Sat., 8/7
Most of today was spent hiking into Hatfield for some
food, and it was a fairly long hike, there and back, but without the pack. It's
been a cool, drizzly day. I brought no water and needed none. I called B. Still
no mail.
Now I'm sitting back at my river camp and eating like a king. I've just had a can of tuna and a fresh tomato, I'm drinking my first cup of home-made coffee, and a potato is baking in the embers of the fire. I have a chocolate bar. The light rain has stopped. I think it will clear. Things are sweet.
They are having some sort of ATV convention over in Hatfield, and the closer I got the more the noise of those machines sounded through the forest. Someone was playing some sort of sound system really loud and, like Indian drums, the bass line carries. It's all you hear of whatever music they're playing, a kind of disco beat to accompany their time in nature.
I sat for awhile on the far side of the dam that stops the Black River to form Arbutus Lake. The sluices must be closed, and a large part of the river bed is visible. I don't know what rock this is, perhaps dolomite, but where the river has carried away the layers of soil you can see that it rises in great billows, as if some boiling concoction were suddenly frozen and petrified.
As always, it is a wonder to see the power of plant life that will take root in nothing and flourish. The Chinese say that the weak overcomes the strong. These plants will split this solid stone.
Why Nature?
I've been thinking of why it is being in nature is important to me, and it's a difficult subject. After all, the word we use for being alone in nature is communion--the same word for perhaps the most important, and mysterious, ritual in the Christian faith. Always, for me, nature has been my church. It is in the presence of the natural world that I have most deeply felt the wonder, beauty and terrible mystery of God. The one exception to this has been when I have been in the intimate majesty of human love.
I think of Fred, who couldn't stop talking, and the ATV riders roaring down the paths with that disco beat, and there seems to be a common desire to avoid the communion. Fred says that down the side roads of the highway there are miles of nothing, and, or course, it is not nothing down there. Where man is not, nature teems. I believe he really meant there is nothing human down those roads, and we seem to both long for and fear this absence of ourselves.
We are such a bizarre species. We Americans think highly of "the rugged individual", and there was a gaggle of them about today, all driving the same trucks and dressed in the same outfits to run around the woods together in their ATVs. You see the same thing with some of the biker gangs--tough guys and tough chicks with all the regalia, but you never see just one. I'm not certain why this is. Perhaps the images that we put on are a kind of language, and we require the other to hear us speak.
I have often wondered why the creatures of the wild are always announcing themselves. You would think that to avoid the predator, the animals would lay low and keep silent. But, the birds are always calling, and the squirrels chatter incessantly. It seems that all of nature has the desire to proclaim that they are, and we are no different.
But, who are we? We have built a phantasmagoria of possible selves, and our culture is a huge showroom displaying them. We, always with the sales person close at hand, can pick and choose the images we imagine we are. The car we drive, the clothes we wear, proclaim us, and the entire machinery of commerce shapes and orders our lives and environment to keep us in character. We are Narcissus rapt by the reflection in the mirror of our own making. Our danger lay in drowning.
Nature takes us into that which is not of human making. It breaks the spell.
We need this because we all know that all this strutting and fretting that we do is just a transitory game. We must all, at some time, put down the mask and stand naked. I believe we fear this. We grow accustomed to our images. They become the assumptions of our being, and we cling to the familiar and fear what we do not know. I suspect this is why we so blithely destroy our natural environment. We secretly wish that it would go away. We imagine that if we cut enough, pave enough, set up enough shopping malls and make all things in our image that we will then have nothing to fear. This is not true and will not be.
All is from one creation, one source, and nothing we humans can do can be unnatural. We are nature, or at least a part of it. I do not believe we humans can destroy nature. We do not have that power. It may be possible for us to destroy ourselves, but life, and I suspect intelligence, are a whole of which we form only a part. And this whole, call it nature, Mother, God--it doesn't matter--delights in change and transformation and cares not for death. It continually moves on to other forms. The human species may be only a brief fantastic, but this life, what we are, will continue.
The voice in the wilderness has always cried out, "Fear not." What is here is glory.
The rain has returned.
