Michigan’s Upper Peninsula has a wild amount of wilderness. Bears, wolves, Eagles, Pileated Woodpeckers. And the quiet you get when there are few roads.

I went for a hike there in the million-acre Ottawa National Forest. Got a map and traveled light, only binoculars. The way is marked by diamond-shaped blue symbols mounted on trailside trees or rocks.

Deer flies didn’t matter at first. But after a while bug spray quits. Bites bleed. I thought about Stanley’s hike through the Congo. He had it worse. No malaria in the North Woods.

I went on, assuming the “trail” remains a foot path. But it soon blends into undergrowth. Still, every so often you see those blue diamond-shaped markers. When you reach one, you could just make out the next, some distance away.

In an hour, it gets difficult. You hit an imaginary point of no return. And you want to return. But looking back, the diamonds are hard to see. You could get lost.

You don’t go back; the exit from this trail must be ahead and soon. An hour later, maybe two, you’re sweating, bug bit and haven’t seen birds, animals, or the end of the trail.

Lack of wildlife sightings in deep woods is typical. If you were in a 100-acre preserve near Chicago you’d see many birds. Often, deer, maybe a fox or snake. But in a million acres of indifferent wilderness it’s quiet.

There are bears around somewhere, wolves and every kind of boreal bird. Probably cougars and bobcats. But you don’t see them. Maybe they see you. Maybe they see a guy who’s getting lost.

An hour further, and I must be near the road. My map says so. I think. There’s an opening, light coming through trees ahead. It’s the road for sure. I speed up. Gotta get away from the biting flies.

I want to smell car exhaust. Want a roadhouse burger and a beer. Many beers. I move through the trees, running the last few steps. And come out into the open. But no road.

I was on the side of a mountain. Way up, on a narrow ledge. Above a forest that sprawled to the horizon like a green ocean. I looked down. A hawk with wide wings hung in the air far below me.

It was a Red-shouldered Hawk, not that identification mattered then. But when you know something, you name it. Had to aim the binoculars down, between my boots, past the lip of the ledge.

The sun was burning on me, and on the hawk, highlighting the big bird’s red-brown wingspan. Interesting. But where was I? The hawk twisted its tail and banked away, far below.

I looked at my hands. They were gripping binoculars, hard. Like fists. I was pissed. I had walked out of the woods, but now stood on an escarpment. I checked the map. Yeah, it was there. A wavy line.

I scanned my ledge, realizing it must be part of the trail. Saw a blue diamond on a distant rock. Could barely make it out. I looked at my fists side-by-side gripping the binoculars. The tough-guy phrase “two-fisted” came to mind.

I figured, c’mon, man, move out. I hiked to the blue diamond, then found the next one, back into the woods. Two-fisted hiking. It had been good to see that hawk below the ledge.

An hour or so later, maybe more, I found a gap in the trees. There was the road. A logging truck came grinding along. Dumb luck. The friendly driver let me ride on back. I sat against logs that smelled of sap.

I was scratched, bitten up and sweaty. I turned my hat around and let the wind blow in my face. I’d thought about fists grasping binoculars. Figured that having a two-fisted attitude was the only way to go.

Hell, I’d been higher than a hawk out there.

 

~

If you were reading our stuff 14 years ago, the above true tale might be familiar. It appeared as a longer 2-part adventure and generated fun comments. With much time past, and many new readers, we revisit the event that gave rise to our name

This entry was posted on Monday, July 15th, 2024 at 2:44 pm and is filed under "Viewpoints". You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.