We Find the Trail!

July 22:  Indian River

Mile 448- 467, 19 miles

We tarry in the lovely confines of Tower, unwilling to leave the beauty of this place to face the unfun prospect of riding on a busy shoulderless road-- especially one without stops or services. But alas, out we go and it is as unfun as anticipated.

There's a constant string of big trucks, little trucks, semi-trucks, utility trucks, trucks hauling campers and trucks pulling trailers of off-road vehicles-- and quite a few cars too.

We ride in dense forests of red and white pine in the hills and spruce, cedar and birch in the lowlands.  The land is sparsely populated, and shows signs of abandonment—houses with roofs crashed in; barns on their way to becoming heaps.  

I have been looking forward to a place called Stumpy’s, thinking it will be a local gathering spot. Wrong. Stumpy’s is a truck stop. I buy bottle of Squirt for me and a Sunkist orange pop for Wes. I Iook for Wes, but do not see him, and decide to soldier on.

We pass a town called Afton, where the sense of downtrodden disaster is palpable.  For every house being taken care of, there are two that are not.  Not so long ago, this was a farming community.  Not so long from now, it will be a ghost town.  We can only wonder why.

When we get within 8 miles of I-75, the traffic and speed become more intense and scary. Within a mile of the freeway, small warehouses appear, with big trucks and utility vans moving in and out.   All around I-75, it is tourist madness.

As I cross the bridge over the freeway, I feel the same sense of vulnerability I felt in Saginaw.  There is no shoulder and no place to go.  There’s heavy traffic moving in both directions and I know I am not seen, despite by bright pink shirt.

I pull into the first Marathon gas station convenience store, hoping to wait for Wes.  Surprise! He's already here. I guess he didn't stop at Stumpy's.

It is hours before we can check into our room, which, ironically enough, is adjacent to  the Marathon.  I spot a Bar and Grill right on the Indian River Inland Waterway where we could chill for a few hours, work on the blog and watch the river go by until our room is ready.

Indian River is a newborn tourist town with a 15-foot sculpture of a sturgeon at the main intersection. Most of the shops are brand new, though there are a few older buildings interspersed among the glitzy and high-priced kitsch-eries.  People are walking three and four abreast on the sidewalks; big trucks pulling big trailers line the streets.

We are glad to get away from all this hubbub.  We go down a few blocks towards the river. The energy is entirely different.  The streets are lined with little cabins and big trees, many with the severed tops and hanging branches indicative of the recent ice storm.

The Pinehurst Inn is indeed right on the lovely waterway, as it has been
for more than 100 years.  Built in 1899, the three-story white clapboard building might have been state-of-the-art one hundred years ago, but this building hasn't been loved or cared for in many a long year.

There are two doors on the south side. One says “Entrance to Residence--Please Respect Our Privacy.”  The other door leads to a dank hallway which leads to a dank cavernous roadhouse.

A lone female bartender and three middle-aged women populate the long bar.  A bandstand lurks at one end of the hall and numerous tables line the 40’ by 60’ space. The hall has pool tables, foosball tables, and ancient pinball machines. It smells of sour beer and ancient vomit.  Despite its disrepair, darkness and dankness, it has served the big crowds.

We find a booth facing the water, but the windows are dirty, and the bench seat is broken down. If we had a lick of sense, we'd leave, but we order a beer instead and look through the scummy windows at the sparkling blue water outside.

The women at the bar seemed to be thoroughly drunk even though it is not yet 1:00 PM. We can't see them, but boy, can we hear them. One of the smoky coughy voices is regaling the other two with a tale about her “old man” attempting to do a repair at their house. “He's crawling around on the on the effing floor,” she says. “hollering at me to get the f-ing hammer, get the f-ing staple gun, get the f-ing screwdriver.”  “I tell him to go straight to hell!”  The other women laugh and hack to her tale of repairs gone wrong.

The tale at the bar turns to plans to go to a concert. A different smoky voice says, “I thought it was in Grand Rapids, so I said hell no, but when I learned it was in Detroit, I said fucking yeah!  We're going down next Saturday.  You wanna come?”

Having drunk our obligatory beer, we make our way out just as the women do as well. They are drunk, 45 years old and would have been good looking in their prime, but are frazzled now. They wobble their way out to a giant Ford F-150, much too drunk to drive. One says, “I'll see you bitches on Friday!”

As they drive off, a group of bandana-wearing Harley motorcycle riders pull up. Maybe that's how this rickety old place stays in business. I bet the owners of these tidy cottages and waterfront homes hate the presence of the Pinehurst Inn in their midst.

