This blog is the transcript I recorded while driving from Saint Paul, Minnesota to Rhinelander, Wisconsin. I was unemployed (more on that later), and somehow I still helped myself to two days of camping and cycling in the autumn-kissed northwoods of the Midwest. You can listen to the audio recording at my Patreon account. It is a members-only episode of my podcast, Don’t Remember Me Like This. It’s probably worth it, I put a lot of work into those things.
Last summer I attended the Hodag Country Ramble which, according to the website, promised to be two nights of swimming, camping, community, riding, and revelry on expansive property outside of Rhinelander, in the heart of the beautiful Northwoods of Wisconsin.
It sounded terrifying and fun so, of course, I had to go.
Photo credit to the fantastic Alex Horner
So I'm heading to Rhinelander, in the beautiful North Woods of Wisconsin. Not many of the trees have turned yet, this being early September. But, praise jesus, autumn comes early to the upper Midwest. Peeking out from the treeline adjacent to Highway 94 are occasional dashes of red, yellow, and even a deep purple now and then. This is beautiful country, and I love driving through it.
Driving through this area always reminds me of the first time Jaclyn and I took a trip up to Grand Marais, Minnesota. That was probably one of the best trips I've ever been on. We drove up to Grand Marais, stayed for a week in a lakeside cabin. Went to a wedding where I picked up a brother-in-law and his sister-in-law. (Not bad.) We had a couple wild nights out in Minneapolis…were we ever so young?!
Ope, here's a dash of red and orange, yellow, light green, and then deep green. Another dash of red. Fabulous. I love it. I'm into it.
So I’m heading out to this…this bike ride in Rhinelander, Wisconsin – the Hodag Country Ramble.
There are three different routes I can go on–a short, medium, and long route. The shorter route, I think it's a 20, 20-ish mile ride. The medium route is a 58-mile ride. And then there’s the longest route, which is something like 98 miles. Just shy of 100. It’s a long ride, though it looks like the terrain is a little bit better. Flatter, perhaps. And fewer feet of climbing. More gravel. Some of the paved portion is on the freeway which is not ideal but—up here in the north Midwest the freeways have some substantial shoulders—so freeway miles, while maybe not ideal, also not bad.
But again, that's 98 miles of rough stuff, so…
Just recently I took close to a 40-mile bike ride and I was pooped. POOPED! Pooped after only 40 miles. So I've been leaning towards…so I've been agonizing about which ride to take. And I believe I have settled on the middle ride? The 58-mile ride.
The terrain for this ride is a little bit more difficult. Gravel, yes, and some paved parts. But then there’s a lot of double track.
Double track is a little harder to ride, it can be pretty slow going. Imagine two trails side-by-side, like tire tracks, though barely enough to accommodate a raised truck or a side-by-side. There are supposed to be lots of sticks and branches that’ll rip your rear derailleur right off. And sometimes there’s high grass that can hide holes big enough to swallow a bicycle’s front wheel whole. So you got rougher roads, and then a lot of up and down, up and down and climbing. So the miles are less, but the terrain could be more treacherous.
Like I said, what with all the sticks and twigs and whatnot, the probability my derailleur could get ripped off on the ride was high. For those who don’t know what the derailleur is, that’s the weird machine arm thingy that moves the chain up and down the gear sprocket on your back wheel, changing its gears. They make them for the front cranks as well. Those are appropriately called the front derailleur.
I’ve seen a broken derailleur stop even the most dedicated cyclist in their tracks. Without a replacement hanger, the fix is not complicated, but can be laborious and time-consuming. It requires breaking the chain, removing the derailleur and a length of chain to turn the bike into a single-speed. But with a backup derailleur hanger, it can be fixed in a zip. It’s just a simple swap, changing out the broken hanger for the replacement. You might not even need to adjust the cable tension before you’re good to go and back on the trail.
