The Wolverine State

I like Michigan a great deal. A friend pointed out there are some strange people in the state, people jailed for planning to kidnap the governor. But I am an optimist looking for good as I travel and I find normal people in Michigan who seem to be abnormally cheerful. Of failed kidnappers I have met none, but perhaps my obviously unsuitable status as a hostage got in the way of strange encounters. 

I like the tidiness and order you see everywhere in the Wolverine State. Farms look like they have just been primped for a magazine photo shoot. Gardens are filled with neat flower beds and homes look like they just got painted. 

I fear I may be betraying a rather shallow side to my nature but I enjoy the orderliness of lower Michigan.

Driving through Petosky, a town with a few neatly bordered up stores I noticed this innovation which they could use on North Roosevelt in Key West instead of the pedestrian lights that confuse drivers:

My eagle eyed navigator came across a farmer’s market and it really is located in an actual village, known as Bliss. We stopped and found tomatoes and onions and corn and squash and zucchini bread and neighbors discussing neighborly things while selling Michigan maple syrup and candles and oven mitts and chatting about whatever thing was going on. We landed in their midst as Florida aliens. I was pondering the latest hurricane maps in the Atlantic, they were remarking on the heavy rain the night before that kept me awake trying to cheer up Rusty. A much more immediate concern than Tropical Storm Earl ever might be in this wandering life. 

I’d like to live in Bliss and find myself blended in to a world of lawnmowers and pruning and weather speculation but I know I would fail. I’d say something iconoclastic or inappropriate or simply annoying and my neighbors would wonder why I had nothing better to say. We retreated to a forest wild camp where I pulled out the heavy paperback I bought at Pompey’s Pillar, Stephen Ambrose’s dissection of the Corps of  Discovery and Meriwether Lewis. We are off the Lewis and Clark trail now but the miles of signposts along our way sparked my need to know. 

Zucchini bread, hot tea while reading and this making my own discoveries of the meticulous preparations made to explore the Missouri and Columbia rivers two hundred years ago…a perfect afternoon in the woods. 

As we crossed the great bridge leaving the Upper Peninsula we found ourselves admiring a long line of cars waiting to pay the toll northbound, all stuck waiting to reach their Labor Day wilderness camps.

We stopped to buy souvenir supplies before we left the peninsula and Layne learned they expected 30,000 holiday visitors, enough to cram every hotel room and campground with reservations. Layne wondered at the draw of underpopulated forests of the famous Upper Peninsula of Michigan. 

I don’t think it’s unreasonable to view the Upper Peninsula as a last wedge of wilderness surrounded by worthy enterprises like farming and accountancy. The Upper Peninsula cuts down trees, hunts fish and is home to ticks and bears and rumors of Sasquatch. 

I can see why the U.P. is such a draw. The residents are polite but not outgoing, most of them, at least not to us. They use monosyllables and look away. Fair enough but in the southern reaches of the state, where flower boxes rule…

…and farms celebrate a hundred years of continuous ownership in one family, this is where Michigan is part of that patchwork quilt of good cheer we’ve found across the Great Plains. Its Mr  Rogers’ neighborhood. People are really nice. 

I have never seen Adirondack chairs at bus stops, for instance, or I hadn’t until we got to Traverse City. And there they were with the backs cut in a silhouette of the state. Wait for your clean state of the art public transit in comfort and style. 

We stopped to buy some fruit and vegetables and I checked out their portapotties. Not only were they immaculately clean, they had mirrors and spare paper - not stolen- along with a stylish basket with hand sanitizer and a trash can. I’ve seen a lot of roadside toilets and these are the nicest I’ve encountered! In Michigan of course where civility rules. 

I was chatting with a young man who fell in love with Rusty the Perfect Dog. As he petted my companion we talked about life in Michigan which is the only life he knows. This place is easy to love in summer, as easy as loving Rusty, but in winter? In my head that question always lurks. In winter? he said looking surprised by my question. “As long as it snows winter is great.” Apparently you have to have snow to justify sub zero temperatures. Then the fun begins with all those snowmobile road signs I keep seeing. Not the tractor crossing signs which refer to work. 

I am no proud to note I spotted the worlds largest cherry pie pan, not my indolent navigator.  It is in Charleroix Township where their water town crowned with communication antennae celebrates the French fur trapper heritage not the usual German place names of later immigrants. 

A young couple riding a fully dressed Indian chief were taking selfies at the spot “riding the worlds largest motorcycle” I joked.  We listed the largest roadside things we’ve seen, teapot, gavel, cuckoo clock and basket came to mind. They told us of the worlds largest chest of draws in North Carolina which we noted and will visit hopefully next month, after New England. 

We spent a night as guests at a family farm outside Petosky and after all the holidaying families went home for the night we had the stars to ourselves with Winery 1914’s pomegranate cider in a growler we bought. In the morning I put my Oaxaca poncho on to take Rusty for a sunrise walk through the orchards. 

