Who hasn't heard the epic poem, By the shores of Gitche Gumee; by the shining Big Sea Water; stood the wigwam of Nokomis..."
So the story of Hiawatha and his sweetheart, Minnehaha, begins. The legend of Hiawatha may be just that--a legend--but when Longfellow spoke about "The Big Sea Water" he was picturing something real and tangible, something the Iroquois referred to as the "great water," the Gitche Gumee: Lake Superior.
Lake Superior comes by its various names honestly enough. It is the world's largest fresh water lake, containing more water than all the other Great Lakes combined; if emptied out it would of covering all of North and South America to a depth of four feet, assuming we ironed out all the hills and valleys--and that would be water with an average annual temperature of 40 degrees Fahrenheit. You'd better hope nobody pulls a plug somewhere.
Lake Superior also plays a major part in the weather of the land around it, particularly to the South, and that's why I was visiting the area known as Michigan's Upper Peninsula in the winter--one of the areas of highest snowfall in the continental United States. I was supposed to get acquainted with, and explore, the opportunities for winter sports activities in two neighboring towns.
I live in Utah; isn't sending me to the Upper Peninsula (U.P.) a little like sending coals to Newcastle? Besides at my time of life (over 60), don't I have my hands full of winter sports in my own mountains?
I had my eyes pleasantly opened. With an average of 200 inches of snow falling per year, you have to find some clever ways to put it to use--and they have.
We need to start with a bit of geography and nomenclature; this is must. Ask a Yooper (officially a native-born resident of the U.P., although the name can be earned by prolonged habitation there) from whence he hails and he automatically presents his hands--palms toward you, the left hand horizontal with thumb up, the right hand vertical, the right long fingertip resting against the tip of the left little finger. This represents the state of Michigan to people from Michigan. No other state in the Union can be represented as accurately and clearly using both hands. The left hand represents the Upper Peninsula, and your Yooper friend will identify any area in the U.P. by pointing to the appropriate spot on his left hand. Where the fingers touch there is the five-mile Mackinac Bridge. If the people above the bridge, in the U.P., are Yoopers, then those living below the bridge are "Trolls" (or at least that's what the Yoopers will tell you).
The upper Peninsula is a world unto itself.
Hiawatha County (on the web of your thumb) and neighboring Alger county (the first knuckle) claim to be (1) the place where downhill skiing was first organized, (2) the snowmobiling Capitol of the World, and (3) one of the premier ice climbing centers in the United States. They have the snow and ice to make those claims valid from late October to maybe early May. The Lake makes it all possible.
(An aside: before I leave The Lake and get buried in snow and winter weather up to my hips, let me also note that Lake Superior has close to six thousand documented wrecked ships. The weather can be crazy and unpredictable on those waters. And those waters are the clearest of all the Great Lakes with an average underwater visibility of 27 feet. Thus, The Lake becomes a magnet for SCUBA diving on wrecked ships and glass-bottom boat excursions. But not in January.)
Munising (the knuckle) may be typical of most small U.P. communities. Everyone seems to know each other since when they graduated from high school. Being third-, fourth-, or even fifth-generation local seems the rule, not the exception. In fact, that concept became a recurring theme throughout my stay in Yooperland; it was nice to feel appreciated for being something other than a possible deep pocket.
Driving down a snow-covered street we are flagged down by an elderly lady. She asks if we can give her a ride to the hospital. Her husband is a physician and she needs to pick up his car. She doesn't look like an axe-murderer so we comply. She, on the other hand, seem's a little surprised to find out we aren't one of her Munising neighbors. I got the impression that helping others, even an outsider, was a way of life among Yoopers. I suspect the houses are left unlocked in case someone is caught is a storm.
