"There's Just No 'Getting Away From It All'

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Sheesh!" Kelly exclaimed the following morning, as the vacationers motored along mile after mile of fir-tree-lined, snow-covered and banked highway—devoid of any signs of human habitation. "I've never seen so many trees! This area of the country sure is…desolate!"

"Ahhh, man. I don't believe this!" Gage grumbled, as a 'Lanse 40 Miles' sign suddenly whipped past his window.

"Wha-at?" Chet shot his passenger an anxious glance. Those were not words you wanted to hear your navigator mutter.

The paramedic glanced up from the map in his lap. "We must a' missed our turn-off."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. I'm serious. Turn around."

Kelly carefully brought the car to a stop and then even more carefully began making a U-turn.

"I've been reading maps for over six years," John went on, "but I've never seen anything this screwy. I mean, why even bother to print a map, if you're not gonna mark any of the roads?"

The car's driver refrained from commenting.

"We're just gonna hafta go by mileage," its passenger further determined.

"And Mertin's Café signs," his hungry companion added. "I thought it was weird, when we hadn't seen any in a while. The famished fireman finally managed to get them safely headed back in the right direction.

Gage chanced a glance at the gas gauge. The needle still registered three-quarters of a tank.

Which was a huge relief, since neither of them had seen a gas station in the past sixty, or so, desolate miles.


Kelly kept one eye peeled on the road and the other on the odometer. "Alright, we've come 24 miles r-r-right…n-n-no-ow!"

The car's occupants gazed out its windows for a few moments and then at one another—in complete confusion.

"I don't get it," Gage griped. "According to this," he rattled their sorry excuse for a road map, "we just drove through the town of Channing. There were only two houses."

"Three," Kelly corrected. "And a garage."

The vehicle's navigator shook his confused noggin a few times. "We hafta hang a right pretty quick. The next couple a' houses could be Sagola. So you'd better slow down."


Less than an hour later, the Californians' rental car pulled up in front of Mertin's Café.

The exhausted pair of explorers exited their parked vehicle and then stood there—on Main Street, Iron River, Michigan—clutching their coats against the cold.

"I feel like we should plant a flag, or something," Kelly quipped.

His shivering chum was forced to chuckle.

Chet grinned and followed his still snickering associate into the restaurant—er, café.


The two men looked around the tiny eatery.

Crammed into the confined space were a few wooden booths, a couple of tables and a little lunch counter.

"Boy," Kelly began, "for bein' so small, this place sure does a lot of advertising. They must have thirty signs between here and Marquette."

Gage shrugged his jacket off and draped it over the back of a chair. "Don't knock it. If it wasn't for those signs, we never would a' made it. They worked slicker than the map…just like a homing signal. And, to show our appreciation, I'm gonna buy us a big victory dinner—and leave the waitress a big tip."

Speaking of waitresses…

A pretty, petite brunette came stepping up. She placed a pitcher of ice water and a pair of drinking glasses down on their window table and then passed them each a menu. "Hi." The girl's polite smile graduated into a bonified grin. "Say, I saw you two on TV the other day. You're the guys from California, right?"

John read the girl's nameplate. "Hi, Diane. Yeah…we're the guys from California."

"And we're famished!" Chet interjected and eagerly opened his menu. "So...what would you recommend?"

"Everything on there is good. But pasties are our specialty. This place makes the best pasties! Well, except for my grandmother's," the woman added with a wink—in a whisper.

The two guys from California exchanged mystified glances.

Kelly turned back to their hostess. "What, exactly, a-are pasties?"

The girl gazed at the pair as though they'd just sprouted purple antennae. "You've never had a pasty?" The gal quickly overcame her amazement and switched back into waitress mode. "Like I said, this place—well, really, the whole U.P.—is famous for its pasties…which consist of diced carrots, potatoes and onions baked in a light pastry crust. They come in chicken, ground beef or vegetarian, and you can get them with, or without, rutabagas. And, visitors—brave enough to try them—are not disappointed," Diane further assured them.

