Michigan

September, 1997


Michigan just was. We were there to get through it and to visit a place called Ralph. Sorry Michigan...perhaps next time.

We entered at Sault Ste Marie, and hurried through an area as flat and boring as anywhere on the great shield. Then we entered forest, human-made forest, and camped at Trout Lake, in a site edged by a railway line (Wisconsin Central) and patrolled by fierce and hungry mosquitoes. It was very autumnal, and spirit-lowering, enlivened only, in the early evening, of a long frieght train..

The next day we travelled on westwards through gentle, unspectacular countryside, turning off the highway to visit Ralph.

Trundling through never-ending forest, we camped east of Ironwood, and the next morning headed into Wisconsin.

Michigan and the fun of travel

September 14th: The man at the USA border in Sault Ste. Marie asked me why we where travelling. "For the fun of it," I replied. He looked blank, peered into the van and waved us through. Perhaps he doesn't have much fun.

My brother reminded me the other day, via e-mail, that the word "travel" comes from the word for "work". Our kind of travel has certainly plenty of tasks.

There's the nightly ritual of setting up camp; erecting the tent, unpacking the stove, food tubs, propane bottle and water cans. Then we have to dismantle it all again. When it involves the screen tent and a couple of tarpaulins, it could be described as time-consuming I suppose, especially when the wind is blowing and the rain falling.

The van is a constant source of effort. The tedious business of keeping it running healthily. The tendency of the interior to rapidly achieve a state of chaos (we can do this in minutes) and the uncomfortable and exhausting process of restoring order.

The sometimes long periods of driving, usually along the most boring of roads, cannot be said to be thoroughly enjoyable. But if it was all effortless, then it would become bland. It takes some degree of work to etch an experience into the memory, even if it is just making that particular moment possible.


| RALPH MICHIGAN | WESTWARD |

LENORE'S TRAVEL DIARY

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