Author's note: The following is more a personal diary, a memoir, than it is a piece for public enjoyment. As such, it may seem long-winded and trivial. It was important for me to record my thoughts while they were fresh in my mind, and here they are.
The title of this entry has at least three meanings. Firstly, I didn't really expect to take a solo trip this year. I just wasn't feeling the itch. Secondly, the trip I did take ended up very different than intended. Finally, I was on a different machine, one which I didn't know I'd own this year.
I'll start with that last one. The KTM 790 Adventure that took me around the West last year was a fine motorcycle. It was really all I needed to get my boots dirty at this stage of life. It performed beautifully and remained comfortable for 2,500 miles on that trip. But there's always greener grass.
Husqvarna, that Swedish provider of all manner of yard and farm power tools, also dabbles in motorcycles. In this case, they offered the Norden 901 Expedition, which was a nice upgrade to the 790 in several respects: It has a more capable, adjustable, and taller suspension. It ships with a wraparound engine bash pan, cruise control, heated grips, and a heated seat. More on that last one later. It even boasts 10 more horsepower than the 790, and with virtually no reduction in fuel economy (I averaged over 50 mpg on this trip). Plus, it looks way cooler. It has a proper rally-inspired profile, where the KTM had that odd insectile headlight and gaudy, angular bodywork. It's actually built on KTM's 890 Adventure platform, and the spiffy suspension is that from the 890 R. It's extremely capable.
A friend of a friend happened to be selling this one. I had seen him on it around town, and I was aware of this bike from seeing online reviews. I knew I'd upgrade to it someday. I didn't think it would be for another couple years, but this opportunity was just too convenient--he lived a few blocks away from me in St. Cloud and his asking price was fair. I did the deal and was lucky enough to find a happy buyer for the KTM shortly after. I was able to fit my quick-release luggage rack and a new tail plate for the top case (with backrest for Jolene), and I had swapped the wheels with the tires I had just installed between the two bikes. I was ready to ride.
Regarding the trip itself, I just wasn't feeling it this year until summer was half done. I'm not sure why. Then work got a bit stressful and I was having trouble taking time off, which I sorely needed. I ended up blocking out a week to get away, from everything and everyone.
I hatched a plan to head east for a bit into Wisconsin and ride south through the so-called Driftless Area--a region of finger ridges created by erosion over millenia which hadn't been scoured flat by glaciers, as much of the rest of the Upper Midwest had. I know from past rides that the roads down there are fantastic, and I'd have a chance to meet Pete, a new aquaintance from the ADVRider forums, in person. Then I'd arc westward through the most interesting bits of Iowa and into Nebraska, where I'd stop for a visit with a couple friends from work. Jeff and Sam are both in Lincoln. Jeff offered to let me crash at his family's place. Nice. I'd take a couple more days wandering toward the Black Hills. I really enjoyed riding that area last year and wanted to do more.
Day One
St. Cloud, Minnesota to Sidie Hollow Campground, Wisconsin
So I set out to do that on Saturday, August 24, 2024. I left in the early cool air and rolled east on 95. Once I got beyond Cambridge, Minnesota the road gets a bit more interesting and the landscape has a bit more character. By the time I got to Osceola, Wisconsin, the first hints of the Driftless were apparent. Pete had suggested connecting in Connorsville, and after convincing my GPS that such a place existed I bent southeast and arrived late morning. After a short howdy-do with Pete we set out through some nice hilly country he knows well. We stopped in Durand and had a burger and some good conversation, then rode a bit more before he had to split off for a family event. Good to meet you, Pete.
Pete had kindly set me up with a really great route to my evening destination, a county park called Sidie Hollow. I continued on that, deviating to take some "ATV and truck route" gravel and swinging over to Onalaska to find a memory card suitable for my borrowed GoPro camera. Heading east and south from there I rode the twistiest cornfield route I've seen--blind corners galore but lots of fun. Along the way I encountered what I'd describe as the Amish equivalent of a lemonade stand. After some amusingly awkward interaction with three little bowl-haircutted boys I took a single-size pecan pie and a bag of cheesy popcorn with for later snacking.
Sidie Hollow campground is a peaceful area near a lake and its stream. Opting for the Upper Ridge campsites I set up with few others around. I soon found out why it was sparsely populated on a Saturday evening. Being a newly built site, the ground was mostly bare and had a lot of wood debris from the land being cleared. Gnats love these conditions. I was immediately bombarded with the little buggers and laid on some repellant. This prevented bites, but not the annoyance of all those little pings on my face and the regular zinging in my ears. I ate my pecan pie with a bit of the Bourbon I had packed in a hip flask. As soon as the sun set the gnats departed, but I was tired and wrapped up the day in my screened hammock, doing a little reading.
