Forced to hack through a dense undergrowth of technology and bureaucracy to get to my campsite

Spurnpiker’s Journal — Part 3

One Rally Drum Lager coming up. Part of my brunch at the Marblehead Galley.

It wasn’t quite mid-morning when I rolled up to the campground gate at East Harbor State Park. Invoked memories of sitting in the back seat of our ’59 Ford Ranch Wagon — the precursor of the Family Truckster, for those familiar with National Lampoon’s Vacation movies. After a long drive from Cleveland on U.S. 6, dad would leave us in the car, go inside, and pick out a campsite from a large map painted on the wall behind the counter. The campground map was dotted with little pegs representing occupied sites.

That’s how things were done back then. You queued up at the gate, walked into the camp office, picked out a site and paid for however many nights you planned to stay. The postwar baby boom had hit critical mass and state park campgrounds were jammed with station wagons and canvas tents. They swarmed with kids, skunks, and other vermin. On weekends, you’d be lucky to get a campsite. If you were really lucky, you might get one that wasn’t right next to the toilets.

Sometimes all the sites had been taken by the time we arrived on Friday evening. We’d have to camp at a crappy little private campground till Monday, then come back to East Harbor and get a site for the remainder of our two-week vacation.

These days you don’t register at the gate. Face to face interactions are a thing of the past. As is spontaneity. You have to register in advance — online or by phone.

Apparently, this is to keep riffraff like me out of state park campgrounds. So far, it’s worked pretty well. The last two times I tried reserving a campsite online, all the information I’d entered on the screen vanished into cyberspace when I pressed the “submit” button. On both occasions, I repeated the process four or five times with the same results.

It’s been said that doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the definition of insanity. I disagree. It’s the definition of futility. And life in the 21^st century.

As mentioned in a previous column about this particular spurnpiking/camping/canoeing adventure, I became frustrated and resigned myself to booking a campsite the old-fashioned way — in person.

I arrived around 9 a.m. to find the campground office closed. A note posted on the window advised prospective campers to register at the camp store. I went there and was told I could register by phone.

So, in 60 years, we’ve progressed from waiting in line for 20 minutes at the campground office to get a site to being put on hold for twice that long.

By late morning I managed to reserve a campsite and wasted no time pitching my tent. The Little Debbie oatmeal creme cookie and gas station coffee I picked up along the way had sustained me up to that point but my sugar and caffeine levels had dropped precariously low. I was in danger of slipping into one of my fabled crabby episodes. (Fabled because, in reality, there’s not one cross bone in my body.) I’ve been told that, when one of these episodes occurs, my behavior becomes unpredictable. With the slightest provocation, I’ve been known to respond with a dirty look or — worst case scenario — a half-hearted snarl.

So I set out to Marblehead for brunch.

The Marblehead Galley looked promising so I went inside and ordered a Lake Erie perch dinner. Hadn’t planned on doing much drinking on this trip, but the Great Lakes Rally Drum Lager advertised on the menu board called out to me. It would fit right in with my plan to go back to my campsite after brunch, crawl into my tent, and nap.

It felt odd drinking in the morning so I took refuge in the old adage that it’s five o’clock somewhere. I posted a photo of the Rally Drum Lager on Facebook and quickly found an enabler in my artist friend Michele Marcoux.

“It’s 5:43 here in Spain … think I’ll join you,” she posted.

When I returned to East Harbor, I was shocked to find an actual person inside the campground office. I told him I’d registered earlier. Then he went into government official mode.

“You can’t go back there (into the campground) until 3 p.m.,” he said.

I told him I’d already pitched my tent. But he was in government official mode, not programmed to listen. There was no point trying to explain any further.

From decades of camping at East Harbor with family and later by myself, I knew there was a picnic grove along the beach road where I could park my truck and hike back into the campground. It was a trek of a quarter mile at most.

With a bellyful of Lake Erie perch and a Rally Drum Lager buzz, I crawled into my tent to nap. Slept exceptionally well. I suspect it had less to do with the beer than that warm feeling you get from thumbing your nose at authority.

(To be continued.)

This originally was published as a column in the Ashland Times-Gazette and possibly other Gannett papers.