Actually, it came across as more of a dare than an assurance.

The courageous Californians promptly placed their orders: two coffees, two milks and two U.P. specialties…ground beef…with rutabagas…whatever the heck those were.

There were about fifteen other patrons in the place and it didn't take the two newcomers long to realize that they were the center of everyone's attention. Oh, their fellow diners tried to be discreet. But, every time the firemen glanced around, they found the café's other customers' gazes locked upon them.

"You get the feelin' that Diane ain't the only one who saw us on TV the other day?" the paramedic pondered in a hushed tone and rolled his eyes in the direction of their audience.

His companion nodded and then quietly confessed, "Yah know, I've always wondered what it would be like to be famous." Kelly pulled a pair of dark, mirror shades from the front pocket of his ski jacket and quickly slipped them on. The celebrity then sat there, hiding behind his dark glasses.

Gage managed an amused gasp, and then buried his famous face behind his menu.


"Diane was right!" Gage exclaimed, through a mouthful of partially masticated pasty. "This is incredible! The guys back at the Station would love these things! I have got to get this recipe!"

Kelly quickly averted his eyes. "What's to get? I mean, she already gave you the ingredients: diced carrots, potatoes, onions and hamburger baked in a light pastry crust." His empty tummy grumbled at the mere mention of food. He stopped talking to take a big bite of his own pasty. "Gawd, these are good, aren't they!" he proclaimed, just prior to swallowing the mouth-watering morsel. He'd prefer pasties to just plain burgers—any day!

His dinner companion nodded—vigorously.


The firemen had finished their milk and pasties and were sipping the last of their coffee, when Diane returned to their table, brandishing a fresh hot pot of the steaming brew…and their check.

The diners waved off a refill.

John took a look at the bill. Then he handed it back to the girl—along with a twenty—and told her to keep the change.

Diane looked at him like he'd just sprouted purple antennae again. "You do realize that this is a twenty…and not a ten." She really needed to be sure. Cuz, both meals had only come to six bucks, and nobody had ever given her a fourteen-dollar tip before.

Gage gave the pretty miss a grin and a nod.

Kelly was glad that he was still seated, or he may have keeled over. "Sheesh, Gage! If you'd spend that much on your dates, maybe you wouldn't get dumped so often."

John shot his friend a look that was an equal mixture of amusement and annoyance. The reason he didn't spend a lot on his dates wasn't because he was tight with his money. It just so happened that the things he loved to do and the foods he liked to eat weren't all that expensive. He'd just never had to fork out a lot of green to have a good time. He turned back to the now grinning girl. "Is there any way I could get the recipe for those pasty things?"

The girl's grin turned upside-down. "Sorry. The Mertin's won't divulge their secret pasty formula to anybody. They're afraid folks'll stop comin', if they can make 'em themselves, at home." Diane saw how crushed their California visitors appeared to be by this bit of news and quickly came up with a plan. "Hey, cheer up. They ain't the only ones who make pasties. My grandmother would be more than happy to share her recipe with you."

Her guests' countenances brightened.

John, especially, looked hopeful. "You sure it's not too much bother?"

"It's no bother at all," the girl assured them. "I'll go give her a call…"

"Ask her about the lodge," Chet urged.

"Uhhh, Diane?"

The waitress halted and then spun back around.

"You wouldn't happen to know how to get to the Ski Brule Mountain Lodge, would you?"

A strange look suddenly came over the girl. A smile followed closely in its wake. "My grandmother lives on the same road. Look, I'm off in five. Why don't you guys have a refill. Then you can follow me over to my gram's house…pick up the pasty recipe…and be on your way from there."

John was positively jubilant. "Sounds great!"

"Yeah! That'd be great! Thanks!" Chet added, sounding equally enthusiastic. With a guide—and a little luck—they just might make it to their new lodgings before dark.

The big tippers slid their coffee cups across the table and their extremely helpful hostess quickly topped them off.

TBC