The drive west (part two)

September 3, 2023 to September 5, 2023

Through Michigan, Wisconsin, and along the North Shore of Lake Superior

Sunday 3 September

For many years I've had a no-coffee-after-10 a.m. rule: afternoon or evening coffee seems to come back to haunt me ten to twelve hours after I've consumed it, leaving me wide awake in the hours when I ought to be sound asleep. Yesterday I broke that rule, having a travel cup full around 5:30 just to ensure that the final hours of my drive would not leave me bleary-eyed and stumbling, with dulled perceptions and slow reflexes should I need them.

Now, despite having stayed up far later than normal for me, I'm wide awake at something like 3 a.m., but eventually manage to drift off again. At 5:15 though, my internal clock sounds reveille and I surrender and get up to start the day.

There's coffee in the hotel lobby, so I fill my travel cup and come back to my room to continue work on this page, and to work on a plan for the day.

My intermediate destination is a resort that I want to look at and evaluate as a possible site for the next family reunion. It's outside Traverse City, near the top of the mitten-shaped lower peninsula of Michigan. Google Maps suggests it's about five and a half hours driving, if I use the Avoid Highways option. Perfect.

Once my business there is concluded, I'll set about finding an overnight destination somewhere in the Upper Peninsula. (Why do I capitalize "Upper Peninsula" as if it were a proper noun, but relegate "lower peninsula" to simple lower-case descriptive status?)

Leaving Adrian, I set the navigation devices to "avoid highways" mode. This option keeps me off of interstates and other limited-access roads, preferentially selecting secondary roads. It adds an hour to the leg but what of it?

One of several cats haunting the outside premises of my Adrian hotel served as my send-off committee.

Ultimately it adds more nearly two hours, perhaps more, because I stop numerous times for photo opportunities. I'll let the photos mostly speak for themselves (through their captions).

Either I'm seriously lost, or they are. I don't want to guess which it is.

When was the last time you saw a sign like this?

Chameleon house, caught mid-color change.

There's no ignoring this one, unlike the one I encountered on my mini-tour a few weeks ago. I'll end up backtracking a few miles then turning north before resuming my westward march.

The landscape changes slowly and subtly as I stairstep my way north and west up the lower peninsula. Open landscapes, dominated by corn and bean fields, are gradually replaced by more forested scenes. The woodlands themselves also undergo subtle shifts in the species represented. There are more evergreens, fewer deciduous trees. The hardwoods shift to birch and maple; I'm no botanist so I'm not sure of what I'd been seeing lower down but it was different from what's here in the north counry.

There's evidence of water everywhere, generally in the form of low-lying wetlands: marshes, sloughs, and occasional swamps abut and interlace with the flora found in the higher spots.

Another small wetland, this one even has a pond. And an egret, too.

I have no (r)egrets about my choice of route for the day.

A majestic tree. There aren't many of this size around.

Drawing nearer to "the lake" (Lake Michigan) I note the nature of the soil itself has undergone a change, too: it's far sandier at the edge of the peninsula than it is farther inland.

Arriving in Glen Arbor at last, I take care of my business and turn to the problem of finding a place to sleep. Checking Super 8 in Mackinaw City I'm told they are full, but a nearby Super 8 in St. Ignace has two rooms available- at over $300 each- it's Labor Day Sunday, after all, and it seems everyone has come up to end their summer so there's lots of demand. Thanks all the same, but I'll pass. I hesitate to fork over that kind of money for high-end digs, and certainly won't do it for a hotel chain at the humble end of the lodging spectrum even in these circumstances.

St. Ignace is just over the Mackinac Island Bridge, so I cast a wider net, looking farther afield from the tourist zone near the bridge. Quality Inn in Newberry, a couple hours farther up the road, has a spot for me; it's still $200 but it'll be a better room with much less hurly burly in the area. It's a three and a half hour trip to get there so, since it's already pushing 4:00, it's time to switch to "get there" mode and take the fastest route I can.

As I near the bridge I see portable signs, advising that the bridge will be closed all morning on Labor Day. Oh, right: Labor Day is the day when the bridge is closed to allow people to walk across and gawk from the span, in safety. Best get across tonight then, while I can.

Bridge ahead. "Closed Monday morning"? What's this?

The bridge carries four lanes of traffic, two in each direction. The lanes closest to the centerline are steel grating, while the outside lines are concrete. Trucks are limited to 20 mph and the outer lanes, where cars can proceed at up to 45 mph. Since I'm using the left (inner) lane, the steel grating "sings" to me all the way across. It's actually kind of pleasant.