Unfortunately, I have no photos from this day and my time with Pete. Shame on me.
Day Two
Sidie Hollow Campground to Governor Thompson State Park
Despite the warm night I slept fairly well and woke as the day brightened. After a shower at the nearby camp building the sky was light enough that the gnats had returned. Knowing that they'd probably be around for a while I broke camp as quickly as possible and hit the road.
I rode more of the ATV/truck route toward the Mississippi and came out south of De Soto. I stopped at a food trailer and ate half a giant everything bagel breakfast sandwich, sitting at a picnic table and pondering my options. Here's where the second meaning of this post's title comes in. My phone had alerted me of "excessive heat" on my planned route. Lincoln, Nebraska, had forecasts of 102 degrees the next two days, and mid-90s after that. On a motorcycle, with protective clothing (or without), that's too much heat. I'm out.
So I'm feeling dejected that my plan has been foiled by weather, and considering what to do. One idea is to head to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and then work my way westward toward home along the southern shore of Lake Superior. This would result in a 4-5 day trip instead of the 8+ I had planned. Bummer, but I could maybe get some house staining done.
Still undecided about the overall route, I decided I'd head north and figure it out later. Having committed to a more leisurely pace for this trip I looked for a nice campground about 250 miles away and settled on Governor Thompson State Park. My experience with state facilities has been good. It was a fairly safe bet that I'd find at least some solitude and a shower.
The day's ride was nearly all pavement, but I steered clear of major highways. It was a nice tour of back roads through forested terrain. I took my time and stopped for breaks at the edge of a gas station and at a park along a lakeshore. I found a pleasant site at the good governor's facility and hung my hammock in some trees along a meadow. There were few bugs.
Day Three
Governor Thompson State Park to Muskallonge Lake State Park
After a breakfast of oatmeal and coffee I set out to get further north. I had picked Tahquamenon Falls State Park as the day's destination, though I wouldn't end up quite there. I rode east and then north along Green Bay. Once around its northern extent I looked for, and found, a bit of adventure in the Hiawatha National Forest.
Taking what looked like a nice gravel cut-across to get off pavement for a while, I soon found the road arcing too far eastward. I needed to bear north. The road types can be difficult to discern on a generic GPS map, and I hadn't taken the time to buy a proper map showing what I was in for. I took a turn onto a mild-looking packed sand two-track, which made me a bit nervous on my loaded bike, but I knew I could handle it if I stuck to my training. Soon I was ducking trees and watching for the kind of surprise ruts that took me down last year. It was warm riding--close to 90 degrees and not much airflow through my clothing. I was looking forward to getting back to pavement and higher speeds.
Now, though, this road started bending the wrong way. It intersected what looked like a chopped-up ATV track heading the way I needed to go, so I took that. It was obviously well used, having been pulverized into an odd mix of powdery sand and rock, but left in a well-defined washboard. The bike was capable, but I got more nervous. I fought my tension and concentrated on staying loose on the bars and light on my feet. I sweated more. I felt the buildup of adrenaline making me edgy. I kept glancing at the GPS, willing the little motorcycle icon to slide toward the next paved road.
Eventually I crossed a railroad track and rolled out onto pavement. I billowed my jacket to bring in fresh airflow. I tried to relax. I was back in my comfort zone. But it was still hot, and I gazed down every irrigation ditch I passed in this long, flat stretch of open land. I really needed to pause and refresh myself, but I wasn't quite so desperate that I wanted to dunk amidst the weeds. I kept on, rolling eastward.
Eventually I turned north, and there I found my oasis. Fox River is a small stream believed to have been fished for trout by a young Ernest Hemingway a hundred years ago, shortly after he fought in World War I. It had a small campground and a picnic area with some shade. I parked, stripped my sweaty riding gear and pulled on some shorts. The river was sublime, being clear and cold and deep enough for a proper dip. I cooled myself, then spent an hour sitting on an old concrete dam structure with a cigar, watching the water striders do their striding. It was bliss after the test I had just undertaken. After that I laid down alongside my machine under a tree and slept for a bit.
