Len and I pedaled into the hills on an early spring night with the moon and starlight guiding us. It seemed a near-perfect way to enjoy serenity not easily found in the day-to-day life at school. Our battery-powered headlamps were bright enough to give only subtle hints of the road beneath us.
Earlier that day I had heard from Ateret, my camp director. She told me that camp would, at my recommendation, add bicycles to the trip options for the coming summer. Not only that, but she was happy to see me attend the National Leadership School for bike trips sponsored by the AYH—American Youth Hostels. How rewarding for dreams coming true.
Ateret had strong opinions. She loved a good argument and didn’t readily cede ground. She carried an edge that wavered between judgment and love, between challenge and care. During the tumultuous 70’s she seemed to have a remarkable ability to encompass contradictions vividly. She would often claim she “hated” the out-of-doors, but much of her life was bound up in it. She loved stirring the pot!
It was remarkable to hear her speak at campfires. The crackling wood, sparks rising into the tops of the pines, the wide-eyed silence of campers gathered close—somehow the world seemed complete in those moments. And though her words were for everyone, I often felt they were addressed directly to me.
Bill Nelson was the leader/trainer for this program. He met each of us as we arrived in Cassopolis, Michigan, for the training. Big dark cowboy hat and an alpaca wool Peruvian poncho he had picked up on one of his trips to South America, to explore the Pampas. His contagious love for helping young people come together in the outdoors was present throughout the program. The wonderment of life could be as tiny as making it up the next hill. How fortunate I was to have two powerful figures who demonstrated looking at an experience from very different perspectives.
It was all about bikes and exploring. Len and I decided to throw the bikes in my vintage Datsun pickup truck and head north to Eagle River for the weekend. Springtime in Northern Wisconsin can be iffy. Deep snow lingers and frozen lakes remain even as the freezing temperatures give way to warmth. We arrived and unloaded the truck and hopped on our bikes. Heading north, toward the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, our adventure began. The pine forests provided fresh spring scents and the quiet roads gave us the sense of being far away from the day to day.
Pedaling the miles, caught in another worldliness, we missed the obvious. The mix of clouds and sun shifted to darker skies. The cool weather of the day turned bitter, and the dry became the famous Wisconsin spring mix of rain, sleet, and mist, frosting our bikes—and us—in ice.
At an intersection we spotted what looked like salvation: an abandoned gas station with a sagging roofline and a wide overhang where pumps once stood. The place was silent, windows boarded, the sign long faded. We pulled our bikes under the shelter, shivering, grateful for a reprieve.
I dug into my pack for a snack bar, and Len shook the rain off his jacket. The stillness felt almost too heavy, like the building itself was holding its breath. Then the door creaked open.
Out stepped a grizzled man, hair matted, eyes sharp. His voice cut through the rain.
“Long hair and brains don’t go together,” he growled. “Now get the hell out of here.”
The words hung in the damp air, colder than the sleet.
I tried a feeble protest, tossing out that Jesus had long hair. But he wasn’t buying scripture. His glare said all we needed to know. We grabbed our bikes, hearts pounding, and rode back into the storm—bewildered, chilled, and suddenly aware that shelter could feel more dangerous than the road itself.
At last, we made our way back to the heated cab and protection of the Datsun. We headed to Interlaken and found an open cabin to squat in for the night.
The morning was more winter than spring. A fresh dusting of snow with the ice on the lake still intact. The contrasts that an experience offers remain vivid.
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