Typed up a day or so ago.


I managed to get to Mackinac Island 8/18, fortunately enough, since the weather took a nasty turn the night after with rain pouring down all night. My urine hasn't been acting up terribly for weeks, which is a nice and deserved change of pace, but also a worrisome one since that extra fluid has to be accumulating somewhere. I decided to go the week before my period since that's when I tend to let out the least fluid, so I kept that week clear, meaning putting off my next-to-last bladder instill (that's a depressing topic for another entry, only two of them left, no improvement so far), but wouldn't you know it...the very night before I decided to go, I didn't get to sleep until around three as my urine started to act up. Wonderful. It let up, but then started up again THE VERY MOMENT I AWOKE to get ready to leave. Fortunately, it just as quickly let up again, and remained low to regular the rest of the trip, so although I was tempted at one point I didn't have to go in the woods.

Which was just as well as IT WAS SO FRIGGING BUSY! I've been there around this late in the year before and enjoyed it since most of the tourists are done by then, but not so this year. I honestly didn't think I'd even get a ride on the current ferry, the Captain Shepler, when I got there, the line was so huge. It was mostly annoying old women who didn't know where they were going. There was even a huge lineup in the restroom. Cripes. If I'd waited a half hour for the next ferry, I could have gone under the Mackinac Bridge, since the ten o'clock ferry (I believe it is) does that, but it takes a bit longer to get to the island and I didn't feel like waiting, so I decided to take the current one. There was an old man ahead of me who had his ticket torn, then returned and asked for the stub back so he could catch the ten o'clock ferry and see the bridge. Fft. I sat on the proper side to see the bridge well this year (for some reason I always sit on the wrong side), though it's not very good for taking pictures from the ferry, plus somebody had really scratched up the panel of glass in my window.

For some reason the time stamp on all my pictures is an hour off. I set the clock in accordance with the time change, so I have no clue why it's wrong. Dumb thing. Plus there's some sort of little obstruction or flaw inside the lens now and it shows up in some pictures--so annoying. Weirdly, it doesn't show up in all of them, but it does show up in some, especially toward the end. I tried wiping and cleaning the lens but it seems to be inside the camera. Grrr. It started out at the very bottom edge but moved its way up a bit and looks like a little stick or hair in the shots. Stupid thing. It was never there before so I don't know what caused it; I'm terribly careful with the camera and cards. Psychologist had asked me, "Will you take 500 pictures this year?" (she'd been in disbelief when I'd said I take that many photos as a matter of course); I'd replied, "Probably not THAT many," since I felt my walk would be rather short. I ended up taking over 700. x_x

I had wanted to visit Cave of the Woods, but that would entail walking way out to British Landing to use their bathroom, and I really didn't have the heart. I was so terribly anxious about going this year; I'm always terrified of going EVERY year, which may sound weird considering how much I love the place, but I have this recurring dream that I'm on the island and suddenly realize I forgot my map, and my camera, and various other necessities, and it totally ruins the trip. I've had plenty of bad experiences with digital cameras before (accidentally erased all my UAW photos from the old Polaroid, dropped it and the old Canon in the lake, inexplicably lost some photos from the old Canon on my Georgia trip though I recovered them mostly intact from Yahoo! Photos), so that plays a big part in it. Plus there was the bladder issue--that made me feel even worse. So yes, every year before I go to the island, in the days leading up to it I'll be thinking, "I don't want to go! I don't want to go! I just want to stay home!!" That's how used I am to routine.

I compromised and decided not to visit the cave after all (I haven't been out there since...2006, my photos say...cripes, that long, really?), but instead to stick closer to restroom areas; since I dread Fort Street so much, I would instead take Crow's Nest Trail to reach the top of the bluff, head up Garrison Road past the Turtle's Back, explore Lost Bear Trail since I've passed it many times but have never looked at it despite its intriguing name, take that to Cliffview and then to Morning Snack Trail (remember it from my 2007 trip?) and hope that I could tolerate the heights, maybe pass by Fort Holmes, maybe not, take the steps down from Point Lookout past Sugar Loaf, then take one of the bicycle trails to Rifle Range Road and get to Arch Rock to use the restroom; then to take Arch Rock Road to explore Winnebago Trail, which I've never seen before, then Pottawatomie Road (ditto), and get back down Crow's Nest Trail into the park, the end. Just browse around the Turtle's Back and the East Bluff a little. Plus what I knew of Morning Snack and Cliffview Trails told me they were pretty secluded so if I had to go, well...

The trip wasn't terribly eventful but I did end up enjoying it, and of course taking too many photos. I got a new 2gb card (the largest they offer in SD cards, apparently a camera as old as ours won't take high-def SD cards in larger sizes) while they're still making them since they'll probably phase them out soon, and really did need it. I haven't cleared off the previous card or the one before that, I'm just so paranoid of losing my Mackinac Island pics.

I skirted the crowds after arriving and headed for the public restroom, noticing that the Haunted Theater was closed--if I had time, I really wanted to check it out since I haven't been there in years--though I recalled it was closed this early the last time I'd seen it, and it opened up later, so perhaps it would be so when I returned. Then headed into Marquette Park. I had irrational fears that Crow's Nest Trail would be closed or some such, it happens, but there it was, this stairway tucked away, just about hidden in the back corner of the park. I took more photos of the limestone formations and the bizarre cedar growing there (last photographed in 2007, and prior to that, 2005); it seems to lose more limbs every year, another large hunk had broken loose, but is still hanging on. Annoyingly, a person or two passed me on my way up, so even this little-used trail wasn't as empty as I'd thought it would be. The height of the trail made me terribly nervous. At the top, I as usual got a bit turned around, but managed to find Garrison Road. There was an old woman on a bicycle, riding with her younger relatives--a daughter or daughter-in-law, I presume, and her own kids--and they kept yelling at her to shift gears or speeds or whatever. I have no idea how such bikes work, the last one I had had one speed--as fast as you could pedal it--and foot brakes, so I'd probably kill myself on a more newfangled bike. I passed behind the fort, spotting some Canada geese resting on the lawn, and it was here that I first noticed that annoying flaw in the camera lens. Worried that I'd be accused of trespassing or something, I hurried on, pleased to recognize some boulders that I'd last photographed in 2007, as well as the little fire hydrant in the woods (ditto; it must have been repainted, as it's shockingly red in the new photo, compared to the older one). I admired the various hillocks and hollows, myrtle fields, and tree stumps that I passed. And of course took way too many photos of them.