I feel like turning my bike into a single-speed would be like a last resort however. An emergency adjustment I’d rather avoid if possible. So I went to a bike shop the other day to see if they had a replacement derailleur hanger I could buy. At the bike shop I met with a service technician and described what I was looking for. It’s such a unique do-dad and especially common, I thought simply mentioning “replacement derailleur hanger” would have done the trick. But when I explained what I was looking for, the technician seemed genuinely puzzled. He asked if I wanted to buy a derailleur. I said, no, I was just looking for the thingy that connected the derailleur to the bike. I think it’s called a replacement derailleur hanger. I’d ridden to the shop, so I luckily had a thing I could point at to show him what I was looking for specifically.
He looked at my bike and said, “Yeah, that’s a derailleur.”
So, I pulled out my knife. I guess he needed a fine point?
So I used my knife to point to the derailleur extender. And he said, my bike was tricky, because I had a solid hanger to which the derailleur was attached. He told me, if I broke my hanger, I’d need to either weld or braze on a new one. Again, I said no, I wasn’t talking about my derailleur hanger, I was talking about the little hunk that attaches to my hanger, a small extender piece made of hard plastic that’s designed to break free if a stick rips the derailleur off.
Maddeningly, the technician said, “Yes, you mean the derailleur.”
It was incredible. I wondered, where was the disconnect? I was starting to get frustrated. I pointed to my bike and I said, this is my bike, all this metal stuff is my bike. And then I pointed to the derailleur, and said, this is my derailleur. These two guys are separate, and they’re held together by this little guy. I used my knife to point. He looked in and nodded, seeming to understand, finally.
He said, “Yes, that’s the derailleur.”
Ohh, I was just so mad. I could have punched a baby in the face. I thanked the technician for his time and backed my way out to escape from the shop fast as I could.
As luck would have it, I managed to find a replacement part in my big, dark, mess of extra bike parts. It might not be the exact size, but it’s in the neighborhood and that’s better than humping my way through a rough patch of double track on a single speed. No shade on single speeds, it’s just, again, riding single is a last-ditch solution because I have kneecaps like hunks of peanut brittle. I'll avoid anything more strenuous than gulping down an entire bottle of ibuprofen to avoid putting them to the test.
So yes, the medium route, that's the way I'm leaning. Although I've been known to sabotage myself in the past.
When I used to commute, after a long, hard day of work I’d be so tired, I’d be wrapping up for the day and getting ready to ride home thinking, “Maybe I’ll take it easy on my ride home? Yeah, nice and easy.” And I'd be getting ready, getting everything in my bag, all my lunch dishes washed, and everything packed up. If it's raining, getting on my rain gear. If it's snowing, snow gear. Nice and easy…
But something happens when I throw a leg over that bicycle, all bets are off and five minutes into the ride home I’d be suffocating and looking for a place, somewhere private preferably, to barf.
So who knows? Tomorrow morning, I'm gonna point myself in the direction of that smaller ride. But again, who knows?
But I feel good. I feel strong about this ride. I feel like I'm looking forward to it.
I won't know anybody there. So that'll be interesting. Social hour with a buncha randos. However out of shape I am at biking long distances, I fear that’s nothing compared to how out of shape I’ve become in socializing. When people are talking to me, I can’t seem to stop looking at their teeth. And then, all I can think about is how I know people know I’m watching their mouths moving and making words I’m not listening to and how, even though I just asked their name, I couldn’t recall their name for the life of me. Also, for some reason, with smalltalk, I always feel like I need to pee.
So, here we go anyway!
I hope I’ll meet at least a couple of people. And if not, I guess I’ll just be the creepy guy…lurking in the shadows of the campfire…with the camera…taking pictures of people…and their bicycles. It won’t have been the first time.
But I’m pretty excited for the campfire this evening. I made myself a melange…is that the word? Melange? I’m going for it. I made myself a whole mess of potatoes, chipotle peppers…sorry, chipotle chili powder, half an onion, three cheddar hotdogs cut into chunks, and there’s a whole bunch of fresh peppers from the garden. What else do I have in there? Some Johnny’s seasoning salts. (Love that Johnny’s.) And a good dollop of bacon grease to bring it on home. I think that's it. I’m planning to wrap all this up in a tin foil pouch and throw it on some campfire coals. I say give it about 20 to 25 minutes to cook thoroughly. When it’s done, open it up and throw a bunch of cheese on the top.
