Last Camping Trip
Marjorie
and I just finished our last camping trip of the year and it was a doozy, making
the two of us all tuckered out. The trip began innocently enough – we wanted to
help celebrate our Granddaughter’s introduction to college after her first six
weeks away from home. The school where she now resides happily complied for a
family visit by means of their Homecoming celebration.
The
Granddaughter is at her new college, now known at Michigan Tech, or, more
properly, Michigan Technological University, but formerly, Michigan College of
Mining and Technology. I think the former name is most appropriate since it
began as a school for engineers who were charged with the responsibility of
operating copper and/or iron ore mines for the riches that lay underground in
Michigan’s far reaches of the Upper Peninsula. In the case of Mich Tech, the
school is in the town of Houghton, sister city to Hancock which lays on the
north shore of the Portage River which bisects the Keweenaw Peninsula.
(For
those of us who are Michiganders, the Keweenaw Peninsula looks like the dorsal fin
of a fish whose outline is the northernmost portion of Upper Peninsula. Its
location is as far north as you can go and still be in Michigan). The fish fin
is an apt representation of the area since the Keweenaw juts north from
Michigan into Lake Superior. The big lake washes the shores of the Keweenaw on three sides making the
land form a favorite for those outdoorsy types.
Indians who lived
in the area and paddled their canoes along the southern shore of Lake Superior
sought out a short cut (as anyone would, given the cold water and frequent
brisk winds) and they found a lake and several Keweenaw rivers that allowed a shortcut
that bisected the entire peninsula, hence the name Keweenaw, meaning ‘the
crossing place or portage.’ The name stuck - the river that bisects and
separates the two towns of Hancock and Houghton is now known as the Portage
River. Houghton took its name from Douglas Houghton, he who was Michigan’s
first state Geologist who made important contributions in locating copper
deposits in the Keweenaw. Douglas became a martyr for that work, unfortunately
drowning in the turbulent waters as he searched the Keweenaw for copper.
I
am furnishing this geography lesson to explain about being tuckered out via the
travel needed to arrive at Michigan Tech. The school is 550 miles from Detroit,
(about 10 hours travel time), about 480 miles from Chicago, 260 miles from
Mackinaw, and about equidistant from Milwaukee and Roscommon at 300 plus miles
or six hours travel time during good weather with good traffic conditions,
neither of which we had during our last camping trip.
The
towns of Houghton and Hancock are situated on the Portage River in the
approximate center of the peninsula where a ridge of mountains decorate each
side of the river. There is no flat land in either Houghton or Hancock. Both
towns were first located on the tiny portion of flat land that serves as the
flood plain for the river. Beyond this scarce spot the earth protrudes upward
at a fearsome angle for walkers, bicyclists (most need to walk their bikes), and
motorcyclists and pity those who leave the flat lands on skates, skate boards,
one wheels, or other mechanical people movers that are common in most colleges.
Accordingly, walking is the only practical means of transport throughout the villages.
It is a good thing that students are young.
In
case you are wondering, the answer is yes, Michigan does have some flat areas
that are entirely suitable for cities. Only God knows why the earliest citizens
of Houghton and Hancock decided to build their homes and a sizable university
in the midst of the hills on either side of the river. The ridiculous nature of
the sites for homes, businesses, and college buildings clinging perilously to
the sides of the hills became even more obvious with the advent of automobiles
and the consequent demand for roads running upward at ridiculous angles. Driving
on any of the streets in the towns requires both good brakes and powerful
engines.
Our
camping place was 10 miles distant from Houghton/Hancock since all other camping
sites and hotels and motels were sold out due to the popularity of the
Homecoming events. The 10 mile distant McLean State Park was a pleasant
campground with unsurpassed views of the lake and river. The road taking us to
the campground followed the river to its conclusion on the northwest shore of
the Keweenaw. The river has a lot of curves that the road follows, making the
trip slower than expected. For the three days that we camped, this necessitated
a twice daily trip to the campus to visit with and/or return our Granddaughter
to her dorm. Of course, we did the camping thing in the evenings as we tended
our sore muscles in front of a brisk campfire that helped a little in warding
off the cool breezes.
After
three days of visiting and sight-seeing and eating marshmallows our trip to the
college came to an end and we were ready for a quiet and uneventful trip home.
It didn’t quite work out that way. We expected the trip home to be a duplicate
to the arrival trip – about eight hours in length when we included two stops
for diesel fuel to refill our tank, and three stops to load and then unload
food and drinks for the two of us. The trip to the college was mostly
uneventful with clear weather and fast traffic. The trip home was not so much
of that since a steady rain began spreading over much of northern Michigan just
as we were ready to leave. I slowed down to accommodate the now hazardous
roadway since I was pulling a 10,000 pound trailer.
Things
began looking up when the weather cleared as we came nearer St. Ignace and the
Big Mac bridge. By this time, we had added an extra hour to the homeward trip
with the slower travel occasioned by the rain. But, our spirits were high when
we began reaching familiar territory around the straits. And then the
unthinkable happened. About five miles west of St. Ignace on highway 2, traffic
began to slow. Within five minutes it stopped. Dead flat stopped. We were in
the middle of nowhere with several thousand cars ahead of us and a few hundred
behind us, all wondering what had happened.
The
traffic started moving again. My estimate was that we were now traveling at the
speed of 2 miles an hour and I was forced to move only inches before stopping.
The idle speed of the vehicle was too fast. I had to brake every moment or two.
After 20 minutes of this travel, we finally could see what we thought was the
end of the congestion at an exit that must have been at least two miles ahead.
We were wrong – it wasn’t the end of the congestion; it was the beginning of
additional congestion as the road veered toward St. Ignace and the bridge. In
the haze of the distant bridge entryway, we could see the most hated thing ever
for motorists like me - road construction barrels.
Highway
2 was a two lane road at this point and drivers began to jockey for position
with some opting to stay in the right lane while others of us pretended to see
advantages in the left lane. In the distance was the exit from highway 2 on the
right side of the road. Only one lane was available on the entrance to the
bridge forcing us left hand drivers to begin sizing up the drivers on our right
and whether they would allow us into their lane. It was like a low speed game
of chicken where the left hand land drivers would measure the length of their
vehicles against the quickly shifting openings on the right. I had a stroke of
good luck when automobile drivers gave a wide birth to the huge semi-truck and
trailer on my right. It seemed a natural move for me to squeeze my truck and 38
foot trailer into the vacuum the semi had left in its wake. It was probably a
risky move but the reward was that we could now see the bridge, less than
another mile ahead. My watch said we had been in the line up nearly 1 and ½
hours.
“This
isn’t supposed to happen,” I said aloud in another of my understatements. As we
inched toward the bridge the problem became apparent: there were too many cars
and trucks trying to negotiate the bridge entry way that now had fewer lanes
since the construction of new lanes was underway with work trucks, tools, and
construction barrels now being stored on the roadway. Presumably, someone in
the Road Commission had made the judgement that beginning work on a new lane to
the bridge entryway would be an acceptable change after the conclusion of the
Labor Day.
It
wasn’t acceptable to the several thousand of us who were trying to use the
bridge.
We
made it home after a ten-hour trip with no dinner and bulging bladders. We
decided that this would be our last camping trip of the season. In retrospect, it
wasn’t all that bad; it was just one more brick on the wall.
Stay
happy,
Uncle
Bill
