Midwest Wild Gravel

 

Adventure is synonymous with the West in my mind.  West is where it happens.  West is where you go to find it and experience it.  Not the Midwest, but West where the sun sets.

Covid-19 changed a lot of things for a lot of people.  Many adventures found themselves altered or cancelled.  On a positive note, being the father of two young kids and losing childcare to Covid for the summer has allowed us to really explore our local surroundings.  Often by bike, we pushed the boundaries of our neighborhood mental map and found every playground and hidden trail within an ever expanding radius.  The young inklings of wanderlust pushing little legs into comfortable but unseen territory.  

Our family’s big trip West morphed into a smaller trip northeast of home… the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  “Meh” I initially thought… not much adventure up there.  It’ll do.  Car camping.  Beaches.  It’ll be great for the family. 

Gears whirring… ideas morphing… disconnected puzzle pieces roughly fitting together...goes the brain.  

“You should bike home” it says.  I had been watching people tackle the Crusher EX through Facebook.  I had originally planned on scouting for a week on the Bikepacking Root’s new Northwoods Route.  I had resigned myself to neighborhood ramblings.  I am thoroughly bored with biking the same local roads and trails. 

New plan.  

From Au Train Michigan I would help my family pack up our campsite and watch them leave me behind.  Then, I would bike as quickly as possible home.  With as much adventure as possible along the way.  The biggest limitation was time.  Without childcare, I had to be home before the workday started on Tuesday, which gave me a maximum window of 67 hours: Saturday noon to 7am Tuesday.  

Using Google satellite imagery, Strava, Ride With GPS, and .gpx files of the Crusher and the Northwoods route I strung together a route that seemed doable.  Mostly gravel- well over 75%.  At 480ish miles, the question was, could I get it done in less than 3 days?  

Hugs delivered between filling water bottles. Doors closing and gravel crunching as the truck pulls away, filled to the brim with all the things a family needs for a week of camping.  After a week of fatherly Tetris packing and unpacking of all the stuff, I was ready to travel light and simple.  No sleeping bag, just a bivy and pad.  No stove, just simple food.  No filter, just a handkerchief and iodine 

 pills.  Keep it simple and just keep moving.

We rolled out from the Au Train Beach Campground at around 10:30 Eastern Time.  We being Kurt and I. Kurt’s family had joined our family and a few others for the camping UP trip and upon hearing about this adventure home wholeheartedly joined.  Kurt is an ultrarunner who thinks running 100 miles is easier than biking 100 miles, so my only concern was that he would be ok going as slow as me.  We would ride together to Ironwood, then split ways to our respective homes.  

After 1.5 miles of pavement, the adventure began.  Offroading, 4-wheeling, OHVing… whatever people call it, is pretty darn big up here.  Which means a lot of gravel roads are in rough shape.  Kurt was riding a Surly Long Haul Trucker with some 42mm gravel tires, which were having a rough go in the sand relative to my 2.25" Mezcals.  We stopped to drop the air pressure and found that the exhaust from his car had melted the stem cap onto the stem!  Luckily that was all that was melted.

Rolling into Marquette, past the MTB mecca of Marquette Mountain, we stopped at a Subway (Mile 40) to grab a sandwich for now and pack one for later.  Leaving the city, we started our trek around the south side of the Dead River Storage Basin, which presented us with our first taste of mapping inaccuracies.  Private Roads show up the same as all other roads.  But, the words “We are lost, can you provide us with some help” are pretty disarming.  After a confusing exchange of UP niceties and directions involving the phrase “turn right at the totems” we continued on our way with a sandy, forested detour and no totems.

The further west we headed, the narrower and rougher the roads became and the fewer the cars.  We climbed slowly through endless forests as the sun lowered and turned everything gold.  At mile 64, the GPS had us turning left, but there was no road.  Comparing Google satellite imagery on Kurt’s phone, downloaded RidewithGPS maps, and the gps, we identified a  tiny road a bit further up that looked like it might lead the right way and went for it.  It did!  Elated with our route finding success we kept climbing along ever narrowing roads that turned to 2-tracks that turned to overgrown 2-tracks and then stopped at a bog.  

The map said go straight, but the land said no.  We spent a good 20 minutes rolling back and forth along a short stretch, trying to decipher what our maps stated versus what reality presented.  Roads that should exist didn’t.  Roads in front of us didn’t exist on the maps.  Studying the landscape, we decided to explore one of the roads that didn’t exist on the map but seemed too well traveled to be leading nowhere.  Monitoring our progress, we eventually found ourselves back on Grapevine Road, our intended path.  We repeated this process quite a bit for the next while, coining the term “grapevine” for these existent non-existent roads. We happily emerged at Wolf Lake to fill water bottles with only a few extra miles added to the route.

