“If you remain calm, you can get through almost any situation, but if you panic, chances are you won’t.” A good lesson learned from my dad about flying airplanes.
One day, Dad and I were flying in a Beechcraft Musketeer; a small four-seat airplane, often used for training. I had only been a licensed pilot for short time and Dad was teaching me more about flying. He used to say, “No matter how many hours you have flown, every flight is new lesson.”
Dad was acting like the air traffic controller. “November 8-8-9-4 Mike is cleared for takeoff, runway 3-1 Ottumwa. Maintain runway heading, climb to 3,000 feet, then turn left to the Ottumwa VOR, continue climbing to 5,000 feet.” I repeated his instruction and then applied to power to take off.
As I neared 5,000 feet, “November 8-8-9-4 Mike, cross the VOR and turn heading 130°” We flew that direction for several minutes. “November 8-8-9-4 Mike, descend and maintain 4,000 feet, turn right heading 360° to intercept the localizer, once established descend 2,800 feet to VOR, then clear to land runway 3-1 Ottumwa.” I repeated the instructions and executed the maneuver perfectly.
Shortly after crossing the VOR, Dad pulled the throttle, essentially rendering the engine dead! I freaked out, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Have you lost your mind?” I started to apply power, but Dad held the throttle tight.
“You just lost your engine, what are you going to do?” Dad was calm, I was frazzled. He repeated, “What are you going to do?”
“Um, um….” I stammered, “Glide speed. 78 knots.” I was trying to remember everything I learned in flight training. “Master on, mags on, fuel on, full tanks, 78 knots, 2,000 feet, attempt restart….”
“You’re out of fuel, the engine won’t start,” Dad said. “Are you going to make it to the runway?” Honestly, I wasn’t sure. “Stay calm and fly the airplane,” he said. Dad made a real radio call, “Ottumwa traffic, Beechcraft November 8-8-9-4 Mike is short final, runway 3-1 Ottumwa, simulated engine out.”
“I’m not going to make it to the runway,” I said. “There’s no traffic. I’m going to land on Angle Road instead of the bean field.” At this point, I was wondering if he was really going to let me land on the road.
About 500’ above the ground, Dad advanced the throttle to full power, “Let’s go to the airport.” When we got on the ground, Dad quizzed me, “What could you have done differently?”
I was still frazzled and didn’t have a clear answer. “You panicked,” Dad said. “Which clouded your decisions. You would have made the airport, but you hesitated before establishing glide speed and lost too much altitude.” He was right. Then he spoke those words I’ll never forget: “If you remain calm, you can get through almost any situation, but if you panic, chances are, you won’t.” Words to be carried with me for life, and well beyond the realm of aviation. I wish Dad would have shared that wisdom with me years earlier when I was dealing with another kind of aviators.
One day several of my siblings and I were playing in the hayloft of our barn. Bees began swarming around us. We all panicked, swing arms and legs, trying to swat, kick, and do whatever necessary to save ourselves from the vicious pests. I think we all got stung at least once! One, by one, we hurried down the ladder and fled the barn to safety, but not before Gerard noticed where the bees were coming from.
Safe in the back yard, Gerard shared, “They were flying in and out, from under that sheet of corrugated metal roofing on the floor. They must be nesting under it.” We devised a plan.
Several of our troops opted to stand down while applying baking soda paste to their battle injuries. Those of us who regrouped for the counterattack, armed ourselves with fly swatters, shovels, brooms, and anything else that could squish a bee.
Our fearless squadron leader, Gerard came out from the garage with Dad’s Shop Vac. He brought three hard-tube extensions, the high velocity nozzle attachment, and an extension cord. “You lift the metal roofing, and I’ll reach in with the hose and suck them all up,” he said, assuring, “Victory and revenge will be ours.”
By the time we returned to the hayloft, the bees had settled back into their nest. When we turned on the vacuum, several of the insects reemerged. Gerard easily captured each of them with the powerful vacuum. Then he gave me the command, “Lift the metal.”
I set my fly swatter and house broom to the side and swiftly flipped the metal. It was heavier than I anticipated, and I dropped it. This time, I quickly pulled it away and then rearmed myself. Gerard was correct: the bees were nesting under the metal. Once exposed, they swarmed madder than before!
“I’m hit, I’m hit,” came the battle cries. One by one, our remaining troops retreated. I hit Gerard on the head a couple of times while swinging the broom trying to shoo the bees off him. “Put the metal back over them,” Gerard ordered.
 