Sun., 8/8
I was wrong about the sky clearing. It rained through-out
the night, but it was light and I slept well. The morning was wet. I was able to
coax a fire out of the remaining branches and had an excellent cup of coffee.
I've always been of the school, or of the ability, that says you starve your
guests beforehand if you want your dinner praised. It's amazing how circumstance
makes pleasures of the most common of things.
The clouds lifted and the morning was brilliant. I waded over to a secluded spot on the river and bathed myself. It was good.
I then sat on a rock in the middle of the river and did laundry. This too was a pleasure.
The afternoon clouded and it looks like it might rain again tonight. I tried painting the scene from my camp using oil pastel for the rocks and water color for the trees, sky and water. Failed miserably and threw it away.
I had prayed when I entered this place that I could recoup, eat well and clean myself and my things. So it has happened. My journey to date has been a lesson in prayer. It is something I don't understand.
Tomorrow morning I plan on leaving. I'm hoping that the next city North has a library with an internet connection, and I can use it to contact family and catch up with emails.
It's the beginning of week 2.
Mon., 8/9
It will be dark soon, or this storm that's coming will
break. I started out easily and decided to forego the trip through Hatfield
again and traveled by some county roads not on my highway map. The road soon
turned into gravel, and I was traveling down what looked like logging roads
without habitation in sight. The morning was brilliant, but by noon I was
hungry. I also wanted to get to Neillsville in time to get to the computer that
I hoped was there; so again, while sitting at the side of the road, I prayed for
a ride. Before I'm finished with my rest, a large gravel truck stops and asks if
I want a lift. He takes me to three miles from Neillsville. I walk in.
They do have a library here, and internet, but I'm disappointed to find that only L has thought to send me mail. I had thought there might be more. I respond to L, buy some food at some gas stations and sit for a coffee and doughnut outside the Quickstop; then, head North.
I'm hoping I might reach the Chequamegon by nightfall and pray for the same. This time, it seems God has other plans. I walk for hours and the rains begin. They seem to follow me--at first light sprinkles, but later, downpours. I'm soaked. I do get the sight of a glorious rainbow over pretty farm country after one shower, but for the most part, I'm stuck on a busy highway, there are few forested areas and no place to take shelter. Around 5:30, I'm about two miles out of the next town, and I'm thinking of taking a road just outside of that town for a jog to the West and a turn up a country road that parallels this highway, when a car stops and a young man asks me if I'd like a ride.
He lets me off just north of Greenwood. I believe I'm about 15 miles from the interstate that connects Wausau with St. Paul and forms my idea of the boundary line between Central Wisconsin and "the North Country". I get out and the heaviest downpour yet begins. I walk on. The rain lifts for awhile, but these clouds seem to be tracing my steps.
I'm feeling particularly strong now the sense that I am homeless and have no shelter. I learned at the library that the bank has paid an overdraft of about $4 and has charged $29 for the service. It has then charged $5 per day for every day the balance hasn't been paid. So, of the $150 I received from L, $79 has gone to the bank. With what I've already spent for food, I have about $16.
Some particularly dark clouds seem to be closing in now. I see a small woods down a side road and make for it. Here I am now. It may be a cold night.
Tues., 8/10
I survived the night and actually slept quite well.
Today has been cloudy, windy and cool through-out, always threatening more rain,
but never carrying it out. Still, it could begin at any time. The sky is big
here, and the clouds formed huge, dark roils and rolls across the whole of it.
Several times I ducked into some trees and pulled out my tarp and raincoat. The
only half-way dry things I have are what I'm wearing, and I felt that I couldn't
afford to get them wet.
I'm sitting in a small copse of red pine on County Road X a few miles west of Withee. I can hear the rush of the Interstate 29/73 to the South of me now, the boundary between Central and Northern Wisconsin, and I have crossed it. I received no rides today and walked about 14 miles, a feat I don't think I could have done a week ago. I was walking up Hwy 73, which is busy and fast and I suppose people don't have time to stop. I should be on much smaller roads for some time coming now.