I didn't stay long at Skull Cave since it's fenced off and has been photographed before, though I did zoom in to check out the interior. A carriage tour passed by, the driver chattering about Alexander Henry, then as I turned to leave, another carriage passed by, another driver chattering about Alexander Henry. I wonder if they ever get tired of telling the same stories so many times to gawking tourists who probably forget all about them as soon as they're back home. I also passed rather quickly by Ste. Anne's Cemetery (though I had to shoot its lovely gate), but loitered a bit longer near the Post Cemetery, since it's so scenic. There was a guy or two there and I felt they were staring at me as if wondering what I was doing, though that was probably just me, since I'm sure I look just as touristy as everybody else.

The batteries in the camera ran low here, just as back in 2006, but that year taught me my lesson and I carry nothing but Duracell now, so I stopped at the cemetery wall to change them and continued on my way. One of the cemeteries, the Mackinac Island one I think, has this crazy-looking dead tree in it, branches going every which way, so I had to photograph that.

I reached Lost Bear Trail almost before I knew it, and headed down. As I said, I've passed this numerous times but have never explored it--it always seemed vaguely mysterious and secluded under heavy tree cover. Unfortunately, it wasn't as secretive and mysterious as I'd hoped, maybe due to the sunshine; the tree cover was mostly younger trees. Oh well. I just hoped it wasn't a horse trail, as I discovered Swamp Trail is. One thing I'd love to do on the island is take along my CD player and listen to it as I walk, since I tend to associate music with the places or scenes where I listened to it (for years I associated Enigma's "Silence Must Be Heard" with a hot, hazy Straits of Mackinac, since I'd been listening to that song when my brother, sister-in-law, and mother drove back from the 2001 trip, I believe it was; and I associated Adiemus's "In Caelum Fero" with thunderstorms, as I'd been listening to it on the drive from my brother's and sister-in-law's place to the airport during the beginning of a stupendous-looking show of clouds in the sky; and I unfortunately associated Crowded House's "Don't Dream It's Over" with dead bodies, as that song was playing during such a scene in The Stand), but I know that if I did, I would end up trampled by a horse or run over by a bike. So, no music for me. I did keep playing ES Posthumus tunes in my head as I walked, though, in particular "Nolitus/Nolitus Pi" and especially "Selisona Pi," I adore that song.

I had to keep reminding myself to look up at the treetops every so often. Looking up is something I so rarely do, and I'm quite short, so I miss a lot that's higher than five feet. I'm used to seeing everything at eye level and below. I never knew the conical shape of cedars as I just never looked up past their lower branches, for example. So that was something I worked on this year, particularly along Winnebago Trail, to come later.

I paused to examine a tree whose trunk had been formed into a sort of whorled fingerprint pattern, maybe by worm activity. Somewhere along the way, a woman walking two dogs overtook me, greeting me with a hello before vanishing further into the woods, so I realized this trail wasn't totally deserted. I saw how the land rose into the bluff of the Turtle's Back off to my right, since Lost Bear Trail runs parallel to Cliffview Trail, which I intended to reach next. Limestone cropped out here and there.

I was then overtaken by a few people on horseback just as I reached what must be Cliffview Trail, and stepped aside to let them past up the bluff, feeling vaguely annoyed to be running into so many people out in the middle of nowhere. I got briefly confused, since there was a junction of what looked to be three trails, not the two I had expected, but I figured the third was just the continuation of Lost Bear Trail and, not wanting anyone to see me perusing my map too long lest they offer unwanted advice (recall "You're almost to British Laaaaandiiiiinnng," from 2004?), I went up in the same direction as the horses--"It doubles back a bit, that's how you know it's the right way," I told myself, and sure enough, the trail rose and then doubled back a bit. Then voila, I reached Morning Snack Trail. Just as steep as I'd remembered it. I can go up better than I can get down, and I'd managed it once before, so I carefully picked my way up, though I did put the camera in my purse and held onto roots and such on the way. At the top I of course took a picture similar to one back in 2007, to congratulate myself on making it up. I did hope nobody was lurking about to see my tentative progress and wonder what was wrong with me.

So, now I was atop the Turtle's Back, the Ancient Island, the oldest part of Mackinac Island. Just as my last time here, the wind gusted in the trees and I imagined it was the waters of Glacial Lake Algonquin smashing the shore and creating sea caves. I also heard the drone of planes leaving the airport now and then. I spotted a large tree tumor or burl I'd photographed the last time, and a fallen log with a split in it, and a charred-looking stump rising from the ground like a bad tooth, and a crazy-looking fallen tree's root system, and an equally crazy-looking fallen tree with branches going out every which way, and a tree with a dark gash in its side, and a lovely myrtle field, all of which I'd photographed the last time, so it was a delight to recognize all these signs after all this time. I also found a pile of broken branches and sticks piled neatly at the base of a tree, perhaps removed from the trail, and wondered who could have put them there in so orderly a fashion.

Up here, the woods were relatively open and easy to traverse beyond the trail, little undergrowth, as I could easily step into them onto the leaf-covered ground to take a photo. The corpses of long-dead trees littered the ground like a graveyard. One spot in the trail was so rutted and muddy that the sticks that had been laid over it to facilitate travel were long dislodged and sinking everywhere, but the mud was hard enough that I could pick my way across carefully. A bicyclist passed me going the opposite way, telling me good morning, which I found odd as it felt later than that. Someplace up here I had to stop and change the batteries again. On Morning Snack Trail I had been tempted to go in the woods, but told myself to hold it in since it wasn't distressing and I should really learn to hold it in better when it's just a niggle. So far I was holding up, which was good, seeing all these people I kept running across in the most out-of-the-way places! I admired a view of a vast hollow off to the right, and wondered what geological formation it might have represented.