At the top of the street, we find the stop we had originally envisioned in the rehabbed Michigan Central Railroad station, abutting the long-awaited Iron Belle/ North Central Trail. The trail is a source of community pride.  It’s plaque proclaims  “People have been coming to Indian River on this path for more than 100 years. Before they traveled by train but now they come by bike or snowmobile.”

We take the trail back to our lodging and are happy to see it is just a few yards off the trail

We are still early to check in, but the room is ready, so they let us into what has been billed as a “dog-friendly room.” They weren’t kidding.  The big room has a dog bed, a basketful of  dog treats, separate seating and eating areas, a gas fireplace, a big king bed, and and roomy double spigot shower.  Well all right.

I bike to get supplies for the night--including another pair of sunglasses for Wes. He broke Pair #7 this morning. (I still have the ugly pair I bought in Pinconning, proving my hypothesis, “The uglier the sunglasses, the less likely they get lost.”

We luxuriate in the spacious and gracious room.  Even though we are eating beans and rice for dinner and drinking (surprisingly good) Squirt and rum, we are happy as clams. Tomorrow, we will return to a real bike trail in this beautiful country. Hooray!

We Don’t Get It

July 21:   Tower

Mile 422-448, 26 Miles

Fear is a funny thing. I have been so nervous about this turn to the inland. It is completely unjustified.  The ride out of town leads us to Michigan forest interspersed with fields of hay, corn, and wheat. I wonder at the three new Protestant churches, built miles outside of Rogers City, far from any houses and completely unwalkable by any parishioners. The assumption is cars, cars, cars for everyone, all the time, and forever.

There are hills, but they are rideable.  However, the shoulder is just two feet wide, so we must be super-vigilant.   Thank goodness, there's not much traffic, so we slowly pump our way up the hills, ever climbing to the center of the state.

The landscape is changing to boreal forest with almost no hardwoods. I'm sure it is regrowth from the great de-forestation of 19th century, but these forests are not being managed for lumber production.  They are overgrown with lots of small and even scraggly trees. Selective culling would promote a more balanced forest.  I wonder how much is private land, how much public forest.

After about fifteen miles, we notice that the traffic has increased substantially.  Big trucks and lots of cars are passing us closely on this narrow road.  Because the traffic has increased in both directions, there is often way for a vehicle to move to the left as they pass us.  I ride as far to the right as possible and often slip off into the gravel verge just to feel safe.  Wes, despite his aversion to riding on gravel, starts riding the rough shoulder all the time.

We climb up to the little town of Onaway, the “Sturgeon Capital of Michigan”. This seems anti-intuitive in this upland town, but it is related to the nearby presence of Black Lake, just five miles north.  A native –and spawning—population of sturgeon has been restored on this lake.  So much so, they now have a one-day spear fishing season for native fishers and a few hours season for hook and net fishers.

One of the first things we see when we enter Onaway is a café named “Ma’s Café.”  Wes is always looking for “Grandma’s Diner,” so Ma’s Café is a no-brainer.  We pull in without saying a word.

Ma’s has a hippie vibe and is hopping with customers of all ages.  There are numerous photos of the giant fish.  It has coffee drinks.  We are happy.   There is one waitress and one cook, so it takes a long time to get our coffees and food.  That's all right.  It gives me a chance to investigate the surroundings.

Directly to our left, a young-ish couple and their daughter are eating.  I am fascinated by her sense of style.  She has Betty Page bangs, and is wearing a polka-dot waisted dress with a full skirt.  Black pedal-pusher pants, and vampy eyeliner complete the 50’s feel.  He wears heavy black plastic rim glasses and his long hair is swept back from his ferret-thin face.  The daughter is around 8 years old, blond and pesty to her solicitous parents.  Her pancakes aren’t right.  Could she get some milk instead of orange juice?  The food piles up in front of her.  She eats little.

Across the room, a group of five twenty-something young men crowd around a small round table.  They are wearing shorts and t-shirts. One is bright red sunburnt.  They are subdued and hunch over their food.  We guess they are recovering from a drunken day on the water.

Across the room, a table of elder men are in earnest conversation.  When they leave, one calls out, “Seeya Leslie!”  The cook, a slightly heavy-set 40-something with her hair pushed back in a headband, leans through the window and waves.

We savor this meal, knowing it will be the big meal of the day.  Our lodging is some miles ahead in a small village named Tower.  It doesn’t look like it will have any services.

As we ride out of town, we are surprised by the number of small factories turning out I beams and metal tubes.  We have seen no factories or small industry since Saginaw.  Why here?  Where do they get their raw ore?  Wouldn’t transport of these products present a problem?  But their parking lots are full of pickup trucks and clangs resonate from the buildings as we ride by.

Our motel is up the road about 5 miles on the Little Black River. I get there before Wes. There's no one in the office. There are no other guests. I have been told to use cabin one. “It is open; the key is just inside the door.”

