Jerusha Lane
It was a miserable sort of day in northern Michigan. The sky was dark and serious, and it pelted the rain down in sheets, turning the firm path into a slippery and treacherous mudslide. The wind howled in from the north, directly off a stormy Lake Superior, chilling with its cold breath any traveler who dared to pass through Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore.
The previous day had been beautiful. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun smiled down on the lake. Its light had sparkled and danced on the gentle waves, warming the surface of the water and turning the cold sand on the beach into a wonderful place for a nap. It had been perfect hiking weather, and an altogether perfect day—until the flies hit, that is.
Now these were no ordinary flies. They may have looked exactly like harmless little house flies, but appearances can be deceiving. Evil is the best word to describe these terrible little beasts. At first there were just one or two, but two soon turned into six hundred eighty-seven. They swarmed over the hikers, hitched a ride on their backpacks, and viciously bit the legs of anyone unfortunate enough to not be wearing a pair of pants. Pants are probably one of the best inventions known to mankind. You may not realize this until you are attacked by an angry swarm of leg-eating flies, and you are wearing shorts. After a few minutes of torment you may find yourself daydreaming about pants. After several hours, you will probably be willing to trade your soul for the ugliest pair of pants on the planet, and then parade them gleefully in front of anyone unfortunate enough to be wearing shorts.
Very quickly the hikers (the ones not wearing pants) began to lose their sanity. They began wildly waving their arms and thrashing about in a most undignified manner. Their eyes began to have a wild glint, and they started smacking themselves trying without success to be rid of the flies. At their wit’s end, they finally broke into a run, yelling in frustration, backpacks bobbing up and down, and pant-wearing companions trailing along behind. That was the first day. The second one was not much improved.
At least there weren’t any flies. They had disappeared with the sun, and the rain and chill had replaced them. There weren’t a lot of adventurers in the wilderness that day. If there had been, they would have seen a spectacle worth hiking to see—nine garbage-bag-clad backpackers hiking single file down the muddy trail, resembling bulbous insects with little heads poking out of their protruded backs. They were almost unrecognizable from the previous day, but not much more dignified-looking.
As it turns out, the garbage bag wearing backpacker is a phenomenon that happens after said backpackers forget to bring ponchos on their trip, but they of course remember to bring oversized garbage bags. “I would never do that,” I might have thought to myself. But that’s exactly what I did. Garbage bags also make excellent insulators I hear. Rumor has it you can wear them like a sleeping bag and they will reflect your heat back to you, so you will be warm and cozy. It’s a lie. I should know, since I’ve tried it before. After shivering sleeplessly for half the night you will end up in front of the campfire, sitting on a deformed log and wondering to yourself why you didn’t bring a warmer sleeping bag. And soon, your fellow garbage bag wearers will join you to sit on their own deformed logs, to think their own sad little thoughts.
Pant-makers would probably make millions of dollars if the world was suddenly overtaken by flies. The most untalented pant designer would make a fortune, and shorts would join the dinosaurs in extinction. Even annoying little insects can raise stock prices overnight, and when it rains cats and dogs in redneck country, Jethro’s Convenience Store will probably sell out of garbage bags.
Vicious swarms of leg-eating flies and garbage bags that don’t behave at all like they’re supposed to: what else could possibly go wrong when you’re a two-day hike away from civilization? Your water filter could break. And of course if your water filter decides to break, it will probably do so when one of your number gets himself dehydrated and the rest of you have just drained the last drops out of your water bottles. And actually, if anything can go wrong, it’s much more likely to go wrong when you’re in the middle of nowhere.
So there we are in our cozy little camp, situated in a beautiful hardwood forest, which just conveniently happens to be a mere few yards away from the vast water supply of Lake Superior—at least it’s convenient if you don’t mind scaling a 40 foot cliff while carrying a fifteen pound bag of water (yes, a bag). Add paragliding and rock climbing equipment to the list of items we forgot to bring. They’ll fit quite well next to the pants and sleeping bags. Since we didn’t bring the proper equipment to carry out a covert water retrieval operation, we spent the greater part of the morning trudging the half mile back and forth from the nearest beach, lugging water in our filter which had been scornfully demoted to “water bag.”
In situations such as these, when you’re trudging down life’s long path with a sloshing bag of water, it is usually best to not reflect on the fact that you spent 60 dollars on the “bag” that is personally responsible for your current loss of sanity. It is also in the best interest of the pant-wearing companion in front of you that they not do a happy dance over their choice of clothing—unless of course, they are in need of a shower. Nothing like a cold splash of reality to make your gleeful companion realize that when you plaster that picture you just took of them in their overly obnoxious pants, all over the internet, they won’t be happy-dancing anymore.
Several hours later would find the fearless adventurers back on the path, sipping warm, smoke-flavored water (floaties and all) and daydreaming about ice cubes and Gatorade. Now, it isn’t natural for natives of the far regions of the north to be dreaming about ice. In fact, most of these people pay to have their ice removed. But ice must be preferable to drinking smoky, warm water: that or the hallucinations had begun to set in. Either way, it was going to be another long day.
Two evenings later, groups of tourists wearing their “Michigan” t-shirts, khaki shorts, and funny-looking hats strolled around the visitor center at Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. Smiling and chatting, they cheerfully enjoyed the sunshine while reading informative signs and snapping pictures of the local exotic wildlife—which was mainly constituted of the occasional chipmunk and seagull. This peaceful scene was suddenly interrupted by shrieks of laughter and cries of pure joy coming from the forest. A group of slightly crazed backpackers, careened out of the forest at a limping run, arms stretched wide in ecstasy as they ran towards the end of their journey. At the sight of a vending machine, one of them even dropped to their knees and began to weep tears of joy. Pairs of tourists glanced disapprovingly at each other and hurried away.
Trying to appear sane isn’t a priority when you’ve just completed a death-defying journey. It isn’t even worth a thought. The first thing on the agenda in this moment of victory is an ice-cold coke, a greasy burger, and a long night’s sleep. Nothing but living on peanuts and beef jerky for a week can make a crappy cheeseburger from a fast-food joint taste like food fit for kings. You’ve never really enjoyed a nap in the car until you’ve spent three nights inside a garbage bag. And sometimes it takes an angry swarm of flies, to give you the proper respect for that hideous pair of pants.