The Barefooted Hiker

What I remember most from that impromptu evening hike was my freezing feet.

Spending the month of August every year up at my parents’ summer cabin on Lake Millecoquins in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, would be an idyllic vacation to most kids. And it was for me too but not because I could go fishing, boating, swimming and hiking for four weeks before school started again. But because I had a great time “hanging out” with my sister Julie and her Michigan friends who were up at their cabin during August too.

I considered Cindy, Brad and Terry, “Julie’s friends” for a long time. I was the hanger-on. Julie’s “little sister,” a burden that she had to entertain and keep occupied. Mainly because I had not met anyone my own age to hang around with. Eventually, though, I came to think of Julie’s Michigan friends as my own.

What I enjoyed most about summers in northern Michigan, was just hanging out, doing nothing, and listening to Terry and his friends telling stories at Cindy, Brad and Terry’s cabin. I had nothing to contribute and wouldn’t dare open my mouth even if I had a story of my own to share. I couldn’t bare to be laughed at or patronized for telling a story the others would consider to be childish. Besides, I appeared to be more mature if I kept my mouth shut. I certainly didn’t want to be booted out of listening to the conversation because I was too young to hear it. Best to be a fly on the wall. Learn as much from the “adult” conversation as I could.

It amazes me to this day, how much fun I had just listening. Besides Julie and me, everyone spoke with a distinct Michigan accent. No one had smart phones or other electronic gear. In fact, Cindy’s cabin didn’t even have a landline. If we were all over at their cabin on a Sunday morning (there were several more of us besides Cindy’s family), we listened to Casey Kasem on their radio. My family’s cabin had a black and white television, but even though we had a massive aerial that was planted in the ground outside our cabin and extended higher than the cabin’s peaked roof, we still only had reception for the quasi-local NBC station. (At least we were able to tune into The Tonight Show.)

Cindy was the closest in age to me. She was three years older. Her brother Brad was four years older (Julie’s age), and her other brother Terry, seven.

I was probably fifteen when Cindy and I were hanging out at Cindy’s cabin late one afternoon. We had nothing to do but we were anxious to do something. Brad had taken his motorcycle out on the wooded trails of the Hiawatha Sportsman’s Club. We were hoping that once he returned, we could finally start planning our evening. He had left a few hours ago and should have returned by now. Where was Brad?

Terry and his friend Kenny decided to go looking for him. They knew Brad was likely to start out on the club’s N Trail and exit on the club’s A Trail. It was decided that Terry would take the family’s Oldsmobile and drive to A Trail, and Kenny would take the family’s old Chevy and start out on N Trail (a gated trail that started just down the road from Cindy’s and my cabins.)

Even though we knew Brad was fine, Cindy and I offered to accompany Kenny in the Chevy. We were bored and this gave us something to do.

Kenny appointed himself the driver. Or maybe Terry appointed him. Regardless, Cindy was not the driver even though it was her family’s car. And it’s just as well because if she had been driving, she would still be getting grief from her family today for what transpired back then.

“Kenny,” I ask, “Can you stop at my cabin real quick so I can tell my mom where we’re going and so I can get some shoes?” It’s dusk. I go barefoot all day during the summer and it’s not until sundown that I don shoes. Each summer, the soles of my feet are so toughened that by August, it doesn’t hurt to walk the quarter-mile gravel road that connects Cindy’s and my cabins.

Kenny obliges. I run into my cabin and come out carrying a strange, rectangular-shaped pair of woven thongs (flip flops). Carrying, not wearing. I have never mastered the art of walking in flip flops. It’s a skill, you know. Plus, that thing that goes between your toes bugs me. Any podiatrist would probably say, “Good. Flip flops are not good for your feet.” But everyone else thinks they’re cheap, they’re practical, and they’re cool. When I was younger, I bought new flip flops every year. But I never wore them. Or, if I did, it was only for short distances. Biking to the pool. Walking across hot pavement. No matter. I won’t need them at all for this outing.

Now equipped with footwear and back in the car, I join the other members of the rescue team as we begin our journey on N Trail.

