All's well but I am pushed for time

Dear All.
Just a quick update in current time, Saturday 8th September.
I am sorry that I have not been able to keep up to date properly. I have all the notes and memories and pictures but I need a day out to write a blog and time is beginning to be a problem. I spent last night in Gallup, New Mexico and am heading out today for Lubbock, Texas on the way to San Antonio and The Alamo. I have to be out of the USA by 6th October and have approximately 6,000 miles left to do, (now completed 9,400), so I have to average about 200 miles a day as well as see what I want to properly. In effect, that means I have to race to catch up some miles. I wish I had not had my passport stolen with the visa before I left as I would have had the extra three weeks that I need, but it seems there is no extension of my 90 day visa now unless I fly out of North America for 24 hours and then return, which I really can't afford to do.
I will keep you up to date, and for those of you who have enjoyed (there are a few!) my writings, I promise it will be completed. I want to do it for myself, let alone for any of you!
Best wishes,
Doc

The Great Mid-West, camping U.S. style, things that go bang in the night, and big beef.

You will understand in time, why it is, that there are photographs only at the beginning and the end of this blog, and none in the middle. Photography is not always appropriate!

When I have told people here what my route has been recently, they have said that it must have been boring, “all across the endless prairies”, but to first eyes, at least once, the trip across Iowa and Nebraska was impressive to say the least. The Iowa prairie is frequently farmed and there are large swathes of maize and other crops, all irrigated by endless mobile automats on wheels crossing the fields. In parts of Nebraska too, there are fertile spots, but the further west one goes, the less frequent these become and then it finally gives way to what, from all immediate observation, one would describe as almost desert. The irrigational systems often run from a central water pipe, so that also explains, why, on a scan such as Google Earth, or from the air, the plantations all are, for the most part, circular rather than square. The sizes of the fields are mind boggling compared to British arable farming, frequently stretching as far as the eye can see.

Heading out of Winterset on the 92, the first 100 miles or so to Council Bluffs and Omaha was largely this sort of big farm country. The land was flat and the roads, although punctuated about every forty miles or so with a slight change of direction or a couple of junction changes, were straight and just disappeared endlessly into the distance over every slight rise. Traffic, if you can call it that, was usually about two other vehicles somewhere on the visible stretch at some time or another. After about three hours of this, I rode round the ring roads of Council Bluffs and picked up the 75, north west towards Blair, just across the border into Nebraska, where I stopped for lunch.
Blair is in the Missouri valley. It is clearly an old junction town and the main street is a wide open quietish highway, but it has some heavy wagons rolling through most of the time. Looking at it and ignoring any traffic, one sees a broad, straight western township of single or double storey flat fronted wooden buildings, mostly now modern, but little changed in time from a hundred years ago, and the street, no doubt laid out much as it was when wagon trains, stage coaches and cattle drives rolled through. It was hot, and I was pleased to find some shade for a break. Earlier in the trip, I had been so pleased to be able to abandon my helmet and ride free with the wind in my face and through my hair, but over the plains, the heat was burning on my scalp despite the wind and still having hair, but it was a least a better option that replacing a hot and heavy helmet in the heat,
There really is not a lot else to say about Blair (unless you get me on politics!) I pushed on further north west now on the 75, similar farming countryside but a little more of a scenic route, overlooking the Missouri occasionally and then passing through the eastern edges of the Omaha and Winnebago Indian Reservations. I have now passed through several, reservations and am shocked by how poor, in general, they appear. The agriculture and grazing is generally very sparse, and the scattered houses and townships are barely more than shacks and shanties with occasional old camper vans and RVs. There seems to be little in the way of jobs, certainly not in industry, or even farming going on. I wonder how they manage to survive in these conditions. There is a very definite, and visibly obvious, change when passing into such areas. Are Native Americans actually confined to living in these places or is it their choice I wondered? If they live there, are they content with that way of life, is it their way, is it just a constant commune with nature, or is it simply poverty from which they have no way of escape. Unfortunately, I had no way of beginning to find out. For a start, all the side roads are almost all dirt tracks, or soon become so, and secondly, people have said to me that it is not advisable to go off the beaten track on the reservation areas , suggesting that many of their residents are drunks, drug addicts or thieves. Surely this must be a pre-conception too? The Native American Indian was proud and honourable inside his own codes of religion and social life wasn’t he? Has he become reduced to this now, or is this all that is left in a life on a reservation. They are all, certainly, in pretty wild and out of the way places.
I kept thinking about these things for most of the way up the road, but by late afternoon had left the reservation areas and arrived at Sioux City. Sioux City is actually quite an attractive place. It is right on the Missouri river, which, here, is about 100 yards wide. I rode in along the river side, past old Victorian river front properties, and followed signs to the local municipal campsite, turning right over a river bridge and then back on the opposite shore to a pleasant park alongside the river itself. I was allocated a spot in the wooded area where there was only one other tent pitched. Most Americans “camp” in their houses on wheel, and are allocated into spacious separate areas from those of us who really camp. In the UK, our small camper vans, and mobile homes, tend to be self contained, although on sites we do plug in to electrical connections and tend to use the site showers and toilets unless we are “wild camping”. American RVs are somewhat different. For a start, as I have already commented, they are massive. Most of them have hydraulic partitions, that slide out from the sides, creating full 12 x 12 living areas inside, and many of them have several of these and, when set up, may have two such living areas in addition to large canopies over outdoor patios and often large barbeque attachments, which seem to pull out from various store areas. Many have electrical supplies which need 50 watt connections to run full air-conditioning, often two full voltage units, and 1500watt microwaves and ovens and all the other gadgetry and luxuries inside, and they all have large waste pipes which pull out of the sides to connect to sewage pipes at each pitch. Some are motor homes, like ours although they usually have something in excess of a six litre turbocharged engine, to drag their massive weight around. Italian marble floors and granite work tops with hardwood fittings, the size of normal kitchens with full sized freezers and fridges, don’t come light. It really is a bit like needing a removal van to take your mobile home around here. The alternative, what we would call a caravan, towed by a car, is rare although there is a trend towards a new version of this, what is called a “fifth wheel”, which is in effect almost an HGV trailer attached by a massive hitch, like our lorries use, to the platform back of a truck, which again can be anything from a six to eight and a half litre engine and are rated at between one and half and three and a half ton capacity. These are just enormous, their bonnets coming up to my shoulder height. Quite a lot of retired people have such vehicles on site for six months or so while they are in a warmer place in winter and then move back to their homes in the summer, and many of the R.Vs actually cost more than their homes. It is certainly a whole different way of life from what we understand by caravanning or camping. However, back to my little one man tent and the tent that was already on site. When I arrived, I sat at the picnic bench next to my site and started to make a coffee on my camp stove. I wandered across the park towards the river while it boiled and saw a paddle steamer moored on the opposite bank. The river was quite fast flowing and it crossed my mind to try to catch supper, but a chap on the bank said that you had to get a town licence and the office was now closed, so I changed my mind and returned to the pitch. I sat down with my coffee and a cigarette and contemplated the park and chilled in the woods after a hot days travel.