This is still farm country. Many that I saw today appear small with gardens in full harvest and ablaze with flowering plants. A number of them have greenhouses. There are also some gigantic fields of crops, and several times I've been amazed at the size of the tractors I see. I get the impression that there are a few large corporate farmers and many small independents. Some of the houses, although small, seem to breath happiness.
The cows are funny. As I pass, first one turns it's head to watch, then another, until the entire herd is looking at me as if I was the most unusual sight in the world.
I also saw a number of abandoned and collapsed houses, and the town of Longwood looked like a ghost.
Yesterday (I didn't have time to write this), the young man who dropped me off just as the downpour began said he was from Neillsville. When I told him I thought it looked like a nice town, he said it was dying. Some 400 people were laid off when one of the main factories in town closed to move South. People are leaving to find work elsewhere.
He had worked in the factory that closed. Just now he has moved to Loyal because he has too many people after him. The group against his group has some 50 guys, while he has only 15. He's out looking for more friends because they plan on having a brawl in about a week. It will be a fist fight, although many will cheat and have bats or hold socket wrench handles in their hands, but he don't back down from nothin.
Everything's wet. My pipe sounds like I'm blowing bubbles, and I can't keep it lit. I need a dog day.
Wed., 8/11
It's been another rain day. This storm system is huge.
Before a backdrop of grey, one shower after another keeps passing by. The clouds
are heavy and some drop low to the earth as if the water they carry has puddled
there and is just waiting to burst the seam and pour. I've managed to keep
fairly dry until the end of this day's march. I'm sitting in a woods, again off
Hwy 73 a few miles north of Thorp. To get here from the road, I needed to pass a
marsh which I didn't foresee. I stepped in a water hole, fell to my knees in
water and now these pants are wet and the inside of one of my boots. I have
nothing dry to change into. Also, it's surprisingly cooler than I thought for
August. I'm as warm as I'll likely be and shivering as I write this.
I believe I worked out what's been happening with my mail. It seems our mailman has been holding it in Milwaukee under the impression that my move is temporary. I pray that he be right. I miss the studio and feel I have unfinished work there, but I need the money that I'm hoping is in that batch of mail. I think they will forward it now. If all goes well, I may have some money by Saturday.
This is still farmland here; and, especially along this highway, the houses and farms follow each other like a rural suburbia. Wet as it is, it's difficult to find a place to rest. I'm tired, and everything is holding up well but my feet. They are taking a beating in these boots. It's difficult to walk by the end of the day.
Hwy 73 is busy and people travel fast. No one stops to offer a ride. I can't help but think that there's something wrong in this. I'm still not hitchhiking. I walk on the on-coming side of the highway, but at one point this afternoon a particularly ominous storm was coming on. I was in cornfields with no shelter in sight. As it turned out, it was mostly a blow-over and I escaped with only a few sprinkles, but it looked bad. I can't help but think that someone should have stopped to offer help in such a situation. That no one did says something, but I'm not quite sure what.
Perhaps we Americans have just too much highway in our lives. People get on the highway to get somewhere and enter into a kind of sleep until they arrive. They don't see or care.
Truth is, I don't like these highways and plan on getting off this one as soon as I can. I don't like the way the land is all parceled out and taken. I don't like all the fences and "No Trespassing" signs. It seems to me that there is something essentially American to the idea that you can just take off, walk on down the road and find some place where no one cares if you sit and take your shoes off, or spend the night. I suppose if such places existed now, some jerks would trash it with McDonald wrappers and beer cans; still, I don't remember the land being so tightly locked up. It seems that America has lost something basic, as if a certain freedom has passed.
It will probably become even more so in the future. I may be one of the last able to make a journey such as this. So far, I've not seen a single other hiker on the road. I suspect that I will soon enter the State Forest, and I don't have the money for a camp site. I may be able to get a backpack permit and camp for free. I don't know, but it may well be that the ability to be in nature will become more and more something that you must pay for, a luxury.
