The next morning I left the Clear Lake campground and drove north to Black Lake. I had intended to set up at a trailhead shown on my ORV map, somewhere between the north and south trail loops. When I noticed a roadside trailhead at what I thought was the approximate location, I pulled in and unloaded the bike.
With overcast skies and humid air, I began my search for the Black Lake north loop. The parking area was connected to logging roads and ATV routes, none of which were near any singletrack. After a half-hour of exploration, I found the Black Lake ORV Scramble Area, mostly a large sand pit with steep hills. This area might have been fun on a paddle tire ATV, but my RMX250 wasn't well suited and I moved on. Somehow, eventually, I located the north loop trailhead.
Other than the scramble area, the Black Lake terrain was less sandy and filled what Illinois farmers called timber soil. Nighttime rains had saturated the logging roads, leaving water puddled in ruts. The roads could be taken as fast as I dared, but I exercised a bit of caution and besides, at this early stage of my serious trail riding activities, my skills were less than awesome.
I was, however, somewhat capable of finding my way back to where I started. The Black Lake trail map showed the north loop with a distance of 38 miles, so I decided to retrace my steps back to my truck and refuel the bike. I'd ridden quite a distance searching for the singletrack and wanted to be fully prepared for a long ride.
After a quick splash of fuel, I returned to the north loop trailhead using the most direct route possible. Once I entered the north loop, its winding path kept me in 2nd gear for almost two hours. My odometer showed I had traveled only 22 miles, four of which were logging roads leading me to the north loop. I knew I would run out of fuel long before completing the loop. At that point the skies suggested rain, lots of it, and soon. I then made a decision originating directly from my gut: I would exit the singletrack and find my way to my pickup truck using public roads.
And why not? I had my trail map, with its illustrated details covering about 100 square miles of roads and trails. The map was printed in color on an 8.5x11 sheet of paper, stored in my fanny pack. This paper was my link to my truck, and I was confident I could find it.
Then I studied the map.
I had left the singletrack and found myself at a 2-lane highway. The map suggested this was U.S. 23 on the north edge of Michigan's lower peninsula. Oh boy...I was even farther north than the northernmost edge of the north loop. Any further north and I would have been in Lake Huron. I needed to be south, quickly. With the sun hidden behind dark clouds, I had no reference point for direction, so I did what any normal person would do. I found a dirt road and began riding. Surely it would take me somewhere.
That somewhere was away from the deep woods and into a flat rural area where I could at least see what was coming. This was good. I paused at a paved road intersection and studied the map again. A pickup truck pulled up beside and a nice man asked if I could use some help. I handed him the map, completely clueless how to explain where I'd parked my pickup truck. The only mark on the map I was familiar with was the ORV scramble area. I pointed to it and asked how to get there.
Now was when I felt better about my lousy map reading skills. The trail map was great for identifying trails, but not as good for much else. The man in the pickup truck studied the map, eyes squinted, index finger tracing lines across its page. He couldn't make sense of the map, either. But he tried, and came up with a set of directions, beginning with my request for a gas station. Individually, these directions were simple. He provided road names and told me to turn left or right or continue straight ahead. The first two or three of these instructions remained in my memory. The next 8 or 10 were lost almost immediately.
Fortunately, the directions I remembered were to a country store with a gas station. The fuel tank was low, and I figured someone at the store could tell me how to get to the ORV scramble area. I spotted the store from a distance and was then pelted with a downpour. The skies let loose in a big way, and I was soaked to my underwear when I pulled up next to the gas pump. Inside the store, I bought a small container of 2-stroke oil and waited out the rain.
Once again, I pulled out my trail map and asked the storekeeper for directions to the scramble area. And once again, I remembered two or three of her 8 or 10 instructions. The downpour ended and I fueled the motorcycle. Within a few miles I was lost again. My next stop was an RV campground with a warm, dry lodge. The rains continued after the country store, so heavily that my boots were now filled with water. I sloshed up to the bar, where a handful of patrons were enjoying frosty beverages. For the third time, I produced my map, now fully saturated, and asked the bartender for directions to the scramble area. The outcome was identical to my first two attempts.
But this time, I caught a break.
On a gravel road, I noticed a set of motorcycle tracks. They were my tracks from earlier in the day, when I'd crossed the road three times to and from the Black Lake singletrack. Finally, I knew how to find my truck. Inside the cab, I turned on the engine and blasted the heat. Thus was the end of my second day riding in Michigan, and it would be my last. I had planned on spending another day or two on the trails, but the Black Lake experience had ended my desire to ride more. I was cold and wet and wanted nothing more than a hotel room.
As I would reflect later in life, Black Lake would have been far less of an adventure in current times. GPS on my phone would have led me to the north loop without incident and returned me to my truck with no assistance from another human. I also learned that even if people don't know the answers, you can usually ask three of them the same question and get enough correct information to find what you need. Thanks to a trio of kind Michigan natives, my day, and my trip, ended safely.
Epilogue:
In 1995, I would make a return visit to Michigan and explore the upper peninsula on the Suzuki RMX250. That trip turned out much differently.
