Dreams, Moments, Travels
My grandfather Herbert Kurchoff helped me pick up our car from the mechanic today, and along the way, we stopped for lunch and a quick haircut for him. A couple of days ago, we delivered more pictures to use in a screensaver he enjoys watching; he now has 1203 photos from Caroline and me to view.
Certain family members didn’t like the idea that their grandson was going to be living in a ghetto, and so just before I was born, my mother and father moved into an apartment here at 36 Chapel Road in the Kenmore neighborhood. While only a few miles away from Sheridan Park, it remains a world away to this day. This wasn’t our first stop today, nor would it be our last, but by the time we start to head out of Buffalo later, we’ll have driven nearly 400 miles over the streets of what was once known as the City of Lights, but today would better be known as the City of Crime.
Art Deco was all the rave in 1920 when the North Park Theatre was opened. The stained glass windows that were falling into disrepair have been hidden behind walls, architectural changes were made to save on heating costs, and over time, like so many things in Buffalo, there was too little commerce and little care for a theater when larger problems were challenging Buffalonians. Back in 1998, Buffalo native Vincent Gallo, who directed Buffalo ’66, premiered his movie right here at North Park. Stars Christina Ricci and Asia Argento joined Vincent, bringing a touch of glamor back to the theater for a moment. Remember that I’m writing this in 2019, and just around the corner in 2020, the theater will be celebrating its 100th anniversary. In 2013, new owners started the laborious process of restoring North Park to its former glory. In the summer of 2019, during the theatre’s reopening, the lobby’s high ceilings and views of the restored stained glass were unveiled.
A hoped-for breakfast stop at an old deli scheduled to reopen today after its owner had been on vacation was a futile waste of time as nothing inside was set up, and as we were looking inside, the gruff, unfriendly owner chased us away, telling us he was not reopening and that’s that. It turned out that within 60 days, that old guy named Jack Shapiro would retire, and Mastman’s Kosher Deli would disappear.
We ate at Bertha’s Diner just down the road here on Hertel Avenue instead. Nice place. Just an old-style coffee shop with some ridiculously low prices. A table nearby is overheard talking about Schwabl’s, a restaurant of keen interest to us. They confirm that one of them has eaten there in the past week, and it is, in fact, still open. Lunch is on the schedule.
Earlier, I said Buffalo should be called the City of Crime. While the rate of violent crime has fallen since the 1990s, Buffalo is still usually in the top 10 of the most dangerous cities in America. The poverty rate here stands around 30%, and moving through its streets, the sense of that danger is palpable. As far as New York as a whole goes, Buffalo is the most dangerous city in the entire state. With that said, I never felt threatened anywhere we visited, but then again, I also knew that I would not want to be the person needing to walk through this neighborhood at night after buying one of these beautiful buildings for a renovation project. By the way, check out this Jackson’s Produce & Meats shop with the box glued onto the front of the old house; doesn’t it give the impression that the cannibal slaughter was going on in the main house with body parts being sold in the front?
The ethnic hate and racism in this city are worn right out in front. Apparently, this council member, Nick Bonifacio guy was a “Handpicked party controlled Italian.” Listening in on Buffalonians at some of the eating establishments, it’s easy to overhear conversations about the “Eyetalians,” “Polacks,” “the Jews,” and “the Blacks or Coloreds.” I thought this kind of ethnic division was something from a previous century and that the North was supposed to be welcoming of African Americans, but that’s not my experience here on the streets of Buffalo.
Shortly after emigrating from Germany to Buffalo, New York, my family, the Kurchoffs, became established with a strong foothold in Buffalo.
That’s my mom sitting in front of Buffalo Engine House No. 26, built back in 1894 with the help of her great-grandfather.
In our senseless wandering around, somehow, we made it back out to West Seneca and Schwabl’s. Not only did we have a late breakfast, but it was not even lunchtime yet. Seeing we are able to shovel food in where it was thought there was no more space, we know ourselves well enough that if we leave now, we’ll not return later. So we walk into the nearly empty restaurant and are happy we did. Only 20 minutes after our arrival, not only was the place full but there were ten people waiting for a table.
The Schwabl family started their business of feeding people in this city back in 1837, only five years after Buffalo had become an official place on the map. By 1942, they were operating in their current location and will hopefully continue well into the future. Their specialty is the Roast Beef Sandwich On Kümmelweck, also known as beef on weck – a half-pound of hand-cut roast beef served on a fresh roll dusted with rock salt and caraway seeds with some sinus-clearing horseradish. For dessert, I order a stand-alone beef on weck without the sides. I think I could have eaten three of them.
We should have started heading south out of Buffalo, but Mom had one more stop she wanted us to make. So, back across town, but first, we dipped down Emslie Street here to visit the ruin of the Sacred Heart Church, where Aunt Eleanor was baptized and attended catechism as a child. Back then, the church was still new, having been built in 1913, shortly after Auntie was born. I wasn’t able to capture a decent photo of the church itself, so I snapped this image of the crossroads to act as my reminder of where the place was.
If I’d not taken this photo myself, you could have told me that this 1950 Packard Sedan had just come off the assembly line and that I was looking at Buffalo during its heyday. This was almost our last stop in the city today, but next, we took a drive past Our Lady of Victory Basilica, which was also known as Father Baker’s. This was another situation where I was not going to be able to get a decent photo, which is a shame as it’s a very nice-looking cathedral and, as I was informed, the place where I was baptized. Time to leave Buffalo.
As we point the car to the southwest, we are effectively aiming for home, but we’ll first have to stop in Angola. Mom is nervous about heading down, and I think she’d like to postpone our visit, but my curiosity is too great. Our family used to own a summer cottage on Lake Erie in Angola, and the last time mom was there in 1993, the place was in ruins; she was expecting worse today. The last time I visited the cottage was probably in 1968.
Arriving in Angola off Lake Shore Road at the intersection with Humboldt Avenue, we find the place entirely renovated. The man renting it tells us he’s moving out soon and talks a bit about the new owner. I ask if I can take photos of the outside, and he obliges me. We walk around the old place and try to remember our days spent here long ago. Mom and I, as children, had both spent summers out here next to the lake with Grandma Josephine and Auntie. Mom, as an adult, had also lived out here after she and her second husband considered making a life south of Buffalo. That didn’t work out, and ultimately it was sold off. Without fanfare, we leave driving southwest a day ahead of schedule.
Buffalo was exhausting but also taught me a lot about who my mother is, considering the environment she grew up in. My mom was born in 1947 before the exodus of the city had begun. She stayed long enough through the early 1970s to witness the first mass migration when 100,000 people were moving away from Buffalo during those years. She watched poverty skyrocket and witnessed her parents lose their life savings to a swindler. Her poor decision to become sexually active at 14 years old (while good for me) likely put her in a far worse position than if she’d finished high school and (maybe) attended university. She appears to have grown up blaming others for her situations, rarely taking responsibility for her biases and blunders. First, moving to California in an attempt to reconcile with my father, she quickly realized the error of her ways and returned to Buffalo, but only shortly before marrying another man and moving to Phoenix, Arizona, to start fresh. I have no idea what my mother was looking for in Buffalo and even less hope that she found anything more than bittersweet nostalgia.
Out of the depravity of upstate New York and back into the bucolic countryside of rural America. I love it out here.
Ah, yes, it’s Dolly Dimples again. Caroline and I passed this psycho-killer monument back in 2000 when we were driving to Buffalo for the first time. Dolly lives at Valvo’s Candies in Silver Creek, New York. Click here to see my old photo at night and just try to imagine her emerging out of the night.
Our last stop on one of the Great Lakes, Lake Erie, to be exact. I may someday be proven wrong but I believe this is the last photo of my mom and I ever taken. My mom died on March 25, 2018. It’s strange to think that over the intervening 13 years, there wasn’t one more photo taken of the two of us.
Playing it by ear, we drive south into Pennsylvania through some Amish areas before reaching Warren on the Allegheny River. It’s a nice little town. Mom has to do some laundry, so we take a pause in the trek home. This was also our last chance for scoops of Perry’s ice cream and we didn’t pass up the opportunity. Once a glutton, always a glutton.
We did not pull up to an Amish household and ask to do our laundry here, though if I thought it possible, I’d love to spend a few days with an Amish family learning firsthand about their way of life.
A couple of hours later, we find ourselves continuing along the Allegheny River.
It’s getting late in the day, and sunset is soon to happen. Mom is hungry for some dinner, so we check into Mid-Town Motel in Tionesta, Pennsylvania, for under $65, including tax. Without paying, we are given a key and told to come back after we eat as the only open restaurant stops serving at 9:00 p.m. which is only about 15 minutes from now. The Forest Inn was on the other side of the Allegheny River, with lasagna as the special of the day. We both opted for it out of convenience. With drinks, dinner was a reasonable price of only $18.65 without tip.
Back on the other side of the river, we stop at the front office and pay our bill offering thanks for getting us to dinner with minutes to spare. The room is great, terrific even. We have a fridge, stove, two TVs, A/C, microwave, small dining room table, a desk, couch, and three ceiling fans, and we are across the street from the river. Tomorrow, we send ourselves in the direction of the Ohio River which we should pick up just south of Wheeling, West Virginia.
The foul weather and heavy clouds that have been hanging over Mom and me on a personal level are clearing. With a week to go before we got back to Phoenix, we had to put the squabbles behind us. Breakfast is at Bauernstube German American Restaurant. We both have waffles with blueberries and then head on down the road.
Now, I get to try finding the beauty out here on these incredible summer days again. Flowers are always good at seducing me into seeing things in a positive light.
We are traveling along the St. Lawrence Seaway today, passing farms, forests, small towns, wildflowers, orchards, horses, lakes, more of the seaway, and some truly beautiful villages, each seemingly more spectacular than the last. With the sun shining so brightly upon us, we have slowed to a pace that might impact our ability to cover the 200 miles we need to drive today.
I’m dreaming of the overwhelming need to bring Caroline out here and go kayaking among the Thousand Islands. Actually, there are more than 1,800 islands found between Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence River that make up this popular recreation site. While traveling through, I’m not without trepidation about what the area is like during the height of summer, but then I remind myself that we are here in mid-summer, and it’s not all that busy.
At one pullout, we stumble upon a couple from Gilbert, Arizona, who just spent their 47th wedding anniversary at Bar Harbor, Maine. We talked for a half-hour before getting on with the road trip and wishing each other the best. A good few hours pass while we stop for photos and otherwise meander.
Lunch is in Alexandria Bay at the Top of the Bay Patio Bar with a salad and meatball sandwich sent up from Cavallarie’s Bayside Pizza below the bar. The view is from the Upper James Street Dock.
A few more miles west, we stop in Clayton at the Antique Boat Museum, where Mom has the opportunity to demonstrate her vast knowledge of boating.
My mom is shining as she indulges in remembering a youth before she was sidetracked by her indiscretion that produced children. Life on Lake Erie and the Niagara River was a large part of life, along with winter trips down to Florida where my grandparents Herbert and Hazel would take my mom for fishing and boating during the worst of the Buffalo winters. Like many youths, they can’t see the luxury of how good they have it but can only focus on what they think is being denied them by over-restrictive parents. Forty years ago, my mom’s life was perfect, though she couldn’t see it, and now, among the wooden boats, she shares how Herbert built his own boat and how, over time, he’d come to own a number of larger and larger yachts with membership at the local yacht club.
Wow, what a beautiful canoe. While I have the worst sense of balance seated in a canoe, that doesn’t mean it would stop me from wanting to paddle away from the dock with Caroline on an adventure into the waters of part of this country between New York and Canada.
Cape Vincent: we turn southward and are now on Lake Ontario. The drive is starting to wind down for the day.
Water seeping out of rock might be part of your normal, but for me, it’s magical.
In Oswego, we find the perfect lodging. We were about to pass through the town, but a stop at a gas station for ice on our way to Cayuga on the Finger Lakes changed our plans. A friendly gal in the convenience store tells us of a great place for dinner around the corner and so I asked about lodging too. She tells us about some cabins right next door to the restaurant. Still early in the day, at 4:30 p.m., we call it quits for the day.
Our room for the night is a hot and humid little cabin overlooking Lake Ontario. All windows are open, two doors are open, and two fans are straining to push around as much air as possible.
Dinner at Rudy’s Lakeside Drive-In was great. I had the Haddock sandwich, and Mom had a plate of Haddock and Scallops. Of course, fries come with every order. Rudy’s is one busy place and has been there since 1947.
We sit lakeside a while but need to leave the late setting sun to return to our cabin. Getting back relatively early lets me knock out some writing while hoping to get the chance to find sleep early tonight.
I had to visit the car so I could talk in private with Caroline and let her know that Mom and I were on the mend. I took the picture above of myself so she could see with her own eyes that my smile was real.
Waking to the call of the loon in Canada, what could be better? Recordings of the loon do not do this bird any justice; it is an amazing sound made more fascinating as two loons are talking across the lake. The pink and orange light of dawn is reflected in the lake, with thin, lacey clouds adding a touch of extra beauty. A woodpecker rattles a nearby tree while songbirds undulate their whistles to the rising sun. I snapped a few photos before waking Mom to admire the lake. It is more beautiful now than it was the day before.
We lingered by the lake until breakfast. Mom had oatmeal, which she was sure was the best she’d ever had; while I opted for a cheese omelet and home fries, a good breakfast made all the better by the environs. Cabin number 9 at Lang Lake Resort is the note to future me to return here. Before leaving, we sat and watched a loon dipping below the surface of the lake to fish, not reappearing for minutes at a time.
Lang Lake was south of Espanola and after a short drive back up the dirt road, we rejoined road number 6, heading north to Espanola once more. A turn right on the 17, which is officially known as the Trans-Canada Highway, and we are on our way to Montreal or thereabouts.
Not too far west of Copper Cliff a quick stop was made for a man selling fresh wild blueberries roadside. The hand-picked wild blueberries are expensive. We are doubtful until the gentleman sitting inside the van offers us a sample. These are, without a doubt, the best blueberries we have ever tasted. We bought the small container to the far left in the photo for about $13 U.S.; the larger container near his foot was $115 Canadian or $100 U.S..
If you should ever find yourself in Canada in the middle of July and don’t know where to pick them yourself, stop at one of the many blueberry stands and try them. Be sure they are the wild, small berries, though. Yummy!
A foreign country with things outside the American experience is a refreshing blast of excitement. It’s been ten years since Caroline and I moved to the United States, and during that time, we’ve not been back to Europe, I’m getting a small hint of that European aesthetic as we drive along.
Near Verner, a sign catches my eye, forcing a U-turn. It’s advertising goat cheese. At a local farm from a husband and wife team, we pick up some of their garlic-herb goat cheese – yummy, again.
The town of Mattawa, which is part of the Algonquin Nation, has a trading post, but they don’t want our blueberries in exchange for furs; oh well. We still managed to leave with gifts for others back home. In Rolphton we are entering the Province of Quebec and buy bread and some other stuff, sweet guilt. Pembroke offers ice cream and butter, which we needed for the bread. Somewhere further down the road, we stopped next to a plot where an elderly guy was selling strawberries that we got to pick ourselves.
Things are starting to crumble, but my mom’s appetite is not one of them. The near-constant grazing still isn’t enough, and a sign advertising walleye was enough to have us pulling off for more food.
As we were approaching Quebec, my mother started grumbling about the signs in French.
I am being forced to hear about her utter and total dislike of all things French. It doesn’t matter if it’s French Canadians or the people of France; they are all simply horrible, arrogant people. I’m starting to grind my teeth as there is no talking reason with her. When my mom was a teenager, at one of her first jobs as a waitress, a French Canadian couple visiting Buffalo, New York, stiffed her for a tip, and since that moment, she has always hated French people of any kind.
I’m seething and starting to resent the person I’m in the car with. Her pettiness exploding like this for something that happened 40 years ago is beyond what I can accept, and I wish she’d simply shut up. She’s as relentless about sharing her disdain as she is about eating everything in sight. I’m reaching a breaking point where her childlike anger starts, triggering me to turn around and race back to Arizona. Fortunately, I know my anger needs to be pocketed. I only wish I’d known about this earlier so I could have avoided bringing her this far north.
I’m finished and just want to shut down. I start looking for a motel early so I can get off the road and find some time to talk with Caroline, vent with her, and have her calm me down. Motel Eddy in St. Andre D’Argenteuil on the Ottawa River is only $43, including a TV and small fridge. In our respective rooms, I’m able to escape her agitation that is verging on Tourette’s. We’d managed to ignore politics, religion, and race until this point in our trip, which are all known flashpoints in our relationship. She would be the first to point out that I’d obviously been overly influenced by my time growing up in the land of fruits and nuts, California. There are times that I nearly hate my mother; this is one of those.
The jury will have to remain out on the charm of Charlevoix, as we haven’t spent enough time here to make any kind of real assessment. One thing that is abundantly apparent is why the wealthy with giant yachts love the place: there are covered yacht parking spots with beautiful penthouses built right above them.
We needed about an hour to get back up to St. Ignace, arriving 10 minutes before the next ferry was departing for Mackinac Island. The rideover is fast and smooth as Lake Huron is glassy calm. Skies are slightly overcast, with a little blue seen here and there.
The island isn’t packed yet. We are still early on this Tuesday, a day before the season really kicks off tomorrow. Just why Wednesday, July 13, holds special status for the day when the crowds become truly heavy is missed by me. Having arrived so early, I feel like we’re gaining a good sense of what the island might be like at daybreak or after visitors leave in the evening, and the place is all yours. With so few people here right now, we head over to the horse-drawn carriage tour before long lines start to form.
No motor-powered vehicles are allowed on the island, with the exceptions of a police car, an ambulance, a fire truck, and golf carts which are not allowed off the golf course. Bicycles, horses, and feet are the methods of transport on Mackinac. Our two horses pulling this 5,000 pounds of cart, driver, and 16 passengers are Clydesdales. Beautiful horses until they pass wind. With the exertion of pulling so much weight uphill, the gas billows out, and this isn’t just based on observations of our two horses. Later, when we took the Boeing 747 of horse carriages, a 40-passenger 3-horse wagon, it became obvious to us that a diet heavy in alfalfa and heavy uphill exercise alleviates bloating problems.
Very quickly, we learn of the downside to visiting this island, prices are on the high side. $18 each for roundtrip passage to the island. $18 apiece for the horse tour. $5 each for viewing the butterfly exhibit. To visit the fort is another $9.50, renting a bicycle is about $6 an hour, and to walk on the veranda of the old stately hotel is $10. All of a sudden, this is more expensive than Disneyland, and we haven’t bought a bite to eat or picked up souvenirs, fudge, postcards, or a cold drink.
Well, seeing that I’m such a penny-pinching bastard regarding lodging, I guess I can give in and live it up, as though all this traveling wasn’t the epitome of living it up anyway. The butterfly sanctuary here is beautiful, if not a bit crowded, by the time we got here. I can’t imagine what the coming weekend might be like if their official season doesn’t actually kick off until tomorrow.
Unlike the bears of Yellowstone, where they want visitors to avoid coming into contact with those man-eating beasts, there were no warnings regarding the butterflies. As they landed on me, I hope this proves once and for all to my wife back home that it’s true I am made of sugar.
What is this giant hole, you ask? The representation of the one in my heart because Caroline is not here right now.
The real answer is that Arch Rock was formed back when Lake Superior, Lake Huron, and Lake Michigan were one giant lake system called Nipissing Great Lakes. That lake system was created about 7,500 years ago when retreating glaciers and their melting ice pooled at a level high enough to carve this arch out of the limestone.
This is on the other side of the hole, looking out at Lake Huron. Time for lunch.
We ate at the Oyster Bar and Pub with mom and I having the open-faced white fish sandwich grilled with a lemon caper marinade – yummy. Mom also had the raw oysters, which I abstained from as my previous tastings haven’t brought me into the oyster world (yet). There are more fudge shops than you can shake a stick at, including one where President Ford bought fudge – okay, I guess. Three hours of visiting proves to be enough of Mackinac Island; we will take Harbor Springs any day over Mackinac.
Back in a steaming hot car. I should mention that Arizona weather seems to have followed us on this trip. In Kansas, we were seeing 98-degree temperatures; in Minnesota, it was 94, and today, in northern Michigan, it’s 93 with 85% humidity.
Into Canada via Sault Ste. Marie in the province of Ontario. I’m traveling with trepidation while I have my I.D. and a copy of my birth certificate, and mom has her passport; passing back into the United States these days is a daring gamble that will, at the least, infuriate most travelers. Getting into Canada went smoothly; god help us when we want to leave.
Surprise, surprise, the south of this corner of Canada looks a lot like northern Wisconsin or Michigan. I was expecting bells and whistles, or at least Mounties and Inuit. Being ahead of schedule, we are now chopping up the itinerary as it was written and are in full improvisation mode. In Espanola, we turn south, and before getting to the destination that was originally considered for our overnight, a sign on the side of the road entices Mom with a pan-fried perch. A couple of miles down a dirt road, we pull up to the Lang Lake Resort.
While we are here for the perch, I ask about a room; they have a cabin available. I ask about air conditioning; I’m told to open windows and that there’s a small fan. About to leave, he asks if I want to see it. I waffle about my mom needing A/C as a cranky mom is well, known as Karen. Okay, we will at least take a look. Our car follows his car up the gravel road, down the gravel road, through the potholes, not far but far enough for me to start complaining to Mom that this isn’t where we should stay. A moment later he pulls up to a cabin right on the water’s edge here at Lang Lake. He directs our attention to our own private dock.
He opens the cabin that is hot, but it’s a great little place. The view is great. The amenities are great. What about dinner? Sure, how about 8:00? We will take it. Till then, we mosey down to the dock and kick off our shoes to dip our toes into the warm water that feels a bit chilly to us. After only a few seconds, the water feels great. The sun is getting lower in the sky, and the cliffs are beginning to glow red.
Mom has a half glass of wine before we walk over to the restaurant for dinner and to check-in. Dinner is on an outdoor deck overlooking the lake just below us. Strangely, not a mosquito is zipping about. A Russian family operates the resort and the restaurant; the owner’s son is our waiter tonight.
If you are starting to think this is an eating marathon, well, eating was a primary motivator for this trip. Pizza in Buffalo, New York specifically was the draw, more about that as we reach Buffalo.
The appetizer is homemade pierogi with sour cream, outstanding. Our main course is Perch, but we have asked to substitute the fries with potato latkes, and again, outstanding. For dessert, we are both having homemade crepes stuffed with cottage cheese topped with strawberries for Mom and chocolate and caramel for mine. We pay the bill, pay for the room, tip our waiter, and within minutes, are sitting on the dock again with feet dangling in the water.
The gods of the mosquito swarm have unleashed the vermin after offering a dinner respite that was appreciated. For their kindness of sparing us earlier, I allowed two particularly thin specimens an extra moment of engorgement before running for the safety of the screened porch.
At midnight, it’s still hot in the cabin. I took a shower in the hopes of cooling off. I only turned on the cold water, which was a BIG MISTAKE. The water only flowed out of the pipes due to the crazy pressure behind it otherwise, this might have been a snowmaking machine. My head was burning from the cold, but I was cooler, even if only for a minute or two.
Tomorrow, we continue across southern Canada, enjoying the kilometer signs, bilingual English/French traffic signage, the occasional Celsius reading, and gas priced in Canadian dollars per liter. Oh, and breakfast reservations on the deck over Lang Lake are set for 8:00 a.m. Today is the worst for missing Caroline. No phones out here and no cellular coverage mean no goodnight call, meaning more missing her.
Never before have my mother or I had to deal with water that smelled worse. The strong odor of sulfur hits your nose, and then the iron in the water splashing on your lips tastes of blood. Our showers were taken quickly and felt mostly ineffectual. Bottled water was necessary for brushing our teeth.
Stepping outside, though, was a dream with blue skies and not a hint of wind, making for a picture-perfect reflection in the lake in front of our lodging. We are later than usual getting onto the road, seeing we slept in, so it’s already after 9:00 as we continue our march eastward.
Out in the middle of nowhere, all we can do is drive, admiring the trees, flowers, and the winding road taking us over the Michigan landscape here in summer.
In Marquette, Michigan, we reach Lake Superior again. No wonder this lake feels like an ocean; it’s 350 miles long by 160 miles wide, making it impossible to see the other side no matter the direction you look. A little turned around, we quickly righted our path and ended up at a small corner of the bay. We’re near an old platform once used for filling ore into barges headed to steel mills that dotted the Great Lakes in former times.
A local fish shop looks like it has the potential to offer breakfast. It turns out they sell fresh raw fish and nothing else. The proprietor suggests a place around the corner and up the hill called the Nordic Inn, which turns out to work fine, satisfying our morning hunger attack.
