The Road of Our Own

As we headed north to Lake Erie, the charming towns and farmhouses became further and further apart, like how the stars in the universe slowly expand away from each other, the interim filled with what you might think is nothingness but is in fact filled with incredible weight. Whether dark matter or sea of corn fields, it is a force to be reckoned with; I can feel it. One might imagine never escaping this place, hampered down by the endless chores, backbreaking labor and months entrenched in deep snow.  And I might now understand why my parents, barely in their 20's, jumped at the chance to join the Air Force and fly away to see the world. 

I felt Lake Erie in the air before we arrived at its shores.  Thick with moisture, even the atmosphere seemed to want to inhale the vast waters after so many miles hovering over flat farmland. As we arrived at East Harbor State Park on a peninsula that juts out into the Great Lake at the northwest corner of the state, we discovered we had just missed a rainstorm, and all the mosquitoes had come out to celebrate.  The sky was dimming prematurely thanks to lingering clouds, so we hurried to pitch our tent along the short wooded road that was reserved for tent-campers.  Across the way there was an entire small city of RVs who must've been there to enjoy the boating and fishing, since there wasn't much nature going on in that parking lot. Over on our side, we each had our own lawn and woods. We were like the mellow kids smoking out back of the high school gym while the dance party raged on under bright lights inside.

The sky cleared up a bit and in the gloaming we ventured out to the lake, where along the way we encountered an inlet filled with geese and water lilies. This area is a remnant of the Great Black Swamp...seems some of those fields we passed on our way here were meant to be marshes teeming with life.  Settlers drained them and began planting crops, as settlers are wont to do, and now only ten percent of Ohio's original wetlands remain.  We walked along the lake, steel gray and not at all what I had imagined. A couple years ago, I visited my aunt's house on Lake Michigan near Traverse City; recalling the water's emerald-jewel shine, I expected this to be the same. After a long dreary day of driving, I was ready for the sun and a strip of sand along sparkling water, as promised on the Ohio State Parks website.  It was not to be, and I pouted, dear reader, yes I did. 

But we got some great photos of the water lilies at sunset, and Keaton showed off his dog-manliness at all those geese-bogeys, who squawked in annoyance.  I was by then pretty tuckered out and ready for my picnic meal, bare bones as it was (we were down to peanut butter and jam on Ritz crackers and fruit), and the next chapter of The Road. 

Back in Hocking Hills, we began reading aloud Cormac McCarthy's novel about a father and son on an apocolyptic journey to safety.  We were captivated by the torturous trek of parent and child -- gruesome and harrowing in the circumstances, yet not unlike the journey every parent and child make together -- and maybe every longterm relationship: navigating fear and danger, losing and finding trust and faith, the constant knitting and binding, the painful letting go. It seemed a fitting book, being on our own version of The Road.

The sky finally dark and cooling off, and wood still too wet for a fire, we were getting close to turning in. My husband picked a gentle tune on the guitar.  Keaton and I at the picnic table were lulled to near hypnosis, when suddenly Keater leapt up and, at a full dash, ran about 10 yards toward the woods.  Dieter! I sharply yelled (for that is his other name, from Keater-Dieter). And to my amazement, he turned right back around and....dove into barrel roll after frantic barrel roll, as the wall of skunk slammed into my face. Skunk! I yelled, paying no mind that it was after 10pm quiet time.

Skunk, if you have not had the pleasure, smells like burnt rubber doused perhaps with old urine. Plus maybe some day-old burnt coffee (like when someone forgets to turn off the burner at work?). Times 10. No, times 100.

It was late at night. We were in a park, miles from a town. Skunk does not come off with soap and water. It is oil.  (Nature is very clever.) What were we to do?  We tied him to the picnic bench, got into our tent, and prayed it didn't rain.

At first light, my husband dashed to town for two cans of tomato juice, the standard home remedy and only option.  We doused him, whereupon he promptly rolled in the dirt, which only made it gunk up more.  He looked like Dirty Halloween Dog.  And he still stunk.

So we took him over to the water hose area for RVs and scrubbed him with soap and water. He still stunk.

We set him on a picnic table, got out the scissors, and chopped away as much fur as we possibly could without skinning him. We did nick him a few times (poor baby) and he didn't even wince. He knew we were in hunker-down Code Red (orange?) mode. When it was over, he still stunk a little, but not too bad. But he looked like hell, and was still faintly orange.

Our whole campsite had smelled him. All morning, one by one, the neighbors stopped by, friendly and curious, while looking sympathetically at the dog as if they were visiting a child stricken with measles, poor puppy. A heavily tattooed, washed out looking girl offered her car's scented cone, but it had a reek all of its own, so we politely declined.  All the rangers came by, zipping up in the golf carts, each one jovial and quick to relay previous campers' skunk misfortunes. We were grateful for everyone's kindness.

Minus a leash, collar and blanket, all beyond salvage (but we had spares), we packed up the car and took off to catch the ferry for Kelley's Island perched in the middle of Lake Erie.  Though rain had been predicted, the sky cleared up magnificently, and with all the windows down airing out the smell, we had a beautiful trip out to the small, quaint island of Victorian homes and narrow streets, where ice cream shops and putt-putt golf are the main attraction, and most people--having crossed over as pedestrians--rented golf carts to get around.  The water had turned a lovely turquoise under a gleaming sun.  We got a great little campsite and headed off to the beach where the shallow water was the perfect temperature for a dip. Keaton soaked for a good long while as we let our eyes gaze far out into the distance -- north toward Canada, and east as far as the eye could see was this magnificent glacier pond.  We treated ourselves to an ice cream that night in town, and read a few more chapters of The Road by flashlight. 

Hidden all snug in our tent, Keaton now allowed back in, I wondered how well, like the boy and his father in the story, we carried the light inside us. That light of humanity. I fall short at times I know, but it felt like it was glowing a little warmer and brighter in me on this shared journey that had become as much about examining the internal landscape as taking in the world.  Even with the scent of skunk still lingering in the air. Maybe even made better because of it.