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!