When I go in, the TV is blaring a shopping channel, which I immediately turn off.  The place is new. Paneled with knotty pine and decorated in Adirondack style, it has a pine post bed and moose wallpaper.  The bathroom is spacious. The walk-in shower is done in earthy tiles.

Out the door, we sit at a picnic table under a giant spruce and watch the many Canadian honkers ply the mirrored waters of the small reservoir. The attractive campground behind the motel has two or three guests.

The one closest to us flies a strange flag: confederate battle flag on one side, a USA stars and bars on the other side, and the curled snake “Don't tread on me” in the middle.  What does it mean?  I don’t think I will ask.

While I contemplate the geese and the lack of guests at this lovely motel, Wes cycles up to the lone quick mart in town.  He returns with extra cheap wine and a Reuben wrap.  We enjoy the reflection on the lake and listen to the roaring traffic and wonder, why is no no one stopping in this lovely spot?

Sick!

July 20:   Rogers City

Mile 422 and holding

I feel OK when I wake, even though I am filled with dread about our move to the middle of the Mitt. I scared myself looking at a topographic app of Michigan.  Looking at the digital maps in living color of the road ahead, I remember yesterday’s hard ride of yesterday and fear worse is coming. 

I cannot sleep until I force myself to return to the app and do a comparison of the hills ahead with other hills we have ridden.  I see that the monster hills just outside the Mountain Grill are much bigger and much steeper than those we will face today.  I say to myself, “You have faced worse and made it.  Now go to sleep.”  It takes some hours, but eventually I do. 

Is Wes awake during any of this?  Of course not.  He sleeps like a noisy baby while my anxiety churns.

Even though I can feel my bowels starting to roil, we go to breakfast (?) in the completely inadequate breakfast room. In the 8’ by 10’ room several families here for the big softball tournament are talking about the exploits of teens cutting loose away from home.

One teen boy: “I didn't get to sleep until 2:30.”

A teenage girl at another table: “I was waiting for them to get back from biking when I went to bed at 11:30. They still weren't back by 1!”

I would have loved to listen more, inveterate snoop that I am, but there is no place to sit.  We return to our room to crowd around the low coffee table and eat stale bagels with little plastic containers of cream cheese.

Boom!  Without warning, my body is in revolt.

I am dizzy.  My body is evacuating as much as possible as fast as possible.  It feels like food poisoning…with an emphasis on the poisoning part.  As I make my way to the bathroom, I focus on the pattern of the carpet and it goes all wobbly and weavey.

I guess my fears about going into the middle of the state will not be met today.  I change reservations for today and tomorrow and send Wes off.

I lay in the bed, and sleep without moving—or rest.  When Wes returns two hours later from documenting the murals of the town, I
haven't budged. I still have vertigo and my stomach and bowels are still doing jumping jacks.

But our room has a fantastic view of Lake Huron on this clear blue day.  The temperature is 70°.  After the storms of yesterday, people are out enjoying the Sunrise Side Trail, truly one of Michigan's most beautiful bike rides.  It stretches from Roger City to the 40-mile lighthouse

along the Huron shore. We rode it last time we were here.  It is part of what encouraged us to follow Huron’s shore for this leg of the trip.

We puzzle about what made me sick.  Perhaps it was the leftover sandwich we carried from Grand Lake.  We both ate it on that hard waterless ride from Grand Lake to here.

But Wes, as per usual, has a cast iron stomach. He almost never has digestive trouble despite (maybe because of) eating quite questionable food.  This is not my M.O at all.  My stomach and bowels flip at the slightest suggestion.

But oohh well.

We'll spend the day in this friendly and beautiful working town. 

Hard Miles to a Heavenly View

July 19:  Rogers City

Miles 405-422. 17 miles

We are still off the official Iron Belle Trail.  We return to US 23, but it is not so pleasant because the big wide shoulders of downstate are gone.  We are riding in traffic.

I ask Google for an alternate route, and it suggests going to Thompson Harbor State Park. When we get there, Wes says “No way! We are not going to go wandering on dirt roads that are either rocky or sandy.”  We'll take our chances on the highway.

We are getting into the outback of Michigan.  We are several miles inland from the Huron shore.  There are precious few houses and even fewer services.

Even so, the traffic is heavy.  The shoulder is narrow and hasn’t been cleaned in a long while.  We evade dead animals, tire bits, general trash, and broken glass while always keeping our ears open.  The last thing we want to do is swerve to avoid a shredded tire and end up right in the path of an on-coming 70 mile an hour car.

