País Suegra: Peña de Bernal

Mexico is a beautiful country in ways both spectacular and sublime. Up for a walk through a pueblo mágico, one of a constellation of Spanish colonial cities and villages full of ornate architecture, stone streets and plazas, the obligatory tourist schlock, good eating and the equally obligatory good sweets? Care to swim in a natural spring that's the source of a crystal-clear river filled with fish, patches of undulating seaweed and a few cauldrons of "boiling" sands? How about an afternoon whiled away on a nearly abandoned beach with nothing but you, the sand, some lizards and the Pacific (plus a few others who hiked to the spot and set up on opposite corners)?

Yep, dere's yer monolithic formation

Bernal is one such magic village, known mostly for its namesake monolith. Millions of years of volcanic activity have shaped Mexico's landscape in impressive, sometimes terrifying and deadly ways. Hundreds of cinder cones dot some parts, basalt prisms thrust from the ground in others, and so on.

Peña de Bernal, the third-largest formation of its kind, stands as a monument to a long-extinct volcano in which the magma cooled and, over the millennia, the rock around it eroded away. Third-largest might not sound like such an honor, but consider the next two: the Rock of Gibraltar (although of quite different composition) and Sugarloaf Mountain in Rio de Janeiro. If you're a geology nerd with a punch list of interesting formations to visit, this should be on it.

Or maybe you're just a fan of the aesthetics. One could easily admire the thing from afar while strolling through town, or riding in one of the many taxis. The tourist-y feel is inescapable but not unbearable, and the place is known for its bakeries selling pan de queso. Grab one still warm out of the oven and split it with a friend while walking through those aforementioned gorgeous streets.

Taxis of all shapes and sizes.

But this is Weekend Wilderness, not Tourist Things to do in the Fifth-Most Visited Country in the World that Aren't Really Outdoors-y (rolls right off the tongue). Naturally my first desire upon arriving was to hike that thing looming in the sky, or as far as one can without rappelling gear or serious free-climbing skills, anyway. I had been haunted by mountains on the horizon or in the foreground for days, but nowhere seemed like a good place to climb.

This was our chance, so Saraí and I went to the park, supposedly after closing time, to find the ticket booth empty and the turnstiles left open. We were hardly the only ones to take the approach of, "if they're open, the park's open." So we started to climb.

That quickly turned into a slow trudge up a poorly maintained and wildly uneven pathway, one with plenty of trash cans, signs reminding you of the rules and the witticism "If you can climb, how agreeable you'll find the descent" (or something of the sort, which was a lie but more later). Between the thinnish atmosphere and vertical gain, we found ourselves stopping frequently to catch our breath, re-tie our shoes, sip water, etc.

But my wife and I have a shared credo: ser un hombre imprescindible, or, be essential by never giving up on the fight. And our reward for this approach was a series of increasingly beautiful vistas. Between the increasing altitude and declining sun, each view we reached impressed us far more than the last.

Imprescindible is one thing, impractical another. Saraí finally reached a point where climbing wasn't an option, and the sunset was quickly turning into dusk. I made it up to one last vista before we turned around and began our oh-so-agreeable descent.

Wrong.

Remember that poorly maintained, wildly uneven part? When you're fighting to keep gravity from juicing your momentum into an uncontrolled fall, those jagged or slippery rocks become that much more treacherous. But we still relished in the surroundings, including an up-close view of the anatomy of this giant rock. We made it back just as things got really dark, passing a few other late starters on the way. On the walk back toward the town center, we grabbed some pan de queso.

There's no deeper lesson or food for thought on this one. Just a good ol' fashioned travelog, and a bit too verbose at that. But if you seek a deeper meaning, I offer you this.

End of season

"I fish because I love to. Because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness."

So reads a plaque at the carry-in boat launch at the Forks on the Boardman River, AKA Ottaway. I felt that way for years, contenting myself with solo adventures to all manner of forested locales, from sinkholes to cliffs to desolate beaches to islands in the middle of Lake Superior (how have I still not done a post about Isle Royale? Soon).

And for years, it was just me. There were a few times when I had someone to bring along on these trips, and I've written about the joys of hiking with friends before. But I formed my own plans, set my own destination and made my own memories for so long that it seemed like that's how it always would be.

I had plenty of good times, to be sure. In 2012 I started a sort of annual tradition of making a trek to the Upper Peninsula, and went to a lot of cool places (although there are many more I still want to see, chiefly Porcupine Mountains). I found contentment by myself on these solo trips and for the most part, I wasn't lonely. But there were times when I wished I had someone with whom to share the experience.