I finally reached Fort Holmes Road. I had kind of wanted to visit the fort since I haven't been there in quite a while, but there isn't much to see aside from the nice view, and I was getting kind of tired; plus I could hear a lot of people ahead and knew from all my run-ins already that it was likely loaded with fudgies. So I decided to skip it and head straight to Point Lookout. Annoyingly, there was a guy there sitting at the little table under the shade, just staring off into space; it seems every time I show up at Point Lookout there's somebody monopolizing the table. So I ignored him and went up the little set of steps to the side to see the view overlooking Sugar Loaf and Lake Huron and all the woods in between. Off to the side I spotted what I believe is the same largely debranched dead tree I photographed back in 2005, plus the same mini caves in the breccia bluff on my way down the stairs. They were bigger than the photos made them look; the large one in my pics in reality looked almost big enough for a person to curl up in. They would be fantastic places to stash things, like for geocaching, if one could reach them without either breaking park rules or killing themselves. As I took photos down here I could just see the edge of the lookout's roof several feet above, and wondered if the guy up there could hear my camera clicking. Again the height of the stairs unnerved me and I had to be careful not to pay too much attention to the spaces between them. There are little benches set on landings here and there along the taller stairways such as here and on Crow's Nest Trail, and one looked particularly nice for a photo; however, I now noticed a family with their little kids working their way up toward me. Ugh. The boy exclaimed, "There's a bench, let's sit on it!" but the dad kept them moving and they went up past me. The boy was gasping and huffing and panting already--I suspect he was doing it just to be funny, but if he was genuinely tired, I told myself, there was no way he'd make it to the top of the bluff since they'd just started!

While high up I'd been startled to think I saw a person perched on the very top of Sugar Loaf, then let out my breath to realize it was just a tree or shrub.

The bottom step, from the wooden stairs to the ground, was rather steep and I had to jump down. Weird. The little dirt trail here was lined with roots. I paused only briefly at Sugar Loaf Rock as I have plenty of pictures of it, though I did notice an odd little wood sculpture I'd never seen before, sitting beside a log I assume was meant to be a bench. The "sculpture" was merely part of a tree's twisted root system, with a hunk of rock or cement stuck between them, a lot like the tortuous tree on the bluff along Crow's Nest Trail. Sugar Loaf Road, AKA the North Bicycle Trail, forms a long U around Sugar Loaf, so I was perplexed for a moment trying to determine which way to go, but at last figured it out. (What's doubly confusing is that there is also a Former North Bicycle Trail running parallel to it.) As I walked along I admired the way the sun struck the ground brightly between dark trees, and again had to remind myself to look up; the sun backlights the leaves in beautiful ways. I found a stand of very young new-growth trees, almost forming a lacy curtain in the woods.

As I walked in solitude, I heard little rustling noises coming from the woods to my right. I slowed down and peered into the undergrowth to see it moving here and there; I suspected the culprit, but it wasn't until I saw stripes that I realized I was right; a chipmunk was foraging in the leaves just off the road. As I watched, he crept out and came right up to my feet, sniffing my shoes. This amazed me so much that I carefully got the camera out and zoomed in on him to get the closest shot I could, but it was too close, so I zoomed out a bit, but just then he must have realized I didn't have any food to offer him, so he turned and went back into the woods. So I missed that shot, though I did get a picture of his back as he sat among the leaves. A moment later, I heard rustling off to my other side; the chipmunk I'd just seen scurried out across the road ahead of me, then the one that had been rustling on the side opposite raced out into the road, they chased each other in a circle, then vanished. Somebody must have been feeding the little boogers, for them to be so bold.

I then reached Rifle Range Road and headed east. I passed Oneota Trail, which I've never taken before, and paused there, but my map said it went meandering off the way I wasn't going, so I passed it up. As I paused to look at some wildflowers, a tour carriage went by, the driver chattering now about how the island was little more than a great hunk of limestone coated with a thin layer of topsoil--"The soil is only about two or three feet thick, in some places four at the most, but no deeper..." That carriage passed, then another one came in its place, the driver chattering as if taking up where the other had left off, "...When the British soldiers came here, they knew this, so they cut down all the trees and used that limestone to build Fort Mackinac. When crushed and mixed with water it forms a kind of slurry, and they used that to whitewash the walls, so that's why the fort is white..."

I had read before about the island being basically a limestone hunk covered in dirt, but I was impressed anew by this information. I also hadn't been aware that they covered such topics on the carriage tours; I figured it was all the most basic stuff. Like Alexander Henry in Skull Cave.

I passed Sugar Loaf Road again--the road I had just left. I already mentioned how it forms a sort of U; this was the other end of the road. Either way I'd gone, I would have reached Rifle Range Road, but this way had been shorter. I think. I'm not good at measuring distances on windy trails.

I passed the same grouping of boulders I'd passed and photographed in 2006. How lame is it that I recognize these things when half the time I wouldn't even remember what I did yesterday if I didn't do the same thing every day? Weird. I just now noticed this time, however, that there was a space under one of the rocks, just perfect to hide a message or something; I hadn't prepared such a message this year, though, so left none. Maybe another time. I keep hoping somebody as fanatical about the island as I am will come across one of the messages I leave but so far no luck. Oh well. There probably isn't anybody as fanatical as me. I mean, look, here I am photographing the same trees and clumps of rocks year after year like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. *shrug*

I found a child's abandoned sippy cup lying in the road. I'm constantly annoyed by the sight of generic trash even in the most out-of-the-way places, like a Starbucks cup or a water bottle, but every so often you get a more obscure piece of litter that just seems puzzling or eerie, such as the time I found a torn length of electrical cord with a plug on the end trampled way out in the middle of State Road (2004, no photo available). I wondered whose child had dropped this and why no one had picked it up.

I passed familiar Leslie Avenue and took a photo nearly identical to one from 2006 except back then it was overcast and this year it was sunny. Amazing what a difference in appearance such a small thing can make. I've found that I like wooded photos taken in overcast lighting better than those taken in bright sunlight; the contrasts aren't as shocking, and there's more subtlety and nuance of color. The drawback is such photos often come out blurrier due to the low light. In any case, the older photo strikes me as more attractive than the new one with its glary beams of sunlight and shadow and the way the light makes the trees look so stark.

The number of carriages passing me only increased the closer I got to Arch Rock. There was a lot of activity and I feared that there would be nowhere for me to sit and eat in peace, stupid fudgies being here so late in the year! I used the bathroom (I think it had been about 3.5hrs since I last went, not too bad), where the floors were hideously wet, then was fortunate enough to locate an empty picnic table under the trees next to a family of a mother and two or three young girls. I didn't even bother to go take a shot of the Arch, for the same reasons I passed on Fort Holmes and Sugar Loaf. I drank some of my water, then took out the croissant sandwich Ma had bought me that morning at Mickey's Mini Mart ("It won't take as long as at Subway since they're already made, plus they're really good"), but it was just as I'd told her would happen, the lettuce and tomato on it had soaked through the bread and cheese, making it slimy and unpalatable. I lost my appetite almost immediately, I managed to make it through about half of the soggy thing before giving up and wrapping it and sticking it in the plastic zip bag I'd brought along for the camera in case it rained. Yuck, yuck, yuck. I knew I should have gotten a Subway sandwich, without lettuce or tomatoes; they get flat, but at least they stay edible. So I didn't get to eat very much and just drank some more of my water and watched a man fill up bucket after bucket with water and hold them under the noses of the carriage horses (in teams of three) for them to drink, the horses spilling a good deal of the water when they stuck their noses in; as each new carriage arrived the process was repeated, and now I know why the ground is always so wet at Arch Rock. I pitied the thirsty horses for I knew how they felt.