I have lunch with Carl Behrendt at the Falling Rock Cafe and Book Store (over fifty thousand used volumes). Over a bowl of stuffed green pepper soup followed by a cup of Jilbert's ice cream (the local dairy) he is pleased to relate a portion of his month-long adventure sailing a catamaran around Superior's circumference: roughly 350 by 160 miles. Carl is fourth-generation Munising, of Scandinavian stock, who writes stories and composes songs relating to the Lake. The ballads speak of ships loaded with pine trees bringing the holiday spirit to Chicago, as well as iron ore barges leaving Marquette. When I related my recent experience--being flagged down for a ride--he knew who the flagger probably was and why she probably needed the lift.
The Cafe has walls filled with coffee mugs, each bearing the name of its local owner--who has the privilege of dropping by for a half-priced cup of something and some gossip, knitting, or just browsing the books. All it lacks is a pot-bellied stove. The Mayor drops in while I am there and offers me his hand--and probably the key to the city if I asked.
Carl takes me snowmobiling across a portion of Munising Bay to visit Grand Island, one of many interesting, often lighthouse-bearing, islands in The Lake (see also Silver Island, which, in the 1800s, produced prodigious amounts on that metal). The coastal cliffs were a mass of frozen ice spires and flows, perfect for the ice climber. Some of this ice is from small waterfalls, some is runoff after a short thaw, and some from seepage through the multicolored sandstone that reaches heights of over 150 feet. It is an amazing site, since the ice goes on for almost as far as the eye can see...and several teams of climbers were making their ascents. If I were able to ride further to the east, along the shore lined with miles of "the North Woods," I would enter a world of giant sand dunes--the remnants of an even more superior Superior. The ride I did get was an experience for my journal: the frozen lake, the snowmobile coasting along at 40 mph or more, the ice fishing huts dotted here and there, the ice falls, and the old island lighthouse--abandoned this season, but magnificent with its spired roof.
I am told that The Lake has probably only frozen from side (Canada) to side (U.S.) three times in the past century. For the moment I wish it could be more swimmer-friendly (wet and dry suits are plentiful), but quickly realize that, if such were the case, it wouldn't be the same glacial lake with its special qualities and uniqueness.
Getting away form the Lake for a moment (you can never get far) I snowmobile on some of the over five hundred miles of groomed trails. Dan Britton has been taking care of the pathways for over twelve years and wants to take me to one of his favorite lodges. Passing through forest made up of cedar, maples, junipers, and more, one can only wonder at the color to be found here as summer turns to autumn. Even racing along at speeds of 20 to 40 mph I am kept warm in my special jumpsuit and the hand warmers set in the handlebars.
We travel 35 miles for a world class hamburger; while we retrace our steps the elements put on a show for us: white outs, winds, sunny glimpses, a few more inches of the powdery white stuff. Someone calls it an Alberta Blizzard. I return with something more for my journal. And a full stomach.
We use similar trails for snowshoeing and cross-country skiing; there are lots of well marked paths to choose from. Getting outfitted for modern snowshoeing is quick and easy--one requires little training to become capable. We take a hike along the Lakeshore in Presque Isle Park as the sun is just rising. The snow is untouched, clean, and squeaky, with four-six inches of powder surface over a well-packed base several feet thick.
Walking almost noiselessly through these woods you have the feeling you are entering a cathedral. Maybe you are.
A good-sized white-tail deer bounds across our path. A few well-placed lights add some sparkle to the snow here and there, as do the rays of the new day. Shortly I find myself at the edge of the cliffs looking into one of the coldest sites imaginable: Lake Superior, blue ice, leaden waters, is showing off her waves today and they are filled with sheets of broken ice, pounding against the rocky coast. These modern snow shoes click onto almost any type of footwear (I'm wearing an Uggie-[Australian]-type fleece-lined soft boot). Both pairs of shoes are light weight and make for comfortable walking. I think I'll get my own pair.
