Kettle Moraine

He said, “so whose side are you on anyway?”  And although I tried to keep my emotions in check I could feel my blood pressure rising and the veins on my neck begin to throb.  I said, “You don’t understand, it’s not about taking sides,” but it was already too late.  The mood of the room had shifted.  In their eyes I was dodging the question, like some slick politician who only sought to muddy the waters instead of seeing things as clearly as they did.  So while they hid safely behind their firmly held but ill  formed convictions I took pot shots at their sacred cows - not smart when you live in the heart of America’s Dairyland.  It had already been a long war and I had no way of knowing that I was on the wrong side.  Arrogance had gotten me into this predicament but it wasn’t likely to get me out . . .

It was a warm Saturday afternoon in October.  When autumn comes to Wisconsin you’d better make the most of it because the landscape can go from beautiful to barren within days.  Winters here can be particularly brutal as if paying penance for autumn’s decadence.  This particular day so stunning that I was willing to perform whatever Hail Marys winter had in store.

Driving out of the city I was struck by the palette of colors.  The trees of the Kettle Moraine had turned chameleon.  I walked for hours with a rainbow for canopy and carpet.  The mosquitoes were gone as was the humidity.  The forest was mine - for a time.

A few hours into my hike the wind shifted.  With Lake Superior to the north and Lake Michigan forming our eastern border a small change in wind direction can bring a rapid shift in the weather.  First a swirl of leaves, the damp smell then came the first big gust followed by the rain.

I wasn’t prepared for the storm that hit.  There was a poncho in my pack but in the minute or two that it took to find it and put it on I was already soaked.  The temperature must have dropped thirty degrees with the first gust.  But it wasn’t the worst of my problems.  

I’d hiked the Kettle Moraine for years and been caught in the rain before but this was different.  The entire Kettle Moraine area was set aside as a state forest because of its topographical uniqueness.  Thousands of years ago much of the state of Wisconsin was covered with glaciers some up to a mile thick.  As they receded they left a dramatically altered landscape.  Some places were literally scraped clean and had their topsoil deposited hundreds of miles away.  Because the Kettle was situated at the point where two giant glacial lobes collided it is now a labrynth of undulating hills and valleys, winding rivers and kettle lakes.  While the varying topography and rocky soil has made for sparse settlement the area is a hiker’s wonderland.  Except when the weather turns bad.

In foul weather nature does its best to reclaim this wild land.  In the uplands washouts are common.  During heavy rains the steep trail sides transform into streams that quickly erode into the loose gravel deposits.  The lowlands are no better.  They can transform into marshes and bogs.  Some of the valleys can also be treacherous for another reason.  Because of the thin topsoil many trees have shallow root systems.  This is fine in good weather.  But in foul weather these trees can topple easily.  The valleys are strewn with reminders of storms past.  None of this went through my head though as I ran along the muddy trail.  All I could think about was my pace and getting back to my car.

My legs and lungs rebelled.  My vision blurred as I raced directly into the wind.  I was only about a mile from my car when it happened.  Going downhill I tried to let my momentum carry me forward.  But as my pace quickened I found myself losing control.  I widened my stride and began planting my feet more firmly trying to regain control when my right foot hit a patch of clay exposed by the washout.  

I slid for a second and tried to regain my balance but it was too late.  The ankle turned, sinews tore and I didn’t even have time to curse or cry out before I landed flat on my back in the middle of the washed out trail.  Eyes closed and gasping for air, I laid motionless for an eternity fearing the worst and afraid to move and find out how bad the worst could be. I knew I had broken at least one thing:  my camera.  I’d thrown it in my backpack when it started to rain and I could feel it smash between my shoulder blades when I landed.  Judging from the angle now it felt like the lens had torn from the camera body and both pieces were now digging into the base of my neck.  

Regaining my composure and ready to assess the damage at last I opened my eyes but saw nothing - my glasses were completely fogged over.  I wiped them off on my wet jacket then laid there for another minute cursing my luck.  The trees even seemed to be laughing at me.  They swayed and danced and taunted me while I rested motionless on the trail with rivers of muddy rainwater running up my pant legs.  