The eldest of the three girls, returning from the direction of the bathrooms, stopped suddenly several yards away and commenced hacking and choking, bending over as if ready to throw up. She at last recovered and returned to her table, still coughing. I could tell most of it was just melodrama (she looked to be around twelve or thirteen, just right for that behavior); a little bit later, at the table, she repeated this behavior and then spat on the ground. So disgusting! Even her mother exclaimed for her to shut her mouth, and asked if she'd swallowed another bug--the girl said no, I didn't hear her excuse, but cripes, get over it. Don't go hacking and spitting on the ground in front of other people trying to eat their lunch! So rude. That, added to my slimy sandwich (I was tempted to throw it away, but I try to bring all my trash home with me as the island has limited dumping space and recycling is strongly encouraged), made me feel rather ill, though my stomach was still half empty. Oh well. There was nothing to be done for it. I used the bathroom once more, then headed off again, this time taking Arch Rock Road to Winnebago Trail.

Yet again, due to the twisty and doubling-back nature of so many of the trails, I wasn't sure where to head, but the directions righted themselves soon enough and I was on my way for the second leg of my trip. I admit I felt rather pleased with myself for making it this far without much trouble; the next part should be a breeze, since both the Arch Rock restrooms and the public ones in town were within no great distance. And all the walking around for hours made me have to pee less; I had heard on TV recently how much water the body uses up walking in hot weather, but I forgot how many quarts the guy said, and how long spent walking. Surely I'd burned up the amount I typically drink daily, by now. I told myself this to allay my guilt at already having drunk half my 20oz bottle of water when I'd told myself I would drink as little as I possibly could; on previous trips, I'd brought much bigger bottles of water and had refilled them when possible, but not so this time.

The number of cedars increased in this area, some growing in huge clusters which I found fascinating. It wasn't long before I arrived at Winnebago Trail, which cuts through what is (at least, according to my map) an otherwise empty area of the East Bluff, a big wide triangle of nothingness wedged between Arch Rock, Robinson's Folly, and the Cass Memorial (Francois's cabin and the Dupries house are probably situated somewhere around in there, in my stories), so I did hope it would be nice and private. A great number of the photos I ended up taking were from this part of the trip.

Winnebago Trail was pretty uneventful; although I heard people on nearby trails/roads, I met nobody, and after a while the noises faded into just those of birdsong and very distant town noises like ferry horns or something down on the lake. All that there was to be found along the way was cedar woods, cedar woods, cedar woods, their roots twisting and knobbing across the dirt trail, which itself sometimes split into two and then merged back into one again, always with cedars everywhere. I had to remind myself to look up. And I was in heaven.

Nothing really happened here but it was the best part of the trip. I loved that trail so much, it was so peaceful and beautiful. All the cedars and the silence and the lovely roots and you could see way off to the sides into yet more cedars. The sun had mainly disappeared behind the gathering clouds by now, so most of the shots I took at this time are in low, overcast light, the colors washed out into cool shades, which is better than they would have looked in bright sunlight, but the camera still did not do it justice. I loved how still and peaceful the soft light made it all. The landscape seemed so vast and empty. I passed more graveyards of dead fallen trees and even they were beautiful.

I came to a steep dip in the trail where it vanished into a dark cavern of overhanging branches. I hadn't expected this; the map doesn't show the trail descending any part of the bluff. I didn't care; I'd handled Morning Snack Trail so this should be easy enough, plus the sheer beauty of the place somewhat inured me to my acrophobia. I carefully picked my way down, taking many photos of the process. A few times the sun peeked out, but I preferred it to remain hidden, and just hoped I would not get rained on. I handled a few more dips here and there, just meandering along staring at the seemingly endless landscape of cedars.

At one point I got an eerie feeling that I was the only person here, in a total wilderness, and it was just by chance that I was on something that functioned as a trail; everything seemed so quiet and untouched that it was easy to believe nobody had ever been here before, or at least, nobody had done anything to alter the environment and nobody had ever stayed long. I felt I was several hundred years in the past, and someplace completely different. The feeling was such that I had to stop and look around myself as if to make sure this was the same place I knew so well, since the landscape was so foreign to me and the feeling so strange. Especially after all the people I'd been running into all day, to suddenly be so alone was eerie. I had to keep walking. The feeling wasn't a completely unpleasant one, almost dissociative.

I was surprised, thus, to come across what looked to be rudimentary benches situated to the left--I found them amusing, what were these tottery primitive benches doing way out here in the middle of nowhere, where obviously nobody came walking enough to require a seat to rest upon? Why did they form three sides, as if with the intent to hold an audience, when all there was to observe was the woods? Yet there they were; I photographed them. Despite being a sign of the civilization I was now reluctant to return to, they were charming, in their own way. It looked like one more snowy winter and rainy spring was all that was required to make them give in and topple over and like the graveyards of trees become just another part of the landscape.

The scenery here, like further north along the East Bluff, was full of hillocks and hollows, mainly representing the holes left behind by toppled trees, though I like to imagine at least a few such hollows are the result of collapsed underground caves. It's plausible; I believe Stanley posits this in Prehistoric Mackinac Island. I reminded myself to look up, and thought back to a similar moment in 2007 when not far from this area I paused to rest and look up into the treetops, enjoying them despite my exhaustion.

I had planned to turn onto Pottawatomie Road, which runs along behind the East Bluff cottages, parallel to Huron Road which goes out front of them, but when I reached where Winnebago Trail intersected with it I got nervous. There were trimmed, shaped bushes here, both along the continuation of the trail and along to the right where I'd planned to head, so I had the feeling tourists weren't meant to wander around here, so close to the private cottages. I'm almost positive it's a public road, the map says so, but I was too nervous of a repeat of 2004's trip, so decided I would continue to the end of Winnebago Trail and just take Huron Road back to my starting point. I shot a few furtive photos of the nice shrubbery and a nice fenced-in yard (something around here smelled oddly "chemically") before sneaking along and creeping out into the road to head past the cottages.

