Falling prey to human frailty, I've often found myself going down the wrong path — and a few divided highways, state trunk lines and straight-out-of "Deliverance" back roads. I'm not completely lost, however, just temporarily misplaced. While I don't live in denial, I often pass through it on family road trips. Much to my wife's chagrin, I'll drive in circles, around the block, even to Hell, Mich. and back before stopping for directions.
Unfortunately, this weekend I was left alone with my inner thoughts and the Jeep keys.
At least two times a year I take a single occupant road trip. One excursion is deer camp each November which means returning to my hometown; a trip I can make in my sleep — and probably did a few times during college. The other jaunt is a friendly get-together involving cheap beer and lowbrow laughs. This annual tradition involves meeting two childhood cohorts at a campground somewhere in the middle of Michigan. A place usually found just a few miles past all over God's green earth.
Sadly, it also has become a tradition that Garret has trouble getting to said get-together. Let's just say that good alarm clock intentions can't thwart bad directions. Curse you www.mapquest.com!
Now I'm sure Stanton, Mich., population 1,504, is a nice place to live. After all, the downtown streetscape screams viable but not pretentious. It gives off a real Mayberry vibe. Named after Edwin M. Stanton, the 27th secretary of war, Stanton, Mich. seems like a fine place to visit.
However, I just passed on through — four times in 45 minutes.
Let me preface the upcoming tirade by first admitting that I could have done the following at anytime: consulted a map or stopped for directions. I am well aware of my obtuseness. However, some of us are genetically predisposed to allow matters of principle trump rational behavior. These people are called men.
So the ink-jet printer derived directions said turn right onto Sheridan Road/ MI-66. Just one little problem with this straightforward command: there is no Sheridan Road. Instead to the right lies a ribbon of asphalt named Stanton Road while to the left runs the ubiquitous Main Street. A normal person behind the steering wheel at this moment — someone such as my wife of 13 years — would stop for directions or, heaven forbid, call the campground for guidance.
Mr. Obtuse forged ahead.
Really it was just a matter of how many wasted miles and $2.80 a gallon gas. I finally broke down after 30 miles — that is I stopped at a gas station.
Five minutes later I was back on the road to Snow Lake Kampground with a capital K. One right hand turn here and a sharp left there and within 15 miles I found my friends sitting behind dirty breakfast dishes at 12:30 p.m. I thought about explaining my tardiness, but it seemed like a lost cause. Kind of like describing Stanton, Mich., population 1,504, to someone who has never passed on through.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or email gleiva@gtherald.com