It had been a lovely day, and I had enjoyed my 200 miles. Looking next door, I couldn’t help but notice that my neighbours looked a little odd. It was difficult to work out what was the relationship, but I assumed they were partners with a son of about 8 who was running about doing nothing much in particular, and the man was trying with little success to get a barbeque fire going in the fire pit. She was sitting on a log occasionally shouting at the boy and drinking from a can. They had the bright orange inner part of a tent pitched, with the net roof, but no outer cover, and I could not see one on the ground. Neither did they appear to have a vehicle with them. There were a few bags on the ground nearby, a saucepan and not much else. It was not long before he came over. “Man”, he started, “have you got any firewood or an axe?” This was followed very quickly afterwards by “ Can I bum a cigarette off you?” I looked up at my neighbour. How could he possibly believe that in this jammed up luggage packed on my bike, I could have an axe! He was a slightly dishevelled man of about 30 with an small unkempt chin beard. He made small ataxic movements with his hands and face and his eyes were glazed. Oh dear, I thought, what have we got here! My immediate thought was a drug problem, or possibly alcohol, but whatever, he seemed friendly enough and I gave him a cigarette. “ Can’t get this damn wood to burn” he said. “ it’s too big”. I offered to help. He had some small bits of paper which had largely gone out and a pile of campfire wood which he had bought from the campsite office. They were big logs. Here people buy their campfire wood for these fire pits, all of which have some sort of barbeque rack attached to them They are a good idea and popular but you do need kindling. The wood store was only 50 yards away anyway. I suggested that he return to the store and ask the camp host if he could swap a couple of pieces for some of the bits at the bottom of the cage. This he thought was a good idea and went, returning with his two big bits and some free small broken bits from the cage. “Right on” he said and proceeded to try to light these. I helped him. I suggested that we collected some of the pine needles from the floor and some cones and got those alight first and soon, we had an adequate fire on which to start to burn his bigger logs. The little boy was running around moaning that he was hungry and the man kept saying that he would have some real steak “soon as I get this darn fire goin’”.
I returned to my site and decided that, since it was a nice night and I was only passing through, I would sleep under my mozzie net in my sleeping bag rather than erect the tent. I fixed up the net to the end of the table and spread it out, and put my bag and light and knife under the bag. Then I made supper on the stove. I boiled some potatoes and green vegetables and fried some sausages, and opened a tin of fruit, and it was not long before I was well into my meal. Next door there was still some activity and some shouting and grumping between him and her and she was periodically walking about but still had her can with her. I had just made another coffee when the man called me over. “D’ya wanna a drink and a piece of steak?” He enquired. I had rather realised that they were probably not very well off, so to be offered a piece of steak was a lot. I suggested that perhaps they needed it themselves, and that I had had my supper. “Aw, come on” was the reply, “there’s plenty”, so I walked over and sat on the edge of the seat of the picnic bench. They both sat on the log and the little boy sat on the ground. The man took paper plates out of a bag and plastic knives and forks and I could see that, in a bag, he had about 8 large pieces of steak and some sausages, but almost nothing else. He threw four pieces of steak on the barbeque and handed me a beer. He took a soft drink. I was a bit surprised. His ataxic movements and starey eyes still rather unsettled me. She demanded another beer. They introduced themselves, and I started to get the picture.but what exactly the story was I shall never know. They had been partners, but she was a “reformed” alcoholic, who now just drunk “socially”, although she must have been on her fourth beer since I had arrived. He was a crystal-meth addict, and the courts had separated them and taken the child into custody, unless he moved out. When she was “dry” she had got their son back, but her ex-partner now lived in Arizona and had come up for the weekend, 17 hours on the bus, to see them. I was surprised to some extent. She was now living with somebody else, but had come out for a weekend camping because he couldn’t stay at her house as her boyfriend was there. It seems that he was not supposed to be there at all or the boy would be taken into custody again. The story got more and more complex. He was now off the “stuff” but still smoked cannabis, which he had with him but no tobacco to roll it in. But he was out of money at the moment so had no smokes, and she had finished all of hers too. Hence the invitation for a steak I suspect! I gave them a packet of cigarettes which they just simply seemed to accept. The little boy did not like steak. He wouldn’t eat it. He wanted hot-dogs, so duly some sausages were cooked and bread taken from the brown bag on the table. She was about late 20’s, also dishevelled, in an overly tight pea green jumper with no bra and large saggy breasts and a protruding stomach. She sat on the log apologising for her manners when she continually belched on her beer or leaned slightly sideways to fart. “It always gives me wind”, she explained, “I can’t help it” She was lightly slurry in her speech as he was ataxic in his movements. He was a skinny, wasted, young man, and she was a fat-waisted, wasted young woman. I felt sorry for them both, but recognised that there was nothing I could do to help. I ventured to enquire how her boyfriend would feel about her camping with her ex partner. “He don’t know” she said, “and he ain’t gonna find out is he?" She glared at the boy. I wondered how the eight year old would be kept quiet about this teddy bears picnic. It started to get dark. I told them about my experience with the racoons in Taughannock Forest. She laughed, and said, “well if ya hear screamin’ tonight it won’t be racoons!” I imagined immediately that she implied that her partner had previously been violent to her, and suggested that if there was screaming in the night I would probably call 911, which is the U.S. police emergency number. “There won’t be any need for that”, the young man said, it’s all jes fun”. I smiled, and bade them a goodnight. Some fun! It was almost 10.30 and the lad had eaten just one sausage and was still running about. I left for the privacy of my sleeping bag under my mozzie net, and soon settled down to sleep. About two o’clock I became aware of some noises, talking, occasional shouts, and several rude words! It sounded at first like an argument and I suddenly remembered my neighbours and wondered if he was indeed beating her up. I ignored it for a while, but it continued and I couldn’t easily sleep. It seemed to be coming from somewhere behind me, and I rolled over in the bag to my right side and peered through the mosquito net. Oh no! I thought, surely not! But, yes folks, I am sorry to have to report the good news and the bad news. The good news was that my neighbours were not beating each other up and had left the little boy asleep in the tent. The bad news was that they were both clearly very inebriated, stark naked, literally 25 yards away, completely oblivious to the fact that I was lying under my net close by. She was sprawled on her back over the edge of the picnic table, and he was stood in what can only reasonably be described as "very close and active contact” from the end. I really couldn’t bear to watch! It was all a bit to grose and a bit too close. I mean, it was not like some beautiful porn star and her hunky stud, or anything sexy or stimulating in any way. That might have made me envious. This was just a heaving humping grunting mess with occasional vulgarities of encouragement thrown in for good measure. I tried to close my eyes and shut out image and the sound. I rolled over to my left side again and tried to sleep, but the sound kept on breaking through. I wondered what her boyfriend would have said, or indeed done! I looked at my watch. Two twenty. There was no sign of life from any of the air-conditioned double glazed mobile hotels nearby. All was quiet, except these two. For heavens sake hurry up I thought, but it went on and on. Finally at about five to three, there were the screams. About bloody time too, I thought! I decided not to call 911! A light or two went on in the R.V. area, but nobody looked out. The couple were laughing and rushed on back to the shelter of their tent. Soon afterwards I went back to sleep and did not wake ‘til almost 7.30. I cautiously peered through the net. My neighbours were gone. Almost 50 minutes it went on for, and drunk too; some stamina, that’s all I can say about it, other than poor kid! What a life!