I was back in familiar territory now, but no less nervous, since it's so close to the cottages and just seems like a private area; I'm always afraid of getting in trouble trespassing. There weren't many people around and for some reason I got the distinct feeling that those who were there weren't tourists like me, though I had nothing on which to base that, they acted touristy enough. I took a few shots of the painted ladies, but only a couple in fullview; the trees and gardens out front were just as interesting, so I tried framing my shots to include those and part of the houses behind. The steeple of Ste. Anne's was visible above the harbor and there was a great view of sailboats anchored in the water, and kites dipping in the distance, so I couldn't get enough shots of all this. A group of people stood at an overlook admiring this view while a crew of men worked at trimming trees alongside the road. I felt uncomfortable as I passed them, taking pictures of the houses, since I just hate being seen as the typical fudgie thinking "OH pretty houses!" I also wonder if the cottage owners get irritated with all the people pausing to photograph their homes. Probably not, but I know such a thing would irritate me, so I tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, quickly framing shots, taking them, and hurrying on. I saw a little boy meandering boredly through the side yard of one cottage and it surprised me, since it's hard to keep in mind that people actually live there at least part of the year.

I was now back where I'd started, Crow's Nest Trail, and I took this back down to the park below, where there were now children playing at the little play area beside the base of the steps. In the park I took a few more shots of the scenery and the harbor, and a stereotypical one of the fort, before putting the camera away. I didn't take any more photographs in town since it's so crowded, merely stopping to take one photo can jam up the flow of people in an irritating fashion and I don't want to contribute to that. This didn't stop other people from pausing to take photos, but I was done doing so as far as I was concerned.

It was a little after three. I still had plenty of time. After stopping by the bathroom and pausing to finish my water (*sigh*) and drink some more from the fountain (*double sigh*), and snatching a map from the tourism booth to check later and see if it's the same as the detailed one I printed out, I headed for the Island Bookstore, as usual. It was just as crowded as everyplace else and it was so annoying to have to keep scootching aside or ducking in and out of the narrow aisles to let others through. I swear the same two girls squeezed past me in the same aisle twice. I ended up buying a book about the U of M Biological Station not too far from Cheboygan, a book about Michigan reptiles and amphibians (since I recently captured an odd little gray frog with bright yellow on its legs and wondered what it was, I believe it was a gray tree frog), and the latest issue of Traverse magazine. At the checkout I noticed these adorable little turtle...I don't know what to call them, they weren't beanies, they were much smaller, but they were made of stuffed fabric like lame (that's with an accent, la-MAY, not lame as in stupid), two of them in different colors, and they were so cute, but they probably cost an absurd amount and I'd already made my purchase, I didn't have a huge amount of money on me anyway, plus I wasn't sure how much it cost to get into the Haunted Theater if I could work up the guts to try it.

I left with my purchases and located the Haunted Theater. It was open, but the ticket booth is at the top of some steps and so far up you can't read the prices or anything on it unless you go right up to it, and I was shy of doing so. I got out an amount of money I figured must surely be enough to cover a reasonable charge, but loitered at the bottom of the steps. Oddly, these steps seem to be a popular place for people to loiter, since people were sitting around the place but nobody was going in. The steps were painted black with white skeleton footprints on them. I noticed that the old photographs of some of the displays, such as Ocryx, Angelique, the GeeBee, Mitchi Manitou, and the lost spirit on Arch Rock, with their explanatory captions, were now gone and had been replaced by a detailed ink drawing of a skeleton-faced man (it was actually pretty good) with baleful eyes, and a sign telling that this was a wax museum, it took about ten minutes to go through, and they could tailor the tour based on the age of the people entering so it was a family-friendly establishment since 1974. Perhaps so, but maybe it's just me, skeleton people and cannibals and demonic wolf-things hardly seem appropriate for, say, toddlers. Then again, my first experiences with the Haunted Theater must have been when I was under the age of ten, and the only impression it left on me was it gradually got me fascinated by native lore. So who knows, maybe some other little kid passing through might feel the same way. And it's really not that scary. I stood there indecisively, hoping I just looked like I was waiting for someone or something. Across the street, an elderly man was framing photos with an expensive camera, and a Mennonite family, women in plain dresses and white bonnets and man in suspenders, beard, and black wide-brimmed hat, was getting ice cream or some such before going on their way.

I chickened out of going in. Returned to the bathroom, then sat on one of the benches out front for a bit, pondering whether I should relax and read a little or what, then told myself that I would go wait out front to see if anybody else entered the Theater, and then if anyone did, I would go in myself. Not because I was scared of the displays--they are beyond cheesy--but because I was scared that maybe there was nobody up running the ticket booth, and I'd be stuck standing up there like a moron, or I'd be the only person entering the place and would also look like a moron.

I stationed myself at the corner next to the steps and waited. Lots of people passed by the place, exclaiming, "Look, a haunted theater!" or "Look, the Haunted Theater!" or "Ooh, a haunted theater, scary!" or "Hey, there's the Haunted Theater, remember that?" A few people, mainly kids, claimed they wanted to check it out. But nobody went in. I stood there for like ten or fifteen minutes and all kinds of people looked at it but nobody went in! That was pretty much a shame. Like I said, the place is just beyond cheesy, not scary at all, but I feel indebted to them for spurring my interest in the area and the folklore. So I'll defend them no matter what their cheesiness, as long as they don't sue me or something for appropriating their Ocryx for my stories.

At last a few people in a family went inside, so I knew the place was actually open. Still I hesitated, for there was a mother and a couple of kids and others waiting at the bottom trying to decide to go in; the mother eventually left, replaced by a grandfather, and he and the kids went to the top but didn't buy tickets, just wandered back and forth looking at the Phantom of the Opera guy playing the organ and the photographs on the wall and whatnot. They did this for a good ten minutes or so, long enough for the little boy, who must have been under eight, to discover that the Phantom was really a robot. Kids must be much more sophisticated these days. A few times I saw somebody go in the exit, so they must have been employees. I finally summoned up the courage to go up the steps and to the ticket booth, where an elderly lady cheerfully greeted me. $6.50 a ticket, she said.

"Are you going in on your own?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Just so you know, all the displays are machines and nothing in here is real, okay?"

I felt like laughing at that. "I know, I used to come in here all the time when I was little," I said.

"Oh! Well isn't that nice!" She tore off a ticket and I went through the turnstile. God, I hate turnstiles, they're just as bad as revolving doors and escalators. I was in such a hurry to sneak my way in that I didn't even look at the Phantom or the pictures (wish I had, just to see what they were), and almost didn't drop my ticket in the ticket container, not that the couple of Theater employees sitting there chattering would have noticed. I followed the big white arrow pointing the way and went inside.

