A Serendipitous Paddle to Mackinac

More Photos Below!Gallery
Well, I had quite a weekend.

[Scroll down if you only want to see the pics!]

Reunion or Bust

My discovery of Facebook last summer brought me into a flashback sort of contact with a bunch of folks I used to know from Mackinac Island, Michigan — a historic place several miles in size that is mobbed every summer. We worked summer jobs there as teens in the early 1980’s, then we all lived as ski bums in Breckenridge, Colorado, in our twenties, but I had drifted away from the old Islanders since then.

Yet the Island was important to me since it was where I discovered bikes…and the girls who love to ride them. And sailboats. And Hunter Thompson. And Carlos Castenada. And Robert Service. And skinny dipping. And the gorgeous blue waters of the history-rich Straits. For some outdoors people, all these things work together. Fresh air inspires us to think, to sing, to romance…

I saw there was a Reunion announced on Facebook. But when the weekend rolled around the weather was terrible and I stayed home. I had planned on kayaking across, which fit in better with my spirit of adventure than the pedestrian ferries. And I still had the itch. The next weekend was glorious so I drove the several hours north from Lansing to see if anyone I knew was still around the place. I vaguely knew that some had lingered on or settled there.

Now, the Island hasn’t been part of my wife’s world. She’s not even sure my old pals ever existed. So here in my late forties I was on my own to attempt this bit of time-travel. Maybe next summer we’ll get a little sailboat and roll across the sparkling Straits as a family…

Plan, What Plan?

As I drove I wondered at my scheme. I had no plans. I had no idea who might be around. The Facebook names weren’t even familiar — all too young. People I had known might be moved away, on vacation or super-busy — it was Labor Day weekend. Well, I had phoned old pal, Lee, who had a bike I could use, but he was busy otherwise. It sure seemed like a sketchy lark with a lot of if’s. But I liked the idea of just showing up. I didn’t know anyone really anymore, so I wasn’t going to start phoning. I’d say Hi if I bumped into them. You never know until you try!

Boony Camp

It was midnight when I got to the Mighty Mac Bridge. I recalled that nearby land was National Forest—a way to avoid a campground fee for just a few hours of rest. So I drove out of St. Ignace until I didn’t see any more no-trespassing signs and found a side road which led to a 2-track and a flat spot where I set up my tent in the quiet U.P. moonlight.

Paddle Time

In the morning I kayaked the 3 or so miles across smooth water to the quiet side of the Island called British Landing, near where Lee lives. It was neat making the transition from the black water of the deeps to getting near shore and being able to see boulders 30 feet down on the bottom of the clear, turquiose water.

On the paddle over I noticed that my compass read very differently from my xeroxed roadmap. I found out later that the difference was the magnetic declination, which my map didn’t include — about 8 degrees that far north. That’s enough to put you about half mile off course on a several-mile crossing.

I stayed well outside the lanes of the nonstop tourist ferries.

This historic nexus for the fur trade is a notorious stretch of water and it’s not recommended to paddle it solo, but I did anyway. When I was learning to eskimo-roll a few summers ago my instructor reported that an expert guide and outdoor writer had just had a tip-over there and the writer died of exposure.

I had also paddled across a couple years ago en route to a Primitive Skills retreat on Bois Blanc island and the wind and waves had increased until they were pounding me in the chest. I was exhausted but exhilarated when I reached safety, so that put me on higher alert for this year’s crossing. I have two sea kayaks: one a very fast Seda Glider wooden knock-off, the other is a slower Valley Pintail that loves extreme seas. I picked the Pintail this time and had no complaint about the calm seas. Although sometimes a fast boat is best since it’s more fun…and you can (maybe) outrun the weather.

In winter this narrow part of the Straits freezes over and the Island locals stick their Christmas trees in the snow to mark a snowmobile path to the mainland. I remember skiing across once.

First Reunion

Well, now what? Lee with his loaner bike lived a mile away on the high top of the Island in a house I’d never been to with no real address and he was playing golf. But I’d heard that other old friends, the Myerses, now lived on this side of the Island. I asked a park worker. “Sure, their house is just up the road.” So up I went. I hadn’t seen them in 15 years. They were having breakfast with friends on their patio. “Well, well!” We had a nice reunion right then and there.

