed to be back on the mainland in time to clean up before driving over to St. Ignace to pick up my friend, Bob.
Quickly packing my stuff., most of the gear I stored in a shed where, the night before Clayt, said I could I could store anything I didn’t want to carry. Since I wasn’t camping, I dropped most of my gear in the shed, taking only what I needed for the morning paddle. Then I ate a couple granola bars but decided to forgo coffee to get out earlier on the water.
A little after 7 AM, I was ready to push off. I noticed that the wind seemed to be blowing a lot more than forecasted, but it didn’t seem too bad. Heading out a way into the water, I turned due west. The wind blew out of the northeast, helping me make good time. Quickly passing Sandstone Point, I set my sights on Sims Point, some three miles away.
This course took me across the mouth of Sturgeon Bay. I noticed the water looked choppier than expected. As I moved further from the islands that I’d paddled through the day before, the wind picked up. About a 1/3 of the way across the mouth, I found myself in gale force winds. The waves built and the wind kept pushing me southeast, into Sturgeon Bay, I had to fight to stay on course, dropping my skeg (a small keel) and surfing at a 45-degree angle across 2- and 3-foot swells. The water foamed from the whitecaps.
Paddling with my life jacket zipped up (After crossing the lee of the island)
There were no boats out this morning. I wore my life vest over my rain jacket. Most of this trip, I only snapped the jacket at the bottom, but now I quickly zipped it up tight. In my jacket was a marine radio, in case I got into real trouble, along with snacks and bug spray. The later wasn’t needed this morning. Whatever happened to those 6-8 mile per hour breezes? Paddling became exhausting, but my boat handled the waves well. About a quarter mile from Sim’s point, I slipped behind an unnamed and uninhabited island for a break.
I rested for a good half hour. At least, I thought, I was done with the open water piece. From now on, I’d be along the shoreline, with roads and cabins if I got into trouble. I set back out paddling, with a half mile more to go till I would be on the lee side of Drummond. The waves grew taller as the wind pushed around the islands. A few waves appeared to be nearly 4 feet tall. Several times, I would miss a stroke as I crested a wave, with the water too far below the paddle.
Shelter on the lee side of an island. It’s hard to see the white caps in the photo.
Once, a wave caught me sideways and I almost rolled the kayak. At the last second, using a high brace, I pulled myself back upright and over the swell. This was scary. While continuing to paddle hard, I prayed for God to protect me and give me strength. Then, after another hundred yards, I passed Dix Point and turned my boat south, paralleling the island. The water calmed. I watched an ore freighter make its way north toward the Soo in the St. Mary’s River The current pushed me south. I relaxed.
waiting for the ferry to clear the dock before passing the terminal.
Limestone quarry loading docks
For the next hour, I paddled south along the west side of Drummond. The only obstacle was the ferry, which I decided to wait for it to leave instead of trying to race across it’s bow as it made its way back and forth from DeTour Village. Since there were no ships loading at the limestone quarry dock, I was able to see the operation up close as crush limestone falls into piles based on its size and use. Some of the rock is used in the steel making process, other is used in construction and agricultural.
Soon, I was at the southwestern end of the island. I thought I could skirt through the gap between Barbed Point and Crab Island but found that because of the low water in the Great Lakes, the channel was closed. Across the rocky bridge, waves were beating on the other side. I realized my challenge wasn’t quite over. I paddled around Crab Island and headed northwest, with the wind in my face. For a few minutes I was able to rest behind Arnold Island, but as I headed back northeast the wind howled. There was nothing to do but to keep paddling as I was taken back out into open water. But paddling into the wind is just tiring, not as dangerous as when the wind is coming across the boat. After about two miles I was finally in the tributary where Fort Drummond Marina was located. Once there, the last mile was a little easier as the shoreline blocked the wind.
Fort Drummond was named for the British General during the War of 1812 who controlled British troops in Southern Canada. At the time, the British held Mackinac Island. After the war, they gave it up. At first, Drummond moved his solders to the island that now bears his name. Later, they would move back into Canada, which was just north or east of the island.