The Theater was just as I remembered it. The walls in the narrow hallways are painted black, and the lighting is so dim that at times you can't even see the white arrows that point the correct way to go (since there are emergency exits and places where the hall turns at a right angle so you're not sure if it goes left or right, it's so dark); I kept my right hand on the wall the entire time just to trace my way, and whenever I came to turns I would palpate the wall on the other side to make sure there were no hidden doors. I could hear a few people laughing and screaming ahead of me so there was somebody else in there. The displays were the same; the giant rat man, the corpses in the movie theater, "Mother" in her coffin, the fly baby, Angelique (she still didn't turn away from her mirror, she never seems to be functioning when I'm there, lazy Angelique ), the flashing lights room, the moving ledge, the room with the alcoves full of skeletons and bones, the doors room (I picked the right door on the first try, so, just out of scientific curiosity, I tried the others--one opened up onto a giant praying mantis, three let out blaring alarm noises that made me cringe, and one didn't open at all), a Frankenstein-type monster on a table, the Arch Rock lost soul (he's perched on a sort of pedestal now and not Arch Rock, so the story is lost in translation), the gathering of the animals (I call it this though I can't recall what it represents--there's a big mantis-type monster, a little rubbery bug-eyed thing, a bug-eyed deer with fangs, maybe something else, and a sort of satyr with a goat's head and legs and man's torso), a few other things I forget, and my perennial favorites, the GeeBee, Mitchi Manitou, and Ocryx with his book and the little rubbery monster at his feet. I paused to examine these ones in detail. For ages I've longed to know what that book on the stand in front of Ocryx actually says; I had to stretch myself up on tiptoe. I could see a Roman numeral, VII or VIII, and a word in large ornate calligraphy; I believe it was "Asmodai." I couldn't read the rest. There was a sort of pentagram above it, so apparently it was made to look like some kind of occult tome. Interesting. Ocryx's display room is in a "cave" with other little caves opening in the sides, and these other cave openings are in fact tiny windows so as you walk past him you can look in at him from different sides, which I did. I realized that the book was in fact fake, likely made of wood, just with some tabs on the edges to make it look like it has pages. Oh well. I moved past Ocryx to the next display, I can't recall what it was, but I saw that the tip of Ocryx's outspread wing extended into it. You know, it really bugs me that I can't remember what display that was. Anyway. A few times noises came from behind the walls, probably employees rapping on them and such, and at one point a compartment opened and somebody snarled at me, and in one part the floor vibrated, but I was more curious than anything and every time something happened I would just pause and stare in its direction and then move on.

There's one display that has been there for ages, I've seen it before--I believe I made reference to an evil-looking crane in an old Manitou Island story of mine way back when--but I never knew what it represented until now. The display is a crane or heron with wings spread and an evil leer on its face, overlooking a skull with filaments springing from its head; at the end of each filament is an evil-looking fish. These are plunging down toward a spring which is trickling down from the right-hand side. The entire display is lit with black light so it has an eerie glow. It's quite odd and inexplicable if you don't know the story behind it, but now I do--I was surprised because it's a myth I read long ago in the first book I bought about such things, Dirk Gringhuis's Lore Of The Great Turtle. It's the story of the whitefish. I can't recall the details, but I think there were these two kids trying to escape their evil stepmother or something, and they had to cross a body of water. They begged a nearby heron for help. "I'll carry you across if you don't touch the sore spot on the back of my head," the heron said, and they agreed and were carried safely to the other side. Then the wicked woman came along and demanded that the heron carry her across. "I'll carry you across if you don't touch the sore spot on the back of my head," the heron said, and she agreed and it started to carry her across. However, partway across, she touched the sore spot, and the heron tossed her off into the water. Her head smashed against the rocks and split open, spilling out her brains, which then turned into...you guessed it, the first whitefish. So that's where whitefish came from. At least that's how I recall it, I could be getting something wrong but am too lazy to look it up. Anyway, now that display makes a whole lot more sense, whereas if you don't know the story it seems rather psychotic and nonsensical.

One thing I find a shame is the little signs explaining the displays are no longer there. I'm pretty sure most of the exhibits used to have these little placards or signs which told what they were about, e. g., Ocryx is the one who brought all the displays to life with his magic, Mitchi Manitou arose from Devil's Lake at Ocryx's command, the GeeBee was a cannibal who lived in Devil's Kitchen, Angelique was way too vain about her beauty, some spirits that didn't manage to cross over Arch Rock merged together, etc. etc. So unless you're familiar with the place, these displays don't make too much sense. Perhaps the notes are on the photos out front, like they used to be on the (now replaced) signs along the steps, but I'm not sure, they should really put them back in with the displays so people can enjoy the experience more. I probably wouldn't have gotten as interested in all these stories if those notes hadn't been there to tell me what the hell I was looking at.

Around the time of the doors room I heard people laughing and screaming behind me--"The floor is vibrating!"--so hurried onward to avoid meeting up. The exit from the Theater is anticlimactic, you just follow the white arrow out the hall. (It's kind of funny that near the beginning of the tour, there's an alternate exit provided saying it's your "last chance" to chicken out and turn back, when the place really is not scary enough to do so.) I'd rather wished there was a bit more, that maybe they'd added something, but it was nice to revisit all my old favorites. And I have to admit, the dustiness of the old displays, and the terribly dim lighting, are mildly creepy in their own way. (The rat man display had a picture on the wall behind him and the lighting was too dim for me to make it out. That niggled at me, I wanted to see what it was! It also added to the mystery.) I exited with a wistful smile on my face and paused to glance at a roll of stickers off to the side. "Go ahead, take one," the elderly lady at the ticket booth said, so I tore one off. It's a big red round sticker with a bat on it, proclaiming the Haunted Theater's 35th anniversary. On the steps out front I tucked it into the book I had in my purse, along with my Shepler's ticket so I wouldn't bend or lose them, and now it was just before five so I figured I could catch the five o'clock ferry after all and Ma would probably be there waiting for me.