We move slowly through hard miles.  It is up and down hills, some we can ride, more we cannot.  Because we are on a highway, there is little shade for these forced marches up these steep hills.  I don’t let Heidi out even though it would make the push easier.  The shoulder is too narrow and the traffic too fast.

We are rapidly going through our water. The only food we have is leftovers from last night’s sandwich.  At the one convenience store we have seen since Grand Lake, I buy two juices, stand in the store’s shade and guzzle them down. 

The going gets extra tough when we must navigate through highway construction around Michigan 65.  At one point, I find a bit of shade near a pull off. I am surrounded by construction equipment.  The men working across the road just stare when I let Heidi out of the crate for a bit of a break.  We are still thirsty after we drink the last of our water. 

There is no sign of Wes.  I wait and wait until I see him pushing his bike up the hill and moving slowly.  When he finally makes his way to our little bit of shade, he leans over his bike and pants.  We finish his water, too.

We are pleased/relieved to see the southeast entrance to Rogers City, which takes us past Calcite, a limestone mining operation just south of the city.   More than three times the area of the city itself, this huge earthwork gives Rogers City its nickname “Limestone City.”

It is a rolling ride straight east alongside the 75 feet deep mine.  At the top of one rise, I see two teens, completely dressed in Goth black, standing on a 8-foot concrete bunker inside the Calcite fence.  I wonder: a) how did they get in there?  b) what are they staring at? and c) aren’t they hot in those clothes?

However, this is no time to contemplate.  The last hill before we turn north and head into town is a doozy.  After riding a small downhill and crossing a bridge over a peculiar orange stream, we must make sharp uphill with a grade of about 30 degrees.  I pump as fast as I can down the hill, trying to get some momentum to “shoot” me up the steep hill.  I make it about 60 percent of the way, then it’s off the bike again, to push bike, dog, and trailer up the grade.  To do this, I must brace the handlebars to stop the force of gravity from winning this particular struggle.

At the top of the hill, I look back to see Wes.  He is off and pushing even earlier.  When he gets to me, he is red in the face and panting hard.  We have not even gone 20 miles to day, and yet we are both beat.  It will be good to get to our lodging.

The way into Rogers City after the turn is a long downhill.  It feels great to have the wind cooling our hot bodies.   As we come into town from the south, we pass by a large complex of playing fields buzzing with activity.  We are not close enough to tell what's happening.  There are hundreds of cars and a big banner proclaiming PIGS Tournament.

Once downtown, we simultaneously and without a word or signal between us turn into the parking lot next to a coffee shop. I let Heidi out of her crate.  Her tongue is hanging.  We are greeted by customers sitting on wooden benches outside the door.  They welcome us to the town and as I pull Heidi’s water bowl from my pannier, a long-haired dark skinned woman slurping a big cold frothy drink says, “You can take your dog in.  The  owner is completely OK with animals.  She will even give her a treat.” 

In we go.  Before long, we have big frothy drinks; Heidi laps two bowls of water, and ensconces under a table.  She gnaws on a dog treat given by the owner, a blonde 40-something, who despite being busy as can be, greets us warmly.

A constant stream of families with young women come into the coffee shop.  They are some of the many participants in the PIGS tournament.  We learn the unfortunate acronym stands for Presque Isle Girls Softball.  (Presque Isle is the county name here.)

Now in its 16^th year, the tournament has grown and grown.  Twenty-eight teams from throughout northern Michigan are playing.   The previous record was twenty-one teams.

That's a lot of teenage girls, as each team has at least nine girls. If each girl is traveling with at least one family member… well, you can imagine why every room in town has been booked.

…And why we are grateful to have a room at the Driftwood Motel.  We love our room on the 2nd floor with its spectacular view of Lake Huron from its rickety balcony.  We don't love the uneven steps that have different heights of risers and different sizes of treads.  We must watch each step so as not to tumble down the whole steep mess.

Could the place be in better condition? Yes. Some of the wood is rotten and unpainted. But we are happy to relish the view.

Around 5:00 PM, just as a small rainstorm turns into a big rainstorm then an all-out blustery squall, we go to the restaurant next door. It is packed with sopping wet ball players and their families.  

The big deck overlooking the lake would normally seat forty or fifty people, but it is still pouring, so groups of seven or eight cram around tables meant for four.  The middle-aged male host has a slightly crazed look, as he tells us he can’t seat us for at least an hour.   

Can we sit at the bar?

He actually sighs with relief as he leads us through the crowded bar to the last two seats on the bar end.  We watch the bartender and waitstaff scurry.  They turn out one order after another, trying to serve the big groups whose games have been rained out.