Now, if I had thought that I had seen prairies, I had no idea of what was coming. I knew little of Nebraska, other than I could choose whether to continue directly west here or cross the Missouri northwards and follow a similar road in South Dakota which runs parallel, but I wanted to end up at south entrance to The Custer National Park in South Dakota and either route would have ended there, but I could not be bothered to sort out a new route and so just continued out west on the 20 in northern Nebraska. The first 120 miles was through very similar country to that of Iowa, rolling country, with many farms and lush watered greenery all around, but as I got west of O’Neill, this changed dramatically and the farmsteads became less and less until I was in an area of what appeared to be immense sand dunes, but covered with sparse brown and slightly greenish grass. The road was hot, the air was hot and dry and the hill spread on and on and on with no end in sight ahead, or to left or right. Periodically I passed the typical roadside gate of an entrance road to a ranch, with the log pine gate and head posts and a sign on it swinging in a constant hot breeze. Generally that road too wound away into the distance with no sign of habitation. Most of the roadside was fenced with mile upon mile of posts and wire and periodically I would spot herds of cattle, usually Black Angus, but still a few longhorns amongst them on occasions, grazing the area, which looked unable to support one cow, let alone a herd. Sometimes in the dips between the dunes there were diamond shaped ponds of dew water, or possibly natural oases with springs, but oddly, I seldom saw any animals there. I imagined what it would have been like to cross this territory in a wagon or ox cart. It would have taken days, and finding water would have often been sheer luck or the skills of trackers. Wagon would have got held up in the light sandy soil. Indians could have surrounded any wagon train or followed them from behind adjacent dunes for days without being spotted. This truly was prairie, wide open range country with little shelter and little water, and little in the way of any sort of townships, or petrol stations I might add. Quite a scary place to be with only a range of 180 miles in the tank. I passed a historical marker at the side of the road, which told me about Nebraskan prairies like this. ( Americans love their “Historical Markers” which usually tells you something that happened somewhere around this spot, somewhere around 1890 to 1910, and probably has now been burned down, or they are not quite exactly certain where it was in the beginning, but this time it was actually useful) When the first ranchers and farmsteaders came to Nebraska, they regarded these dunes as desert and no good for anything, so the vast acres of grazing here were ignored and they settled at the edges. However, at round up time, in 1879, a guy called Mr.E.S.Newman, a local rancher, found that some of his herd had crossed over into this area and they went to try to find them and bring them in, thinking they would probably be dead or very weak. What they actually found was that the animals were vibrantly healthy, roaming on this rough grazing and finding water holes for themselves. This lead to them putting more animals on the dunes and with the the consequent added fertilisation, the grass got better ( if this is better I dread to think what it was like originally) and now the prairies of Nebraska are one of the largest areas of beef production in the world.
Enough history then, and back to the road trip. All was going well until about Cody, some 300 miles out. On the horizon it was getting very cloudy and dark. The sky was almost navy blue and I could see that touching earth in massive rainfall from miles ahead. There was nowhere I could shelter, and it was some way off, so I continued without stopping to cover up, apart from which, in temperatures of 105, one hardly feels like putting on the wet weather kit.
A short way down the road, I saw some wonderful ,almost wild, Mustangs near the fence and stopped to look at them. They were clearly not as wild as I had thought as they started to approach and I got a wonderful look at these fabulous horses. I wished Wife and Daughter, who are really into horses, had been able to see them too. I really must have a ride on a western horse before I leave the West.


Ahead of me I now noticed, that although the navy blue cloud was all across the sky, there was a clear area, where it did not come to ground and it was obviously not raining. It was absolutely directly ahead of me and the road was headed straight for it, although I took the photo a few minutes later! I thought that if I put my foot down a bit ( actually twist the throttle, but never mind), I would get through that bit without touching the storm. I rode on hard for about twenty minutes on a dead straight road, though undulating , up the crests and down the hills. The storm was within a mile of me and I was still on track with a patch of clear sky right in front. I passed the Bowring Ranch State historic park on my right and would have liked to stop in other circumstances, but had to head for the clear weather now while I had the chance. Then, “Sod’s Law” clicked in. Where I had travelled 300 miles virtually straight all the way, I went over the rise in front of the sky gap and the road took a sharp bend to the left. I had hardly negotiated the bend when I hit the rain like a wall. I had to slow down to see through it at all. It came down in sheets, as heavy as any power shower. My head and shirt were soaked immediately, my knees and thighs wet through, as if I had been thrown into a bath, and gradually, that horrid feeling as your trousers fill up with water, draining down your shirt and round your waist band. I swear that gradually, all inside them started to float, and because of the way one sits on a saddle, there was nowhere for the water to drain out! There was no point in stopping. It was too late to cover up and the rain was too heavy to stay put. I pressed on at about 10 miles an hour, spitting water out of my mouth and wiping my face to keep the water clear of my eyes. I did rather wish that I had stopped and covered up and waited but, the rain was warm, and the air was still hot, and I reckoned now that I should just outride it and then consider the options. I could not see the mileometer, but must have travelled for about 25 minutes in this torrent, and suddenly, just as rapidly as I had ridden into it, I was out and clear of the deluge, and the sky was as clear and as blue as it had been before it. I glanced back at the navy blue curtain behind me. There was till plenty to come, but it was just local to an area of about 5 square miles. I felt a fool. It was funny really and I did take a picture of the sorry mess. My clothes were so wet they were stuck to my body. Fortunately, the water had not gone in my boots because the jeans were outside them. I squelched off the saddle. My underpants were full of water and none of it was draining because the material was all stuck to my legs. It felt like I had a couple of pickled onions and a gherkin floating round in there, as if I was in a polythene bag of water. I undid the buttons of my jeans and eased the legs of the pants. Bad move! I should have taken the boots off first as the legs of the jeans acted like downpipes. I stood at the road side, in the blazing sunshine again wondering whether I should change, but decided that, since I only had another 120 miles or so, and the sky ahead was stable I would wait ‘til I arrived, which proved a good move, because, by the time I had arrived at Hot Springs, South Dakota, I was totally dried out. I opted not to visit the hot springs though.

It was not far from here to the entrance to The Wind Cave National Park, the park that lies immediate south and adjacent to The Custer National Park, and The Black Hills National Forest. I arrived at the entrance to the Visitor Centre and the campsite and booked in for the night. I was in time for an open air lecture by a young ranger, on "Bats", would I like to come? She smiled at me from beneath her broad brimmed straw ranger hat, handing me an information leaflet. She could only have been about 20. Dressed up in her full Yogi Bear Ranger outfit with a brace on her teeth, she made me feel very old. I smiled back at her. “Yes, I’d love to,” I heard myself say with some rapidly mustered enthusiasm to support her effort. “Half past eight, just after dark” she replied. “ I’ll be there” I said.
I pitched the tent as it was forecast to rain again, and made supper, after which I wandered to the open amphitheatre for my bat lecture. It was quite good, and I did learn a bit, particularly about fruit bats, although there are none apparently in this immediate vicinity. She gave us a leaflet on how to make a bat box! I put it with my paper collection. After saying goodnight to everyone, and there were a lot at the lecture, we all departed for our camps, me to my tent and them to their touring hotels. At least there was no tent next to me tonight. I instantly fell asleep with my clothes and boots on and did not wake ‘til half six!

Best wishes,
Doc




12th September. Note: a very kind comment and pleasant e-mail from a couple I met who are from Delaware, was posted below, and I have replied to them. Unfortunately, I have had to delete it because I realised that I had included their address and e-mail and so it would not have been anonymous and may have caused them nuisance. I should have deleted that part of their message first before publishing.

Home to Mother and magical moments beyond.