Spurnpiker’s Journal part two: Divine – and mayoral – guidance on the road to Lake Erie

Ducksology? Ducks swim near the “God Bless the USA” letters placed by the Lions Club at Castalia Pond.

“In my little town I grew up believing that God keeps his eye on us all” — Paul Simon.

In Plymouth, Ohio, — on an early summer morning — the only thing keeping an eye on me were mannequins in the windows of a vintage clothing store. It felt as though I was invisible to random motorists puttering through the town square as I knelt on the sidewalk with my Canon cradled in my hands, snapping photos of the mannequins in their white dresses.

I had stopped in Plymouth en route to Lake Erie to do some camping and canoeing. Hoped to find a little ma and pa restaurant there where I could stop for breakfast. Or at least a cup of coffee. No such luck. Not even the pigeons were stirring in Plymouth, Ohio, that morning.

I pressed on northward, sticking to the backroads. Spurnpiking.

As mentioned in a previous column, I had failed after numerous attempts to secure a campsite online. So I headed up to East Harbor State Park to try to register in person. A quaint notion because nowadays you have to reserve a campsite online or by phone.

I was halfway to East Harbor and I’d given up hope of finding a ma and pa restaurant. The travel mug I’d filled at home was down to the dregs, so I pulled into a gas station/convenience store. A place called Strawberry Hill or something to that effect. There was nary a strawberry nor a hill in sight but the coffee was drinkable and a Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme cookie would tide me over.

Or at least keep me from getting crabby. I’ve been told that I get crabby when I’m hungry. Which isn’t true. I never get crabby. It annoys me when people say that.

Thanks to the coffee and Little Debbie, I was in good spirits when I pulled into Castalia. Somehow, I ended up on a side road where there was a pull-off by a pond. Across the middle of the pond, someone had strung huge letters that spelled out “GOD BLESS THE U.S.A.”

That “someone” had been members of the local Lions Club. Jim Johnson — the mayor of Castalia — told me so. Jim should know; he’s past president of the club.

He also told me that club members change the letters during the holidays to spell out “MERRY CHRISTMAS.”

I was intrigued. How did they accomplish this? And had any of them ended up in the chilly spring-fed pond in the process?

Mayor Jim answered my questions via email.

“In the late ’60s, Lions club members tethered a raft in the duck pond and floated out a Merry Christmas sign to accompany the nativity scene erected by the village on the bank,” he wrote. “As time moved on, the raft idea was discarded in favor of letters ‘Merry Christmas’ strung across the pond on a wire. Members would row boats out into the pond and hang the letters on the wire.

“As we moved into the 2000s, we incorporated lighted letters, stringing them across the pond on wires using the row boats. In about 2015, the Lions Club added ‘God Bless the USA’  lighted letters, carried out on rowboats, and hung on the wires.

“We have had a few spills in the pond while hanging letters on windy days. The letters act like sails and can easily tip the boats. Fortunately, we have been mindful for the wind conditions and haven’t had any spills in several years. Not only is the water cold, it is very odorous, sulphury, minerals, etc.”

I also asked the mayor if there might be a nice little restaurant where I can stop and eat on my next visit.

“Try the Cold Creek Cafe, operated by Eric Fultz,” he suggested.

Thanks, mayor. I’ll do that. Got to be better for me than junk food and gas station coffee.

Perhaps God keeps his eye on the fine folk of Castalia. Apparently the residents of Plymouth, Ohio, will have to settle for the blank stares of their storefront mannequins. I, for one, would be grateful if He’d deliver me from the evils of junk food and lead me to a half-decent eatery.

And help me figure out how to reserve a campsite on the Ohio Department of Natural Resources website. I suspect not even God Himself has mastered that.

(To be continued.)

This is the second of several columns on my Lake Erie spurnpiking/camping/canoeing trip. I’ll likely continue in this direction with my column – evolving from a non-traditional outdoors column to a travel column with the usual humorous touch and a smidgen of useful information. The columns run in the Ashland Times-Gazette and perhaps other Gannett papers.

Spurnpiker’s Journal – Where a journey of a thousand miles inevitably begins with the first misstep

This marks a new direction for me – a transition from outdoors writing to a folksy travel column.

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.

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.

(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.

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.