We climbed as the sky darkened, enjoying the crunch of gravel, kept awake by the necessity of finding the good line in the ever changing track, passing logged clearings, dumpy abandoned homes, rusting heavy machinery, and endless expanses of wilds… the land of the Crusher Ex.  Hitting our high point at mile 98 near Mt. Arvon, we clicked lights on as we began a sweet 22 mile descent into L’Anse, arriving at the Holiday with just enough time to restock before the doors locked at midnight, gas station coffee warming our chilled bodies.  We ate, stretched, and outfitted ourselves with blinky lights, knowing that we might surprise a few drivers on the next 30 miles of pavement.

2 am is a pretty great time to roll down Michigan 38.  With a small shoulder and no alternatives to quickly get to Mass City, I can’t imagine this being an enjoyable road to travel in the daylight hours.  But in the dark with starry skies, and a thunderstorm far to the west providing momentary, silent flashes of lightning, the miles quickly ticked by as we shared stories and musings.  My rear brake started developing an odd squeak, but nothing worrisome.

Mass City to Rockland was tedious.  Washed out steep descents, sand trap flats, and hike-a-bike ascents… this short section took forever.  Followed by steep, rough climbs as we headed through the Ottawa National Forest, the gravel thankfully improving as we headed West, paralleling the Ontonagon River, eventually crossing a tributary as the skies brightened behind us and sun beams finally warmed our backs.  

 

My rear brake developed a bird-like squeak-chirp that was getting increasingly annoying.  At mile 179, rolling West onto Hwy 28, we relished the quiet efficiency of the pavement and the thought of restful pedaling, happily knowing we had made it through the mentally challenging early hours of the morning.  In Bergland we sat in the sunny gas station parking lot, stuffing our faces with food and drink. 

With a slight headwind, we crept along Hwy 28 the last 30 miles to Ironwood.  While I’m not sure about Kurt, I was ready to get out of civilization, traffic, and pavement by the time we found a gas station to fuel up at.  Mentally, Ironwood marked the end of our first leg.  With 212 miles and 24 hours of pedaling behind us, this is where we split up.  Kurt would continue straight West to Duluth, and I would continue on the Northwoods route to the Southwest.  Repeating our gas station habits, we stuffed our faces, although this time with more intention.  From Ironwood it would be 98 miles before my next fuel stop.  Down the tubes went a personal pizza, burrito, and 2 yogurts and a liter of Powerade.  Packed onto the bike were two sub sandwiches, a slice of carrot cake, and two more Powerades distributed into my three water bottles.  Kurt hilariously called every possible place in Ironwood that might be selling hot pasties, only to be rejected time and time again on this quiet Sunday morning… finally convincing the employees to toast a personal pizza for him.  Hugs and well wishes sent us on our separate ways.  Me… through the Chequamegon National Forest and 98 miles to Cable.  Kurt… I’m pretty sure he was going Pasty Hunting.

Immediately the squeaking of my rear brake became too much.  The thought of being haunted by this squeaking for the next 280 miles home forced me to stop and address it.  Stopping on a grassy spot in town, I flipped the bike over, busted out the tools and got to work.  The rear pads were pretty worn, so I worked on installing the replacements.  They were the wrong ones.  So I tried putting in one new pad… nope.  So I put in the old pads and spun the calipers out fully.  Still squeaking.  Nothing worked, but I did give myself a nice bloody knuckle.  The only viable solution that came to mind was to tape out the pads and roll home with no rear brakes.  Done.  Keep rolling… carefully.

The miles clicked by quickly as I entered forests and rough roads just outside of Ironwood.  The deer flies were following me now, a solid cloud of annoyance, and one camouflaged itself on the black back of my glove, earning itself a solid bite before I swatted it away.  Those suckers hurt!  Logging roads, sandy pits, ATV playgrounds, muddy holes, old buried timbers in soft sections of road kept my mind busy and legs spinning.  But that bite on my hand really hurt and was starting to throb!  

Hours and dozens of miles passed by with nothing but the sound of crunching gravel and maybe one vehicle per hour.  Rolling hills, long flats, winding streams and rivers guiding the path forward through a landscape more wild than I imagined could exist in the Midwest.  While I had expected this to exist in the UP, I hadn’t thought it would be in Wisconsin.  Filled water bottles from a boggy stream, green floaties clouding the water.

