Spurnpiker’s Journal – Where a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first misstep
I was born a “spurnpiker.” Spent my childhood exploring the back alleys of my neighborhood on Cleveland’s West Side. As a teen and young adult, I thumbed my way across town and across America. When I finally got my own set of wheels, I took to the backroads − spurning the interstate highways. Hence the term “spurnpiking.”
Earlier this month I wended my way via backroads to East Harbor State Park on Lake Erie to do some canoeing and camping.
Normally, I would have just plopped my canoe in the Mohican River close to home, loaded it with camping gear and headed downstream for a few days. But we were in the middle of a drought and a canoe trip would have been a drag. Literally.
Instead, I loaded my truck with camping gear, strapped the canoe on top and headed to the one place I knew the water would be deep enough to paddle − Lake Erie.
It turned out to be more of a spurnpiking adventure than a canoe trip.
As they say, getting there is half the fun. Being there is the other half. Writing about it is the third half — sharing the adventures with readers.
No room for high-tech when wanting to pitch a tent
Hop in and put your seatbelt on. It’s liable to be a bumpy road. If we’re lucky.
It was indeed a bumpy start. These days, you don’t just drive up to a state park, register at the gate and pitch your tent. You have to register online or by phone. That didn’t go well when I tried it two years ago and it didn’t go well this time.
I was up at the crack of dawn, determined to get an early start. Got online to register. Picked out a spot, designated the nights I planned to stay, pressed the “SUBMIT” button on my computer screen, and got bumped back to the first step − with all the info I’d entered deleted.
I should have known better than to agree to submit. Never a good plan.
Three more tries. Same results.
“Fudge it!” I said.
Or something to that effect.
Coffee in hand, to East Harbor we go via Plymouth
(Product placement alert!) I filled my travel mug with Black Fork Blend coffee − which I get this time of year from Forbes Farmstead Market − and hit the road.
Worst case scenario − I’d get to East Harbor, try to register in person, get turned away, and wild camp somewhere. Like a Walmart parking lot with gulls pooping on my tent.
I’d planned to grab breakfast somewhere along the way − anywhere but a corporate eatery.
Parked my truck in beautiful downtown Plymouth, Ohio, hoping to find a ma and pa restaurant. No such luck. The most interesting thing there was a vintage clothing store with four mannequins clad in white dresses standing in the display windows. Two of them were adorned with radiant smiles. For some reason, the mannequin maker had endowed the other two with dour facial expressions.
A sign above the grumpy looking mannequins read “Stitches in Time.” I took that to be a misspelling.
Perhaps Plymouth’s sourpuss mannequins came by their demeanor honestly. In researching the town for this column, I found this anecdote written by historian A.J. Baughman. I’ll share it here:
“A story of a fight in Plymouth between two Irishmen comes down in the unwritten history of pioneer times,” Baughman wrote. “These sons of Erin were neighbors living south of Plymouth. Upon returning from a trip to the lake, they quarreled as to which side of a stump they should drive around at the corner of Main and Plymouth streets. Their team was composed of a horse belonging to each: therefore, each claimed to speak as having authority. They stopped the horses and sat in the wagon and discussed the question, but as they could not agree, they proposed to decide the case by fighting. They got out of the wagon and fought in the street. Quite a crowd collected to see the performance, and while the ‘mill’ was in progress the team started, went around the stump on the west side, and was then halted by one of the bystanders. The Irishmen were separated and told the horses had decided the stump question, going around it by keeping to the right.”
I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the Irishmen − or both − ended up duking it out with the horses.
What happened next? Check back later
Looks like I’m hitting my word limit here, so we’ll have to continue this journey in another column. To hold your interest in the meantime, I’ll leave you with three questions:
Will I find a ma and pa restaurant in time for breakfast?
Can I register for a campsite in person at East Harbor State Park?
Is it just me or are those mannequins in the store window sneering at me now?
Stay tuned for another intriguing installment of Spurnpiker’s Journal. Coming soon to a Gannett publication near you. Or a Walmart parking lot.
This article originally appeared on Ashland Times Gazette: Rolling with punches in an outdoor adventure to East Harbor State Park