I visited the restrooms one last time, then headed for Shepler's. The two long lines for Mackinaw City and St. Ignace were kind of merged together so it was hard to be sure I was in the right place. It wasn't a long wait; I again went belowdeck and sat on the proper side to observe the bridge, and tried numerous times to photograph it, the island, the water, anything coherent, but the spray was so strong and the ride so bumpy that only about one photo, of the water, turned out, the rest are big sprays of mist. *LOL* I just could not time it right. The water was exceptionally choppy and a few times the ferry bobbed way up into the air and way back down, causing everyone on board to cry, "Whoooooo!" I rather liked the up-and-down motion; I wonder if I would be the type to get seasick or if I'd enjoy that kind of thing, I found it soothing, like being on a swing. *shrug*

Once back at Shepler's I sat down at one of the tables to wait since Ma wasn't there as far as I could see. It was around 5:25; she gets out of work at five so I figured she'd be there soon. I waited, and waited, and waited, and started to grow worried. Even the weird little brown birds hopping about the steps seeking food couldn't distract me from wondering what was taking her so long. By now, there were very few people about, no more lines, and I never did see another ferry come by on the half hour, which was odd, since there should have been one. Aside from the employees and a few random passersby here and there the place was almost deserted. I feared I might get thrown out for loitering or something. I do have a lot of unreasonable fears, yes.

It wasn't until after six or six-thirty that I heard a call from behind me, near the restrooms, and there she was, gesturing. I used the bathroom once more. "Don't you ever check the parking lot?" she exclaimed, and I said no, it's a lot easier and quicker for her to check the tables since there are just a few of them, than it is for me to check the parking lot as there are so many cars and I'm terrible at telling which is which and I'd feel terribly embarrassed to be looking if she's not even there. I'm not sure how long she was waiting for me, every other time she came to fetch me directly. *shrug* I told her that next year, we are definitely getting a Subway sandwich, and that was about the end of my trip this year. My left foot and shoulder ached especially, the latter due to my purse, the former, I'm not sure why.

I forgot to toss out the rancid sandwich until the next night, ew. Nevertheless, something came along during the night and made off with it. Perhaps the most recent unusual visitor to our porch. Some nights ago I flicked on the porch light to see what was out there and was surprised by a small doggish face peering back up at me; before I could say a word, it turned and slipped away into the darkness. A fox! A little red fox! It was so small and thin, its back fur was grayish, I didn't even notice the tail, I'd been so surprised by that little angular face looking back at me. It must have been mousing. My dad is always talking about all the foxes he sees out at work but I have never seen a fox before in my life. It was so adorable. I keep hoping to see it again, but I doubt I will. Just the usual creatures; one night there were two skunks out there, a bigger one with almost all white on its back eating off the ground, and a smaller one, barely more than a baby, with just a white cap and a white poof on the end of its tail, eating off the porch. And the next night, almost before I could see it, a tiny mouse, leaping off the iron railing and into the bush. No more foxes. You don't know what a fox really looks like until you've seen one in person. It was nothing like all the photos I've seen. So small and angular and cute, not quite red and not quite gray but somehow a little of both, not quite cat and not quite dog but somehow a little of both.

I am seriously considering shooting this frigging bluejay that insists on screaming to wake me up every other morning and now even interrupts my attempts at naps. And some of the grackles insist on sticking around. When they see me at the door, they sneak off into the bamboo as if hoping I won't see them. Grrr.

A stupid guy on a tractor ripped out our cable line today (8/21)! I was fortunate enough to be outside with the cat later than I'd intended since an unexpected thunderstorm had passed through earlier, when a huge tractor thing pulling this weird, tall thresher-type contraption came chugging up the side road. He did slow down and glance over his shoulder to see if he was making it under the lines, but then he turned back around, and didn't seem to notice when the contraption snagged one of the lines and yanked it right out of the pole, just kept on his merry way, trailing it along after him! I doubt there is any way he could have not seen that; Dad says he or another guy working the same field did the same thing some years ago only going the opposite way. Jackasses with no judgement of heights. I thought he'd carried the line away with him since I didn't see anything hanging; I thought of flagging the moron down, but there was nothing he could do about it except listen to me rail at him, so I hurried into the house to see what was knocked out. The power and phone were still on, good; when I turned on the TV, all the channels were out. Crud. Charter has like a hundred different numbers in the phone book and it doesn't say which is for what; I called the first one and got their stupid automated system with this woman's voice who tries to sound caring and considerate like a real person, she even says something like "Hm, let's see," seriously. She puts you through this spiel of answering question after question after question before letting you talk to an actual person; I knew I had to talk to an actual person since this wasn't the typical outage. For months, Charter has had the same prerecorded message saying they're aware of certain channel outages in the area and are working on fixing them--for months. Some time back we lost the TV Guide Channel and it has never come back, for example. I really doubt anyone is "working on it."

"Does that answer your question?" the friendly voice asked after this message, and I snapped, "No." Partway through the interrogation she interrupted herself to say, "Remember, at any time if you feel I'm not answering your questions and you wish to speak to a representative, just say, 'Agent.'" That was new to me. So I immediately snapped, "Agent!"

"All right, I'll patch you through to one of our agents," the voice said cheerfully, and I was put on hold, though not for too long. Told the guy about the tractor. He said they would send somebody out THE NEXT DAY between ten and noon! "Is that a good time for you?" I was so pissed off. My brother works for a (different) cable company down south and I remember him getting called away at all hours of the day and night to fix things, and I'm always seeing Charter vehicles driving around, why would it take until the next frigging DAY to fix this? It wasn't the typical outage, it was a torn-out line. And it was only around 1:30PM. Nevertheless, I agreed and steamed silently, hanging up. (Though not before the guy informed me that we have a "nice-looking account" (i. e., the bill is paid on time), would I be interested in upgrading to Charter Digital for a dollar more, or subscribing to another one of their services such as phone or Internet, was that something I'd be interested in?--"Not at this time," I answered wearily but as diplomatically as I could.) Then went out to inspect the damage further. And was surprised to realize that the line was in fact still there and mainly intact, still attached to our house, but it had been pulled free of the pole, and was now trailing along the edge of the road. Surely a downed line was a safety hazard? Maybe if I informed them of this, they'd get out here a little sooner. So I went back in and called them again. As soon as the friendly automated lady asked what my problem was, I snapped, "Agent!!"

"Okay, I can patch you through to an agent," she said, sounding (strangely enough) somewhat apologetic, "but first, could you tell me what your problem is with...?" So I still had to answer a few questions, grrr. But at least now I know how to get past the annoying wench.

I was patched through to another guy and apologized, telling him I'd just reported a downed line, but now I saw that it really was a downed line and it was in the road, did that make any difference? "Is it out in the middle of the road?" he asked, and I said no, it was mostly just along the edge, but part of it was sticking out a bit and there was a metal plug or prong or something on the end. "Okay, that is considered a risk," he said, "so I'll have them step up your complaint and try to get somebody out there today, though I can't guarantee it'll be fixed immediately. And if you think the line might be dangerous, you should call your gas or power company to report it."

