Dick's Manitou Journal

Dylan started the whole adventure. Last summer, he and I as well as his mom and dad took a day trip to South Manitou island. The trip involves an hour and a half boat ride over to the island, a short truck tour of a couple of farmsteads and some time to look at the lighthouse. After about three and a half hours on the island, there is another hour and a half ride back to Leland. We all enjoyed the trip and I think that there was some discussion of a backpacking trip years ago.
Some time in the late winter, he called us and announced that he wanted to camp over night on the island so we would have more time to see things. I don't know what prompted this but he was persistent for a couple of weeks talking about who would go, (Grandma was excused.) and when. In preparation for the possibility of a camping expetition, I began looking over our equipment and collecting tents and sleeping bags. As it turned out, when he was here in July, the matter never came up and the idea was dropped. We were plenty busy without it.
In the meantime, a backpacking couple places five virtual geocaches on North Manitou. For the uninitiated, a geocache is an item placed somewhere on the planet for others to find using a Global Positioning System receiver. The coordinates are posted on the Internet at www.geocaching.com and anyone who wishes to may go look for the item. When one looks for a cache they are asked to post the results on that particular cache's web page. Usually the cache is a thing, a box, a jar, a tube or similar container with a log book for the person to sign as proof that the finder has located the item.
The National Park Service has banned containers on their land, terming them "litter". Caches in National Parks and similar Federal property must be "virtual". That is there is a natural occurring or protected object for one to find. The find is verified by posting a picture on the web site or sending an email to the cache creator answering some required questions. For those who get involved it can get pretty addictive.
When my weekly new cache notification popped up with five caches on the island I was intrigued. One or two, probably would not have piqued my interest, three maybe, but five! I started to think about it seriously. North Manitou is dedicated for backpacking and wilderness camping. Except for park maintenance vehicles no wheels of any kind can be used, even on a cooler. I had most of the equipment I needed and, although I hadn't used it in over twenty years,my pack was still up in the rafters of the garage. I picked up the few items I lacked at Eastern Mountain Sports and K Mart.
I studied the topographic and Park Service maps of the island and located the caches on the maps. I discovered that they were all on or near main trails and could be reached in one long 15 to 16 mile hike or two shorter hikes of 6, and 12 miles. Although the two hike plan involved greater total miles, it allowed for a nights rest in between. I didn't even consider carrying my full pack on the long hike and spending the night somewhere about half way although that appears to be the method used by the cache creators. I thought I could do it with a one night stay but I planned for two just in case.

