Somewhere else

                                                                         Dropping off a table on the road to Arcadia.

You just have to trust.

We got out of town just in time to meet the bad weather up in northern Michigan last week. It was cold, windy and damp. But the scenery was different; the house had been professionally cleaned; and it was just really nice to be somewhere else. We saw no one but grocery clerks, played Scrabble with a real board and wooden pieces, and actually conversed on topics beyond politics for minutes at a time. 

We were going to take the Milwaukee ferry on Sunday morning, but when we arrived at 5 a.m. the ferry had been cancelled because the lake was kicking up 9-foot seas. So we drove up through the UP, the calming, scenic route, and I did get a bike ride in during a one-day break in the weather. It was a lot of climbing, and, if I wasn't such a sissy, the descents would have been chaotically fast. We took the ferry on the way back, and it was harrowing, the boat lurching and slamming from side to side. They should have cancelled that one, too, and I will never ride the Lake Express again.

I feel good on a bike. Normal. With my feet locked in, pushing down is no problem. It's just walking I find difficult. My MD-afflicted ankles are such a mess. In a strange house, I lurch from counter to table to wall, pull myself up stairways with the railing and hold on tight coming down. Getting up from a couch requires a push down with my fists, which makes me feel like a very old man. Wearing boots I can do pretty well, walk for miles, but in tennis shoes or just socks I walk with care, or just sit. Do I need a cane? Boy, I hope not. 

Here's a few pix. 

The scenic overlook

Down the other side

About to topple?

(Ms. V photo)

  

Work barge near the lighthouse

(Ms. V photo)

Tough bird

Home and away

                                                                                            Pinewoods Campground

                                                                                               Kettle Moraine South

     

                                          

I planned weeks in advance and got approval from the woman in Human Resources (Ms. V) to take a little overnight bike ride to a campground near Dousman, about 40 biking miles west. Left Tuesday midmorning and had clear blue skies, temps in the 60s, a full load of gear, and a tolerable headwind. I rode the trails -- the Hank Aaron to the Oak Leaf to the New Berlin to the Glacial Drumlin. I stopped for tamales in Waukesha, took a longer break in Wales, and, at Waterville Road, followed the hilly country lane to the campground and set up in site #6. I saw just one other person, and my site was passed by just  three or four cars in the evening and the next morning. 

I texted and called and emailed Ms. V that I had arrived safe and sound -- her sole requirement -- but I was out of range, and I thought, "Well, what can I do? I'm sure it will be fine."

Famous last words.

Site #6

So I ate a freeze-dried meal, went to bed before 8 p.m., and listened to the vice presidential debate with earbuds on a little transistor radio. 

In the morning I got up, made oatmeal and packed up. I waited for the weather to warm up a little bit, and, near the campground entry, called Ms. V. 

"I've had a great time," I said. 

"Where are you?"

"I'm leaving the campground."

"Where?"

"I'm leaving the campground."

"Where are you right now?"

My connection was bad, she said, but it was the fixation on where I was that stuck with me. 

When I got home I called her at work, and said again I'd had a great time, no problems.

And she said, "Well, let me tell you about my day."

Now, just so we understand, she's a woman suffering PTSD from my bike crash of last summer. So she and my solo bike trips are not on the best of terms. (Even though she gave me pro-forma approval for this one.) In any event, she was up most of the night, and called Ahna, our daughter, who also disapproves and also was involved in the bike-crash recovery, and I suppose they got a little revved up.

So, by 6:40 a.m., Ms. V was driving to the Southern Kettle Moraine. Ah! the fixation! She went first to the wrong campground, got directions to the right one, and didn't find me, though I was still there. She was certainly one of those few cars that drove by my site in the morning. 

I should say that I had cleverly camped in a little wooded thicket, completely screened from the road -- because who wants to be seen from the road?  

So she reported to work late, and had to explain it to her boss, and by the time she got home, I had showered and was settling down to rest. In the end, I went and got us take-out to make amends.

Next time I'll bring a GPS.

*

Besides the damage to my relationships, when I got home I couldn't turn this light off and it later burned out, dammit: