Tunnels, Trestles, and Tracks

St. Regis, Montana, is a lovely little two-day stopover that we made specifically to ride the Hiawatha Rail-Trail bike path. It’s a short piece of the old “Milwaukee Road”—the transcontinental railroad from Chicago to Tacoma that took freight, GIs, and passengers across the country for 71 years. The railroad’s owners—Chicago, Milwaukee and St Paul Railway—began the western extension to Tacoma in 1905 and opened it about four years later. The difficulty of the Bitterroot Mountain terrain, the harshness of its winters, and the need to tunnel through mountains and cross over gorges made this extension the most difficult and expensive portion of the line to build. Estimated at $45 million, it topped out at $234 million.

The biking trail is 15 miles each way, set between the top of St Paul Pass in Montana and Pearson, Idaho, to the west. With a super gentle 1.7% grade (trains had to run this route, after all) it offers easy riding even up hill, which makes it popular and doable for families, seniors, and day-bikers like us. We saw many children on bikes, several parents towing baby-carts, and even a triple-tandem of a dad and his two school-age daughters. (Guess who pulled most of the weight despite his younger daughter’s constant list to the left?) 

The trail is operated and maintained by Idaho’s Lookout Ski Pass Area and manned by a bunch of twenty-somethings who convene under tents at either end. They take your ten bucks for a day-use tag, wrap it around your bike’s brake cable, rent helmets (they’re mandatory), verify that you’ve got a bike headlight (also mandatory), and send you on your way to tackle miles of groomed gravel, seven towering trestles, and ten echoing tunnels. 

We started on the Montana side at the top of St Paul Pass. The St Paul Pass Tunnel, the trail’s longest at a whopping 1.7 miles long, is waiting beyond this signpost. It is a very dark, very cold, very drippy entrance into Idaho, and an experience we must repeat on the way back. More on that later.

The route takes its name from the railroad’s “Olympian Hiawatha” passenger train, a streamlined darling that debuted in 1947. The train was famous for its luxurious amenities, futuristic styling (like something out of Disney’s Tomorrowland in the 1960s), and a two-story glassed-in “solarium” for all-around views of our country’s spectacular scenery.

The line underwent recurring spates of bankruptcies, recoveries, and competitive troubles and was ultimately decommissioned for passengers in 1961 and for freight in 1980. Idahoans converted part of it to this great bike trail in the early 1990s. The bottom map in this picture shows the long, hairpin part of the trail that comprises the bike path.

It took us half an hour just to head out, there were so many interesting historical placards to read at the start. We found stories of the devastating multi-million acre forest fire of 1910 that wiped out almost all the towns near the tracks (many residents were saved by hiding in the tunnels while fire raged above and all around them). We read about the copper mining and white pine lumber industries that sprang up to use the region’s new commerce transit; about the heroic making of the St Paul Pass Tunnel; and about the rough-and-tumble, valley-based construction camps that are now buried under I-90. And that was only the beginning set of reader boards!

At nearly two miles, the St Paul Pass Tunnel is the longest, coldest, and darkest among the ten on the trail. There is no lighting in any of them, so riders must supply their own. This is what it would have looked like with the lights off. Like most people, we had taped flashlights to our handlebars, but they were as feeble as a Bic lighter in a sports arena in a blackout—especially since, at mid-morning, we happened to be the only ones in the tunnel. The tunnel is only wide enough for a single train, and there are short drop-offs into shallow water channels on either side against the walls. Riders are instructed to stay at the center of the trail, which I found more difficult than I expected in a world of black. All I could see was the next ten feet of brown, graveled, occasionally puddled ground in front of me; the sporadic red flash of Ken’s bike reflector from my makeshift headlight; and a pale gray cloud of illumination from Ken’s flashlight some fifteen yards ahead. Everything else was blackness. Without a peripheral frame of reference, I had the sensation of being constantly off balance and unable to steer a straight line. I was grateful there was no opposing traffic to navigate! It seemed to take forever to get through those 1.7 miles of ice-cold air, enclosing darkness, and the eerie reverberation of our bike wheels shushing along packed wet earth.

Breaking into daylight was welcome indeed, especially for the surprise waterfall that greeted us. We quickly found a patch of sunshine and thawed out for a good ten minutes before moving on.

What we thought would be a 2-1/2 hour jaunt turned into about five hours by the time we stopped at every one of the interesting reader boards on the way down. This one describes life in the temporary construction camps, which was very much like a 49er’s miner’s settlement, with drinking, dancing, brawling, gambling, wenching, and the lot.

Into another tunnel. This one is maybe a quarter mile long. Some you can see straight through, and others are too winding or long to see the end of. One of them was damaged in a landslide years ago after the railroad and closed; it’s one of the few places where the trail was rerouted from what the original trains used.

As along many railroad lines through America, the views in the Bitterroot Mountains are spectacular.

The local wildlife seemed accustomed to people. This young buck dropped by for some browsing at the same time we took a break.

A doe followed a few minutes later and wandered within twenty feet of Ken at a nearby overlook.

In the distance, a preview of one of the seven trestles we will cross high above the region’s gorges and rivers. In the foreground, a squirrel photo-bombs the pic. (At most signage stops, at least five of these little beggars scampered around our feet and bike tires looking for handouts or dropped snack crumbs.)

Ken crosses one of the trestles. We still hadn’t come upon too many people yet.

We’re just past the turn of the hairpin I pointed out earlier on the map pic. A largish town and railroad terminal for logging used to be where I’m standing. Long, long gone.

View from another trestle.

We’ve finally come upon the bulk of the early morning crowds…and more reader boards. Early in its history, this portion of railroad had the longest stretch of electrified track in the U.S. (440 miles). It was needed during winters, when the mountain air got so cold that a train’s boilers wouldn’t start. To keep things moving, the railroad installed electric lines. Sort of like the San Francisco trolley gone colossal and rural. This board explains how the electric trains were constructed and how they worked.

Some of the crossbeams that once carried the electric lines above the tracks.

Fifteen miles later, we took a break at the bottom of road. There’s a parking lot for people starting the trail from this Idaho end, plus bathrooms, free water from coolers, and a shuttle bus for those who want to pay for a ride back up.

A wind-shredded butterfly casts bigger than life shadows.

Just as we started back up, we met a young couple from Spokane and joined them on the first half of their ride…they would get to coast all the way back! Here we’re taking a break at the same viewpoint where we met the deer on the way down. She is a professional circus acrobat and he is a chiropractor—an appropriate combination, we thought. Having company made the return trip seem to go really fast, even though it was uphill. Happily, the grade was slight enough that we could pedal and talk at the same time. The return trip was a lot more crowded, though.

While Ken and our new friends went to the overlook, I was enamored by the squirrels. This one had found a leftover peanut butter and jelly sandwich (strawberry, I suspect) and was sharing it with a couple dozen buzzing bees.

 

Past 2:00, and we’re finally back at the top and ready for a long-delayed lunch. The final attraction—a second pass through that dark, cold, 1.7-mile tunnel—wasn’t any warmer at this time of day, just wetter and more weirdly lit by a dozen or more additional riders. Their presence made for a different kind of creepiness, with my own and other people’s shadows bobbing, wavering, and stretching out ahead of me, and their chatter and labored breathing bouncing from the damp walls. Our fender-less back wheels also spit up a nice stream of muddy water onto our butts and backs. By the end of the ride, we looked like a pair of those brown-striped squirrels we’d left behind on the trail.

Teddy Was Here

At the west edge of North Dakota, way past the capitol of Bismarck in the middle of the state, and even farther past Fargo at the east border, is a tiny, lesser known, ten-block, western-themed town of Medora. It is the failed center of an 1880s cattle slaughtering enterprise on the Little Missouri River, but still a charming gateway to a gem called Theodore Roosevelt National Park in the Badlands of North Dakota.

It took us two days to cross North Dakota, much of which is rolling national grasslands and farmland dotted with some pretty weird things.

 

A popular(?) dining establishment in Fargo. They first landed in Bismarck and have outposts in a couple of cities in Minnesota.

Salem Sue, a Holstein who stands in tribute to North Dakota’s dairy farmers at New Salem. Alas, we only saw her in passing from highway 94. She welcomes visitors, most of whom stand barely above fetlock height. Fortunately, aliens have not yet come to abduct her.

Old combines never die—they just turn into billboards. This one advertises the “Taylor Horsefest” coming in July.

Not easily missed from 94 is the “Geese in Flight” metal sculpture near Gladstone, ND. It exemplifies the delights in store for those who take the next turnoff: the “Enchanted Highway,” a 32-mile county road due south from Gladstone to Regent, dubbed and decorated by metal artist Gary Greff in hopes of bringing business to Regent. As of 2002 Guinness Records, “Geese” was the world’s largest outdoor scrap metal sculpture—154 feet wide by 110 feet tall. It is one of seven outsized, North Dakota-inspired works Greff has created along the corridor, including, apparently, a metal grasshopper large enough to carry off a tank.

