Up Over: 7/8/16 Building Character

It is a rule in our family that no matter what, the party must go on. So, today it did.

We slept in to thunderous events happening at our door, hoping to wake to "the clearing". Rain suits belied our dreams and we hit the road in drizzle which, optimists at every turn, we called heavy mist. Once the fog lifted a bit, we rode damp, but cool into the lonely woods of the Upper Penninsula.

Heading back to find our road to the Hurricane Highway, Jules spotted a solitary store that sold wine and gas. Our "cellar" was dry, so he turned in. While I was busy buying some Two Buck Chuck (when in Rome...) all hell broke loose outside. We thought about remounting, but a lightning strike too close to my heart chased us back inside. Feeling so fortunate to be in the Party Store, surrounded by fish mounts, deer heads and skunk pelts (that still retained their odor), we waited out this storm that rated a "severe" from the weather service.

Once back on the road, we surfed through miles of sodden solitude, with only forest and no shelter. Two Buck Chuck and The Party Store sure enough saved us from a series of unpleasantness. With more storms coming, we hoped to make it to Grand Marais before the next event. Sliding into town, we stopped at the first and maybe only bar in town, The Lake Superior Brewing Co. We were dry, warm and treated like everyone's best friend. Just what you need after a wet ride ...and the Bloody Marys were spectacular! Local fishermen, honkered in from the storm, told us to check out the Log Slide, a residual historical landmark of the logging industry. And we were on it!

The weather gave us a reprieve so we snuck out hoping for the best. First we found H58, which turned out to be a sleeping dragon, rather than its writhing tail. Along the way, we took the advice of the locals and veered off to the Log Slide. Lumbermen in the 1800's found this natural sand cliff that served as slope to deliver harvested trees to the waters below.

Cramming all the touristry of which we were capable into one day, we rode onto the Pictured Rocks. Miles of carved sandstone echoed past lives that silently canoed their boundaries. Longfellow immortalized these cliffs and we reverently bowed to the power of the mighty Gitche-gumee.

Munising is our berth for the night. In terms of mileage, our day was short. Yet, miles have never defined our experience. Every ride, short or long, is a journey and every journey is another memory to shelve away and save for winter nights and kickstands down. For now, I will gladly put my face into the rain and the wind and soar into the unknown.