Feeling reinvigorated, I set out again northward, making my way to Grand Marais, Michigan, on the south shore of Lake Superior. The day was still warm, but the breeze off the water was cool. I found some groceries, a couple cans of beer, and ice for it and my hydropack. Pointing the Norden east I cruised out of town, the forest glowing in the late light. Pavement shortly ended and I was presented with another "truck trail". It was a wide, graded gravel road, but it was also pounded into loose dust and was very washboarded. At first I was glad to have more off-pavement time, but the work of jostling over the soft, uneven surface wore on my tired self. I wanted a chair and a beer after a long, steamy day.
It was about this time that I doubted my plan to make Tahquamenon Falls State Park. My GPS seemed confused about its location and instead turned out to be directing me to Muskallonge Lake State Park. When I first saw this facility I was disappointed. RVs galore. In my experience, that means noise of all kinds. I'm on this trip specifically to avoid noise, and other people, for the most part. Alas, I was done-in. A very friendly park staff member helped me check into what was actually a site closed for maintenance, complete with barricade, but since I was hanging for the night it was just fine by me.
I took a short walk down to the lake to have a look, and as soon as dark came on I was in the hammock, eyes sagging. A breeze made soft music in the leaves, and the everpresent barking dogs finally shut their yaps. Sleep came quickly.
Day Four
Muskellonge Lake State Park, Michigan, to Agawa Bay Campground, Ontario
I had been warned by a passerby the previous evening that we had weather coming in. Jolene and the kids had seen a strong front pass central Minnesota about 12 hours earlier. At 4:10 a.m. it arrived just west of me. Thunder and gusty breezes woke me, and though I had put all my gear under cover in anticipation of a storm I stepped outside to have a look. It was still full dark, but the frequent lightning let me survey the site. All good so far. I had postponed a shower since I took the dip in the stream, so I got that done as long as I was up. Naturally the showers were all vacant at that hour.
As it turned out we didn't get rain; the storm just flickered by in the distance, rumbling deeply. I dozed in the hammock until light came, then made coffee. Might as well get an early start. After all, today I'd leave the country. I had committed the day before to riding around the big lake, following more or less the same route my buddy Shane and I had 19 years earlier. In our first long-distance ride we went around in three days. It was not wise. We were inexperienced and overambitious. 600 miles a day in August heat was a challenge even to our young, robust selves. We rode well after dark into Canadian moose country, setting up camp at midnight. It wasn't smart, or particularly fun. It was memorable, though, and this time I would surely allow a more leisurely pace. No more than 250 miles a day or so. Time to stop and look around. Time to eat and rest.
So I did set out early, and as it turned out I'd ride nothing but asphalt that day. Ok by me. I have a love of smooth, fast sweepers above all, and there'd be plenty of those on the other shore. The Canadians can build a road. A pleasant, cool cruise took me to Sault Ste. Marie, that renowned crossover point on the St. Marys River. I stopped for a nice omelet and more coffee, then climbed up and over the high bridge. Unfortunately I flubbed the GoPro and didn't capture that. It was quite a thrill to be so high on a spindly steel structure.
After a mosey through the Canadian half of the city I rode north among low hills and canyons toward Horseshoe Bay. A stop near Pancake Bay offered ice cream, and again I grabbed a big can of beer and some ice. I was not going to deprive myself of an evening refresher on this trip if I could help it at all. A run along the shore and past Montreal River Harbor brought me to Agawa Bay, along which a narrow campground resides. They had just a few open sites, but one was a nice spot down in the far loop where RVs are forbidden. Perfect.
I spent the evening on the pebble beach, had a swim and a cigar, then set up my rain fly over the picnic table. A few gentle showers passed, cooling the air nicely. The water couldn't have been more splendid.
The forecast for the night had temps dipping well into the 40s. As I had expected nothing much below 70 on my original route, I wasn't prepared. I dropped in at the gift shop before it closed for the evening and picked up a nice thick hooded sweatshirt. It would save me from much misery in the coming days. I slept in it, lounged in it over coffee, and rode with it through the chilly mornings.
Day Five
Agawa Bay Campground to Hattie Cove Campground in Pukaskwa Nat'l Park
This day dawned blustery, damp, and cool. The sky had that quintessential Canada quality to it--low, dark, chunky clouds zipping past without end. I took my time making coffee and breaking camp, then set out up the lakeshore again. A few times the light rain spritzed my visor, but I didn't really get wet. The heated seat on the Norden helped me stay comfortable and relaxed, which is critical for safety on a motorcycle in case anything pops up. Like a moose. Despite regular scanning of the wetlands and small lakes along the road through the region, I never saw one, though.