After leaving the Hiawatha Forest and now that Daughter was not coming out, I decided to move on fast to Milwaukee and onwards so that I could arrive in Sturgis for the beginning of Bike Week rather than the end. With Daughter, I acknowledge, that it would have been a bit of a race, but now I had time and could include the visit that I had promised my bike, to see Mother, the Harley Gods, in Milwaukee.
The route out of the U.P. was pretty nondescript, largely because I chose to stick to what they call the freeway up there and head straight out to Menominee. I did that in a day and stayed at a small motel, just south of there in Wisconsin, which was right alongside the main road, and, of course had a rail road track on the other side of the road as well. It is not worth any other mention, especially after such a place as The Clarke Mootel. It will be many a day before that meets any sort of a rival, either for value or entertainment. .In fact, it really ranks high on the web list, that should be compiled, of the most astonishing places to spend a night!
It was Sunday morning as I rode down the western shore of Lake Michigan in lovely weather and arrived on the northern outskirts of Milwaukee. I knew I could not visit the factory on Sunday, but thought I would find out where it was and book into a motel nearby. Cruising down the freeway, I spotted a Harley-Davidson sign which stated an exit and intersection, and not reading it very clearly, arrived at about 1030 at a relatively small Harley Davidson compound, where quite a lot of bikes were assembled on the car park. I thought for a few minutes that I had arrived at the factory, but was surprised at how small it seemed. I parked up the bike alongside a girl who was just parking hers. I asked her where I was. She introduced herself as Janine, and said that this was a dealership, and I had arrived at the Milwaukee N.W. Chapter’s annual summer party. I hesitated a second or two, but she invited me over and so I went.
This accident on my part was the most pleasant of interludes, and lead to an extraordinary sequence of friendship and occurrences. Janine introduced me to a number of the members, Dave, who was doing the barbeque, and Cindy his wife, Jim, Janine’s husband, and their two close friends, Pamela, who like herself was an air steward with an American airline, and her husband, Larry, a special needs teacher off on the long summer vacation. I soon felt very much at home. The Chapter, and Jim and Janine, Pamela and Larry in particular, were absolutely terrific people and so hospitable and welcoming. I could have been anybody, even a homicidal maniac, but they welcomed me in a manner that I have rarely encountered, and I felt rapidly and truly at home with them all. Conversation was easy and comfortable and flowed for hours. I ate and drank with them and enjoyed the rapidly passing day and before I really had realised it, it was four o’clock in the afternoon and the party was on the wane. I had several problems with the bike, not least of which was that the cruise control was still not working, and I wanted to visit a dealer for a service. Travelling the long roads ahead with my hand constantly on the throttle would have been tiring to say the least. The actual dealership closest to the two couples was not the one, where I had landed, but they gave me the address and contacts there and told me that I could get booked in for a day job if I queued at 7.30 in the morning. They then asked me where I was going and what my plans were, and when I said that I was leaving soon to find a motel, they both immediately offered accommodation, which was almost embarrassing. Maybe that is the Englishman in me, but I had the options, stay with Jim and Janine and a dog, or with Pamela and Larry and two Llamas! It was a hard choice, because I could have enjoyed staying with either, but I chose Janine and Jim, because of Janine’s first friendly welcome to me. .Larry said he would pick me up from the service bays in the morning and take me to the Harley Davidson factory tour. This was just wonderful. I felt so at home here, though more at home was yet to come!
I followed J and J on their bikes to a delightful large bungalow in the Milwaukee suburbs. A lovely garden, beautiful guest room, great elderly Labrador retriever and fabulous hospitality. Janine even did my washing and folded all my clothes neatly and precisely for my onward journey. Pamela had said that she fusses like your Mom! We sat and talked in the garden until it was dark, having several things in common in our personal lives. I felt as if I had known them for years, a rare occurrence when one meets new friends at 60. I spent a good night, and was reluctant to leave, but we said our goodbyes, and exchanged addresses and contact details, in the hope we may meet again sometime, perhaps offering back similar hospitality if they should come to England at any time.. I arrived duly at the Harley Dealers, at 7.40, to find that I was already eleventh in the queue. I did not expect to be seen that day, but, Larry had already phoned and asked the service manager to fit me in as his English friend, and so they started to look for the auto cruise problem very soon after they had checked me in, and kindly as a priority. And what a problem it turned out to be.
Larry arrived at about nine, in his pick up truck. We left for the factory tour, and met Dave, who had also arrived with his daughter. The only factory, that you can tour, here in Milwaukee is actually only an engine assembly plant, and it makes engines for Harleys other than mine, so my bike was a bit disappointed not to actuallymeet God, in much the same way as I was that Willie Davidson was not waiting there to greet me and to sign my pullover! However, we proceeded on the tour, with speaker phones on our heads to hear what the guiding engineer was telling us about the engine assembly plant. He was not a regular factory guide, although obviously a very experienced engineer, and his commentary and knowledge in all areas other than his immediate work was not quite up to what it might have been. We traipsed around the yellow tourist line on the floor from machine area to machine area, in a line of about 30 people, the end of which was arriving at the last point of interest when the guide was arriving at the next. The machines were all robotised, although some of the assembly line was run by actual people, and the large automated processes were all in steel enclosed cases with small viewing windows, surrounded by metal cages. Actually seeing much at all was difficult and I wish I could say that I learned a lot about the construction of my bike, but I regret that I really didn’t, although I could now put a tick in the “visit to Mother” box, and the bike and I would have to be satisfied that we had been that close to the “Harley God”. The most interesting place, for me, was the area where they rebuild and recondition returned engines, from all over the world. They aim for a 10 day turn around time from receipt to dispatch, which seems “ah-sum” under the circumstances. (Rather hope that I shan’t need that facility, but after what you will find out in the next few blogs, I may be speaking too soon)
After the tour of the factory, (and the obligatory photos to prove I had been there), Larry suggested some lunch. He had decided, I think, to treat me what he expected a hardened old biker like me,( obviously seeing the alter ego her rather than the big softee, Dad, and family doctor side!) would enjoy, and so we paid a visit to “Hooters”. Now, I did not know what to expect at Hooters. I had seen one or two around and thought they were just a fast food outlet with a strange name, but Hooters sells moderate food at slightly inflated prices by using young well endowed girls to do the waitressing and counter jobs. They all have one thing in common, big breasts. They all dress in mini hot pants, tights and tight revealing tee shirts and it was clear from the majority of clientele being men, that this was the company’s marketing ploy. We were served by a young woman who had a trainee with her, who looked somewhat like a slightly taller clone of “Lucy” from “Dallas”, for those of you who remember the T.V. series of the 70’s. In the U.K. we used to nickname her “The Poison Dwarf”. She was the spiteful, spoiled, niece of the family whose only real attribute was oversized “hooters”. I am not averse to a bit of “porn”, and I am by no means narrow minded, but I found this parade of young women offensive. It was even worse when we enquired and realised that they are paid just $2.35 an hour, about £1.20, and expected to make up their income on tips. This, to me, was simply cheap prostitution of otherwise attractive young girls. I would have detested the thought of my own daughter working in such circumstances, and I felt sorry and somewhat ashamed for these girls who did so, even though it was clearly their choice. The meal was O.K. but, it was difficult to concentrate on it or think of much else with these scantily clad beauties all around. Clearly they were there to ogle, and it was hard not too, however one felt about it.
I felt quite relieved to have left there, and we returned to see how the work was going at the service bay. Bad news. They had drawn a blank. All the components that had been replaced at Concord in New Hampshire seemed to work and yet the auto cruise still did not. They had checked wiring and voltages and fuses and had the machine half apart trying to track down a fault. They had even been on the telephone to the factory for specialist electrical technician advice, but still could not work out what was the problem. I felt a slight mood of despair comimg on. If you can’t get a Harley mended in Milwaukee, there’s not much hope of getting it fixed elsewhere! They asked if I could leave it for the following day as their senior technician, “the electrical wizard” of their dealership would be back in, he was off today. Larry immediately offered a bed at their house for that night, and again, with some embarrassment at his generosity and hospitality, I agreed.
Pamela and Larry live in a different part of town from Janine and Jim. They live on the edge of the country in a lovely house set on a rise and surrounded by a small copse of trees and gardens. In a large enclosure at the side of the house is the Llama cage, where the two Llamas live, when they are not on ties, mowing the lawn(and the shrubs and trees!) Pamela was hardly surprised to see me and was so welcoming. She is a very chatty amiable girl, and like Janine, very hospitable. We had a nice evening meal and sat in the garden with drinks and smokes until it was dark, and in the morning, I went with Larry on a few of his errands and later called in at the service bay again. The problem was solved apparently. There is a connector from the control unit to the wiring harness which engages with six pins, male on one side and female on the other. Three of the six female pins were corroded or loose and so there was an intermittent and then constant fault. The pins, all six of them, would arrive in the afternoon. There was some question as to whether this was perhaps all that had been wrong originally, but in retrospect, it is now impossible to say, although it had been a constant fault ever since I had the bike serviced in Leeds in the U.K.
We returned for the afternoon to their home. Pamela had been unable to fly that day as she had expected because she had bad toothache, and had made an appointment to see the dentist. As it happened, her flights were cancelled anyway because of pilot shortages, so it was nice to have her around. She had arranged that we should go out for dinner that evening, although I had expected to be hitting the road later. She argued that it was too late to do so now anyway and that all I would do is go out and book into a motel, so I might as well stay, which, in any case sounded the more appealing. And so, after collecting the repaired bike, now fully working and properly adjusted after the brilliant intervention of the electrical Guru, we headed off with Larry’s son Nick, to downtown, where, alongside the river, we joined his daughter, Katie, who is at the University, for a delightful meal at The Milwaukee Ale House, which is in the historic third ward of the city. It was a delightful large tavern with dancing and a long ale bar, and we sat at tables on the covered boardwalk alongside the river. The evening, for me, was superb. It really ended my sojourn in Milwaukee on a high. I even learned to pronounce Milwaukee and Wisconsin correctly, thanks to Pamela’s tuition. Katie, a lively and entertaining girl, was also quite beautiful. She reminded me of the band camp lass from the film American Pie and had that sort of attractive curly mouth. But Katie was not just a lovely girl, she was also very bright and together with Pamela, kept a constant flow of fun conversation going. Fortunately, Pamela’s toothache seemed not to have interfered with her day too much. Friends like Jim and Janine and Larry and Pamela are not two a penny, and I was so happy and grateful to have met such lovely people and spent such an unexpectedly wonderful time in Milwaukee. Meeting them was such a privilege and a pleasure, and I hope we may continue to touch base sometimes. I was actually sad to move on, I could have settled very well in either Michigan or Wisconsin, but had to keep moving, and so on the Wednesday morning, said happy goodbyes and left for Des Moines, Iowa.

