It’s a glorious sleep at Elaine and Sandy’s and I wake up to the croissant aroma. Too bad I lose my appetite from the antibiotic, but I bounce pack quickly and Nick and I are delivered where we left off – late enough, I might add, to miss a short morning thunderstorm.
The air is cool as the trail shoots up on hand-built rock stairs to overlooks of the big lake from white pine shaded cliffs. A chorus of warblers – chestnut sided, yellow, mourning, blackbutnian, and black and white nashville – compete for most lovely. Black snakes with one yellow back stripe slither out of their sunny perches as I pass.
I loved spending time with Nick’s friend’s moms. We were told our only job was to entertain, so we both shared trail stories before Sandy suggested we get showers because we really stank. Elaine felt like a big sister and I clicked immediately.
At Mike’s Rock the heat gets turned up and my clean clothes are soaked through with sweat. The view is gray, the air slightly hazy from humidity. A hermit thrush sings through its ‘syrinx,’ two tones rising in synchrony.
As the trail dips back into the forest, I move fast through mud, side trails to avoid the main channel becoming just as slippery. It’s nowhere near the level of New Zealand but my socks are wet and mud reaches up my calf.
Miles and miles of muddy forest full of music finally take me to the Gooseberry River. Richard and I camped here years ago on another hot, buggy set of days. The water was much lower and I lay down on a gravel sand bar only a few inches of water cooling my skinny self.
I heard the hikers before seeing them unsure if I should warn them that a naked middle age lady was ahead. Somehow, even at a distance of ten feet or so, they never saw me. Maybe the sun was in their eyes.
Now the water is high, but the river is still filled with gravelly bars and grasses. The water is latte brown as it coils around making its way to a series of falls.
It’s a scene from Jurassic Park in here – humongous ferns spread wide next to wild carrot, taller than my head. A profusion of bloodroot borders the eroded banks, their white cups wide open to the sun. White thimbleberry blossoms nod as the wind brings up.
“Bring it!” I say, holding my arms aloft to dry the pits.
Everywhere are signs of flooding, entire banks falling into the water and leaving only a tiny trace of trail. I pass four sites, empty now and inviting, but it’s too early to stop. Soon I reach a wider path that takes me to Fifth Falls, white and rushing into a deep pool where bathers dip in their toes to test the temperature.
I see lots of tourists now, jarring after being totally alone in the woods, but I love arriving in this glorious state park from the mud. Lunch is on rocks and a family joins me, both parents glued to their phones. As I head on, more tourists pass, two – Brad and Sue from Sheboygan – stop to ask about what I’m doing. It’s the big, bright blue mattress which draws attention.
While I pull off leaves and twigs picked up as I tried to skirt the mud fields, I tell them I’m walking the trail. “Sleeping out?” Of course, but not always easy to understand from the perspective of someone who’s never backpacked. This big blue accordion, I tell them, is the best mat for sprawlers.
They wish this sprawler luck before I find the walking bridge under the driving bridge and head to the bike trail.
Years ago, the story goes, some backpackers harassed a local as he drove and ATV and hunted on his own property. They were on trail, but it crossed his land with his permission, which he immediately revoked.
I can see why he’d be annoyed, but it now means hikers walk out in the open on a paved trail right next to highway. Even this close to the lake, it’s hot and I take down my hair to cover my ears.
It was here on this very path on a different trip that I came up with the idea to sell my professional flute so I could walk the Te Araroa in New Zealand. Such an inspiration and one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. (Incidentally, I heard a recital recently given by the owner of that flute and she sounds amazing)
A few bikers pass, and I meet a father and two sons backpacking. There is one small section that drops to the beach of smooth, flat stones. The water is absolutely still and I skip a few on its surface.
It’s not far before I cross 61, the main route up the shore, and climb up Blueberry Hill Road. Thru-hiker Tiffany is coming the other way and brags about a week of zero bugs. I tell her what’s coming up will make up for it.
I’m back in woods briefly before climbing up to a long ridge looking out to that still lake, the Apostle Islands dark blue humps on the horizon. The hike down to the Split Rock River is only mildly muddy, but the steepness takes me by surprise, even though I’ve walked this many times.
Up and up on log stairs, then down again through squishy mud, the river roaring to my right. A tributary is crossed by bridge where a group films a bearded man with piercing blue eyes in a cape for a medieval fantasy film. The camera woman gives me a coke.
Just as I reach the two crumbly orangish basalt pillars that give the river its name, a young man asks me if he’s anywhere near the river crossing. I say yes and to follow me. Bryce is from Nebraska and this is his first visit. He lost a friend and tacked on this trip, his first all alone, after visiting the grave.
We move briskly up and down to what remains of the bridge and I realize he would not have crossed on his own, not knowing a rope has been affixed at a calmer section below, but hard to spot.
It’s still deep, nearly to my crotch, but there’s very little current and we both slosh through using stable rocks as a second guide.
The site I have in mind is a fabulous one, completely empty when I arrive. It just out into the river, the split rocks in front, another basalt tower splitting the river downstream and a good set of falls upstream, loud and frothy.
Bryce heads on much more confident he’ll get back before dark. I offer advice on a few favorites, then sit on my rock patio soaking my feet and soaking in this brilliant place.
Like a modernist sculpture, the rock is all sharp angles and simple geometric shapes. The water is surprisingly warm and there are very few mosquitos feeding hovering dragonflies.
My tent is set, dinner eaten, food bag hung and it’s time to close my eyes with balsam filling my nostrils, cascades filling my ears and cool air soothing my skin.
All I can say is, “Bring it!”