I rode for an hour or so, and then stopped for a more filling breakfast at Tim Horton's in Wawa. (I prefer a local café or diner, but options were limited here and I needed a warmup and some calories.) I sat for a while and thought about the day. I was making enough progress overall that I still didn't need to rush, so I settled on doing a total of 170 miles to Hattie Cove Campground. It seemed like an area I could spend some time enjoying, so why not get in a bit early?
The ran fell away behind me as I rode east. The bike had been making a rhythmic hum-grind sound for the last day or two, especially in the heat of Michigan, so I took a break at a small park down a side road and had a look. The chain, which was original to the bike and 13,000 miles tired, was getting loose in the joints. Its o-rings were failing and letting the entrapped grease out, which meant accelerating wear. I knew that the front sprocket was showing wear also, its individual cogs taking on the shape of an ocean wave in a painting. Most of the noise, though, was in the aluminum wraparound skid plate that protects the engine from punctures in rough terrain; it was buzzing against the components inside it. Nothing I could do about that, but I'd have to come up with a solution to the chain problem.
As I rolled further east I contemplated whether I should try to get the chain and maybe also the sprockets replaced in Marathon or one of the other upcoming towns. That would be a major time investment, as I didn't have tools to press a rivet. I'd need the help of a shop. It could kill most of a day, and I figured I'd make it home without catastrophe if I kept it lubed well.
A mild but scenic stretch up around another vast area of remote forest and past many small, scenic lakes brought me to Ontario Highway 627 heading south through Heron Bay, a small native community. Eventually I arrived at my campground in Pukaskwa National Park. After a chat with the characteristically friendly and helpful staff I slowly rode through the north loop, which I knew to not allow RVs. After finding a nice site with no close neighbors and a lovely little grove of cedars alongside for the hammock I started unloading some gear on the picnic table.
As I was stripping off my riding gear I heard a raucous guffaw from a site just up the loop road from me. Pausing for a minute, I heard it again, like a cross between an 1840s gold miner and a heckler at a comedy show. Over and over this guy burst out with a great swell of phony amusement, as though whatever his companion had said was absolutely wild. This wasn't going to fly for me. No way would I listen to that for the next four or five hours. That's not why I came to this place.
So I jumped on the bike in my shorts and big adventure boots and scouted the other loops. After going around twice and hopping off to check several sites I found a spot that was even better than the first, and far enough away from neighbors that even an RV with a generator running should be tolerable. I dropped my top case to claim the site and rode back for the rest of my gear, then rode out to the camp shack to register for the night.
The day had remained cool, and already by early evening I was feeling a chill. I pulled on my new hoodie and my rain liner as a windbreaker and boiled water for my second dehydrated meal of the trip. It might've been a sweet-n-sour pork dish, and it was just fine with me. I relaxed and read the park brochure as it steeped. I had made a run 15 miles up the road to Marathon, and after grabbing a bottle of motor oil from a gas station for the chain I stopped at a local brewery for a couple big cans of their beer, then at another gas station for ice. Now I cracked one and all was right with the world.
The only communications network at this campground was the wifi at the camp shack and at the visitor center along Hattie Cove. I took a walk to the latter and pulled down the afternoon's email, along with a couple episodes of Archer for the evening in the hammock. I hiked up a hill consisting mostly of solid rock and sat for a while, surveying the cove. A canoe with a woman and a dog meandered among the small islands far off. As dark came I wandered back to camp and stowed my gear in case of an overnight shower. A little while later I turned off Archer and let my eyes settle shut. The campground was very peaceful and I slept well among the cedars, nary a laughing miner in earshot.
Day Six
Hattie Cove Campground to Sleeping Giant Provincial Park
Early sleep means early waking, and I was in the camp shower before most other campers were stirring. That business done, I had my coffee and a granola bar alongside a small but noble fire, which just kept my teeth from chattering in the chill, then walked back to the visitor center with my camera. I had a feeling that more of the warblers I'd seen the day before would be near the lake, in the low bushes. Sure enough, they were plentiful. I spent a half hour or so shooting, and I had a nice conversation with two women about philosophy, religion, and the politics of the day. One was from Indiana or Ohio, the other from Thunder Bay area and a Hattie Cove regular. Then I packed up camp.
The day would take me as far north as I'd get on this trip, above Nipigon Bay. Before I got there, though, brunch was in order. I pulled into a restaurant in Terrace Bay and ordered eggs Benedict. It took a while, but the scene was interesting--a very French sounding fella and a priest talked about life at the next table, and three blue-collar types chatted in polite Canuck fashion about politics and work. Meal thoroughly enjoyed, I moved on westward. The scenery was familiar, but certainly not boring. I listened to classic soft rock on an offline Pandora channel one of my family must've set up, which made the wind noise getting past my ear plugs less fatiguing.
