Lost in the Swamp

 

Lost in the Swamp

Day 2 Miles 28.3-44ish

June 29, 2025

This has been a day to teach old fools.  But we are laughing on the other side. 

We left the no services hotel, where there was a not a single coffee urn or maker, nor a cup or spoon, though they touted the presence of a kitchen in each room.  One could conveniently rent kitchen utensils and dishes on a piece-by-piece basis.  Or rent a kit for the low, low price of $30.

I got take-out coffee and bagels from the local coney island, and we beat it from there.  We enjoyed an easy ride through leafy suburbs, then a beautiful run on the Clinton River Trail, which ended at the cute little town of Utica, where we sweat a climb up from the trail to cross roaring Michigan 59.  We are looking forward to lunch in one of the village’s many bistros.

We attempted to park our bikes on a sidewalk patio, where we hoped to stop.

“Are you part of this private event?”  A young waitress asked.  We weren’t.

“You can’t park here.”  She points.  “There’s a rack just there.”  We take our bike there.

I get Heidi out her crate and situate her with water and food in the shade.  The bikes are secure.  We tell the dog, “You stay here and watch the bikes.  We will be right back.” 

After we order at the beautifully restored 1890’s restaurant, HOST, I go to check on Heidi and see two young waitresses, including the one who told us to move, fawning over Heidi.  She has more water and treats.  All were happy to see me. 

Lunch is delicious and we are content.

But the day was far from over. 

The next 6 hours were some of the most hellacious bike hell we have ever encountered.  Worse than Potato Hill in the Adirondacks…worse than the scree pile blocking our way into southwest Glacier National Park.

Our map says Holland Meadows Trail.  It looks like a continuation of the Clinton River Trail.  But no.

It starts innocently enough, following the tow path of the short-lived Clinton-Kalamazoo Canal.  This smooth, buggy ride leads us directly to a locked gate. 

The map says the trail continues.

Is there any signage at the locked gate?  Of course not.  Just Keep OUT.   TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

We spot a faint path that promises to lead to the actual trail. It leads us to a tiny path in the midst of swamp and swale.  There is no riding in these low-hanging, face-slapping bushes.
The mosquitos are having a field day.  I let Heidi out and she immediately begins thrashing in and out of the brush.   We plod on, following lines clearly marked on my phone app, but not all clearly seen by our eyes.

It is hot, but we are making progress.  The trail is getting fainter, so I check my trusted map application, which directs me left at the next junction.   At the next junction, the map again directs us left.

Wes protests, “This is taking us back!”

As indeed it is.

We shove and sweat our loaded bikes up a scrabbly, steep embankment, hoping it will put us back on the main path.  But no.  We are back at the locked gate.

Yes, we had just dragged our bicycles in a circle through a swamp.

Oh dear Lord.   At the entry to the Holland Meadows, we had six miles to Yates Cider Mill, then another 3 to get to our lodging.  We still did--after walking our bikes for an hour.

A young couple, he of goatee and baseball cap, she of long thin pitch-black straight hair, and a peculiar onesie, approach us on the trail, coming from direction we need to go.

We ask the way to the Yates Cider Mill.

He points us to a tiny single track that leads us to a fallen log.

“Is this the trail?”

He answers.  “Yes, we just came that way.”

They help us lift our bike over the fallen log.

We thank him profusely.

He kinda mumbles “This ain’t nothing to what’s ahead.”

I pick out the words, “Stairs, and you’ll see.”

What?

But he and she are already off in the opposite direction.

He wasn’t kidding.

The tiny trail is hard, dangerous hiking--especially for old people with poor balance and/or fat out of shape bodies.  Or for people who have a hard time getting their stiff right leg over the fallen tree my waist height.

Wes hollers, “Push it over!” struggling to get his numb leg completely over the tree.

We push, the foot drags, then plops to the ground.  Wes staggers to stand.

Now we have to get the bike…

and the loaded trailer..

Over the log.

Wes takes the handlebar.  I take the back of the bike.

We heave with all our might.

And get the front wheel over the log.

Small comfort.

The rest is much heavier.

We try to heave the back wheel up onto the log.

Fail.

“Wes, keep the front still!” I yell.

I somehow find the fulcrum point and get the back wheel on the log.

The trailer is at right angle and stuck.

Wes heaves bike forward with all his might while I lift the trailer and manage to get it over.

