St Ignace to Green Bay, what is a Road?
When you put wheels to the ground you enter a world defined by the built space. By legacies of the past outside of your control. Paths, roads, gravel, pavement, a bridge goes here not there, this is a highway, this is a route, this is a dead-end that isn’t. It’s all telling you to play by the rules given. To live within the definitions. But they’re your wheels. You get to point them where you want. Get out there, pick a path, and only move forward. Because, frankly, a bicycle doesn’t pedal backwards.
There is a malleability to definitions in our lives. We know this inherently, but rarely spend time contemplating that we strike concepts on a page in written symbols and declare them static. Yet words are imbued with our personal experience and context. The choice of words we use may drip with connotation or be narrow in their specificity. And then there are those special words. Words that encompass such a broad category that the foolish may push into a single word a great many conditions. And there are fools, fools who like to test the boundaries, who will willingly bend a great many rules to fit as much as possible within a simple set of letters. These fools, they do it in jest. A low stakes parlor game to see what can be gotten away with, but with no real harm or injury. However, on occasion the word becomes too broad, the boundaries stretched too thin, and when it snaps back you just hope you return to road you were meant to be on.
Day 1. St. Ignace to Hog Island, Let’s get started, or not.
The plan. What, is the plan? If we’re going to ride around Lake Michigan we’re going to ride the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, that’s the plan. In order not to drive more than we bike, we decided to take advantage of a little known yachting race called the Chicago to Mackinac Race. That’s where 240 boats race with full crew to the island; and 240 boats are delivered home with skeleton crew. Leaving a surfeit of sailors and dearth of cars to return home in. This, to us, is an opportunity. For we want to drive a car to Mackinaw but don’t want to drive one back. And with a simple key exchange we were set, we’d drive two cars to Green Bay (our last start/end point) and one car to Mackinac. Then bike from Mackinac to Green Bay and drive from Green Bay home. Got it? Good.
We departed promptly at six am on Thursday for the drive up. Joe hung in there until we were a crew of three, then promptly fell asleep in the back. Rest up, you’ll need it. Meanwhile Hart and Jon tried our best not to peak at what was to come. Hart to not pick out views of the lake, Jon to not focus on the shoulder conditions. This was not a friendly preview, blinders would have been preferred.
We arrived St Ignace, which we get is not actually Mackinac Island but no one in Wisconsin seems to know where St Ignace is so we say it’s Mac-to-Green Bay, before heading out to Hog Island. We left the city of St Ignace with the Mackinac Bridge in the rear view. It’s impressive span rising above the low marshy roads. We had found some small out of the way side-roads and it all felt like an auspicious start to the trip.
It didn’t last, soon we were on the main drag. US Route 2. A wide shouldered highway which was realistically the only way to progress westward before turning the corner down to Green Bay. And to add to the discomfort it began raining. And then raining more. We were not looking forward to the endless highway wetness, when we came upon a small shop set into the dunes on land side of the highway. The Dune Shores Resort had a small restaurant not found on Google. And it had the perfect advertisement, “Pasties, D’ere Yooper Good”. How could we not stop. It wasn’t clear if was really open when we tentatively opened the door.
And with that we were welcomed, the warm smile and soft accent of the slight hostess made the space feel inviting and homey. She walked through the options, which were pretty much Pastie. Pastie with gravy, .75 more, or Pastie with sour cream, also 75 cents more. But there was a way that she just lingered on the with gravy option that made it
abundantly clear, the gravy option was the only that should be considered.
We waited, settling in watching the rain pour down while sipping cans of coke and some iron tinted water. When the Pasties showed up, tray of three gravies aside, we were overwhelmed. Suddenly we were drying out and being warmed by the UP’s most famous pocket meal. The locals were chatting the Pastie history, and we were dipping in.
This gravy was rich, each dip of the Pastie heating our stomachs while making them heavier. Our kind hostess/waitress/cashier keeping tabs on us all the while adding to the desire to settle in. Too bad we were only 17 miles into a 40 mile day, which was the first of a five day trip. Rain looks a little lighter, let’s hit the road. After paying, in cash of course.
