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I knew we’d left too late in the day to make it to Mackinaw City when signs for Frankenmuth sparked this thought: “Rebecca, when is the last time you had chicken?”

That’s right about the time we spotted billboards for Bronner’s, the world’s largest Christmas store, and Jellystone Park Camp Resort, about two hours north of Detroit.

But we kept driving. Yogi Bear wasn’t going to steal food from these savvy tourists to restock his pic-a-nic basket. Sorry, Boo-Boo.

Now who’s smarter than the av-er-age bear?

For decades, Frankenmuth has been known for chicken and Christmas, as well as the Bavarian Inn and Zehnder’s, two of the nation’s largest independently owned restaurants. Driving through this Little Bavaria, as it’s known, you’re welcomed in German with a huge sign proclaiming, Willkommen.

If you’re looking for an authentic Bavarian experience and entertainment for the entire family in the heart of Michigan, this is the place. On this hot July evening, however, we weren’t craving schnitzel.

This was supposed to be our summer RV road trip, destination Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Land of Yoopers, pasties and Pictured Rocks.

With that, and the clock ticking toward 6 p.m., we took a hard left and ended up in Mount Pleasant, smack dab in the middle of the state and home to Central Michigan University.

Part of Mount Pleasant is located within the Isabella Indian Reservation, the base of the federally recognized Saginaw Chippewa Tribal Nation. It’s also the site of the tribe’s Soaring Eagle Casino & Resort in nearby Chippewa Township.

Rebecca, who loves to gamble, was gleeful. Maddie and I relished stopping since we both had to pee like racehorses.

We’d been to the casino and stayed at the resort’s hotel but had never camped at their Hideaway RV Park. After haggling with the front office clerk over the outrageous $90 rate for a night of camping on dirt, we compromised with a generous senior discount and free WiFi but no cable TV.

Thanks to the park’s convenient 24-hour casino shuttle, we later donated another $40 to the cause in the time it takes to brush your teeth.

At our campsite, we met two nice couples from Michigan’s Thumb area. (For non-Michiganders, please hold out your right hand, palm up, so it looks like a mitten. See your thumb? That’s what I’m talking about.)

They were there to celebrate the 35^thAnnual Saginaw Chippewa Tribal Pow Wow. One of the guys, Chris, was Native American, and a tribe member.

Sweaty and shirtless, his long salt and pepper braid, hunter green tattoos and faded old-school Wranglers suited him just fine.

“Pow wow weekend’s been going on since 1984,” Chris said, adding that all were welcome to observe and experience traditional Native American culture.

Over the years, pow wows have evolved from intimate tribal gatherings to more public celebrations of the Indian Nation.

The next morning, we had camp drama right outside our motorhome’s screen door at site #24. A distraught, petite woman wandered over.

“I’ve lost my husband,” said Mary from Fenton.

“My deepest condolences,” I said.

Then Mary explained that her husband, Joe, wasn’t dead, or at least not yet anyway.

She was searching for Joe, who went to the park’s shower for Men (a.k.a., Niniwag in the native Ojibway language) and hadn’t returned after a half-hour. “It’s just not like him,” Mary said of her beloved Joe, in his 70s sporting a white T-shirt, blue jeans and, apparently, a heart condition.

Plus, he’d left behind his cell phone, which Mary was holding in her shaky hand. “He’s in the Men’s room,” she said. “I can’t go in there. They’ll think I’m nuts.”

“Who cares? Come on. Let’s go find him,” I said, confident since I’d naturally already snapped photos of both bathroom doors, including the one for Women, labeled Kwewags.

We high-tailed it, two determined kwewags on a mission to rescue one missing niniwag.

Leaning into the bathroom door with my ear pressed against it like Cagney & Lacey, I opened it a smidge and yelled, “Hellooooo, Joe. Are you in there? Hellooooo?”

No Joe. No niniwags at all, thank goodness.

At that moment, Rebecca, ever the dutiful Troy Citizens Patrol Volunteer, walked over to the park’s front office to see if perhaps Joe had stopped there on his way back from the restroom.

No Joe. But the attentive kwewags behind the desk said they’d seen him walking nearby.

Thanks to her CPV training, Rebecca checked the adjacent pavilion, and there was Joe, enjoying some fresh morning air.

When Mary heard the good news, she practically jumped for joy. Her Joe was fine. All was right with the world. But I’m pretty sure she wanted to kill him.

“Oh, he probably just needed some ‘me’ time,” said Chris from the Thumb. Then he climbed into his monstrous Ford F-Series Super Duty pickup and drove off, likely anxious to set up for the night’s big pow wow opening.

Before we hit the road, I forgot to ask how to say Welcome in his native language. But I learned their word for thank you, which was printed on a sign as we exited the park: Miigwech.

You’re welcome.