I’d been sitting on my couch when the idea of a road trip to the Great Lakes came to mind. In the last few days of October, with several adventures left to go and not a lot of money to spend on them, I decided I needed to find a place with a lot of bang for my buck.
And, although I’ve traveled to dance events and competitions in other states, I’ve never taken a road trip on my own without at least knowing someone on the other side.
I started by booking a $50 hotel in Port Clinton for Monday night. I figured I would go during the week when it was cheap, and plan my activities around it.
Then, it dawned on me: A fishing charter. I could not go to the great lakes, especially to Port Clinton, the Walleye Capital of the World, without getting on a boat for a fishing trip.
I looked back at my list of planned adventures. Fishing Trip had not yet been crossed off.
I did a quick google search and dozens of charters popped up, with names like Fish On Erie Charter. I called the first one. They were closed for the season. The next one. They were done for the year, too.
When the third one answered, I was ready to pitch. I explained to him why I needed to get on a boat and fish, and he finally said, “OK. I’ll give you a name. It’s a long shot but if anyone can help you, it’s him.”
I thanked him and hung up, and two seconds later he texted me a screenshot of a contact: Eric at the Pirate Clipper.
OK. Eric was my guy.
Eric answered the phone cheerfully and I started right off explaining why I wanted to come to Lake Erie and fish and write about it.
“Oh man, I feel bad, but I don’t think I can help you,” he said. “By Monday we’re about done.”
Then he stopped.
“OK, maybe there’s something I can do.”
I was sipping coffee and talking with my Mom at 5 p.m. on Saturday when Eric texted: “Any chance you can be here at 8 a.m.?”
“That’s my boat captain,” I told Mom. “I need to hit the road tonight!”
Miraculously, I found a $50 per night Motel 6 near Huron, where Eric said he’d be docked.
He texted me the address and told me to get my fishing license and bring water and snacks. He said he had decided to take a group out tomorrow, and that three other people had signed up at the last minute, including two hearing-impaired people.
“I know sign language,” I’d texted. “I can help.”
“Are you serious?” he said. “That’s perfect.”
It was dark by the time I left Wal-Mart with a backpack, my fishing license, and water bottles and snacks.
I dashed into my apartment. It usually takes me way too long to pack, so I decided to challenge myself to pack light and fast. I ran around throwing stuff into the backpack and a suitcase, and a half-hour later, at 7:30 p.m., I was pulling out.
I have no idea if the trip from Wilmington to Huron is a picturesque one, but for me it consisted of rain, darkness and an awesome Enrique Iglesias playlist that lasted the entire three-and-a-half-hour drive with almost no repeats.
I was pleasantly surprised to pull into a bright, attractive Motel 6 almost within walking distance of the lake.
This is too good to be true! I naively thought as I walked in and eyed the indoor pool and hot tub.
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re at the wrong hotel,” the clerk said, confirming my suspicions.
“Head ten minutes back the way you came, into farm country,” she smiled. “The Motel 6 is right next to the big campground on the left.”
It was almost midnight when I sadly pulled my suitcase out of the bright lobby and loaded into the car. Enrique Iglesias and I sang a pitiful song as I headed back into the rain.
The Motel 6 I had booked was the opposite of the one in Huron. It was dim, dingy and next to a campground that looked dilapidated in the darkness. My front left tire was parked in a puddle of vomit, an unknown foreshadowing of the day ahead. Two hooded men smoking out front eyed me as I walked in the double doors.
I got to my room. It was sparse but it would do. After all, I reminded myself, I was only there for the next few hours.
I laid out my clothes for the morning – two pairs of pants, a fleece jacket and a heavy winter coat – and climbed into bed, setting my alarm for 6:45 a.m.
Every few minutes a train blew past the hotel and shook everything in the room, so it was hard to sleep. But I told myself that being on that boat at 8 a.m. was all that mattered, and it would be here before I knew it.