A stop for fuel in Belfield near Medora put us across the street to Trapper’s Kettle Inn—about as “downhome Western” as they get for western North Dakota. Especially liked the water tower.

The Badlands at its most beautiful: Painted Canyon in Theodore Roosevelt National Park. It’s easy to see how the Dakota territory inspired TR’s hunting, writing, and later conservation work.

TR first came here in 1883 in his mid-twenties, fell in love with the rugged terrain, and returned the next year to grieve the death of his wife and mother (they died of different causes but in the same house on the same day). He found the rigor of surviving in the Badlands immensely rejuvenating, and tried his hand at cattle ranching in the area. Portions of his ranches (Maltese and Elkhorn) are still within park boundaries. His cattle efforts ultimately failed, but his sojourn instilled an early passion for protecting the nation’s lands and wildlife.

The park itself was established in 1947 to honor TR, his association with the Badlands, and his political efforts to conserve wildlife and lands for public use. (Among other activities, he started the U.S. Forest Service, established five national parks, and created dozens of national forests, bird sanctuaries, and game preserves.) On our visit, we were lucky to see the Badlands so lush: a month later, and this will be all brown.

The road through the park passes through several prairie dog towns whose inhabitants make for a frolicking, rollicking show. They race and chase each other across fields, pop in and out of burrows, stand on their haunches to watch and bark warning, and feed and breed nearly every chance they get. Surprisingly, we saw very few road casualties, even though they amble and nosh right at road’s edge.

Happily, our scenic drive through the park took us past a small herd of bison (they were nearly wiped out by the time TR arrived and were reintroduced after the park opened), as well as this band of feral horses. Most of these are descendants from stock that escaped or were released in the 1800s; they are not considered “wild horses,” as in “a species natural to the area”—just “feral horses,” as in “once domesticated and now fending on their own.”

The park actively manages the horse population, and every few years some are transferred to private ownership. Someday these three may see a saddle or bridle…or maybe not. For now, they graze and live with a minimum of human intervention and showed no concern for us visitors gawping at them with car and camera.

Like Coffee for Water

Viewing our northern states west to east, you’d quickly spot Lake Superior at the top of the collection of lakes that link the Midwest and the east along the U.S.-Canada border. We’ve been traveling east to west, however, so we’d already been at the east-most end of the line (lakes Ontario and Erie), past its middle (lakes Huron and Michigan), and even to the eastern end of Superior (Sault Ste Marie). This time we stopped at the Great Lakes’ west-most end, Duluth, MN, for a few days to understand more about Superior’s uniqueness and contribution to commercial America.

Traveling here from Sault Ste Marie along Superior’s coastline meant crossing all of the UP of Michigan and a bit of Wisconsin to reach the eastern border of Minnesota—350 miles and an object lesson in why the British named this body of water “Superior,” in a nod to the lake’s magnitude compared to the others.

Superior was originally called gichi-gami, “be a great sea,” by the Ojibwa tribe. For surface area, it is the largest freshwater lake on earth, holding 10% of the world’s fresh liquid water (as opposed to fresh water stored as ice) and having its own weather-driven history. Think of a bathtub that’s 160 miles wide by 350 miles long, with an average depth of 490 feet (max 1,330 feet). Start the waters moving as a storm rises. Winds reach gale force, waves slop and build, and their energies get so amplified that ships can ride 20 to 30 feet vertically up one side and slam down 20 to 30 feet vertically on the other, often spinning and getting broadsided or rolled on the way. It’s no wonder the lake is a graveyard of more than 350 known ships, the most famous of which is “The Edmund Fitzgerald,” a 729-foot Great Lakes freighter that went down in 1975, all 29 hands lost. (Yes, the same one that inspired the Gordon Lightfoot song.)

Duluth is one half of a dual-port setup at the lake’s western end. It shares its twinship with the nearby port of Superior, Wisconsin, under one label, Port Duluth-Superior, that serves one long harbor called Superior Bay. Commerce (and ship watching) is constant. Lake freighters drop off or pick up iron ore pellets, cement, limestone, rock, wheat, grains, and miscellaneous weighty cargo, some taking one to two days to load or unload.

Much of Duluth’s residences are on hills that slope gently from waterside through tree-rich neighborhoods. The big-box stores are way up past the crest of the hills, convenient for residents, but not visible from port. At water’s edge is a compact downtown that’s been undergoing significant renovation over the past decades. It reminds me of a slice of Pioneer Square in Seattle—lots of brick, coffee shops, an olive oil tasting room, galleries, food establishments, and waterfront walking, but without the alleyways, viaduct overpass, and huge, merchant-covered piers. 