It was not the spectacular scene of the night before as the sun set, but it was a neat tidy sunrise, slowly warming the day.  The fruit was harvested, the orchards were mown and everything was in its place, as it should be in this very reassuringly enjoyable state. 

Da You Pee

The Upper Peninsula of Michigan enjoys a mystic reputation, because it’s a place apart, underpopulated and isolated.

In this long stretch of land bordered by lakes and Canadians there are no recognizable chain stores, not much cell service and not many people. There are lots of trees, lakes and mosquitoes and winters are a bit demanding, or so I hear as I’m not likely to be here in winter.

It’s lovely in summer, all green and sunny, at least when we’ve been here, with long largely empty roads and small towns.

The roads put me in mind of the large open spaces I’ve seen in photographs of the “far north.” It confirms my relief that we didn’t dash off to Alaska this Spring, picturing myself driving for hours with an increasingly grumpy navigator fearful of mosquitoes which are like cats-attracted to people who dislike them the most. 

We took off exploring partly by accident as Google Maps flipped out for a bit and decided gravel was either a short cut or the main route, we never did figure it out. After the suburban mailboxes faded from sight it became apparent that logging is big business and requires many dirt roads up here.

Fortunately Mexico has inured us to potholes bumps and dirt on our roads and we pressed on looking for the brown signs that indicate National Forest roads on public land.

Our first night around the neighborhood known as Iron This and that (wood, mountain etc…) we screeched to a halt in a roadside park. These are located all over the place but the ones in scenic spots on the edge of lakes near houses are all labeled “No Camping Or Overnight Parking.” This lovely spot wasn’t so we did. 

We don’t pull out chairs and tables in rest areas, we simply park and sit at a picnic table or aboard GANNET2 and make no messes. This place had a pit toilet a trashcan and an old metal hand pump on which I hung my bucket three times and filled our water tank by siphoning the bucket as we do in Mexico. 

The bottom of the parking area ended in an overlook which didn’t impress Rusty but the human members of the expedition stood and watched the flowing waters as humans do. Flowing waters and jumping flames attract our atavistic natures and we are not immune. Pasties for dinner reminded us we were in Copper Country, a land of much mining it turned out. 

Roadside fruit stands, like the ghastly road surfaces it is in mind of Mexico. Layne tackled the sellers but she said they were not very forthcoming so I looked Wikipedia to read all about the mining history of Copper Country. Cornish miners have traveled all over the place, including Mexico, in search of work and brought pasties with them. I like meat pies in any form but Layne will only eat a pasty of it has exotic spices and curries and the like.  Cornwall and hot peppers together is not traditional. But she is the rule breaker on the expedition. 

My dinner was traditional ground beef, potatoes carrots and swedes (rutabagas in American English); hers was a jalapeño pasty. Go figure.

I wanted to visit Marquette, the big city of the you pee at least to drive through as we had skipped it entirely at the height of the pandemic. On our way out to the most famous park in the city, Presque Isle 300 acres of reputed loveliness we had to pass under an active ore loading system. Train on top, ship alongside underneath and the contents of the mines are off round the world somewhere.

The park may well be divine but we’ll never know. There was a big sign saying no dogs outside vehicles so, thanking the Promaster’s front wheel drive for a tight turning radius we made a quick u-turn and stopped at a beach on the way back to the city. Rusty was delighted. 

Lake Superior is the backdrop to the city. 

A lovely summer day in the 80s with a fresh breeze and the only sign was one warning of the chance of drowning if one ignored the stern order not to swim. Luckily Rusty hates the water so I never have to worry about him. And I of course am the rule follower…

We drove through Marquette which under the August sun looked lovely. 

It reminded us of Portland Maine, broad streets lined with rather severe Victorian buildings, monuments to endeavor and industry. The city nowadays is home to a university campus which must raise some rugged students this far north.

A pedestrian walking by in Munising told us his wife buys their pasties at the supermarket but he had heard good things of Muldoons which is totally traditional and thus Layne said no thanks and I got a beef pie with rutabagas which I happen to like. We tried the other recommended spot but they were all out of their non traditional pasties. Rusty, who enjoys the northern climate got a couple of decent urban walks out of it all. 

iOverlander had a couple of spots listed, one by the water predictably already occupied so we drove off looking for the National  Forest which you’d think wouldn’t be that hard to find. In the end I turned the street map off and navigated the map myself. 

We spent the better part of three days lounging and reading with barely a cell phone signal and the sounds of birds and distant highway 28 traffic to keep us company. 

I think four vehicles drove by while we were parked. We worked on projects fixing a loose cupboard door and sorting out our new mosquito nets even though the mosquitoes were very few. 

I wonder how Rusty views these places, here checking them out through the new netting. He only knew South Florida heat until we rescued him and promptly took him off to Canada where he first encountered cool summer days. 

