Of Bridges and Bearskin

Stayed on Lake Minocqua over last week, in the wilds of northern Wisconsin, and Rocinante came along.  The weather was warm, alternately cloudy and sunny.  Our big concern had been mosquitoes, reported to be the worst in years.  But apparently a big explosion in the dragonfly population meant an equivalent collapse of the mosquito kingdom -- I got nary a bite during the entire week.  Except when fishing, there I got lots of bites and a few keepers.  But that's another story.  This is about the bike (regardless of what Lance says).


Tuesday afternoon I finally climbed onto Rocinante and headed out, intending to ride the entire 18.2 miles of the Bearskin, which starts just a few blocks and one long bridge from our resort headquarters.  Unfortunately, that bridge, across a narrow neck of the Lake, is on Highway 51, the main route up North,  built in the days preceding pedestrian- and bicycle-friendly engineering.  Nothing overwhelming, just disconcerting to have logging trucks and RVs rumbling past, with no shoulder at all -- there is a sidewalk, but it's raised above the roadway, so one either commits to it or the roadway from the get-go.  And because that is also the only pedestrian access into town, the sidewalk is usually rather busy.

Highway 51 Bridge -- not as bucolic as it looks.

Once past the bridge, and following a sharp left turn across traffic, tranquility suddenly burst into being.   Crushed red rock on a old railroad line, bordered by tall pines and birches, the chitters, chatters, and squawks of birds framed by the distant drone of outboard motors, the soughing of the wind and the smell of the outdoors.  What could be better? 

Not much.

 

A much friendlier bridge

 

The trail began with a long, pedestrian-popular railroad trestle, crowded with walkers and kids, darting about in the same manner as the smaller fish who clustered around the old wooden bridge supports.  The trail soon made a sharp turn off into the woods, and led off into the deep of the forest.  The first half-mile or so involved passing by various cabins and resorts, until they faded away and the trail the woods drew closer.  But never completely.  Just when it seemed to be real woodsy, another cabin appeared, or a cross-road.  Still, the further I went the fewer cyclists I saw, and most of those seemed to be coming from the other way, and none seemed unhappy.  About halfway through -- at the 9-mile mark -- I stopped at a conveniently placed rest area, and about a mile further came upon an old railroad rest station, a little wooden shed dated 1890 or so.  As I passed that I couldn't help but think about, and wonder about, the ghosts of the men who built the railroad, who risked their health, perhaps their lives, building, maintaining, and operating trains up here -- were they amazed or disappointed or jealous about the 21st century tourists who wander easily down the route they struggled so hard to make?

 

The sign speaks for itself.

At about the 10-mile mark I began to re-think my aim of riding the entire trail.  I have yet to ride further than 20 miles in a stretch yet this year, and despite the relatively easy grade, the gravel base was more demanding than asphalt.  The weather was threatening rain; Mei hates to drive the CRV -- and I had the only keys with me, anyway.  And I remembered the old 2-for-1 rule -- every mile ridden out requires the same number to ride back. 

 

At the 12-mile mark the path suddenly jogged into a sharp turn and a steep, asphalted, climb, down which came a pack of riders.  When I reached the top I saw an equally steep decline, followed by a long descent.  That decided it for me; I stopped for a few moments, turned around, and began rolling home.  I moved at a good clip, and easily smoked the riders who'd passed me going the other way; I felt good about it, though in all honesty they were casual tourists on rental bikes, but still .. . .  Before long I was back in the shallows again, midst the small-fry and the casual bikers.  And I knew that stopping at 12 was the right decision -- I got back on time, in good fettle, and the final third of the trail remains as a goal for next year. 

 

Oh, and just because they call it the "Bearskin" doesn't mean they encourage naked cycling -- this was, after all, the North Woods, where cycling attire is bad enough.  Besides, that would have proven far too tempting for those mosquitoes that had, somehow, survived the dragonfly assault.

 

This guy -- definitely -- should have known better.  For lots of reasons.