Tawas Ain't Tiny No More

Tawas Ain't Tiny No More

July 14: Miles 284-305

East Tawas:  We are up and out just before dawn. The ride takes us across the big AuGres River and all of a sudden, we're back in water loving Michigan. Bait shops, boat dealers and a waterway filled with every kind of watercraft-- from pontoon boats to speedboats to canoes-- are lining the river leading to the northeast corner of the Saginaw Bay.

Michigan US 23 is a good and easy ride. There's a wide shoulder and very close access to Lake Huron ,which is glittering in the morning light.

However, the temperature is climbing.  We are happy the Iron Bellel trail veers off the hot highway.  Soon we are following a lovely winding bike trail that takes us to the relics and remains of the town of Alabaster, where there were big gypsum mining works and even now serves as a source for wallboard.

For the first time on this trip, we become aware of the tourist trade.  As we go north on the trail, we encounter groups of 4 to 8 adults riding identical E-bikes. Most of them look like they haven't been on bikes very often in the last few years. But hey, you could say the same thing about us.

We stop for lunch (leftovers from Lonesome Dove) at a trailside table.  Here comes a group we saw not long ago, having taken their rented bikes on a nice there-and-back 20 mile ride.

At Tawas, we are amazed at how much it has grown since our last visit here more than 20 years ago. It is now a full-on tourist town. The sleepy pretty port town we remember (perhaps incorrectly) is long gone.  The beach now sports big block hotels, next to tiny cabins and mom and pop shops from another era.

It is hot-hot hot!  We spot a laundromat and pull in to de-stinkify our limited selection of clothes. Everything Wes has brought needs cleaned, so he ends up wrapping his skinny self in a scarf I am carrying. The two local women-- a small woman with steel gray hair pulled back into a plastic headband and her blonde much bigger daughter? compatriot? giggle when they see him.

The detergent vending machine steals my money, so I ask the women, if there's another option. Sweetly, they offer their own jug of detergent, “Help yourself.”

I, foolishly I now realize, have not made arrangements for lodging. I call multiple locations --no answer or no vacancy. After laundry, we see a cute motel where someone, the owners as it turns out, is cleaning the rooms. They do have availability for that night, but the cost for the dog would be $75—nearly doubling the cost of the room. No thanks.

I try location after location, even calling a lovely fancy pants bed and breakfast.  This is a sign of how desperate I am getting.  These types of establishments almost never accept dogs.   And as expected, they don't. Before I say goodbye, I ask, “Can you recommend a place.”

“Yes,” she says,  “Call Tawas Bay Beach Resort and tell them Brenda sent you.”

I call. They do have a room. I ask about the dog. They don't accept dogs except service dogs.

I explain that Heidi is a service dog. This is sort of true.

Heidi, although she is a momma's dog, is hyper attuned to Wes's difficulties with balance and vertigo.  Although no one ever taught her, she butts up against him whenever he goes wobbly, alerting him to connect with his center of gravity and to align his vision with the horizon.  She has kept him from falling several times.

We think we are going to Tawas Bay Resort, which is little cabins on the Bay, but no. This is a big sprawling tourist megaplex in what is now called east Tawas. We don't remember East Tawas existing when we were here last.  Now it is district full of cute and trendy shops and pricey charming places to eat.  Was all this built since the 1990s?

In the hotel, two middle women emerge from the back office to join the desk clerk.  They want to inspect us and see what kind of trick Brenda is pulling on them.  They clearly think we are strange beings to be a) biking and b)biking with a dog of Heidi's size. They ask all kinds of questions.  Taking a dog on a bike trip especially seems unfathomable to them, but it does lend credence to our assertion that Heidi is service dog.

They end up giving us a discount on a room with a view of the Bikini Bar, instead of the sandy beaches and blue waters of Lake Huron.

It's fine with us. I have a zoom meeting to do.  Wes finds the people watching at this quasi-tiki bar is endlessly entertaining. 

We watch young teens flirt and play volleyball until they are exhausted and endless parades of tourists in resort wear drinking high-priced watered down drinks from plastic cups.  (Soon, we are some of them, sans resort wear.)    

Out on the lake people stand in the water. A few swim. Some just lurk in the white plastic chaises provided by the resort.

In a protected and fenced off area just to the left of the beach, there are numerous waterfowl-- not just the usual clattering seagulls.  I spot nests of three or four species of ducks, numerous Canadian honkers, sandpipers---and is that a scurrying bird a piping plover?  Maybe that’s why it is fenced off.

In the distance, we can see the white tower of the Tawas lighthouse which stood at the end of the point until the 1980s when the point grew by a mile, rendering the lighthouse a beautiful but dysfunctional relic.

There are lots of boats, especially sailboats, even double and triple mast schooners.  We attempt to walk to the State Harbor concert and street dance that night but wear out long before we get there.

Back in our cool room, we watch the parade at the Bikini Bar for a little while longer, then fall asleep in our big comfortable beds.

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July 15:  A Wasted Day

Mile 305 and holding

We are up early the next day and start to pack---and I just don’t feel like moving.  I want to swim in Lake Huron, and just be a tourist.  Are we not bicycle tourists?   Wes, though somewhat reluctant, agrees.

I try to renew our “obstructed view” room—but no luck.  We have to check out, then wait until another room is ready.   We end up waiting in the lobby for several hours because there is no place to put our luggage.  (I don’t understand this, nor do I understand why we didn’t just put it back on our bikes.)  grrr.

