Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

Oh how I love reuniting with the people and places that have meant so much to me. It doesn’t happen very often so I get pretty damn stoked when I get the chance to walk down memory lane. I came up to the Yoop last weekend and got to visit my home for three years, as well as the people I hadn’t seen in way too long. There’s Houghton where I spent the first two years of my college life, and then across the bridge there’s the town I had my first apartment in and the village my brother bought a house in. I drove past my old apartment and the large quantities of potted tomato plants are still taking over the driveway of my crazy neighbor. I don’t miss that.

I miss the winding road that leads to my brother’s house. The road that gives you plenty of time to think and drive and try not to run over any deer. I miss that old gas station on the edge of his village that has advertised the same old-school gas price for years. It’s gone now, replaced with a shiny new building that has no history. I guess you tend to notice this stuff after you’ve been gone a while. That Culver’s wouldn’t have made a difference to me, nor would the multicar drive-through at McDonald’s. I find it weird though, that my town is moving on.

I met up with someone from Alaska while I was up here. Weird that we only found each other halfway across the world in a state neither of us had much of a connection to, when we lived a mere 12 miles away from each other for three years. We fell right back into our friendship and I was glad that there wasn’t that awkward reunion getting reacquainted period that so often plagues me. We saw each other and immediately started right in where we’d left off. That’s the measure of true friendship, I think. No matter how long its been since you’ve seen each other, you can always just hug and get into the stories. Reminiscing isn’t just for old people.

We ended up driving to the Porcupine Mountains Music Festival in Ontonagon, listening to some sweet bluegrass and celtic tunes from the Barley Jacks before jumping fully clothed into Lake Superior. It was a struggle at times, I mean dragging a newly crippled friend across Porcupine Mountain state park is bound to be challenging. But it didn’t matter that she was hobbling around on crutches when she dove down into the warm water of Union Bay. No, we didn’t have swimsuits or even a spare set of clothes, so we just sprawled like mermaids on some rocks along the shoreline, drying in the sunshine until we headed back to the Keweenaw.

I miss the Yoop. Where else would I have heard the wonderfully told story of a 21-year-old at Woodstock or how the very same man was asked by Pete Townsend of The Who to bring him to a store so he could buy a guitar before a show. The guitar just so happened to be one he took on stage and smashed before setting it on fire. How do I hear these stories? Yoopers. Poor guy though, one of his encore wives up and left him for the guitarist of Foreigner and another for his acid dealer. Seriously. I wasn’t even really participating in this conversation, just sitting there with my eyes bugged out and letting him ramble on. No one back home ever tells me such interesting stories without having to be prompted.