Wednesday, August 4, 2004

After delaying my start for a day to vote on the successfully passed millage dedicated to assisting senior citizens, I checked my pack one last time, checked the weather forecast, made my boat reservations and in the morning,headed for Leland. I arrived before the office opened and so I had time for a last cup of coffee and a humungous muffin at the cyber cafe. Upon checking in at the office of the Manitou Transportation Company, I found out that, because of their need to pick up a large group of YMCA campers from each island, the boat to North would stop first at South to drop off about 50 day trippers and pick up 40 of the Y campers. It would then proceed to North and drop me off and pick up the 30 or so remaining campers. What was scheduled as a one hour trip was just extended to 3 1/2.
When I boarded the boat, I avoided the rush for the seats on the upper deck and settled into a spot on a school bus type bench seat in the cabin. They were mounted higher off the floor than usual but they had a boot rail at a convenient height beneath them. Although there is a better view and plenty of sun and fresh air up above, there is also a lot more rocking and rolling. I knew that I would be getting plenty of sun and fresh air in the next couple of days and I also knew from the weather forecast that there was a cold front coming through and a strong wind out of the north was pushing the waves up to six feet. As we left the shelter of the breakwater the lake was rough but not terribly so. There were sport fishing boats trolling a half mile or so off shore. As we got farther out in the lake however the waves got serious. They were crashing into the side of the boat heeling us over and starting a nice rolling action. Waves came crashing over the bow sending the folks who had chosen to ride up there scrambling for dryer accommodations. I became aware of the purpose of the foot rail below the cabin seats as water covered the floor when we rolled in one direction and then pored out the scuppers when we rolled in the other.
There were six of us going to the north island on that boat; me, a cuddling young couple in their twenties and a trio, two men and a woman, who looked and acted definitely weird. They were dressed identically in camouflaged long pants and camouflaged caps with khaki long sleeved shirts. I never saw any one of them smile and when they talked they talked in whispers. The older man was probably in his fifties and had what I would describe as a "steely" stare. He never made eye contact with anybody, just stared straight ahead. The woman kept looking at the two men as if expecting them to say or do something. After we left the south island, I heard her say "This is our last chance" and they headed to the bin where the packs were stored. They huddled around one of their packs putting stuff in and out and handing things back and forth for about twenty minutes. I don't know if they are militia members but if they aren't somebody's missing a bet.
We arrived at the island at 2:30 and had a short orientation meeting and were given back country permits by the ranger. The island has an open camping policy. That means that once outside the "village" area you are in wilderness and you can camp anywhere as long as you are 300 feet away from a trail, structure or water source. He told us that the rule was strictly enforced and it was checked with a tape measure. There is a $50 fine for violations. On the boat coming off the island I met two people who were ticketed, one for being only 273 feet from the edge of the lake and the other was only 287 feet from the trail. He told us that the only fierce animals on the island were the chipmunks. We laughed. He told us he wasn't being funny, they are very aggressive and will raid your tents and packs if given the chance. They will even grab your food out of your hand.
Following the orientation, I headed for the village campground to try to grab one of the eight campsites while the others disappeared up the trail somewhere. The attraction that the campground had for me in planning is water. I don't have a filter and don't want to boil so a source of potable water is a must. I found out that the only water is at the ranger station a half mile away from the camp grounds. On that day, at 3:00 there were two sites empty. After a false start at site #1, I found #7 more to my likeing, set up my tent and unloaded my pack. During this process, the chipmunk who owned the site came to inspect his territory and to collect rent. As I was setting up the tent, he was checking out my pack, I took a rope and hung it from a tree branch. When I turned around, he was looking for a way to get into the tent. If I swatted or stomped at him, he ran off into the bushes but returned immediately to continue his inspection.
Once the camp was secure from rampaging rodents with all food in a stuff sack suspended from a tree and my frame pack hanging from another, I checked to insure that the tent was securely zipped tight.
I was ready to begin the quest. My GPSr went in the pocket of my shorts. The book I brought with me, Marker by Lowell Cauffiel went into a day pack along with the lunch Nancy had packed. In addition, I included my four one quart plastic bottles for water, a camera, binoculars, compass, and other hiking stuff. I slung the pack over my shoulder and started out back to the village area to find a picnic table and the nearest cache. I wasn't very hungry but as I sat and looked at and listened to the lake, I forced down a sandwich and a couple of pickles.