Wisconsin and Iowa are beautiful States. The ride was a delight, through beautiful arable and forested areas, with similar barns and buildings to those I had encountered in Michigan. I did not regret having missed Chicago, and realise that I much prefer the country to the city. None the less, distances here are huge after living on my “small island” ( ref: Notes from a Small Island. By Bill Bryson), and it was late afternoon as I passed through the outskirts of Des Moines, some 400 miles on and arrived in the small township of Winterset.

Winterset was a must go to place. I wanted to go to see the now famed “Bridges of Madison County”, immortalised first in the book, by their native son, author, Robert James Waller, and then later in the film version which starred Clint Eastwood as Robert and Meryl Streep as Francesca. It is a sensitive love story of two people, emotionally struggling in their own lives, who find a period of solace through each other which enables them both to continue in their respective roles after their interlude together. The photography of the film and the language of the book, was so evocative that I really wanted to see it for myself.
Winterset Park has a campsite, and just before sunset, I was pitched and ready to settle. I rode back into town to eat at a small café on the main square which was a really great meal. The open salad buffet must have had a choice of thirty dishes and the small steak was done to perfection. I looked over from here to the great stone courthouse and civic centre on the town square and the quaint, magnificently preserved, quadrangle of early 20th century mid west buildings and small shops. It looked and felt exactly as I expected it to, and the warmth and welcome of this small town was palpable. The people in the café were friendly, and those on the street, passed the time of day. The town was well kept, the only disappointment being the works being done at the moment to improve the roadway on one side of the square and the footpath. I noticed a sign that indicated that Winterset was also the birthplace of the “Duke”, the epitomy of the American West, John Wayne, and somewhere here was the family house to visit. I felt I had now moved on and felt settled here after my enjoyable days in Wisconsin. It could have been an anticlimax, but I definitely felt that it was not at all. I slept soundly, despite being constantly littered with bits of pine cones dropped by a score or so of squirrels above me, and after making breakfast and packing up, set off, first, to John Wayne’s birthplace which is in the centre of town. This is indeed his birthplace, rather than the place he was brought up, because, his father, who was a pharmacist, left there for California with the family in 1910 when the young “Marion Robert Morrison” was only three. However, like Shakespeare’s birthplace in Stratford upon Avon at home, it has the strong association and is now a small but very interesting museum of “Duke-abilia”. This year they have celebrated what would have been John Wayne’s centenary. The single story white wooden house, is on a corner, just off the town centre, and simply has a kitchen, a front parlour and two bedrooms. The kitchen and parlour are furnished in the style that would have been appropriate for the time, together with family portraits and some film props, but the back two rooms are filled with cabinets and pictures of local records, John Wayne’s cowboy guns, his Masonic certificates and news cuttings. All well done, and a good feeling of his early home and the famous Winterset son. His life sized, 6feet 4 inches bronze statue showed a man with an open, kindly and interesting face. He looked like a good man. I would like to hope he was. A new larger museum is currently being built there to house a great deal more in the near future.

Next stops were in search of the Bridges of Madison County. There are only six left, and some of those have been moved or altered. The most famous, which I decided to see was the Cedar Bridge, now located right inside the Winterset Park and The Roseman Bridge, perhaps the most important of the bridges from the story.
[Roseman is the bridge Robert Kincaid seeks when he stops at Francesca Johnson's for directions; it is also where Francesca leaves her note inviting him to dinner. Also known as the “haunted” bridge, Roseman is where two sheriff’s posses trapped a county jail escapee in 1892. Uttering a wild cry, it is said the man rose up straight through the roof of the bridge and disappeared. He was never found, and it was decided that anyone capable of such a feat must be innocent.
Retrieved from "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roseman_Bridge"]
The cedar bridge was just half a mile from my campsite. Sadly, although it is placed over a dip in the ground, it no longer functions as a bridge. Merely a tourist attraction, although it is preserved and well maintained. The Roseman is different altogether. The Roseman is the real article, although it was restored after arsonists attacked it in 1999. Likewise, the farmstead where Francesca lived in the story, and which was used in the film, belongs in private hands, and it too was attacked by arsonists and is now undergoing repair and has sadly been closed to public visits. The big problem with the Roseman brisdge is that it is four miles off the highway down gravel roads, which make up most of the roads off the freeways in Iowa. This is not the best riding for a heavy motorcycle, so to try to visit it was a major effort and fraught with some considerable risk of dropping the bike. The road was also very twisty and hilly, so I traversed it gingerly with a lot of back brake and clutch control at about 10 miles an hour. Fortunately, I met very little traffic on it, and eventually arrived at this most beautiful of spots. The risks had been worth it. The Roseman is everything I expected and the Roseman creek underneath it is just a fairy tale place. The old road still crosses the bridge, although it is actually closed to all except resident traffic, and alongside it, in a sheltered dell is a log cabin visitor centre with a proper porch and rocking chair. It all felt just right. I had to do “the pose” on the bridge of course, identifying with, and role playing, as I am known to do at home when I am absorbed in a film or a book. Sadly, no Francesca there, and no note inviting me for dinner! It was hot. I stayed there on the porch of the cabin drinking a root beer in the shade for almost an hour, relaxing in the beautiful scenery and quiet calm of this idyllic place. It must have been one that Robert Waller loved a lot to have evoked such a passionate story. Or maybe he too had an experience here which changed his life and stimulated his book. Who knows!
It was early afternoon when I left, and headed back to the town centre. I had two more things I wanted to do….stupid perhaps, but the first was to try to capture a truck leaving at the intersection of the square, and the second was to have a drink in The North Side Café, where Robert had originally stopped. I did both, although, unlike the film, the truck was not leaving in pouring rain but in sunshine, and I sat a few seats down from where Clint Eastwood had in the film. How sad this makes me sound!!!! A guy in the café started to talk to me and took my photo there for me. He too was a biker, and I told him of my trip. “What you need is a trailer” he had said, “you’ll get one, possibly second hand in Sturgis. I’m going there myself for the end of the week” He kindly wrote down two names of places where I may possibly find one, although, I felt that a trailer, or a sidecar or any other attached paraphernalia on the bike would render me less of a purist motorcyclist! I had always thought they looked a bit silly, but I was actually struggling with all the stuff I had on board, the racoons had torn my top bag, and I couldn’t find anything in the tight packing or store any food from day to day. A trailer may be a good idea.
Wisconsin and Wintersett had been wonderful times. The trip was blossoming and my heart was lifted up. I returned to the Park and packed up and then rode out through the square, following Robert Kincaid's truck, also with no Francesca on board, heading westwards en route for Sturgis.