We are quite a ways in the woods and we haven’t reached A Trail yet. There has been no sign of Brad or his bike.

Putt. Putt. Putt.

Putt. Putt. Putt.

And the Chevy dies. What the hell?!

“Oh, crap!” Kenny exclaims – which I’m sure is not an exact quote. “We’re out of gas!” Again, What the hell?! What kind of a rescue team runs out of gas on its mission to save a missing person? Not a good one. Why didn’t it occur to us to check the gas gauge before setting out?

Well, I’ll tell you why. The gas gauge on the Chevy hasn’t worked for years. No one ever knew how much gas was in the Chevy. Unless you had just filled the tank, the amount of gas in the Chevy was anyone’s guess. Every once in a while, the tank would be filled but no one ever kept track of how many miles were driven. Why would they? It was summertime! The Chevy never ventured into real life. It was always at Cindy’s cabin, taking refuge in their cabin’s garage during the winter. Those driving the Chevy had to just hope for the best.

We are silent, the three of us. Assessing our options. We can stay put and hope that Terry will eventually come out looking for us. We can hike either back to the N Trail gate or toward the A Trail gate. It’s about equal distance either way.

And, like in every horror movie known to man, we opt to set out on foot. We decide to hike toward A Trail, hopeful that we will find Brad but, now more importantly, run into Terry and his sure-to-be gassed up Oldsmobile. This story is no longer about saving Brad. We’re most interested in saving ourselves.

We push the Chevy off the trail to allow other cars to pass. Hopefully other cars will pass, find us walking, and give us a lift. You know, rescue the pretend rescuers.

Okay. I need to prepare for a night hike in the growing frigidity of the forest. While daytime temperatures in northern Michigan during August are usually in the 70s, evenings can be downright freezing. Winter coat weather.

I have no jacket. I wasn’t expecting I’d have to leave the car. I only have flips for my feet. I wasn’t expecting I’d have to leave the car. I am ill-equipped and unprepared for a night hike in the woods. Perhaps I am not the greatest scout in the world. To be fair, I never claimed to be. At least Cindy has proper shoes. Kenny too.

We set off toward A Trail.

Though we are in the woods and it is now night time, none of us is scared. We know we are sharing these woods with black bears and all sorts of critters but as long as we stick to the trails, we know we aren’t likely to run across any. We’ve hiked these trails at night many times and I take comfort in the fact that Cindy and Kenny know exactly where we are and where we’re headed. (This has not always been my experience with folks leading a hike in these woods, aka Bruce and Brian.) I, myself, am familiar with N Trail and A Trail; I just don’t know how or where they intersect. The myriad of other alphabet trails that make up the club’s property, I don’t know at all.

Man! It’s cold. We walk a ways and I’m having a difficult time maintaining a regular pace with these ridiculous flip flops. First, I cannot bend my toes to anchor my feet in a position that will allow me to execute a proper stride. Second, my feet are freezing!

I shuffle along, trying to keep up with Kenny and Cindy. After a while, we take a break. We are all cold. Cindy takes out her lighter and we huddle around its flame, trying to absorb any heat it may be expelling. (Okay, the jig is up. Yes, Cindy was a secret smoker at the time. And thank goodness, really. Her lighter was our only source of heat.)

Concerned about dwindling levels of butane in her lighter and our probable need for additional respites later on, Cindy judiciously shuts off the lighter after about thirty seconds.

Cindy offers, “Jill, why don’t you wear my socks and carry your flip flops? They might keep your feet warmer. I can wear my shoes without socks.” I am blessed to have such a kind friend.

I put on Cindy’s socks. They’re not the thick hiking socks you see today. They are a cotton-nylon pair of knee socks. They’re not very warm but they’re better than going barefoot. Besides, it’s the thought that counts. I thank Cindy profusely.

Though I’m a barefoot kind of person, I’m not used to going barefoot in the dark. I like to see where I’m stepping. These trails are too dark to see your hand in front of you much less the ground beneath you. Walking in socks is basically walking barefoot with just a thin film of cloth between the sole of your foot and the ground. The silence of the night is broken with my frequent hollering. “Ouch!” “Ouch!” “Ouch!” As I step on sticks, rocks, acorns – all unexpected because I can’t see them. You’ve been there. Who hasn’t stepped on a Lego in their bare feet?