We order simple drinks and a delicious smoked trout spread. We are amazed when the bartender, a slightly heavy-set blond who pushes her hair out of her eyes as she churns out margaritas, martinis, beers, and pop, and who has not stopped for one second since we sat down, takes the time to greet and welcome the parents of the cook.  They come up to the bar and look to be well into their late seventies.  They shyly introduce themselves and say, “We’re John’s parents.”  She doesn’t stop moving for one moment, while telling them what a good cook and kind person he is.  Talk about grace under pressure. 

 

Alpena is All Right

 July 18: Alpena Is All Right

Miles 375-405, 30 Miles

We are out by 8am.  Now that we are in city limits, we are impressed by this south neighborhood in Alpena.  Stately old houses with big trees cozily curl up to the lapping waters of Thunder Bay.

It is cool and I feel 100% better than on yesterday’s painful slog.

Alpena has changed a lot since we last visited 20 years ago.  It has invested in culture. 

There are interesting murals and art alleys and event spaces sprinkled throughout the active downtown.

When we find the coffee shop by the inlet, we are put off.  There are two men Fussing about getting free coffee one in polo shirt and khakis but Dreadlocked beard is harassing a younger man who hasn't seen a shower for quite some time and whose baggy swim shorts keep falling down showing his nun too clean but. He says why did you throw away the cup never throw away the cup if you want more coffee!

There's also a man in full pirate regalia three corner hat heavy boots short pants ragged shirts uh who sitting nearby and another intently staring at his phone which is blaring some kind of star tell all.  The fan offers to tell us offers to take care of Heidi while we go in the coffee shop we say thanks but no thanks

We take the dog in. No one says a word.  We sit in the back.  The manic guy and the unclean guy are chattering in a back booth.  Another older guy---bald head, big laptop computer is talking on the phone, getting louder and louder—about “why he HAD TO QUIT!  (his job?) and then pouring out a big stream of “ and then they…and so I…”

I go up to the counter to get the Wifi password and the Pirate is politely ordering a regular cup of coffee.  He carefully counts out the $2.25 while saying, “I’m not like those other guys.”

When we leave, we encounter the dreadlock beard guy juggling three balls on the sidewalk.  As we pass, he says, “There’s a trapdoor here.  I don’t where the trapdoor leads”, while pointing at a manhole cover.

We are on our way to the NOAA Maritime History Museum.  Along the way, a tall fellow in a Viking Tours shirts hands me dog treats.  He is part of the BIG to-do along the inlet because of the first visit of a Viking cruise ship.  We weave our way through booths, tables, people setting up food stands, and general hubbub along the waterway.   The atmosphere is electric.

The museum is amazing—and free.  (Your tax dollars at work.)  It chronicles the more than 200 shipwrecks around Alpena, which has been an active port since 1830.  Schooners (some with three masts and 10 sails)  carried all the goods, and provided all the transit for this area.

The northern entrance to Thunder Bay is quite tricky, with a large point, multiple shoals, and a shifting bottom.  However, to my surprise, most wrecks were not from running aground or being capsized.  Most were collisions in the busy shipping lanes.  Before motors, radar, and electric lights, many of these tall ships were sailing blind through dark, fog, or bad weather.  Even after the advent of steamships, and later giant ore haulers, collisions caused one wreck after another.

Radar and radio communications have drastically reduced the number of wrecks in the clear, cold water of Thunder Bay, but the legacy lives on.  Several shipwrecks are so close to the surface they can be seen by paddle boarders.

A dominant feature of the museum is a replica of a early 20^th century boat, pitched at an odd angle, as if it were facing large waves. Even though the boat was not moving, the pitch gave me vertigo.  We stared at the small hard berths of the sailors where perhaps I could lay flat, but no way could Wes. I don’t think either of us could make it as crew on a boat in these waters.

On the way out, two presenters from the Great Lakes Fishery Commission had a jar full of lamprey, several of which had their horrifying, circular sucker mou
ths attached to the jar. Only about 18” and lithe like eels, the presenter said they had become the apex predator in the Lakes after their accidental introduction in the 1940’s.  They suck the blood and body fluids of any fish—but nothing eats them.  “Not even humans,” she said, who find the flesh like extra rubbery calamari.

After the excellent museum, we started following the Northeast Bike Trail, a 70-mile rails to trail conversion going from Alpena to Cheboygan.  It passes by Alpena’s event center, ice rink, and Museum of Northern Michigan Culture, an impressive array of public infrastructure that says a lot about Alpena’s investment in community culture, despite the city’s small size.

The Northeast Trail is a disappointment.  The gravel trail is returning to grass.  It’s slow going and we let Heidi out to run alongside the bikes.  She can keep up because we are moving so slowly.