Several former cargo slips, derelict from the 1800s, have been filled and converted to grassy parks and boardwalks. The recently built Aquarium of the Great Lakes and nearby convention center (welcoming guests to a quilt show while we were there) lay low against the skyline near the water. A retired lake freighter is moored for touring, and a wide, trouble-ridden wood-and-steel footbridge (built 1991) pauses pedestrians behind a barricade as it opens and closes for motorboat traffic from a smaller “inland” marina along the boardwalk.

  

A key attraction in the city is the Aerial Lift Bridge, designed to get people and cars across the Duluth Ship Canal while also allowing lake freighters through to the loading docks in the bay’s interior. 

 The bridge links the mainland (left) with the seven-mile, thin spit of land called Minnesota Point (right), which was punched through in the late 1800s to create the shipping canal, and where residents still live and beach-romp. The first version of the bridge (1905) had a gondola-like conveyance that could carry 350 passengers plus wagons, autos, and streetcars back and forth across the channel like a low-slung Skyfari ride. When a ship came, they’d park the gondola to one side, let the ship through, then resume their ferrying. As ships got taller and more cars and tourists arrived, engineers came up with this design, a vertical lift bridge, in which the bridge’s entire roadbed is blocked off at both ends and then lifts to allow ships to pass under. The whole raising, pass-through, and lowering process can keep foot and car traffic waiting from 2 minutes to half an hour, depending on ship size.

 

A first-time for me: our RV spot was at a marina, right alongside the slips for sailboats and motorboats, and next to the shipyard where they slung up boats for repair. Our view was across the channel to the bridge, and we were within walking distance of downtown and the really good Duluth visitor center/lake history museum and ship-watching pier. Throughout our stay, we saw the bridge raise and lower for vessels as small as sailboats and as large as lake freighters like those we watched at the Soo Locks.

Superior is known for being one of the cleanest, clearest lakes in the country. However, the water here in Duluth is brown. Yes, brown. A motorboat passing by looks like it’s spraying coffee in its wake, all due to red silt and clay sediment from the Nemadji River. The harbor must be dredged annually of buildup to maintain shipping depth.

  

Having lived most of my life on the west coast, I’m still flabbergasted to see beaches that aren’t ocean shore. It just seems wrong. The water is apparently safe to swim in, albeit murky. This is the north side of the Minnesota Point peninsula.

 

Minnesota Point is more than a seven-mile strand of sand: this forest walk begins at the peninsula’s dead-end road. We hit mud and mosquitoes after about a half mile, so turned back, but the trail does go all the way to the point, another four or so miles away.

You Spell Mackinaw, We Spell Mackinac

No matter how you spell it, it’s pronounced mack-in-aw. The anomaly has something to do with the French influence of a silent “c” at the end of the word, the desire to give the island (Mackinac) and the nearby mainland city (Mackinaw City) distinct identities and postal addresses, and the natural inclination of those in civic power to name things in ways that drive proofreaders mad. (It could worse: the 17th-century word for the area was Michilimackinac.)

Imagine for a moment that you’re transported by high-speed passenger ferry to a place where cars, trucks, and motorcycles do not exist. A place where the only motor vehicles allowed are some emergency and service vehicles, plus snowmobiles during winter. A place where community, business, and tourism must carry on as in any other locale, only through a peculiar blend of multi-century construction, commerce, and anachronistic transportation technologies. You have come to Mackinac Island, Michigan.

All of Mackinac Island is a National Historic Landmark, and more than 80% of it is a state park (formerly a national park). The parts that aren’t park are businesses and residential, mostly on the south/southwest/southeast shores and on a narrow swath leading from the docks to the middle of the island. It is only 8 miles in circumference, with many roads and forest trails winding through its center. Max elevation is about 320 feet above Lake Huron.

Close your eyes and listen as you walk this island. It is alive with sounds both rare and common. In town, there’s the continuous jangle of harness and the heavy clopping of draft horses hauling drays or pulling carriages and trolleys full of tourists. The shriek of schoolchildren romping through city parks or racing each other up the fort road. The shush of bike tires coming up from behind you. The sharp trrr-ring of a bicycle bell warning you to move aside as a hotel steward steers his luggage-laden bike from dock to B&B. The general hubbub of people shopping for fudge, lunch, a horse-drawn taxi, souvenirs.

On side streets, the bass whurrvvvvve of a lawnmower plays a duet with the bzzzz-eeeee whine of a weed whacker. The rhythmic scratch-scritch-scratch of a paint scraper flakes years of history from a shore-side home. A rib-throbbing booooom of cannon thrills from a military demonstration at the island’s fort, and the ratta-tat of air nailguns drifts in from a distant construction site. 

In the island’s interior, the speeches of microphoned tour guides bounce from tree-lined roads, joined by a chorus of whistles, tweets, and chirrups of birds unseen in leafy trees. Deeper in, you hear the penetrating quiet of trees and mushrooms growing. Ahead, huffs and puffs warn of bicyclists topping a hill. From somewhere far off, bizarre drumbeats tattoo through the woods as if from a Native American circle—a mystery that resolves itself into a boy scout troop gathered in ceremony at a cemetery. At a tour rest stop, horses slurp water from troughs as their tourist cargo, offloaded, revels over nearby views. 

These, and more, are the sounds of Mackinac Island, a place as modern as any other Internet-wired city, but deliberately kept in a pre-motorized era to support its tourist economy and the quieter, more communal environment its 500 full-time residents prefer.  

The most visitor-focused Mackinac businesses crowd the ferry dock—bicycle rentals, carriage tours, and the façade of Main Street, with building styles that run from Victorian to Cape Cod.

Bikes, horse-drawn wagons, and inviting spic-and-span street fronts.

 

A wagon heads to the docks to collect cargo. When our ferry pulled in, the dock was stacked with bales of hay—even horse feed must be imported. Outfitting a home or business here is like outfitting a college dorm, but on steroids: start from scratch and haul everything to the island, from construction materials to furniture to houseplants to pet food. The yellow building at the left is the taxi service…horse-drawn of course.

A dray waits at the wharf.

Crossing the street means watching all directions for unexpected kinds of traffic. Bikes and carts are often the swiftest methods of conveyance. We didn’t see a lot of overweight workers, except those who drove the carriages and tour trolleys all day long.

Bellhops on bicycles make short work of luggage hauls. Most hotels and B&Bs are within a few blocks of the dock. Those deeper in the interior require horse taxis to get to.

Things begin to seem surreal as the concept of “no cars” sinks in.

An impending traffic jam at a street corner.

Package delivery on Mackinac. One guy drives while another runs the parcels.

With horses come cleanup crews. Mackinac is as fanatical as Disneyland for keeping its streets and image clean and tidy. Subsisting mainly on tourism, the island quickly feels like a bizarre joint venture between a commercial amusement park, an historical interpretive committee, and a forestry service. Somehow it works.

Squid people were rampant. Today was a school tour day, and we shared the morning ferry with four busloads of grade-school kids. Imagine our delight. Most of them charged off to the historic fort or the fudge houses immediately upon landing, and the island is large enough to absorb their count without feeling crowded. Mackinac averages 15,000 visitors a day in the high season. We seemed to be early, and the crowds were thin overall.

One of the many fudge shops on the main drag. I partook of this company’s offerings and came away with three flavors of smooth, sweet indulgence—toffee chocolate, Kahlua chocolate, and peanut butter chocolate. Half is still in my freezer.

It’s not Ripley’s Believe It Or Not (yet), but there are a few funhouses to be had on the island’s main street. I took this pic because the dark glass of the still-unopened shop reflected Ken and me like a mirror—a play on the business itself.

Hotels and B&Bs a block off the main street. Also nearby are a visitor center/museum and the governor’s mansion (with tours).

The island has a long history of use and occupation—from Native Americans (Chippewa, Huron, Ojibwe, Ottawa, and other tribes) to missionaries to military outposts to a wealthy society’s summer playground. This birchbark chapel is a replica of one built by the Jesuits (Catholic) in 1699 and felt quite cozy inside. Fort Mackinac is that white building beyond it.

 

A more contemporary style of church, Trinity Episcopal, built in 1882.

Touring Fort Mackinac gives a historical view of life on the island from the 1780s through the 1800s. The experience includes interpreters dressed in period costume, daily cannon and musket demos, and restored military buildings, hospital, schoolhouse, etc. Having just been to Fort Niagara, we chose to skip this one.

Three-horse trolleys are used for large group tours through the center of the island. It has more hills and requires the horsepower. Our pedestrian wanderings had us following one of the trolleys downhill for a while, and we eavesdropped on interesting statistics, such as the fact that draft horses can pull four times their body weight, or about 6,000-8,000 pounds each. A trio’s combined capacity is easily beyond the weight of a fully loaded trolley, even if the thing lost its brake-assist downhill.