The dog, meantime, is crashing through the stickery bushes and mucky floor of a swamp.

And looks exultant.

Oh, but wait, just a few yards beyond, the intrepid travelers encounter an even worse fallen tree trap.  This time the tree has fallen at an angle and presents a three to fiv  foot hurdle.  The dog casually walks beneath the fallen tree.

This is more precarious, dangerous, and difficult.

 With the skills from the last tree hoist, we manage to shove the damn bike and empty dog crate over the log.

Ok fine.

We push our bikes along a readable path until we come to some 20^th century ruins.  A concrete pad.  The remains of foundations. W e take it as a good sign.  Surely a real path is close by.

Wrong. 

A few hundred yards up the path, we face steep rickety uneven stairs going down.  About 20 of them. 

At the bottom of the stairs, the fun continues--a leaning two-foot-wide wood bridge with missing planks.  I hoist my bike up on the bridge, then sidestep so as not to drop the bike into the muck below.

 When I look back.  Wes is nowhere to be seen.

I re-cross the sideways bridge to find Wes struggling to get his bike and loaded trailer down the steps.

Clomp, clomp, clomp go our feet down the stairs, while our straight arms struggle to keep the bike from tumbling forward.

Another hoist of the bike on and off the bridge.   

We find ourselves once again skirting the Clinton River, now six times the size of this morning’s burbling brook. 

We think, “Surely this is the river path leading to the Cider Mill.

Wrong.

The map app finally admits, “Limited accuracy.”

All we can do is stumble forward and hope that we can find our way out of this swamp.

More downed trees, more slippery roots, and as we go on, more sudden sharp up-hills on loose and slippery slopes.  I am shoving my bike up one only to fail, fall, and have the bike come over on top of me.  I would slide down the pitch if I weren’t clinging to a tree.  I’m stuck and cannot move.

Wes comes up panting and sees me stuck on the embankment.

He leaves his bike below and scrambles up the embankment to get the bike off me---without knocking both of us back down the slope.  With much screeching and groaning, we get the bike, trailer, and me up upright and somehow up the ledge.

Now it’s Wes’ bike turn and it is worse.  My trailer was empty.  His is fully loaded. 

We strain and we sweat and we heave and we get stuck--- then lose our footing and slip down the 60 degree pitch.

We are exhausted, bruised, and scared. 

But we must try again.  There is no other choice.  We have to get out of this swamp

We manage to get the bike over the rise, but we are beat. BEAT. Beat.

Too bad.

The next passage is smooth but all too short.

There!  Above us, we spot a sign pointing to the Yates Cider Mill!

10 feet up an embankment. 

I try to make it, but can’t.  Wes helps, and together we use the last of our strength to get my bike up. 

We lean over our knees and my bike to gather our wits, catch our breath, and steady our shaking, exhausted muscles.

A couple approaches.  He is a pudgy, nerdish 30-year-old wearing buttery Crocs.  She is 20 years his elder, wearing a flouncy top, and a tight blonde-ish ponytail.

I plead, “Can you help us!  Please.  We cannot get his bike up.”

They consider.

I beg, “We have been lost in the swamp for hours and are exhausted.”

They take the matter in hand. 

Refusing our help, they form a focused team, grab the bike and with little backsliding and precise movements, get the bike up the hill in less than a minute.  We had struggled with mine for five.

Finally, we are on a straight smooth path.   Families are walking small children.  I am near tears with relief when pop through woods and see the big red barn of the Yates Cider Mill, “Using water energy since 1836.”  Various families speaking various languages pack the tables or feed the goats.  Shangri-La.

We slurp apple cider ices (despite the brain freeze) and thrill to bowls of ice cream.  It is nearly 6pm.    

We cannot make it to Rochester.  Could someone give us a ride?  Should I call 911?

Wes suggests, “Let’s leave our bikes here and uber to the hotel.”  Good idea.

$30 for a 3-mile ride seems like a great deal at this point.  We land at the Royal Park Hotel’s “Every Day Luxury,” and feel like we have escaped hell.

Complimentary mango mojitos, marble floors, and smiling faces.  For just 25 dollars more than the wretched welfare motel 20 miles and a world away.

In a few hours, we are showered, safe, laughing at our foibles, and counting the bruises, bites, and scrapes of the day.  Soon we’re sipping wine and making small talk in the bar.