Now I do, and an interesting thing happened when I went out to try to catch some trout on the last day of the season in 2021. It finally occurred to me that maybe the chapter in my life where I set my own path, go my own way and act alone is over.

My visit to the Forks was the first in four years, probably since my camping trip there where the group at a neighboring site befriended me. Normally late-night partiers at campgrounds cause lots of agony but that night I joined the party, and we all jammed around the campfire until the wee hours that random summer evening.

It's hard to recall the exact feeling when I returned, being over a year and a month ago. And what a year (and a month) it's been. But this does come to mind: after scanning satellite photos, topo maps and even property line charts, I found the spot I was looking for. An isolated road crossing in the woods, near which ran the North Country Trail (which has a habit of winding through many beautiful places around here).

The Boardman/Ottaway runs roughly from the northeast to southwest in that part, snaking and twisting as it does. And the North Country Trail takes hikers more or less along the northerly river bank. So I followed it toward the southwest for a bit, spying a large campsite on the other side of the river. Judging by the looks of it, this was their home base and not just fun times in the forest.

It was an absolutely glorious day to be in the woods, that I recall well. I didn't catch much, but I didn't care. It felt so good to be there alongside the river in such a wild if relatively well-explored place.

I had a thought then that I've had many times since then when I'm alone in the woods. The feeling that I'm glad to be out, sure, and it feels good to be on the trail again, but I wish I had my partner there with me. When you marry, you agree to share your life with your spouse. Obviously it doesn't mean we do everything together, and there are times when she's perfectly content to stay home while I head out for some forest therapy.

But at others, I find myself hiking on the trail and missing her, wishing we could be sharing the experience together. Including yesterday.

Not that it could've been helped. She was working and I was home sick. Bored of sitting around, I headed out for a hike in a place where I've been before: Cedar Run Natural Area. It's a sprawling, oddly shaped preserve that contains long stretches of its namesake creek, an old railroad grade and a cabin. I once thought I should keep that last part a secret but it's been vandalized almost beyond usability, so the point seems moot now.

I wanted so badly to show her the beauty of Cedar Run gurgling through the woods, to ask her what she imagined as she thought back to the days when train tracks ran down that straight, narrow grade, to get her thoughts on the tragedy of the vandalism.

And to see if she shared in my hope that some people aren't so bad after all.

Yes, some humans organize others to do good things, and they build lasting improvements for public places together.

These thoughts show me that I don't have to be alone in the woods anymore, that it's fine if I am and make that choice. But there is a choice, and now I can choose to share these experiences I've taken in alone all these years.

So thank you, Saraí, for being my partner, and agreeing to share these moments and so many more.

Flashback: Lake Superior Provincial Park

The rain that night and early morning fell so hard and so persistently that it would've shrouded whatever scant visibility was left in the darkness. I was in a tent with a critical design flaw: a rainfly that's just too short to stop spattering rain from rebounding and hitting the non-waterproof fabric it's supposed to protect.

But I'm jumping to the middle of the story, as is a mediocre writerly tic of mine. It's worth pointing out that it's been a minute since I wrote last and a lot has happened since then.

The view on the way downhill

For one, as of July 27, I have a permanent hiking partner (a.k.a. wife). For another, we've completed and submitted a five-pound slab of paperwork and documentation required for a bureaucratic process so boringly named that your eyes might glaze over before you finish reading it, yet so nerve-wracking that we've been muddling through what's ranged from a walking panic attack to a sort of serene limbo.

And then the whole pandemic thing has been... well, I have a metric shit-ton of things to say about that, mainly about how dealing with it, even from a fairly cushy spot (still employed, etc), has worn me down in many ways and made the cynicism already tainting my mind even more toxic. But writing this post has proven to be hard enough without trying to swallow that herd of elephants.

So let's get on with it.

Lake Superior Provincial Park crossed my mind after some aimless Google Maps searching placed it there in the first place, although when I couldn't say. In fact, a lot of the finer details of this trip have faded after a time of emotional turmoil that predated even all this mask-brawl horseshit.

Get on with it.

After doing a little research, I thought I would head up there to hike the trails and planned an ambitious trip that didn't go quite as I imagined.

For one thing, I got a late start on the drive (another bad habit). So I actually got to Canada at Sault Ste. Marie around the time I had hoped to be pretty much there. Several hours to the north. That ruled out starting my trek that day, so instead I camped at Pancake Bay Provincial Park. 