Maybe not. In general, people carry so much stuff with them when they enter the woods. They need a van, at least, to haul it all. Perhaps those areas that you can't drive to will become increasingly less appealing. The more foreign the natural world becomes, the more it will be feared. It seems that Americans more and more want to "have fun". Everything needs to be exciting, make a big noise, and carry us along at the stimulus rate proscribed by television screen plays. Nature happens in it's own time. It's time frame is not adjusted for human consumption, at least not to the rate of consumption our society dictates; rather, one of the great benefices of nature is that it can adjust our time frame to its own rhythms. It is another reason we need the natural world.
Thur., 8/12
I'm finally in the Chequamegon Forest, and for the
first time since my first day, I actually hiked along a forest trail. I'm deep
in the woods, sitting on a rise populated by tall trees, mostly maple. I have a
deep bed of leaves under me, and I hope to sleep well. I don't think I slept
much last night.
The day broke clear, and it's been sunny through-out. I'm already a little dryer. What a difference a county makes! Whereas Clark felt like suburbia, I soon crossed into Tayler and immediately the land was more as I imagined Northern Wisconsin. There are still many farms, but they are interspersed with tracks of woodland. Even Hwy 76 became less hectic and more like a country road.
There are draw-backs, however. I purposely went out of my way to pass through two towns hoping for a store that would take a credit card. The first, I think Beringer, consisted of two bars. The second, Lublin, seemed nice enough, but closed. My guitar case is falling apart with the wear. At one point I stopped to fix the cord I had tied to support it, and apparently I was too close to someone's front lawn. They called the police saying a suspicious character was about, and, after I walked a few blocks down, I was stopped by a patrol car. The officer was friendly, took my name and birthday, asked where I was going and that was it. I don't know if after two weeks on the road I'm beginning to look bedraggled enough to be suspicious, or whether in such a small town, anyone out of the ordinary is suspect.
I was on County Road F which runs into the highway that forms the southern border of the forest. I had walked a long way, but was so excited about reaching forest country that I even declined a ride for the last 3/4 mile. Just as I'm coming to the intersection, the strap on my backpack breaks. I was able to use the rope I was using for the guitar case to tie together the two broken ends. So far, the fix appears to be working. Earlier I had picked up on the side of the road a large bungee chord. This went around the guitar case and appears to do a better job of keeping it together than the rope did. So, I'm a patch-work, but still running.
The trailhead for the Ice Age Trail is not well marked. I passed it as I headed West looking for a wayside marked on my map and hoping to find water there. About a mile down, I asked a woman who had just finished mowing her lawn about the whereabouts of the trail. She pointed me back to where I had come. When I asked her about water at the wayside, she said there was a pump there, but if I wished I could get water at her house, which I did. Then her husband arrived and she volunteered him to drive me back to the trail, which he did. I started down the Ice Age Trail around 3:00 on a sunny day almost two weeks after my initial try.
I have no food now. There's a town in the middle of this forest which I should be able to reach tomorrow. I hope they take a card and don't have prices too out of line.
Mostly I feel relieved being in this forest. I feel legit. Over these last two weeks I've mostly been sleeping on someone's property. If I were caught, I could be arrested for being a vagrant, which, homeless and without money, is what I am. Now, I don't need to hide. My vagrancy is legal.
The sun is setting. I'm tired. I'm lulled to sleep with the song of the mosquito.
Fri., 8/13
It's almost dark already. It's been a long and difficult
day.
To begin, forget about the Ice Age Trail. It started well enough, clearly delineated and yellow markers placed almost too close to each other, but as it progressed, it became much easier to lose the trail and the markers grew further and further apart. Twice I needed to back up and try to find the trail again. Finally, the third time, the trail just disappeared. Apparently a large storm passed through some time ago. Many trees had been uprooted and now lay scattered about. Some simply bent and were now growing in large, inverted "U" shapes. I spent an hour trying to find where the trail continued, but eventually needed to backtrack to a logging trail and follow that to a system of dirt roads that grid the forest.
I ran into a Forest Ranger who showed me on his map where I needed to go to reach Perkinstown in the middle of the forest. I had no food. Actually, for the last number of days, I've been eating very little, but today there was none at all.
The roads were easy to navigate until I began to near the town. Then, they became more maze-like, with signs like "Winter Sports Area, this way", but no sign for the town or the County Road M, which is a paved road running East-West through the middle of the Forest. For the second time this day, I needed to backtrack a good distance after realizing I was going in the wrong direction.