Sub sandwich dinner on top of a hill shaded by trees, with a slight breeze keeping away mosquitoes.  Filtered the boggy water through a handkerchief.  My body was tired, and the thought of rolling out the sleeping pad for a few hours to rest sounded amazing, but I set it as my goal to not stop until Cable.  Using the timer on my watch I started biking for an hour, then stretched off the bike for 5 minutes, and repeated.  My left hand, with the deer fly bite, was starting to swell, to the point of uncomfortableness.  It helped to hold my hand above my head while biking, but my left hand was also the only way to control braking.  Yawning.  Caffeine tablet.  Toes starting to develop hot spots.  Wrapped them in tape.  Running out of water.  Crossed a river whose only access was swarming with bugs, but some kind fishermen gifted me some clean drinking water of their own.

Golden light, temperatures starting to cool.  Bug spray keeping the mosquitoes at bay.  The landscape is getting hillier and steeper.  My hand is continuing to swell and every time I squeeze the brakes it feels tight like a water balloon.  On the GPS Cable looks so close, but the track winds like an old river.  Dusk and my track leads me onto singletrack.  This is ridiculous I think, angry with whoever made this route… then remembering that it was me who did.  

Worry starts setting in, as my legs don’t have a lot of power left, my hand is angry, my loaded fully-rigid Fargo isn’t greatly enjoying this old school, rooty singletrack and my front braking keeps threatening to toss me over the handlebars.  I emerge back onto logging roads just in time to turn on the headlight, the second sunset since last sleeping.  The logging roads near Cable are well known to bikers and skiers; steep, rolling, and endless.  The miles continue.  I find myself on an ATV trail, too weak to power up the boulder strewn uphills.  Moving forward on foot.  Finally rolling back on pavement through Cable, but it is almost 10 pm on a Sunday night and everything is closed.  I search out the city park and find a spot to stop.

I eat the remaining sub sandwich and drink.  Unroll my bivy and pad.  Taking off my chamois shorts and putting on wool boxers is glorious.  The night is cool and humid and I stick to the bivy fabric.  My ears hear the natural world alive with nocturnal movements, but it isn’t long before exhaustion wins and sleep comes.

4 hours.  It is 2 am when my watch wakes me and I find myself staring at two, bright red dots in the darkness.  I’m totally out of it and am startled, yelling out loud in surprise.  I loudly scramble for my headlamp in the bivy, flash it on and am relieved to see that it is an outlet in the park pavilion that is glowing with electricity, not some sort of venomous vampire animal as imagined.

It is cold.  Lubing up the nether-regions and sliding back into the cycle shorts, then layering with the long sleeve wooly and down jacket while eating an energy bar, I roll out of Cable towards Minong, 32 miles to the West.  Pavement turns to gravel.  The moon rises as a tiny sliver and the clear night sky is amazing with its Milky Way painting.  Into heavily logged areas, with roads loose from trucks.  Crossing a river, I find my path blocked.  By a skunk.  Startled, it begins to run away from me down the middle of the road- the same way I need to go.  I follow it, right into a cloud of aerosol skunk stink.  It burns my nostrils.  It keeps running down the middle of the road, tail up, leaving behind a trail of disgusting fumes.  It won’t leave the road!  I yell, sing, sweet talk to it, and it just raises its tail and sprays me.  I throw a rock to try to startle it off the road.  Nope, just sprays again and keeps running.  This goes on for a good half mile.  Its not funny anymore.  I drop back a little, shift, and sprint.  Hugging the left side of the road I blast by the skunk as fast as I can possibly go.  The skunk confidently keeps running right down the middle of the road.  Thanks Nature.

The sun begins to brighten behind me as I roll into Minong at 5:30 am Monday morning.  The only thing open is the tiny gas station, my first resupply in 140 miles.  Odd looks from men in pickup trucks as I sit in front of the store on the ground in the dawn light.  The friendly “where you coming from?” question brings looks of confusion when I answer with Munising.  

Refuelled, I continue west to 30 miles Danbury.  Not many roads travel continuously East to West here.  With a small population, only the state highways have earned the effort required to regrade and straighten travel.  The route I’ve planned keeps me off Hwy 77, weaving north and south to connect western headed stretches.  These roads exist at the mercy of the landscape, following valleys, connecting ridges, climbing up and down at the grade that nature provided.  This landscape reminds me of Idaho and Montana on last summer’s Wild West route.  

