The last part of my road trip is spent exploring the Great Lakes area in northern Michigan, including the Porcupine Mountains, affectionately named the Porkies.
Early in the morning I roll out of my tent in the Porcupine Mountain Wilderness State Park and plan to hike the forests around the beautifully named Lake of the Clouds. The trailhead is at the end of the park, a dead end. I leave everything in the front seat of my car, car door opened, and go to the boot to change into my hiking boots. Hiking boots on, I decide to go to the washroom, and mindlessly swing shut the car door.
Time slows down. I notice my car keys, phone, water and snacks on the front seat, and the car’s lock in the locked position. I reach out to grab for the door, but I’m too late.
I locked myself out of the car a few weeks ago, but because of the hot weather I left the window ajar and was able to jam my arm through to open the lock. This morning, my windows were closed.
The park ranger won’t be at the park booth for another hour. The few hikers that are around don’t know how to break into a car – it doesn’t seem to be an essential life skill for people who have smart cars with fancy detectors. Several people go to look, but no one has a wire or a wire hanger in their car. With a borrowed phone I attempt to make a call to CAA. There is no reception.
Eventually, some hikers drive down to the main park office and a maintenance worker is sent to try and help. He can’t help me break into the car for liability reasons, but he does go on a hunt for a sturdy wire. Not having one in his car, he goes to find one in the outhouses. Assuring me that he’s cleaned it as best he can, he still urges me to put on some surgical gloves before I start to maneuver the wire through a slit in the window which he is kindly propping open for me with a crowbar – he had decided that if anything does go wrong, I’m not the kind of person to sue him for trying to help. A small crowd of people gather round. Someone brings over bottles of water. It turns into a pleasant social gathering.
The wire catches the lock and with a tug, flips it open.
Applause, but nothing over the top like at the end of some Hollywood film.
With the keys safely in my pocket, I set off on the hike. Someone plays a Native American flute near the lake and the sound, whimsical and calming, fills the forest, lifts my heart and makes my feet nimble. It turns out this is just like a Hollywood film, background music included.
My next stop is the North Gemini Lake campground and the Painted Rocks National Lakeshore. The hikes here take me along the shore of Lake Superior, through forest, along cliffs and out onto sand dunes. Eventually, I don’t bother shaking the sand out of my shoes until there is enough sand squeezing my toes tight enough to make walking uncomfortable.
I drive over and dip my feet into the crystal clear Lake Michigan. I drive over Mackinac Bridge and my head veers from left to right and back again – to my right is Lake Michigan, to the left is Lake Huron, and I am driving above the divide.
The last morning before I return home feels like an autumn morning. It’s gone past 7,30am but no one else seems to up. People are eager to stay cozy in the warmth of their sleeping bags, waiting for the sun to climb higher and warm the earth before they step out to begin their day.
The sky is a soft grey. There is a chill and I have to change my sandals for shoes, wrap a scarf around my neck. The wind is no longer a gentle breeze – today it comes in brisk waves and rustles the leaves that are already drying, losing their lush green colour, preparing to become yellows, browns and reds that will soon layer the forest floor.
Lake Huron billows lazily against the white sandy shores. The lake begs me to drag a camping chair over to its shore, along with a blanket, a book and a steaming mug of coffee.
I comply.