Safely on the Upper Peninsula side, I take time to appreciate the shoreline route and follow US 2 for a number of miles before turning inland. The inland road is a pure delight: smooth, empty, and with the setting sun causing a play of shadows from the trees lining the sides of the road.

Along the shore of Lake Michigan, from U.S. 2 on the Upper Peninsula.

My kind of road: smooth, scenic, and not much traffic.

Along the side of the inland-bound road there's a small bit of wetland, lovely in the evening light.

The first signs of autumn colors are beginning to creep into the landscape.

I pass through a couple of miles where hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of dragonflies are out dancing in the evening air. They're everywhere, seemingly, and in such numbers they sound like fat raindrops as they carom off the windshield, or go splat and leave a calling card of bug guts smeared across my field of view. It's going to take some work to get it clean enough to see well.

I'm in pastie (pass'-tee) country. I've heard of these things and seen numerous roadside shacks offering them, but I've never had one so I inquire at the hotel desk where I might find one. "Timber Charlie's- best pasties around" comes the immediate reply, so I head into town to seek the place out.

The inside of Timber Charlie's. Rustic but inviting, and apparently ALWAYS busy. Too bad they were sold out of pasties, though: Ireally want to try one to see what all the fuss is about. Some other time, I guess.

It's Sunday evening of a long weekend, and there's a line for tables but I manage to score a seat at the bar. (The young lady serving as hostess was grateful for that, as I'd otherwise have taken up a valuable four-top, which she needed in order to a accommodate those in line behind me.)

There, I learn that the pasties (handmade at home, by one of the bar's owners) are sold out and won't be replenished before I leave town. Disappointed, I settle for a UP-themed sandwich, which turns out to be quite good in its own right. I also have a "Laughing Fish" beer, product of a lower peninsula brewery in Grand Rapids. It's not bad.

Returning to the hotel I set about the evening's tasks: get photos uploaded, update this journal entry, and unpack before settling in for the evening. I have a slight headache, meaning I'm fatigued and probably dehydrated, so it's a much earlier night than yesterday.

Monday, 4 September

Today's got two agenda items: a visit to the Porcupine Mountain Wilderness State Park at the far western end of the peninsula, and from there to get as far down the road as I can comfortably manage before stopping for the evening.

Porcupine Mountain Wilderness is a place I'd read about a couple years ago; it's got over 10,000 acres of preserved old-growth forest, the last and largest surviving patch in the state after decades (maybe even a century) of ruthless, destructive (and often blatantly wasteful) commercial logging. Much of the scrubland I've been driving through is the stunted aftermath of the destruction and removal of millions upon millions of old-growth trees, so I'm eager to see what the land used to look like.

It's another beautiful day, and especially at the outset I have the road nearly to myself so I pull over and stop for photo opportunities where I encounter them.

High-density development, Yooper-style: a trio of hunting blinds.

Enemy of the forests. I'm very conflicted because I like woodworking, and appreciate all that forest resources provide, but I hate to see them destroyed.

The seemingly empty and unattended feel of the land is misleading. Within seconds of the time I've stopped for a few photos in one spot, a man and dog appear on an ATV to see what I'm about. We don't speak, so I'm not sure whether the man is concerned about what my purpose is or whether he's checking that I'm alright and not in need of assistance. He watches as I shoot a few photos and then, apparently satisfied that I'm neither up to nefarious purposes nor in need of aid, he turns about and disappears again.

I was stopped at the traffic light anyhow so why not capture an image of this lovely church?

It seems I've entered an area of very low mobile phone coverage: Pandora begins to falter, leaving long silent gaps between tunes before it's able to buffer enough data to play the next item.

Switching to broadcast radio for a while, I pick up bits of music and information programming from various public radio stations. The information shows are focused on Labor Day: its history, impact, and evolving trends in the workplace. I catch a few minutes of a program examing Hubert Humphrey's early political career, too: a subject about which I know nothing, so it's quite interesting.

The radio signals also eventually peter out, dissolving into static or intermittent, discontinuous digital snippets that are too annoying to put up with so I turn it off and just drive in silence for an hour or more. It's been a very long time indeed since I last did that. Do I really need a constant stream of external stimuli? Or would the time be better spent on rumination and reflection?

You don't see this very often, where I live.

I reach Porcupine Wilderness around 1:00, and spend the next couple hours doing some light hiking and driving the South Boundary Road, along the landward perimeter of the park. It's scenic, quiet, and lovely but somehow disappointing: to my untrained and uneducated eye, old growth looks a lot like second growth forest except maybe not quite so much underbrush. There are, I'm sure, scads of subtle-but-important differences but I'm mostly unaware of them.