Rain looked light, but kinda wasn’t. We rode along in a liminal space of sunny and raining. It was all very confusing. But we carried on along the shore. It was almost exclusively on US2, with just a few juts off to get a little closer to the shore and away from cars. It was certainly flat! The miles started to fly by and we came upon our next stop for the day, the Cut River Inn. A restaurant and country store just a few miles down. We decided to shed the iron-brown water for a heavy hydration routine of Powerade and bottle water. Except for Jon, who continued to drink brown water nearly the entire trip. Here we also came across another Google faux-pax, there are certainly not two Cut River Inns, there’s just this one and not one next to the camp. Fortunately, the cashier let us know there was a small country store just down the way.
At the Hog Island Country Store, not the Cut River Country Store, we met Ron while we decided on what we were going to eat at the campsite. In keeping with the day’s theme of keeping it local we decided on smoked coho and whitefish dip with ritz and clubhouse crackers. We were still pretty full from the Pastie after all. While we loaded Joe up with all the heavy supplies, wood and a six pack,
Hart got from Ron the common phrases for the down-staters in the mitten, Fudgies, Apple-Knockers, and a few more lost to the ages. You’d guess that Ron had a never ending stream of them, but we had to take our poor Joe to the campsite.
After the state of Michigan cancelled the first reservation, we were stuck with the unknown. A no-reserve self-check in rustic campsite called Hog Island. Which, decidedly, was not an island confusing the whole thing. There were forty-two total sites, but few were along the lake. We entered the unknown and scoped out one way. No dice. So we split and found the last campsite of the lot. Jon went to self register (cash only) and decided since we were on bikes we wouldn’t need to pay. Joe had the tent built and we were one beer in and ready to swim, our pasty white visages dashing into the cool sandy water. What a beach. We ended up not frolicking to return to the campsite for dinner of smoked fish and to finish up the six pack of Yooper beer. We then realized the sun was setting over the water, an unusual event for us Wisconsites, back to the beach for our desert of Fireball as the sun set only to be interrupted by strange sounds in the distance. Moans, groans, howls, and suddenly a roar. It took the third or fourth round for us to sort out it was from the zoo just down the street. Each time a car drifted to the rumple strip a new round would begin. Of howls, growls, yelps, and roars throughout the night.
Day 2. Hog Island to Fayette, mistakes were made.
We knew it would be a long day. Forecast was 94 miles of riding, certainly on the longer end of riding for this crew. Then a plan was set, get up at sunrise, pack the campsite and go. Only one issue, the earliest any diner opens was 8 am. Well, guess we’d focus on packing camp and hitting exactly at open to make sure we got on our way.
We arrived at 8:10 am, how perfect. Except for the fact that the local HVAC crew of 6 arrived at 8:07 am. It turns out that the Cove Bar in Naubinway isn’t staffing up for a morning rush of 9 people. Don’t get us wrong, the waitress was great. So steeped in UP pride that she had the whole peninsula tattooed on her arm. She kept us stocked up on surprisingly good diner coffee and filled our bottles with more iron-brown ice water at a steady clip. However, the one cook wasn’t about to push out 9 dishes in anything less than an hour, we finally kicked out of there, heavy stomach and all, around 9:45. Guess it’s Yooper time.
We eyed up the route and looked at a dead end that ended just before US2. There was clearly a gap, the road didn’t go through. Dead end signs couldn’t be clearer. To us, this is just a minor dead end. Here’s where our boundary pushing came out, thinking we would just hike-a-bike the few yards to the road. When we hit the end, ‘twas much more overgrown than it appeared from the satellite image. No matter, Jon hit it and rode his ‘cross bike all the way to the edge of US2 before he hit a hole and almost bit it. Hart laughing the whole while, only to seemingly step into the same hole less than a minute later, calling out “watch out for that hole” without a hint of irony. Honestly, this should have been a sign. Well, there was a sign; “Dead End”. Maybe there should have been a better sign.
Starting back on US2 we had a bit of a grind ahead for the next bit. It was another twenty miles before we could restock. The consistent traffic on US2 was grating and made it hard to settle into conversation and set us to just grind mode. When we came across Bob’s Superior Gas Station we were happy to have a break. Another cash only establishment, being held down by who you can only assume was Bob behind the counter. He spent a bit of time chatting, and even ripped off a few strips of duct tape to repair Hart’s tattered handlebar. Hart having not stopped to pick up the roll we just saw along the road, missing a clear hobo opportunity. It all felt like a good sign, friendly locals that just want to see you on your way.