Great place with a beautiful beach on the often-frigid Lake Superior. Avoid my rookie mistake: fill up with gas BEFORE you cross the border, and don't be shocked when you see the price to camp at an Ontario provincial park.

Do take the time to enjoy the area, and see some side hikes and trips like Agawa Bay. Especially since you'll have a chance to stop and see the antique cliff painting there of the mishiibizhiw, the underwater panther.

(Someone had made a few edits to the plaques there to remind visitors that the descendants of the Anishinaabek who made these paintings a few centuries ago are still around. I would find out just how hard it was for them to persevere when I reached Wawa and found out about Michipicoten... more later.)

Never take a hike for granite.

After getting my backcountry permit — the most I've ever paid for the privilege of staying at a hike-in spot with zero amenities aside from a wooden box in which to shit — I finally hiked into Baldhead Point. The entire shoreline is serrated with mountains and cliffs, and this one's been worn down over time to resemble some Cretaceous Era life sunning itself.

The campsite was nice enough, and despite being right on top of the trail, it was more or less private. Once you're there, you have a nice stretch of cobble beach more or less to yourself.

I just caught this in time after spending
a short eternity hanging my food pack from a tree.

But I didn't pay close enough attention to my tent site, another basic mistake that would have me up at 4:30 a.m. hastily finding a new one. It started to pour after midnight. I was surrounded by tree roots that formed a bowl that flooded and soaked all my gear under the tent vestibule. This came to my attention when I started to feel a peculiar chill and patted the floor next to my sleeping pad. The unsettled-jello sensation proved my hopes of sleeping through the storm were basically fucked.

The rain tapered off in the morning just enough to trick me into optimism. I set the rainfly up on the beach to dry and made my breakfast as I weighed my options: carry on? Give in? Cough up another $45 to camp somewhere else in the park?

Then the rain started again.

"Fuck it," I said. "My tent and pack's already soaked. I'm getting a room."

So I threw on my dollar store rain poncho, packed up everything and headed back to the car. Which, of course, was a harder hike than the way in, being entirely uphill.

The park is filled with waterfalls.

After getting to Wawa, I made the obligatory visit to the roadside attraction, a giant goose literally built as a desperation play to lure people off the just-completed Trans-Canada highway and into town. I later saw a guy engaged in what was once a national pastime for teens to twenty-somethings once the highway was completed: drop everything and hitchhike across the whole country.

"Wouldn't you like to come to Halifax Wawa?"

Probably the most interesting thing about the tourism bureau, aside from the book exchange where I found a novelization of Encino Man, was a massive boulder filled with gold flecks.

The rocks in the area still have a little bit of mineral wealth to give, although the iron ore once shipped down to Algoma Steel played out long ago. Wawa has charm despite the toll a dwindling rural economy has taken on the place, and some are trying to work the land in another way. One approach I saw was to take some bare land, plant it over with low bush blueberries and make some fantastic (and not cheap) blueberry products.

I also made a stop in Michipicoten and took a swim at a park in the reservation. The road there is a nonlinear trip through a history that's at once unique in the particulars, yet shamefully common in its overall arc for an Indigenous community: forced relocation after gold was found, loss of reserve lands as the result of another mineral rush (this one iron) and isolation before a government "fix" placed its people on unlivable land.

It might seem ironic that another wave of natural resource exploitation, this time hydroelectricity, finally got the Michipicoten First Nation a deal for a road to the present location. 

Missed my chance to stop at Black Thunder Enterprises on the way there, and once again I got a late start home from Michipicoten. To the Lower Peninsula of Michigan. Still made it in time to catch some Canadian "craft brew" at the duty-free shop!

Where do we go from here? I have a few answers, guesstimates and wild premonitions for myself, but the forces eating away the bonds of our civil society seem to have become more powerful as of late. It could just be the dysthymia talking. Yes. Your emotions make you a monster, said someone once. Now the beast has a name, and now we make it beautiful, to paraphrase another.

In some aspects the hope has been driven out of me. In others I find it regenerating, thanks in part to my teammates and beloved. But some days I feel like my poor potted plant. The big leaves are dying and any chance of survival depends on the little ones that sprout at a furious rate but also struggle to hang on.

All I can do is try. And keep watering it. The plant, that is. That helps.