The first cache turned out to be 200 feet away from the table. It was a plaque by the old lifesaving station dedicated to the memory of the people who served there. In my email I needed to report the date of the dedication of the monument.
The second cache was a little over a mile west. As I walked the trail, an overgrown two track, I saw numerous elaborate trail marking cairns marking the way. Someone has taken great pains to insure that their path could be followed. The cache turned out to be a sign marking the former site of "Frank's Farm". I was required to take a picture of myself, the sign, and my GPSr to get credit for that one. I poked around the area and saw Franks apple orchard but they are still way too green for sampling.
The next cache was something more than 2 miles further west at Lake Manitou. I put the GPSr in my pocket and hiked on. The trail marker cairns were becoming more and more elaborate assemblages. There were arrows formed by sticks and rocks as well as birch bark flags in the trail. One was even an arrow formed by birch bark strips inlaid into the side of a log. I was so entranced by them that when I next checked the GPSr I discovered that the trail I was supposed to be on had branched off over a half mile back.
I backtracked to the trail junction and took the trail to Manitou Lake. It was a nice walk through a fairly mature forest. Apart from the sound of the wind rising and falling in the tree tops causing some of the trees to creak and groan my world was still. Occasionally I heard a bird call or I was chattered at by red squirrels and chipmunks but there were none of the manmade sounds of civilization. On other caching trips, even deep in the woods very little time would pass before you would hear a chain saw or car horn in the distance. Here I hadn't even heard the sound of an airplane.
My presence coming downhill to the lake startled the resident Great Blue Heron and it slowly and majestically became airborne and flew up the lake. The cache was an old outhouse that had been built within 30 feet of the water. In those days I quess folks figured that what went in the hole was gone for good. To claim credit for this one I was to report the number of doors on it. Because of the stiff breeze from the north, what is usually mosquito heaven was very pleasant so I found a nice place to sit and read a couple of chapters of my book. It isn't a particularly good book, it's really a run of the mill pot boiler murder mystery but it was fun. It is set in Michigan and visits places like Detroit, Ann Arbor, Romulus and Northville. The grand finale takes place on The Bridge during the Labor Day walk.
The lake is fairly large and is managed for small mouth bass. Artificial lures only and an 18 inch size limit with a maximum of 1 fish per day in your possession. I don't know how many you can have in your stomach. I could see no signs of anyone else at the lake. It would be fun to be there in the evening to see the fish rise but then the bugs would be fierce.
I was back in the village area, at the same picnic table as this afternoon, just after 6:30. After I ate the rest of my lunch and filled my water bottles I went back to the tent to change into sandals, then walked down to the beach. Since the wind had been blowing hard all day the waves were still large and I could see only one boat out. It was a large cabin cruiser headed up the Manitou passage. It was rolling back and forth and heaving up and down. I don't know how high the waves were at the time but when it went into a trough it disappeared. Had I been on it I would have been scared to death. Apparently the folks on board felt the same way because after about 15 or 20 minutes of putting up with that and making very little forward progress, they turned back toward the south and Glen Arbor. I enjoyed wading in the lake but it was too cold and rough to swim.
On the way back to my campsite I saw a young couple starting a fire in the communal fire ring next door. There are two rings for the eight campsites and they are the only places on the entire island where open fires are permitted. I wasn't feeling sociable so I just went to my tent and read until a little after nine. Thinking back, after the orientation broke up, except for island staff and summer residents (there appear to be two privately owned structures in the village) and another couple filling bottles at the faucet, they were the only people I'd seen or heard all afternoon. I took two Advil and closed my eyes. In the distance was the constant background sound of the lake. From the nearest beach, about a hundred yards away the sound was of individual waves breaking on the shore but from farther to the north there was a steady droning as all the waves blended together. Occasionally there was a bird call or chipmunk chatter but even though I knew that there were more than a dozen people no more than a few yards, none were heard.
I soon nodded off but was awakened at 10:35 by marauding chipmunks. They were attacking my tent! I could hear them scampering along the side and up on the fly. I swatted the sides and lay there waiting for the next attack. After a while I dozed off when.... There they were again!! It was 1:15, and again at 3:30. This time I was fully awake and sat up to listen. I realized that chipmunks are not nocturnal. They were in their little dens sleeping. I decided that what was "attacking" must have been some kind of large insect, perhaps a beetle, scuttling across the outside surface of the tent.