We get a room down the hall for more money.  Grrr again.  I go for a wade in the beautiful warm water.  We go for walks and note for the umpteenth time references to Sasquatch.  We visit the Bikini Bar. 

But mostly, we’re bored and mad at ourselves for not moving on.  

Oh well.

A Non-Sequitur

 

July 13:  A Non-sequitur

Miles 260-284

AuGres: We are out of that orange room as early as possible. It's an easy and uneventful ride, wishing we were not on the highway, but in the trees on a trail.  When we rejoin US 23 at Standish, we see the North Shore of the Saginaw Bay is swampy and marshy. There are no roads and no trails going through it. Every so often a road goes straight south to the Bay, but the water –and water life-- is not visually present.

We have made a reservation at a new hotel intriguingly named Lonesome Dove.

Talk about a non sequitur.

The whole place is a paean to Larry McMurtry's book about a Texas cattle drive in the 19th century. It is extremely well done.  The whole place is full of memorabilia from the book and the movie. There are maps recounting the imagined trail from Texas to Montana. There are displays with Robert Duvall's autograph, Tommy Lee Jones’ costume.  The wallpaper sports historic brands. The decor is full on Westernalia.  There's even a real cowhide on our bed in the big beautifully appointed room.  All the details are right--down to the stirrup embellished coasters.

The staff is friendly; the restaurant has good food; and the prices are reasonable. But there's not--- people staying in the hotel.

So much so that the young woman who checked us in is also serving as a housekeeper. The friendly outgoing innkeeper who wrote me personally about us bringing a dog greets us in the lobby and mentions that his wife is coming to work the hotel that night.

When we leave the next morning, and the restaurant and bar are closed, the place is like a ghost town. I wander the halls to find a staff person to get some coffee-- especially branded with the Lonesome Dove imagery.

We loved it and would happily return, but wonder if it could possibly be paying for itself, much less chipping away at what must have been huge construction and furnishing costs.  We hope so--- but wonder.

Iron Belle: July 8-12

 

Birthday Bike

July 12, 2025: Donahue Bay to Pinconning

Miles 238-260

We are off early on my birthday.  We find the Iron Belle and it takes us to lovely forests aside the Saginaw Bay.  That ends much too soon.

Our hosts have told us we must eat at the Turkey Roost, which has been in business since the 1940s.

“It's Pepto Bismol pink!” Chris says, “You can't miss it!”

Indeed.

The whole vibe is early 1960s—plastic booths and formica tables, no winking irony.  We bring the dog in. No one blinks an eye.

After we order, Wes sings me a sotto voce  Happy Birthday and we pretend the giant fluffy biscuits are my birthday cake.

We're back on the road through layers of worker suburbia-- small cape cods and ranch houses dot the streets.  We plug along.  It’s not an unpleasant ride, though we wish we could be closer to the Bay and in the forest, instead of on a moderately busy highway.

I'm still riding quite a bit faster than Wes.  He tells me, “Stop early and stop often!”

Which I do, but to no avail.

I stop at a General Family Dollar Tree and buy another pair of sunglasses, (Is this pair four or five?) and make sure they are good and ugly.  The bright blue frames with pink lenses should make them harder to lose.

I look and look for Wes but don't see him. I push him on until I come to Wilson's Cheese House,  the oldest cheese maker of Pinconning cheese.

A small man swathed in voluminous puffy bonnet, gloves, apron and a white jacket comes from the production room and asks if I am riding the bike outside.

I am.  I then answer multiple questions from him and his coworker, a late middle-aged woman with a peculiar color of red hair mashed under a net.

“Oh, I could never do that!” he declares, “That takes guts.”

I assure them it doesn't, just persistence. It’s just taking a bike ride every day.  (I don’t say anything about the daily challenge of finding lodging.) I buy their most sharp cheese and go out to look for Wes.  Again, I don't see him.

I call and wait for Wes.   What the heck?   There is no way Wes can be that far behind me.

I push on, increasingly anxious about Wes.  Did something go wrong?  Is there a problem with the bike?

I finally get him on the phone. He is at a Marathon gas station. I assume it is the gas station where I waited some miles back.

Nope.  Wes is in Pinconning---several miles ahead of me.  He must have passed me when I was buying sunglasses or cheese.

I meet him in Pinconning and we make our way to the only motel in town. I go into the plexiglass-protected office where a large surly Indian man greets me-- if “Just a minute” counts as a greeting.  He calls a name, then disappears.

I smell the rich and enticing smells of curry.  Behind the plexiglass, a Bollywood musical blares on a huge TV that no one is watching. A young, harried woman, heavily pregnant with dark circles under her eyes and her black hair pulled into a thoughtless ponytail, greets me. Her name is Ananda.

We are assigned to the room second closest to the highway.  It is painted orange and the queen beds are on twelve inch platforms.  We have a hard time figuring out how to turn on the air conditioning unit near the ceiling by the bathroom.  A switch across the room does the trick.  

It's nothing fancy, but it'll do--until a group of raging, rowdy what appears to be tweakers moves in next door.  I watch them as I take Heidi out to a patch of grass littered with a kiddy pool and tiny tricycles.  Surly guy and Ananda’s children’s, I assume.

One skinny young man with burning eyes and a buzz haircut is having a meltdown. A barely dressed enormously obese woman tries to console him, while the normative character in this lot, a paunchy middle-aged guy with a walrus mustache, says over and over “Take it easy.”

