Oh, pioneers!

There we were, surrounded by shrapnel and flak, blackening the beach. I didn't think the soldier would let us survive, but just then, a wave came and washed away the little plastic guy. Ben found him among the driftwood and colored pebbles on the soft, white sand of Madeline Island, where we biked for the weekend.

It rained buckets the entire four hours toward the ferry. As it was, we were running late, thanks to my uncooperative management who rejected my pleas to leave early. When I finally got to Ben's it was five o'clock, and we knew the last ferry would run at eleven.

When we arrived, we had roughly a half-hour to decide the evening's fate. Should we chance it? Maybe the rain would slacken some? Maybe it would rain even harder, tornadoes would converge and the wrath of God would be unleashed? We couldn't say. After fifteen minutes of deliberation, we decided to drive back about ten miles to a campsite we had seen on our drive. No sooner had we entered, then the rain stopped, entirely. Undaunted, we plunged into the pesto-and-herb wraps, with oatmeal squares for desert.

Ben noticed the flag waving in its spotlight, and decided to take some pictures of it, leaving his shutter open. We both liked the blurred effect, and tried it with ourselves in a variety of poses, each requiring more flexibility and movement than the last. At one point, Ben slipped and fell on the wet gravel, landing flat on his back. Sadly, no pictures of this exist.

Then, down to the beach for some flashlight experiments. Ben was able to spell his name in the darkness, while I had to settle for a cursive 'G' that was deceptively hard to do, as it had to be done backwards to come out right on the camera. We ate more wraps. We slept. At daybreak, it was overcast, but not raining. We drove into Bayfield, boarded the ferry, and off we went. On the ride, we overheard someone behind us say 'shit' in German. Ben and I studied German in High School, and of the few things we retained, that particular word was one of them. They told us they were on the island from Chicago, travelling up North for a bike tour of the island. I had a feeling we would see them again. I was right.

Madeline island is largely uninhabited, aside from the coastal dwellings. Most of the houses are small and weathered. The foliage was beginning to be really colorful, and apple trees in fields along the roads were enticing. It's certainly touristy: nearly every few miles, we would encounter other bicyclists, or people on scooters, which can be rented on the island.

Ben and I biked the seven miles into the campsite on freshly surfaced roads, enjoying the cool conditions. We passed the time largely by playing cribbage, eating more oatmeal squares, and being mesmerized by a fearless deer, whom we feared was rabid. Careful future campers, ye may not be so lucky! Saturday night, we biked another seven miles back to town for food at the Beach Club, where we had eaten three years ago. We ordered cheese-curds and some chips and salsa, along with a pitcher of beer.

Sure enough, the Germans were there. They joined us at the table outside by the beach, procured white sausages from their rucksacks, and we settled in for hours of conversation about economics, politics, work, and, their biggest fascination, American women. Being that we have girlfriends, they were quite intrigued. I think it bolstered their confidence. Suffice it to say, the bike ride home was wobbly, but the ditches were soft and gentle. We slept very soundly.

The original plan was to rent kayaks and explore the caves around the island, which proved due to high, blustery winds an impossibility. Nevertheless, a splendid time was had by all. Like most camping experiences, the ride home was peppered with talk of hot showers and warm beds. Madeline Island is certainly worth visiting again. Next time, we'll bring better raingear and more wraps.