Best wishes,
Doc

Don't go into Los Angeles...too bloody late...Thieves

This is actually out of time and context, but I write it in the vain hope that it may get the attention of the relevant scum-bags and prick their consciences. Some hope! I was warned that Los Angeles is a criminal hotbed, and would have avoided it altogether, but we had to come here to bring Wife to the airport to return to the U.K. . Parked in the locked supposedly safe car parking compound with video surveillance and security staff on duty, I woke this morning to find that both the locked side panniers of my bike had been stolen, in their entireity, right off the bike! This is so annoying and frustrating. The thieves actually left my gallon petrol container and my Racoon skin and bag of salt alongside the bike, but inside the other pannier was my UK Nokia mobile phone/camera with pictures of San Francisco and all sorts of other bits, not terribly valuable in themselves but memorabilia and such like as well. The security video, of course, jammed last night, so the car parking area is not recorded,and the LAPD took a statement from me over the phone because it's hardly considered to be of much importance in the scale of crime here! Also in the pannier were all my travel visiting cards with the blog details, so, if any of you who took the stuff happen to have also stolen somebody's computer and have any idea how to use it,although that might be too hard for you, PLEASE consider dropping the stuff back over the fence tonight...Only the cigarettes are any use to you, and the rest means a lot to me.

British Classics, Ancient Forts, Shining water-Gitche Gumee, and a true eccentric.

