Plunging into the Porkies

The river that connects to L.O.C that helped to carve out the
large escarpment. Formed over 1 billion years ago, this steep,
sloped area developed as mid layers of sandstone eroded and
left the more resistant Basalt at the top. This combined with
"Ice Wedging", with freezing water pushing and shaping
crevasses in the rock. The highest point here is 500 feet
above L.O.C

It looked innocent enough on the small flat panel map displaying our surroundings. Mother had circled her finger around a short line below the overlook where we stood, admiring the stretch of Lake of the Clouds. This was the path that our friend Marianne had suggested. Having hiked much of the Porkies, she favored this little jaunt to a small nook of Lake Superior. To me, it looked like a ridiculous excuse for a hike.

Overlooking Lake Of the Clouds

 Then, amidst the large splay of green and webby pathways, the concise loop that we laid our eyes on  seemed far more aesthetically pleasing and still modest, perfect to satiate our hiking needs. We did our best to concede to the role of respectable hiker and slathered on some bug gunk, packed some lunch and water and to feel all the more "authentic'', completed the ensemble with large wooden staffs we'd scavenged from the beach the night before.

My travel tools (no, not the car.) Rather sparse. 

At first, the undulating slops and curves of the path felt tedious. I had over-dressed and could already hear the inner critic in me not ten minutes in laughing as I found myself following the crack lines between rocks in a trance. But stick to something long enough, and there is a click. Mine came just as we breached our first small hill climb through a wooded turn and I paused to take in a sudden rustle in the brush. While mother stopped to see where I was looking, a hummingbird darted past my face. Meanwhile, she had found the source of the noise which had paused long enough for her to notice brown fur and spots. As the hummingbird darted off, I took off with it, deep into those rocky crevasses and tangled trees and up and out into the expanse of sky that we walked along, immersed in fascination with every sound and sight. Traveling the cliff face along the lake, we climbed slanted rock platforms that felt like launch pads into the sky; uninhibited, spacious.

 

A hearty smile. My sentiments exactly. 

Then we descended into sanctuary of tall hemlock and pine. A trio of large birds gave out agonizingly sharp cries to one another in branches over our heads, before flying off, leaving us encased in this space of enchantment; safety, home. This integration, this deep belonging filled my bones, my breath, my steps for some time before gradually making a shift a couple of hours later (at least that is my guess, as I had left all time telling devices to the outer world) when it felt we'd been hiking the 'Big Carp River' trail - the first leg of our three-part loop - for far too long. Our path had been speckled with markings of sky blue, sometimes simply spray-painted on trees and other times presented as nailed metal slabs. We'd assumed these were good things to follow, although nothing had indicated how to read them or whether or not their color would change along with a change in trail. We finally crossed paths with a helpful camper who reassured us that we had not missed our turn and sure enough we parted ways, a bridge to the other side of the river came into view. Up to this point, my enchantment with our hike had only been apprehended by mother's stirs and doubts. But even those simply faded into mild curiosities for me to ponder. "I'm beginning to imagine us lost in the woods without anyway of calling for help!" she said. We both knew there was no way we could have missed an alternative route but when she had first heard I did not have my phone with me and declared this, I recognized just how submerged we were in the unknown. And how rarely our species puts ourselves in that position. When we made it to the bridge, we refueled with our lunches, in as relaxed a manner as we could amongst the very "social" crowd of flies and misquitoes.

And then, another shift. The second half of our trip was resplendent with steep hills, bubbling brooks and murky patches of swamp-like pools in the midst of where our trusty blue-patched guides led.

Mother was having to stop more often and when I had once been able to look behind to see her salmon jacket swimming through trees, I found that I was having to pause more and more to wait for her to come into view.
I began to feel this serious responsibility. It wasn't a burdensome one, but more like a silent conversation that we were having. It was this tug and pull of sending off, calling back. This leading and following. This caregiving, this letting go. It felt like my turn to cradle her and tell her things were going to be okay. When we reached Mirror Lake, the point before our last trail, I felt so proud to be able to call back to her. "I think I see the lake!

Mirror Lake

Here, the trail began to grace us with precise distances between points. And wooden walking paths. Where we had forged our own way through dozens of suspicious vegetation to avoid drowning our boots, we were now graced with sturdy planks that straddled some of the driest areas yet. They later came in handy to carry us across a swamp or two but certainly went on the list of quirks, amongst the inconsistent marking and the signage that jumped between decimals and fractions. The quirks kept things amusing for me for a while and even after I began hallucinating that some of the sticks were moving or started to sing the spice girls in my head or felt hopelessly embodied in hobbit-like circumstance, my thoughts remained curious.

This isn't even the most impressive impediment of the path.

Then the final shift, the final leg of the trip was almost tunnel vision. I had long since stopped getting hopeful about the "next corner" being the end and all I could cling to was "each time I think 'we can't be that much further', we are that much closer to that being the truth."

There was brief relief when we finally arrived at the bridge I had seen from our starting point before I looked up and realized 'duh. I'd seen it from our starting point. Up there.' I looked back at mother and gave a half knowing smile. "I can see the end!"

As we began the accent, having stopped yet again for mother, she said "oy, up hill will not be good for me" and I snapped back "stopping is not going to be good for me."

I immediately felt horrible. I couldn't imagine the kind of position she was in. It was clear that I wasn't struggling as much physically. Plus, what happened to the compassion I was feeling before? I tried to reconcile our way up through frequent pauses and concerned looks behind me.

The we reached the top and hugged. The first words from her mouth were "that was so GOOD."

Ah, the strange, rubbery flexibility of the human spirit. The constant shifting.

The best parking lot I have ever seen.

I learned a lot, there in shades of brown and green. I learned we would totally flunk the "prepared hiker" checklist in accordance with AT guidelines. I learned that uncertainty is uncomfortable and most definitely is a cornerstone to building resilience. I learned that I am a horrible judge of time-distance relationships (oh right, I knew that.) I learned that the more information I am given about time or distance, the worse off I am, mentally and emotionally. I learned that you do start to see inanimate objects move after winding stumbling through woods long enough. We both learned to love the color of sky blue. I learned about my strength in acting brave. I learned about my weakness in acting brave.

So Pretty!

We stopped by the visitors center on our way out of the park where I also learned that we had just completed the most strenuous day hike offered. A jarringly varied elevation of 12.2 miles, which we hiked in about 7 hours.

And it was so good, despite the feeling of endlessness and the lack of control and the aching joints. There was no way we could have plunged in that way if we had tried to compile data and numbers and time and distance. And it was perfect. A practice for the change to come.