Side trip: PANIC! on Lake Superior, or The Near-Wreck of the Old Honda Accord (600')

The legend lives on from highpointers on down
of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.
The lake road, it is said, never gives up her dead
when the skies of mid-August turn gloomy.

The car was the pride of a hiker named Stoat,
loaded down with her worldly possessions.
As mid-size sedans go, it was bigger than most
with driver and Pokemon well-seasoned.

They were headed southwest from that old raven's nest
Eagle Mountain, a hill they'd been climbing
As they turned from the forest to highway they saw
they'd got down with impeccable timing.

Side Trip: PANIC! on Lake Champlain, NY/VT (100')

The only problem with my pizza-plan, you see, was that there was no civilization within fifty miles of the Adirondack High Peaks.

Though I pulled over in each tiny hamlet I encountered on my way out of the park, none of them had a reliable phone signal, let alone 4G for maps. I had no idea where I was going at this point--all I knew was that Mt. Mansfield, my next high point, was east of here, and that the bridgeless expanse of Lake Champlain lay in between--so getting that data signal was my first priority. But there was none to be had all the way to the interstate. I got on I-87 southbound, thinking I could just head back to town where I'd lunched on the way up. After a few miles I pulled into a "text stop" to confirm my hunch.

Just your typical rest stop... except with French truckers.

While I fired off the usual "Hi Mom, I'm still alive" texts, several emails popped into my inbox. I flipped over to see what they were: spam, spam, newsletter, spam, and holy cow my Gmail account had been hacked. Google had blocked the illicit access, they informed me, but whoever it was had still cracked my password, so I had to-

The data signal blinked out of existence.

Low Point: Topsail Hill State Park, FL

I woke up the next morning to the sound of torrential rain pounding on the roof of my motel:

So much for visiting the beach that day. I ventured out to the front desk and extended my stay another night, then holed up in my room and spent the rest of the day working on blog posts. For you, my faithful readers, all for you.

The next day's weather proved much more amenable. After a morning of revision sleeping in, I ducked out just before check-out time and headed for the coast.

But to get to the beaches, I had to cross the bay... and to cross the bay, I had to pay the bridge-trolls their toll. Yes, yes, public works cost money, and infrastructure won't maintain itself, especially when it's built of steel beams suspended over a body of salt water, but... toll bridges.

This one wasn't as bad as others I've driven, only the price of a cheap lunch (rather than dinner-for-two). I forked over the cash and drove out over the expanse of beautiful blue water, over which glided flocks of seabirds in their chaotic courses as boats cut contrails through its glassy surface, and--who am I kidding, I kept my eyes on the road. A watery death appealed neither to me nor my Rock-type passengers.

But then, towards the end of the bridge, the water rose up to meet us...