Road Trip to Michigan

I spent Presidents' Day weekend at the home of my roommate, Krista, in Charlevoix, Michigan, about an hour south of the Makinaw Bridge. Good times were had by all, some of the highlights of which you will find below.

Road Trip!
It's about a 7 hour trip from Wheaton to Charlevoix, but my wondercar, Nigel the CR-V, got us to our destination with narry a hitch. Well, except when Krista was sure we shouldn't take the right exit, and Augustine (who's actually from Texas) recognised it and we had to turn around and try again. But for this little snafu we can hardly blame Nigel.

On the way up we stopped at a Burger King for supper, where we saw an ad that quickly became Krista's new favorite saying. It was a picture of a Whopper sandwich, perched on top of an open Big Mac box. It is on top because it's too big to fit in. The caption says, "Silly Whopper. That's a Big Mac box!" Krista laughed and described the ad to everyone who would listen throughout the weekend.

Cross-Country Trauma



So Krista comes from an active and athletic family. I am neither active nor athletic. She warned me that we would be going cc skiing on Saturday, which seemed fine to me at first. But then, all the way up Augustine (who'd met Mr. Swenor several times and is an avid downhill skier and generally athletic) kept telling Krista that she was feeling nervous that Mr. Swenor was going to push us too hard while skiing and she wouldn't be able to keep up. Well, if Augustine was going to fall behind, I might as well stay in the car. So that made me nervous.

By the time we were all fitted with shoes, skiis, hats, gloves, and water, I was panicking. Phrases such as "six mile trail" and "three or four hours" were being thrown around as if they WEREN'T terrifying. I was starting to feel a little sick.

It took about an hour to get to the state park where the torture was to take place. Incidentally, the whole area was BEA-U-TIFUL. Wow. So pristine and remote. We were driving through endless forests of pine trees, decorated with fluffy, white snow. The day was beautiful, too; blue skies and sunny, with temps in the low thirties. Most of this glory was wasted on me in my current state, but I couldn't help but appreciate a bit of it.



We finally arrived at the moment of truth. I was strapped to some skiis and informed that the "sticks" were actually "ski poles". Krista's sister gave me a few basic pointers while we waited for everyone to get ready. Things like bend your knees and try to glide. All well-intentioned and generally lost on me. We headed out. Here's a picture of us before I was covered in snow.



I managed to stay upright until we came to our first downhill slope. Now, this hill was actually more like a gentle undulation on the landscape. It would be nearly indiscernable had I been walking. But I wasn't walking, I was slipping around on two narrow strips of...fiberglass? and this posed a significant problem for me. I fell. The falling part was fast, but the getting up part involved coaching from everyone present, lots of grunting, groaning, maneuvering, positioning, repositioning, and, at LONG last, a hand-up from Krista's brother-in-law. Fortunately, everyone was quite gracious during the 10 minutes we all stood around waiting for me to get vertical again.

Not long after that, our group split up as the realization that I wasn't going to be moving any faster set in. Krista and Augustine stayed back with me and helped me through to the end of the two miles that I completed. In two hours. Quite possibly the longest two hours of my life... Yes, that's three times slower than walking. It seems that the gliding part is hard for people with bad balance. Like me. Plus I was hyper-paranoid about re-injuring my back with all the falling I was doing. All I can say for myself is that by the end of the trail I was considerably faster at getting up than I was during that first fall.

So my fearless companions finally agreed, after much convincing, to leave me at the first stopping point. They were going to go on to the second stopping point, another mile on. Mr. Swenor was supposed to come with the car and pick us up shortly, so I took off my skis and sat down on the porch of the park office (which was closed) to await his arrival.

A group of snowmobilers was also at the closed office, grilling burgers and hotdogs on a make-shift grill. They mentioned that there was a small heater in their snowmobile trailer that I was welcome to go use, but I was actually sweaty from my two hours of torture, and I politely refused.

About 30 minutes later, however, I was beginning to regret that hasty decision, as Mr. Swenor had still not made an appearance, and my previously sweaty self had become chilled. About this time, one of the women (there were three couples there, all in their late fourties/early fifties) came and insisted that I come join them in the warm trailer and this time I was happy to oblige. They had finished their meal and were just enjoying the last of their beer as I joined them. We chit-chatted for about 15 minutes until they were ready to head off again for another ride. They offered to take me back to our car, but since I didn't have keys that seemed counter-productive and besides, I had no idea if there were multiple roads to choose from or not, having come through the woods. I regretfully returned to my previous post, thanking them profusely and waving as they rode off into the forest. I did make use of their grill, which was still hot, to warm my hands. Eventually, Mr. Swenor showed up and picked me up. Having just finished six miles of skiing in three hours, he was sweaty and hot. Having just sat in the cold for an hour, I was shivering and cold. Being generous and a dad, he turned the heat on for me anyway. :)



Not long after that, and having successfully pushed the Suburban out of the snow where we got stuck, we picked up the rest of the crew and headed for an Italian restaurant for supper. I was exhausted, already sore (never a good sign), developing several impressive bruises, and I had to pee, but I had survived. We ate pizza, which was delicious, and headed home. I chattered away like a magpie with that lighter-than-air feeling you get when something you've been dreading is finally over.

Sunday
Saturday night we got freezing rain, and Sunday church service was canceled due to the road conditions. We all spent the day lazing about the house, reading, playing games, and watching tv and a movie. I really enjoyed being in a family atmosphere again. That level of interaction that only happens in families and long, long, long-time friends, where there is no hesitation; no need to hide, because everyone knows who you are deep down, and they love you anyway.

In the afternoon Krista gave me a quick car-tour of the city, which is situated between Lake Charlevoix and Lake Michigan. It was a nice day of relaxation.

Home Again
So Monday we left about 1pm for the long ride home. We were quite thankful that the roads were in pretty good shape, considering the ice of the day before. We topped our road trip off with supper in Greek Town in Chicago. I had mousaka (like lasagna made with eggplant, potatoes, and beef), which was really yummy. As always, it was nice to come home after a break away from the Roosevelt House.