While the trail is mostly sand, it’s super cold. No longer absorbing the heat from the sun, the sand has turned into crushed ice.

I cannot complain. I will not whine. If I were on a hike with my family, I’d surely be doing both. But I’m trying to act older. And the last thing I need is for Cindy and Kenny to abandon me because my complaining was bothering them. This blackened forest would certainly be scary if I were all alone. I’m too cold to talk any more than I have to anyway.

We stop every ten minutes or so and huddle around the flame of the lighter. I apologize to Cindy before our second break because I have worn holes in both of her socks. Multiple holes. That didn’t take long. I promise to buy her new ones. (Note to self: Forty years later, buy Cindy a new pair of socks.)

We reach A Trail and we discover Brad’s abandoned motorcycle and helmet in a ditch on the side of the trail. He had run out of gas! How funny is that?! If we had thought that Brad may have run out of gas, we would have taken a gallon of gas with us as part of our rescue efforts. And we could have used that gas to save ourselves!

We hike down A Trail for what seems like hours. Certainly, we’ve been gone for hours, haven’t we? Finally, we see it. The gate that will get us out of the woods and onto old Route 2. Hallelujah!

I don’t think the sight of the gate has put any extra boost to our pace, but we finally reach it. After maybe two seconds of elation, we are each sobered by the daunting three miles of highway between us and the nearest phone. I am dreading having to limp another three miles on the gravel shoulder of the highway in holey socks. Maybe crawling on all fours will get me there faster.

Like the Chevy and Brad’s bike, Cindy’s lighter has run out of fuel. There will be no more huddling. Now that we’re out of the woods, we can see the sky, alight with the brightest of stars and a powerful spotlight of a moon. The night sky illuminates the faded asphalt of the highway.

I read once that the horizon, the line at which the earth’s surface appears to meet the sky, when viewed at ocean level, is always about three miles away from you. The three of us have a different horizon in mind, also about three miles away. The corner store that houses the pay phone we seek. We cannot see our horizon right now, but we are confident we will see it before it closes. If the store closes and we lose access to the pay phone, we are doomed to walk another two miles to get to our cabins.

There are no cars so there is no reason to waste energy lifting our thumbs to hitch hike. We start off. It’s all I can do to keep myself from complaining. I can do this.

Several minutes pass. And then we see them. Headlights.

The headlights approach us but the car is going in the opposite direction than the one we’re headed. The car slows. Am I hallucinating? Wait. Cindy and Kenny see it too. It’s a car. A sedan. The three of us stop walking and watch as the car finally stops in the road next to us, a lane of highway is all that separates us.

The driver rolls down his window. It’s not the murdering maniac you may have been expecting. We know this guy! It’s Terry! In the Oldsmobile! He’s come to rescue us! We all clamber inside the car. With the silent understanding that guys shared back then about seat assignments, Kenny heads straight toward the front passenger seat.  Cindy and I head to the back seat, where we find Brad, greeting us with a smile on his face. Brad, too, has come to rescue us.

Brad hands me his jean jacket, telling me quietly that he has never let anyone wear his jean jacket. In between spasms of chattering teeth, I thank him. I punch my arms into the jacket’s sleeves. Denim has never felt so good.

So, let’s recap. Terry goes out to rescue Brad. Cindy, Kenny and I also go out to rescue Brad. Terry does rescue Brad. (Terry found Brad as soon as he arrived at the gate to A Trail. Brad had just emerged from the woods.) Terry and Brad rescue Cindy, Kenny and me. The rescue team that I am on rescues no one. We are such a disappointment to ourselves, that the three of us never partnered up again for another rescue mission.

Kenny has taken on his new celebrity status with gusto. (He’s a celebrity now because he was featured in this post.) Here he is shaking hands and giving autographs at his local watering hole. Fame suits you, Kenny!