Sleeping Giant is a geologic formation lying along the east shore of Thunder Bay. It takes its name from the supine Easter Island Moai-like shape it creates on the skyline, as though an ancient long-faced deity perpetually slumbers the days away. My site was across the camp road from Marie Louise Lake, across which the Giant lay in full view, and I walked down in my shorts to take a dip. The water was clear and just slightly cool. The day had been mostly overcast, but the sun got through for a while just then, and I floated and relaxed and wondered why on Earth I was the only one swimming. Up and down the long campground, no one else was enjoying this invigorating Eden. Maybe moving around in an air-conditioned glass and steel box doesn't set you up to appreciate it as I was. Birds of many types came to the shore for tiny drinks.
The place is popular, and I was a bit worried that I'd end up in a loud mob of RVers and city dwellers without wilderness voices. As it turned out, the barking dogs subsided and a nice breeze masked most other human sound as evening came on. I hiked over the small ridge I was against and onto the upper road, where weak mobile signal could be found. I called home and checked radar, which showed a thunderstorm coming from the west. That didn't concern me; the hammock had fared perfectly through several feisty storms already. I was actually looking forward to it.
Settled in, I felt the cool lick of the storm's downdraft breeze reach first, then the rain fell. Again I was nestled in a grove of cedars, and the gusts were mild on my rain fly. I stayed dry and comfortable. A group of young people chatted merrily about life and politics. It made me smile, and a little sad, to think back on my own carefree days of discovery and friends I thought I'd have forever.
The following morning another camper would ask me how I fared. She hadn't enjoyed the occasion; apparently her tent or tarp was quite loud. I said I did great in my hammock, and I sleep well in the rain. She seemed incredulous, and a touch envious.
Day Seven
Sleeping Giant Provincial Park to Finland Campground, Minnesota
Having had a swim the evening before, and with no shower near my campsite anyway, I kept things simple and just made coffee before breaking camp. I wasn't sure where I'd sleep that night, but it didn't really matter. I was headed back into Minnesota, and I was fairly sure I'd find something. As it happened I would have the toughest time finding a place to hang my hammock on the entire trip.
Thunder Bay (the city) came fairly quickly, but I was ready for breakfast by then. I had a hankering for some flapjacks. I usually make them for breakfast when car camping, but I didn't have the provisions for that on a motorcycle trip. Heading east toward what might be the original town center, I hoped to find a local diner. Instead, after multiple Google listings disappointed me by being not where they should've been, I ended up boxed into an industrial area along train tracks and the lake. Getting hot, tired, and more hungry I wandered back out and toward a more modern part of town, finding a chain restaurant of sorts where I had a filling but otherwise uninteresting breakfast plate served by polite but indifferent young men who clearly would've rather been anywhere else. There were no pancakes.
From there it was a fairly quick run to the border and a leg stretch at Grand Portage State Park. It was a little surreal to sit cooling off at a bench where Jo and I had just been a few weeks earlier, possibly for the first time in my life--slightly déjà vu. The day was already warm and gusty, and I was happy to be off the bike for a little while. Here I started looking into the night's lodging options. Temperance River Campground near Tofte looked just fine, if a little highway-adjacent. I might be able to find a site away from the highway, in the cloaking white noise of Lake Superior's waves.
A little while later I pulled into Temperance River and started scouting for the best spot. The area was surprisingly vacant, so I took my time inspecting trees for hanging and distance to neighboring sites, toilets, and all that. The last thing I wanted was a stiffly-sprung door slamming next to me every nine minutes all evening. I found a nice site along a lake access trail and rode out to the entrance building to register, anticipating a stroll to the water. For whatever reason the online facilities in the U.S. seem much more cumbersome than those in Canada--registration service is often outsourced to private vendors. I didn't want to deal with that on my phone in the bright daylight.
At the welcome building things were again oddly quiet. I found a person after a little looking through a few windows, and she informed me that firstly, they don't use paper indicators on the campsite posts for availability like in Canada, and secondly, they were fully booked. Annoyed and puzzled, I turned around and pointed curiously to the Campground Full sign between inbound lanes that was obviously folded back on itself, undeployed. That revelation, of course, didn't result in any more available campsites. I gently expressed my frustration at the wasted time and pulled back onto the highway. Though camping along the North Shore is strangely sparse, I had identified a fallback a few miles further on. Finland, Minnesota, offers a county campground just outside town. I set off to check it out. If all else failed I'd find a couple trees in the Superior National Forest somewhere and make a campsite.