It's easy to see the swath carved by the glaciers, tens of thousands of years ago. Not so easy to imagine what it looked like then.

Lake of the Clouds, hidden in the valley gouged out by the ice.

Situated as it is, the park exists in two time zones. The eastern end is in the Eastern time zone, but the west end is in Central time. That gives me an "extra" hour as I travel west. Reaching Ironwood, MI it's only around 3 Central time: too early to quit driving for the day. My cousin's cabin on Lake Superior's north shore, where I'm expected for a visit, is too far to reach comortably today but by continuing for another few hours today I can lop off a goodly chunk of the intervening distance to shorten tomorrow's drive.

Consulting Google Maps, I find that Superior, WI is at the ideal stopping point so I call ahed and book my hotel for the night. Now it's just a matter of crossing northernmost Wisconsin to get there. Along the route I pass a place Ithink Ivisited 45 years ago, during a week-long church-based family camp. I can't be absolutely certain but I know it was in this general vicinity. It's a happy memory, so reflecting on it helps the miles pass easily and pleasantly.

Traffic's picked up noticeably. It's not heavy by any means, but I no longer have the road more-or-less as my private domain. I've got the cruise control set just two miles an hour over the limit, and notice a few times that a train of vehicles has stacked up in my wake. There are passing lanes every so often, which act as a relief valve to let the less patient drivers pass, but I also find other places to pull over to clear the way.

After checking in at the hotel, it's dinner time. There are dozens of places listed in the hotel's information sheet, with the largest concentration being along Tower Avenue, just two blocks to the west.

Tower seems to be the main drag through the "downtown" business district. On an ordinary day, or evening, it my be humming with activity but on the evening of Labor Day it's virtually deserted. The first several places I pass are all closed for the holiday, but I eventually run across one that's open for business. The lone waitress is busy clearing up after a large group which has just depaared, but she hustles over to take my order. The food, when it arrives a few minutes later, is tasty and just what I want. Life is good!

Back at the hotel, I spend some time working on the journal, check in with my wife, and settle down for the evening.

Tuesday 5 September

Still on Eastern time, my internal body alarm wakes me at 5:00. That's only 4:00 here, so I roll over and drift off once again. I'll get up in a couple hours, spend more time getting the journal up to date, go find breakfast, and get ready to travel. I'm a bit antsy, though: I want to be on my way but don't want to deal with rush hour in Superior and Duluth.

Coming into town yesterday evening I missed a turn, and ended up crossing the bridge into Duluth. There's a lot of construction around the bridge, with lanes, exits, and roads closed off, so I don't want to negotiate all of that in the midst of people in a hurry to get wherever they're headed.

As it turns out, I needn't have worried. There's no heavy rush hour today, so I could have left much earlier than I ultimately do. Not knowing that, though, I go for a walk to stretch my legs and pass some time. That gives me opportunity to see Superior in a different light than yesterday's ghost town.

My hotel stands right at the base of the bridge that takes traffic from Superior into Duluth. Sitting at it does right in the port area, it's nautically-themed, including this handsome model of what I suspect is the best-known of recent Great Lakes shipwrecks.

These are sheet metal reproductions but they continue the theme.

The doors to the breakfast area also continue the maritime references.

Remember when air conditioned buildings were the exception and a novelty, rather than the ubiquitous thing they are now? Businesses made a point of advertising that they were air conditioned.

These people really ought to reconsider their business name.

Apparently sometimes there *are* two ways about it, although some context might be helpful here.

One of these things isn't like the others. I'll never find out how an antique fire truck came to be parked among a fleet of moving vans. One of life's little mysteries, I guess.

One of the many massive grain elevators scattered around the port area.

I was surprised to find this Pride Walk.

I think this is an ore carrier, based on the name Ryerson painted on the bow. 50 years ago I knew a Ryerson Steel executive, so I'm guessing at the connection.

Every city ought to have a rocket ship, don't you think?

A nicely-carved tip of the hat to the native cultures of the region, in a small park.

A clever Little Free Library stands outside a fire station.

While I'm out, I'm greeted by a woman sitting on her front stoop. We chat for a few minutes.

"What did you do for Labor Day?" she asks.

"I drove across Michigan and Wisconsin, and visited a wilderness area."

"Really? Where are you from?"

"Maryland."

"That's a long way from here. Why did you come here?"

"I'm on my way to a bicycle ride. What did you do for Labor Day?"

"Not much. My family live far away, too. I like your hat."

"Thanks! Me too!"

My companion in conversation. I enjoyed talking with you.