Thursday, August 5, 2004

I woke at 5:30 and contemplated getting up. As with many things, sleeping on the ground is not as easy as it used to be. By 6:00 it was time to crawl out of the tent and attempt to stand. Two more Advil helped. Even though there was no evidence of hunger, as my mother used to say and my wife still does, "You've got to eat to keep up your strength". By adding boiling water to instant oatmeal and a tea bag I created breakfast.
By my guestimates and the Park Service trail maps, today's hike to the other side of the island for the last two caches will cover about 12 miles. I had hoped to do this on the day I arrived to get it out of the way first. If I had been able to get started by noon I could make it over and back by dark. Today I had the entire day. Because I was going so far for so long, I took the frame pack. It was nearly empty to make it lighter but it was still loaded with the equipment from yesterday and four quarts of water, trail snacks, food enough for lunch and an emergency dinner, a limited cooking kit, long pants, a jacket, extra socks, a poncho and a first aid kit.
Today's first cache was two miles away. It was described as being the most difficult because of the dense forest growth. I anticipated an abandoned tractor or truck back in the brush. Moving along the trail at a good clip, I spotted a small rusted piece of farm equipment. I took it as a sign that the cache would be near by.The GPSr pointed me to a spot about 150 feet ahead and off to the side. From past experience, the receiver often needs some time to catch up to the current position so I went ahead about 50 feet, dropped the pack and headed into some very heavy undergrowth. I began thrashing and circling without seeing anything that was "out of place". I took the receiver out to my pack in the clear, grabbed my compass and went back in for a more organized search pattern. I would walk south for about 100 feet, move east about 10 feet and then back north to the trail. After two or three unsuccessful passes I rechecked the GPSr, it was now pointing back up the trail about 50 feet right at the rusty piece of farm equipment! As I was looking it over to describe it in an email, I realized that anything I was supposed to find would undoubtedly be obvious and right by the trail because the folks who set these caches were casual visitors just like me. The Internet description of this cache said that it would be the most difficult find and because of that I made it so.
In talking about the trip with Jana, she had suggested that I drop a bottle of water by the trail to pick up on the way back so I stashed one here. I headed on through a very deep woods with many large trees, mostly beech and maple but there were some huge Hemlocks as well. The entire island was clear cut for lumber and firewood for steam ships in the 1800's but it has certainly regrown. It was a perfect day for hiking, unseasonably cool for August with a breeze that even penetrated the forest.
During my hike I tried to break for water and rest about every 45 minutes. At 9:00 I had about a mile to go. I decided that after finding it I would hike to the beach on the trail indicated on the map and spend a few hours. Maybe wade, change socks, read and although I wasn't yet hungry, perhaps eat lunch. My feet were sore but I really wasn't yet getting tired.
At about 9:45 the fifth and last cache was spotted by the side of the trail. It was a four foot high section of what was probably a hundred foot high radio tower. To claim credit for this one I had to describe it. I decided to write it up by the lake and looked for that trail. What presented its self was a barricade of tape and a prominent sign that announced that the area was closed for habitat restoration. OK fine! I don't need a trail anyway, the lake is only a half mile away, I can hear it, I'll just bushwack. I plunged into the undergrowth and headed west. My path was soon blocked by a swamp. I started circling it to the north in some fairly rough going when discretion set in. No one knows where I am. The thing that made a solo trip doable is that all the stops were on or near well maintained, well traveled trails and here I was wandering about in the brush. Retreat!!
Back to the trail I started north looking for another trail. In the distance I heard the high pitched voices and squeals of either children or young females. (Foreshadowing) Not what I was looking for. I went south to the trail to Swenson's barn. It turned out to be a huge structure in fairly good condition. At 11, in what had been Mr. Swenson's barnyard, I changed socks, hanging the used ones on the outside of the pack to dry. It was a very nice ex-barnyard but it's not the beach. So, after reading a couple more chapters and drinking some more water, I dumped out all but one quart and started out on the return trip.
On the way back I could feel that blisters were starting to form on my feet and my calves were starting to get sore. The trail crosses a couple of ridges. I had noticed them on the way out but now I felt the uphill portions in my thighs and experienced some heavy breathing. Another thing that I had failed to notice on the way out is that the next mile after the farm implement cache was a long gradual down hill. Now it was a long, long, up. I started to feel it. I picked up the cached water and dumped out everything else. I knew that if I took the trail straight at the junction I would come out at the beach on the east side of the island, that was where I was heading.
Just after noon, I saw the first person I'd seen all day. It was a young guy just off the day's 11 AM boat. We exchanged "HI's" and walked on. A little while later I came upon a grandfatherly looking gentleman with two small girls, perhaps 12 and 8 all carrying packs, we smiled and spoke. About 30 yards behind them trudged a sullen looking young boy of about 10 wearing flip flops. How far could they be going? What are they thinking?
There was another group at the trail intersection eating their lunch from restaurant carry out trays. This group consisted of two men and their young sons. I blew straight through the intersection and down the hill to the lake, I could hear it and soon, through the trees, I could see it. Then as I came around the curve in the trail I saw the dreaded sign. "This Area Closed For Habitat Restoration". It was amazing the effect this had on me. Suddenly I was gassed. It was my turn to trudge sullenly down the path. In about a half a mile I was able to find a path to the beach where I found a driftwood log upon which to rest. I took off my boots and waded for a while in the cold water. Then it was time to just kick back, read a couple more chapters in my book and rest. Even though I didn't feel hungry I ate my special treat. The girl in Eastern Mountain Sports said that the freeze dried ice cream sandwich was really great. To celebrate I pulled it out and bit in. Don't trust girls with pierced noses.
As I sat on my driftwood log, a flock of Merganser ducks swam past. The lake was still very rough with 3 - 4 foot waves crashing the shore but they just swam up one side and down the other. There were at least 50 of them just swimming past. I guess no one ever sang them the song that said "fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly". A short time later, a mom Merganser swam past with her seven kids. Three of them were riding on her back. Every once in a while, she would dive under and they would float off and then they'd all dive. Soon they'd group up again, a couple would climb on board and they'd keep swimming up and down the waves until it was time to dive again.
By shortly after 3:00 I was in my camp site laying in the shade on my sleeping pad reading my book with all five caches to my credit. The Park Service maps showed my total hiking for the two days was 19 miles although my GPSr only recorded 17. Most of the time it was in my pocket and that might have been a factor or perhaps the maps are based on less accurate data. In any event I was happy with the accomplishment.
By five o clock I still wasn't hungry but I fixed myself macaroni and cheese with tea anyway. It was the freeze dried stuff from EMS and it was quite tasty. The tea was decaffeinated Constant Comment and it wasn't. Following cleanup, a stroll up the beach to the village to fill water bottles for the morning was on the docket. The waves were still pounding in. Instead of building a sand castle, someone had built a stonehenge castle. It was pretty neat. While I was filling my bottles, a half dozen or more pre teen girls and their counselors came down the trail from the other side of the island, (Further Foreshadowing) I smiled and went down to the dock.
As I was going back to the camp site at 8:00, the young couple at the fire ring invited me to share it, I thanked them and explained that I was tired but thanks anyway. I crawled into the tent and read until I finished the book, about 9:15, and then took the last Advil and shut my eyes.
Then I heard a young male voice exclaim "Hey check it out, a fire pit." There were voices of both male and females who sounded as though they were late teens/early twenties and then the shrill little voices of the pre teen girl gang. Laughing, giggling and singing broke out. All this was accompanied by flashlights shining as people were rustling through the brush dragging branches. About 10, some of the girls adjourned to the camp site on the other side of me and I had partying and giggling in stereo. I remembered the time long ago in Pinery Provincial Park when we retaliated against a group of young loud late night partying campers by sending the kids out to play by their campsite while we fixed breakfast. Where could I find the kids? By 11 or so it was all over and quiet prevailed and I slept like a log.