Slowly, carefully I began to move.  Parts of me hurt that I haven't even thought about.  My right hip where I landed first, my neck then slowly the ankle started to come to life.  Lying still with the legs elevated and cold rainwater on it I couldn’t feel much pain, just a dull throb and a pinch inside my hiking boot.  But as I tried to stand up it was as if a bolt of lightning struck.  I could feel the angry nerves shouting at me to stay down.  Feeling light headed from the pain I dropped back to the ground.  What now?

Despite the pain there was no alternative but to get back to the car.  While forty degrees doesn’t sound deadly the wind and rain can rob you of precious body heat and without proper gear - which I didn’t have - hypothermia can set in.  Where just a few hours before I was glad to have the forest all to myself now the idea of it was threatening. How long would it be before someone came out here?  The trails would be impassable for days and no one would even know to look for me.

Determined not to spend the night in the rain I moved forward at a snail’s pace by dragging myself along the muddy trail.  I was filthy but it was better than the alternative.  I’d made it a few hundred yards like that when I came across a downed tree.  Several branches had snapped off when it crashed to the ground and I was able to find one that was just about the right height for me to use as a crutch.  I wrapped my sweatshirt around the stump and was able to stand up and walk without putting any weight on my injured leg..  It took another hour to walk the rest of the way.  Eventually I found myself in a familiar clearing and just ahead of me was my Jeep. Wet, dirty, cold and in considerable pain I made it back then started it up and sat inside waiting for the heater to kick in.

It may have been the gentle hum of the Jeep or the warm interior.  Maybe it was simply a huge sigh of relief I felt upon getting back safely.  Whatever it was I dozed off and finally woke up about a half an hour later to find that the dreadful storm had passed.  I was still filthy but my skin was dry and I was actually warm.  The nightmare was over and I have to admit that I was a little embarrassed at my behavior earlier. I’d been scared.  But no one needed to know that. I was glad to be leaving the woods behind me as I drove east toward New Salem, the nearest town hoping to find a bathroom to clean up in, an ice pack and maybe something to eat.  

The village of New Salem is so small it’s a wonder anyone even bothered to name it.  The downtown consisted of about a dozen wooden buildings in varying stages of disrepair.  Most of them were vacant store fronts with the windows painted or papered over.  There were  only two places showing any signs of life at all.  One was the farmer’s co-op with its large “Welcome to New Salem” sign gently swaying from a rusted metal pole.  The other building was Nick’s New Salem Inn.  From the outside it looked just like the others:  peeling white paint and a front porch almost as warped as the hills I’d just hiked.  The only thing that distinguished it was the glowing neon signs for Miller and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer in the windows that made the place stand out like the town harlot.

I pulled into the gravel lot on the side of the building and parked next to an old blue Ford pickup truck with a bumper sticker letting me know that the truck was protected by Smith and Wesson.  Good to know . . .

It was surprising to see so many cars in the lot.  It made me think twice about going inside.  The same rain that had blown me off course probably chased the local farmers out of their fields as well.  But I had to stop somewhere.  My ankle had ballooned to the point where I could barely move it.  I had to drive with my left foot.  This was okay on rural roads, but I would have to take the freeway home and driving like that at high speeds would be dangerous.

Still using my makeshift crutch I slowly made my way toward the front door.  This would not exactly be the most dignified entrance I’d ever made but I had no choice.  Besides I figured there’d be no one in there except the farmers and day drinkers.  

It was like a scene from an old Western movie.  The already quiet bar fell silent as the bell on the front door announced my arrival.  No music.  Not a word.  Not a snide comment or sideways glance.  Nothing.  I gave the bartender a slightly embarrassed smile as I hobbled in and awkwardly perched myself on the closest bar stool.  

“Is there a doctor in the house?”  I asked, hoping she’d break a smile. She was down at the opposite end of the bar talking to a couple of locals but she got up and slowly started toward me.

“We’ve got Dr. Mcgillicutty but even he’d prescribe a bath first,” she said grinning as she wetted a bar towel and handed it to me.  I knew I was a mess but didn’t realize just how bad I must have looked until I wiped my face and transformed her bar towel into a miniature shroud of Turin.