The Last Place on Earth or "I hear bangoes" - Camping Log Entry 4

2010, the first year that I took my husband camping in the UP, I was on a quest to find every waterfall which I could. In the Gazetteer, I found the Upper and Lower Gratiot Falls. Granted they appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. But really? Isn’t that the entire UP? We didn’t have any luck that year.

This year, as we were heading back to our campground, driving along Five Mile Point Road, I spied a sign for Gratiot River County Park. I thought, ah, ha, maybe this would take us to the elusive falls. We started down the gravel road and our teeth quickly began to rattle in our heads. The road was wide and straight but was in desperate need of grading. And then it deteriorated.   

The road narrowed and began to wind through the woods. We met a Jeep coming out, so surmised that at least the road went somewhere. We continued to crawl along at a top speed of 20 mph, the poor Blazer just rattling from its every joint. In the rearview mirror, the hubby could see a car coming up behind us, going probably 35 mph. The hubby pulled over and the car whooshed past.

“Hmm? What do you suppose is at the end of this road that they were in such a hurry to get to?”

“I don’t know,” the hubby answered, “but I can’t believe how fast they were going. This-road-is-awful.” The corduroy road was rattling his head again.

Then we came upon this sign. I cannot say who this fellow is, but I would be embarrassed to have this road named after me.

 After what seemed like an eternity, we rounded a curve and saw vehicles parked up ahead, beyond which lay Lake Superior in its usual shroud of mystery. There were about eight vehicles scattered around the dusty parking area. The hubby chose to turn around and park on the side of the road, heading out, for a quick exit. 

 As we climbed from the Blazer, he asked, “Do you hear banjoes?”

“What? Stop with the overactive imagination.”

Never the less, he kept Dino on a short leash.

As the road opened out onto Lake Superior, we saw a tattooed and toothless man carrying a fishing pole, the sleeves of his shirt cut off. A whale-sized woman, wearing a black bikini, waded in Lake Superior. Another woman with her man were drinking beer and playing cards on some pieces of driftwood. Some children played, but I didn’t hear them laughing. I didn’t hear any human sounds actually, just the sound of the waves on the beach. Clouds had overtaken the sun.

I trudged through the sand making the most of the long drive out here. I could sense the hubby behind me, the dog tight to his side; they weren’t going to follow me.

I snapped a few quick pictures, and to the hubby’s great relief, turned back. He was already hustling back to our vehicle. He had the engine running by the time I joined him just moments later.

“Just let me get a few more pictures,” I whined.

“But I tell you, I hear banjoes!”

“Oh, stop it, already.”

“No, really,” he argued. “I think they are just waiting for a sacrifice to show up.”

Just then a large motor home drove around the corner in front of us. “Are you kidding me?”

“See, I told you. The sacrifices have arrived.”

Yup and about that time, I started hearing banjoes.

(If you’ve never seen the movie “Deliverance”, you won’t get the banjoes reference, but you can look it up here.)