I'm on a (Platte) plain

One of the finest beaches in the hemisphere

At last, I'm writing about the sixth out of six hikes in six days that I took back in 2018, all at new-to-me places. It was an interesting time for me and I can't believe how much has happened since then. That includes some excellent trips yet to be detailed here... soon!

Bass Lake

Platte Plains Trail is a 14-mile loop within Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, one of many in the sprawling and beautiful park. Looking back, it's hard to believe that I had never hiked it before that day, as I've been swimming at the northern trailhead many, many times.

That trail head is Esch Road Beach, a road end beach that's one of the finest in the Midwest. It's also the site of a ghost town called Aral, one of myriad boom-and-bust towns that followed the fate of the lumber industry, and one with quite a history.

The path winds through fairly flat land just to the east of some low dunes along Lake Michigan. It takes you through planted pines, natural forests and meadows. At one point it runs close enough to the dunes to tempt you to make a little side trip to see what's on top.

It's a decent view, especially in the fall.

Generally, bushwhacking up the side of a dune is a bad idea. They're notoriously unsettled ground and just a few people going off-trail can cause serious erosion. That said, I was hardly the first hiker to take this side-trip, so I forged ahead.

It's not hard to find spots like this, where you think, "Oh, it's just a short side trip to the lake," and it turns into an ordeal through what could be a setting for a post-apocalyptic short film. I've found deer bones strewn among dried juniper bushes and trails that split infinite ways but never take you where you want to go. This time I got lucky.

Lake ahead

I hiked along Lake Michigan until I got to White Pine Backcountry Campground. It's tiny and spartan, just as the name would suggest, so if you go there, bring a water filter. There were a few hardy people braving the chill to spend a quiet night in the woods during the far shoulder season. Fall camping is marginal at best for me, but with the right company it's worth the trouble.

At the south end is another trail head, right between Otter and Bass lakes. It's a proper little park with bathrooms and picnic tables, and access to another trail that'll bring you back to Esch Road. Along this trail was a cabin that had a sign in the window expressing the owner's frustration with burglaries. It informed anyone thinking of trying it again that anything of value had already been stolen...

There are lots of possibilities with this relatively compact little trail loop. It's a great place for a weekend backpacking trip, or just somewhere to hike on a summer morning, plop down in an isolated patch of beach and spend the day. I have plans to use it to teach backpacking newbies the sport. Or maybe you just want to go and walk.

The plastic rat on the picnic table is your friend!

Check back later to find out what I've been up to lately. Highlights include a trip to North Manitou Island, Mexico City and a look back at another urban trek in San Francisco.

Welcome to the farmhouse

The flowing waters of time change everything, much like a river over generations can turn mountains into valleys and sculpt plains into canyons.

But that´s enough waxing poetical for now. DeYoung Natural Area shows how time can turn a farming homestead into a hiking spot. Gone are the crops and livestock and family. Now, you can skulk by the empty home and peer through the windows like a ghost. Marvel also at the ingenuity behind tapping the creek for its power to turn a generator to electrify this homestead.

Our house is a very, very, very fine house...

DeYoung is a Leelanau Conservancy property just northeast of Traverse City, split by Cherry Bend Road and TART's Leelanau Trail. On one side is a bit of shoreline on Cedar Lake, and a deck to go out and enjoy this pretty water body.

Cedar Lake. Come sit for a spell.

On the other is the farmhouse, the former DeYoung workshop and dozens of acres of land criss-crossed by trails. It's a short but satisfying hike, especially in the fall when the drying plants give the air a spicy smell and the changing leaves make for a beautiful sight.

Hilltop view

Overall, DeYoung offers a nice little escape from the city, and it's close enough for an afternoon of hiking followed by an evening of fun on the town. The terrain isn't challenging and there's an interesting variety of scenery.

This is another in my "six hikes in six days" series. Stay tuned for my entry on Platte Plains.

Then and now (f.k.a. Endless Beaches)

The water levels in Lake Michigan/Huron (technically one lake because of their miles-wide connection at the Straits of Mackinac... I know, I know, my nerd is showing) are heading to ridiculous levels. So much so that favorite sunning and campfire spots are now underwater.

My hope was that Green Point Dunes still had one of the few beaches beyond reach of this recurring phenomenon not seen since the year of my birth. Recall that we're six years out from record lows. This is how it looked when I went in November.

Keep walking, and you'll (eventually) reach Elberta.

Aaand this is how it looked when I went in June.

This used to be one of those beaches where you could walk a seemingly endless stretch of sand. Now you'd better get there on a day when Lake Michigan isn't numbingly cold, because you're either walking on an eroding bluff or wading in the drink.