Why would I do that, I wondered?--it was their line, not the power company's. Plus if I called the power company, they'd probably remove the entire line, leaving the cable company nothing to replace and thus making it take longer to get fixed. So I did not want to call anyone else. (I handled the phone pretty well this time, considering, probably due to all my righteous anger. Righteous anger makes a lot of things much easier to handle. I should be righteously angry more often.) At least this guy did not try to sell me Charter Digital or Internet or whatnot. After hanging up, I went back out to again inspect the line, which was taut from our house to a tree it was wrapped half around, then draped over a few branches and sagged down into the road, running almost to its end. The end with the metal part stuck out a bit, but a bush of ours sticks out into the road a bit at the same spot, so cars probably would not run over that part. Yet a coil somewhat further along worried me. I wanted to poke it back a bit but knew better; I stood there as a van pulled in and passed by so they wouldn't hit it, but I could hardly stand there in the road all day directing traffic.

I then remembered, didn't we once have an orange safety cone...? I could swear we had--I think I had found it abandoned and slightly damaged in the road once after some work and had retrieved it to keep--but I didn't know what had become of it. With my luck it had been tossed out. It was likely either in the basement or garage, so I went into the garage to look. There it was, right inside the entrance, its top cracked and its formerly bright orange now quite smudged and dull, but it was better than nothing. I carried it out to the coil of line in the road and set it in front, facing the highway, so anybody pulling in on that side would miss driving over it, since people drive like maniacs on this little side road for some reason. And hoped that what I was doing wasn't illegal or something. I retreated to the porch and saw several cars go by in both directions without incident, so it must be safe; when I'd finished with the Puffball's outdoor time we went back inside and I waited for the phone to ring in case Charter needed to confirm the appointment or whatever. (The last time I called them for an appointment, I ended up calling them to cancel, and was told they weren't even scheduled to come out at that time, which was wrong; then we got a call to confirm our appointment at a completely different time and day that I had not agreed upon. I didn't call back to confirm or cancel, since I'd already cancelled an appointment we apparently didn't have, and nobody came out. So you see how it goes.)

I waited and waited. The first call was blank, probably a telemarketer. The second call, the guy said something like, "Hi, this is Steve with AT&T, how are you?"--and I immediately hung up--I pay the frigging bill on time, I have no other reason to talk with you guys, so no thanks. Finally, around a quarter to four, the confirmation call came--a technician would be out around 3:45-4:45 and somebody eighteen or older had to be there to meet them. A mere moment or so later, three Charter vans pulled up on the side road. ("That shows they have nothing better to do," Dad said later.) I loitered on the porch and peered out, waiting for someone to come and address me, but nobody ever did. I wandered back and forth between both doors, feeding the birds out front and worrying that the guys would come to speak to me out back and find nobody there. The technicians inspected the downed line--I heard one of them say, after picking it up, "This cable is really bad"--I had noticed earlier that part of it seemed to be spliced together and tied around with wire--so they apparently removed the entire cable from our house and replaced it with a new one. The entire process couldn't have taken more than about five minutes. They chattered with each other a bit about the condition of their vans' tires, then departed, and that was it. And that first representative was going to make me wait until tomorrow morning for that. Cripes.

A while later the friendly automated Charter lady called to request I participate in a customer satisfaction survey--I was ready to answer her automated questions, until she said I would need to call them back to take the survey, and that's just way too much effort for somebody who hates phones, so I declined.

I'm rather glad that surprise thunderstorm struck this morning and made it too cold for the Cheesebug and me to hang out earlier in the day, so I happened to be outside when that dumbass tractor driver went by, and that I thought the prospect of a line down in the road might get them out here a little faster. I hate when I have no nice crime show with a nice murder or something to watch in the evenings. No murder makes me very testy.

I've started a paper journal-type thing that I think I might actually stick to. It's based on the concept of HP Lovecraft's Commonplace Book, a book in which he jotted down bits and pieces and notes of story ideas he hoped to develop later on; I've seen only snippets of it since the book itself costs a lot, but apparently August Derleth and some others have taken some of the jotted ideas and used them themselves; I think this is where the plot of The Lurker At The Threshold in fact came from. That sounded fascinating. I have SLEWS of story ideas in my head, the only difference being I never jot mine down because I have no fear of forgetting them, I just let them percolate indefinitely. But that's just it, it's indefinite, and many of them may never see the light of day. So I took a composition book and started jotting down bits of conversations I imagine my characters having in stories I haven't written yet and probably won't get to write for ages, if ever. Then remembered that years ago I'd created a mockup "TV guide" of "movies" of my different childhood stories, where was it?--just where I'd thought it would be, and it's filled with little summaries of old stories of mine, including some I honestly don't remember, most of them very cheesy. So also in this book of mine I can describe all the stories I meant to write or still mean to write, what I know or recall of them, and their prospects of actually getting written ("Not too likely," most of these older ones go, but you never know). I'm enjoying revisiting and explaining, even if only to myself, these old stories of mine that I haven't worked on in ages. I will probably get around to newer, more promising stories in there too, e. g., the humongous D4D series. Perhaps someday I'll post some of this "Commonplace Book" of my own to the Net just for anyone's curiosity, akin to the childhood writing on my Google Site. I'm over thirty pages through the composition book so far so bought a few more to keep this up since it's so much fun. I can describe old stories, potential stories, characters, plot ideas, dialogue snatches, whatever I want, stuff that floats around in my head 24/7 but never gets written down because I haven't gotten around to those stories yet. It's like releasing a pressure valve somewhat to let off some creative steam. Or something. It's turning out a lot more promising than my other attempts to keep paper journals in the past, probably because I hardly need to whine and cry in a paper journal when I do that just fine online.

I just Googled "commonplace book" and it's an actual generic term. Interesting.

Such books were essentially scrapbooks filled with items of every kind: medical recipes, quotes, letters, poems, tables of weights and measures, proverbs, prayers, legal formulas. Commonplaces were used by readers, writers, students, and humanists as an aid for remembering useful concepts or facts they had learned. Each commonplace book was unique to its creator's particular interests.

--http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commonplace_book

I've probably gone on long enough in this entry and have surely forgotten something but this is enough for now, I guess. I went over my Mackinac trip, which was the important part, at least. So tar.