“Easy reach” is a relative term – Michigan is a big state, and few people who never venture outside the Detroit-Ann Arbor megalopolis realize it. Two years ago, I drove from DC to Munising, MI, on the Lake Superior coast, in a single day. It took seventeen hours and nearly killed me on the deserted, pitch-dark highways of the UP. I was not about to repeat that foolishness. And in any case, our itinerary was slightly different this year and was to take us first to Mackinac Island, so leaving first thing Saturday morning, we drove as far as Mackinaw City, on the northernmost tip of the Lower Peninsula (they don't seem to call it the LP, however), at the base of the Mackinac Bridge. This took a “mere” fourteen hours, but we arrived safely, and at a half-way reasonable hour, aided by the ridiculously late August sunset (besides being so far north, all of Michigan is in the Eastern time zone, though some of it borders Wisconsin to the West), and lodged for the night at a perfectly adequate and, for the height of the tourist season, even reasonably priced Econo Lodge.
The following morning we took a ferry to Mackinac Island. Three ferry lines ply the waters of the Straights of Mackinac, where three of the Great Lakes – Huron, Michigan and Superior – meet, and though priced identically to the dollar, and operating on almost the same exact schedules, each one does its utmost to distinguish itself from its rivals. Our innkeeper, a purposeful elderly gentleman who seemed trustworthy and in fact had something of a retired sea captain about him, recommended Shepler's, evidently the oldest line in continuous operation. We were glad he did – Shepler's dock, situated at one end of Mackinaw City's three-block-long main drag, was large, clean and well maintained, and the staff was friendly. After an unsatisfying breakfast of pancakes at a local restaurant, we boarded the boat for a 9:00 a.m. departure and were pulling into Mackinac Island Harbor fifteen minutes later.
Mackinac Island has been inhabited by the Ojibwa Indians since prehistoric times. The name means “turtle” in the Ojibwa language, and was bestowed upon the island because of its shape. The first European arrivals were the French, who settled there permanently in the 1670s, only to lose the island to the British during the French and Indian War. The British built Fort Mackinac – an imposing looking fortress overlooking the harbor – in the 1770s. No battles were fought there during the American Revolutionary war, the island changing hands peacefully under a treaty in 1783, but the war of 1812 saw two battles, which the British won, reestablishing control of the island until 1815 and building a second, smaller wooden fort further up the hill from the main one. Starting in the mid-1800s, the island became a major tourist attraction, and a number of hotels, including the famous Grand Hotel, were built. Most remain to this day. A large portion of the 3.8-square-mile island today is a state park.
For me personally, Mackinac Island proved to be the least enjoyable part of the trip (J. disagrees). The island allows no motor vehicles, and the most common conveyance, in addition to bicycles, is the horse-drawn carriage. The first thing that hit me as we stepped out of the ferry terminal onto the main street of downtown Mackinac Island was a pervasive smell of horse manure. Horse droppings were everywhere on the street, almost impossible to avoid stepping on unless you stick exclusively to sidewalks, which were very narrow and crowded. To think that every American city was like that up until World War I or so, and to imagine it on the scale of a place like New York...
We walked a quarter mile or so up the main street to the hotel where we would be staying that night, asked the none-too-friendly desk clerk to hold our bags, picked up a map at a nearby tourist information booth, and as quickly as we could left the bustle of downtown to hike into the Mackinac State Park. By this time, the sun had burned off most of the morning fog and clouds and it was getting quite warm. Through a combination of stairs and trails, we made our way up the hill and into the quiet interior of the island. The horse smell and the noise of the crowds receded, and I felt better. The park, though owned by the State of Michigan, is actually dotted by majestic Victorian houses, beautifully maintained (a requirement for living on the island, I believe) and decorated. Eventually we reached Fort Holmes, the smaller of the old British forts. Now a ruin, it afforded beautiful views of the North side of the island and Lake Huron beyond. Descending back towards the town, we passed Arch Rock – a natural rock formation in the shape of a large arch – and more beautiful views of the lake before arriving back in the bustle. It was time for lunch.
Most, if not all, restaurants on Mackinac Island seem to follow a pattern – overpriced glorified pub-grub of dubious quality, with one or two token dishes that feature the one truly local ingredient – Great Lakes whitefish. It is apparently illegal in Michigan to pack local catch in durable packaging, making it impossible to ship over any appreciable distance. I first tried whitefish two years ago in the UP, in smoked form, and loved it, so I was looking forward to revisiting the experience.