Because of the visits to the museum and coffee shop, we are riding at midday.  Even though there are trees on both sides (cedar and spruce dominate), there is not much shade.  At least the weather is cool.  As we ride for the first 12 miles, we are struck by the obvious signs of the March ice storm.  Limbs are broken; trees have fallen because of the three-day ice storm.  The birch trees are the most damaged, and while the trail has been cleared, the forest floor is littered with branches.

We are looking forward to taking a break at the one bar and grill on the route.  We pull up to the place and are disappointed to see that it will not open for another hour and half.  This is a drag because we are nearly out of water.  We eat the cheese and crackers I impulsively purchased in Harrisville.  It is the only food we have.  We sit on the porch and consider our options.   Concerned about going forward without enough water, I decide to try the Bolton Bar number—and get an immediate answer. 

I tell her we are two bicyclists on the porch, “Could we please get some water?” I ask, envisioning getting some water from the nearby hose.

“Sure!” she says, “I’ll be right there!”

Mandy, wearing a short, tight lace dress, lets me in and fills our bottles from the bar squirt tap. say, hesitantly, “We were looking forward to our lunch break here.  Do you think you could sell us a beer?”

“Sure!”

Before long, Wes and I are sitting at the bar in the cavernous wood and concrete building.  Heidi is drinking water from a bowl Mandy has provided.  There are country music posters on the wall and the tv is tuned to the Cowboy Channel.

We sip our beers- new favorite quite popular in the tip of the mitt—Amber Bock.  Mandy offers to make us something to eat as long as it is deep fried—like chicken tenders.

“Sure!”  we say.

We watch the rodeo on the TV, when to our surprise, one of the contestants is from Laramie, Wyoming.  She’s a young breakaway roper names Jordyn McNamee.  That must be Mike McNamee’s daughter—no granddaughter.  I knew Mike McNamee from my 4-H days 50 years ago.  When I google her, I learn my guess was right—granddaughter of my old friend from so many years ago.

Turns out that Mandy is a barrel racer—and a farmer—who runs the bar “on the side so they can have a little cash flow—ha, ha, ha!”

I ask about the cedars, which seem less damaged than the spruce and the birch.  She says, “They don’t break at the top like they do.  When they get too heavy, the whole tree topples.”

We leave just as the real cook arrives, grateful for Mandy’s kindness and hospitality.  As we thank her at the porch, I ask if she is from around here.  She says, “No.  I was raised about 10 miles from here.” 

We leave the Northeast Trail to return to the shores of Lake Huron. We are cycling on the road and have a fun time exploring this backwoods above Lake Huron.  The route is hilly, a mix of field and forest. We hadn’t realized how much we had been climbing on that gravel trail, so it is fun to zoom down big curves and steep hills—with no cars!

Our hotel is situated on the west side of Grand Lake, a classic captured lake.  I get there before Wes, so go to register.  The office is locked.  I peer through the window. It is stuffed to the gills with packages and what-not.  I press the Ring doorbell.  No one answers.  After a while, nonplussed, I start to leave, but don’t know where to go.  A Southern voice comes on the speaker, “Can I help you?”

I identify myself.  She says, “I’m with the grandkids. Can I register you over the phone?  You want to use the same card you used to make the reservations?”

I did.

“You’re in Room 4.  The door is open, and the key is on the wall.  Just go make yourself comfortable.”

Our room has large portrait of a cow, for reasons we can’t fathom.  The motel has a big commons area, lots of outside seating, and small dock, but there are no services, not even vending machines.

There’s a Dollar Tree a mile away, and a deli two miles away.  I leave Wes and Heidi to stare at the lake and cycle to a hopping deli and jumping bar.  There must be 40 cars in the parking lot.

Back at the motel with a gigantic, delicious sandwich, tasty salad and some good wine, we watch the lake as we dine outside.

A bevy of kids and dogs arrive—the owners’ grandkids.  One of their dogs is Heidi’s mini-me—same color, same face, same tendril ears, even the same dark undercoat.  She is a longhair dachshund/chihuahua mix.  They also a big bouncy Golden Doodle.

Before long another family arrives, with a super friendly black lab.  Kids and dogs are running around and squirting each other and the dogs with big bright green squirt guns.  One little boy runs up to the commons area, “Dad! I saw a perch this big!” he says, holding his little hands about a foot wide.

The air is cool, the lake is blue, and we savor our hand-made food, surrounded by the joyous sounds of play and delight.   Pure Michigan.

Make It Stop

July 17:  Make It Stop

Miles 337-375:  38 miles

Today was torture. My sleep at the one-step-above-fleabag hotel was almost nonexistent. It rained all night and was still raining the next morning we went to the supposedly highly rated restaurant where it was Mexican Thursday. I ordered chilaquiles but I didn't get chilaquiles. I got some cheese-covered scrambled eggs with chili beans and terrible rice that upset my stomach.