Thursday morning, back where I started on Monday
I arrived at the marina a little before noon. After loading my boat on the top of the car, talked to the guy at the marina, then drove over to the Ledy’s to pick up my gear. I had to wait a few minutes for the ferry, but by 1 PM, I was back on the mainland, setting out my gear to dry in the garage. I had lunch, took a nap, and late in the afternoon set out for St. Ignace to pick up Bob.
Rounding Raynolds Point, the northeastern corner of the island, the situation changed. I was no longer on the lee side of the island. The wind was in my face and much stronger. Swells suddenly appeared, breaking over my bow and attempting to push me onto the rocky ledges around the shore. Dark clouds gathered. I headed out away from the ledges and paddled harder. Having already covered approximately 19 miles, I was tired. As rain pelted me, I decided to head into Raynolds Bay. The wind helped this decision. I was not sure what’s public and private land, but there were no signs of human activity. The bay provided enough protection for me to safely come ashore. After thirty minutes of excitement, I was exhausted. This was the first bit of difficulty on my trip, but it would not be the last.
Beaver’s Work
I walked along the cobblestoned beach that’s sprinkled with fossils. There is also evidence of beaver activity, but wonder what they might attempt to dam up here. A dam on these waters would be beyond the Army Corp of Engineers ability. Finding a nice place where I could pitch my hammock and with a good view of the shore, I move my kayak.
Fossils
Again, as the previous night, I found a rock out near the water where I set up my kitchen. After dinner, I gathered wood for a fire along the beach. The skies cleared. As the daylight fades, I read and write by the water. Then I build a fire and fix a pot of tea. I hope to see the northern lights., but don’t see them. As darkness falls, I see distant lights of navigation markers and Canadian radio towers. I also pick out cabins by their lanterns on islands on the Canadian side of the water. Twilight seemed to last forever. I crawled in my hammock at 11 PM, after making sure the fire was extinguished. The stars had just begun to appear.
Sunset from Raynolds Bay. The waves are now much calmer than when I came ashore.
Monday, June 23, 2025
My trip started on the previous morning. I take the 7:50 AM ferry from Detour Village to Drummond Island. Arriving at the Fort Drummond Marina at 8:15 AM, shortly after they opened, I unloaded my boat from the top of the car and stowed my gear into the hatches. While I plan for a three-night, four-day trip, I bring extra food in case the weather deteriorates. After loading my boat and moving my car to where it’ll be out of the way. I then leave a float plan with the operator.
Easy paddling
I’m on the water at 9 AM, paddling south out of the tributary where the marina is located. At first I paddle rather slowly as I finish my thermos mug of coffee. Then paddle much faster as I reach Whitney Bay and set my course between Bird and Garden Island. Once I clear Garden, I’m in the upper ends of Lake Huron. From here, I can watch freighters coming up from the south. I turn east and round Anderson Point, then aim between Bootjack and Espanore Island. Next, I head southeast toward Cream City Point. At 11 AM, I pull up on the backside of Gravel Island in Huron Bay for a rest and lunch. I’ve covered 8 miles in two hours of paddling.
Today’s lunch is fancy. I have a left-over steak over from Saturday night dinner. Placing the steak inside a hoagie bun, I eat it while watching another freighter make its way from below the horizon towards the Soo. I then take care of a few messages I received on my phone. One is from my brother and I snap and send him a photo of my kayak resting on the cobblestones. Another is from Dave, a friend on Drummond, who invites me to dinner at a friend’s place on the third night. He asks if I can make it. I think I can. This will be the last reliable cell service until I have paddled around most of the island. For the rest of the day, I leave my phone on airplane mode to save battery.
Gravel Island
After lunch, I paddle around the north side of Gravel Island, and set my course for the distant Traverse Point, 2 ½ miles away. My course takes me further from land. Having paddled by several points, I realize I must give these points wide berth to avoid the rocks which often sit at or just below surface.
