Weekend Getaway
[Image Credit: Dave Hoefler]
A wall of fog hits my Jeep. I’m entering Hiawatha National Forest. It was sunny with perfect visibility until now. I’m almost there, just half an hour away.
I should be getting ready to move — packing knick knacks, scrubbing the oven. But I’m headed to Pictured Rocks to numb my grief. Father’s Day is next week. We used to go on road trips in California almost every weekend. I continue the routine with zero planning and little regard for how much I spend. I sit up straight to focus, “The Killing Moon” by Echo & the Bunnymen playing on the radio. The GPS on my phone leads me to Munising Falls. Must be the go-to spot. Crows caw from the side of the road and fly across.
Through the mist I spot a sign for Lakewoods Lodge.* Given the time, I better call to find out if they’re filling up for the night. A nice old lady answers and gives me her marketing spiel about updated rooms and a view of a lake. Rooms are available and cheap for a Saturday, but there’s a minimum stay of two nights. I tell her I’ll only be in the area for one. She says if I change my mind, give her a call.
When I get to Munising, I navigate to the parking lot for the waterfall. My legs and butt are sore from the long drive, and I’m excited to hike. Without wasting time, I grab my backpack and head down the trail. It’s still foggy, and the golden light of the approaching sunset casts a magical glow on the stream and trees. Before I know it, the waterfall appears. A couple turns to look at me before shifting back to taking pictures of the cascading water. I take a few pictures too, then head in a different direction, gaining some elevation, which I like. But the route is short and turns out to be a side view of the waterfall from only slightly higher up. Another couple turns and looks at me.
The woman jumps. “Ope, sorry. Didn’t realize you were behind us. Want me to take your picture?”
I give her a quick smile and shake my head. I march back to the parking lot. It’s getting dark, but my legs want to keep going. I check a big board with a trail map and decide to risk the North Country Trail. I start walking and I’m enjoying it. This trail is meant for me. Light shining through trees, birds chirping. Intoxicating. I’m going fast, but stop briefly to enjoy the smaller waterfalls along the way. I feel like I’m doing well on time. Around a bend, two boys appear, heading back to the main entrance.
The one without a hat looks at me with concern: “Getting dark, be safe!”
I nod and keep walking. Once they’re out of sight, I check the time on my phone. Damn, only ten minutes of daylight left. I open a trail app and my eyes widen. I’m not making good time like I thought. I pick a point of interest — another little waterfall — and decide I have time to get there and then turn around. I walk fast but keep it cool, no need to run. There are lots of turns, and it’s getting harder to see.
The trail app indicates where I am. I walk for a while, check it, shake my head. I keep going, check it again, and get mad at myself. The third time I check, I see I’m almost there. I hear trickling water. I step toward a ledge and look down. There it is. Nothing grand. Beautiful, nonetheless. There’s a short bridge over the chute, and I try to get a decent picture, but my phone’s camera can’t pick it up in the low light.
I shove my phone in my backpack. Should really get a DSLR.
The sky is still pink. I head back toward the parking lot. It gets darker, so I take out my headlamp and slip my knife into my pocket. I realize I don’t have bear spray and wonder whether there are cougars in the area. I frown and quicken my pace. Soon, I find myself in an area filled with cut-leaved toothwort and can’t resist stopping. I aim my headlamp on the white flowers for pictures, and the bubblegum hue in the background adds color, showing up nicely even on my phone.
After a while, I check the app again. Only halfway back. I come to a part of the trail where I’m situated low on a hill. I hear a branch crunch from above and tense.
Do not panic.
After a moment, I press on, rounding a corner before jogging up a steep incline, and then I’m back on even terrain. I’m getting closer. I can feel it.
Only another quarter mile. Scattered sounds from the dark put me on edge. I notice I’m sweating hard now. At last, I see an opening. I recognize the bathrooms. I slow down and allow myself a deep breath.
I made it.
I walk past the parking lot, cross the street, and see Lake Superior, a crescent moon, and Venus. The sky is sapphire and orange. I take a few quick shots, then breathe in the fresh night air.
Back in my Jeep, I search the web for hotels. I call my top pick, and the man who answers says they have no vacancies, but he adds that another hotel had a couple rooms available an hour ago and I should hurry and call them. The price is twice the amount of Lakewoods Lodge and there’s no view of a lake.
I hang up and decide to call Lakewoods Lodge again. I’m driving back into Munising while we chat, and she reminds me of their two-night policy. I tell her I don’t mind. I’ll pay for it, but I probably won’t stay the second night. She wants to know my exact location. I spot a bright restaurant sign and tell her the name. She tells me she’ll come and meet me because GPS doesn’t work well in the area. When I tell her I’ll be fine, she asks me if I’m sure, obviously worried, but I insist I will get there on my own. She gives me directions. I don’t write them down. She says she’ll leave the key in the room for me before she heads home. I feel bad about the time — eleven at night — and thank her.
