June 1, 2019
Mindful Chitchat
Port Wing to Washburn
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Jackie’s speed: 8.3 mph
Scott’s speed: 10.1 mph
Weather: sunny, 50-55 degrees with chilly northeast wind 10-12 mph
When camping, we get up when the sun shines through our tent, made of lightweight rip-stop Cuban fiber that is semi-opaque like mica. On the first of June, that was about 05:30. We made coffee and tea before meandering through our pack-up routine. The Bear Paw would not open before 07:00, so no need to rush. Instant oatmeal could keep for another day. Today we had an option for amazing food.
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A fresh tray of caramel rolls caught our eye as soon as we had crossed the Bear Paw threshold and claimed the same table where we had eaten lunch barely 18 hours ago. That would be a perfect pick-me-up snack on the road. The young waitress, probably one of the owner’s kids, brought coffee right away and asked me if I wanted whipped cream on my cocoa. Oh heck yeah. The owner-cook, who took our food order while the waitress was cutting the fresh pies in the back room, said regretfully she had no jalapeños for my cheddar omelet, but her husband would have loved them. Maybe she’ll stock them if enough people ask. Then again, maybe it’s not a Wisconsin thing. Scott had a plate of three gigantic pancakes. After we finished breakfast, the waitress brought us a roll in a paper container which I placed gently in my handlebar bag.
It’s funny how distractions can keep a person from launching a day of effort. Today I spied an air hose at the gas station when I was pedaling away from the café and decided it was time to top off my tires. Here in Port Wing, the compressed air was still free. We’ve been many places where you have to insert quarters to make the machine work. We were rolling down the road at 08:24.
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The hills were longer and higher than the day before, but the huge breakfast and beautiful scenery gave us strength. The map shows we hewed closely to Superior’s shoreline, but often we could not see the lake for the trees. The downs corresponded to the rivers and creeks that flowed into the lake. Part of the land’s natural rhythm. At a turnout to the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore, we went in for a closer look. We asked the ranger if we could skip the fee since we would just be there for a few minutes. The corners of his mouth drew up. “The fee is for motorized vehicles, and if you don’t have a motor, I don’t know what to charge you.” We let him know we were from Montana and on our way to Maine. Montana bears are tougher than average.
At the steps down to the shore, three young men who looked like college students were coming back to the parking lot in their wet board shorts and long-sleeved swim shirts, toting kayaks. They had driven up from Madison. They said the water was cold and the wind was making it just a little too choppy to be fun. We told them our goal so they would take away an impression that over 60 doesn’t mean over with adventure.
We had been following Highway 13 for a day and a half. Our routing app suggested a detour that would take us about four miles on a back road, away from traffic. The topographical lines on the map indicated the highway would traverse more hills, whereas the gravel road followed a creek bed and would be fairly level. When we got to the turnoff, Scott looked at me. “What do you think?” I saw a wide gravel road, marked like many we had seen in Wisconsin with a small sign with an ATV logo. The state is big on ATV routes, or maybe big on getting ATVs off the highway. The gravel road near the Bowdoin Wildlife Refuge in Montana had been mostly okay until we hit the deep troughs that went on for a couple miles. But that was more than a thousand miles ago. “Sure, let’s do it.”
The alt route was fine. It was a connector road for farms. In just a couple miles, the gravel turned into an old asphalt road, a lucky break. We came to an apple orchard flying an “Open” banner. It was off season for apples, but whoever owned the farm was declaring it open. At the least we might get some cider. We pedaled up to a building that looked like a store and noticed a pickup truck approaching from the house. A farmer and his wife who looked like they were in their 70s looked at us curiously, but not unkindly, basically wondering what we were doing there. We explained that we had seen the “open” sign and wondered if they had any cider or apple products on sale. No, it was off season, and they did not freeze cider for consumption after the harvest.
But they were curious about us. The man told Scott he looked like a physicist or a professor and asked if he was right. No, retired diplomats, we worked overseas for a long time and now we want to see America up close. “You worked for the CIA?” No, we worked for the State Department in embassies and talked to people in foreign countries about how we can get along better. The woman then said something like, “That’s not going so well now.” She went to get us some cold bottled water, which we accepted gratefully. We drank half and put the rest in our empty water bottles.
The man wanted to have a longer conversation about politics, but we were ready for a break and chance to enjoy the caramel roll from the Bear Paw Café. We thanked them for the water, and they told us to be safe.
People we speak with, mostly those who cannot imagine doing anything so risky as ride a bike across the country, often tell us to “be safe.” It’s an interesting way to close a conversation, because for us to “be safe,” cars need to be as aware of us, as much as we need to be aware of them. Chatting people up is not just a bragging thing, though it is that. It’s also about making that personal connection so drivers will remember cyclists are fellow human beings who depend on having a safe place alongside them on the highway.
We rejoined Highway 13, which now hugged the shore of Lake Superior. The homes farther east were bigger, the lakefront obviously pricier. We checked in at the North Coast Inn & Chalets, a retro motor-hotel with doors that open onto the parking lot. Some of the 60s era fixtures were original but well maintained, and the décor charming and unique. One of the waste baskets had “RECYCLE CANS & BOTTLES stenciled on the side. It was such a refreshing change from the Super 8, we booked a second night.
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4 years ago
4 years ago
The motel owner, who is Italian, recommended DaLou’s Bistro, a pizza place a few blocks down the main road. First things first, we washed clothes at a swanky laundromat with Electrolux washers and dryers, $3.25 to wash, $2.00 to dry. Spendy, but spiffy clean. When we got to the restaurant, there was a half hour wait, so we went next door to the Snub Bar, where other DaLou customers were waiting for a table. Scott had a beer and I had a Moscow Mule, served in the copper mug. Bartending is an expertise, and our guy had it. Very refreshing, I sipped slowly to make it last until it was time to eat.
In a half hour the waitress came for us. We ordered a caprese salad and Isla Spice pizza, featuring tomato sauce, chirizo sausage, jalapeno, onion, and mozzarella, plus a Canadian bacon, artichoke, and mushroom pizza to go. The pizza was fabulous, the best I’ve had since brick oven pizza debuted in Austin, Texas back in the 80s. The jalapeños were fresh, roasted in the oven and the chirizo a flavorful shred of meat with not too much fat. So far, we have had great, reasonably priced food in Wisconsin, starting with Gronk’s in Superior, then the Bear Paw Café, and now DaLou’s Bistro. We have a few more days to test our hypothesis about the cheap good eats in this state. We’re psyched.
The sun was setting when we got back to the motel, a late night for us. Scott was getting the sniffles and went right to sleep. I read a Patricia Cornwell mystery for a while, then turned out the light.
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4 years ago
4 years ago
Today's ride: 48 miles (77 km)
Total: 1,259 miles (2,026 km)
| Rate this entry's writing | Heart | 7 |
| Comment on this entry | Comment | 1 |
4 years ago
(Awkward sentence structure to avoid ending with a preposition, in case anyone still cares about that crap.) Haha.
4 years ago