No one enjoys riding along a highway. Any opportunity to deviate becomes a need to escape the sounds and heat of the mindlessly straight road. And that’s how you end up on a side road of gravel. One that has a gate stating “Campers, ATVs, and 3-Wheelers not allowed”, signs that leave open the possibility that maybe bicycles are allowed. Definitions matter after all. And we forged on, no Dead-End sign in sight, just a long gravel path to explore. Shortly after it became clear we were riding alongside an abandoned gravel pit. Evidenced by the trees planted in the gray expanse of earth scraped down thirty feet below the road. Yet, it was a bit suspicious, how the path started to turn awfully well-maintained for an abandoned mining road. Then, around a corner, a truck dumping earth. Not a small truck. No, it was the type with the ten-foot wheels and the ladder into the cab. We paused. It dumped. We thought. Then we made the decision that was more about hoping for a yes then being realistic about a no. We sent Hart to check it out.
Hart came back, feeling pretty good about our prospects. The remaining crew of two were a bit suspicious, but let our indifference show a bit. As we came upon the second truck the driver came down. A younger guy he simply stated, “never seen bicyclists here before” and to Hart’s direct question if it went through kind of mumbled that was not his job to decide “he wasn’t the boss” after all. And then we carried on, through the unstable truck churned soil. Road which was somewhat mud and somewhat sand, slowly turning to wet gray dust that formed a concrete like mud. And things started to not look so good, which was surprising considering the current condition. The number of trucks went up, and the path through became more and more unclear. We stopped to ask a drone operator if this went through, and he gestured vaguely to the side and said the pavement
"started a little down ‘that way’".
No sooner than we went vaguely one direction a man started shouting at us from afar “Bikes can’t be down here”. Guess it’s time to turn down a different path. One which very much did not lead to pavement, rather down into the stripped earth as far as you could see. The conversation between us wasn’t heated, but it wasn’t exactly cordial either. We squinted at maps when we were interrupted with a rumble. Well, more than a rumble, we now realize that we were so far from ‘abandoned’ we had hit ‘actively blasting’ gravel mine. Another truck passed by, we had it. We asked how to get out. They asked a few follow ups, like how did you get it in, but a bit of contrite admission that the going around the gate was probably where we went wrong and they pointed us the ‘right direction’. Seeing as that failed us last time, we asked for an escort. Could they kindly drive us to the exit?
And, sure enough with someone competent leading the way, not another half-mile down the ‘road’ was the pavement we were looking for. A few cheers from passing jobsite truck, "live free!” and we were on our way. Hart content to go the standard lackadaisical pace while Joe pushed ahead. Jon was quite certain we’d be met by the local Sheriff just beyond the gate. Amazingly, we weren’t. We soon passed the maintenance shed and waving American flag marking the mine entrance. Off we went leaving bemused, but not angry, mine workers in our wake. The only evidence of the escapade was the slurry covered bikes.
We ended up taking another slight detour off of US2 down to Gulliver. This one was actual paved road, before provisioning at the nearest gas station outpost. Gas stations around here were more like the town store with gas attached. Each had it’s own personality, each providing a sense of place to these tiny towns despite being stocked with the same Powerade, water, and RedBull. After the town, we at last found a road to send us down a less travelled path along the shore away from US2. Glimpses of sand beaches through the trees and private property perched along the shoreline dunes to the south and rolling sand ridges retreating deep beyond our view to the north.
Manistique is not the metropolis of modernity we were expecting. We also learned for the first of a billionth time that if you look up hours of a business on Google it gives you the
now hours, not the day you’re arriving hours. There goes our first chance at a brewery, why open before 3? Instead we headed across the walkway to the sandwich shop. Where Hart decided against a sandwich, instead enjoyed his spicy salmon poke-bowl. Starting the long conversation of whether this would rise to the top in the pantheon of terrible food choices from Hart.
We were heading to Fayette, a small ghost town on the peninsula that fades into the Summer Islands and eventually rises again into the Door Peninsula.
We could see it was a long way, so a quick stop in the lone store in Thompson would be all we would see for 20 miles. Hart especially taking his time with the ugly reality of the poke bowl making itself known. We felt ready to hit the road after 60 miles down and 30 to go we were greeted with wonderfully quite side roads. Roads which quickly faded into gravel. Were we road riding? Not so sure if this still counted, the gravel was just slightly sandy and a little unstable. Suddenly twenty miles became a tall order as the temperature climbed into the eighties. Cruelly, the narrow gravel was bereft of shade raising the difficulty level. No worries, we were ready to grind, suffer, and endure. We eventually broke out of the forest into farmland as the road transitioned back to paved in the town of Garden.