After Traverse Point, I head due east toward Scammon Point. This route takes me far from the shore as I pass Canoe Point and Scammon Cover. There are also fewer cabins along this isolated part of the shore. Most of this land is managed as a Michigan State Forest. Leaving Scammon Point, I am tempted to head into Big Shoal Cove, where there is a sandy beach. Having been there before, several years ago, I decide against it. I head southeast toward Long Point, the third of four points I can see (the last is an island).
I arrived at Long Point around 4 PM and paddle around both sides of the point. After looking around, I decided to camp on the west side, a 100 or so yards inside a small bay. The beaches were covered with cobble stones. As I had done at lunch, I paddled close to the water’s edge and get out of the boat while it’s still in about a foot of water. I lift the boat up, to avoid most of the rocks. After unloading and my boat was lighter, I carry the boat up onto dry land.
Before setting up camp, I take a brief swim. The water in the shallow bay was cool, but not cold. Then I put on long pants, socks, a clean long sleeve shirt.
I find two cedar trees at the edge of the woods, where I hang my hammock. Around it, I felt I am in a garden with purple irises, buttercups, Indian paintbrush, and other flowers. On a large rock about 75 feet away, I place my stove and pot along with my folding chair. After everything is up, I update my journal before preparing dinner. This consists of a beef stew which just had to be heated along with two tortillas and some apple sauce in a squeeze container. Paddling allows for heavier food than backpacking.
After dinner, I hang my food between two trees and explore the shoreline. Afterwards, I fixed a cup of tea. Sitting down, I sip my tea as I watch the sun set and a thunderstorm build south of me. For the next half hour, I observe the storms moving east, just south of me. Huge lightning bolts strike the water a mile or two to my south. These are followed with delayed rolls of thunder. As darkness falls I am treated with a display of synchronous fireflies. Each of these bugs, along the woods, emits four or five quick blinks of light. This is followed by 10 seconds or so of darkness before another set of blinks. To the west, I caught glimpses of the new moon hang between the clouds, low in the west.
Sunset from my camp on Long Point
I fell asleep to the waning sound of thunder. About 3 AM, I wake and crawled out from my hammock to take care of business. The skies have cleared and to the south I see the pincher stars of Scorpio above the horizon. Moments later, I snuggle back in my hammock home and fall back asleep.
Tuesday, June 24, Morning to Midafternoon
Perking coffee
When I wake again, a mosquito buzzes just outside my netting. The sun rays are lighting the trees on the other side of the bay. I get up and fixed breakfast. This consists of oatmeal and perked coffee. Then I packed up everything, and spend some time reading and writing in my journal.
By 9 AM, I am again on the water. I paddle east, crossing to the outside of Shelter Island and the points on each side of Bass Cove. Afterwards, I turn northeast as I reached the eastern side of the island. Unlike the day before, where the island consisted of many points of land the eastern side is smoother. There are only a few jagged points extending into the water. Around Bass Cove, I pass many cabins, As I paddle north, I see fewer cabins. Most of this land is owned by the state. With Drummond Island just a hundred yards to my left, Canada is less than a mile to my right.
Unlike the day before in which, after leaving Whitney Bay, I saw no boats (except for distant freighters), I passed a large sailboat heading east. The boats sails are furled, and it motored on. I later see a few boats come down through the False Detour Passage that links the Northern Passage to Lake Huron.
South of Marblehead
I planned to make my first stop at Marble Head, a rough outcrop of limestone at the eastern most point of Drummond Island. Who knows why they named this place Marblehead. Drummond, as far as I know, has no marble. It is mostly limestone and the mine on the island produces shiploads of limestone every week, which is used in steelmaking, cement, and agriculture. I suppose the name had a nautical sound. I crossed by Marblehead and pulled ashore on the north side. Stepping out of the boat, the biting flies started. I grabbed snacks for lunch and bug spray. I sprayed my bear legs, where the flies seemed drawn (I wore a long sleeve sun shirt which seemed to provide some protection from the flies. But the spray didn’t deter these buggers, and I spent lunch swatting them away.
