Mid-June, 2009 - We left the cute, warm, Northern Lake Michigan coastal towns and ventured over the Macinaw Bridge to the
rather forbidding Upper Peninsula. The bridge is a magnificent structure, and as we crossed it Mark told me a little about this other
side of Michigan. The "Yoopers," inhabitants of the UP, are a breed apart. They can withstand truly frigid winters and take great
pride in being from a vast land that shares little with the urban jungle of Detroit or the gentrified
small towns of the warmer regions to the south. There is a ruggedness here, an almost frontier
quality, that increases dramatically the further you get from the Macinaw Bridge.
We didn't get too far. The small
town of St. Ignace beckoned to
us just after we crossed the
bridge. Bypassing the very
elegant waterfront Best Western
that advertised, "We aren't
expensive, we just look that
way," we stayed instead at a
small inn overlooking the
lighthouse. Several motels were
closed permanently, and those
that were open had few patrons.
We were the only visitors at our motel for the night, and we had our pick of
any room we wanted. Given that opportunity, I wanted to make sure our
picture window framed the lighthouse just right. Mark and the inn keeper
shared some sidelong glances and rolled eyes as I vacillated between two
rooms, popping in and out of each one several times. "You should see her
pick out a table at a restaurant..." Mark sighed with a smile.
Later on he agreed it
was worth it: as the
sun set and the
lighthouse slowly
winked at us during
the evening, we both
grabbed our cameras.
St. Ignace has a
long wooden
boardwalk that
meanders along
the edge of the harbor. We walked along it the next morning and
found a swan and its babies paddling in the water.
A seagull surveyed the scene and eyed me up for breadcrumbs. I
threw out a few and within seconds I was surrounded by the whole
flock and engaged in a wild game of catch. I would throw pieces of
bread as high in the air as I could, and the gulls would swoop by and
effortlessly catch the bread in mid-air in an amazing aerobatic display.
Back in Traverse City, along the northern part of Lake Michigan, we had
met Liz Fels who was staging an exhibit of her photography. She was
from the tiny town of Hessel in the UP, and she recommended that we
stop by her bookstore/gallery when we got up that way. Hessel's
welcome sign made the town seem
like a happening place, but when we
got there we found a lovely, sleepy
little hamlet that boasts just a handful
of shops and an eatery or two.
It wasn't hard to find "The Village
Idiom," Liz's bookstore/gallery, and
what a find it was. For any
enthusiastic reader spending time in
the raw lands of the UP, this store,
brimming with used books, is a rare
jewel.
Not only is there space to unwind
your mind inside with shelves of
unusual titles and a gallery of pretty
photographs, but there is space
outside to take your new read, relax,
and check it out under the sun.
When I commented on how beautiful all the lilacs were around town, she
took me to her back yard where there is a 100 year old lilac tree. It was
immense and it was in full bloom.
I had a field day with flowers in this town. A few doors down from the
bookstore I found a huge patch of lilies-of-the-valley.
You don't spot these forest gems too often, and Mark and I both
laid down to get a whiff of their heady scent. A group of cyclists
going by stopped and gathered around us to see why we were
sprawled out on the sidewalk. Ah, they nodded to each other
knowingly. Lillies-of-the-valley... Of course!
Further down towards the harbor
I found more flowers planted
along a whimsical, nautical fence.
The pace in this village is slooow, and the air
has a sense of contentment and remoteness.
Visitors come
here to let the
cares of the
world slip away,
and there is no
tourist hype or
brochures of
prospective
activities.
Long, quiet happy hours spent
overlooking the tiny bay and watching
the rare person working on their boat is
about as busy as it gets.
Hessel is the home of a big antique wooden boat show, and we
found a few down in the boatyard. Too bad we wouldn't be here in
August to see the event.
A fellow at the boatyard proudly showed us Shotsie, a 1942 Chris Craft
that looks like it just came out of the showroom. The rich varnish,
immaculate engine and new-looking controls inspired images of young
people of another era enjoying an afternoon on the water.
We strolled around the water's edge and admired several beautiful old
boats. I can remember boats like these (not quite as pristine!) from
when I was a very little girl on the beach in New England, and Mark
remembers aunts and uncles taking him for rides in boats like these
on Lake St. Clair.
A little further north of Hessel, in Cedarville, we found the heart of
this wooden boat culture: The Great Lakes Boat Building School.
Set in a huge barnlike building, the doors were thrown wide to let in
the sun and spring air, and we peeked inside.
Offering an intensive two-year program, students attend all-day
classes five days a week (with summers off). They range from young
people looking for career skills to retirees looking for personal
fulfillment. The $10,000/year tuition puts you in a class with just a
handful of other students, mastering this craft under the attentive
tutelage of highly qualified instructors.
In Year 1, all of the students build the same boat, a flat bottom double-
ended skiff, which the school then sells when it is completed. Selling
these exquisitely crafted boats supplements the school's income and
helps keep the tuition from being even higher.
There were boats in several
stages of completion, and
outside was a gorgeous 32'
boat that had taken two
different student classes two
years to build.
The first class had laid the planks and shaped the hull, and the second class had done the
finishing work. Now it was on a trailer, ready to go to Harbor Springs, home of the lucky
folks who had commissioned the school to build it.
Stopping for a snack, we discovered a local
delicacy in the UP is "pasties." I hadn't seen
these meat-pie treats since I was in Australia
in the early 1990's. Down Under they call
these yummy personal-sized flakey crust
encased meat and veggie pies "pahs-ties."
Here in the UP they were called "pass-ties"
but they were the same delicious mini-meals
that were probably brought to both regions by
Cornish immigrants many years ago.
We drove straight north across the UP, making a
bee-line for Lake Superior. The temperature had
dropped as soon as we crossed the bridge into the UP, and there were snowmobile signs
everywhere. We even saw someone wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with an image of a
snowmobile and the words: "Summer Sucks." This was Cold Country! Brrr.
There are endless paths through the woods where you can snowmobile in the winter, and lots
of wide open farmland as well.
Mark spotted two large Sandhill cranes strolling down the road. As with so much of
the wildlife we see, we tried to get them to stop and pose so we could get a clear
photo, but they had other ideas.
We had seen two of the Great Lakes so far: Lake Michigan and Lake Erie, and I wanted to dip a finger in Lake Superior. We drove
straight to the first coastal opening we could find and ran down to the beach. A family was coming up the trail from the beach, the
kids shivering in wet bathing suits with beach towels wrapped around them.
One little girl told us excitedly (through chattering blue lips), "I went in four
times!" She was very proud of her feat, and once I put a finger in I could
see why. It was like putting your hand in the water that collects around the
ice in a cooler. My hand turned red and ached instantly.
I am sure the Lake Superior coast is stunning, but that little bit was enough
for me. We turned south and headed back to our cozy hotel overlooking
the lighthouse in St. Ignace, planning our next outing to the Soo Locks.