Jon had enough. It was ice cream time. The local shell station had a small meat / ice cream counter.
Jon patiently waiting for the locals picking up thick Yooper steaks to get served before the butcher could switch to scooping ice cream. This was no small cone either, proving the UP proportions always aim to fill. Joe posted up under a shade tree across the street to bring down the stress level. Just next to us was the shop’s bathroom. A port-a-potty that needed use. There was relentless teasing about using the lonely parking lot port-a-john sitting in the 80 degree sun all day. All proved wrong, this was the john of stars, a perfectly clean nearly out of the mold feeling plastic abode.
Fayette was a quick ten miles down, wrapping up with views of the Big Bay du Noc on the first road of the day with appreciable hills. The route directed us into the park through it’s backside. A short bit of trail starting down a hill at the terminal of a dead-end road. Turns out, this sign was serious about what was to come. The park service piled a significant berm of gravel and dead fall in front of a something resembling a disused right of way. Guess it was either climb over or backtrack. And with the spirit of defining our own meaning of road, of course we moved forward. And with that, the little bit of ‘road’ surface quickly ended and fallen trees blocked the way. We switched paths and started hike-a-biking under power lines to the side before the ‘road’ turned into a surface fitting a bike trip. We rode out the remaining quarter mile through a field. Success?
The campsite was dense. The beach was rocks. We still dove in. All desperately trying to wash some grit, grime, and perhaps concrete, from our bodies. It had been a long sweaty ride that we were excited to be done with. Unfortunately, we were offered no real camping ambiance, and decided that we would post up at the nearest bar. Park Ranger says it wasn’t too far, you just go out the campsite, past the closed gate and down gravel road. Hey, we were on bikes, didn’t stop us before and won’t stop us now.
The Port Bar & Family Restaurant had a scant few people when we arrived. This was still enough to put us on the regular UP pace of service. We didn’t mind, we had a pack of cards and settled into a game of Sheepshead. Some rules even followed. The meal choices were derivations of fried foods, Jon taking the whitefish basket, Joe the whitefish sandwich, and Hart the Mini Tacos. Which, were certainly not hand assembled tiny tacos, and were certainly deep fried frozen food meant for children. Here Hart set a new standard for the day, somehow beating his previous worst possible meal on a bike trip he just set at lunch.
Day 3. Fayette to Gladstone, a day of riding and not getting very far.
Looking at the map, you’d really wonder how it takes a whole day to get from Fayette to Gladstone, especially since we decided to cut the gravel riding and shrink the ride from 90 to 60 miles. But, the plan was to make it only that far, and only that far we would make it.
Strolling out of camp a little later, we knew it would be a few miles until breakfast. We set out and really did a quick crank out of twenty miles to hit Tylenes Restaurant. We were feeling pretty good about the day ahead, setting up looking out the window at the sandy bay. For over an hour. It became clear that the waitress and her sister in the kitchen were probably the only people working for the dining area nearly filled. And unlike the Cove Bar, the coffee was so terrible we could barely drink it. We had Joe though, and he helped us settle in, order the greasy skillets and just enjoy the AC and friendly patrons around us. Plus, they had a clean bathroom. Really, what’s to complain about. The food was filling, and we might need it. Depending on timing and route, it’s between 10 and 50 miles between us and the next stop.
We rolled up to the Nahma in just 10 miles down the road. Feeling much better rested
than we expected, we had a decision to make on stopping. We almost passed when the long grey haired man on the porch, guitar behind, simply stated “you’re at the right place”. When we asked if they had coffee, he simply said “walk on back and they’ll put some on”. We did feel at the right place, even though it was 15 minutes before open. When the waitress / hostess / maybe owner said she’d be right with us, she meant at eleven, after 15 minutes, when they really opened. A fact the other two patrons also discovered waiting for their beer. They arrived looking for the Nahma music festival and a noon-drink. Based on our shared observations that festival may have been entirely comprised of the man on the porch taking his guitar out of the case. As enticing as the idea was, we decided to order out. Time to take our pocket burgers and hit the road, side of fries and all.
