Michael Koppa

MOTORCYCLES AND ME

I  had the most excellent motorcycle adventure of my life last week, thanks in     part to the internet making it possible for my daughter to make a Harry     Potter pen pal in Sudbury, Ontario, many years ago. This is the same     daughter who recently turned 18 and wrote For     Dust I Am. Three     days after graduating from high school (two Saturdays ago), she embarked on     a one-day, 12-hour solo road trip to Sudbury to pick up her BFF and bring     her back to Viroqua for a week. My wife and I are of the mind that when you     turn 18 you are an adult and you get to decide what you are going to do or     not do, so we had no choice but to allow it. We provided the car (2012     Subaru Impreza), she paid for the gas.

Beatrix     is pretty determined and adventurous, and while she was confident she could     make the 12-hour journey in one day, I felt some obligation to be at least     a little bit protective. I have a motorcycle and I use it to take short     trips with friends once a year, but it has been a long time since I have     taken a multi-day solo adventure, and I saw this as the opportunity to do     it. She agreed to allow me to escort her (from a distance) to the Canadian     border, and while she was visiting with the Sudburians, I would remain a     few hours away in the Algoma     District.

Because     a 12-hour day on a motorcycle is completely out of the question, my plan     included a one-day head start, leaving Memorial Day afternoon and riding up     to Lappen’s camp on the Pesthigo River, near Crivitz, Wisconsin. It was a     250-mile day on the motorcycle, in and out of unexpected rain for the last     100 miles, ending on a wet and sandy road into the woods to eat and drink     with close friends I haven’t seen in years, and sleep in a spare pop-up     camper. Stories around the fire included Mike’s connection to relatives who     survived the Peshtigo     Fire in 1871, and his most recent     assignment, as CEO of Milwaukee County Behavior Health Services: overseeing     the total closure of the Milwaukee County Asylum for the Chronic Insane.     Both topics, and especially the latter, are very intriguing as material for     a book project in the future. We talked about that possibility.

Tuesday,     Day 2

Staying     up late talking to an old friend about endlessly interesting things makes     me feel hungover the next day, and that’s not the best way to wake up on a     day that will include a 325-mile motorcycle ride. My daughter left home at     6am, and I was expected to meet her at 1pm in Escanaba, Michigan. After a     good camp breakfast of eggs, bacon, blueberries, and coffee, I started     feeling a little sharper and ready roll, but apparently not quite clear     headed enough to remember the route, because I missed a turn on the way,     and my 1.5 hour ride became a 2-hour ride. Add that Beatrix was ahead of     schedule, and needless to say she was a little short with me when we met,     and had no time for idle chit chat. I gave her a solid 5-minute head start,     as we pressed on without delay from Escanaba to Sault Sainte Marie, again     in and out of (lighter, thankfully) rain, to cross the border.

Crossing     over the Soo     Locks and St. Mary’s River into Canada is a sight to     behold, and things like incredible bridges are much more remarkable from     the seat of a motorcycle than from behind the wheel of a large automobile.     And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?” but you know full     well, because you’ve been actively engaged in riding, out in the weather     for the entire journey.

I     watched Trixie pass the customs window from a few cars behind, and as she     carried on straight east for another couple hours to Sudbury, I turned     north on Highway 17 en route to my lodging, the Sawpit Bay Resort, about an     hour further down the road. The reservation was made over the telephone a     few days earlier with a bad connection due to work on the phone lines,     according to the woman on the other end. When I asked if she needed my card     number to reserve a room, she said, “No that’s okay. Just come. There will     be a room for you.” Upon arrival, I found the place to be pretty desolate.     Almost abandoned by appearance. No cars in sight, except for the one that     might have belonged to the owner. As I approached the office, I learned by     hand-written sign in the window there was no tv, no wi-fi. When I walked     in, I learned there was also no credit card machine, and I was asked if I     could pay cash. The whole scene was a little weird for a road weary and     damp fellow nearly 600 miles from home. But when the proprietor extended     his hand and accepted my $35 cash for the room I was grateful and went to     check for bed bugs. All good. Bed felt like it would be plenty comfortable,     and cozier than the pop-up camper I slept in the night before.                        

After     unpacking my gear, I walked across the highway to take some time staring at     Lake Superior. Really nice.  Done for the day and looking forward to a     good long sleep.                       