Friday August 6, 2004
I woke up at 5:30 and lay in my sleeping bag dozing. I heard the sound of loud sniffing or snorting just feet away. I knew it had to be a deer. I sat up and looked out but couldn't see anything. As quietly and stealthily as possible I eased down the zipper on the front of the tent. There was a louder snort and then silence. When I stood up and looked around there was nothing to see. Since I was up, I got dressed and fixed another oatmeal breakfast and then began to pack up the camp. I took my time and put everything away just right but still, by 8:30 I was ready to take my pack to the dock to wait for the 11:00 O Clock boat.
I decided to make a separate trip just for trash and was cutting through the fire ring site when I saw the mystery. About 50 feet from the fire ring, adjacent to the trail to my site was a group of 2 and 3 inch saplings in approximately a five foot area bound together with rope and neatly trimmed finger sized sticks. These were woven and lashed together forming a sturdy lattice type platform at a height of about 4 1/2 feet from the ground.Evenly spaced around the outside of this structure were placed flat, six inch diameter beach stones about two feet apart forming a circle with about a five foot diameter. In the center of all of this, a hole had been dug that contained 5 or 6 large round rocks of an 8 to 10 inch diameter. What was it? I knew it hadn't been there last night when I walked past at 8 PM.
I went over to the next campsite where the young couple was packing up and asked them if they knew anything about it. They were as dumbfounded as I.
We had a nice chat. It seems that they were here by mistake. They had planned to camp for a week at the south island but didn't have reservations for the boat and couldn't get on. Rather than spend a night in a motel, they came here instead. In the course of the conversation, I learned that his name is Stephen and he is an Art teacher at Sturgis High School. Her name is Rina and she is 8 years younger and is a part time student at Western. They just had their second wedding anniversary and, as a surprise, he brought Champagne which he chilled with cold packs wrapped in a space blanket. I also learned that he has a rare incurable but treatable dermatological condition in which the subcutaneous fat cells harden into a mass and become very painful. His current eruption is on his calf and about 3 inches by 4 inches. This has severely limited their hiking ability while on the island. I told them about geocaching and they seemed quite interested.
Letting them get back to work, I hefted the pack and walked down to the dock area.
The lake this day was relatively flat, the wind had lessened in intensity and shifted to the west. Fishing boats had come across the passage to troll over the reef that lays just off shore from the island. At the picnic table by the dock a young man named Blake invited me to join him. He and his wife were there with their sea kayaks. I learned that they have been past Basswood Bend many times. They have done all the rivers and most of the lakes in the area. They have also been to Pictured Rocks but have not yet gotten out to Isle Royale. The told me it is high on their list of to do's. He is a Chemistry teacher at NMC and she is a social worker at the ISD. He offered me a cup of fresh brewed coffee from his "French press" and I jumped on it.(It was great! Beats the hell out of decaf Constant Comment.) One of their plastic cups was smashed when their boats were loaded to come over and he was reduced to drinking out of a tablespoon measure. In return I helped them move their boats and prepare them for loading.
The ferry back to Leland was late and when it arrived the reason was obvious. There was a full load of 50 campers with their packs on board. While we waited out on the dock for the ferry, Rina came over and explained the mystery of the rope and sticks. It turned out that she and the female counselor with the girl gang had gone to High School together in Coldwater. They missed each other at the campfire last night by about 15 minutes but if Stephen's plans had gone right, they never would have been on the same island at all. Anyway, the solution to the mystery. It's an Indian sweat lodge or a sauna! After heating the large rocks in the fire pit, they put them in the center hole and then they put ponchos over the framework held in place by the flat rocks. Once inside they poured water on the hot rocks to create steam thus "cleansing the impurities from their system". It's so Waaraesque.
The North Manitou ferry is a converted Lake Michigan fish tug. It holds fifty people but only if thirty five sit up on top of the pilot house. I sat inside, sharing the space with the cuddily couple from the trip over. They hadn't gotten mad at each other in the last three days. I wrote in my journal and dozed for the hour run back to the mainland. Once there they off loaded the packs and prepared to run drivers up to the parking lot in a shuttle. Not being in the mood to wait, I grabbed my pack and headed up the street the 1/4 mile to the parking lot. I grabbed my car and headed nonstop on the quickest shortest route to 888 E. River Rd. I was home before 2:00, tired and sore but ready for some Steiger Grundy. (Recipe upon request).

