American Road Trip 1: Grass Lake to the Porcupines

Day One: Grass Lake to Hiawatha

Driving north through Michigan’s lower peninsula is largely routine for too many of us trolls (what the Yoopers call residents of the lower state). The occasional construction zone, the intermittent shower which grays out the windshield, the Winnebago which won’t do more than 45 mph as it pulls an SUV, boat, and bike rack on three separate trailers.

But what we gain when we clear the lower counties is Gaylord, home of the renowned Call of the Wild Museum. It has probably been over 30 years since I’ve been there, so of course I had to spend seven bucks to revisit that portion of my childhood. And, unlike my Velvet Peanut Butter fiasco, my expectations were not too high.

But how could they be? My recollection is of a dim set of plaster of paris tunnels with glass cases, each containing a dusty set of taxidermied animals. Run up to the case and you can press a button which would cause a muffled speaker to emit a recording of the animal’s call. The wolf was difficult to distinguish from the snowy owl, however. All of Michigan’s wildlife was celebrated here in crudely posed death. Why wouldn’t I want to return to see if my memory was accurate?

I parked in the sparely-crowded parking lot, walked in to the enormous gift shop in the front of the museum, and asked the girl at the counter for one adult ticket. She was probably in high school, so I asked her if the museum had changed in the last 30 years. She told me earnestly that they had switched the positions of some of the animals. She asked if I wanted the complementary clipboard which had the child’s scavenger hunt questions. I passed.

Oh, but now, in addition to the animals (which perhaps have been dusted once or twice in the past decade, from the looks of them), they have added painted bear tracks to lead you through the tunnels, from display to display, and they have even televised the face of an old hunter from the 19^th century onto a mannequin—the effect is weird, eerie, and not remotely of historical or educational value. Whose idea was this?

But that Call of the Wild has lasted so many years largely without change speaks to the kitschy sense of entertainment which is the entire UP, as well: Gaylord is only a warm-up to a bevy of absurd amusements for tourists, from Haunted Michilimackinac tours to Mystery Spots, Weird Michigan Wax Museums, and 17 go-cart tracks within eight miles of St. Ignace. All of them here in late July were empty. (At least I left Call of the Wild with $5 worth of fudge.)

As I turned down US-2 (which I will largely follow all the way to Glacier National Park in Montana), I was eager to put these behind me, along with the closed Lake View Motels, the abandoned Glenn’s Gas stations, and the seedier looking “Indian Souvenir” shops.

Arriving in Manistique, I pulled into a recommended campground on Indian Lake to discover Winnebago heaven, each pulling boats, bicycles, and SUVs. The State Park offered sites for $32, and I told the ranger that I would pay her $10. She didn’t need to tell me that this wasn’t Nepal, so I left there, as well. Moving across the bay, I turned up into Hiawatha Nat’l Forest, paid $12 for a site with apparently no one for some miles, and roasted some Koegels.

One thing that also seems scarce in the UP are coffee shops with wireless, so I do not know how soon this blog will be posted, but I leave tomorrow morning for the Porcupine Mountains.

Day Two: Hiawatha to the Porcupines/Presque Isle

I’m continuing the same blog entry because my one aborted attempt to link to an internet service caused me to despair of finding another falsely promised outpost.

Backtracked a little to the eerie early morning hike of Fayette State Park, mostly an abandoned iron smelting village beneath limestone cliffs on Lake Michigan. I arrived at 7:00 am, long before anyone else was there, and so I watched alone as the fog slowly lifted off the old bat-infested furnaces and the ruined hotel. There is a fair amount left of the village, but this because the State has invested in its preservation after it shut down in the 1910s.

Something which is clear about the wilderness of the UP: it will eat anything we build here. Ancient masonry crumbles, and as I drive US-2, there are miles of imploded and crumbling houses, blistered shells of supply stores, the sporadic new construction of aluminum siding, proof the owner believes against winter lake storms and an insistent forest. Hiawatha, Ottawa, and the Porcupines are enormous, of course, and there are more abandoned turn-outs and driveways into the wilderland than active ones.

Camping here is preferable to the closed and claustrophobic shacks or squat strips of hotel rooms, mostly which promise free coffee or hot showers as if these were luxury. Camping pretends to be nothing but temporary, makes no claims on the land, offers (if I avoid the RV havens) nothing but a fire ring and perhaps a table.

Outside of Norway (wittily announced by a Viking longboat beneath its Welcome sign) is Piers Gorge, a set of falls and rapids along the Michigan-Wisconsin border. The lower rapids probably match the beauty of Tahquamenon, but there is absolutely no one there during my visit, not in the dirt parking area or along its two miles of trails. A deadfall along the route shows signs of bear markings on the trees, a limestone hill above me appears to have small caves; I do not overstay my lone welcome and press on to Iron Mountain, a small town that consumed a friend of mine many years ago. Now I know why she cried on the phone about being trapped there.

I left US-2 and moved north to Ontonagon and then to the Porcupines. I was assured a site on the Presque Isle side (I will hike those trails before I leave tomorrow morning) and then made a quick visit to Lake in the Clouds. Was it still the same beauty from my childhood trips? The answer is yes, though the thrill of the view (looking down upon a quiet blue lake settled within a forested bowl of hills) was somewhat dampened by the new stone wall they have placed along the edge. My childhood trauma of my father positioning my young brother and I along the edge (in my memory, feet dangling from the stone cliff) so that he could secure a 3D photograph has never left me. Now I could not approach within 10 feet of that ledge. But I took photographs of the fateful rocks that still bear the scuff marks of countless child tennis shoes.

The Presque Isle campground has more people nearby than Hiawatha (where I was quite alone in what became a rainy night and morning), but it is dry and clear now, and my fire will finish off the sausage I brought. I think that (after I explore the Apostle Islands tomorrow and the Parkway along the Duluth shoreline, I can make it half-way through Minnesota into the national parks there. This means missing the Great Chautauqua tent show tomorrow night in Bayfield, which I was looking forward to, but it gains me about 200 miles. We’ll see.