US 23 is getting super hilly, and the shoulder is getting smaller, so we take a side road to follow the Lake.   We follow Lakeshore Road down to lush green fields backed by huge trees. We're especially interested in the Pebble houses along the way.  I am not sure they are   called Pebble Houses as they are in upstate New York, but the craftsmanship is quite similar.  The entire surface of the house is constructed with hand size river stones. They seem to grow from the landscape and have an aura of permanence.  

We travel to an abandoned town named Alcona that was one of the victims of the 1911 fire. The town’s churches, stores, and lumber mills are long gone, now recently replaced by newly built McMansions at the water’s edge.

Alas, at Black River, we had to climb back up to Highway 23. And my goodness what a climb! I took Heidi out of the crate and slowly pushed the bike up the slope.

Up top, we want to visit the locally famous Mountain Bar and Grill, which has been a stop at the junction of US 23 and Black River since 1936. However, it was not open when we arrived at 11:30 AM. Tired from the climb and tired in general, we sat on chairs outside the door and waited.  I fell asleep sitting up. Right at 12noon, they let us in, the first customers of the day.

Within 15 minutes the place was nearly full, probably because it was a rainy drizzly day. Folks—that is-- families with little children, fishing buddies, ladies who lunch, and rained out dates-- said “Let's go to the Mountain instead of the Lake.”  With its big fireplace, wooden everything. and required dead animals on the wall, it could have been could have been any place Wyoming.

Right after the mountain grill, there were three big daunting hills which were impossible to ride and required our tried-and-true strategy of “push 40 steps, breathe 20 breaths, repeat” over and over, until we get to the top.   We look forward to a nice downhill, but alas, very short ride down leads to the next big uphill.   In less than a mile, we have gained 400 feet in elevation. The first big hills we have encountered on this trip, they presage our travels to come.

I am dead tired after these hills.  We still have 15 miles to Alpena.

The ride is pretty, occasionally stunning-- like when we circle the big wetlands south of Alpena. But every pedal is an effort. I'm moaning and groaning as I push exhausted into the headwind. I don't think I've ever worked so hard to make miles.  We pass the 45th parallel, halfway to the North Pole, which should be a celebration, but every pedal hurts, so we just keep plugging on, wanting this ride to stop.

 The entrance to Alpena is a surprise. A big plastic land has developed with all the usual chain suspects.  It extends for several miles before the mom-and-pop motel just outside city limits where we will stay the night.  The motel is a welcome sight.  It is green, with flowers, and is well maintained.  I bet it was the first thing travelers saw coming from the south when it was first built in the 1960’s.   Now it is overwhelmed by all the tacky chain restaurants, Wal-Mart, etc.

The innkeeper, a big frowsy woman originally from South Africa, gives me the third degree about the dog. I promise a quiet well-mannered service dog.  To be sure, she puts us in the room next to the office.

In the room I collapse on the bed, and sleep until we go eat at a nice Italian restaurant just across the street.

Back in our room, we are asleep by 8:00 PM.  Heidi, as promised, is quiet and respectful.  She bumps me to take her out, which I do, half asleep, but sure to take her off motel property.  I sleep until 7am the next morning.

What is Happening to Harrisville?

July 16, 2025  

Mile 305-337   32 miles

After the long stay in Tawas, we hit the road in the pre-dawn.  The fishfly hatch which started yesterday is in full bore.   We exit our hotel into a tumult of gulls, feeding on the thick black pile of fish flies attracted by the hotel’s outdoor lights.  The gulls curse us they swoop away: “How dare you interrupt our delicious snack?”

The ride takes us to Oscoda, which still looks beat, years after the closing of the Wurtsmith Airbase.  There are lots of closed storefronts and nothing pulls us in to stop.  Our maps tell us to take side road just to the west of 23, but it’s easy going with wide shoulders and lots of views of Lake Huron, so we trundle on.

We do not turn west at AuSable as directed by the Iron Belle Trail map.  For one thing, there is no Iron Belle trail at this point, just the dreaded dotted red line indicating where there might be a trail someday. 

There are hardly any towns either--and even fewer places to stay.  This looks like trouble—long distances with limited cell service and no place to stay.   We will stay on the coast, where there are sure to be services.  We will cut over the actual trail when it’s a solid red line, further north.

But we have left the touristy vibe of Tawas.  Hotels are few and far between north of Saginaw Bay and Tawas.   In earlier rides, we carried camping gear—and could have camped on this stretch, as there are lots of state parks lining the shores of Huron.

We are glad to not carry the extra weight, but finding lodging continues to be one of the biggest challenges of this ride.  The task would be easier if we could go further between stops.  But we can’t.  So there’s that.