They bang and they clang and they shout. The skinny guy zooms off in the beater Impala and comes back with two cases of beer.

Oh no. This is going to be a frightmare with no sleep for us.

I go to the office and ask Ananda if we can move to a different room that will be quieter.

“No. Everything is taken. Don't worry. I will speak to them.”

Back in our room, as we prepare to go get dinner, I get a call from Ananda.

“I have spoken to them and said they must be quiet as there are people on both sides of them. I told them that they must leave if they are not quiet.”

After our dinner at a sports bar, where our waitress is a terrified young woman working her first shift, we come back to our room and see the beater Impala is gone. Perhaps Ananda made them leave.

Not quite. Normative guy returns sans meltdown guy and enormous woman.

Ananda calls again, “You let me know if they make any noise!”

They don't.  We sleep as well as we can in the too tall beds in the bright orange room with highway sounds all night.

Meditation On Age 69

Today is my 69th birthday.

I am feeling good that biking is becoming more pleasure than chore.  Often in the morning, the riding is magical. It is quiet and cool. The sound of birds is the loudest sound. 

I remember the joyful ride on the Southern Lake Trail.  Trees abut both sides of the smooth and beloved trail.  I spot mama deer and a spotty baby 6 feet away. A little frog hops across the path.  My heart sings.  I speak to the many, many itty bitty wabbits.

(Because I am 69, I am required to quote Elmer Fudd--where I am sure is the first place this little Wyoming girl encountered the music of Richard Wagner. “Kill the wabbit” still rings in my head.)

But to be 69 is also to be in a different relationship with my body. My body is weaker.  It recovers more slowly. 

We undertake this trip to regain vitality-- to use our bodies vigorously in an activity which we know will become pleasurable.  The first week of every trip we have taken is always tough. Even if we have been practicing, (which we did damn little before this trip) it is never enough and it is never the right kind of exercise.

For example: one of the biggest energy sucks is starting the bike from standing still.  Road riding (as opposed to bike path riding) has lots of stops and starts.  Then there is being constantly aware of the roaring industrial vehicles, idiotical jackanapes driving much too fast, and the ordinary inattentive drivers.  There is no way to prepare for this stop and start stress.

I want to be a strong and vital 69.  I do not want my body and my brain to slip into goo.  We have been too long inside.  I have been too long worried and focused on Wes’ recovery.  Wes is 72, an old 72 at that.  He needs to know he is still who he was.  He needs to know that he still has resilient strength.  As do I.

On those luminous mornings-- in fog or clear, when the bike is humming along and my legs are working and I'm not winded, I can soar into some state of ecstasy and hyper-attuned presence. I am listening, seeing, being.  There is joy in the doing and connections beyond myself.

I'm 69 and getting my body to go without running out of strength or energy is a blessing in itself. 

On we go.

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Worth the Effort

July 11, 2025: Saginaw to Donohue Beach

Miles 218-238

Back at Shumakers, the bike is ready and Wes is hot to trot. Both Chris and I encourage Wes to take a trial ride, just to make sure.

“Nope! It's fine” he says, “It's fine. I pay the entirely too low cost for all the work done by Greg (Another subsidy for our odd journey.)

Wes tries to ride.  Can’t.  Brake problem.  Chris and I exchange glances, “Told ya.”

Greg sighs,  “They don't even make brakes like this anymore.”

The cantilever brakes on Wes’ 1980s bike were a short-lived innovation. The center-pull brakes very easily slip out of balance then are hard to return to balance.  Greg frets, “I don’t what you’ll do if they fail up the road.  There’s no way to put a newer system on this bike.”

While Wes and Greg mess around with the bike, Chris shows me pictures of the stone cottage she and her husband built by themselves. It has a sinuous organic shape and is completely iconoclastic.

Greg says, “I tease her she'll never be able to sell it.”

Chris retorts, “Just throw my body in there when I die and cover the whole thing with dirt. Problem solved.”

When we do go, Greg and Chris tells us at least five times to be safe. Greg warns us that it's tricky getting to the Saginaw/Bay City rail trail, but definitely worth it.

We wander our way through downtown, crossing the river unnecessarily to immediately be accosted by a shirtless 60-year-old panhandler whose aggressive approach and grimace look all the world like someone in pain from withdrawal.

As we try to figure out how to get past I-475, we interrupt two men lurking in the entry of a closed nightclub in a stately old bank. The young dark headed one is talking shit, while his older compatriot says, “Ohh I know, I know!” several times.

Back across the bridge, we cycle through industrial Saginaw on the banks of the river. I spot a sign directing us to the Iron Belle Trail.  We take it and are immediately led away from the river into the suburban hinterlands.  What?

We wobble back and forth, trying to find our way back to the river, until we get to Zilwaukee  where we at last where encounter the path.  Of course, there is no signage.   We make several rough railroad crossings before we realize we are headed south instead of north.  Sigh.

The trail disappears at a crossroads, but we know it follows the river, so we head eastward knowing we will find it sooner or later. At an industrial port with piles of a dark mineral and suspiciously named Kochville, the road says Dead End.

“This has got to be it,” I say more confidently than I feel.

A few miles later, when the road ends in a small outpost of riverside houses. We finally spot the trail.

Then the magic begins.

