From the Soo to the Storm

Day 3.  July 2^nd.  

Distance travelled 790kms.

Wildlife spotted.  You guessed it.

Up early and off to The Soo.  We got over the bridge to the US border easily, and then got pulled to one side because I had to sign a visa waiver.  A very burly agent asked me loudly for my address in the States.  I’m going camping, I said.  I’m not sure where we’ll be.  I was the only person in the visa centre, so all fourteen heads lifted to watch.

I need an address, he said.  Not smiling, but not frowning either.  Just very calm.

I could feel the panic mounting.  Somewhere in the back of my head there was a faint bell of memory ringing, as I remembered the last time this happened to me. 

I’m going to Montana.  I’ll be in Whitefish?

I need an address.

My panic was rendering me speechless.  The Yaak Valley, I wondered, then thought bad move, that place is full of militia types.

I Need You to Work with Me, Lady.... the not smiling but not frowning was morphing into frowning.

YELLOWSTONE!!!!!!!!!!

That works for me, he said.  He started to type.  You’ve been in the States before?

Oh yes, I said, lots of time.

Then You Know You Need An Address.

So you’re going to Yellowstone, Montana, he typed laboriously as he spoke.

Yes, have you been?

NOOOOOO. 

I shut up.

And you’re with Mr. Leeman?

Yes, he’s my husband.

He gave me a look that was full of the pity he felt for whoever was married to a muppet like me. 

I gave him my best YESSIR smile.

He photographed and finger-printed me twice, just to be on the safe side, then let me through.

I ran to the car and checked the atlas to see if I could actually go to Yellowstone.

It’s in Wyoming.

Go figure.

We drove across northern Michigan.  Lotsa trees.  Lotsa old mining towns.  Iron Mountain.  Iron River.  Iron Lake.  Ironwood.  That kinda thing.  Lots of Ford pickups and Chevs.

It’s possible to see some of the traces of the financial carnage of 2008, the odd section boarded up in the odd, less prosperous towns.  But mostly it was quite prosperous looking.  Florence was a little Victorian jewel nestled by a lake.  Norway had a Viking theme throughout, with a long boat at the edge of town and various red-haired warriors painted wherever a wall presented some promise.  In between the little towns there were lots of deciduous woods, and the smell of lavender was everywhere. 

We skirted the shores of Lake Michigan, and then hauled ourselves around the southern shore of Superior.  Lotsa water.  Like looking at the Mediterranean, no waves to speak of, but no horizon either.  Finally, we fetched up along its shore at Arndale, Wisconsin, and watched the local kids jump off an old wharf right on the main street of the town. It was almost European, a wide park with cyclists and walkers passing the early evening, with a soft breeze coming off the lake to lift my tee-shirt away from the stickiness underneath.  There was no waterside cafe with busy waiters and strong espressos of course, so we ate at a ribs joint full of tall, thin mid-Westerners, couples in matching short and sneaker combos, filling up on the all-you-can-eat Monday broaster chicken.  They must work it off with Nordic skiing in the winter.  Nobody could understand my accent.

A few miles out of town the landscape softened yet again and there were rolling hills and lakes and beautiful woodlands all shimmering greeny-gold under the evening sun.  It was still 33 degrees and we were bone tired, so we pulled into a US State Forest.

For $12 a night you can camp in these places, dotted all over the States.  Many were built by the Citizen Conservation Corps, the CCC army that was put to work during the First Depression. There was a big Bear Country sign on the gate.  We pulled in anyway.

We drove around for a bit, then Himself suggested we park in a spot that I thought was a little close to the garbage cans.  He pointed out there was a guy with local plates and a four wheeler right next to us.  I was too tired to argue.

We set up camp and I wandered over to introduce myself.  Joel was a tall, thin, diffident mid-Westerner.  I explained that I was Irish and therefore afraid of bears and asked what did he think were the chances. 

Scared of bears, huh.  You’re camped kinda near the trash cans if you don’t like bears.

He explained that if there were problem bears there would be a bear trap set up near the garbage and there wasn’t so it was probably all right.

I nodded.  Thinking, a bear is a bear is a goddam bear.

He misunderstood my thinking.

They don’t actually hurt the bears.  They trap them in a big pipe and relocate them.

I did actually know that.  I remember the episode of Yogi Bear where the park ranger put a pie in a bear trap and Yogi got caught in it, even though Boo Boo told him not to risk it.

I went back to Himself and reported on the trash can proximity issue.

Apparently, we were there so that I would see a bear if it were possible. 

We sat in the beautiful, quiet woods and had a glass of wine during the long, slow twilight and as it got dark put everything edible in the car and went to bed.  We were both completely exhausted.

About five minutes later the lightening started. 

Then the wind. 

Then the thunder. 

Then the rain. 

I spent the next seven hours watching the second biggest storm I have ever seen play itself out right over our little tent, which was under a big pine tree.  During the quiet periods between thunder claps, I could hear Himself snore through it all.

About four hours in, I really, really needed to pee.  These are the moments when you hate being a woman.  The thunder box was quite a bit away, and even though the rational part of my brain knew that no sane bear would be out in this storm, I ducked into the trees behind my tent instead.  As  I struggle out of the tent in the wind, I am guessing this will go on my list of exotic ablution incidents. 

I have a list.  It already includes

-        - having to get out of a polar snow suit on a glacier in Peru,

-        - realising I am being watched by about ten people in a moonlit coconut grove in India,

-        encountering an irate raccoon by Tusket Lake.  

So now, I am having a vacation where I have to pee behind a tree in an ear-splitting thunder storm, soaking wet and back-lit by lightening, in a bear-infested wood in northern Wisconsin. 

No, I didn’t see a goddamned bear.