Up a Crick without a Paddle

Oh, the irony.  After complaining through yesterday's post about how I feel dependent on my car I took myself about an hour and a half west to Warren Dunes State Park just a few miles over the Indiana-Michigan border.  My good friend, Lisa, from Chicago met me (sort of halfway) to hike through the dunes and then have dinner/lunch at a cafe before each heading back our separate ways.

The day couldn't have been nicer.  We both ended up ditching the fleeces in favor of long-sleeved shirts and the piles of leaves on the trail gave each step a satisfying crunch.  The mood was just very November-ey.  Looking out at the dune forest, most of the trees were bare and the leaves were spread thickly over the ground.  Every once in a while we'd find a shrub with red or purple berries, or a tree with yellow leaves still clinging.  The bogs were boggy and the dunes were steep.  At one moment we emerged from the forest and climbed to the top of one dune only to be hit smack-dab with an incredible view of Lake Michigan (hitherto unseen).  Our trail dropped us out on the glorious empty beach where we were supposed to walk south along the shore for nearly a mile.  This quickly got old with the wind whipping around, so we were thankful when we finally found the marker (after some frustrated searching, we have a word or two for Warren about the state of its markers) that took us back into the forest cover again.  From there we wound our way along, admiring the silver birch trees whose white bark stood out so strikingly from all the grays, browns, and deep oranges.  Nearly at the end of our loop we came upon a sign with a giant exclamation point and the words "Trail passes through open hunting area!" And underneath, the words, "Season closed Apr-Sept."  We stood there for a few minutes talking over a strategy and then sprang forth singing and talking very loudly.  Luckily we were soon greeted by another sign that heralded our safe arrival into 'no hunting' grounds.  Phew!

At the end of the hike we deposited ourselves into a little cafe that Lisa found that sources ingredients from local farmers and serves such delicacies as creamed spinach with a parmesan sweet potato chip crust.  I'll say no more except that I'm glad Lisa was in charge of that part.  My search only pulled up locations of Subways and McDonalds.

We hugged and said goodbye.  Lisa pulled away as I arranged a few things in the car.  I forgot to say that about the time I rendezvoused with Lisa I noticed my car making a bad sound.  A bad, unexplainable sound.  Nothing else indicated there was a problem, so I winced, drove slowly, and then turned it off to hike and eat for several hours.  After Lisa pulled away, however, I turned the car on, and there, glaring at me menacingly was the check engine light.  Bright orange and almost gleeful, seemingly cackling at my distress.

I called the folks who talked me through checking the oil and transmission fluid.  They were fine.  And I was about 70 miles from home.  I ended up driving back under the glare of the check engine light, at about 55 mph with the hazards on the whole time, singing in time to the rhythmic flashing to try to distract myself from the anxiety.  Longest drive ever, but I made it.  But now it's Sunday and all potential mechanics are closed.  Ah well.  Just another day, just another day...