We are riding between waters. On one side wetlands, ponds or swamps, on the other side, the big Saginaw River.   We spot an egret and are pleased. A little while later, we see several great blue herons.  As I ride within six feet of one old fellow, he gives me a baleful look, then irritated, slowly lifts himself from  his spot. “See!”  He seems to say,  “You ruined it here and now I have to leave.”

Then, in wetlands on either side of us, we see dozens of egrets and more great blue herons, along with a plethora of ducks and geese.  Red-wing blackbirds whistle on both sides.  Rabbits and frogs cross the path.  It starts to drizzle.  We are one with the waterbirds, frogs, and dripping skies.

In west Bay City, we are the only customers in an empty bar. “Can we bring our dog in?

The waitress says, “No.  But you’re the only ones here, so what the hell.”

We connect with our Warm Showers hosts and who tell us we need to ride straight north to the shoreline of Saginaw Bay.

We never enter the lovely confines of downtown Bay City, and are soon heading up Bangor Road to Donahue Bay. Our host, a cherub-faced men with sandy brown hair, greets us. We put our bikes in his garage and notice a handmade wooden kayak in the rafters.  We meet their bouncing, barking golden retriever, Lacey, who overwhelms Heidi with her energy and assertive sniffing.

He takes us to our room at the end of a long 2nd floor corridor.  It overlooks the Bay and the blooming garden under the protection of a four-foot plaster Mary. Our room has a bleeding Jesus crucifix complete with a Palm Sunday palm.  Catholics live here.

After a while, mom Jenn and the two towheaded boys return from a day trip to the Detroit Zoo. Mom is beat, but the kids and dog are soon running back and forth across the backyard, over the sea wall and into the Bay.  A neighbor dog comes to visit, making a riotous family cacophony.

She is a pharmacist at what used to be Ascension Hospital in Saginaw. It is under new management, and she is anxious about the transition. She, hubby Chris, and kids are headed to Nova Scotia next week.

“We are going to look for some land there,” she says, “Just in case.”  

She has dual Canadian and American citizenship and is hedging her bets. 

“If things keep going the way they are, I want be able to raise my boys in a stable environment.” She muses.  I hear the Trump anxiety in her statement, but all of us are too careful to go there.

After dinner, we visit with the parents.  We ask about the kayak and learn that Chris made it himself.  “Do you still take it out?.” 

He pats his small pouch of a belly, and says, “Can’t fit in it anymore!”

We are shocked to learn that Chris is 54.  He could pass for 35. Jenn is a bit younger.   They met online 15 years ago when both were about to give up on ever marrying and having a family.

They exude joy, love, and gratefulness that they found each other and made this free-wheeling fulsome family. She was raised in Midland.  Both her parents were Canadian who worked for Dow Chemical. He grew up just down the street from their current house.

It is shocking such deeply rooted people who love the life that they've built together are nonetheless contemplating emigrating to Canada. “We just want our kids to be raised in a stable, wholesome environment. It's hard to see that happening here in the USA.” Jenn says again.

Around 8:30pm, the whole family starts flagging. Mom says bedtime and within 10 minutes, the house is silent.

All of us are soon quiet, then sleeping in our bedroom while the moon shines over the silvery Saginaw Bay.

 

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Into the Agricultural Heartland

July 10, 2025: Frankenmuth to Saginaw 

Miles 198-218

We get an early start and are soon cycling the agricultural byways of the Cass River, which we have crossed and recrossed since Vassar.  We pass fields of sugar beets, corn, and wheat. The ride is pleasant, but loses its pleasantness as we get close to I-75.   There must be road construction because every east west road across I-75 is closed.  We must ride the shoulder of busy Dixie Highway, which leads us to a plasticland around Bridgeport, south of Saginaw.  

We're both ready for a break. I turn down Wes’ suggestion to stop at a Starbucks. I want a local establishment up in town.  But the one and only place in this rapidly ghosting town is not open until evening.

There's no way we're going back a mile, so we press on, already breaking our commitment not to travel where we are tired.

Bridgeport has many solid and attractive brick buildings, and there is a beautiful ornate iron bridge over the Cass River.  But most of the commercial buildings are empty and the overall effect is desolate.

The route takes us towards the Saginaw River, where well-kept houses are interspersed with beat up apartment bunkers. There are no services, not even party stores. The one restaurant for miles is not open till noon. So we just keep going.

I stop by cornfield to wait for Wes. A man in a truck pulls up and asks if I need help. This is not the first time. I guess we look pitiful… or lost.

When we finally reach the bike path along the river, the scenery is nice, but there are no benches, no tables--not even in obvious beauty spots to watch the big river roll by. We let Heidi run for a while on this strangely isolated trail. Wes's bike is giving him trouble and needs service. I find a shop just over the river in Saginaw’s Old Town.

As I approach the busy Rust Street Bridge over the wide Saginaw River. I am already in the car lane when I see the sign Bicyclists Walk Over Bridge. I missed the entrance to the side to the sidewalk some ways back, and now there is 15 inch curb to get up the.  There's a slight break in the heavy truck traffic, replete with semis and construction vehicles, so I decide to go for it.

Bad choice.  The traffic comes barreling. I pedal as fast as I can--while praying as hard as I can--to make it over the curving blind corner bridge.  I ride in the lumpy gutter, while cars, trucks, and semis careen over the span, narrowly avoiding me.