I had planned to hike up to Marblehead, but the bugs seemed just as nasty inside the forested canopy, so I returned to my boat and slowly continued to work my way north toward Stigraves Bay. I’d also planned to paddle into Pilot Harbor, which has a narrow entry that opens into an inland lake, but decided against it. I paddled north around Glen Point and into Glen Cove. It was only 1:30 PM.
map of the northeast side of Drummond
Most people who paddle around Drummond Island spend their second night at Glen Cove, but since it was too early to stop, I decided to continue north. In the distance, I see a rock that looks like a giant bald eagle sitting. Getting closer I see the white part is from bird poop. But, as I pass this rock, I do see a bald eagle soaring above.
The weather was delightful with a breeze out of the northwest, keeping me cool when I stayed offshore. When I came in close, to explore the limestone ledges which began appearing north of Marblehead, the shore blocked the wind and the bugs would attack. I assumed once I crossed Raynolds Point, 6 or 7 miles ahead, the wind would blow the bugs away.
My decision to continue also was influence by the invitation to have dinner with Dave, Sandy, and their friends on Wednesday night. Except for the bugs, I find the northeast side of Drummond delightful. Much of the shoreline consisted of flat ledges, table-like limestone, a few feet above the waterline. The “tables” appeared properly set with wildflowers growing in cracks. In most places, a second ledge extended out six or 12 inches below the water line.
Getting ashore isn’t difficult, as I exit the boat in six inches of water and climb upon the ledge. It would have been more difficult to have camped along the shoreline north of Glenn Cove, as one would have to load and pack the boat in the water and then lift the boat up onto the higher shelf to keep it safe at night. I decided to camp west of Raynolds Bay. Furthermore, most of this land is privately owned. However, only a few cabins dot the shoreline.
Lock and a lock house. Some of the lock houses can be rented for those traveling on the C&O.
A couple of miles from the Paw Paw tunnel, we came around a bend and noticed bicycles thrown on the ground and several people kneeling over one of them. I peddled faster, thinking someone was hurt. When we pulled up, we saw Max and three women cyclists. No one was hurt, but one of the bikes had been taken apart. She’d had a flat. Max, seeing the stuff on the ground from the bike, said he threw up his hands and said, “there’s some engineers just behind me who can help.” At dinner the evening before, Max and Warren discussed various metals used in bicycles. From the discussion he learned my brother was a mechanical engineer. For some reason, he thought I was one, too. The women greeted us like saviors. When I shook my head at not being an engineer and pointed to my brother, they dropped interest in me and lauded praise on his arrival.
Warren to the rescue
We spent the next 30 minutes trying to get the bike back together. They had removed the entire back sockets and de-railer. While Warren and the woman with the broken bike worked finding what goes where, Max and I talked to the other women. They were all serious cyclists. When asked what they do when there’s a problem, they pointed to the woman whose bike was torn apart. “We call her husband. He’s a serious racer and knows everything about bikes and can walk us through what needs to happen.” Sadly, for them, we were in an area without cell service.
Once the bike was back together, we had the owner get on it and ride it a ways, making sure everything worked. It did. We ran into them again, late in the afternoon at the bicycle shop in Hancock. This was after 30 some miles of riding. One of the employees went through the bike and confirmed everything was back as it should be. The only issue was the tire pressure was a little low, but that’s to be expected with those emergency pumps which go on bicycles.
As they rode away, my brother joked about telling his wife how he had satisfied three women this morning.
Saturday, Cumberland to Hancock (61 miles of which we rode roughly 40)
Potomac RiPonver, having fallen but still well out of its banks
This was to be the big day, 61 miles. The only problem was knowing there was a section of trail washed away in the floods about ten miles away. The National Park Service said there was no acceptable detour. We also learned from the bike shop that the road around this section was narrow, curvy, and unsafe to ride because of tractor trailers. So that morning, we arranged a shuttle for us and for Max, whom we’d talked to at breakfast. We had them drop us off at Paw Paw, cutting out about 25 miles of trail and the section that had been washed out.
Paw Paw Tunnel
Paw Paw Tunnel (My bike is pointing the wrong way)
The highlight of the day was the Paw Paw tunnel, an engineering marvel for the early 19th Century. We entered the tunnel just a mile or two from where the shuttle dropped us off. Bricks lined the walls of the tunnel. Bicycles (and mules in the day) travel on a wooden walkway that was so unleveled and bumpy we quickly heeded the warning to walk and not ride our bikes. Besides, the railing was only three foot tall, making it easy to tumble over if your bike fell. I attached the light to my handlebars and began the dark cool journey through the 3118-foot tunnel.
Warren pulling his bike over a tree
Little Orleans
The trail appeared better than we expected. While there were places with mud and many trees had fallen, requiring us to dismount and lift our bikes over them, it wasn’t as bad as some of the other places we’d heard of. We ate lunch at the Devil’s Alley Campground. When we came to Little Orleans, we left the trail and headed to Billy’s Place for ice cream. The place was a bar that served food. They advertised in large letters, “Beer, Boats, Bait.” In smaller letters the sign mentioned food, groceries, and shuttles. While we’d just had lunch, the burgers they’d fixed for a man and his wife we met outside of the establishment were enticing.
It didn’t take long this day before my left foot became sore. Over the past couple of days, the soreness would manifest itself late in the afternoon. The evening before I realized the area around the Achilles tendon had swelled. This slowed my pace and made me want to take more frequent stops, sometimes even walking my bicycle.
Western Maryland Railroad bike trail.
The Western Maryland Trail begins at Little Orleans. While this path parallels the C&O canal, it’s high above the river and is paved. This old rail bed, which we’d ridden on from Connellsville on the GAP, was a welcome relief to the mud of the C&O. It was nice to bel able to ride on pavement, even though we still had trees to pull over. We rode it all the way to Hancock, except for one detour for about a mile onto the C&O as there is a tunnel that hasn’t yet opened. About three miles outside of Hancock, we came upon a group of trail workers from the Maryland Parks clearing trees which had fallen during the recent storms.
Arriving back in Hancock
We arrived at Hancock at 5 PM, riding to the Presbyterian Church where I had left my car on Tuesday. We loaded our bikes and drove to Motel 8, where I had made reservations. On Monday night, I had stayed at the Potomac River Hotel, which looked like a bedbug haven. While it seemed to be free of bugs, the hotel had the ambiance of the 1940s. About half the lights were missing bulbs and the bathroom was small and the tub dirty. After discussing it, we decided to try the only other hotel in town. At least the bathroom was clean and larger, but the floors between the bed were soft and I wondered if one of us would fall through.
After cleaning up, we met Max at the Potomac River Grill, across from the hotel of the same name. The food was excellent, and the place crowed. It appears to be owned by the same folks at the hotel. At least they’re doing something right. I had a wonderful burger with a salad and a Stella beer.
After we got back to the hotel, Warren called his daughter, a physical therapist. She had me do a few moves and said she didn’t think my tendon was torn, but thought my tendon and muscles were angry and I may be suffering from Achilles tendinitis. She also recommended taking it easy, icing my ankle after walking or biking, taking ibuprofen for the swelling, and stretching in the morning. While riding, she suggested that while riding not to use toe-caps and to move my foot forward on the peddle so that I weight would be more on the arch of the foot.
Sunday morning, May 18
Not an illusion
As Super 8s don’t provide breakfast, we drove to the IHOP on the east side of town, near the interstate. Coming back, I noticed some of the most creative line painting on a highway I’ve ever seen. Obviously, the Maryland line painters believe in drinking on the job!
Then we worshipped with the good people at Hancock Presbyterian Church. I met Pastor Terry on Tuesday, when I left my car in the church’s parking lot. The 1845 sanctuary reminded me of the church where I was ordained as a Presbyterian minister, the United Church of Ellicottville in New York. Both brick sanctuaries featured high ceilings and a square design with cathedral style windows. While the United Church (formerly First Presbyterian) served as a stop on the Underground Railroad, the Hancock Church suffered damage during the Civil War when Stonewall Jackson’s men shelled the town.