We shortened the day, that’s a given, but it was still 26 miles of remote roads. Down from 50 miles of completely unknown condition we realized after the last day’s emotional and physical toll maybe doubling up wasn’t the way to go. As anticipated, no sooner did we turn off the main drag did the road deteriorate into gravel. We grinded on, still satiated from the breakfast from Tylenes knowing we had pocket burgers at the ready. When we hit the pavement again, we were riding along self-satisfied with our reroute. It’s then we had an opportunity to take a cut across and avoid US2 a bit more. Hart’s map didn’t have the road, but Jon’s did. A loose vote was taken, and we headed for the short cut.
The context, we had been travelling on a windy gravel road for ten miles through the woods, yet it was still open and exposed. Then we hit a long stretch of straight as an arrow road that turned from gravel to pavement. We were at a point where we felt that we had made it out. What better time to head back in. So, when we made that turn, no dead-end sign, it would be hard to describe exactly how it felt when the road suddenly began degrading below our wheels as the road narrowed and the trees started growing in and down closing off the space creating a claustrophobic effect, all while rapidly heading down a hill. We were literally, and possibly figuratively, descending into an abyss.
When we came out, it wasn’t an abyss. It was sand. Sand as far as you could see. This ‘road’ was essentially a beach carved into a managed forest that hadn’t grown back in. It was unrideable. Soon we were hiking along, in the sand, without a view out. How long was this exactly? Hart had other ideas, he hit the ground along the trail. And Jon followed. The two pushing their way over the crackling dried surface just barely holding together above the sand. Joe reluctantly joined in, seemingly not enjoying the experience, and we bounced slowly along in our highest gear just trying to stay upright. Pocket burgers anyone? No. Ok, carry on then.
Ultimately it was only about a mile and a half of sand, or scrabbled grass depending, before we shot out onto a paved road again. Just another two before hitting a grocery store. It stunk of just lit cigarettes and had a cashier that looked the part. The lonely little ice cream counter only enticed Jon, and he was satisfied as once again the portions didn’t disappoint. We moved a bench into the shade and enjoyed our cold, still good, burgers along with our not so good fries. Chips were an option, but really, who chooses chips.
The campsite was another ten miles down the lake in downtown Gladstone, and we took the lakeside way in, of course. It was a tour of the industrial side of the lake, and not very inviting. Jon had planned us to take the back way in so we could ride the boardwalk along the beach. The snow fencing tied across the start should have been a sign, but once again we took our liberties around the fence an on to the board walk. Joe was not enthused, and for good reason. The board walk had completely deteriorated into sand and wood planks strewn about from winter storms. We turned around. It was finally necessary. For the record, Hart was still prepared to continue on.
As we were rerouting back to the actual entrance the GPS gave warning, storms a comin’. We hurriedly took a swim, set camp, and headed into town. Finding the first open bar, it had good music, a huge beer selection, and David Crosby. Such it was a surprise when Hart suggested we move to the bar down the street. There must have been something magical about the old lady holding court, the two-year-old Lions game on TV, and the surly bartender that drew him in. We ordered pizza from next door, cash only, and played pool as we waited. The round robin finished with all at 1-1 and no defined victor declared. This despite Hart’s obvious skill gap over the other two. Hart’s relocation did spot us a round of drinks, and ended with us learning that the late comer to the bar was ‘fixed’ and no longer had ‘her things’. Nearest we could tell she meant crutches? Leaving we launched into the evening discussion which carried on around the fire, what would life in Gladstone be like.
Day 4. Gladstone to Oconto, grind it down.
We woke, sore as ever, as early as we could manage, ready to stare down 92 miles with more than half on serious highway. It was the Michigan 35 day, and we knew we needed to hit it early. Good thing we were starting by hitting an actual town with actual coffee shops before we got to the grind.
And, nope. There were no open coffee shops on a Sunday morning. The whole town seemed to sleepily awaiting church for the day before anything could open up. After steering us so wrong Jon had a minor breakdown. Joe saw the diner and wanted to go, Hart said it was just around the corner, so we went in a circle until getting back to Joe’s spot. There was not an enthusiasm for diner food and an hour plus wait again. We were all rather resigned to the fate when Joe happened upon the key to the day, Cudighi. This neigh impossible to pronounce dish turned out to be Rosy’s Diner new owner’s home-made sausage, since the previous owner cruelly took her sausage recipe with her. With a fine greeting from her husband as she explained; the couple recently acquired the diner and knew that he and his buddies yearly Cudighi making would be the new dish. Seeing as it was the local thing, we all ordered up. Three different versions of the Yooper delicacy were served up. It turns out that closed doors do sometimes lead to new opportunities. And that opportunity was a wine and cinnamon stuffed sausage of unknown provenance. We felt the trip had a completeness as of this point, we now hit every delicacy and even variants we hadn’t even known about, Cudaghi (nee’ cudighi), Pastie with gravy, whitefish in a basket or dip, smoked salmon, and mini tacos.