Hitting construction, I realize I’m not where I need to be and turn around. The GPS works well enough to get me back on track; I recognize a gas station from earlier. I head into Hiawatha National Forest and go slow, keeping my eyes peeled for deer. It’s still foggy and I’m the only one on the road.
Eventually, my phone tells me to turn left, and I see a sign for the lodge. I drive down a narrow dirt road, watching for signs and checking my GPS. It says the lodge is located down Buck Lane, which I recall the woman mentioning. Just one mile to go.
I catch a marker indicating a dirt road on the right and put my phone down. Thinking it may have said the name of the lodge, I turn around. But I can’t read the wooden sign in the dark. I aim my Jeep so the headlights illuminate the lettering. Sure enough, it’s an advertisement for the lodge. I’m not on Buck Lane, though. Trees block my view down the road, but I decide to try it.
As I steer down the path, a small motel appears through the trees. I pull up outside the lobby and turn off the car. Most of the motel windows are dark, but a fire flickers nearby, surrounded by a small group. I grab my overnight bag, lock my Jeep, and look for room #8. I see it to the far right, beyond the fire, with a dim light on inside. I slip past the people near the fire and try the door. It's unlocked.
Inside, I see the key is on the coffee table. The room has a separate living area with a couch and a small TV. There’s a sink, microwave, and a mini fridge.
I go into the bedroom and drop my bag by the stiff-looking bed. The bathroom has a tub, at least. I sit down on the toilet and take my time peeing. It feels good to finally let it out.
Back in the bedroom, I decide to turn on more lights. The dingy brown carpet and old couch do not appear updated. It smells like mold, and I open the patio door. I step outside and see the lake. Looking up at the stars, a firefly swoops down, and darts around me, which makes me smile. My first firefly sighting of the season. I soon spot more, but my enjoyment is cut short by a male voice.
“This place sucks. Goddamnit.”
I don’t see him, but it sounded like he was part of the group in front of the motel. I go back inside and close the patio door, making sure it’s locked. I get ready for bed and place my knife, phone, and metal flashlight on the nightstand. I turn off the bedroom light but keep the one in the living room on. Before tucking in, I double-check the lock on the front door.
In bed, I think about where to go the next day. I decide I want to go on a cruise and grab my phone, signing up for the last available cruise ticket: first thing in the morning. I put down my phone and realize I haven’t eaten anything since morning. I pick up my phone again and search for breakfast places. Not much to choose from. But the highest rated spot for coffee and eggs is also a bookstore. I make a plan to go there before the cruise.
The night wears on and I’m still not asleep. I hear voices. A door opens and closes. I check the time. A little after two. Bar time. With a big eye roll to no one, I try to relax.
I can feel my adrenaline going, but I close my eyes and attempt to sleep anyway.
Moments later, a noise in the living room. My eyes snap open. My ears are alert. I don’t move. I hear the sound again.
It’s just the damn mini fridge.
Time passes. I can feel myself drifting away, almost asleep. Then a tremendous thud
pulls me sharply back into reality. My heart stops. I lay motionless.
“Aaahhh! Aaahhh!”
Holy shit.
I hold my breath and wait. There’s a faint sound outside the living room door. I can’t tell if someone is trying to get in or just moving against the wall. I reach for my knife.
Complete silence. For several seconds, nothing happens. I put the knife back and breathe. My heart is pounding. I try to wrap my head around what just happened. Two short cries. Not high-pitched screams, like an animal. I try to convince myself it was just a bear.
But the screams sounded so human.
I tell myself my ears are not to be trusted and force my eyes shut, willing myself to fall back to sleep.
It was a bear. An animal. Not a person.
Not a woman.
My chest is tight, and my heart will not stop racing. I grab my phone and check the time. A little after four now. I stare at the ceiling, unable to stop imagining the worst.
A baby bear crying for its mother.
A woman strangled by her lover.
A couple attacked by a serial killer.
No.
Back to the baby bear. Poor baby bear.
Light trickles in through the patio blinds, and I blink. My body aches, but I don’t want to miss the sunrise. I roll to the side of the bed and push myself up. Sliding my feet to the floor, I go to the patio door, open it, and step outside.
The air is fresh. The lake mirrors the sky. My tired eyes take in the feast of colors. I hear sandhill cranes. A hawk flies toward me and lands in a nearby tree. I take a deep, grateful breath, embracing the dawn.
*Although this is a work of nonfiction, the actual name of the motel has been changed.
A. M. Albaugh lives in Madison, Wisconsin with her dog, Owl. She is the author of a young adult fantasy series and loves to travel and hike.