In retrospect;
I would do a similar trip if the occasion were to present its self. I was lucky with the weather but had there been a chancy forecast I would have waited for a better time. I now know that had the campground been full there are spots available in the "Wilderness Area" just south of the village which are nearly as close to drinking water. That might solve the party problem. Hiking boots are unnecessary in that the total distance carrying the pack is little more than a mile and a good pair of New Balance walking shoes would be lighter and more comfortable. Bringing extra food was probably a good idea but there was no need to lug food and 4 quarts of water on the long hike. I did see a few people with the camel back things. I never put on long pants but they are a good thing to have just in case. I think I would explore the light weight zip off things.
Putting caches on the islands and requiring extra planning and effort to claim them is a good idea but this set is pretty lame. They show no planning or special effort in their placement. It is pretty obvious that the cache owners hiked a loop trail and called anything they saw by the trail a cache.
The Swenson barn is just a short distance down a side trail but I'll bet they never saw it. A more interesting set would incorporate some human and natural history into the mix. I find a cache more interesting if it takes you to an interesting place rather than one that is just a piece of junk by the side of the trail. There is a cemetery and a location named "Fat Annie's" on the south end of the island. If there had been cache in the vicinity I would have worked a hike to them into the mix. That touches on the question of "Why did you go there?" The answer is that I went to find caches, have fun, and meet a physical challenge. Were it not for them the island would probably sit there forever with out my presence. I'm disappointed that when I found them they didn't have more of a "Wow!" factor.

Donuts for Mother

Dick left this morning around 7:30 a.m. to start his trek to North Manitou. He is taking a prodigious amount of stuff, but he claims that he only has to carry it about 300 yards to the campground. North Manitou is an island which does not allow anything with wheels, so everything is done on foot. 300 yards - hmm - the length of 3 football fields - hmm - sounds kinda far to me.


He'll be fine - he's really looking forward to this adventure. He's planning to come back on the Friday noon boat, so he'll be home sometime late Friday afternoon. I understand that there are 7 caches on the island, but they're all virtual caches - which means no containers or anything - you just have to take pictures of various objects and describe them to the cache owner in order to log your find.
I took Mother some sweet corn for her supper, and we visited for quite a long time. Then she suggested that we drive out to that donut place (Dunkin Donuts).

So off we went. We stopped on the way home to get her some more frozen dinners and microwave meals. It was a nice afternoon. I was glad that Dick left me the good car.

The outside temperature right now is 66 degrees, with a stiff breeze, and it's 9 p.m. and getting dark. The reason I'm mentioning this is that some tubers just went by on the river yelling and screaming - they must be freezing to death.