The dichotomy of the rural, rugged, nature of the Upper Peninsula and the throngs of tourists who sometimes (often, anymore) swarm the place is a bit difficult to endure. I love that people love my places, but I find it harder and harder to spontaneously travel here (like much of the western Michigan shoreline) without planning well in advance (hence, not allowing for spontaneity at all). I did not plan this leg of my birthday week in advance. I did not plan this leg at all, and have no idea where I’ll pitch my tent or reserve a room. Yet, I keep going north until I hit Munising, which is really only a couple hours from the Garden Peninsula, but after several stop-offs to check out waterfalls and do a little hiking, I arrive late afternoon.
I piggyback on some free wifi in a restaurant parking lot and discover that none of the state parks have any open sites at all. These are of course only the parks that allow reservations, and though there are numerous other campgrounds that are first-come-first-served, I am quite sure that they are all full as well or quickly on their way to becoming so, being the 4th of July weekend and being that people come to the UP specifically to camp. I decide to check local hotels for a room, and quickly find that the hotels are also filling up fast. I head out of town a ways, now preoccupied with finding a place to sleep, realizing I’d really prefer not to sleep in my car, and end up with the very last room in a hotel just outside of town, exorbitantly priced (because they can), but after tent camping for 5 days, I’m ready for a bed and a bath. The hotel clerk tells me that by 8pm, there will not be any rooms available on the entire upper peninsula. Over the years, I have slept in my car several times while in the UP, but this is my birthday week, and I am grateful for my expensive room, and the peace of mind knowing where I’ll sleep frees me up to enjoy the area. This is an ongoing and important lesson for me: It’s good to be kind to myself, to allow the expense to sometimes take less precedence over what makes me feel good. This is not everyone’s lesson. Some need to learn the opposite. We all have our shit.
I head toward the lake shore and hike into some waterfalls. I arrive late enough in the day that the throngs of people are mostly heading back out, and although I feel proud of my beautiful mitten state for being a destination for so many people from all over the planet, I also feel so sad for the earth, trod upon by so many hundreds (likely thousands) of tourists. The trail is utterly destroyed, just trenches of mud when not a boardwalk. I see some of the visitors scaling the rock face, which is so hard on the ecosystem, not to mention dangerous for the people. This area is really not intended to support such humanity. These waterfalls are very popular and advertised on a lot of the UP tourism paraphernalia, and I decide I’ve seen enough and head for some less accessible and little known falls just down the road.
I park in the unmarked gravel area and cross the road to locate the trailhead. The last time I was here was several years ago during the winter (really April of that year, but there was still a great deal of snow). It was breathtakingly beautiful in its stark and frozen state, and I’m excited to see the difference.
And, oh, what a difference. The forest is lush, green, vibrantly alive, and, moving my body again after so many hours in the car revives me. There are very few people and because the trail is not “tended” (there are no boardwalks or handrails), the visitors that have made the trek seem more respectful of the area. I am not distracted by their presence, meaning their presence doesn’t detract from the experience, and I don’t feel I need to be a “host” or to check myself from silently condemning or judging them.
I am back in the land of cell service, up here near the major city of Munising, and my guy’s texts over the past week had all dinged through when I arrived. Some were concerned, some angry. Prior to hiking the trail, I had sent him a note saying that I had service for a while. At the falls, I find myself aware of having cell service again after so many days “unplugged”, and my attention is drawn to the potential for a small vibration from my rear pocket. It is fear and anticipation and hope that he will call or text. He feels like a stranger to me. A stranger I miss terribly.
There are wonderful things about him. Some things that I had never dreamed could be so good, and of course, there are the not wonderful things. I think of his goodness and strength, and I am again profoundly sad that he is not sharing the beauty of this area with me, or this milestone in my life. I walk through the forest, sinking ever so slightly with each step into the spongy soft earth, aware of the sappy pine scent rising from the sun-soaked floor, and think about the man I’ve loved for two years, who I feel I am losing. I think of how the falls looked here 3 years ago at the end of winter, frozen, silent, and how the forest is now so full of life. It is the same place. He is the same man. If I were just dropped into this forest today, I don’t know that I would recognize it based on what I saw the first time. Things change.
The phone does not vibrate. He does not text back. Back at the hotel, I call and leave a voice mail. He finally calls later that evening and is angry that I hadn’t let him know where I was for so many days. His first words to me in over a week are from anger. He doesn’t ask how I am or how the trip is going. He tells me all he has done all week is work. All I can think is that he couldn’t come with me for even part of this trip. I am so hurt, and don’t understand at all. I don’t really want to understand. It’s so much more than this trip, or other trips, or his work, or my birthday.
Fog hangs heavy in the air the next morning. I awake knowing in my heart it’s time to let him go. I stand in the parking lot of the expensive hotel, and say the words I hoped to never need to say to him. I tell him how much I love him and wish him well, and want him to be happy. He seems surprised, but wishes me well also, telling me all the same things, too. Through the thick mist, I am aware of some motorcyclists in the parking lot, smoking, watching me cry and hug myself as I walk in circles, breaking. I feel no judgment from them, which I’m thankful for, but I wish I could have spared them this. I wish…I wish a lot of things.
I check out of the hotel and finally turn the car towards home, peering through the dense fog, not sure what lies ahead of me, taking one mile at a time.