I flipped the roofing back over the nest. The rigid sheet metal knocked the vacuum hose from Gerard’s hands, pinning it to the floor. Gerard and I ran, escaping down the ladder, but not before being stung a couple more times. The Shop Vac was still running. It didn’t occur to us that we could shut the vacuum off by unplugging the extension cord, which turned out to be a good thing.
I suppose close to an hour had passed. Somehow, we needed to retrieve Dad’s Shop Vac. Gerard, and I cautiously climbed the ladder with flyswatters, and one house broom. (Slow learners.) There was no sign of any bees. The vacuum was still running. We tip-toed over to the metal sheet. Gerard gave me the signal and I lifted the sheet, but still, no bees. Strange.
Gerard picked up the hose and turned off the vacuum. The canister full of bees was buzzing loudly. Soon, a couple of bees flew out of the hose and escaped through an opening in the barn siding. We turned the vacuum back on. As near as we could tell, the bees were being sucked into the vacuum while trying to return to the nest. Now what were we to do. Gerard sent me to the house to get a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
When I came back with the bottles (I found two partial bottles; more is better, right?), Gerard removed the hard extensions and explained a Shop Vac is a wet/dry vacuum. With the unit still running, he poured both bottles into the hose, then inserted the suction end of the hose into the exhaust hole on the vacuum to recirculate the air. The alcohol would kill the bees, in theory. Reality was a different story.
We shut off the vacuum after fifteen or twenty minutes. The canister was quiet. We carefully lifted the top and looked inside. I don’t think we killed any of the bees. Instead, they were stumbling around, crawling on top of each other, hundreds of them and all drunk as a skunk!
I don’t remember what we ever did with those bees, but thinking about Dad wisdom years later, I wonder if we had not panicked and started swinging at the bees, would they have left us alone?
I’ve learned a new appreciation for bees since my childhood days. Whenever a bee landed on me and I swatted at it, the bee usually stung me. Dad’s concept of remaining calm in all situations has been very beneficial to co-existing with bees. Now, when a bee lands on my arm, I greet them. “Hello little fella. How are you today?”
We had a large wild rose bush next to our back deck. More than once, when a bee landed on my finger or hand, I would walk it over to the flowers. “I think this is where you’d rather be,” I would say and place my hand where the bee could walk onto a rose. None of the bees ever stung me when helping them out. Now, you must make sure it is a bee.
Bees will sting only when they feel threatened, or they are protecting their hive. Wasps and hornets on the other hand, will sting you for sport! Still, your chances of being stung by a wasp or hornet are greatly reduced when you remain calm.
The other day on my morning walk with Nova Mae, I captured some nice photos of bees on flowers. I was able to get a photo of their legs gathering pollen. Afterwards, I was sitting outside having coffee with the neighbors. “Oh my gosh,” Dorothy panicked. “There’s a bee on your hand! Shoo it away! Shoo it away!!” Instead of shooing him, I welcome him.
“Hi, how are you, my man?” I remained calm while the bee crawled up my hand and across my index finger. Then he climbed over the rim and inside my coffee cup. “Help yourself to a sip of my coffee,” I offered. I saw this as another photo-op and took a couple of pictures. Unfortunately, while posing the little fella lost his grip on the cups smooth glaze and plunged into the coffee. The bee was doing a frantic backstroke, attempting to save his life.
In the absence of a tiny life preserver, I put a small piece of paper next to him, but in his panic, he wouldn’t climb on. I would have to dive in to save him.
I dipped my finger into the warm coffee. Raising my finger up under his back, I lifted him from the cup. He quickly got back on his feet, shuddered the wet coffee from his wings, and flew away. “That little son of a B didn’t even say thank you! That’s gratitude,” I protested.
“You’re crazy,” Dorothy said. “That bee could have stung you.”
“He can’t sting me,” I said. “He’s a male and male bees don’t have stingers.”
“How can you be sure it’s a male,” Dorothy insisted.
“Aside from lacking a stinger, I knew it was a male because he was out drinking coffee while the female bees (workers) were out gathering pollen from flowers,” I said. (Male bees, drones, don’t work.) “Yes indeed, that was a real son of a B if I’ve ever seen one.”