Boom. Dinner.
It’s a lot of food. But I’m not going to chow it all in one night. I'll be saving a good portion of it for breakfast on Sunday. I plan on whipping up the leftovers in a skillet, crack two eggs on top, start the day right. That and a cup of strong coffee.
I keep wanting to say the Hodag County Ramble. Although I'm pretty sure it's the Hodag Country Ramble. I have no idea what I'll find when I get there. The campsite opened about…45 minutes ago. And I've got another hour and…15 minutes, an hour and 30 minutes left to go…
Lemme check the map here and see how we're doing. We're still on track. The map says we're still on track. So that's good.
And here, you got more trees just blowin’ up. Peak Wisconsin! It seems like the further north we're heading, and I'm only inching North right now, mostly heading east. Inching slowly north. It looks like in about 20 miles here I'll be taking a left-hand turn and then I’ll be going steady north. Beautiful dashes again of red, purple, yellow…a deep blue sky with chunky white clouds.
And then you got this dingus in front of me going 10 miles below the speed limit, swerving. There he goes, camping out in the passing lane…Don’t do it, folks. Don't camp in the passing lane. The passing lane is, by the way, on the left-hand side. You could be excused if you mistake the right-hand lane for the passing lane. Because of all the people languishing in the actual passing lane. The only way sometimes to get around people, you got to drop the hammer in the slow lane.
Glad that guy’s behind me. I’ve been white-knuckling behind his slow ass for the past, I-don’t-know-how-many-miles. Good riddance…Although I'm the one who's driving and talking into a recorder so, what do I know?
I’m passing cars here and there with bikes on the back. Of course, I have to slow down to look at the bikes. Are they going to the same bike ride I am going to?
I’m going about 10 to 12 miles over the speed limit. Because you know I want to get there faster. And I feel like 10 to 12 over the speed limit is a safe zone. You're really pushing it at 15 to 20 miles over. But yeah, I wanna get there. I want one of those camping spots. I want to get in there and wedge myself in there at a prime location because if that campground fills up, and I have to find a campground nearby…well, that is just going to be a raw deal. It’s really going to throw a wrench in the weekend, camping miles from all the activities, bike in, bike out.
Yeah, let's avoid that. Let's get there and let's get that campsite set up at the Hodag County–goddamnit–at the Hodag Country Ramble.
Onward. Here we go!
On the way back…
Well, it turns out there was plenty of camping!
When I arrived, I had my choice of countless spots. Because I was nervous, I chose the first spot I could find, a spot in the middle of an open field. But when I was setting up my tent, I just about died of heatstroke. So, I moved to a spot in the shade, and that turned out to be one of the best decisions I would make all weekend. I set up my shady camp, and sat down to screw my head on and take a look around.
I met my neighbor one campsite over. His name was Dan. He was from Milwaukee. Like me, he had never done a ride like this before and was nervous and excited for what may come. He took the day off work to get there early. He asked me, “And what do you do for work?”
Reluctantly, I said, “I’m currently unemployed.”
And he said, “Oh, I see.”
I think this was a good indication that, as difficult as small talk was going to be this weekend, it would be even more difficult if I didn’t have a profession that somehow defined me.
That evening, I put my dinner together in a big foil pouch. But, as I was pressing the pouch into a form, which is a small bowl, somehow I sliced a hole in the bottom of the foil. Luckily I brought enough tin foil to double up the wrap and with an extra square of tin foil from my neighbor Dan from Milwaukee I was able to fully encase that soon-to-be hot mess. With my dinner set to pop, now all I had to do was find someone's campfire and…well, honestly I don’t know what my plan was. Maybe just casually add my wad of tinfoil to their coals? I mean, no big deal right?
That evening there was a cross race, the Bandit Cross was a course cut through the thick underbrush of forest. We took one relaxed parade lap to learn the route. But after the parade route, I was already tired. There was still the race to be done, four sprinting laps. Suddenly, the pack took off. Like an idiot, I took off after them, frantically pedaling through thick double-track, tall grass with hairpin turns and branches reaching out from the thicket.
