Chippewa Landing Campground

This entry is blog long and blog backwards, too boot. My mobile IP doesn't work here. Yup, I'm a-roughing it 21st Century style this week. Been keeping my journal on a word processor, so the first entry is at the top, sorta like the bad old days when I kept my journal in spiral notebooks and didnae typically carry batteries, much less electrical chords on my field excursions. The fella who runs the closed game room I now sit in front of gave me access to his WiFi network a day or three ago, but the signal doesnae reach across the street well enough to be reliable there. I've been visiting the little wetland bayou behind the game room and camp office throughout my stay here, watching for glimpses of the sort of critters who live in wetlands. No gators, yet. I have my doubts they have made it this far north, any more than otters and beavers typically make it to the Subtropical wetlands. I've been enjoying the media fast enough that I have been carrying field glasses instead of my laptop.

Chippewa Landing Campground

Sunday, 9 July 2017

Morning one of the drive break. The southward tug is still fierce, but I remain distrustful of the intent. Same old dysfunction cycle, different round? Each of the ponies on the not-so-merry-go-round have their own parts in the orchestration, but we remain on distinctly separate sheets of music. Elegantly played parts from different sheets of music still equal chaos.

But the aimless wandering is getting old. My appreciation for my walks on the beach of Lake Superior felt forced yesterday and this morning. The water is a bit colder than Lake Huron, but the freshwater beaches are starting to run together for me.

When in doubt, wait it out. This is the best wait spot I have found since my week in Falconer, NY between my mother’s funeral pilgrimage and the current discernment drive. Time for a fearless, searching inventory. This nearly empty, privately owned campground is as good a spot as any. My mobile hotspot doesn’t work here, but. . . I’ve worked with less. The weather is beautiful.

Evening

I am the only human in the campground tonight. There is one other travel trailer, but I have yet to see anyone coming or going from it. The campground office is equally deserted. Both are situated in a resort area and it is peak season. There is still considerable traffic on the narrow side street a few hundred feet from my tent. There is a privacy fence to the left of me with children’s toys in the front house. I havenae bothered to register whether it is a home or resort house. If it is a home, it be a quiet one.

I slept well this afternoon after a drive to Saul Saint Marie for an electric kettle and tonight’s dinner. I was after the kettle more than the dinner. There are plenty of dinner options much closer to the campground. It be the hot morning beverage I have been craving. Campfire cooking for one feels somewhere between impractical and dangerous to me. With only one person in the camp, untended campfires are inevitable. I am still stubbornly refusing to buy another propane gas stove when I already have two of them in Godley.

Monday, 10 July 2017

Day Two

I amnae Texan, but 40 years is a considerable bit of climate conditioning. My weather senses start sensing continual rain right about Arkansas. Here in the Whitefish Bay of Lake Superior I am nearly frantic for an internet weather forecast. I have the camp on rain alert. The rain-vulnerable pieces are mostly in the truck or tent. All available blankets are in service in the tent. I could wish for another blanket to put between me and the chill air in the air mattress, but I slept well last night. I could use the sleeping bag Persilly is using, but. . . She might fight me for it. The bitch does one hell of a guilt trip with those puppy dog eyes.

At present, I have no access to my internet forecast, but I feel semi-confident trusting the weather report I read on the one available night at Eddie’s Cabins outside Cheboygan. This rain system should clear out by tomorrow, leaving another series of dry, warm days. The showers yesterday were light and short. This morning feels the same.

The house on the other side of the fence is, indeed, occupied by at least one driver of a late model cross-over SUV, much like the one YS is currently driving. I am spouse-guessing the title and insurance payments are still in Hubby’s name. The vehicle was purchased to fill my needs, but somewhere in the funeral and Executor stresses, it fell to my least favorite class of vehicle: The Husbandly Car Payment. Even when the Hubs doesn’t know where I sleep, his car payment stress still radiates from the vehicle. It was my fatal weakness in the Hotel Valet biz. Don’t hand me the keys to that Husbandly Car Payment! The black SUV Crossover was gone when I wandered across the street during my guit-chi this morning. The morning traffic on the narrow road dividing the campground from the camp office felt something close to side-street suburban rush hour. The camp owner looked like a man on his way to a paying job when he stopped by to load some odds and ends into his truck bed. The few details he tended before he drove off looked like an excuse to watch me wandering the empty campground and office compound than interest in the tasks he was performing. Maybe. There was no official acknowledgement on either side.

It feels good to have my outdoor guit-chi again. I amnae shy about being heard or seen, but guit-chi ain’t a Performing Art. It is about balancing my personal inventory while connecting to the rhythms and tones of life, whatever they may be in the current time and space. The crowded campgrounds along Lake Huron were far too exposed for guit-chi comfort. The motel and cabin rooms were more private but too confined for preference. I most love wandering while I play. Standing still while I play is challenge enough. I can scarcely play sitting down. The sitting position puts a kink in my airflows. So far, the wetlands on the other side of the office compound are my favorite set of tones in this campground, but this is only my second morning here. I barely know my way to the bathroom. I havenae tried my guit-chi on the freshwater beach at the other end of the campground. Nor have I registered the human tones of machines and whatnot, beyond the passenger vehicles rushing down the narrow road.