Matt gave me a tour of their house. He’s a carpenter and built it himself. The craftsmanship was creative, colorful and high-end. I remember when he lived in a teepee in Breck and introduced me to the music of Jerry Jeff and Doc Watson.

First Taste of Freedom

Our connection goes farther. Anneke, his wife, is the daughter of Dr. & Mrs. Armour, the park superintendent’s family who first hosted me, my brother and a friend on the Island way back when. We were two 15-year-olds and a 16-year-old on a big bike tour, our first time away from home, tasting our first real freedom thanks to a bike.

We had stopped after our first week of pedaling to visit this island where only bikes and horses were allowed — no cars! Here we also discovered for the first time the gorgeous old wood sailboats that needed only a breeze to take them to far-off lands. I even saw a crusty skipper getting one ready to sail…to where? I’d read about voyaging but had never seen it. The superintendent’s son was a classmate of ours (this was a summer job even for the boss!). They let us tent in their yard, as camping wasn’t allowed.

We had stayed a couple days. Early one morning I was awakened by a strange sound in the quiet harbor air and peeked out our tent flap: a huge America’s Cup sailboat was gliding into port. I jumped up, scrambled down the bluff and helped them tie up, as no one else was awake. …It was my first taste of champagne. In a few hours hundreds of sailboats came in under colorful spinnakers and made a raft in the harbor. I hopped from boat to boat among the parties, admiring the scene. It was the finish of the Chicago to Mackinac race!

That was then. This was now. The Myerses were busy, but they offered me a big basket bike to use—Dr. Armour’s own.

So off I toodled. I couldn’t find Lee’s house, but I heard that other old friends lived on nearby. No one was home. The reunion pendulum was fickle…

Special Offers

The Myseres said that another old friend, Laura, was working at the Yacht Club, so I coasted down into town and had a nice chat with her. I hadn’t seen her in years either. She said that another old pal, Steve, worked a horse-dray and might be in town. Sure enough, I found him driving a rig, clopping down the hill from the Grand Hotel. I grabbed ahold alongside. I hadn’t seen him in years. We had a nice visit and chat about sea kayaks. It turns out that he has a Seda Glider. Not a uncommon, fast kayak. And I have a wooden knock-off of one. Steve is a big guy, a combo of mellow and intense, who first told me about Castenada. He was leaving town after work, but said I could stay at his apartment if I wanted. Cool. The pendulum was picking up steam, but still swinging back’n’forth…

I went looking for another friend, Mark, a generous guy who first showed me the ropes of bike and XC ski racing — two biggies in my life. I also got poet Robert Service from him. I went to the Pink Pony bar where I recalled his wife had been a manager. Sure enough, she still was. She said he was out fiddling on their sailboat out in the harbor and that I should go find him. I went out to the end of a dock and, through my binocs, saw him and a guy in a sombrero putzing around the stern of a boat in a tiny rubber dinghy. A sighting!

Mark finally came back ashore and we had a nice surprise reunion. I joined him and Norbert, a German engineering professor up vacationing, and went back out with spare parts to work on his boat engine. Mark said he had a fancy dinner party invitation that night, but that I was welcome to stay with them up on the bluff. …Still swinging!

Invitation

Mark asked if I had plans the next day. Ah-ha! He then invited me to join his crew on the annual round-the-Island yacht race followed by dinner at the Yacht Club. Count me in! Things were picking up!

Reunion #5

I toodled into town to finally get a bite. While I lingered at a crowded waterside bar a couple stools opened up and the bartender put out a menu for me. A single stool on the kitchen end of the bar also opened up. A couple wandered up. I said, “Hey, you guys take these stools, I’ll get that one,” and moved down. The bartender soon followed me and said that couple says whatever you get is on them…but the kitchen is closing for dinner. Well, then I’ll take a whitefish sandwich and margarita. Free…and in the nick of time! I hadn’t eaten since having a gas station sandwich on shore that morning. Cha-ching!

I looked up and saw an attractive blonde lady in a tight black dress, sun-tan, and snappy hat at the end of the bar. I like hats. A minute later I noticed her from a different angle. Wow, it was Sarah, another long lost pal! We had yet another nice reunion and I was introduced to her vacation gang, several of whom I’d heard of years ago.

We visited, then I toodled off down main street again on my proud basket bike.

Pile Diver

It was getting evening, but, darn, it was still so glorious that I simply had to get some Tall Piling diving in. I went out to the far-harbor dock and looked into the crystal clear blue water. Some drunks were laying around. They saw me looking over the side. “C’mon, dude, ya gotta do it!” they hooted. The water was shady now, the day cooling off, the northern waters cold… Hmmm… “Aw, dude, you’ll regret it if ya don’t!” said a tall guy with long stringy hair who was missing some teeth. So I climbed up onto a tall piling then onto an even taller piling next to it. “Whoa, dude, you’re going the high way. I haven’t seen anybody do that but me!” I’d never dived from so high up. I was inspired by all my reunioning. I did a perfect dive. Yay! The water was great. When I climbed back up onto the dock I saw the tall guy on the high piling. He had a cigarette. He said “I’m going to do a back-flip…coz…it’s my 50th birthday!” And off he went, a perfect flip. A crowd had gathered and everyone cheered. He climbed onto the dock. We laughed. I said I wouldn’t have done if it he hadn’t pushed me and he wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t, then I went to leave. He said, suddenly sober, Hey, maybe I’ll see ya around. I thought, Quite an Island…

More Invitations

While I was toodling through town again a guy came biking past, it was one of Sarah’s posse, a guy named Steve who I’d met at the bar. He said, Are you going to Carol’s? I said, I dunno, am I invited? He said, Sure! We’re having drinks, and it’s just up the hill and “left at that patch of sunlight.” I said, See ya there! So I soon biked into a cottage yard and saw their gang on a patio. As I walked up, a martini was poured for me from a huge shaker. Well, thank you! I then was introduced to everyone who was new to me, including a friendly guy who was a zookeeper. Amazing!

An hour later… “Are you going to Maryjane’s for dinner?” Who’s Maryjane? Am I invited? “Sure!” And, “You’ll find out!” So off we all rode with basket bikes full of goodies.

Later on, Steve said “Where are you staying tonight?” I wasn’t sure. “Well, you can stay in my shack on the beach. It has a porch, a bunk and a sleeping bag.” Super! I had biked from the other side of the Island without bringing my own bag and I wasn’t eager to sleep in my clothes on Big Steve’s couch.

Sarah said there was a band starring Rachel Davis playing tonight up at the Jockey Club at the Grand, did I know her? Did I want to join them there? Sure I did, and sure I did! Davis is a popular Michigan singer-songwriter.

Musical Surprises

It turned out that the band was Steppin’ In It, a very popular Michigan roots band, playing in the guise of a 1940’s Standards act with torchy Rachel. I’d just heard Josh Davis, one of them, play a solo at Holler Fest a couple weeks before, but I hadn’t heard them all together. What fun!

By now I don’t know how many good things had happened in a row, but we were solidly golden.

Later on, as the show was closing, there among the formally attired, was my friend, the bum from the dock, dressed a bit better and chatting with people. Ha, he said, I told ya I’d see ya later! …And yet another nice capper to the evening.

Then the gang asked me Are you going to the Gatehouse? So we all coasted down the hill to the last bar open. A funk band was in full swing. With a couple brass players. I love a blaring horn…

Finally I coasted the rest of the way down to the beach and off to bed in a little shack under a full moon that sparkled on the harbor.

When I awoke I couldn’t quite believe where I was.

Regatta

I had breakfast, biked around the whole Island (and fetched my sleeping bag from my kayak, just in case) and met up with Mark, Norbert, Dr. Steve (Steve #3) and little Clara (Mark’s daughter), for the sailboat race.

We had 6.5-knot sailing for the first half of the race then were becalmed. Mark took out a chart of the North Channel islands and told stories and showed me the beautiful places where he’d sailed, kayaked and voyageur-canoed in the 15 years since I last saw him.

Strategies & Ever More Reunions & Invitations

A skipper who had a hightech robotic sort of sailboat won the race by sailing miles out into the Straits to find wind. He was closely followed across the line by the captain of a much smaller J-24 who had hugged the beach a few feet off the sand and caught an on-shore zephyr. Two very different ways to success.

During the last part of the race the hightech boat was out of sight, but as most of us were becalmed near the island it was marvelous to see the J-24 gliding nicely along the shore.

We had a nice picnic dinner at the club, with characters abounding, including an ageless, strapping Commodore who said “‘Tis” and another gent who ate with his Spyderco as I am wont to do. I sat near a couple ladies, one of whom said “You look familiar.” She turned out to be my brother’s old bike shop boss (he worked up there a few summers). I also said Hi to Steve #4, the sponsor of the race, a restaurant owner who had been in Breck way back when so we had a nice visit as well.

On our way back out to moor Mark’s boat he saw an otter in the harbor. Nice. He wondered which side of the Straits my car was parked on, as he was going to sail across the next morning and thought it might be fun to take me across, but alas I was on the other side. “Don’t be a stranger, now, ya hear!” he said as we parted ways.

(Mark’s offer reminded me of an incident years ago, when I hadn’t visited the Island in a few years. I drove up to look around with a friend and when it came time to catch the ferry back another friend said “Hey, why don’t I just sail you guys across.” He was the skipper in custody of a 50-foot steel yacht that had just finished circumnavigating. Word spread and suddenly there was a party and a dozen of us sailed back’n’forth under the Bridge in the twinkling night, at 10 knots. …Not a bad way to get back to the car.)

The next morning I biked back out to British Landing, returned the bike, and once again saw some of the folks who I’d met standing on the beach having coffee. One of them said he was motoring across soon and would be happy to haul me through the fog. I said thanks but I’d wait until it burned off, which it soon did. I said my goodbyes thinking, What a whirlwind! It sure turned out differently than the nothing that easily could’ve happened. Now I’ll have a quiet paddle then drive home.

The Action Doesn’t End

Back in St. Ignace I was driving out of town when I noticed a museum whose vintage sign always caught my eye, the Fort de Buade Indian Museum. So I went in. It’s operated by Judi Engle, a lady of voyageur heritage who’d been living in the bush, hunting, trapping, gardening and canning—I could tell she had the steady-gazed zest of independence. Her kids were grown so she’d started coming to town to learn more about her family heritage. She’d found this old homemade museum all mothballed. The city had bought the building it was in from the estate of the dentist who’d created it. He’d built up his museum in back rooms and rented shop spaces out front along the main street. The city had kept renting the shops but closed the museum. Judi decided to bring it out of hiding. To get funding, the project ended up being owned by 3 entities: the city, the local tribe and the historical society. This also resulted in no one entity being able to control her. As the importance of the artifacts became known various groups have tried to take them under their certified wings, but Judi has fended them off. Because she was used to living in the bush the price of her hire was right: less than anyone could imagine. And she was used to the hours: all of them.

DIY Archeology

Judi says she always wanted to study archeology, but never got a degree. She said the experience of her past year in fixing up the museum—90 display cases, 3500 artifacts in 6700 square feet—was the best education she could’ve imagined. An example of how things went was that she wanted to clean up a display of headdresses, so she asked a local tribal elder how they should be cleaned. Ceremonially, was the answer. Several tribes representing the headdresses came and cleaned the feathers using cedar oil. It took all day and a feast was required. Now the display case is strewn with sacred herbs and tobacco.

Another example is when she found documents and old tin-types in a shoebox. They were the records of Satigo, a Christianized Indian settlement from around 1900. She created a display for them and at least one visitor has verified her own heritage by the names, photos and artifacts in the exhibit, something she’d never been able to do via official documents. There are sacred herbs and tobacco strewn outside the display along the ledge by relatives.

For white people Fort de Buade is a museum. For Native Americans it’s like a living church and sacred space. Both things exist together here. I’d never seen such a thing. An actual medicine man came in—he had zest, too! Judi says he helps her a lot with learning about the exhibits and sometimes detects evil spirits in the building.

Finally, I was hungry beyond hungry, so Judi told me about an original soda fountain down the street and I was on my way.

After that I finally drove home.

What a trip! It’s hilarious to think that I started out without any real hope of anything happening. Then everything took off and kept on rolling.

Obviously, the Island and its people still mean something to me. I like knowing that it’s out there, that they’re out there. Lee had a good remark about this. I’d been planning on paddling across the previous weekend but the weather was crazy stormy. Lee said “It’s good to wait. The outdoors is a big part of what this place means to you. Any weather is fine, but good weather is what you want. If you want to make a Return give yourself your best chance for it.”