I was immediately out of breath. I made up my mind only to do the first lap and drop off and watch the rest of the racers kill themselves. But after the first lap, I just kept going. I guess the idea was to just keep pedaling until I flopped over dead.
There was one turn in particular, after the finish line, a deep patch of sand that wound up a steep hill and disappeared into the backwoods. Hitting that unpredictable, swimmy sand at high speed, in a hard lean around the curve, the bike just kind of takes on a life of its own. Sometimes it goes left, or suddenly swerves in the other direction and it was only by sheer luck I wasn’t pitched head-over-ass from my bike. After the second lap, I found my footing through the sand trap. Grinding into the pedals, I'd throw my weight to the back wheel, just keeping my fingertips on the handlebars and while my bike jerked this way and that I was able to keep it under my feet and use my momentum to kind of, keep moving forward.
Somehow I made it all four laps. I think I placed somewhere in the middle, which is great. I’m happy with placing dead in the middle. I also placed dead in the middle of the Seven Deadly Spins Alleycat as well. Placing in the middle is right where I want to be. That’s the peak intersection between maximum fun and minimum-competition in a highly competitive race.
Finally, the communal bonfire was lit. It was quite a structure of twigs, kindling and dry wood that’d been stacked, so when it ignited, it went up in a blazing tower of fire. It was so hot I could only get close enough to the fire to drop off my tin foil pouch like a football player running past the flame, tossing in a ball.
Despite the heat, my expertly wrapped pouch of food took forever to cook, probably because there were so many potatoes. Eventually though, the cheddar dogs, bell peppers, bacon grease, all that good stuff in there simmering slow…monitoring the pouch was challenging. The bonfire had attracted crowds of people from the campgrounds. While everybody was trying to enjoy their first meet-and-greet I was squirreling around their feet, reaching past their legs to get into the fire and turn my little pouch of tinfoil. Like much how my life has gone so far, I ended up making quite a scene, in spite of my attempts at discretion.
Everybody was so curious, “What are you cooking in there?” “Stop touching my knees.” “I didn't know you could make food in there.”
I didn't know I could make food in there either. But a fire’s a fire and this fire didn’t seem to be owned by anyone. Or, at least, there wasn’t just one person tending to the fire from whom I could secure permission to cook my dinner. Anyway, that conversation would have been weird. So, I just went for it.
The meal turned out fantastic. It was cooked through, but not burnt. The fats and sugars lightly caramelized the onions and bell peppers. There was just the right amount of salt, lots of rich, even heat from the chipotle powder. A highly satisfying combination of flavors and textures. I don't know, maybe it was the camping. Sometimes any kind of food tastes better just because you're camping.
Meeting and talking with strangers was…a vibe.
Many conversations soon wound their way around to what it is we do for work and, inevitably, to my ongoing unemployment. After a while, I got tired of describing the terrible odyssey that was my ongoing search for work. Eventually, someone asked, “And what do you do for work?” and, recklessly, I said I was an unemployed anthropological biologist, whatever that is. It’s the first thing that came to mind. I guess I thought, if they really pressed me, I could confess that I have no idea what anthropological biology is. I could say that’s probably why I was unemployed.
But I could always ask, “Why? Are you hiring?”
The next morning, I made one last examination of my bike—cleaning the sand out of the drivetrain, oiling the chain and testing the brakes. My front pack was stocked for armageddon: I had an extra pair of gloves, an extra hat, a couple of hydration packs – key for replacing essential salts and sugars. I had a first aid kit, a plastic bag because you never know, you might need an extra plastic bag. I also brought two rags, one for after applying sunscreen, and cleaning sunscreen off my hands because, like clockwork, soon as I apply sunscreen I immediately put my fingers into my eyes and then I have sunscreen eyes. So I quarantine the sunscreen rag from the second rag I could use for sweat or, in a pinch, wiping my butt in the bushes.