I drove by the Horace Mann School; they have two playgrounds. They have really fun looking playground equipment on one end of the building, and a small soccer field on the other. The soccer field has lights so the kids can play there at night. “These kids today have it so easy.” 
When I went to Horace Mann, there was an annex classroom on the north end. The playground was on the south end. We had painted lines on the pavement to play square ball, a tetherball pole, and a swing set. There was also a field for playing kickball. If you kicked the ball into the adjacent woods, it was kind of scary to go get it back. Much had changed around the school.
One thing that has not changed over the years is that balls still get kicked over the fence and onto North Court Road. We had to wait for a teacher to be present before we could retrieve the ball if it crossed the street, which consumed valuable recess time. Ah, the memories.
Friday night, I was coming around the corner by the school and saw a colorful yellow and grey soccer ball on the edge of the street. It was on the north end of the school yard, but the soccer field is on the south end. I stopped to pick up the ball, thinking I would toss it over the fence to the kids at the other playground, but the lights were not on; no kids were playing tonight. Just then a teenager came down the sidewalk toward me. He obviously saw me stop and pick up the ball.
“That’s my ball,” he said. But for some reason, I doubted him. I had already looked over the ball.
“Are you sure it’s yours,” I asked. He said it was, so I asked him, “What initials are on the ball?”
“I don’t always put my name on my ball, but it would be JR, if it’s on there,” he said.
“Wrong answer,” I replied. “The initials are NP.” Then, the quick-thinking kid said the ball belonged to his friend. I laughed, “I wonder if NP might stand for north playground.” I was going to toss the ball inside the playground fence, but the gate was open; I knew he would take the ball when I drove away. “Tell your friend I’m going to turn the ball into the school’s lost and found, and he can come get it on Monday.” I put the ball in the truck with me and drove away.
There was another larger ball in the street at the south end of the school yard near the church parking lot. I stopped to pick it up, too. The big blue rubber ball was also marked NP. It was about the size we used to play square ball. Back in those days, the balls were red. For a moment, the ball made me cringe!
I recalled playing dodgeball in junior and senior high school; half of the boys took their shirts off to form two teams; the shirts vs. the skins. I hated being on the skins team because those balls would sting when they hit my bare skin and often left red welts. Yikes! Since the blue ball had the same initials, NP, I put it in the truck also. I would return the balls to the school office on Monday. 
As I drove away with the two balls, I got thinking, “Maybe those balls do belong to someone else. “NP. They could belong to my brother, Newell.” When I got home, I checked with my brother. He said they weren’t his, so I posted a picture of the balls on social media, just in case. 
Several people responded to my post, some were teachers, others were neighbors or parents. They all said the same thing: The balls belong to Horace Mann. The NP stands for north playground. I smiled, knowing that I’d made the right decision.
Monday morning, I walked through the front door at Horace Mann. Talk about DeJa’Vu. There was a man talking to the lady through the office window. While I waited, I peeked around the corner down the hall.
The man was finished with his business, and I stepped up to the window. “I found these,” I said….”
The lady in the office was smiling. “I know, I saw your post,” she said. “They are ours.” We chatted for just a moment.
“Walking in here sure brings back memories,” I said. “To the left was the door to Mrs. Murphy’s kindergarten classroom. Down the hall to the right, and on the right, was the door to Mrs. Sales’ room; my first-grade teacher. Next to that was Mrs. Bear’s room; my second-grade teacher. Wow, the feelings and memories,” I said.  “It’s hard to believe that was almost 60 years ago.” I hand the two balls to the lady and she thanked me.
I walked out the front door and got into my truck. I felt warm and fuzzy about my good deed. When I looked up, there was a partial rainbow forming in the sky above the soccer field on the south playground. I gave my dog Nova Mae a rub on the head, “This is going to be a fantastic day!”