When I clear the bridge, I am panting and shaking. I call Wes who is some ways back taking a photo of the striking prismatic murals on an abandoned grain elevator near the bridge

“Do not ride the bridge!” I warn.  “Don't miss the entrance to the sidewalk way down the block. Do Not Ride The Bridge!

 “Uh, OK.” Wes replies, stunned at the panic in my voice.

A few blocks later, we have arrived at Shumakers Bike Shop “Selling and Serving bikes for More than 50 years.” We are greeted by Chris and Greg. Chris is a strong woman a bit younger than me. Greg is probably older than Wes, with a shock of gray hair hanging in his eyes and the rangy muscles of hard everyday labor.  When they find out we are long distance touring, Greg remembers his own long distance bike ride from Saginaw to Montana 50 years ago.  One of the highlights was taking the Badger Ferry across Lake Michigan.

Chris and Greg stare at Wes's 40-year-old Raleigh bike. Greg gives it a good look over, while Chris whispers to me, “Why is he riding so much worse a bike than you?”

Wes asks for a tune up. Greg sizing up the bike, “I think it need will need more than that.”

Chris continues,  “You have better components, better structure, better gearing…”

I allow I'm more of a gearhead than Wes. see for exam (cf. My multiple trips to the bike shop to prepare for this trip versus Wes, “It's fine, it's fine.”)

Greg gets to fixing while we go to lunch. When we return, Greg intones, “Your derailleur is hung up. You need a new back tire and your brakes are about shot. I'll work on it this afternoon and have it ready for you by 10:00 AM tomorrow safe and ready for your trip.”

He asks if we need a place to stay.  We tell him we have a place with friends in Saginaw Township.  Do we need a ride?  They’re coming to get us.  I think he would have loved to talk old time touring with fellow codgers.

Our friends Tom and Ulla have offered us lodging, so we take our first auto ride in two weeks to their house in Saginaw Township. Tom leads us to his backyard where we are stunned by two things: the unhappy, scared yapping of their big-headed little dog and the massive, majestic white pine standing nearly 100 feet tall with a trunk 3 feet across.  This tree was here long before this house was built.

The tree has a few sisters nearby, but there are none so sheltering and space defining as this beauty.  We all gravitate to sit within this Pines graceful space. I try to imagine living in a forest of these gentle giants. 

The night passes quickly with conversation, storytelling, nice food and good beer.

It is morning before we know it.

Frankenmuth Cool Down

7.9.25:  Frankenmuth

Mile 198 and holding

This is a day to recover from the craziness and trauma of yesterday. We spend a few hours at Prost a wine and charcuterie bar where we order a bottle of wine salad and a plate of their favorites. I work on the blog. We gingerly return to the elephant in the room.

Why did things go so desperately wrong?

We were already tired and dehydrated in Vassar.  We should have stopped, sat in the shade and drunk water, if nothing else.  But we pressed on-- until we didn't have the emotional and physical strength to control ourselves.

I come from a family of hitters and exploders. I've worked hard to keep that anger from taking over.  Wes has always been reactive, but since his surgery, has been hyper-reactive.

One of the great challenges of this trip--and of our life--is not reacting to his reactions.

We must figure out the right distance and pacing for us on this trip. Cycling in the beating sun in the afternoon is not a good option.  We need to start early and be done by 1pm, especially when the temperature is above 80 degrees.  Prevention is the best cure.

Our hotel provides free food and breakfast and happy hour. I'd ask a couple at the adjoining table how many of these people do you think are converted from rural Michigan? The answer I have no idea says the bald twinkly eyed man probably most.

We talk about the signs: lots and lots of ball caps, flowered shirts on both men and women, a fair amount of shorts, socks, and sandals (including Wes) are these the markers? Haircuts that have been in style since we were kids.

Perhaps it's the lack of showboating and showing off--- the almost complete statuswear  or attention seeking behavior.  It's the chit chat in the line, and plenty of “pleases and thank you’s.”

But what else is it? How do we know it when we see it?

What the Hell?

July 8, 2026    Postcard Cabins to Frankenmuth

Miles 167-198

We are up by 5:30 AM, knowing by now that afternoon cycles have been miserable.

We are packing the bikes.  Heidi is loose.

Then she is gone. Nowhere to be seen. We call and call and whistle. I check the nearby cabins. I say more than once “I don't know what to do.”

We can't leave her here. We don't know where to find her. I crash around the brushy woods. No sight or sound of her.

We sit on the grey plastic Adirondack chairs, desolate. Suddenly we hear a crashing through the woods. Heidi reappears... smiling... and stinky. She is thrilled. She has found fresh poop in which to roll.

After we clean her, we are long past our desired 7:00 AM departure. Relieved to finally be going, I use the exit code to close and lock the cabin.  I get on my bike… and discover I left my phone in the cabin.

Our entry code no longer works. The phone number to the host is on my phone locked in the cabin. I use Wes’ phone to check their website: no phone listed.

Perhaps the neighbors?

No sensible person is awake at this time on their vacation, so when I rap on the door, I hear a sleepy male voice aggressively respond, “Who is it?”

--I'm sorry. I'm your neighbor and we're locked out of our cabin. We need the hosts number.

It takes a few back and forths until a calmer female voice patiently reads the number from the info sheet through the door.  Back in the Adirondack chairs, I call. Ten rings. Nothing.  Maybe they are don’t open the office until 8am, Wes suggests

Time passes.  I call.  No response.  I text. No response.