That sense of completeness was fleeting, when we got on the road and looked at the GPS the reality was straight in our faces, fifty miles to the next turn. Fifty miles along M35 to Marinette. Saddle up, let’s ride. We did a true pace line. Jon taking the lead for most, but swapping out for everyone to have a chance at a pull. Grind and go. Grind and go. As we wound down the miles, the wide shoulder began to narrow, and narrow, and narrow again. Soon we were left with nearly nothing at all, scarcely two feet wide with strips of tar holding the ‘road’ together. Tenuous as the shoulder’s condition from complete deterioration, our condition was worse. The mental and physical exhaustion, we were only moving forward because of the quiet desperation to get it over with. Unable to joke or share the experience in the moment over the din passing trucks. We couldn’t talk, it was all about the grind, about the miles. Until finally, mercifully, we hit Cedar River 30 miles in. Everything but the gas station was closed, which was probably the best for our still Cudaghi stuffed selves, and we had no time for a break anyway. We each downed as much liquid as we could knowing there was more yet to come, 20 to go until the next break.
Or not. What we thought was a poor shoulder only collapsed further and further into disrepair as the traffic became worse and worse. There needed to be relief. Real relief. After 10 miles, a park, with a through road. Gravel never felt so good. We rode side by side, letting our minds relax as we were closer to the lake than we had been for the last 40. When Hart announced, we should go swimming. We all knew, there could be no better thing to do. We stripped down and hopped in. The sand was perfect, the water was clear and cool. It brought it all home, the raison d’etre for the whole scheme, to be by Lake Michigan, to feel the water, to enjoy the sand between your toes. It was enough to carry us on for the remaining 10 miles, and we returned to a road with a widened shoulder after the break. It was perfect.
It is not to be believed that on a 80 degree day there is not an open ice cream shop in
Menominee Michigan. Just not to be believed, despite all evidence and ‘closed’ signs. Instead three sweaty, road grime encrusted, mounds of stank had to sit at the nice little breakfast café. The Serving Spoon, overlooking the American Legion and M&M Yacht Club became our respite. The other patron’s should be thankful we found a seat outside. And despite the fact that Jon was looking forward to ice cream or tiny pies, it was decided we would have a real lunch round of sandwiches. Joe finally had a good cup of coffee, and Hart and Jon pounded fountain cokes. The cool breeze off the lake letting us relax and clearing away the smell. We stayed until they closed up, got back on the saddle and rode out knowing we had cleared the hellscape.
South of Marinette to Peshtigo are some of the longest, flattest, uninterrupted smooth expanse of pavement ever seen. The road runs down to the Peshtigo river delta before curving back north to downtown Peshtigo ‘city’. There were a few cars, sure, but no one was going fast on a Sunday, and we could see as far as we needed. We settled back into our typical 12 mph pace and enjoyed the brief peaks through the woods out to the Green Bay. By now, we were paralleling Door County. You could feel the sense that we were really making it happen. We were feeling good enough that a furtive thought struck, what if we put in a few extra miles? We’ve gone this far, why not.
We hit Peshtigo and were now not getting dinner, but just stopping on our way. Hart and Jon had identified a camp site on the south side of Oconto, adding about 10 miles on the day. Joe was enthused about hitting a hundo. Jon was just pumped that we finally made it to an honest, for real, ice cream shop. One that didn’t have diet coke, medium sizes, and maybe parking lot shenanigans, but ice cream shop it was. Scoop it up, this was just a brief stop before dinner in Oconto and points beyond. Did we know if we’d find a spot to camp, no. But the die was set, official or guerilla we were going to camp on the south side of Oconto.
We did stop to check out the reserved campsite. As expected, nothing special. We talked to the host, well the host’s husband anyway. He really didn’t have much to say, except that we’d probably be fine at the other campsite. Off to dinner in Oconto we guess. We hit 100 miles riding just as we hit downtown and realized nearly everything was closed again. Not looking forward to another diner, worst best choice was Pizza a second night in a row. This time at a little spot with a smaller dining area, and typically slow service. The pizza was fantastic, and Hart dominated Jon in Galactica after waiting a little for the kid to explain how it all worked. Hart couldn’t help himself though, ordering a Blue Moon to go with his pizza instantly drawing Joe’s gastronomic ire. How does the orange taste?