 

One of the island’s more distinctive natural features: Arch Rock, a rare phenomenon in limestone deposits. Easily dissolved, limestone usually collapses before an arch can be formed.

 

From above Arch Rock, the water of Lake Huron looks almost tropical.

Tours stop at Arch Rock, where horses are watered and rested. This two-horse surrey accommodates more intimate groups.

 

Tending the thirsty.

On the southeast side of the island, view of Lake Huron, the Mission Point Resort, and Round Island.

One of the homes with that view. Many people have seasonal residences here. We paused to talk with a woman working her front garden. She and her husband had recently returned for their summer stay. He came up the hill riding a bicycle (of course) and promptly offered us banana bread he had just bought in town. We hung around and chatted for well on twenty minutes. They be good folks in Mackinac.

 

Loved how this house’s shutters match the color of its tree.

Daily life of the “real” island people. Most workers are imports for the summer, with nationalities representing a wide world. This fellow spoke almost no English and seemed to be from a Slavic country. He had just started the laborious project of hand-scraping paint from this very large home. The junk-filled cart in front of Ken is a rental dray. Companies haul them in by horse, unhitch and leave the cart, then come back for it when it’s full.

Tulips and bleeding heart in a private garden.

 

The signs read: “Mackinac Porch Rules: Sip iced tea. Watch the Waves. Laugh.”

 

Undoubtedly the island’s most famous attraction is the Grand Hotel. Built in 1886 by a railroad and shipping conglomerate to take advantage of the popularity of the newly created Mackinac National Park, it put Mackinac on the map as a getaway destination for the well to do ($3 to $4 a night). Its main claim to fame is the world’s longest porch—200 feet of frontage that has served as promenade for hundreds of celebrities from Mark Twain and Thomas Edison to Bill Clinton and Vladimir Putin. Today the rates start at $289 per person per night, which includes breakfast, lunch, and dinner (yes, about $600/couple per day for a Category 1, non-view interior double room). According to this sign, “gentlemen after 6 p.m. must be attired in coat and tie. ladies may not be attired in slacks.” Only registered guests are allowed into the hotel. Non-guests must pay $10 to enter the lobby and enjoy the porch. Young brown-skinned ladies (foreign imports) dressed in long skirts, airy blouses, and floppy sunhats were posted just beyond this sign to kindly turn away unqualified visitors and looky-loos like us—genteel bouncers of another era.

 

Front of Grand Hotel, as close as we riff-raff could get to its famous porch.

 

Topiary on the grounds.

The living version takes hotel guests to and from town.

 

Entrance to the Jockey Club restaurant, part of the Grand Hotel grounds. I half-expected Mary Poppins and Bert to come dancing out with penguins.

 

Everything here is moved by horse drays…even empty carriages. This fancy number is probably a favorite for weddings and other romantic events.

 

These folks rented a one-horse, drive-your-own surrey. Rentals travel on quieter roads where they won’t meet up with the larger tour trolleys. Saddle horses are also for rent, for riding through the forest roads of the park.

 

Our wanderings took us into the heart of the island, where most of the full-time islanders (i.e., full-time employees) live. As everywhere else, only horses, bicycles, roller blades, or feet are used for getting around and carrying out municipal chores. This team is the recycling pickup crew, going house to house and collecting bags left at the street. One lovely neighborhood characteristic that we noted: having no cars means having no garages to overwhelm properties or home designs.

 

Residential Mackinac.

 

The startlingly down-home Mackinac Island Police Department on the same street. There’s also a police department in town, so we suspect this is a satellite office.

OK, this one did surprise us. We had been wondering how they kept all the interior roads clear of poop, especially with so many triple-horse trolleys traveling them. The solution? A horse-drawn motorized street sweeper. These two horses even clean up after themselves!

 

Walking the woods in the center of the island. Forest paths criss-cross for local shortcuts, wooded walks, and horseback day rides.

Trillium on the forest floor.

 

These shelf mushrooms reminded me of buckwheat pancakes.

View from the top of the island, at Fort Holmes.

That’s the Mackinac Bridge discussed in the previous blog. Way zoomed in!

A ferry passes the lighthouse to bring its next group of visitors and residents to the island. The lilacs in the foreground were blooming just in time for the island’s upcoming annual Lilac Festival.

 

Another view into town, this from the road that winds around the west side of the fort at the end of our walk.