I'm getting desperate. I then remember that Postcard Cabins are now part of Marriott. I call customer service and end up in a voicemail hell that wants to know what credit card bill I want to dispute. I mash 0 over and over until I get a call center somewhere in Asia.

After hearing our plight the operator says,  “I don't think I can help you.”

Do you have a number for the hosts?  In Michigan.  In the Thumb.

“Maybe.”

She disappears for a few moments.  When at last she comes back on the line, she gives me a completely different number from the one the neighbors provided.

We call and get an immediate response. Mandy says she will be right there.

Two minutes later, she drives up in a new maroon SUV. opens the door and grabs my phone from the counter.

--What was that the number on the info sheet? I ask.

She's sheepish. “Ohh, we haven't updated the sheet since Marriott bought us last month.

It is almost 10am when we finally get underway.

The ride on the Southern Lake Trail is gorgeous.  We ride in deep shade past lakes and ponds and marshes resplendent with deer
and rabbits and frogs.

The trail ends in Millington.  We take lunch at a Harley-Davidson cafe whose main decor is 1950s Harley-Davidson posters featuring a variety of buxom beauties.

My phone is low on battery, so I use Wes’ to find lodging for tonight.  We had hoped to stay in Vassar, but the only motel in town scares me with its multiple one point ratings.  The mansion where we stayed on our cross country trip years ago with its multiple cats cat smell and somewhat odd hostess seems to be out of business.

Frankenmuth is the only choice available, but it's quite a few more miles.

We ride on the shoulder of Michigan 15, which is never much fun, and land in Vassar just as the heat starts to pound.  There’s nothing open but some derelict-looking bars.  The cute town we remembered from 2013 seems to be gone.

We have already travelled 20 miles. It is hot and we must cycle on the road in the sun. I tell Wes we have at least 10 more miles. He says OK. I think he means it.

The ride is hot and hilly. After a long stretch past corn, bean. and wheat fields. I stop under a tree to wait for Wes. At this point, Heidi has had it.  She crawls out of the crate and runs into a nearby barn

Nervous, but determined not to lose her again, I follow her in there. It is piled with grain bags, abandoned equipment, and furniture including a green porcelain stove from the 1930s. I have a vision of the farmer chasing us out of this barn,  but I wonder if he could give us a ride to Frankenmuth.

Wes arrives just as I collar Heidi.  It is hot and we are tired.

Wes says, “How much further?”

I guess 7 miles.

He shouts, “I can't make it!”

Well, he can shout all he wants, but there's no choice but to keep going

A few miles later, we spot a small general store with a few umbrella tables outside.

We inhale cold sweet drinks, but I don't feel the surge of refreshment I expect. I am not ready to go

Wes complains his phone is nearly out of battery.

“Let's stop and recharge them and us.” I say.

 No. Let's go. I don't wanna sit here in the sun.

“You're not in the sun,” I say.

He’s not having it. “Let's go. I can't stand this.”

I go to the bikes and struggle to get the dog back in the crate.  She actively resists.

Wes fusses, “Come on!  Hurry up!  Quit messing around.  Let’s go!”

I wallop him. He wallops me back. I hit him again.

What the hell.

We are livid,panting.

A man who has been tearing apart a small cabin with a sledgehammer is staring at us.

Wes hisses, “Which way do we go?”

The trail map says go South, but the but the road right here looks more direct.

 Wes screeches, “Have you got the map the right way? Have you got it facing north?”

 I stand there, silent and seething.

“Make it face north.  You are so stupid! Make it face north.”

I am now white hot angry --and embarrassed-- and ashamed.

We find out from the work crew appalled at our behavior that the road before us is the direct route to Frankenmuth. I get on my bike and cycle away from there as fast as I can.

Five hot miles later, I come into Frankenmuth and go directly to our room in the Drury Inn. Let Wes come when he may.

An hour later my anger is replaced by anxiety, then fear. I call Wes’ number.  No answer.  It goes right to voicemail.  Another 30 minutes, I call again. No answer.

 I call 911.

Before long, a chunky bald police officer is at my door. I give him a description: Long gray beard, orange shirt, tan pants riding a green Raleigh bike pulling a single wheel trailer with a bright yellow bag.  The last time I saw him was in the village of Tuscola. He doesn't answer the phone, but he has his charger and could call me if he recharges his phone.

The police officer says, “ OK don't worry. I'm sure he'll show up.  We've already sent someone up the road to see if they can find him. Stay put. Try not to worry. I'm sure he will turn up.

20 minutes later I get a phone call from an unknown number. It is Wes at the hotel I had tried to book at lunch until I found out they didn't take dogs. I tell him where I am. He writes it down and says he will be right there.

But he doesn't come. Now what?

Did he not understand what I said?

That's it! I'm going to go look for him.

As I head out the door, dog in tow, I see a police cruiser and I wave them over. It is a younger officer. When I say “I heard from him,” he knows who and what I'm talking about.

 I named the hotel Wes called from and the officer speeds away. I head that way. and I'm equal parts scared and relieved when I see two police cars, lights blazing .

There's Wes looking stunned, talking to the officers. In the midst of their debrief,,  a well dressed woman watched by her wheelchair bound son steps up to Wes and presses a $100 bill into his hand.    Befuddled, Wes blinks and thanks her.  The police officer say, “Well, we're glad you're OK.” and drive off.