Just     a little bit about my motorcycle. This is my third motorcycle. Each one has     been a Moto Guzzi. Guzzis are Italian motorcycles, notorious for their     transverse V-twin engines and shaft drive (like an automobile). These     motorcycles are strong like a tractor and easy to understand, which makes     them ideal for the amateur motorcyclist who wants to maintain his own     machine. Aside from the practical aspects, the aesthetics are superb to my     eye. And they’re not terribly expensive. I found this 1979 1000SP on the     internet a few years ago for $3,000, and had it shipped to Viroqua from     Baltimore, Maryland. Recognizing its age an my limited ability to fully     restore the engine, I bit the bullet and paid the pros at Retrospeed in     Belgium, Wisconsin, to fully rebuild the engine two years ago. And this is     why I am able to have the confidence to take a 45 year-old motorcycle on a     5-day, 1,500-mile adventure.

Wednesday,     Day 3

The     day I’ve been waiting for: 325 miles of remote Ontario. Sawpit Bay Resort     to Wawa, Wawa to Chapleau on Highway 101, and Chapleau to Thessalon on     Highway 129, highly regarded as the primo road to ride in the Algoma     District.                         

The     best thing about riding alone is the freedom to stop and take a break     whenever you are moved to do so. Passing a very large stone on Highway 101     between Wawa and Chapleau, for example. Aside from visiting with my old     friend, Mike, another mission invented for this adventure was to find and     capture stones in photographs for the upcoming book of stone-themed poems     by David Steingass. Every once in a while I would pass something, think     about it for a mile or so, and decide it was worth turning around and going     back.               

With     gratitude for the solitude, I took advantage of this freedom many times to     photograph stones for the book… 

…and     vistas for this newsletter. Like from this bridge over the Mississagi     River, for example: A     few thoughts on the zen of motorcycling, even though it’s all be said     before by better writers. I remember the first ride on my first motorcycle     (1972 Moto Guzzi Eldorado) in 1995. I remember being on the highway going     60 miles per hour heading west out of Milwaukee and looking down at the     pavement beneath my feet. I remember realizing that I was going very fast,     that the road was less than twelve inches below my feet, and that I was     essentially sitting on the engine that was pushing me forward. That’s a lot     to digest. And then realizing that I didn’t feel like I was in any danger.     I felt perfectly safe. As long as the machine did what it was designed to     do, and I kept my hands on the handlebars and didn’t intentionally ride off     the shoulder or into oncoming traffic, everything would be fine. That’s     actually something you think about on a motorcycle. I do, anyway. It’s     dangerous, so you have to be on your A-game.

I     still feel that way when I am riding. It’s not constant, but it’s like     this: In between long meditations about whatever happens to be on the mind     (because there is no audio input, other than the engine), every once in a     while you come back to realizing you are moving very rapidly through space,     and you think about how the spark plugs are firing and alternately pushing     the pistons in the cylinders down to drive the cam which transfers directly     to the rear wheel, about how many miniature explosions are happening     between your legs, and how gravity and the gyroscopic potential of a     2-wheeled vehicle allows you to travel gracefully over the tarmack. On this     particular trip it went a step further for me. Maybe it was the duration of     the meditation, but I began to think about how grateful I was for the     opportunity to experience what I was experiencing. This turned into     gratitude for everyone who helped make it possible. That goes for the     obvious family support, but further to every single person who has helped     me do anything at all up to this point in my life. Everyone who has     influenced the way I think. Maybe even everyone I’ve ever met. As in, the     act of doing this is the result of every single thing that has come before     it. And furthermore, gratitude for the civil engineers who made these     incredible roads and bridges, gratitude for the designers and builders of     my motorcycle in 1979, gratitude for the people who made the tires on my     motorcycle, the person who figured out how to wire the electricity,     gratitude for the people at Aerostitch in Duluth for making a riding suit     that makes me feel safe, gratitude for the internet for helping me plan my     adventure, gratitude for all the people who are working while I am riding:     the people who are working at the gas stations, at the oil refineries (and     thoughts about how this adventure requires the burning of fossil fuels that     are contributing to the climate crisis), the people working at the border     crossing, at the restaurants, the motels…everyone, everything. Absolute and     complete gratitude.             

All     in all, between my departure from Wawa and arrival in Thessalon six hours     later, I honestly saw no more than a dozen other vehicles on the highway,     and two moose. I have never before enjoyed so many uninterrupted minutes of     riding through such beautiful, seemingly untouched land, and my arrival at     the Carolyn Beach Inn on Lake Huron iced the cake: Pakistani owners, an     attached restaurant with Indian dishes on the menu and samosas for an     appetizer, delightful conversation with my server, and an elegantly simple     room with a view of the lake. What an incredibly fortunate day. All I can     say is thank you. Yes, even you   

The     adventure continued on day four with a ride to Marquette, Michigan, taking     a detour through Tahquamenon Falls State Park, and concluding with a visit     to St Peter’s Cathedral,  paying respects to the Venerable Bishop Frederic Baraga.     The fifth, and longest day, included a stop at UW-Stevens Point to talk     with Brad Casselberry about the possibility of adding books by The     Heavy Duty Press to the William C. Bunce Artists’ Books Archive. We     had a nice visit and now there is a stronger possibility they will buy some     books from me in the future. That’s great news and more reason for     gratitude.