Let's see, I also had two water bottles full of water. I also brought a Camelback full of water, bike tools, including spare patches, Co2 canisters, and my hand pump. Man if you needed pressurized air on this ride, I was your guy. I had my knife, albuterol, wallet, phone, and fingernail clippers (never leave home without ‘em).
The first couple of miles of the ride all the cyclists rode together, everyone doing the short, medium, and long rides. I was in the very front of the pack. So when I looked around, I only saw about 30 or 40 people and it seemed very intimate. But Dan from Milwaukee was doing the short ride. He was close to the back of the pack. He said ahead of him, he said there were hundreds of cyclists.
We were rolling along country roads, through foggy, tilled farmland. The morning air was cool and crispy, definitely felt like autumn, at last. Summer was finally, finally behind us. It was the hottest summer on record, I heard. And here, diving into this first rush of autumn in the festive woods of Northern Wisconsin, I felt like I could finally be comfortable in my skin again. At last, I could accessorize again!
Eventually, those riders doing the shorter route peeled off from the main group. The bulk of riders dove into the woods for the medium and the long routes. I heard only four people did the long route which was reassuring since I had officially convinced myself to do the medium route and was feeling like I was cheating by taking the easy way.
Eventually, the riders kind of arranged themselves into smaller packs. I attached myself to a group of four other riders who were following the route on their Garmins. They were very welcoming, and very patient in allowing me to tag along. One guy even stopped to help me after I got stung in the eye by a wasp. He helped me wipe down the wound with an alcohol swab from my first aid kit. He even offered me an EpiPen. What a guy! Thankfully, I didn't need the EpiPen. Instead, I took a couple of ibuprofen to help with the inflammation that was sure to come. I was expecting my eye would swell shut and I’d have to attempt the route with only one eye. But surprisingly, aside from my face throbbing throughout the ride, the sting didn't get any worse.
Along the route, I must have encountered every single kind of terrain. There was smooth pavement, rough pavement, highways, byways, back gravel roads, there was well-worn double track, and double track that’d been totally overgrown and throwing riders scrambling over stumps and rocks and holes in the still-dewy undergrowth–I remember there were shocks of sharp white birch trees that seemed to glow like neon against the dark forest.
Some spots got pretty hairy. At one point, I slipped and lost my balance and almost pitched into the trailside. I was only able to regain my balance after flopping around clumsily like a sea lion trying to hump its way onto a dock. The forest was blessedly cool and wet, dappled through in the blinking midday sun. Some stretches of the route, along the highway shoulders, baked in the tall, oppressive noon heat. But it wasn’t long until we dove back into the forest, swimming through deep, cool groves of shade and crackling leaves.
The last leg of the ride was very slow going, balancing between an abandoned railroad, bouncing over rotten railroad ties. It was bumpy, deliberate work, the sharp rocks punishing the tires on my wheels. But the finish line was just beyond, the forest opened to a clearing where the bonfire had been the night before. There were shady picnic tables and free cold beer.
That night, after the family dinner, there was another riot around the campfire. However, after having had my fill of socializing, and still aching from a long ride that was brimming with epiphanies, I was in bed and sound asleep by 9:30.
The heavy rain started at two o'clock in the morning.
My tent was hopelessly old and leaky. I woke up soaked through, in pools of water that’d filled the tent floor. I was still warm at least, and tried to sleep in the puddles for a little while. Finally however, I decided I’d had enough and jumped ship to sleep in the car. Surprisingly I slept exceptionally well in the passenger seat with only my jacket for a blanket.
Breakfast was fresh, hot coffee I made on my portable stove, a rare luxury, feet-up at the campsite making small talk with passersby.
And now I’m on the road again, back on this Wisconsin highway heading west. Going home. I’m definitely looking forward to getting back home. Getting back to Jaclyn and my daughter who I miss very much. And of course, getting back to the ongoing search for work, which I don’t miss as much, but I’m eager to get back to work.
Compilation of videos of the 2023 Hodag Country Ramble. Two days of biking overgrown double-track, camping, delicious food, awkward conversations with strangers, Northern Wisconsin on the cusp of autumn—holy shit, what a weekend!