I headed back to the bridge. Right off, I ran into Rochelle and Andrea again, the mother and daughter who’d parked next to me in Mackinaw City. They asked if I’d just finished the walk. “Yeah,” I said. “But I decided I’m going to walk back to Mackinaw City.” They wished me luck, and I was on my way.
Not far into my return, I came upon a younger girl pushing a man in a wheelchair. She was a smaller gal, and he was a good size man. At this point we were on the incline, and she was struggling a bit. “Can I take a turn pushing for you?” She gladly accepted. “I’m Tom,” I said.
“I’m Ella,” she replied. I asked if the man was her grandfather. “He might as well be,” she laughed. “Mark has lived next door to my family my whole life. A few years ago, he told me about this bridge walk and said he always wanted to go but could never get a ride. I promised when I turned 16 and got my license, I’d take him. So, here we are.” I asked if they were going all the way across. “No, just halfway and then we’ll turn around. I kind of have some health issues of my own.” Mark turned around and said, ‘Ella, we’ve all got issues.’ As we got near the first tower, Ella asked “Is this halfway?”
I explained the halfway point would be the middle, between the two towers: about another quarter  mile. She asked, “Would it be okay if we turn around here?”
“You can turn around whenever you want, Ella,” I said. She was starting to look tired, so I pushed the chair over the center curb to the other lane.  I offered to push the wheelchair back down to the side where they started but Ella assured, she’d be fine. “You need to be careful; you’re going downhill now. Don’t let the chair get away from you.” We said our farewells and went our separate ways.
I decided to go back and push the wheelchair for Ella, anyway. When I turned around someone else was already pushing it for her. There are so many good people in the world; that warmed my heart. Ella was in good hands; I could keep walking.
Next, I walked with a man who was from Alabama. “I graduated college in 1991 and got my first job in northern Michigan,” Chuck said. “I was a loner, didn’t know anybody up here. So, one day a co-worker asked if I wanted to cross the Big Mac with her. I didn’t really know what that meant but agreed to go along and I loved it. I still work for the same company; they’ve transferred me a dozen times all over the country. No matter where I am, I’ve returned for the bridge walk, rain or shine. This is the 66th walk and 33rd - well actually only thirty-two because they cancelled the walk in 2020 for covid, but we still made the trek to Mackinaw City, so that counts for something.”
Chuck was very interesting. I asked if he ever saw the girl again who first introduced him to the walk. “I see her every day,” he laughed, “We’ve been married 31 years.” He went on to explain she wasn’t on the walk this year due to a knee injury. “But she’ll be back next year,” he assured. I wished his wife a speedy recovery and kept moving. It turns out Chuck was not the only person I would meet who had a first date on the Mackinaw Bridge.
I came upon a couple wearing matching shirts that read Snyder Crew. Scott and Candy were celebrating the 40th anniversary of their first date. “I hope you took her some place special,” I said to Scott.
“I did indeed,” Scott smiled. “We walked across the Mackinac Bridge forty years ago today!” I told him that I had walked across and was on my way back. “A double-crosser, eh,” he said, but I didn’t know what he meant. “When you walk across the bridge and back, they call you a double-crosser. Candy and I double crossed on our first date.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You ask a girl out and make her walk ten miles on your first date, and she married you anyway?” We shared a good laugh about that.
“I sure did,” Candy said. “All our kids have walked the bridge, and our grandkids, too.” Then she told me, “They’re not all here this year, but there are four generation representing Team Snyder today.” She went on to tell me her dad was here for the walk but decided to sit out this year. “He’s 92 and thought it would be best to stay back at the motel.” She quickly added, “He was 88 the last time he walked the bridge and he’s here in spirit.”
“Wow, that’s impressive,” I said. I met such a variety of people that day, that I wasn’t surprised at all to meet Ian.
Ian was a teenager who walked along filling the air with the distinct sounds of his bagpipes. His long reddish hair was tied back in a ponytail. He had a bellow that he compressed under his arm. “It’d be difficult to have enough wind to keep the bag inflated and walk five miles, too,” he said with a heavy Scottish accent. Ian went on to explain the technical differences between Scottish Great Highland bagpipes and the Irish Uilleann pipe. He was speaking way above my pay grade. I smiled and just told him I really enjoyed his music and then asked if he was from Scotland. “No. I’m from Chicago,” he said. Chicago? I questioned his lack of a midwestern accent.
Soon a lady stepped up next to me. With the same accent, she said, “Ian was born in Chicago. But I was born and raised in Scottland. He picked that accent up from his father and me. Now his brother, the one playing the guitar ahead of us, he speaks perfect Midwesterner.” We shared a good laugh about that. I was happy Ian chose to preserve the accent and dialect of his heritage.
I was past the halfway point on my way back to Mackinaw City, on the final stretch for home, or should I say, back to my truck. I remembered Melissa telling me, “Make sure you get a good selfie on the bridge.” I stopped under the south tower and snapped a photo. I started feeling confident as if I had completed the walk. But I wasn’t there yet, and I saw two more people I wanted to talk to.
A man in a wheelchair, in the opposite lane was on his way up the bridge. He was an amputee wearing a red, white, and blue bandana. A second man in similar patriotic colors pushed his chair. One of the men wore a T-shirt indicating he was a Vietnam War Veteran. I was feeling emotional and appreciative of their service. I approached the two men. We exchanged greetings and casual conversation about the nice weather and then I asked the man, “May I take a turn pushing your chair?”
The man in the chair questioned, “Why?”
 
“When you served our country, you served me, too,” I said. “I would be honored to push your chair to serve you for a while.”
The man in the wheelchair looked at me and said, “No, you cannot.” His reply caught me off guard. He went on to explain: “I wasn’t drafted to the Army; I enlisted to serve my country knowing full-well there was a war going on. I went to Vietnam, and I left my leg there. I didn’t serve my country expecting someone to someday return the service to me. So, No. You cannot push my chair.” He wasn’t angry when he said this, but he was direct and too the point. I respected his position. Then he repeated, “You cannot push my chair, but you can walk alongside us, if you’d like.” I accepted his offer.
As we walked, I told the men about the stories I wrote and asked if I could include him in a future story about the Mackinac Bridge Walk, and the people I met. “Sure, write whatever you want,” he said. Neither of the two would tell me their name or where they were from, “You don’t need that for your story,” he said. “And no pictures, either.” After walking with them for a short while, the man said, “I saw you walking the other way before you came over here. You probably should go back and catch up with your people.” He smiled and thanked me for walking with them. I thanked the two veterans for their service and headed back to the other side of the bridge. Even though it was just a short time, I truly felt honored to walk with them. As I was getting closer to the end of the walk, I picked up my pace to catch up with another person in uniform.
The man sat high in his saddle wearing a black uniform with white letters across his back that read SHERIFF. True to the days of the old west, he wore a white cowboy hat; the good guys always wore a white cowboy hat. The horse had a distinctive black blanket with white stripes across its rump and matching ankle boots.  It was one of the officers the grumpy lady pointed out in the morning. “That’s a beautiful horse,” I said to the lawman. He thanked me for the compliment, and I asked, “Did you have to arrest anyone today?”    
“No sir,” he replied. “We’re just up here to keep everyone safe.” I thanked the officers and continued. I was feeling that natural high coming back again when I saw the overhead sign: FINISH LINE.  Wow, what a thrill! So many people at the end of the walk looked exhausted and yet fired up at the same time; there was a great sensation of accomplishment.
I went back to the truck and opened the door to the camper. As always, Nova Mae was full of kisses and excited to see me. I had just walked ten miles, and Nova said, “Come on Dad, let’s go for a walk.” And so, we did.
Nova and I walked around downtown, I wanted to find a Mackinaw Bridge Walk Commemorative T-shirt. I told the salesclerk that I had walked over and back. “That’s awesome,” she said. “Would you like us to print ‘Double Crosser’ across the back?” Absolutely.
I called Melissa to tell her all about the day, “It was so cool, babe….” As I told her about all the fun people I’d met, she said she wished she could have gone with me. “Next year,” I said. Nova and I returned to the truck to go get the trailer from the campground, then to retrieve the motorcycle which was still on the St. Ignace side of the bridge. We still had about an hour before the bridge would be open to traffic, so we stopped at Wienerlicious.
 
Wienerlicious is a restaurant with a giant hot dog on their roof. I think they sell pulled pork sandwiches too, but I’ve only had their hot dogs. I found a space in their parking lot, which was really full and there a line was stretching outside the front door. Low and behold, who should I run into? The grumpy lady! “You ever eat here before,” she asked me. “They have the best Chicago Dogs in the world.”
“No,” I corrected her. “They have an excellent Chicago Dog here, but the best Chicago Dogs will come from a vendor with a hot dog cart in downtown Chicago.”
The grumpy woman said, “Why don’t you just go back to Illinois where you came from?”
I smiled, “Because I came from Minnesota.” The woman scowled at me and walked away. Fortunately, that was the last time I saw the grumpy woman – but there’s always next year. I was really hungry and ordered two Chicago Dogs, and one plain hotdog for Nova. We don’t normally feed her people food, but she had been an exceptionally good sport today. After lunch we went to load the motorcycle.
With the bike tied down on the trailer, we should have turned right from the rest area, but instead we went left – I wanted to drive the bridge one more time. The toll was six dollars because of the trailer, but it was worth it.
As we pulled out of Mackinaw City, onto the Mackinac Bridge, I pushed the play button on my tunes. Bob Seger started singing, ‘Took a look down a westbound road, right away I made my choice….’ I asked Nova Mae, “Should we head about twelve hours out of Mackinaw City and see if we can find that bar to stop and have a beer?” We shared a good laugh about that.
I looked in the rear-view mirror at my big two-wheeler riding on the trailer behind Willie. The last words of Bob Seger’s song Roll Me Away, are ‘Next time, we’ll get it right.’ I gave Nova Mae a rub on the head, “We got it right this time; I think Bob Seger would approve.”
 
 
 
 
     
 
 
 
 
 
 
             
 
 
 
 
      Grumpy lady “I enjoy it so much.”
Bob Seger would approve  Never paid off the bet
Drive back home around the big lake the call gitche gumee

Nova and I set out for Mackinaw City on Saturday afternoon. We drove Willie, our 1971 Ford F-250 Camper Special, with a vintage Alaskan Camper in the bed. We towed my 1977 Kawasaki 650 on a trailer. I would park the motorcycle at the rest area on the north end of the bridge and then ride it back to the campground after the walk. Willie had never been more than 100 miles from home, and I was excited about this trip. Pulling out of the driveway, we gave Melissa two toots on the horn and waved, “See you next week,” I said. “Woof, woof,” Nova Mae added.
Driving an old truck without air conditioning across northern Wisconsin and Michigan’s UP in August, was a little warm. With the wing windows open, we were comfortable with plenty of air. We arrived at Mackinaw City on Sunday and found our campsite.
I rode my bike around town, meeting all sorts of people: Stan was 77, he’s been coming to walk Big Mac for years. Jill’s husband had recently passed away. They’d walked the bridge many times together and this year she would walk with his ashes. I think she planned to scatter them, but she didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask. People from all over the country came to walk for lots of different reasons.
I finally trailered the motorcycle across the bridge and parked it in the rest area. I returned to the campground and discovered I had been double crossed! While I was gone with Willie and the trailer, someone set up in my campsite! It was after eleven and I wasn’t going to wake the camp host. I pushed my trailer into my site and chained it to a tree. Nova and I drove Willie downtown and found a place to park where there were lots of trees to keep the camper shaded the following day. We climbed into the back and went to bed. The only thing left to do was get some rest before the big walk in the morning, which wasn’t easy. I felt like a kid trying to sleep on Christmas Eve.
By 6:00 on Labor Day morning, Mackinaw City (population 875 people) was buzzing with thousands of visitors who came for the walk. Two ladies were talking in the parking space next to me. I got up and decided to follow them. Nova Mae wanted to walk with me, “Sorry, Nova. Dogs are not allowed on the walk. You’ll have to wait in the camper.” Being my first time on the bridge walk, I didn’t know where I was going or what to expect. The two ladies had already gone, so I followed the crowd.
The crowd made their way to the starting point. There were people as far as I could see. Nancy Sinatra’s song, These Boots Are Made for Walking, was playing over the PA System. The mood was festive on a cool, crisp morning, under a clear sky. Everyone was jovial except one grumpy lady and as luck would have it, she struck up conversation with me.
After some small talk, she complained to me about the cops on horseback: “Those horses shouldn’t be in this crowd. If they get spooked, they’ll trample people.” I told her the horses are well trained to be in crowds. She griped, “Pets aren’t allowed on the walk.” I explained, police horses are not pets, they’re working animals. “There are too many cops here. They’re just looking for reasons to arrest people,” she said. “Why can’t they just leave us alone.”
“The are here to keep everyone safe,” I explained. “You’d have to be doing something really stupid to get arrested here today.” For each of her complaints, I had a calm, logical response and she was getting frustrated with me.
 
“Blah, blah, blah,” she said. “Why don’t you just go back to Wisconsin where you came from?”
I smiled, “Because I came from Minnesota.”
The music faded and Michigan’s Governor welcomed the people, followed by a young lady who sang the National Anthem. The crowd join in full voice, “Oh say does that star spangled banner yet wave, ore the land of the free, and the home of the brave." The applause and cheers following the anthem, were roaring loud! Although I was too deep in the crowd to see them, the governor’s entourage led the walk, and the crowd followed. The people I met on the bridge were amazing.
The first person I spoke with on the bridge was Ruth. I asked why she was wearing dress shoes; they wouldn’t seem uncomfortable. “I’m 78 years old and I always wear dress shoes for the walk. This is a special occasion, you know – being able to walk this bridge. People should dress up.”
The next people I spoke with were Rochelle and Andrea, a mother and daughter. They happened to be talking about an old ford pickup which they parked next to. “Was the truck green with a camper in the back?”
“Yes, it was,” said the mom. “You must have seen it, too.”
“Saw it? I drove it,” I said. We shared a good laugh about that and talked about how well organized this event was.
Three lanes were formed: the southbound lane was for people starting in Mackinaw City and walking north. The north lane was for people starting in Saint Ignace and walking south. Though it sounds a bit confusing, it makes perfect sense; when walking on a road, pedestrians are to walk facing traffic. The two center lanes were for emergency vehicles.
Before the walk, I read the rules: running was not allowed during the walk, for safety reasons, but the first people we met coming from the opposite direction were running. “There not supposed to be running,” The grumpy lady complained. (I thought I had ditched her.)
The first person was a sole runner, followed by a man and woman running with American flags; one in colors to support police. It was beautiful how the rising sun in the east illuminated the flags. The walkers cheered for Old Glory, Well, all but one. The grumpy lady complained, “All these cops and not a one of them will lift a finger to bust these people breaking the rules….” I picked up my pace to put some distance between us. A few firefighters ran in full gear behind the flag. Even on a cool morning, they had to be hot!
I later learned that up to 700 people can pre-register to run from St. Ignace to Mackinaw City. They leave first so that there are no walkers ahead of them.
The grumpy lady was correct, there were a lot of officers on the bridge walk, and their moods were as festive as the walkers. Not far into the walk, I met a State Trooper, “There sure are a lot of Troopers here,” I said.
He nodded. “They bring us in from all over the state.”
“If y’all are up here on the bridge, who’s protecting the rest of Michigan,” I asked. “It seems if one was to speed on the highway, this would be the day.”
“Oh, there are plenty more of us, and we have friends keeping watch,” the officer replied. “Say, do I recognize you from the side of the road?” We shared a good laugh about that. I met the friendliest people in uniform that day.
Four more officers were gathered and chatting in a small group, three of them were on bicycles, I mentioned that no bikes were allowed on the bridge. “We’re special,” one of the cyclists replied. Another pointed at him, saying, “He’s real special.” We all had a good laugh about that, and then I purposed an offer to the quietest bicycle cop.     
“As a law-abiding citizen, I would never bribe a lawman,” I said. “So, this is not a bribe, it’s a legitimate business offer: I’ll give you five bucks, cash for your bicycle.” The officer smiled and politely declined. I upped my offer, “Ten bucks for the ride, and I promise to return it when I get back from the other side.” The officer laughed but again declined. He said the bike belonged to the taxpayers and it wasn’t his to sell. “Man, some people just can’t be bought,” I said shaking my head.
Another officer said, “You should have offered twenty. I’ll bet he would’ve caved at twenty and you’d be the first kid on your block to own a real police bicycle.” Then he quickly added, “At least legally.” The officers had a real hardy good laugh about that and one of them seemed to be blushing. I imagine there was a story behind that, and I would love to have learned it, but I had a long way to walk and more fun officers to meet.