We ended up at the Village Inn, more or less on a whim, attracted by its outdoor patio that had some available tables and the fact that it was located in a side street, minimizing the crowds and the horse smell (to which we were getting used by that point). The choice proved serendipitous – I had a bowl of delicious smoked whitefish chowder, thick with tender potatoes and several plump chunks of whitefish, plus many more that have disintegrated into the creamy broth and infused the entire dish with a strong, smoky and slightly oily aroma. Not everyone’s cup of soup, but I absolutely loved it, especially when washed down with a cold Bell’s Oberon, of which there were several more to come later that afternoon. J. opted for whitefish in fried form, on a sandwich, and gave it high marks, especially after dispensing with the mediocre bun.
After lunch, we briefly considered touring the fort, but couldn’t stomach the thought of fighting the crowds, so instead we rented a pair of bicycles and embarked on a circumnavigation of the island. We rode at a leisurely pace, with frequent stops, and after overtaking a large German family riding slowly four abreast and taking up the entire roadway, were finally able to relax. The views of the lake to our right were lovely, with wild beaches interspersed with rocky outcroppings favored by the many species of Great Lakes aquatic fowl. Three brown pelicans, their beaks as large as the rest of them, flew in formation low above the water. There was a strong breeze coming in from the North, and along the Northern side of the island the surf had pronounced white crowns – a preview of coming attractions.
We arrived back in town about two hours later, making a detour to see the exterior of the Grand Hotel – a truly gargantuan and impressive looking building. We got as close as we could without either being guests or paying the $15 admission fee that outsiders can pay to visit the public areas of the hotel. Having returned the bikes, we walked back to our own, equally historic but far less glamorous lodgings – the Island House Hotel.
The Island House is one of the oldest hotels on the island, dating back to 1852. The current building – an asymmetrical wooden structure with an impressive porch winding around the entire façade in modest imitation of the Grand – dates back to 1865. The building seemed to be kept in decent repair, but 150 years is a 150 years – the building is old and in many areas approaching decrepitude. Our room was adequate, no more, somewhat cramped and poorly laid out, with the window overlooking the rooftop of the restaurant and an incessant buzz of other people’s air conditioners wafting into the room, at least until we shut the window and turned on our own. The rate we were paying, although about half of what we would have paid at the Grand, was expensive by anyone’s standard, and for what we were getting it was sheer highway robbery. There was to be a sliver lining, however.J., tired and overheated after the bike ride, laid down to take a nap, while I, showered and refreshed, set off in search of the hotel’s bar. It proved to be a casual affair with an enormous outdoor patio, really just an expanse of lawn with several tables and umbrellas. Large pine trees swayed gently in the breeze, providing much-needed shade. A middle-aged couple was having an early dinner at a corner table, but otherwise the place was deserted, and I ended up spending a couple of blissful hours there, catching up on reading, enjoying a couple of delicious Oberons, and occasionally chatting about Mackinac Island and its tourist trade with my none-too-busy waitress – a lanky but pretty college student from downstate named Kelley. Eventually, J., rested from her nap, found me there, enjoyed an Oberon of her own, and we set off in search of dinner, determined to avoid our hotel’s dining room.
J. suggested a place called Seabiscuit which we walked by earlier in the day. I must say her intuition was spot-on – we ended up having a delicious meal in the midst of Mackinac’s touristy mediocrity. Chatting with the hostess a bit while waiting for our table, we found out that it was a favorite among the locals. The bar scene was lively, but we opted for a regular table, pressed closely against its neighbors, almost New York style. Determined to get our fill of whitefish while we had the chance, we both ordered whitefish wraps. They were served more chilled than I would have done it – the whitefish salad, though obviously house-made, must have come straight from the refrigerator, but were otherwise delicious. Chunky smoked whitefish, mixed with fresh crunchy coleslaw, its mayonnaise providing the necessary binding qualities, wrapped in a spinach tortilla, it was very satisfying while being marginally lighter than the fried monstrosities that populated much of the rest of the menu.
After dinner, we walked a bit along the waterfront, enjoying the cool, clear night, spent a few minutes sitting in the rocking chairs strewn about our hotel’s porch, then turned in, in anticipation of an activity-filled day.
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