If Munising is typical Hometown USA, Marquette is the center of activity--this week, and evidently every week. Junior downhill skiing qualifiers are on the slopes of Marquette Mountain right now (the the U.S. National Ski & Snowboard Hall of Fame and Museum is a schuss or two down the road), the ice climbing competition last week had to compete with a fishing derby, a Finnish choir is coming to serenade the town (more about the Finns soon enough), a softball tournament has just ended (indoors, in a remarkable wood-domed arena, the world's largest), Northern Michigan University has a hockey game (they are highly favored), the museums are doing a brisk business (especially the Iron and U.P. Children's Museums), and there are several local theaters, numerous galleries, Native American casinos (Ojibwa), and the library; a real winner is having a matinee showing of Anatomy of a Murder (which was filmed locally; you can take a self-guided tour!). And it is the middle of winter.
So far I haven't even hinted at the dog sleds.
The town of Marquette is literally going to the dogs. Dozens of sled teams are rolling in as I sit down to write. The snow seems ideal for the three races that will go on, simultaneously, this weekend. The 200-mile run that starts at 7pm (I am told the dogs prefer the cooler times of day--or night) is one of the preliminaries for the Alaskan Iditarod. The Midnight Run goes for 90 miles and ends in Munising as part of the town's weekend Winterfest (Carl Behrendt will be there singing some of his own songs). They tell me the dogs will leave Marquette at 9pm and roar into Munising by noon. Finally there is a trainer type of event--only 35 miles. Fresh snow has been hauled in to put a deeper layer around the starting blocks on Marquette's main street. The courses are well-groomed and the check points are well-stocked with hot drinks, veterinarians, and dog biscuits. The tension is as real as last night's Alberta Blizzard. The dogs are the most excited; they strain at their leashes, yelping for the action to begin.
Dog sledding, or mushing, is no longer just a spectator sport. I tried my hand at it shortly after arriving in the "Big Woods" and felt I was a little part of Jack London's life. I am impressed by the sled team people I meet. They are committed to their pack and vice versa. The ride is smooth and takes me quietly through another set of trails. I have plenty of chances to be involved--just helping to get the sleds set up and the dogs in their traces is a thrill.
The earliest European settlers of the U.P. followed the fur trade, but when iron ore was discovered there was an influx of Scandinavians who felt at home in this climate and these forests. Perhaps the greatest percentage came from Finland--and they have left an indelible mark on the fabric of the U.P. Finnish was commonly spoken in many communities well into the 20th century, and even today a local television station offers a Sunday program all in the language of the home country. Most of the people I met in my all-too-brief experience in this part of the country claimed Finnish roots. Of course, there has been a mixing of many cultures here, and the original natives are well represented.
A note concerning food. Every area of the U.S. prides itself on some kind of edible ethnic delight. There are several food items one cannot help being confronted with here on every hand. They are all worth trying, and the area abounds in fine restaurants ready to serve them up to you. First, whitefish--fresh from The Lake and mouthwatering in chowder or on a plate. Second, pasties--these may have come over with the Cornish folk who worked the mines, these are pocket sandwiches which must contain at least a little rutabaga (a Finnish/Scandinavian addition, I am assured) to be U.P. authentic; everyone has a favorite supplier. Third, cudighi--the U.P. answer to a hamburger, but made of spiced pork, mozzarella cheese, marinara sauce, and whatever else the closely-guarded family recipes call for; there's lots of competition here as to who makes the best (Italian). And lastly, Jilbert's ice cream--in many U.P. inspired flavors.
A visit to Donkers Soda Fountain & Candy shop (and originally a cigar shop, too) might also be in order if you are in Marquette. I was there the day of a partial eclipse of the moon, and the excited sled dogs tethered outside on Washington St. were perhaps more excited than ever because of that phenomenon. Donkers, a favorite diner since 1896, still serves olive/nut sandwiches along with corned beef and ice cream sodas. But today the cigars are chocolate.
As I leave, the dogs outside in their starting chutes are still yelping; it is music to all ears.
Some of the dogs actually have smiles on their faces.