Passing the Bahrman Potato Warehouse in Skandia, Michigan I needed to stop for this photo due to the heavy sag of the roofs. It wasn’t just the state approaching collapse that I wanted to note but the fact that it was a potato barn, and in my limited thoughts about growing spuds, I’d not thought of them outside of Idaho. Such is the effectiveness of marketing and branding as Michigan is known for cars and Motown, or can you think of anything else?
It may as well be summertime in California and Florida all year round, as the constant buzz of activity and throngs of people suggest that the crowds are on vacation there every day. Here we are moving over some incredibly beautiful landscapes in Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan in the middle of summer, and there is nobody out here. This northern part of the Midwest doesn’t seem to draw in that many visitors, which is perplexing. Maybe lakes and forests only hold deep appeal to those who dwell in deserts.
With the crazy pace of driving now slowing, we’ll hopefully take more opportunities to step out of the car together to experience the places we are passing through. Here we are on day four already, and this is the first selfie of my mother and me standing in front of Lake Michigan. Over the coming 12 days, there will be very few photos of my mother, which is a bit tragic as this was supposed to be something more than a simple sightseeing trip to New York. At 57 years old, my mom does not have much stamina for physical activity, which includes simply walking. Even 11 years ago, when Caroline and I were in America from Germany to get married, she ended up not being at our midnight ceremony on the Las Vegas strip due to being too tired when she was only 46 years old.
I wish I was here with Caroline as there would be no doubt that we’d walk out to the Manistique East Breakwater Lighthouse there in the distance. Instead, I have to put it in the catalog of places to return to.
I did have the opportunity to visit the Seul Choix Point Lighthouse in Mueller Township, and while I got a panorama from up the tower, it didn’t turn out as nicely as I’d hoped, so there’s this view.
It took us until late afternoon to pass from the north of the Upper Peninsula to the south and over to St. Ignace, Michigan, where we are now. It’s too late in the day for the ferry to Mackinac Island, which we feel won’t give us enough time to visit, with the last ferry returning to the mainland at 9:00 p.m.
Putting off Mackinac until tomorrow we decide to head down the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. Over the 5-mile-long bridge to the mainland, let’s see what we can find.
A tip earlier in the day suggested we stop to eat at the Legs Inn Restaurant in Cross Village if we were in the area. Things didn’t work out timing-wise to do so, but it certainly becomes a place to bring Caroline. Another recommendation just beyond Cross Village suggested we drive the M-119 scenic road. It was about to deliver a week’s worth of oohs and aahs.
The road is a single lane with barely enough room for two cars to pass. Even a separating line wouldn’t fit on this narrow path as nobody could stay on their side of the road. This is the Tunnel of Trees road. It twists and turns, shaded by the canopy of leaves that blot out the sky. As we enter clearings, we have the feeling of having left a movie theatre with our eyes needing to adjust to the bright light.
Off to our right and occasionally visible through the thicket is Lake Michigan. On our left are some incredibly gorgeous homes buried in the woods. The sun is getting low in the sky, with an amber glow developing over the lake. Neither Mom nor I can believe we almost changed the itinerary to skip this part of the trip with the idea we could instead make it all the way to Maine. We are both mesmerized by the incredible place in which we have found ourselves.
And then it gets even better. The town of Harbor Springs sits on Little Traverse Bay and must be one of the most beautiful towns my mother, and I have ever seen in America. We agree that Telluride, Colorado; Jackson Hole, Wyoming; Pt Reyes or Big Sur, California; Ketchum, Idaho, and Bar Harbor, Maine, can’t hold a candle to the extraordinary combination of elements that make this a top location for both of us.
We drive right through Petoskey on the hunt for a motel, though we take a quick pause at a scenic overlook to grab a shot of the sunset. I should point out that this far north, the sun doesn’t actually set until after 9:30 p.m., so we know if we putz around looking at sunsets, it will be 11:30 before we check into a motel.
Drats, turned around, a wrong turn, and finally, we are in Charlevoix but not able to find a quaint waterside room. It is 10:30 when we open our door. Charlevoix in the dark, looks to hold a lot of promise for the morning, so it’s time for me to close this chapter and get to sleep. It’s midnight.