TSB rolls into Manitowoc, WI

First things first, I apologize for the lack of pictures. I've taken plenty, but have not found a library that offers the availability to upload them. They will come.

After leaving Algoma (which, if you're in the area, you ought to pass a day there), I headed south on 42. Semis barreled toward me, pushing their warm after-drafts against my body, forcing me to purse my lips and throw a shoulder into it. A mile or so down, the trail led to more country roads. They reminded me of the Farm, where I grew up. Barns nestled behind rows of evergreens with dogs and kids chasing each other in the open yard. Laundry on the line, waving like a rural flag. The ditch grasses stood to my knees and moved all as one organism, the way Brewers fans do the rally wave, only with less beer. When the wind gusts, the grasshoppers hop and get swept to middle of the road, then again to the other side of the road. "It's alright," I think. "No cars come down here, save the occasional Lincoln Towncar or Buick LeSabre." Then I see a squashed grasshopper. Even the old fogies do some damage, I guess.
It took little time to understand the "connecting routes" of the IAT. They're hot, they typically lack shade, and they're tough. The sun beats sharply on my vulnerable head. I consider the option of wrapping my bandanna around my neck, like I did on the Appalachian Trail, but it just seems too hot. From time to time, I dip into a cornfield for a moment of respite, or stand in the slender shadow of a telephone pole. Cars slow down when they pass me, eager to see the face of this rural vagrant. They look out the corner of their eye, then speed along, as if they never noticed me. I have a lot of time to think about this stuff. Trust me. I know it's strange, but you can ask all the questions you want. With about fifteen miles of road walking behind me, I am worn down, inching down Lakeshore Road with a bowed gait, recalculating every two minutes the distance to Father Marquette Memorial Park, where I intend to stealth camp. I put my thumb out for each car that passes, knowing that anyone who picks me up will take me the 1.5 miles to the park. One car passes, two cars, then a cop car (driven by a laughing and pointing cop), and finally a 75-year-old man named Dave (in a Lincoln). It took us at least ten minutes to get to the park, which gave me ample time to chat with him. He didn't quite understand the idea of the Trail, but he said he had a lot of respect for anyone who would consider doing it. He was a good man.
In the park, I napped for a spell while the neighbor gardened around her mansion with a little punt-me dog charging circles around her heals. She kept looking over at me. It was the first time I felt like a bum. My campsite was in the only spot signs forbade entering. Right on a small peninsula that reached into Lake Michigan. The waves lapped against the boulders next to me, singing a sweet song that careened me to my side and into a deep sleep.
The next day, after a morning hike along the Kewaunee River, I came to more road walking and knew my lower body couldn't handle it. I hitched a ride, expecting only to get to the main highway, but Russ drove me all the way to where the trail reconnected, about 20 miles out of the way. I think we both craved the companionship. I'd been getting lonely and wanted to hear a voice. We chatted the whole way about nothing at all. It was great to meet him and take a ride down the country roads with him. It's second only to the woods as a good spot to shoot the breeze. I was back in the woods.
Point Beach State forest to be exact. I saw my first owl of the hike. I had spooked it up high in an oak tree. I walked slowly, hoping to spend a moment with it. It launched from the bare branch, swooped low over my head, and out into a meadow. Owls are an experience to me. They carry with them an austere presence, an abased countenance, and they have been given the traditional role of the sylvan sage. Point Beach led me through wonderful stands of tall red oaks and red pines, then out to the pristine sands of Lake Michigan. The PBSF is a gem of the Wisconsin shoreline.
I leave my shoes under a shrub, next to my pack, and slip my feet into the Lake. The waves roll over my toes, back to my ankles and up my shins, wrapping around my sore calves. Then it recedes like a glacier, sliding under the next wave that performs equally. My heels sink in and drag my toes with them. I think about the ocean. I went with Natalie to the Pacific a few months ago and the view was similar. The vastness of it all assumes the same mysteries to ponder. The depth and width seem eternal. It's daunting to me and I have as much respect for Lake Michigan as I do for the oceans. They are all enigmatically majestic.
I bought a bike! That's right, a three speed granny cruiser that I named the Trinity Speed Bitch. I have a huge road section coming up and I'd hate to blow out my knees, leaving me stranded by a corn field. Instead, I'll ride the TSB all the way to the northern Kettle Moraine State Forest. Since this will dramatically economize timing, I may take a few side tours to small towns like Elkhart Lake, the home to a wedding I recently attended (congrats, Jesse and Liz). Many people have contacted me, asking to join me in the Kettles for the upcoming holiday. I hope people can be flexible. I want to join as many people as possible. An abundance of IAT volunteers have contacted me, offering showers, meals, shuttles, etc. I will take them all up on their graciousness. It will also abate the loneliness that I've come to accept and appreciate. The acceptance makes me feel more alone and less lonely. And really, who doesn't like to be cosseted here and there?
I hope TSB is still outside the library. Thank you for reading and wish me well on my latest knee issues!