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.

A Surfeit of Lakes

This was my first time to the Great Lakes region, and we’d already been by Lake Erie and Lake Ontario bordering New York. Now it was time for the waters that define all of Michigan—Lake Michigan, Lake Huron, and Lake Superior—and to finally get what Michiganians mean when they say “UP” and “LP.”  

Until now, I had never appropriately absorbed the concept that Michigan is actually two individual pieces of land—an upper peninsula and a lower peninsula formed by three lakes, linked by a bridge, and united by one state government. The three purple markers indicate our stops on our way north.

 

Northern Michigan is beautiful, no matter how you look at it. We headed for stays at Petoskey (to hang out), St Ignace (to visit Mackinac Island), and Sault Ste Marie (to see the locks). Our choice to drive north through the center of the state caused us to forgo much of the east coast of Lake Michigan (reserving visits to places such as Interlochen and Traverse for another time). In all, we spent a week in the upper part of the lower peninsula, then another week in the lower part of the upper peninsula (how’s that for confusing).

Once you get past the sprawling auto-heartland of Detroit, much of central Michigan is farmland, and we occasionally shared the more rural highways with agricultural equipment.

 

Our home for a week at Magnus City Park in Petoskey. We faced Lake Michigan, with a one-minute walk to the shore. Behind us is a hospital whose 24/7 drone of compressors took a few days to get used to. Running through the park is a 26-mile rail-to-trail bike path from Charlevoix (south) through Petoskey to Harbor Springs (north). Local signage for this Little Traverse Wheelway shows a picture of a penny-farthing above the words “No Driving or Teaming”—a reminder of its 1800s origins as a bicycling path in the days of horse and carriage, before railroads claimed the right of way for use.

 

Petoskey is an easy place to like, both for its beauty and its amenities. It’s a clean, well-kept city, well set up for encouraging people to be outdoors, full of interesting neighborhoods with street-shading trees, late 19th- and early 20th-century homes, and small local businesses tucked in almost everywhere. The downtown was surprisingly large. Just off a marina, the multi-block area contains a small park and is lined with shops and restaurants that seem to draw as many locals as tourists. Name-brand box stores are accessible outside of town, and greenbelts and many little cities worth visiting line the coast. We’d stay here all summer in a heartbeat…it’s just so dang far from Yuma! 

Patchouli gets his first look at Lake Michigan and wonders if it’s an inland sea. We’re more than 300 miles from Chicago down the middle of this lake. I begin to understand how these waters can create their own weather.

 

The area is known for its “Petoskey stones,” which are actually fossils from an ancient coral reef and Michigan’s official state stone. Our beach was pretty picked over, but I did find some large and small samples, plus some fossilized shells. I kept only the smallest. We do live in an RV, after all. (Photo care of wikipedia.)

With lakes come bugs. A hatch of thousands of black, thin winged, non-biting things clustered over anything white (like our entire rig and truck setup) and swirled in clouds so thick you could spot them 20 yards away. These were the hapless victims of a spider who set up residence on our slideout and was never without a meal. (After we left here, the same kind of web showed up in the same spot, stop after stop, all the way to South Dakota. We figured the spider must have backed herself into the awning box against highway winds, although her web was destroyed on each travel day. Once at a Walmart it was covered in dew, and at an RV park in South Dakota it was covered in cottonwood fluff. We didn’t see it again after that, so the spider may have finally jumped ship.)

Staying a week at Petoskey with alternating rainy and sunny weather showed some of the many moods of Lake Michigan. These three pics were all taken from roughly the same spot at similar times of the day.

Sunrise flyer on Lake Michigan.

One clear day we drove south to Charlevoix, a lake-front city full of Victorian houses, condos, and contemporary homes climbing up hills and overhanging shorelines with private docks. The marina has a beautiful park, with the downtown area right behind us.

The day we came through, volunteers were planting the city’s curbsides with miles of petunias in an annual city beautification project that involves a flatbed truck dropping off flats of flowers every few yards for green-thumbed residents to unpack and stick into the dirt. This year’s count was two million petunias.

 

A Lake Michigan beach at Charlevoix. That red box is a lighthouse.

Charlevoix has a weird little grouping of stone homes called the Mushroom Houses, designed in the 1920s to 1970s by self-taught architect Earl Young. Built to blend into their surroundings, from certain angles they look surprisingly small, as if inhabited by Hobbits, but resolve to normal size once you got to their front sides.

 

Yes, that’s a true English-style thatched roof they’re putting onto this building. I wonder what the next-door neighbor in the Victorian thought of this new companion.

 

A street typical to Charlevoix’s older neighborhoods. Some avenues had grand homes kept in stately fashion and some had modest homes kept barely at all, but shading lanes seemed to be everywhere.

 

Getting from Petoskey in the LP to St Ignace in the UP requires crossing the five-mile long Mackinac (pronounced “mackinaw”) Bridge. 

The desire for a suspension bridge linking the two peninsulas had been around since the 1870s (to emulate the successful Brooklyn Bridge), but achieving it took decades of fitful starts and stops because of engineering, funding, and support snags. Finally built in the late 1950s, the bridge replaced a ferry system that had been desperately trying to keep up with moving 90,000 cars a day across the strait. It traces the boundary line between Lake Huron (east) and Lake Michigan (west) and is the fifth largest suspension bridge in the world. This is one of the best views of the bridge from the northeast side in St Ignace…standing among graves in a cemetery. St Ignace did install an informative visitor center/viewing site at the northwest side that’s also worth the stop.

 

Another way to view the beauty of this bridge is by boat. The ferry we took to Mackinac Island included a detour under it. (Mackinac Island covered in next blog.) Here we are in Lake Huron.

Crossing under.

And now in Lake Michigan. Big difference, huh?

Sault Ste Marie (pronounced “soo san marie”) was our last stop in this area of Michigan. It sits between Lake Superior and Lake Huron and is home to the Soo Locks, a critical commercial link on the only path between Superior and the other Great Lakes. Not surprisingly, shipping is constant here—coal, grain, cement, and other cargo move regularly among Great Lakes ports to deliver goods to railroads and trucks bound for all points in the U.S. and Canada. Our site at a city campground gave us a front-porch view of the downstream end of the Soo’s shipping lane (the St Marys River); Canada is directly across. Several websites track marine traffic throughout the world, so we always knew what was coming and going, and could look up details about the ships that passed. This is the Algorail, a 1968 self-unloader registered in Canada.

 

The Soo Locks are so popular that the government built a three-story viewing platform to let people watch the action and wave hello to the crews. We were two of about 40 visitors. Here, both locks are at work…the Frontenac (front) has her lock almost filled, while a sister ship, the CSL Welland, has already dropped below ground level on her way in the other direction. The height difference for these locks is 21 feet. As with the locks on the Erie Canal, the Soo has a long history of use and improvements, dating back to 1797 when fur trappers and Indians set up rudimentary locks in Canada to get canoes past the rapids at this spot. Most ships that pass through today are tugs, barges, and “lake freighters” like these two, specifically built to transport goods among the Great Lakes, but never leave them because they can’t fit through the remaining waterways to the eastern seaboard.

 

As the Frontenac diesels away from the lock, a little yellow tour boat, which has been waiting its turn, comes in. Surprisingly, there is no fee for using the locks. And, yes, they lowered the lock just for this one tiny boat.