While saluting the delusional psychosis nag flags, I find myself wondering if Quetzal Coatl followed me here. I first met Quetzal Coatl somewhere in my early history lessons regarding Hernandez Cortez’ “conquest” of Mexico. My sense of the history is that it wasnae Cortez, a royal reject who was given a ship and a crew of mariner rejects, just to get the royal riff raff out of the thriving Cuban Colony. My sense of the history is that it was the Mayans who conquered the immigrant Aztecs, emboldened by the myth that Quetzal Coatl would return one day as a yellow bird to conquer the Aztecs. Cortez was a blonde. Resisting blonde jokes now. I know what is brown and black and blue all over. A brunette who has told one too many blonde jokes. I learned that lesson the hard way.

The prophecy didnae end with the toppling of the Aztec Empire. The prophecy went on to predict that Quetzal Coatl would return one day to reunite its wings: the two continents we now call, North and South America.

In my Colonial Druid heritage, it is said that you donae choose your Earth Spirits. They choose you. In Christian dialect I am tempted to translate that as, “God does not call the qualified. God qualifies the called.” But I am only tempted to translate it thusly. Translating dogma is risky, at best. When I give myself permission to think like a pagan, I believe I am a canine spirit called into service by Quetzal Coatl. My master’s attempts to communicate are far from clear to my senses. She/he/it doesnae seem to speak human any better than I speak dog. Can I at least have a translation dictionary? One of those universal translators built into the Star Trek comm badges would be even spiffier. Isn’t the Next Generation of tech here yet?

I am glad I got my electrical kettle yesterday. The coffee, followed by hot chocolate were great day starters. Think I’ll go for tea next. It is just chill enough to make the warm beverages an extra treat. Gooder ‘n’ roasted marshmallows. No offense intended to roasted marshmallow fanatics.

Tuesday, 11 July 2017

Day 3

Morning three of not having to pack today finds me with a deep craving to make it one step more permanent. I amnae at all certain how the hubsly meet up with CPS figures in to that craving. It is scheduled for 11:30 this morning at the duplex apartment where the GK’s are currently staying with their mother, aunt, uncle and maternal grandfather. The meeting is a hope to set up a plan for a more sustainable plan for raising children. I call it, “A hubsly meet-up” because both grandmothers are elsewhere. The maternal grandmother played the divorce card earlier this year. I amnae certain, but I do believe she is living with a sister. Big, dysfunctional Catholic families are one of the things the DIL and I have in common. “Lawsuit Lotto” is my dominant anxiety in regards to the DIL and her family, reinforced by the >>bolsillas de gringo<< mentality which has translated into English with ominous overtones. In my own birth clan, “Lawsuit Lotto” is the search for the winning lawsuit which will finance your personal episode of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.” In Spanish, the phrase >>bolsillas de gringo<< shows up most often in marketplace negotiations and idle schemes of immigration to the land of the streets of gold. In the barrios, such as the one where the hubsly meet-up will happen in a few hours, I often believe I see overtones of the phrase in the attitudes of descendants who never learned Spanish. The descendants who learned Spanish recognize its roots well enough to manage the cognitive link more efficiently. I think. Maybe. Whatever the evers of the what, it is widely believed that the mother of my grandchildren isnae realistically grounded in financial or family management. For sure, Hubs and I are staggering from the load of supporting YS’s family and feeling abused in the ways we are being used in the childcare aspects. On my strictly personal end, it is an unbearable squeeze when the parents fall through on their end and my husband verbally attacks me for having been lied to, again. I love you, too, Babycakes.

I still want to believe that my presence here on Lake Superior has a life of its own. As much life of its own as the domestic drama cycling someteen hundred miles to the southwest of here. It be a piece of the river dream I have dreamt since I carried “Huck Finn” into the watersheds where I built crawdad corrals and laid in caches of bio-weaponry (seeds, stones, and whatnot) to use against marauding siblings, etc. All these decades later, I still havenae jumped the banks of those dreams onto the water, itself. Not substantially. Morning kayak rows on the Colorado River in downtown Austin are the most substantial. The Colorado River which meanders its way through central Texas is a sweet, little watershed, but it isnae a substantial River. This under-utilized compound on Lake Superior’s Whitefish Bay is striking my senses as an ideal spot to jump that hurdle. The delta of Saint Marie River, which links Lake Superior to Lakes Michigan and Huron, is just around the bend. The wetland on the south side of the compound has inviting bayou trails while the beach on the north side leads to the open water of Lake Superior. Could I find a more complete access to a variety of marine conditions to learn on?