There is probably no need to say that I had not had a wonderful night at the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park. Things would have probably been O.K. had I been aware of what was actually around me, but there was no mention when I booked in, and in my innocent Englishman way, hardly used to being surprised by more than a rabbit or possibly a fox, my new wildlife companions came as something of a shock. Also, in a strange environment, one does not know what sort of risk you run from them and whether it is indeed safe to go and tackle them. It seems, with porcupines and racoons, it probably is, but I have since learned that racoons carry rabies and do bite if cornered, and porcupines can do you a nasty injury with their quills if they leap at you. I am now more than ever determined to get myself a self skinned and cured Davy Crockett hat!
I left Empire and headed out towards Traverse City, but on a car park just outside town, I spotted the most magnificent E-type Jaguar coupe, and went over to have a look. The owner, said that he had restored four now, this being his fourth. It was a most magnificent concourse condition car. Just as I talked to him an equally magificent Triumph Stag turned up, followed soon afterwards by an immaculate 1959 MGA. These guys belonged to a Michigan British sports car club and were meeting for a ride out which had actually been cancelled. Jag man had arrived to tell and they told me that the classic British cars of the ‘50s, 60’s and 70’s were highly prized collectable cars in the States, and their value and performance superior to the equivalent American machines. I gazed at, and inspected, these three vehicles for about 40 minutes. I could hardly believe that in one place, at one time, in wonderful condition stood together the three cars that I have most loved during my lifetime.
I left, feeling rather envious, but none the less, having left some impression with their owners of another elderly British classic adventuring on a massive road trip on an American bike.
I left the British enthusiasts and rode north again up the small Leelanau peninsula to Leland, This is an area of beautiful small lakes isolated from the main lake , with a wonderful beach shore, and stretched out small wooden houses along the shore line and in the woods. The peninsula here is very wooded, and riding down the small country roads with the sun shining through the trees was a great delight. It was less than an hour into Leland, a small fishing village which had been the largest fishing port on Lake Michigan in its day.
Leland has a beautiful Main Street, all wooden white painted buildings up a wide tree lined avenue. It is rather touristy, but still very pleasant, and the shops were appropriate and pleasant, without being over the top or rubbishy. I found a nice wall hanging for Daughter and shipped it to her. A little way behing Main street lies the old harbour, and there are still some of the quaint wooden fishermens’ hut there, where the fish would be traded, although, they are now selling trinkets and cheese and there is a sympathetically built Inn or Lodge on the edge of the weir from Lake Leelanau into Michigan. The water in the inlet was crystal clear, but sadly, rather than being able to report the shoals of beautiful fish, all I can report is old can, and boat rubbish littering the floor of the marina. I sat and had a coffee and watched the slow world go by for an hour, and then set off again.
This little peninsula, about 20 miles north to south in all, is a small blind ended ride, and so I returned by the same route. The next stop was at Traverse City, for petrol, but other than seeing the huge harbour and marina which nestles in the west arm of the of West Traverse Bay, I did not venture in, and rode through on the coastal road through such lovely sounding hamlets of Elk Rapids and Torch Lake and Charlevoix, to Petoskey. Petoskey is a pleasant enough town, with a true centre, although the shops are very expensive and cater for the wealthy visitor more than the over-laden and slightly less pecunious biker. It is famous for Petosky stones, which are much the same as the other variegated stones of the glacial period around Lake Michigan, but it seems there were more of them here and many were heavily fossilised. One stone that does abound around Lake Michigan, and which I had never seen before, although I had heard of it, is lodestone, or magnetite, and I bought a small polished piece for Son, when I return home. The only problem with it is that it sticks to all my metal cans in the luggage, so I shall have to be careful not to lose it. Shops selling ridiculously priced polished stones and stone jewellery abound, and most of the others are expensive kitchen or living room, home furnishing type shops and boutiques. I stopped for a coffee and some breakfast here about 11.00 and was able to access the internet from the restaurant to read my e-mails. The upper end of the downtown main street is the most attractive with many late 19th century shops, mostly unadulterated by their modern interiors and trade signs. ( Incidentally, a word of explanation to fellow Brits; “downtown” is what the Americans call, what we might call, “up town”, i.e. it is the centre, the bit where it all happens. Actually, it is not always the centre either, just where all the main things go on. I had always incorrectly assumed it was the poorer or worst side of town, but perhaps I am on my own on that one and you all new already!)
Pleased to have seen a lovely town centre, but without purchase other than breakfast, I escaped Petosky and headed across the short stretch of country for the Mackinac Bridge to the Upper Peninsula, known to everyone simply as U.P.
When I arrived there, I saw signs to a place called Michillimackinac, a helluva mouthful to conjure with, and which took several attempts to get to be able to pronounce. Michillimackinac is the old name for what is now just called Mackinaw City is where the main fur trading occurred for the whole of this region of the Great Lakes. There was a fort here, on the western bank of the peninsula adjacent to where the massive pillars of the bridge now stand. It was taken down piece by piece and moved across the lake by boat in the summer and sledges over the ice in winter to what is now Mackinac ( remember…pronounced Mackinore) Island, where they built a stone fort to hold off the French more effectively.(Good boys these old English!) In the last 20 years, it has been excavated archaeologically and they have reconstructed the fort as it was in the 1750s in excellent and true detail. It was originally a French fort, and the French fur traders were there protected by their soldiers. The French were good at relating with the native Indians and trade was excellent. After the British took it, the fur trade suffered because the British would not give the Indians so much in the way of weapons and trade goods, and there were several rebellions by them against the British. At one time, a group of Indians took the fort during what had seemed like an innocent game played outside the gates, and slaughtered all but about 15 of the soldiers. These they took captive and when the Reinforcements arrived, they had learned how to use a few of the French tricks and the relationship was became much better. The fur trade was immense because of the need for fur to make the quality felt required by European gentlemen for their tri-corn hats, and also for fur for clothing and boots and saddlery. The majority of furs were, beaver(most prized) racoon, mink and fox, and leather produced from roe-deer (buckskin) and bison. ( a bison and buffalo are the same thing, buffalo being a corruption of boeuf, the French for beef)
At the expense of boring you all to death with a history lesson, the traders lived at the fort and bought in furs. They shipped those out to agents in Europe through men, called voyageurs, who came up the Lakes in the summer in 26 foot long, birch bark, canoes, from ships that had come to The St Laurence River. They brought all sorts of trading goods to barter with the Indians for the furs, cheap jewellery, cloth, steel and brass cooking implements which the Indians did not have, and knives and firearms and ammunition, intended predominantly to help them hunt more furs. The guys and their teams of men,took these canoes and their contents by river and carried it all across country where the lakes or the rivers were impassable. They took their cargo to the traders who sold them to the men who brought in the furs to trade with the Indians. The "fur getters" were called “hivernauts” winter travellers, and would set off in late summer into the wilderness for hundreds of miles visiting tribes and trading with them, returning with laden sledges in the early spring. The relationships seemed to have been quite good and for many decades everyone seemed quite pleased with the situation. Conditions at the fort, particularly for the soldiers were grim. There was an immense amount of bullying and the accommodation and duties were rough. The weather was hot in summer and very cold in winter. Officers and traders had wives with them and there were some children at the fort. Most men had little in the way of female companions, though some married local Indian women. Anyway, enough of the history. It is fascinating and so new to me that I was thoroughly absorbed by it. If you want to find out more, you can find Michillimackinaw on the web. I met a young woman, in old English attire there, who was acting as a guide during her summer vacation from medical school in Boston. She had learned to “hand weave” which is a process of multiple plaiting, producing strips of woollen or cotton cloth about 2 inches wide, which could be used as edging, or belts, or sewn together to make larger sheets.
The old fort and the fur trade history was a real surprise bonus as I approached the northern part of Michigan, and I set off about 1o’clock to cross the MackinacBridge which is a five point two mile suspension bridge across the Straits of Mackinac, which divide Lake Michigan from Lake Huron. There is a two lane motorway on each direction, the centre lane of which is made up of a steel grating to avoid icing up during the winter. If you get on the grating and go at between 35 and 45 miles an hour, and look down, the effect as like the old rotating drum cine pictures….the grid disappears and all you can see is water. It is the weirdest sensation, as if you are flying 300feet over the Straits below on a motor cycle. I can’t say I liked it. Firstly, the grid takes your tyres somewhat, secondly, the wind blows quite hard across the bridge and you really have to concentrate, thirdly, it’s bloody high up, and finally, it made me feel quite sick within a minute, so I came back onto the solid roadway on the inside lane! I was however a bit reckless, in that I got some photos for you, but none looking down…that was just beyond the call of duty!
The upper peninsula is pretty flat and not nearly so beautiful in general as the mainland. It is very harsh extremes of climate between winter and summer, and in winter, there is much snowmobiling and hunting and it is almost impossible to get about by road. Everybody up there has some massive 4x4 truck (or two) and several snowmobiles. People on the mainland joke about those in the U.P. as being a bit odd and interbred and such stuff, but even if that is true, they are a very friendly bunch, even though some of their dialects are a bit difficult for an English ear. Everywhere on the U.P. is isolated. The roads there are basic, fully metalled roads only leading in and out of places and all of the few interconnecting roads being dirt track and unsuitable for my bike. I restricted myself a bit up here therefore to major places of interest, and first went the 50 miles north towards Whitefish Point, the most northerly tip, where there is a famous lighthouse on the southern shore of Lake Superior. The “scenic route”, highway 123, winds north and I took it. No problems for the first 10 miles, but then, alone, out of the blue, there was a road works sign. Here the road surface had been taken up entirely. Absolutely no tarmac on either side, just compressed gravel and gritty stones. I grit my teeth a bit, rode the clutch and the rear brake and cautiously ventured up it, rather like I have to on our own farm drive at home. Well the first mile or two were O.K., but by the time I returned to tarmac, TWENTY TWO MILES later, I really had had enough! Harley Davidson Electra Glides are not made for off-road riding and it is not an experience I would like to have again. Don’t ask me what the country was like here…I haven’t got a clue! I was exhausted, and it had taken me almost two hours to ride that stretch, always wondering whether I should try and turn around or push on, and with no indication of when it would ever end. At about 5o’clock, therefore, I turned off to a place called Strongs, where I had seen an advert for a motel. It was looking a bit stormy ahead, and I couldn’t face trying to hunt for a campsite now.
I pulled onto the main East West highway, the 28, and soon entered Strongs. I passed a couple of motels almost before I had realised on this very stretched out community and just about managed to pull up at the last one going West, situated on the north side of the road, “Clarke’s Mootel”. Spelt wrong, I thought, but looks nice and tidy and clean, the best of them actually. I parked up and went to the office.
Andy Clarke, a man in his early forties, greeted me as a biker.. “You goin’ to Sturgis” he asked. “Yes, I’m on the way, in a roundabout sort of way. I shan’t be there ‘til the end of the week though as I’m picking up my daughter from Chicago for 10 days riding with me on 5th and we’re travelling via Des Moines and Sioux City”. “It’s 1.328 miles from here” he said, “there’s my sign on the shed out back. I usually put it out about now for those bikers passing through.” I couldn’t imagine anyone “passing through” Strongs. It’s a real out of the way place, even though it is on the main highway across the U.P., but it simply runs east to west and really goes from nowhere much to nowhere much else. “I’m goin’ to try to get up there for a couple of days on the Harley” he said “ but I have to close the business for a few days.. I have the Harley factory out back in the barn if you want to see it later.” I ‘ummed’ sort of acceptance, not actually understanding what he had meant. I took a room number one, offered at just $30-00, fifteen pounds, an absolute bargain. And it was! The room was clean and tidy and well furnished and decorated, with a pleasant en-suite. There was T.V. and coffee and a porch with chairs. In the corner there was a welcome notice, to “Clarke’s Mootel”, so not a spelling mistake, and it was signed by “Handy Andy and Cow Patti, the Clarke’s.” I looked at the sign on the roadway. The name was actually written over the painting of a black and white cow, and there were several such beasts as models around the front garden. Odd? I settled in and after I had got my things inside, started my stove on the porch to heat up a tin of something because the restaurant, a hundred yards down the road, closes at 2 p.m. daily after serving breakfasts and lunch. Not enough custom to open all day! While I was sitting there, I became aware of a family further along the row of white painted motel rooms. About 5 children, and then 11, were gradually gathering around the front of my bike. Slowly 6 adults appeared, their parents. I thought, to begin with, that they had come to look at the odd Brit sat here with his cooking stove, but when I talked to them, they started to say that they were waiting for the tour. I had hardly comprehend what they meant when Andy appeared. “Y’all ready then”? he asked. You comin’ too” he gestured at me. I readily agreed and we set off into the large grassy open space behind the rooms and his house and saw a large steel and wood barn, and what looked like two old western cabins and an old saloon. We went over to the barn first and he opened the door. We all traipsed in and were confronted by firstly a large sort of bar area and then suddenly by the original Harley Davidson Motorcycle Company shed. It was incredible. It was like being in Dr.Who’s Tardis. Here it was, absolutely spot-on perfect, down to the last detail including the painting of the name on the door. A total, perfect, life sized replica. Inside were lots of Harley memorabilia, and it felt just like it should. The barn was littered with all sorts of antiquaries, from old bits of bikes to signs, harness and tack, there was a bar constructed out of varnished deformed pine trees with great curly trunks and large nodes on them, a fireman’s pole, old garage signs, miscellaneous bike parts and two old Harley’s, and there, in the back, were equally amazing displays, a First World War Field Hospital tent and full kit, a trappers cabin, The Bates Motel, old cars and automated scary machines. The kids faces were mixtures of horror and delights as the various exhibits performed on motion detector switches. Giggles and screams and laughter erupted amongst us all. The other cabins were equally bizarre, a saloon with pieces of stuffed animals and antlers and tails hanging from the ceiling together with over a thousand baseball caps and numerous artefacts over the walls, slot machines, juke box, and a pool table. From the corner of this was a trapdoor which led about 12 feet down a shaft into a 5 foot high steel tunnel, like a fall out shelter might be, and this lead about 30 yards back to erupt at the side of the coffin in the Bates Motel. Lots more giggles and screams and wide eyes. This is not all. You really MUST go to the Clarke Mootel. It is not advertised, and there is no charge other than staying there. Andy is a perfectionist collector and fun master, and it has to be one of the most surprising and fun places that this 60 year old has ever stumbled across. Andy and his wife, Patti, have no children of their own, but entertain all the kids around and no doubt the adults two with their antics. They are the epitomy of everybody’s best uncle and auntie, and all credit to them both. ( Patti, by the way, was brought up on a farm and her brothers rudely nicknamed her “Cow-Patti”. She has always been known as that and has kept the farm association with the black and white cows, hence the “moo-tel”.
I really enjoyed my stay there, the bad trip forgotten, and when it was wet the following morning, I booked in for a second night and Andy kindly allowed me to clean my bike in his barn, in front of the H-D factory!
As the weather picked up, in the afternoon, I sat on the porch drinking coffee and an ATV pulled up in front of me. On it sat a chap, with along white beard and flowing white hair, for all the part of Santa Claus if it hadn’t have been wearing cross braced dungarees and it had not been the middle of summer. If he had havd climbed off with a bottle of moonshine or off-loaded a pile of furs from the back, I should not have been in the least surprised. He introduced himself as Norman; he had been born and lived all his life in the U.P. He must have been about 70, but he was ageless. I asked him how he coped now he was older in the U.P. winters. “Aw” he said, there’s them as comes up here and does nothin’ and moans about the cold and then leaves, but the secret is to do things” He went on to explain that snowmobiling was quite an active activity and one did not get cold, doing that, or hunting, or fishing through ice holes or tracking, or skiing, and winter soon passed that way, and it was warm and cosy with the logs fires in the houses and with the strong community spirit there. He told me he liked reading a lot, especially cowboy stories, and his favourite author was one, Louis L'Amour He said I should read them. He insisted on going back to his house to bring me a couple, and soon kindly returned with “Hondo”, endorsed by John Wayne as the best western he had ever read. Thank you Norman, I have now read it, and John Wayne is definitely right about Hondo. The knowledge and description used by the author shows an intimate knowledge understanding and full research of the old west, and his story rings live and true. I was rather put off by his name originally, he sounds more likely to be the author of those type of "pink lady's books" of Saturday afternoon love in the Accident and Emergency Department. Oh well, never judge somebody by their name or a book by its cover!
Finally, to end my stay at The Clarke Mootel, that evening brought a massive electric storm, spectacular to watch, but only from the front window of the room!On 28th July, I set off in better weather to Paradise and Whitefish Point. In Paradise, I found a fascinating blacksmith’s shop, which was almost exactly as it had been for the last 150 years. The blacksmith was a local volunteer, a retired Methodist Minister who had done some training when he retired and now worked there part time and was actually teaching a new young man recruit. Inside there were all the xpected tools of the trade, but in addition, because the work had been so closely associated with wheelwrights and coopers, there were all the tools associated with these trades too and it seems they often worked together in the same large shop, especially on making carts and wagons. Finally up to Whitefish Point, where there is a famous lighthouse, now automated, but overlooking the most northern point of the U.P. on the southern shore of Lke Superior. Off this coast, in the last 100 years there have been over 522 serious wrecks, due to the severe weather and the fog. Lake Superior, the legendary “gitchegooma”, “the shining big sea water” from the story of Hiawatha, is enormous, to all intent and purpose, it acts like any major sea. Storms can be severe with tempest strength storms and the highest of seas. The Lake is extremely deep, and extremely cold, too deep for anything other than unmanned automatic submarines to explore, and many of the wrecks are still lost in the depths. The huge boats that pass the narrow straits here have carried everything from passengers and furs to large containers and iron ore, the latter being a cargo that has many times taken a boat to the bottom, the last one in 1976. I was just overwhelmed by the beauty of the beach here. The weather was wonderful, which, no doubt enhanced it, but the beach with start bleached old tree trunks, the remaining stanchions of the old wooden dock, the multi coloured pebbles of the beach and the dunes. It was just about the most beautiful beach I can remember. God had sculpted the patterns and natural beauty of the combination of all these things in just about the most perfect combinations of starkness and warmth together. Really worth the ride up here by itself. But, then there is also the extensive museum surrounding the wreck history, and excellent record of the old trades and old tragedies at this area, highlighted for me, by the wreck hall and the inside of the original lighthouse keeper’s house, exactly as it was when it was last occupied. The story of the last keeper and his wife is one of dedication, family devotion and isolation. His children had recorded some of the details and history of their lives there which makes the records so vibrant.
As I was leaving Whitefish Bay, I phoned daughter. It seems that she cannot get the time out of work to come over after all, so, I had to re-think my plans. There was no point in staying up here much longer, I could get straight off and down to Milwaukee earlier and then away to Sturgis to arrive at the beginning of Bike Week, rather than the end. I resolved to see the last main feature I wanted to visit here and then head out south again as fast as I could. Before going, I had to see the Tahquamenon Falls, mentioned in the Hiawatha poem. This was were the young Hiawatha built a hunting canoe from the traditional birch bark, before he went out to be tested by the Fish and sea gods. [ I had to learn some of this enormous poem when I was about ten. I never read much more of it, but I now realise that it is an absolute epic account of the legendary Indian chief. The only bit I remembered at all were the first four of the following lines. I never understood what the first two lines referred to until I was actually here in The Hiawatha National Forest, and actually saw Lake Superior. I will put these few lines at the end for those of you who may like to see them, and also the reference to Tahquamenon Falls. I will also refer you to the web page where you can read it all if you can pluck up the courage! (www.theotherpages.org/poems/hiawatha.) ]

