After leaving the East Lansing area, our road trip continued with a three night stay in Petoskey, on the shores of Lake Michigan. Petoskey is normally a three hour drive from Lansing; I managed to make it in five, thanks to Nancy's jealous and petty GPS unit, Roada, who is obviously trying to sabotage our relationship.
On the way to Petoskey, we stopped at world famous Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park.
Sleeping Bear Dunes is Michigan's answer to Disney World. Thousands and thousands of Michiganders flock to Empire, Michigan every summer to visit the park. Instead of high tech rides and cute cartoon characters, Sleeping Bear Dunes offers the visitors dirt. Lots and lots of dirt.
The following picture barely scratches the surface with regards to how much dirt there is at Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park:
And what do the visitors do surrounded by all this dirt? They like to roll in it and walk up and down it. That's basically what they do.
Evidently it doesn't take much to capture the imagination of a Michigander.
Now Petoskey is another matter altogether. What Petoskey lacks in dirt it makes up for in beautiful lakeside property. It is one of those fairy tale kinds of towns where everyone's front lawn is perfect, the summer season is naturally air conditioned by cool breezes off Lake Michigan, and the stately Victorian homes transport you back in time to an earlier, gentler version of America.
Pre-Glenn Beck.
Of course the major attraction in this area of Michigan is the quaint, fudge-filled Mackinac (pronounced Mackinaw) Island. Mackinac lies within the confines of angry ol' Lake Huron, very close to where Huron and Michigan intersect. There are two ways to get to the island. You can take a 16-minute ferry from Mackinac City or you can cross the majestic Mackinac Bridge over to Michigan's Upper Peninsula and take a shorter ferry ride. We opted for the longer ride. Angry skies, wild winds, and a whole lot of spray prevented anyone from sitting on the outside upper deck on our voyage out to the island. Cars are not permitted on the island. Pedestrians, bicycles, and horse-drawn carriages dominate the streets. Mackinac is evidently the draught horse capital of the world. Watching those majestic equines pull wagonloads of fudge-filled tourists up Mackinac's considerable hills made me feel glad I wasn't born a horse.
On the island one of America's legendary hotels, The Grand Hotel, sits high atop a bluff overlooking the lake. The Grand Hotel is so grand, they charge $10 if you just want to have a look inside the lobby. People, you won't find any Comfort Inns pulling that kind of crapola.
The weather had improved considerably by lunchtime, so Nancy, Margie, and I dined al fresco. Then we put our clothes on and had lunch outside. If we had closed our eyes, it wouldn't have been hard to imagine that we were three wealthy 19th century vacationers from Grosse Pointe, friends of the Fords, who had taken the train and steamship to the island and were enjoying a lovely repast as our bags were being off loaded from the boat and brought up to the Grand by horse and carriage.
Unfortunately, we ate with our eyes open. It was one guy from Dorchester, two Stead girls, and an overworked credit card.
Still a nice lunch though.
You may have noticed I mentioned fudge several times. This is because Mackinac is famous for its fudge. Several companies have been churning the stuff out since the 1880's. Margie was nice enough to spring for a pound and a half of the velvety smooth treat and we certainly ate our fill. I personally smashed my own fudge eating record by consuming what can only be called a frightening amount of fudge in a very short time. It's ok though. I managed to find a diet that includes fudge, so we're good.
The boat ride back to Mackinac City was thrilling. The sea (lake) was angry that day, my friends. I suggested that we brave the winds and waves and sit outside on the top deck. What was I thinking? As I have told Nancy many times, I am something of an idiot, and she should never listen to anything I ever say. She's slowly coming around to that reality. Everyone sitting on the right side of the boat was drenched and freezing by the time we got to our destination. Luckily, we sat on the left, so we were just freezing.
I think I now understand why they wrote a song about the Edmund Fitzgerald.
On our last day in Petoskey, Nancy and Margie headed off to shop. I took advantage of the opportunity and booked a round of golf at the Belvedere Golf Club in nearby Charlevoix. What an absolute gem! Belvedere has been the host course for the past 37 Michigan Men's Amateur Championships. Tom Watson has been a member there since he was a kid. Sam Snead and Walter Hagen played there. Luckily I was paired up with Bob and his wife Marissa, course veterans. It's not the kind of place you would want to play "blind." What was great about this 1925 masterpiece, aside from its pristine condition, was its traditional feel and look. I felt as if I should be using my niblick and mashie. There were no housing developments surrounding the course; the cart paths were only present at the beginnings and ends of holes. Each tee box was right next to the preceding green. Giant trees seemed to be located in exactly the right locations to cause difficulty approaching the perfect, undulating greens. If Mackinac Island is floating in a time warp, so is Belvedere Golf Club. I hope I can return to this part of the state again, to have another go at this beautiful, devilish gem.
With that the sun set over our memorable adventure in Pure Michigan. Now it's on to impure New England.
Ain't life grand?
J
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