There     is no great pleasure in riding a motorcycle on the interstate, as     remarkable as the interstate system may be, and that happened to be long     stretch in the middle of day five. Also not much pleasure between Stevens     Point and Tomah (via Wisconsin Rapids), but the last stretch from Wilton     through the Kickapoo Valley was pure pleasure and a wonderful final hour     before arriving safely home at 7pm Friday evening. 

Credit to The New Moon Monitor, July 2024

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Moments of Hope: A Photo Gallery of Our TRIP

There has always been something burrowing under the   Klubhaus for as long as I can remember. I have always assumed it was a   groundhog, or groundhogs, until it or they left and the rabbits   took it over until springtime. A few years ago, I took the time to add   treated plywood to the foundation, extending as much as 18” below a packed   gravel perimeter about 2’ wide. The hole reappeared last year, I ignored it,   and this year there have been groundhog sightings almost every time I go out   there. Groundhogs can be problematic to a wooden foundation, and I don’t want   them gnawing at the insulated base the Klubhaus sits upon, so I decided to   borrow a live trap to catch and release however many of them are living on   the property.

I set the first trap yesterday morning, with cantaloupe   as bait (recommended by the lender), and picked up a second trap from the   rental department at the hardware store in the afternoon before going back   out to check on the first one. Sure enough, trap tripped. It was fairly small   for a groundhog, as far as I could tell, so I think it was a pup. I’ve read   that before the babies are born, the male leaves the den and the mama   groundhog raises a litter of 3-5 pups in it. Took the trap to the van and   hauled it about 5 miles north and on the other side of the West Fork of the   Kickapoo River to let it go. When I went back to Holy Hollow, I set both   traps for the night to see if I could catch some more.

When I arrived this morning, I was happy to see one of   the traps tripped, but less happy when I found it was not a groundhog, but a   skunk. And so began an entire morning blown trying to figure out what to do   when you trap a live skunk.

It’s the 21st century so I started texting friends.   Almost everyone I asked gave the same advice: cover the trap with a blanket.   Apparently, skunks become pretty deactivated in the dark, and the blanket not   only subdues them, but protects you somewhat if it decides to spray. I did   not have a blanket, but plenty of sheets of black plastic, and that did the   job.

Once the cage was propped open, we waited patiently. No movement inside the cage as far as anyone could tell. It seemed like the skunk was just going to sit in there huddled up in the corner until  we were gone. The black sheet over the cage made it impossible to see inside it, and neither of the gunmen wanted to shoot unless they knew it would be a clean shot at the heart. We didn’t want to take a chance of it soaking the Klubhaus with its spray. After about twenty minutes of

 waiting patiently, and me agitating the cage with a pole to coax it out, Glenn had to leave. 

Shortly after he left, Terry and I got a little tired of waiting, and I suggested maybe my Bluetooth speaker near the cage would make him want to leave. It worked. Not more than 30 seconds of Henry Mancini and the USC Marching Band (I think) playing The Theme from “Rocky”  and he decided make a lope for it. While the whole scene was slightly amusing, Terry gained his composure and kept a bead drawn on it as it went directly for the hole, just as Glenn had supposed it might. Next thing I know Terry, with composure and the gun aimed right at it, is in a  backpedal as the skunk is moving towards him. I, of course, moved further away and sorry but this was no time for photographs. Gratefully, it turned away from Terry towards the west and lumbered its way to the  path into the woods. It looked big, but never stopped long enough for Terry to get a good shot at it. Game over.

Skunk on the run.

I I set three traps before leaving, this time thinking about placement, as in  having a clean shot at another (or the same) skunk if necessary: away   from the building with no obstructing vegetation. If rodents are anything like my dog, they can smell that cantaloupe from 20’ away, and they’ll go get it no matter where it is.

And that’s the end of the story, for now. As soon as I drop the photos in this   newsletter, I’m heading back out there to check the traps. Maybe I’ll let you know how it ends, if it ends, if I don’t have anything more interesting to report next month. 

Credit to The New Moon Monitor, July 2024

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