I’m finding this stretch to be exhausting.  The gravel is slow.  The hills are steep.  But, it is a quiet Monday morning with blue skies.  There is no rush hour.  I see only a few cars for the next 20 miles.  I finally cave in to the mental fatigue and put in one earbud, letting the rhythm drive my legs.  I climb a high ridge and pop out onto a large sand plain of red pines.  The gravel stretches straight into the distance, the skies are clear, sun behind, a slight wind pushes me forward.

I put in the other earbud, not worried about traffic here, and crawled forward.  The wind picks up, coming out of the northwest.  The haul to Danbury stretches forever, ending at the crossroads of the casino, gas station, and grocery store.  Fuel.  Breakfast burrito and potato chips, plus a sub to pack.  

Mentally, Danbury marks the beginning of the end.  From here the route is simple: follow the Gandy Dancer south for 50 miles, descend and ascend the St. Croix river valley, and work west to Anoka.  Mentally, the Gandy is going to kill me.  Straight, with only slight changes in grade, the rail-trail gravel is numbingly long.  I turn up the music and turn south.  

I feel so tired.  The gravel, even though in great shape, combined with the grade allows for no rest- just continuous pedaling.  My right achilles is throbbing now.  As I pedal I notice that I point my toes downward slightly.  If I focus on keeping my foot flat, the pain is less.  I will have to research this.  My knees are starting to hurt, too, just underneath the kneecap.  The stretch to Fredericksburg, about halfway through the Gandy, just about does me in.  Finding a shaded cement slab and a picnic table I lay down with my feet up, set my watch alarm for 5 minutes, and pass out.

The alarm does its job.  Popping some electrolyte tablets, Ibuprofen, and a caffeine pill I leave my helmet off and strapped to my seat bag.  My hair reminds me of an old broom that has been left outside for 3 years, but it is refreshing to feel air on my head.  Something has changed now as I roll out of Fredericksburg.  I’m not sure if its the wind pushing me, or the music that I turned up a bit louder, or the grade being friendly, or the 5 minute power nap… but I find a second (or 11th?) wind and fly the rest of the way to Taylor’s Falls.  I can tell that I’m going a bit loopy now- singing out loud, talking to trees, talking to myself, cursing at my hand… out loud.  I am enjoying this again!  I find it absolutely hilarious that dozens of gnats are cemented to my body thanks to my thick sunscreen (made thicker by the salt and dirt).  I pop my helmet back on and rock the final descent to the St. Croix River, praying that I don’t need to stop quickly for any unseen danger, as my front brakes aren’t going to do it.  

A short rest, sub sandwich chow down, and water fill at the State Park and I’m off, spinning up out of the steep valley and through farmland.  Pavement now takes me West, the easy rolling distracts me from the headwind as I tuck down and jam out to music.  Lindstrom to Stacy, down to Wyoming, then finally into the calm and quiet Carlos Avery Wildlife Refuge.  This hidden gem is my favorite way to get across the northeast suburbs.  Sandy at times, but quietly and peacefully cutting through beautiful wetlands and oak stands, it's truly a refuge from the zooming cars that must be endured in the city.

 

Hopping onto the Crosstown, the wind seems to switch to out of the North, providing just enough of a push to mentally juice my legs.  Through Ham Lake, Andover, and finally to County 7, turning south along the Rum River.  Being so near to home brings a high of sorts.  My legs don’t seem tired.  There is pain, but I can’t help smiling as I roll through the streets and trails of home.  Across the Mississippi from Anoka to Champlin, into Elm Creek, past the singletrack of Grizland teeming with mountain bikers on load-free bikes… I have no envy of them at that moment.  A half mile to home, my family meets me on the road, having watched my blue dot creep closer and closer.  Absolute and peer joy.  

492 miles in 56 hours.

 

Maybe adventure is closer than I thought.

 

 

 

Recovery:

I slept 12 hours.  My knees have stopped hurting.  My left hand is still a bit swollen and itchy, and now has a permanent tingle that permeates through all the fingers. The tingling is mainly in my fingers, and a slight tingle shows up randomly in my right hand, which makes me wonder if the tingling is separate from the fly bite.  My rear has recovered really well, though to be honest the thought of sitting on a bike seat is revolting right now.  Legs, triceps, and abs hurt to the touch. I’m eating a lot, although my stomach is easily upset.  All in all, I’m pretty stoked with the state of my body given all that it has been through!

Gear:  

The pictures below show everything at the end of the trip.  First, all the bags packed.  Then, close ups of each bag with it's contents spread out.  Taken at the end, there is a lot of food stuff not shown.  Also not shown are the items kept in my jersey pockets (sunscreen, blinky light) and attached to the bike (blinky, Garmin inReach).