I’m not sure why, but that night was one of the worst sleeps I’ve ever had in a tent. I felt like a stadium hot dog, constantly rolling from one side to the other. I’m fairly certain every part of my body fell asleep at some point, though I’m not convinced my brain ever did. Rest assured, or in this case, rest unassured, I was certainly tired when I unzipped my tent in the morning.
Brian emerged from his tent around the same time, wearing the same exhausted expression. A shake of his head confirmed that he’d had a similarly restless night. Still, the prospect of a day with limited hiking lifted our spirits. The coffee helped, too. Once Lionel was awake and fed, we squeezed into our swimsuits and headed down to the water.
I enjoy most physical activities, but swimming has never been high on my list. More specifically, I have a particular disdain for jumping into water. Jumping into a swimming pool is psychologically similar to the moments before getting a shot at the doctor’s office. You work yourself into a tizzy, only to discover that the actual experience isn’t nearly as bad as you imagined. Of course, people always remind me afterward that it wasn’t that bad. They’re right, it is never as bad, but is getting a shot ever fun?
Lake Superior, however, is less like a shot and more like an icicle being plunged directly into your soul. Even Lionel hesitated before plunging into the water. Once we were fully submerged, it was… well, it was still miserable. Fortunately, a small creek flowed into Superior, and the water became slightly more tolerable the closer we got to it. We spent about fifteen minutes stretching our muscles in the water before returning to shore to wash our clothes. We let Lionel continue splashing around in the creek, where he soon found a way to turn the experience into a science lesson.
“Daddy, look! I’m battling erosion!” he announced, sitting with his back to the current as the water flowed around him.
Around eleven, we returned to camp to pack up. We might have stayed longer, but we were supposed to vacate our campsite by noon, and apparently the rules of the wilderness still applied even when you were having a perfectly good time avoiding a hike.
Pulling on the bag once more felt like Atlas receiving the world back from Hercules. I was buoyed by the fact that we had less than two miles to hike to our next campsite, but fell into the bad habit of trying to guess the exact time we would arrive (it’s always later than expected). Still, we made it by one and could enjoy a leisurely afternoon of more swimming and cards.
When we arrived, we noticed that the previous campers had left us a pretty clear indication of where they’d pitched their tent. They had carefully swept away all the thistles, leaving a neatly cleared rectangle in the ground. Brian and I, having endured two consecutive nights of terrible sleep, decided to go against their example. For the next forty-five minutes, we used our feet to sweep away as many thistles as possible into a natural sleep pad. It wasn’t exactly a mattress, but it did give us a little padding from the firm, cold ground.
After our landscaping project, we rummaged through our rations and supplies. Wednesday was an exciting day because Charlie would be joining us. His arrival meant fresh supplies, which was particularly welcome because the number of our coffee packets were dangerously low.
That night, we had our first campfire of the hike. We cooked up some freeze-dried spaghetti, which Lionel declared to be the absolute best spaghetti he had ever eaten. Bellies satiated, we played another hour of cards or so before retiring to the tent. It was a good day, and an even better night, as my bed of needles ended up working marvelously.
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