The reviews of the Finland Campground warned of ATV rider usage due to proximity to popular trails, but there was a site loop that was off-limits to ATVs. I lapped that a couple times, along with the ATV loop, and settled on one of the only open spots with large trees in the former. There had apparently been a fungal or parasitic kill of all the spruce on the inner campground area, and it was as though it had been logged off. Brush piles and a few downed trees remained. Also, ATVers aren't your most considerate bunch, on average, and as the reviews also warned I spent 20 minutes picking up some pretty gross trash left behind, using a pointed stick. Oh, well. It was a place to sleep on my last night of the trip, and it was fairly quiet.
A river flowed past the campground, so I took a walk to see if it offered a good swimming opportunity. A dip would've been nice, as I was a bit ripe after two days since a proper shower. The river was fairly shallow and loaded with round boulders. It wouldn't have been easy to get immersed, so I didn't bother. Later I'd do a camp cleanup as well as possible.
Earlier I had stopped at another brewery and bought a comically huge can of ale. They even gave me a bag of ice. It was time to enjoy that, though I still hadn't hung my bunk. I needed a break to relax. Then I did hang the hammock and cooked up the last of my dehydrated meals. It was good, too. Three for three. I think as long as I avoid the meals with "eggs" I can do ok, from a culinary perspective.
As I ate, two little boys came walking into my site. They had been riding bikes on the camp loop while their folks set up their RV a short distance away. I greeted them and asked what brought them by. With no pretense at all the older one, maybe 10 or 12 years old, explained that they wondered whether I'd be bothered by their generator if they ran it all night. He said that he couldn't sleep without a light. Stifling a smile, and rather impressed, I said that I appreciated their consideration, and that I'd be just fine if they ran it. They had a modern little Honda that only purred, as opposed to their neighbors, who had an industrial unit that rattled off the trees. Fortunately that one was only used for a short while. The boys thanked me and trotted off.
It was warm and calm that evening. I could hear the gennie and a family up the hill talking happily, but there wasn't much other noise. I lay on top of the light sleeping bag I had packed (for much warmer weather than Canada had offered some nights), and watched TV. Internet service was good here. When my eyelids told me it was time I turned the phone off and slept.
Day Eight
The next dawn came and went as most had on this trip, with me up before the sun got through the trees and coffee brewing shortly after. I made diligent but relaxed work of breaking camp, everyone around me still quiet. As I rolled out of my site the boy with the night light and his father stood at the end of their camp entrance, watching me. I'm guessing that the boy was enthralled by motorcycle guy and his dad shared the moment of curiosity with him. I gave them a nod as I maneuvered my loaded bike onto the loop road.
The last day always brings both melancholy and anticipation, if time away is done right. It did. I'd been enjoying myself so much I felt like I could easily go another week. But home calls a person, with family and projects waiting patiently. So I rode feeling good, and at peace. This trip was an escape from a particularly difficult time in my career. It was almost necessary. Maybe it was.
I headed inland to avoid the interstate and see some new roads. The rough plan was to head toward Cotton and Floodwood, through the Cloquet Valley, and then down toward McGregor, where I'd buzz over the final stretch on familiar roads. I missed a turn, though, and ended up at Island Lake, another place I'd recently been for the first time. This was disappointing because the roads in the area were checkerboard--boring and longer than necessary.
Finally I got to McGregor, where the town festival was in full swing. I had picked a little schoolhouse café as the day's brunch stop, and even though it was busy I decided to take on the experience anyway. While I waited for the young women working tables to get to me a man sat down by himself at the long central table I occupied. He was a few years older than me and retired, I learned, and was also a motorcyclist. We talked about cars from the 1980s and family. I ate a huge pancake with some eggs.
The rest of the ride was long and hot. My rear was more sore than it had been on the entire trip, so I stopped for a bit at the redundantly named Wild Rice Lake Reservoir. There was a gusting, quartering headwind bounced me around constantly. It was the least pleasant part of the trip, and when I rolled into our driveway I was glad to be done.
1,960 miles. Three states and a province. Two countries. Eight days and seven nights. All rich with experience and new memories. I ended looking forward to the next one, and to the long weekend trip to Wisconsin's bluff country Jo and I would take two weeks later.
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