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Mutant Ninja Turtles "There's no excuse for [rude]ness,
except for maybe if you've been in a real bad train accident,
and had to have a large part of your brain removed." Ten kilometres out of Au Gres, we stopped again. It wasn't another flat, mind you. We were lost. Again. (Or were we just putting my new-found 'ask for directions and hope it'll lead to a supper invitation' theory into practice?) Garry Charbonneau's careful directions enabled us to find our way to Bay City along a network of backroads. He did a marvellous job! For the entire distance, only a few cars passed us on the ultra-smooth roads. At the entrance to Bay City State Park we stood around looking lost for too long. A woman, from a trailer next to the check-in office, wandered over and collected our fee. "I'll give it to the attendant in the morning," she said. "That was lucky!" Sharon muttered as we pedalled off in search of a site. After eating, showering, and doing laundry, it was near midnight. Sharon dragged me off "for company" while she phoned home. In the end, I was glad I had accompanied her. The call was eventful. And not just because I invented a new hop-from-one-foot-to-the-other-bug-swatting dance. Rather, we learned an offer was pending on our house. We skipped off to bed, footloose and fancy house-free visions hopscotching through our heads. At 2 am we were rudely awakened. A rowdy gang, astride raucous Harleys, thundered into the campground. Motors thudding, the dirty dozen roared around our little tent like Indians on the warpath circling a Conestoga. Whooping and clapperclawing, they rumbled a couple of tours around the suddenly wide-awake campground before mercifully exiting. Moments after slipping back into unconsciousness, dazzling white car lights jarred me from my motorbikes-with-fluffy-pillows-for-mufflers dream. A late-arriver backed his vehicle into the site directly across from ours. Leaving his headlights to eloquently stream into our fabric abode, he casually set up his tent. "We paid for this?" I moaned for the second time in an hour. Our good neighbour spent long minutes unloading gear, vigorously slamming his car doors between each and every trip. "Just our luck," I groaned. "A 27-door model!" I had previously fought a losing battle in my attempt to convince Sharon we should abandon commercial campgrounds. In the morning, her head aching and her body tired, Sharon had swung around to my viewpoint. "Official campgrounds are for the birds," she stated. "And noisy ones at that!"
From Bay City, we headed southeast on four-lane Highway 15, riding a foot inside our lane to avoid the potholes that lined the road's edge. All drivers passed us courteously. Especially truck drivers. Except one, of course. A boll weevil truckie, dragging a two-trailer widow maker, burned up behind us. With a "might is right" creed, the dork blasted his air horn, poured on the coal, and - even though no traffic occupied the adjoining lane - scraped past our churning gams. "Thanks!" Sharon screamed into the diesel fumes. "Now I won't have to shave my legs!" Through the Saginaw Valley, traffic decreased as corn crops increased. We passed field after field of corn, corn, and more corn. After passing my millionth cob, I said (in a husky voice), "I'd make a joke here, but it'd be corny." "I'm all ears," Sharon said. "Hear about the divorced cob? He stalked his ex-wife." "Yep, that is corny," Sharon agreed. Munching buttery popcorn in Frankenmuth, self-proclaimed Bavarian capital of the US (minus the Alps), we ambled around town viewing the tourist trap. So authentic, tourists spoke German! It even had its own beer. Outside an ice cream shoppe (when it's spelled like that, you just know it's going to be expensive), we joined a gaggle of white-socked retired folks licking pastel-coloured yogourt cones. We followed them to the Cheese Haus where we sampled chocolate peanut butter cheese. A true gourmet adventure. "Only in the US!" one tourist commented. It smacked more of fudge than cheese. A woman beside us must have had the same taste sensation. "When I want to eat fudge, I'll eat fudge. And when I eat cheese, I want it to taste like cheese," she remarked sharply. Her cheesy comment didn't stop us from trying jalapeño cheese, watermelon-licorice cheese, and hot pepper jelly cheese. Great on crackers! With strange-smelling breath, we excused ourselves from the Cheese Haus, and toodled down the street to a covered bridge dominating one end of town. A paddle-wheeler plied the Cass River, transporting bandy-legged tourists on a mini Danube cruise, oompah music blaring from tinny speakers. Amused, but unimpressed, we abandoned Frankenmuth to the hordes of tourists and struck out for Vassar. Arriving at dusk, we found a secluded park. While I prepared supper, Sharon reconnoitred the nearby ravine for a tent site. After eating, it was nearly dark. We pushed our bikes down a narrow trail and into concealing leafy growth. To our dismay, vehicle headlights on a side street shone directly down the trail. Sharon groaned. "It would be like sleeping in a roving searchlight all night. I don't think I can handle another night of lousy sleep." We scouted for an alternate site. One side of the narrow path abruptly dropped to a sluggish waterway. Shining our tiny flashlight in the opposite direction, I scanned the terrain for a possibility. Nothing but an inhospitable proliferation of thorns, rocks, and pointy sticks. "Even our Therm-A-Rests won't help with that," I said. Abandoning our search, we pushed our bikes back to the park. Maybe we could set up in the cooking shelter? Falsetto voices brought us to a halt. Two teenage boys were in the picnic shelter, smoking. In their smoky haze and impetuous swearing they hadn't heard our approach. We eased our bikes onto the ground and laid on the grass; shadows enshrouded us in near-invisibility. The slimmest glimmer of moonlight penetrated the leafy canopy overhead. "Oh, no," Sharon groaned. "I hope they leave soon." Instead, five more foul-mouthed cretins joined them. The pro-unofficial camping argument I had so successfully presented that morning evaporated like a puddle in the afternoon sun. "Oh, joy," Sharon sighed. It soon became apparent that the delinquents aspired to be Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles. In an awful karate display, they kicked the garbage cans, denting the shiny new aluminum, and strewing plastic and paper innards over a wide area of freshly mown grass. "Early Neanderthal," Sharon whispered. After vanquishing Sir Garbagehead, the angry teens turned their wrath on their next defenceless victims: cement-anchored barbecues. After a succession of forceful kicks they succeeded in uprooting the metal posts. Amid high-fives and breathless cheers - convinced testosterone levels were at a high enough level - they departed. "Home to catch Ninja reruns, no doubt." "At least it'll get them off the streets," Sharon muttered. Shaking our heads at the youths' idiotic behaviour,
we erected our tent behind a nearby building, dreading another
possible round of unwelcome visitors. Never being certain that
an entire night would pass without interruption was definitely
an uncomfortable part of unofficial camping. But, at least we
hadn't paid for the privilege. |
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