Officer Dennis Maura looked like an ordinary cop. He wore a unform with full gear, an old-fashioned policeman’s cap with the hard bill, and a florescent green safety vest for visibility. But he didn’t need the vest to be seen. A small crowd was taunting him, ‘Do it again. Do it again.’ The officer waived them off, momentarily, and then he did it again, a cartwheel. I caught a bit on it on a video. It amazed me that his hat stayed on his head, but his radio microphone fell from his shoulder. As quickly as he came upright, he sprung the mic back up into his hand, and clipped it to his shoulder; almost like a kid doing a trick with a Duncan Yo-yo. Not only was Office Maura quite the gymnast, but he was also a talented Yo-yoer; or is it Yo-yoist? (Are those even words?)
When I came to the suspension section of the bridge, I looked down through the open grate surface. The green steel structure below looked surreal against the bright blue water. It reminded me of something I built with my Erector Set as a kid. I got on my hands and knees to take a photo through an opening in the grate. I wondered if that was how this bridge came to be; some young kid was playing with an Erector Set and dreamed of one day building a mighty bridge. My daze was interrupted by someone touching my shoulder. “Are you okay sir?” I turned to see an officer standing at my side. I assured the officer I was fine and was just taking a picture of the iron work below.
The cop politely told me, “You have to keep moving.” (Loitering is not allowed and I was there for a few minutes.) “Be careful getting up,” she cautioned while offering me a hand. I was okay; I stood up quickly and found myself stumbling – almost as if I were drunk! The officer grabbed my arm to steady me, “The bridge is moving a lot today,” she said and wished me well as I moved along. The bridge is designed to move but I hadn’t considered how much.
The event featured several turnaround points for folks who wanted to walk shorter distances. A turnaround at the peak of the bridge served people who wished to walk five miles but didn’t want the hassle of finding a ride back. This is the highest point on Mackinac Bridge. I spoke with a trooper posted there.
The Trooper rocked back and forth, from one foot to the other. I inquired if he was dancing or just keeping beat with the movement of the bridge. “It’s to keep me from throwing up,” he said. “This bridge sways enough to make a person sea-sick if they stand still up here for very long.” Then he pointed to my feet, “Look at you.” I was subconsciously moving back and forth also. I asked the trooper if he’d like to dance. “Sorry, my dance card is already full,” he laughed, and I moved on.
I had now crossed the midway point. “Two and half down, two and a half to go,” said a man walking next to me with his young daughter on his shoulders. He was about two feet on the open grate. “This is Meghan. It’s our first walk.” His daughter waved at me and said hello. In the process, she knocked her dad’s hat off his head. He nearly froze in place. Naturally, I bent down to pick up the ball cap and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t think I could have done that.” The man went on to explain that he was scared to death of open grates. “I decided this year I would face my fear and walk over the grates, but if I look down, I doubt I’ll finish the walk.” He wasn’t the only one facing fear.
I paused alongside a man standing in the middle of the paved lane looking at the vertical cables. The cables were making a high-pitched squeaking noise, almost like a gate with rusty hinges but much louder. “The bridge feels like it’s moving,” he said, seeming a bit panicked. “Why are those cables screeching? Are they going to break? Is the bridge safe.” I chatted with the man long enough to learn that he was crossing the bridge trying to overcome his fear of heights. I wanted to put his mind at ease.
“The bridge is supposed to move. is very safe,” I said calmly, “And it’s” Then I told him, “Those cables are making music, they’re singing to you, inviting you to dance.” I walked with him for a while. Once we were off the suspension part of the bridge, his anxiety eased, and he seemed relieved. Meanwhile, I was buzzing! I soon reached the north end of the Mighty Mac. I turned and looked back at the bridge, “That was just awesome,” I said.
I began walking toward my motorcycle in the rest area. It wasn’t quite 9:00 yet and the bridge wouldn’t reopen to traffic until noon. I knew ahead of time I’d have at least a three hour wait. To pass the time, I planned to ride the motorcycle forty-five minutes north on I-75 to Sault Ste. Marie. I can spend hours watching boats and ships pass through the Soo Locks. Maybe it was the dopamine my brain was releasing but I was still feeling a great natural high from walking the bridge. I second-guessed my plan. I can go to the Soo Locks anytime. I looked at the clock and then glanced back at that The Mighty Mackinac Bridge. “My feet might end up hating me for this, but I’m going to do it.”
Come back next week, for the thirds and final segment: Double Crossed – The Way Back