This morning the service honored the church’s graduates and featured a musical trio (soloist, keyboard, and bass) from Fredrick called “Solid Ground.” They lead the congregation in singing and sang several songs themselves. Afterwards, the congregation had a wonderful potluck lunch which they do once a month. If you’re ever in Hancock on the potluck Sunday, don’t miss it!
Fort Frederick
Ft. Frederick
Taking my niece’s advice, I decided not to ride on Sunday, which had been scheduled for our shortest day on the C&O, only 27 miles. Instead, I drove to Fort Frederick. The British governor had the rock-walled fort built during the French and Indian Wars to protect the frontier. In the American Revolutionary War, the fort housed British POWs. It never experienced the tragedy of a battle. Overtime, much of the fort had fell into disrepair, but the CCCs rebuilt it in the 1930s. Today, it’s a Maryland State Park. I toured the fort and reconnected with Warren as the C&O passes by the site of the fort. Then I moved on to Williamsport waterfront, where I waited to pick up Warren later in the afternoon. Williamsport features an aqueduct, where the canal (and its water) crossed a local creek, which was amazing to see.
Williamsport’s Acqueduct
That night, we stayed at a Hampton Inn in Hagerstown. For dinner, I had a pecan chicken salad and sausage chili at Bob Evans, which was across the street from the hotel.
Monday, May 19. A free day of touring the area
First Washington Monument
We had planned a day off, since I had a car in the area and was wanting to see the Antietam battlefield. Leaving early, we first drove to the nation’s first Washington Monument along South Mountain. This monument was built in 1827 by the people of Boonsboro, Maryland. In 1862, the people living in the valley used the site to watch the battle of South Mountain and Antietam. I first visited the monument in 1987, while hiking the Appalachian Trail. In our few minutes at the site, I met several section hikers on the trail.
Fish tacos
After the Washington Monument, we headed to Point of the Rocks, to look at the C&O trail. We had seen Facebook posts of riders who became bogged in mud between Brunswick and Point of the Rocks and, talking with a bike shop owner, learned several had busted their de-railers by trying to ride through the muck. Then we drove along roads which parallel the trail, across from Harper’s Ferry and then across the Potomac to Shepherdstown, the oldest community in West Virginia. We had lunch in this quaint town at Marie’s Taqueria, where I had three delicious fish tacos.
Antietam
Sunken road, sight of fierce fighting, taken from observation tower
After lunch, we headed to the Antietam battlefield, first stopping at the visitor’s center to watch a movie introducing us to the battle and exploring the museum. September 17, 1862 is the bloodiest day in American history. While more died at Gettysburg, that battle lasted three full days. Lee had assembled his troops between the town of Sharpsburg (some still refer to the battle as Sharpsburg) and Antietam Creek. Fighting began that early that morning in a cornfield north of town. It continued in several different locations over the next twelve hours, before coming to an end. Strategically, the north won the battle. They forced the South to retreat into Virginia. But the price was heavy on both armies. The significantly larger northern army lost more soldiers than the south. Dinner for the evening was picked up at a grocery store that had a hot food and a large salad bar.
Tuesday, May 20 (36 miles)
With the reports of muddy and nearly impossible sections of the trail, we decided a new plan. We would start where we planned in Williamsport and ride as far east as possible before the mud became too deep. Leaving Williamsport, we peddled east. The two days’ rest made my ankle and Achilles feel better. I also stopped wearing my toe clips and moved my foot further up on my pedals. I wouldn’t have problems with my ankle until later in the afternoon.
As I was leaving Williamsport, I came up on a man walking his dog. “On your left,” I yelled, to warn him of my passing. He jumped, looked around at me, and started cussing me out. Here, I had tried to be polite and not scare him and instead, I both scared and upset him.
Competing modes of transportation: Lock, lock houses and train
At first, our only challenge was stopping every little bit to pull our bikes over trees. This area is filled with history as we passed where Lee and his army were held up by a flooded Potomac as they retreated from Gettysburg, a year after Antietam. After about 7 miles, the path started to become muddier. After another half mile, we decided to turn around and head back to my car. On our way, just after we passed a huge down tree, in which we’d each be on a different side of the tree and hand bikes over, we met a park service crew cutting fallen trees. The last half of the ride back to my car was much easier.