On the way back to our hotel, Wes tells me he had a mechanical breakdown on the road, which he had to fix by himself.  Then he couldn't remember where we were staying. His phone was dead, so he couldn't call.  And by the way, this whole mess is my fault because I used his phone to search for lodgings.

Back at the hotel, we fuss some more.  We are exhausted and worried that we are over our heads.  This day started more than 13 hours ago and it's finally over. Thank God.

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A Mishmash

 

A Mishmash  

July 6, Miles 119-159

Postcard Cabins outside Columbiaville, MI:  Can you believe it?  We cycled 40 miles yesterday!  What a mishmash it was. 

From our freeway motel through industrial Grand Blanc, we are following the marked Iron Belle Trail.  The route turns us left to take us to a dotted line route.  There is no trail, no signs, just a swampy bottom following high voltage power lines.  The next solid line is in downtown Flint about 10 miles away.

We navigate our way there through Burton and southside Flint, both of which have plenty of abandoned buildings covered in graffiti.  Every so often, a big corporate building sticks out in the otherwise blighted surroundings.

As we enter downtown Flint, nothing is open.  The only sound are the competing chimes of several churches.  When we get to the Flint River, where the trail is supposed to be found, we try several times to get on the streamside Riverwalk, only to be stranded and have to go back to the surface.   Again, we curse the lack of signage.  After 3 or four tries, we join the riverwalk, but it's neglected and bumpy with roots.  We cross through construction sites and past abandoned houses and churches on the north side, peering at the State of Michigan map to not miss the multiple crossings of the river on sometimes quite rickety bridges.

Near the north end of town, after riding sixteen miles, we spot a McDonalds and go in for breakfast.  We are stopped at the door and told, “No dogs.”  Poor Heidi has to stay outside in the heat (though in shade.)  I check on her every few minutes and she stares at me with baleful eyes.  She won’t eat any dog food, but will take a bit of butter from our perfectly plastic breakfast.

We spy the trail passing to the side of the infamous Flint Water Treatment plant, where ten years ago, they tried to pass off brownish water full of lead to the townspeople of the city.  As we go along, however, the trail starts getting better.

It is cool under the sheltering trees.  Before long, we are on a smooth, well-maintained path—

with signage!  The ride is beautiful, taking us in and out of glimpses of the Flint River and C.S Mott Lake.  There are few hikers or walkers, but a number of kayakers plying the placid waters. 

We have great fun-- until we get to the Richfield County Park part of the trail, where the solid line on the map and Iron Belle signage stops.  A dotted line on the map tells us to turn left, which takes us on a circle past beautiful and unused baseball, tennis, and basketball courts. 

We spot a road to our right and go there, but now we are confused.  We were supposed to exit the park in the north, but we are in the south.  At first, we don’t know that and start going west.  Wes recalls he has a compass, and we realize we had gotten completely turned around in that figure eight of a park. 

We are off the map.  It is blazing hot.  We must make our own way to Columbiaville, where we have secured a “glamping” cabin for two days, where I will catch up on the blog and do my business meeting for the Great Lakes Odyssey Radio Hour.

We are in hilly, rural country.  We are out of water.  At Highway 15, we spot a Marathon gas station, with an attached pizza stand.  Inside, with the dog allowed, the owner gives us his only two bottles of water, which we immediately down.  When we ask for more, he tells to go to the party store next door to get drinks.  I purchase two big cans of flavored ice tea, and we order a big salad. 

We are overheated and dehydrated but begin to revive.  The owner asks where we are going.  When we tell him, he exclaims, “That’s quite a haul.  I don’t think I could do it!” Outside, as we load up the dog, a woman getting gas says, “I can’t believe you are biking in this heat!”  Neither can we.

It is quite a haul.  Up and downhills, I seek whatever patch of shade I can find to wait for Wes plugging along behind me.  We are still a few miles from Columbiaville when Wes announces he can’t go anymore. 

But like Beckett characters who can’t go on, we go on.

At Columbiaville, we need to get supplies for our glamping cabin. We pass by the Dollar Tree store and go to the only other store in this little town.  It says “grocery store,” but really, it’s a liquor store.  I purchase some wine, two small pasta salads, and tired looking cold cuts.

We still have a few miles to the cabin.  The road says it is closed, but we see cars passing the barriers, so we do too.  A few hundred yards down the newly asphalted road, the sky opens, and we are pelted by rain.

We lurk under a tree and I call the accommodations.  Can we really make it on this road?  How far is it?  The straight-up Millennial voice on the other end says, “Oh yeah, you can go on the road.  I don’t know how far it is…one, maybe two miles.  Not far.”

The steam rises from the black asphalt as we inch our way to the cabin.  I peer at the mailboxes, wanting the numbers to go down much faster than they do.  When I spot the turn off, I enter the steep dirt driveway and let Heidi out of her box.  She immediately runs into stands of poison ivy.  I watch for Wes who rides right by the entrance and barely hears my shouted cry.

Our glamping cabin/trailer is nicely appointed, quite small with fantastic views of the surrounding trees.  I can’t wait to get out of these wet and sticky clothes and have showered and changed within five minutes of arrival.

A raging rainstorm blows in with huge cracking thunder.  Heidi runs about the 8 x 12 trailer, and finally decides the shower is her safe spot.  Wes and I drink hot chocolate and rum, eat our delicious but small salads and are astonished that we made 40 miles today…and are still standing. 

Only one problem—I cannot post my blog and do my meeting: tomorrow.  There’s no WIFI.  So much for that respite in the trees.

