Shamelessly titled: Why I'm a Bad-Ass.
Of all the things I've done this entire year, the one that I'm most proud of myself for completing was the canoe trip. I'm most in awe of swimming in a waterfall. I'm most, umm, comfortably full of Frankenmuth chicken? OK. That one maybe not so much. The point is, it was a weekend of amazing, life changing experiences. Truth be told, I haven't even mentioned half of the things we did on the camping trip. Which is why, on the last day, with the prospect of returning to normal society looming ominously on the beautiful Lake Superior horizon, we decided we needed to commemorate the trip somehow.
How better to celebrate the joy and beauty of a life-changing weekend than to deface public property. Kidding.
OK. Not really.
The way I see it, that table was the campground equivalent of a historical archive. I mean, if you think about it, that's essentially what the Declaration of Independence was.
My goodness, Reginald, they've graffit-o-tagged that parchment.
Anyway, the point is, we felt like we had to do something to create a lasting mark that celebrated our weekend. That's why we chose to carve "Ponderosa '10" into the table. Maybe, one day, far into the future, maybe someone will read our table inscription and wonder what untold, fantastical adventures took place. More likely, given the venue, someone three weeks from now will cross it out and replace it with "Penis-erosa". Picnic tables are notoriously lowbrow.
Having gotten the chance to commemorate the weekend via picnic table, it doesn't seem right to just... not mention... the amazing things that happened, but didn't count for my project. So, in celebration of my own bad-assery, I've decided to talk about all the other amazing things that happened.
Driving over the Mackinac Bridge. I don't think I've seen anything that epic in quite some time. If you've lived in Michigan for more than six months, you'll have heard at least ten people tell you how beautiful the Mackinac Bridge is. I've lived here for seven years. I think it goes without saying that I assumed it would be highly overrated. I was wrong. On the Lower Peninsula side of the bridge there is a town that looks like the strange love child of a turn-of-the-century carnival and New Orleans at Mardi Gras. On the Upper Peninsula side lies the promise of endless, untouched wilderness. It started right as we came down the bridge. We stepped out of the concrete jungle and into the real, honest-to-God forest. It was sufficiently breathtaking. I hereby forgive the state of Michigan for bragging about it for the last seven years.
Sleeping on the ground in freezing temperatures. So, here's the thing. The temperature during the day in Tahquamanon Falls was gorgeous. At night, however, it dropped down into the 30s and 40s. The first night, having not brought a sleeping bag (that's right. I went camping and didn't bring a sleeping bag. Wanna make something of it?), I was forced to share a sleeping bag with Justin. OK. By "I was forced" I mean that he was forced. And by "forced" I mean lucky enough. He was lucky enough to share a sleeping bag with me. Other than the fact that I'm a notorious cover-stealer, that is. It was really sweet of him to take care of me, but the reason I mention it is not to point out the kindness of friends. Rather, it was because I have never, in my life, appreciated having a bed as much as I did on those nights where I didn't get one.
Eating sausage and cheese on the banks of the Two-Hearted River. About an hour into the canoe trip, we stopped to eat lunch. As someone who rarely picnics, I loved it. We just sat, relaxed, and cut hunks of cheese and sausage for lunch. We split delicious leftover potato-cakes from Frankenmuth and we enjoyed the beauty of nature. Until the huge, sonofabitch, walnut-sized horseflies came dive-bombing our faces. They like blond hair. Seriously. Some chick who was fishing along the river told me, so, you know, it must be true. To be fair to Random-Upper-Peninsula-Fisherwoman, the flies did seem to go away once I put on a bandana. It was anti-horsefly magic.
And it made me look so classy.
Setting up camp less than 1000 feet from Lake Superior. On the third night, we camped at a site right near Grand Marais. It was the perfect mix of scenic and society for me. There were actual amenities, like cell reception (thank sweet Holy Jesus for cell reception), campground bathrooms, and a convenience store with hangover preventatives. All those civilized flourishes took nothing away from the amazing landscape. Mostly because they weren't visible once we got down to the beach.
Have I mentioned I had cell reception?
Teaching Tim and Christine how to play kubb. Those who don't know me or who only know me through the blog may be of the belief that my favorite off-beat sport is mercenary spelunking. While that does have a special place in my heart, it is kubb that occupies the top spot. Having gone to the US national kubb tournament in Eau Claire last summer, I've come to deeply enjoy teaching it to people. I got the chance on the trip and Justin got to show off his mad block throwing skills. I found my stride after about four shots of rum and the official result is that Christine and I won. It may or may not have been called for darkness and the boys may or may not have been in the process of launching a comeback, but that's neither here nor there.
Unleashing the Kraken. There were three running jokes on the trip. The first was the personification of Ponderosa. The second was the repeated Lady Gaga punking of Ben. And the third was unleashing the Kraken. I brought a bottle of Kraken black spiced rum to enjoy in the company of friends. On the first night we were driving the whole time (I've heard there are laws against the whole drinking and driving thing). On the second night, our lame-sunburny-passy-outtiness trumped the desire to drink. The third night though, that was the night to unleash the Kraken! Also of note, Kraken makes me better at kubb. So, you know, watch out Eau Claire. The Kraken is coming!
The repeated Lady Gaga punking of Ben. I have a best friend. Her name is Lisa. A few years ago, she met a young man named Ben (*cough*becauseofme*cough*) who she is now marrying. That young man is Justin's best friend. Guess how Justin and I met. I'll give you a minute. This may be a tough one to figure out. Got it? Fantastic. Now, the thing about Ben is that he hates Lady Gaga about as much as a man who's marrying a woman who likes Lady Gaga is legally allowed to hate her. So, like any good, supportive, loving friends, Justin and I spent the entire weekend sending Ben text messages that read "I'm your biggest fan, I'll follow you until you love me". Then we got Lisa to do it too. It was our top priority whenever we got cell reception.
The fire on the beach. One of the things I've always wanted to experience was laying out on the beach under the stars and lighting a campfire. So, on the last night, after we watched the sun set over the lake, we walked back up and gathered the necessary supplies for building a fire on the beach. It didn't last too long because it was so windy, but it was so incredibly beautiful. The fire was mesmerizing, there were so many stars lighting up the sky and the breeze smelled ever so slightly salty. There were lighthouses in the distance to either side of us and the sand felt so soft under my back. It was a pure slice of incredible.
Finally eating a pasty. If you don't know what a pasty is... welcome to the club. I assumed it was one of those things strippers wore in lieu of shirts. You know the ones I'm talking about. Often associated with tassles? They're like the classy way to go topless, if there is such a thing. There's got to be a picture somewhere.
Right. Well then.
Anyway, turns out that pasties are actually the hilarious product of someone throwing a pot pie at a calzone and them magically merging together into deliciousness. If you want to fit in when you're in the Upper Peninsula, remember this. The "a" in "pasty" is pronounced like the "a" in "actually". You'd think it would be pronounced like the "a" in "aim", but its not. On the bright side, I've come up with a mnemonic device to remember the difference.
Pasties: you may think you're aiming for a night with a stripper, but you're actually headed for an evening of delicious meat pies.
Not a stripper.
Finally eating at Ponderosa. Nuff said.
So why does all that stuff make me a bad-ass? It doesn't. I've just always been a bad-ass.
So why does all that stuff make me a bad-ass? It doesn't. I've just always been a bad-ass.
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