The two proprietors I have spoken to here donae seem to know one another well. “Cork’s Place,” where I shot some pool yesterday, is a rented room off to the side of the Camp Office and fishing store. I am guessing the young adult who shared chit chat with me and took my money is Cork. Just guessing. He told me he has been open for business for about a month. His homey set up reminds me of an adolescent garage game room. I think that is even the effect he is going for. He seemed nervous and evasive on the subject of his landlord’s business. I didnae press him and skirted quickly back to his own business dreams.

The first night here, I shared a campfire with a couple from the Canadian side of Sault Sainte Marie. They told me they have been taking vacations in this campground since they were young and the place was owned by the current owner’s father. Since then, I have been seeing Hubs in his busy, solitary comings and goings. The black cowboy Cadillac is feeding the association mightily. I want to approach him about the possibilities of renting one of the 2 boats he has parked on the bayou and/or a month rental on one of his(?) empty, neglected cabins, but. . . He has Hubby’s busy body language, butane the people skills. He was barely civil when he checked me in. I used my gruffest constructo dialect to get through the transaction. In the days since, I have come to wonder if it took a Divine Intervention to get me checked in at all. During check in, I asked about the cabins I had seen advertised and he answered that they were not available. At the time I assumed it was the same story I had been hearing in this busy tourist season. No vacancy. Now I am guessing the unavailability of cabins is neglect. There is allot of housekeeping involved in cabin rentals. I like to do my own housekeeping.

Wednesday 12 July 2017

Day 4

The gentle rain through the night and into the morning is meeting with the gloom of the cycling domestic drama are meeting for a stifling depression in my head. ‘Tisnae much of a rain. There arenae any surprises in the domestic drama. Nay even in my runaway housewife portion of the drama. I am still just one of the cursed tourists tromping around these Great Lake resort communities. The local flavor feels allot like “Lakie” mentality you can find anywhere, even in areas where there no natural lakes. The manmade lakes/reservoirs attract as many Lakies as natural lakes. Runaway housewives are notorious Lakie-wannabe’s. We seldom become pillars of the community.

My flight drives are still prevalent. My super cape is snapping to be in flight to rescue the menfolk from their own incompetence. At least two of those men are crying for me to do so while working over-time at not admitting it, doing their best to be supportive of my desire to make these field excursions into something more substantial than runaway-housewife spa trips. Best beloved sis is the only credible voice in my head in support of the continued effort to do so. Her growing bond (prayers in progress) with Hubs even gives me a feeling that she is factoring in real, beating hearts instead of just throwing around media stereotypes and ideals. All smearing ink and no warm flesh.

Been feeling the call back to the watersheds. Nothing new there. The watersheds call continually, like the buzz of an interstate highway. Even when the watersheds are dry, they still call and collect detrititus to send downhill in the next rainfall. Lakes are naught but lively, complex containers to store the goods the watersheds collect. Yesterday’s road atlas perusals drew my eye to the end of I-35 at the southwest finger of Lake Superior and the Mississippi River headwaters a bit north and a good bit west of that highway’s end.

Technically, the I-35 corridor doesnae connect Mexico to Canada, but close enough for Black Market work. In its route through Texas, the I-35 corridor has a distinct boom flavor all its own. I havenae ever driven I-35 north of Fort Worth, but I suspect its unique boom flavor continues through Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, Iowa and Minnesota. I wonder if that boom flavor has even spilled over into Wisconsin where I-35 runs near to the State Line. Check facts before publication, but I believe the first lines for 1-35 were drawn to imitate the Nazi mobilization plan which was significant part of Nazi military maneuvers in WWII. Multiple generations of family have lived and died since then. During my 40 year hate/love line through the challenges of commuting I-35 through Texas, a book about the I-35 families has been one of my daydream schemes to break free of the daily grind. To date, the daydream hasnae been interesting enough to survive the breaking of traffic gridlock, but. . . Obviously, it still niggles, even without the animated road workers to set the musing stage. Normally, I see those wide blue atlas lines as obstacles to be crossed more than avenues of travel. To my mind, there is a huge diff between commuting and travel. In my mind, those wide blue lines work best for commuting. E.g. A runaway housewife hurrying back to her housewoofer duties. Arfie arf. Zoom zoom.

The Mississippi River headwaters are in NW Central Minnesota, in that saturated neighborhood which gives Minnesota the right to call itself, “The Land of 1,000 Lakes.” There are ALLOT of lakes in that region. Enough to provide headwater to even more rivers and streams.

The gentle rain is still going. Persilly and I are dazing in the tent to its gentle rhythm. I havenae found my boat lessons here, either, but the big fella at Cork’s Place gave me access to his WI-FI. The signal doesn’t reach the camp well enough to navigate and just now the walk across the street feels like more work than it is worth. “Cork” will want the report on how far his signal reaches, but he doesn’t get in for another 4 or so hours.