We ride 32 miles to our next stop in Harrisville, which has exactly one place to stay, a not promising motel named “Big Joe’s State Park Motel.”

I get there before Wes and find a set of rooms which might have been built in the 1940’s, but has been "upgraded" with the addition of vinyl siding.  I find the office around back,where I see a young man obsessively smoking a cigarette over a stuffed ashtray on a dirty round glass table.

I introduce myself, and he yells, “Woody! Someone here for a room!”  Woody appears.  He is mid-sixties, long grey hair pulled into a ponytail.  He is barefoot, wearing shorts, and a ratty t-shirt.  He takes me into small disheveled office, where I step on some decidedly mushy rotten floorboards.  He pulls out a big pad, the size of desktop calendar, and writes in a crabbed hand that we are checking into Room 4.  He has the smoky raspy voice of a heavy smoker.

Just at that moment a tabby cat saunters through the door and rubs against Woody’s ankles.  Woody humblebrags, “He’s my neighbor’s cat, but thinks he lives here.” He hands me the hard metal keys to the room.

Which is completely uninspiring.  The whole space is probably 8’x10’  It houses a 4’x4’ space for the toilet and shower.  The fourth wall is taken up by a formica counter over open shelves which house a kitchen sink, an ancient and tiny microwave, and a dorm fridge.  The bed, supposedly a queen, is covered with a black shag coverlet.  There is a well-used Barcalounger in the corner facing a computer screen masquerading as a television on a rickety wire stand.  Well, we’ve stayed in worse—but not often.

(I guess this place stays in business because it is just outside the gates of the Harrisville State Park.  I imagine campers fleeing bugs or rain or each other, glad to have a roof over their head.) 

I wait for Wes while I peruse our options.  The only restaurant in town no longer serves dinners.  There is no grocery store.  There’s pizza take-out.  A bar has recently re-opened.  There’s a coffee shop which won’t open before we leave in the morning.  There’s a Dollar General.

After Wes arrives, we decide to risk another Dollar General dinner.  It qualifies as food, but just barely.  There is a short cloudburst.  It looks to clear off, so I ride the mile to the Dollar General, and get packaged, pre-cooked chicken and cardboard chicken fried rice.  On the spur of the moment, I pick up a package of crackers and chive cream cheese.

After the stop at the dollar store, I cruise the town.  Down the main street, I pass a big, recently closed grocery store with a sign that says, “Thanks for 40 years.”

The approach to Lake Huron is enticing and puts me in mind of our lifechanging first encounter with Lake Michigan in New Buffalo. I am still astonished by this view (any view) of lake as horizon.  

After leaving the port, I take the first left, assuming it will provide a right that will take me back to highway 23.  I go several blocks beside lovely well-kept early 20^th century homes, most with vibrant flower gardens.

The rain is starting again when I encounter two boys about age 7, completely soaked, pumping furiously on their small BMX bicycles.  One hollers, “You better watch out for the thunderstorm!”

The road dead-ends at the Harrisville State Park, just as the sky starts rumbling.  I go back the way I came, wondering why there are no services for such a well-established and seemingly upper-middle class neighborhood.

Back on 23, I ride past a well-kept Victorian mansion, which seems in good order, but the stairs leading to the wide porch are completely overgrown with weeds.  Across the street, there’s a solid brick building with some sort of metal plaque next to the door, and a silver telescope poking above the roof.

In our room, we eat… The rain pours in a steady beat.  There is one other customer in the motel.  The room is claustrophobic.

A few hours later, giving in to cabin fever, we make our way to the bar.  Banners proclaim, “New Ownership!”  “You can come back now!”

The bar is a happening place.  Folks play pool, there are many full tables.  We get beers and talk to our waitress, who, when she finds out we are originally from Wyoming, tells us a long story about how disappointed she was not to move to Torrington, WY when she was 11.  Instead, she’s “been stuck here ever since.”

I ask why there are so many closed buildings.  She says, “ I don’t know.  I hope stuff starts coming back.”

On the way back, I stop to look at the plaque on the building with the telescope.  It says “Harrisville Institute of Culture Learning, dedicated 1998.”  It has been a long while since anyone was here.  The bushes are overgrown, and the shades have fallen in the windows.

Back in our room, the rain lets loose.  Heidi sleeps in the shower.  I look out the window and see the tabby cat huddled on the doorstep of the office.

Though the rain beats on,
I cannot sleep.  The bed is miserable, the pillows the worst kind of foam rubber lumps.  Wes, resilient as ever, is conked out and snoring away.  3 am comes and goes, and I am still awake.

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 remark how much Tawas has changed since last we were here.  The grey haired woman muses, "Yeah, Tawas ain't tiny no more."

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.