But don't let that detract from Green Point Dunes. It's another Grand Traverse Regional Land Conservancy property just a stone's throw from the nonprofit's crown jewel, Arcadia Dunes (or as I like to think of them, Sleeping Bear South).

Park at a simple lot with signage just off M-22 and walk through a forest crossed at one point by a private drive to a spit of private land surrounded by the nature preserve. I went on a late fall day when the sun didn't do the natural splendors many favors, and my subsequent trip showed me the true beauty.

From here you can see Arcadia Dunes

The trail is short but, unsurprisingly, requires some climbs. There's a nice descent to some stairs to the beach, complete with a shipwreck that's usually covered by sand but occasionally exposed. This is used to be one of those places where one could take an hours-long walk in either direction and never reach an obstacle.

Such beaches had an undeniable allure to me when I was fresh out of college. They're perfect for the directionally challenged, as you'll never get lost unless you can't find the trail back to your starting point (a simple rock arrow can eliminate this very real possibility). 

And thanks to a landmark, tested-and-still-standing but lingeringly controversial state supreme court ruling, the public can tromp on by to their heart's content. I wonder, though, what the two beachfront owners whom I unwittingly interrupted in their not-so-clandestine clinch one dark night many years ago think of the ruling... presumably not amused?

I was accused once of thinking of no one but myself on such jaunts. Fair enough: I'll cop to some self-absorption, and in my early 20's I probably was a bit more narcissistic than is typical of people in that age group.

But Mark Twain once quipped about one of his characters who, left to their own thoughts, exhausted the subject of themselves and turned inevitably to others. That's always been my experience with extended hikes. They lead me to thinking about the world outside my head, but if I'm stuck in a rut they can just as easily send me around the same circles, over and over and over again. Stewing, ruminating — whatever you call it, it's actually rather bad for you.

Sitting and thinking is one thing. Thinking while doing something else is another experience altogether. There are volumes of blogs, articles, books etc. etc. about walking as meditation, therapy through nature, forest bathing, and so on. Most times the act of getting out in the forest and walking can get me out of a rut. Others, I've needed help beyond my usual routines (thank god for counseling and my very patient family and friends, in no particular order).

But back to the hike.

We're so spoiled for dune climbs around here that it's easy to lose perspective and forget how incredible a place like Green Point Dunes truly is. Were it the only place of its kind for miles, it'd be a popular spot, maybe even loved to death. Thankfully there are other, more heavily promoted spots that leave this one a fairly quiet haven on a fall day for a solo walk.

You could backpack in an afternoon's worth of beach gear, snacks and beverages and enjoy a sunny summer day with few others around. Or bring a friend and talk about everything and anything while you tromp through the woods, then splash in the lake. Stop for burritos sorry they're gone pancakes in Elberta and beer in Frankfort.

When hiking with friends

Despite what you may see in the average Tinder profile, it's surprisingly hard to find a good hiking buddy sometimes. But then again, maybe it's just hard in general to find friends when you're in your 30s.

Thanks to my new friend for the snap.

Hardly impossible, though. In the past six months I've gone from largely solo hikes to having a few friends who are willing to lace up some good shoes then explore some spectacularly sun-drenched dunes, hoof it up a hundred stairs to the top of a rock, see the New Year's Day world all covered in snow, snowshoe on a favorite in-town path or trek across a snow-blanketed wooded dune (including an off-trail slide to avoid an impossibly snowy staircase).

The view from the latter trek at Leelanau State Park.

Now, I've got nothing against hiking alone. In fact, there's quite a bit to recommend it. You get to set your own destination, route and pace, and never do you have to wait around for others to deal with mid-hike issues.

Plus, hiking has always been very meditative for me. I've thought through some things in my past and present that left me stumped or going in circles before. The time to think has helped me realize that I've let go of past grudges and guilt, or at least made major strides.

But it's a different experience with someone by your side. You have someone to talk to, someone to see the splendor that you usually have to store away in your own head, and just someone to share the experience with in general. It's also harder to remember to stop and take pictures for your blog... but not every picture of you has to be a goddamned selfie.

Harder, but not impossible.

It's tempting to close with some pithy but well-worn truth like, "Life is all about balance," or, "The right company can make anything better." I'll let you draw your own conclusions.

(Then again, hiking can just be fun. No need to over-sentimentalize or ascribe deeper meaning where little to none is to be found. Like this no-big-freakin-deal, for example.)