Finally, I found the town, County Road M and a gas station that accepted VISA and sold mostly fishing gear. Prices were high and I wasn't able to buy much. I've just finished off two packages of mini-donuts, 1/2 a pkg. of RITZ crackers and a piece of string cheese. I have a large candy bar, the other half of the Ritz crackers and another piece of string cheese for tomorrow. I don't know what I'll eat after that. There is a slight chance that my mail arrived at B's today and if a check is in it, it may be deposited tomorrow. This is of value if Hannibal, the next town I may reach, is more than just a bar. There are many "ifs". I may be hungry.
It isn't true that I had no food today. After I realized that I needed to backtrack from the Ice Age Trail, I prayed. I said that I didn't understand why things needed to be difficult. There are so many other possibilities that could have happened over these last months, why do I need to experience what I am? I also asked for a quick way out and some food. After I reached the logging trail, it soon led me to a logging road and the Ranger who gave me directions. I could have arrived sooner but for the abundance of wild raspberries and blackberries that I found along the way.
I also asked this in the name of someone. I asked that if the name is important--Jesus, Buddha, Allah ...--that I be shown which. No word on this one yet.
I was surprised that when I saw the Ranger's map, half of the forest is green, representing National Forest land, and half white, representing State, County and private land. On the highway map, the Chequamegon looks like on huge area of forest, but inside there are many areas marked "Private. No Trespass". I don't know now whether I'm not writing this on someone's private property.
I also learned that, had I stayed on the trail, I would have missed Perkinstown and County M.
Also, the forest is a grid of access roads, mostly for logging, and there seemed to be allot going on. The Ranger said they were clearing the fallen trees from the storm which occurred two years ago; but, it's not just logging, the forest is riddled with economic interest, and cars. It is far from a pristine refuge.
Sat., 8/14
It will soon be dark again. Today has been a beautiful
day. I've covered allot of ground without a great deal of effort.
I started walking from just out of Perkinstown and hiked a good way to the Miller Dam Recreation Area--a hot spot for boats with motors, when I was asked whether I wanted a ride by a young couple. A particularly charming young woman drove. Both were from Rhinelander. The woman grew up on a farm in the area. They drove me to Jump River, a town on the Jump River that seemed particularly fine (Hannibal is a bar). They left me off at a small, well stocked grocery store that left me drooling--Skabroener's, or something like that. I called B to find out that there was still no mail; so, out of all that fine selection, I was able to buy a loaf of white bread with the last of the money. As they were leaving, the young woman gave me two beers.
B suggested that I call the bank and shame them into giving me some money back--$78 for a $4 overdraft being too much. This seemed good to me.
I spent some time at a very pleasant wayside in Jump River. I was able to make a cup of coffee and finally dry my clothes from the last storm.
I left Jump River about 3:00 in the afternoon, missed the turn I had planned and ended up again on Hwy 73, heading North. After not too long a time I was again offered a ride by a young man and a cousin of his about my age. They took me to 2 miles out of Ingram, a small town just on the south side of Hwy 8.
About a mile and a half out East of Ingram on Hwy 8 is a rest area and I made for it, declining 2 rides along the way because the distance was so short for my destination. I am now in a large field maybe some 200 yards away from this rest area. I took my time getting here having another coffee. The rest area has water, fire burners and toilets. Tomorrow is Sunday, and I hope it to be a day of rest. I may be able to wash myself and some clothes at the rest area.
A nice, talkative woman from Jump River told me that it got to 35 degrees last night, and the gardeners, and I, are fearing an early frost.
I am about two miles out of Hawkins. My plan is to stay here for tomorrow and arrive in Hawkins late enough in the morning to call the bank. Hopefully I can get some money from them because Hwy M goes North out of Hawkins through the Flambeau Forest, and it is a long way to the next town. We'll see.
By the way, the young man who gave me the second ride of the day plays music and is also from Jump River.
Tonight, I have these beers and a grand, clear sky. I'm looking forward to the stars.