We are in the comfy bed before dark and soon asleep to the sound of pelting rain.

Fourth of July and Generica

 Fourth of July

July 4, 2025, Miles 86-102

Ortonville, MI:   As I ride along, I am trying to process our stay at the Lutheran Monastery.  Even their website says, “Lutheran Monastery?”  

The experience plays and replays in my head. First of all-- the site is beautifully vibrant and alive.  Perched on the rise that separates the Clinton from the Flint drainage.—I guess?  Surrounded by a mature Carolinian Forest: Oaks, Butternuts, Catalpa.  It must be near the north end of their range.  

The cast:

The aforementioned Andy, who when I ask about the silence protocol, smiles, then laughs, then says, “You have to ask Brother Richard.”

Are there mandated silent times?

Yes.

Most of the day is held in silence, with regular, indeed unceasing, repetition of a body of psalms and prayers, sung in chant for the last 2000 years.  Now in English, but the same cycle of psalms, read each day, along with a few other readings, and lessons, and gospels.

I asked, “Why the specific adherence to the same prayers, over and over?” Especially the Old Testament Psalms with all their griping, calls for assistance and revenge, and admonitions to “fear God.”

Bishop Jeffrey says, “We don’t say these prayers for ourselves.  I might not be upset about an unfaithful friend, but somewhere in the world, somebody is.”

Brother Richard says, “If we were expected to create own prayers from our own experience, it would be dull very quickly.  These prayers have been said for more than 2000 years.  They resonate in ways no personal prayer could.”

I persist, “But why?  What does all this attention to repetition and order do?’

Bishop Jeffrey says, “We practice the charism of prayer itself.” I say, “I have heard of the charism of healing, or teaching, or mercy, or hospitality, but not prayer.”

Bishop Jeffrey laughs, “You have described several different orders.  Our work in the world is praying constantly for the good of all the world.”

I ask, “And do you have Works, too?”

Bishop Jeffrey smiles at me, “We host people like you.”

I still have so many questions.  “Who pays for all of this?  How could this community build this new chapel.”  “Why are Lutherans praying an ancient Catholic order?”  “Who chooses who stays here and how is it paid for.”

But all this seems rude and intrusive, so I stop and eat the rest of my dinner in silence.

During the ritual prayers, there are multiple standings and sittings.  But Richard McSherry does not rise, except to walk back to the lodging, something slightly askew in his gait.  It reminds me of Wes’ off-kilter gait.

Which is why it is amazing that is Wes so balanced on a bicycle.  The biking is making him get that right hip in motion.  On the first days of the trip, he could not continuously pedal. Each press was a single independent motion.

But today, we ride from the monastery to an Airbnb in Ortonville, a distance of about 16 miles.  We were able to do it in one pass, without a break. 

That is--if you overlook the latte and ice cream heaven we found at Cook’s Farm Dairy in the middle of farm country.  Inside their newly opened (air-conditioned!) ice cream pavilion, we delighted in fresh homemade ice cream, which we both think is better than Hudsonville, our favorite.

One of the delights of the stop, a tiny girl, not yet two years old, waddled directly over to Heidi, and touched her nose.  Heidi then licked her finger.  She laughed.

She was wearing a daisy be-speckled sundress and panties… and a bonnet that couldn’t keep up with her.   Her dad, a farmer uber-mensch explains, “She just signed, “Dog, dog,” which he demonstrates clapping his open hand on his thigh. 

Then he laughed, delighted.  “That’s what she signed when she saw the calves in the barn.  Dogs, dogs then the sign for a question.”  He was thrilled that she was applying her language skills.

We linger as long as possible, dreading the return to the searing heat.  While we are packing Heidi into her crate, the family’s boy of about 5, who was larking about on a picnic table, slips and falls to the ground.  Wailing, he runs to his father for comfort, who wraps him in his arms on his lap.  The tiny girl signs something, and the mother says, touching her heart.  “He’s all right.”

The lodging in Ortonville is a lovely apartment with air-conditioning!  After showering and settling in, I leave Wes and the dog to go to the grocery store, packed with shoppers on this supposed holiday.  It is only 3pm when I return to the apartment.  The temperature is over 90 degrees.  We are happy to be inside.

We are far from the town fireworks, but Heidi is still scared.  She finds a front closet in which to hide.   And we’re glad to be cool and comfortable.

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Generica

July 5, Miles 102-119

 Grand Blanc: We are on the road by 6:30 am, trying to beat the heat.  It is easy riding.  I spot an actual Iron Belle Trail sign—the first since we left Detroit.  By the time we get to the outskirts of Grand Blanc, one of the suburbs of Flint, it is sweltering.  We beat it to our freeway hotel, checking in four hours early. 

We are bemused by the sign over the desk, announcing “No Pets.”  I am certain the website said pets were accepted.  We sneak Heidi in the back door and find ourselves in the most generic motel room you can imagine.  I am struck by the passive-aggressive sign in the bathroom.

It is early and it is hot.  It is miles from any attraction, and we don’t want to bike anywhere as it is almost 100 degrees.  I wash clothes in the noisiest and hottest washer and dryer.  I think the temperature selections are for show only.  I keep Heidi with me in the laundry room, so Wes can have the manager come fix the television.  We don’t have a TV at home and don’t miss it, but here in Generica, bored and lonely, it is a requirement.  We send out for chain restaurant food and are underwhelmed by its high calories and little taste.