One's college years are a time for exploration and summers are particularly glorious and free.  The summer of 1982 was just that for three young people intent on riding their ten-speed bicycles up to Upper Michigan's Copper Harbor in two short weeks.

Mark, Susan and David began the first leg of their adventure in the parking lot of St. Anthony's Catholic Church in Mackinaw City.  The three had driven the first leg of the journey from downstate in Susan's shiny new fire-engine red Chevy Cavalier with their three bikes loaded on the back.

The plan, created mostly through improvisation, was to take the Shepler Ferry from Mackinaw City to Mackinac Island and ultimately St. Ignace and then on to Copper Harbor.

The plan so far was flawless, then came the first snag.

Adrenalin and anticipation of what we'd encounter filled the first day pedaling the circumference of the tiny island, once a vacation destination for Michigan's early Indian tribes.

When it was time to set up camp we discovered, there was no camping.  Camping is strictly prohibited on the Mackinac Island.

Undeterred and encouraged by a few locals, we felt bold enough to forge on.  Several store employees assured us we could get sufficiently lost if we explored the back trails up on the bluffs.

Despite being very fit, exhaustion set in as we settled down for the night.

The campsite was perfect, far away from town, up on a cliff, buried in the trees.  We could see the first glimmer of lights from across the lake in St. Ignace.  It wasn't quite dark enough for the lights on the mighty Mackinac Bridge.

Tent set up, check, sleeping bags laid out, check, all the rest of the gear secured, check, now the only thing left was to find our way back to fudgey paradise, the main drag on Mackinaw Island where all the action is.  We worked up quite an appetite.

As the last stake was hammered in and the tent zipped shut, a middle aged man and woman, walking hand in hand, shouted at us from a near-by orchard of fruit trees, "Hey, what do you think you're doing!" the man shouted in a less than hospitable voice.  Then he continued, "You know you're camping on Grand Hotel property don't you?" His intensity growing, "If you don't take that tent down immediately, I'm calling the police and they'll have a place for you to spend the night!"

The sun was going down quite rapidly at this point, so in a pulsating panic, the tent came down the sleeping bags were stuffed back in their bags and we loaded everything back onto our ten-speeds.  Not knowing our exact location in the woods, the cliff conveniently located below the camp site became our escape route back into town.  It was 8:30 p.m. and there was no money for a motel room for three students on a college budget.  What could we do? Where were we going to sleep?

As if by divine intervention, that particular night the ferry boats were running until 10:30 p.m.   If the kids were exhausted before setting up camp it's hard to say what source of energy they were drawing upon now.

After pedaling a short distance, word on the street in St. Ignace was that a campground existed right on the beach facing the side of the island that the three had just vacated.

Once again camp was established, this time on the soft, dry, sugary sand of the city park in St. Ignace.  For all of their efforts God had a special treat for nightly entertainment-an awe inspiri display of the Northern Lights.

The remaining trip was filled with fresh water dips in glistening Lake Michigan and the tepid Taquamenon River near.  In Newberry we discovered that all roads going east and west in relation to where we were would require traveling over miles of sandy road.  But before that point materialized I, who incidentally had the onlyy new bike with lightweight alloy rims designed for "touring".....broke at least ten spokes riding over old railroad ties.  The rest of the trip...was spen in Paradise looking for bicycle spokes.   A Michigan memory I'll never forget.