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?