We knew there would be nothing in the morning. That it was 30 miles to Green Bay, and 30 miles before we found a spot to stop. With a surprising amount of foresight, we hit up the local gas station. Also, probably the social epicenter for the local youths. Right after we arrived an ATV, three kids on BMX/MTB bikes, and a truck with kids in the bed rolled up. Checking out we were mixed in the kids, only a brief other appearance of another customer, who added a little culture to our visit while buying his liter for the night, “to drink, or not to drink…….. Shakespeare”. We loaded up coffee for the morning, and free water from the fountain. We took forever to get situated, in and out of the shop, watching the youths tool around on their bikes, bunny hops, break skids, all the things we olds cannot do before finally departing. But not with firewood. We just couldn’t do it to Joe again. Not even just 3 miles from the campsite.
At just 3 miles from downtown Oconto, City Park felt like it might run the risk of being a little too close. The feeling might have been maybe we were going to hope for there being people rather than being empty, sure enough we weren’t alone. A separate group of youths, likely up from Hartford given the accordant spirit wear, had decided to camp there as well. They looked a bit concerned when we approached, but it was just to ask if they were heading to town, and if they would pick us up some firewood. To our luck, they were doing just that. While we swam, in perhaps not the nicest water, the kids were off. In their sweet-as Mustang.
After we finished swimming, and scaring off the local children, the Hartford Youths returned. Sadly, the mustang impaled itself on a pipe. Literally the only pipe in the whole campsite. For no reason whatsoever there was a four-inch diameter pipe sticking up eighteen inches off the ground and those kids found it. We thought of offering help, but thought it better to stick to our Fireball, fire, and go to sleep. Only hiccup, the tent was set up with the head side downhill. Maybe not knowing this tent, one might not realize this transforms a tiny tent to fat man log pile. Too bad, it was way too late to move. Off to bed, at least we knew it wouldn’t be a challenge to get up in the morning.
Day 5. Oconto to Green Bay, snapping it off.
We started the morning with cans of Starbucks and a complete takeover of the park’s restrooms. It was an auspicious start to the day. Jon even amended the route to the actual roads to leave the campsite. Nothing was going to stop us. We hit the road, finally realizing we were in ‘sconnie and doing it. And it was true, there was nothing from Pensaukee to Suamico. Not until we closed in on the highway in Howard did we run into a place to stop. Jon complained mightily that our last chance of a brewery was closed, while Hart found the dream. A truck stop pastry shop. The sheet metal exterior belied the true nature of this shop, it’s tiny store stocked with the most amazing treats. We couldn’t believe the luck, each ordering more than what was reasonable, this was the spot that would drive us to the finish.
Snaking through Green Bay, it was a severe shock from the complete and total remoteness we just experienced. Houses, traffic lights, broken concrete roads, people. So many people. Truly a shocking transition. We ended up making it back to Copper State Brewing. We wanted another good cup of coffee, and suddenly Joe remembered there was an espresso shop inside. And we finally hit a brewery, only to have the taps closed and the espresso bar open. Guess no beer finish this year, instead settling for amazing cups of coffee and a feeling of true accomplishment. We hit the spot that connected to the last trip. We stuck the landing.
The Postscript Ride out of Town
There were still ten more miles, no one dare mentioning that we hadn’t had a flat tire the whole trip. Not to mention making sure to ride through the scantest of private property at a ‘dead end’ to get to the car. Because, if we learned anything, it was absolutely nothing at all. With that complete lack of self-awareness, we hit our goal. We knew those ten miles didn’t matter. We made the four trips contiguous. From Ludington to St Ignace, the line was uninterrupted, stretching out into Door County and down into the lake from the UP, we had made the most of it. Found roads that weren’t, pushed boundaries literal and figurative, traded trail for highway to make it work. A silly little feather in our caps on our way to a goal of no great importance. This year we left with the feeling that we go forward to prove something, to prove that we can define our own lives, write our own rules, push the boundaries. And we did. Even if in the great grand scheme we’re making slight modifications to the definitions, they’re our changes, we’ll always know we made them for ourselves.
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