Skylarking: hiking

“The falls is in a remote area, but reaching it is not all that difficult.” - Great Lakes Waterfalls and Beyond website, Sturgeon Falls page

June 21, 2020, was a Father’s Day like no other. For one thing, I’m not usually with my dad on FD, but as 2020 has had many a surprise, this year I was. I woke up ready to go hiking as we had discussed the night before, but the man of the day reallyreallyreally had to go to Wa.l.Mart. So my mom and I had a quick visit with my granny, suitably masked up and ready to roll, while he did that.

Mask by Raving Unicorn.

A bunch of hours later, we set off to hike to the Sturgeon Falls, located in the heart of Ottawa National Park, around 4 p.m. All driving directions were aligning with Google Maps until we got to the point where it said drive 9.4 miles and turn right.

I really stressed that we needed to be vigilant about how many miles to go, because there was no sign. I imagine you know what happened. We missed our turn. Was the odometer supposed to be at 51 or 53? Did we include the .4 of a mile? We’ll never know.

We also missed the grouse that was meandering in the road, and the large, majestic doe that leapt out in front of the car (that said driver dad told me he didn’t see!?) But hey, a nice family was also driving the same road that we were driving on, and the man assured us that if we just took the next right, and then the next right, we’d be at the falls. He spoke with much confidence. We believed him.

We ended up on a logging road, and then another, driving the Chevy Cruze around tree limbs, mud holes, washed out rocks, and at one time, an entire tree, as there wasn’t any place to turn around. Well, that, and we kept thinking we were almost there. Right?

Wrong. Fortunately, we were able to make it back to the original-ish road and took a left, instead. At this point we took a second left and … wait for it … found the Sturgeon River!

And a map indicating that the river was next to us, but regrettably, the map didn’t say where we were on it. There’d be a bit more footage, but for some reason my mom decided to talk about certain family health problems while I was shooting, and her voice carried over the sound of the river. ... So I guess I shouldn’t share those.

We drove for a few more miles and then the siren song of the Drive-In restaurant called and we turned around. We had previously noticed a sign that said L’Anse/Baraga and made our way back to give it a try to find the way home.

It was immediately clear that we were on a snowmobile trail, and one that hadn’t been used recently, even by off-road vehicles. A couple of voices in the car said that perhaps we should turn around, but the driver, who has difficulty hearing, kept going. One mile, two miles, three miles, stop.

There’s a very bad feeling that comes over you when your sedan halts in on the top middle of a big sandy wasteland. It seems to get worse when you realize you have little food or water, parents who are older, and you have no idea where you’re at. Plus, thunderstorms heading your way and clouds of black flies.

I think we all had a collective oh $#!+ moment.

Once that was finished, I’ve never been part of a better oiled machine. Dad called 9-1-1, my mom gathered branches to put under the wheels. A shovel was procured. My dad began digging and placing sticks under one wheel while I broke down the bigger pieces and laid more sticks under the other one.

A tow truck was dispatched, but its ETA was unknown, it was 84 degrees and we were all wearing long sleeves because of the bugs, rain was looming, and we wanted to get the heck out of there. My mom and I gave the car a big push. Two pushes. We moved the car about 10 feet backwards.

Sugar sand stretched out in either direction. Our first-round sticks were mostly crushed. We began the process again - shoveling, gathering sticks, breaking them, laying a path behind the wheels. Another big push, another six feet. We’ve been at it an hour now.

Dad changes course; we’re going to shovel to the wet sand underneath the powdery sand and forget about the sticks. It’s our last try, he says. We move the car another three feet while pushing, but there’s sand, sand, sand in both directions. The car keeps bottoming out on the sand underneath; the front wheels immediately stick in the sand once we stop.

Just then, I see a vehicle heading our way. Is it an ORV or the tow truck? It’s sort of both. A big ole truck that looks more like a sport vehicle than a tow rig. The driver pops right out and starts digging. He’s got us hooked up and is pulling us out in 15 minutes flat.

Once we’re free, my dad ever-so-cautiously asks if he’ll wait for us to follow in case there’s more sand to get stuck in. He says he will. He even gestures to give it the gas when we go through deep spots.

Mom and I cheer when we get to the paved road - my dad asks what we’re cheering about. It’s 8:30 p.m. and the Drive-In Restaurant is closed, so he missed out on his Dad’s Day dinner - it’s eggs and hash browns at home now - but I ask him, was this the best Father’s Day ever? It’s the best one he can remember, he says. Now I could point out that he has certain memory lapses these days, but you know what? I'll take it. PS: We never did find the falls.

PPS: Love ya, Dad.

We took a trip to the desert in Eastern Washington and hiked out to the bluffs. 'Twas a cold, blustery day (so cold that the battery on my camera died half-way out!) but the fresh air sure felt marvelous.

The terrain was rough since we cut our own paths--though on the way back we followed an animal trail. Since there's not a lot of traffic in the winter, there was a great quantity of unspoiled beauty to observe...