Afternoon ride
Then we headed to Brunswick. We had hoped to peddle here today, but knowing there were sections of the trail out, we set out and road east to Point of the Rocks, stopping for lunch on the trail about halfway to our destination. Our thoughts were that this would give us only 48 miles to Washington on Wednesday. I appreciated seeing this site in the afternoon. The day before, still early in the morning, had the sun behind the unique train station.
Point of Rocks
Point of Rocks station
The original Baltimore and Ohio (B&O) tracks tracks ended at Point of Rocks, Maryland . Here, the railroad and the canal locked in legal wrangling over right away. It was eventually settled, with the railroad building a tunnel, which allowed them to move the lines westward. The railroad also began building a line eastward, to serve Washington DC. In the 1870s, where the two tracks converged, forming a wye, they built a station. Today, the station closed and owned and used by railroad. The Maryland commuter rail that runs into DC boards just west of the old station.
I waited to catch a photo of the station with a train that was slowly approaching. The train was going slow and I could have easily jumped aboard as a hobo, but then I noticed that this unit train on open containers marked with the symbol of Republic Trash Service. Dirty water poured from the containers and a rotten smell filled the air. The stench encouraged me not to take up hoboing.
Harpers Ferry
Harpers Ferry
After riding back to Brunswick, we continued west on the trail to Harpers Ferry. This also washed out but was temporarily patched with gravel. In 1987, the afternoon before visiting the Washington Monument, I had hiked along part of this section who also serves as the Appalachian Trail. Across from Harper’s Ferry, we locked our bikes up and walked across a pedestrian bridge. My Achilles ached and I mostly hobbled along. We explored a little of the Lower part of Harpers Ferry. Then we rode back to my car, loaded up our bikes and headed to our hotel, where I could ice my ankle. With only two hotel options in Brunswick and no B&B available, Warren had booked us in the closest hotel to the trail, a Travelodge, 1.7 miles away from the C&O. To reach this hotel on bicycles required a hard climb (as did the other hotel which was further away).
Hotel in Brunswick
We feared the hotel might be a repeat of the Super 8 night, but it was quite nice. It seemed odd to have a hotel like this off a major road or interstate, but we quickly surmised the hotel primarily customer to be the railroad. They even had a lounge only for CSX employees and featured a 1950s style dinner that was open 24 hours a day. A local taxi company shuttled train crews back and forth to the railroad.
A great ending dinner
Chicken and lamb shawarma
That evening, we decided to forgo the diner and try the Potomac Street Grill near the railroad tracks. They advertised both American and Middle Eastern dishes. It was a good decision. I had a delicious combo shawarma platter, with both chicken and lamb, a wonderful mediterranean salad, and a local beer for $24.
Wednesday, May 21, 2025 zero miles on bike/350 in the car
The night before, we watched the news and weather channels for what the next day would bring. Everyone was saying 100% chance of rain, with rains heavy in the morning and again later in the afternoon. It poured as we walked over to the diner for breakfast. We decided to quit. Having already had gaps in our travels along the C&O, we could come back and do the C&O again. Besides, my Achilles hurt.
Our plan had been to ride into DC, stay with my brother’s sister and brother-in-law, then the next day, Warren would bring me back to my car and we’d head home. Now, we’d both be home a day early.
Great Falls on the Potomac, just outside Washington DC
We left Brunswick at nine, in the pouring rain, hoping to miss the worse of the traffic. As we approached DC, the rain slowed to a drizzle. We stopped at Great Falls to witness the power of the Potomac at high water levels. Amazing rapids! A few minutes after leaving the rapids, we arrived at Hitch’s home, where we transferred my brother’s bike to his car. A few minutes later, we took off on our separate paths. For me, it rained most of the way home.
Ankle Update
I was checked out on Tuesday. While I didn’t tear any tendons, I have angered a few. The recommendation is that I not do any bike riding or long walks for a few weeks while it heals. In addition, I will do a few weeks of physical therapy to strengthen the muscles in my ankles.