He checks the perimeter and trails with me. After we do a tick check he makes a nest in the long cool grass under the bracken and half sleeps and half keeps watch. At night we have to call him in to supper as he is really an outdoor dog and loves watching the wilderness. If he gets spooked we look around while he hops on his bed in the safety of his home, GANNET2.  

If we want to be away from people we look for camping spots away from water. Most campers want to wake up to water views which around here are freshwater and breed mosquitoes. In Mexico we enjoy waterfront views because there are so few RV travelers and few among them are ready to ignore the nonsense about dangerous Mexico. As you’ve seen we camp in lonely beaches with all the water views we could wish for. 

The masses are getting ready for Labor Day so we will need to navigate the crowds we anticipate will be out for the last hurrah of summer even as a few deciduous leaves turn yellow. Where we will sleep we don’t quite know but we’ve been doing this a while and we are confident these days something will present itself, unlikely a campground but most B likely some wild camping opportunity somewhere. 

It’s been a long ten weeks of driving since we crossed the border in Mexico and we have more to go. A van upgrade in Ohio on the 8th, changing leaves in the Northeast, Layne’s sister in North Carolina, boat work  with Webb  in South Carolina and then home to Key West to renew acquaintance. After that we leave for South America, far beyond Mexico.  Phew! Retirement is only for the tough. Meanwhile this:

As lovely as it looks. 

Windy Wisconsin

We crossed the state of Wisconsin, right to left but it was only when we reached Michigan near the far western corner of the Upper Peninsula that we both burst out with “I remember this place!” Rusty said nothing from the comfort of his cushion under Layne’s feet. 

We did, in effect eventually return whence we had been in late July 2020, when we took our “shake up” cruise with our new van. Back then Covid was new and annoying and today we are still being cautious so we still feel constrained where we would like to spend more time in cities.

We saw rolling countryside and corn as though we were in Iowa. We had cheese and we passed more cheese shops than you could shake a stick at. I like Wisconsin and not only because I like cheese.

The roads aren’t great with seams and frost heaves and the occasional pothole to remind us of the worst of Mexico. Many of the roads are long and straight rolling over hill and down dale. 

But as long and straight as they may be, they pass through lovely little towns, pretty, filled with flowers and neatly mowed lawns. 

Schools are back in session so I think we’ve outlasted high tourist season so the crowds have thinned and we go find ourselves alone much of the time. 

This is a state filled with odd signs referring to customs obscure to me. I saw this no parking sign with the weirdest instructions. No parking on the street in the middle of the night; but only in winter…why? I ask myself. 

Summer is the season of road repairs and miles and miles of roads are torn up and fenced off interspersed with passing zones and flaggers closing lanes apparently at random. It’s selfish but I wish we were the ones to benefit from the nice smooth repairs but we won’t be back next Spring. 

We cut across the middle of the state skipping Door County and Green Bay which we visited in 2020. Our goal was the town of Cable for breakfast followed by a turn north to Bayfield, a lake front town I had read about in sailing publications in decades past.

The Brick House Cafe got some notoriety on television and who can resist a small town business buried in the woods? 

It was a destination, somewhere to drive to with outside seating. The service smacked of hiring problems and the food was okay. I mean we ate it okay and drank the coffee but we weren’t oohing and have no plans to go back. 

Rusty enjoyed his walk around town and we shared the crime brûlée French toast which tasted like…French toast. Been there done that. 

Bayfield was unknown to Layne but it only lay an hour north. Complaining of a reaction to an overly sweet breakfast she took a nap, east to do when you drive your house, while I took Rusty to see this maritime town. Turns out they anticipate the need of people to sit and enjoy the scenery: lots of benches…

The wind which had been shaking the trees and forcing me to pay attention to my lane control was honking on Lake Superior. 

The sun was pulling the temperature up to the mid 80s but the air was dry and that wind kept us cool as we walked, Rusty and I. Bayfield was every bit as pretty as I had hoped. 

Bayfield calls itself the gateway to the Apostle Islands and there is a car ferry to the largest of those. The marina is full of sailboats and small motorboats but Bayfield is proudest of its commercial fishing history and it’s tradition of boat building. 

I was half tempted to take a try at the swimming beach but I really wanted to take a turn in the maritime museum. 

Layne was up and enjoying the waterfront when we got back. We left Rusty aboard GANNET2 and Layne went to check out the local smoked fish which it turned out was excellent. 

The maritime museum is free and apparently well funded by well to do citizens who want their history recorded. 

They have done the fishermen proud, the descendants of hardy Scandinavians who emigrated and brought their sailing traditions. 

They trolled for fish and rolled logs and drove on the lake when it froze. 

They have the engines that were used over the past century to power boats that were more efficient than sail, unfortunately. 

Conservation is reported with some pride. 

And those weird winter sports they indulge in up here. “Ice unsafe” No shit as they say in the tropics where roads are made of dirt and tar but not ice. 

We camped in the woods and Rusty romped in the cool climate. 

I like Wisconsin.