But, back to the Falls. Actually a little disappointing because the water was very low and so the whole area was a little less rushing and vibrant than it might have been, and also a lot safer, so lots of people were scrabbling about over them and the atmosphere was a bit destroyed really. But, at least they were largely natural and the beautiful dark forest was still all around them, and I took some evocative photographs. I was astonished that there was not more being made of the association with the poem. The gift shop sold the usual national park things, like hats and tee-shirts and calendars and pens and egg timers and suchlike and a whole host of polished stones and cheap jewellery and fake Indian memorabilia, but nobody there seemed to know much about Hiawatha at all, and there was only one small pamphlet in the gift shop that was sold with just the relevant chapter of the poem, taken totally out of context. I acknowledge that it is a bit much to expect everyman in the street to be familiar with the writings of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, even though he is, arguably, the most famous of American poets, but after kindly,though rather naughty enquiry, of several people, I was told that Hiawatha was “a cartoon character”, “the name of the National Park”, “the Indian word for waterfalls”, and, closer to the mark, “some Indian fella”. I felt a bit of a self righteous,‘literature nerd’ even though I certainly could not remember the whole poem by any means, and so just left it at that, reading the whole poem on the web site in the evening.
I went to get some coffee from the café. Outside there was a boardwalk with canopies and tables and I sat to drink it thre and contemplate the falls and the forest. I had just been sat for a few minutes when a squirrel caught my eye. It was foraging for bits left by us tourists. It ran under the edge of the boardwalk where I was sitting and suddenly, from right underneath me, there was a tremendous rattling noise, like the shaking of maraccas, followed by a squeak and the squirrel shot out from underneath and across the path up a tree. I knew that noise instantly. There was absolutely no mistaking it. I have heard that noise so many times in the cowboy films that I knew immediately that there was a rattlesnake under the boards, actually, to be precise, right under the boards, right under my table. I sat for a second and look at the cracks between the boards. Only about an inch. The boards were about six inches off the ground. No snake was going to decide to come upwards through these boards, that was for certain, but I was concerned because there were children playing nearby and some dogs walking about with their owners. I thought I had better report it to the café, so I went inside and quietly pulled one of the staff members on one side. She took it very seriously and went to talk with the manager, who phoned a warden. After about five minutes, he came out to were I was sitting, now some distance away from the boardwalk. “It’s O.K.” he said. The ranger says now to worry as we don’t have rattlers here in the park.” Well, I’m very sorry for worrying you about it,” I said “but I could not have confused that noise and the reaction of the squirrel with anything else, it was an absolutely unmistakable sound”. What you heard was just a Michigan Rattler” he said. “But you’ve said you don’t have rattlesnakes” I replied. “Well, apparently we do” he admitted, but the ranger said they are only small and not very dangerous. We’ll just leave him where he is and not disturb him”
I left it at that, and finished my coffee rather quickly. I don’t think the squirrel believed what the ranger had said, and frankly, I’m not too certain that I did either! Had I been Hiawatha, I would probably have caught him and put him on my war bonnet. As it was, I left him and continued on my own epic adventure westwards out of the Upper Peninsula.

Best wishes,
Doc

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.
There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, "Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!" Lulled him into slumber, singing, "Ewa-yea! my little owlet! Who is this, that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little owlet!"