crab sandwich

Gotta love Chicago traffic

Yesterday, after a week and over 2,000 miles traveled, the fatigue and stresses of the road were finally catching up with me. As I said goodbye to my aunt Lois and cousin Cassie, warm feelings of family were slowly being replaced by the creep of traveling malaise. I stared blankly at the car in front of me with furrowed brow as I sat through Chicago and Rockford traffic. The blisteringly hot haze in the air and flat landscape of north-central Illinois seemed to mirror my listlessness and loneliness. What I am I doing here? What’s going on? Where is Kelli? What happened to Vermont? How is Gracie?

Once the traffic petered out (a nasty car-fire and rollover), my Subaru turned north towards Wisconsin. I toyed around with the idea of getting a Hotwire hotel in Madison to roam State Street and check out a little live music or something. Meh … Maybe ten years ago. Instead I focused on a little green splotch on the map a few hours north: Black River State Forest.

I exited I-94 just north of Tomah (which always makes me think of Euro-style tubed mayo / senf), in hopes of finding some food, ice and Wisconsin beer. When I brought a sixer of New Glarus Spotted Cow to the counter and asked the woman working there, “do you know where I could find some brats?” She looked back at me with a blank stare and then answered in a gloriously thick Wisconsin accent: “Walmart? That’s probably the closest place. OK. See ya later.”

Thanks. But no thanks. Isn’t this Wisconsin? The Land of the Bratwurst? The Milwaukee Brewers have a sausage race during every home game for chrissakes.

I’ll take my chances at the place with the humongous CHEESE sign, thank you very much.

I walked through the yellow doors and meandered past the cheese to find what I was looking for: a package of “Award Winning Brats” and some Dijon mustard. “Having brats for dinner, eh?” Yes. Yes, I am.

Is there any other culture that professes its love of cheese as loudly? (no pun intended)

Now if only I could find a place to camp.

One exit up the highway, things looked surprisingly promising. At the entrance to the state forest, I asked a gas station attendant about “tent camping,” which is a term I picked up after Kelli and I got stuck at various “campsites” full of satellite-festooned RVs. She didn’t really know, but said “lots of people do it.” So I just drove into the forest along a rough yet paved road with cautious optimism.

It didn’t take long before I came across Pigeon Creek Campground, a sleepy little spot with no attendant, an honor pay system, and but a few other campers.

I backed into tent site #2, groaned out of the driver’s seat and plopped down at the picnic table. Late afternoon sun filtered through the fir trees and the air felt warm and welcoming—a far cry from the blast furnace of Illinois. I smiled as a text from Kelli came through my phone. I took a deep breath and a long pull of a cold Wisconsin beer.

I had arrived. And once again it felt good to be on the road.

Tent Time – a term introduced to me by JeanMarie Arnold – refreshes the soul