Finally I decide that rush hour isn't really a thing that needs worrying about, so I set off for my cousin's cabin, nearly all the way to the Canadian border.

The drive takes about two and a half hours, if you don't stop along the way. My attention is arrested, partway along, by a fleeting glimpse of a striking lighthouse standing proud atop a rocky cliff above the lake. Seeing the signs for the Historic Split Rock Lighthouse, I decide it's worth a few minutes to stop for a look.

In 1905, the last freighters of the season were clearing for points south in early November. A massive, furious storm came up quickly and caught several of them unprepared, wrecking a number of them at great cost in lives and cargo.

The shipping companies lobbied congress for a lighthouse and foghorn to be built, to help prevent future calamities. The lighthouse was duly authorized and built, entering service in about 1909 and continuing into the 1950s, by which time radio and radar had rendered it more-or-less obsolete. It must've been a good investment, tough:during its time in service, no additional vessels were lost within range of its light and foghorn.

When in action, the foghorn would emit a two-second, 120 decibel blast every eighteen seconds.

Arriving at the cabin, I have a chance to get to know her better. We're 11 years apart in age, so in our younger days we had little to draw us together and we've hardly seen one another in the last 50 or more years. I also meet her husband for the first time, and we quickly establish a friendly rapport.

Hard to miss this place, standing as it does alongside Highway 61 right on the way to my destination. Needing a gift to thank my cousin for her hospitality I pull in and pick up a bottle of wine.

After a short, easy walk (during which we encounter a dozen or more species of mushroom, all in a quite limited area) we look in at Naniboujou Lodge. The Lodge was built in the 1920s, and the interior is painted in Cree motifs. It's quite a striking place, and the moreso because all of the paintwork is original.

Interior of the dining room, Naniboujou Lodge.

Interior of the dining room, Naniboujou Lodge. They claim this is the largest stone fireplace in Minnesota.

On property originally owned by the lodge stand several cabins. This one's a neat trim little place notable for having been built and owned for many years by the man who invented Wheaties cereal.

I'm not the least knowledgable about mushrooms, but we find a huge variety of them in a few hundred yards walk.

Our walk eventually takes us to the small beach near the lodge. The sand's a fascinating mix of fragments from the huge melange of boulders dropped by the glaciers. Where else in the world can you find sand made mostly of basalt but with inclusions of feldspar, andesite, rhyolite, and heaven knows what else? It's a perfect mirror to the larger stones to be found on the beach.

Interesting sand, if you're a geologist.

Finding our way back to the cabin, we relax for a few minutes then go sit on the stones at the shore of the lake and have a great chat. We're relaxed by a bottle of nice merlot, and of course the waves lapping at the shore are hypnotic. A bald eagle flies by but I'm too slow with the camera so it's just a memory, with no photo as evidence.

We're eventually chased from our rocky perch by a bank of clouds that have moved in, accompanied by flashes of lightning. No sooner are we in the cabin than the rain starts- great timing!

Gentle waves create spray against the rocks.

Dinner is by oil lamp, because the power goes out shortly after the rain starts. After dinner we adjourn to the comfy chair and couch, chatting amiably in the dark until we've each nodded off at least once. The power's restored a few hours later, by which time I've long since gone to bed.

Following a pleasant breakast the next morning, it's time for me to head south because today's the day I'll meet my companions for the ride that's the reason for my presence in the region to begin with.

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Gretchen CarlsonKeith -
You really know how to do road trips and take great photos from crazy signs to beautiful landscapes. The short conversation with a lady asking what you did was a nice touch. It's the ordinary that makes a day sparkle, whether chatter with a stranger or dragon flys flittering about. Your roadtrips are reminders to open our eyes and inhale life around us!
Thanks for sharing!
Gretchen
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8 months ago

William OstremOne random fact about Superior, Wisconsin: Bud Grant was born and raised there. I recommend reading his Wikipedia entry. He is the winningest coach in the history of the Minnesota Vikings and Winnipeg Blue Bombers. He is in the NFL and Canadian Football Halls of Fame. He lettered in three sports at the University of Minnesota: football, baseball, and basketball. He played both professional football (for the Philadelphia Eagles) and basketball (for the Minneapolis Lakers, winning an NBA title). He is the fifth-most winningest coach in pro football history and coached the Blue Bombers for 10 years and the Vikings for 18 years.
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2 months ago

William OstremKeith, I’m enjoying your writing and pictures and appreciate your attention to landscapes, geology, the natural and built environments, and people!
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2 months ago

Keith AdamsTo William OstremThanks Bill! I figured you'd like a journal that focuses on your home state. :)
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2 months ago