Part III and the End of Our Wandering (For the Time Being)

Pine River Motel, Cheboygan, Michigan

Cheboygan with a ‘c’ is in Michigan, Sheboygan with an ’s’ in Wisconsin. Both are white European spellings of an Ojibway word, but which one? Does the name come the word for "passage between lakes," "sewing needle," or "place of ore"?

The Artist’s memories of a long-ago night spent on the edge of Cheboygan were unlovely, and so when the two of us had subsequently passed the same way we did so quickly. This time was different. To begin with (and it was a happy beginning), we found the motel pictured at the top of this post, where we had a clean, comfortable, roomy but cozy room and there was plenty of space outside, well off the highway, to walk a dog. We had our choice of restaurants in close range. If only we’d had in-room coffee, I could have stayed for a week, before even seeing the town itself. Initially the Artist was not so sure. He didn’t remember there being “much to see” in Cheboygan. But he agreed to give it a chance. 

We found a long Main Street lined with businesses, many of them open even on a quiet September morning. Alice’s Restaurant fell somewhat short on its “best coffee” claim; breakfast, however, was nothing short of delicious. You already know we visited the bookstore, because I gave that away in Part I of my story. What really captured our hearts, though, was the Lake Huron shoreline at Cheboygan — like a shoreline in a dream, it was, all reedy and undulating, with parks and open space and a long boardwalk out to a viewing platform.

Cheboygan, like Alpena, is confusing to navigate, since its shoreline and river mouth conspire to make a regular prairie grid impossible for more than a few blocks. For true wanderers, of course, irregularity of layout adds interest. So did the town’s houses, churches, and other buildings, both historic and modern. We were glad to see the original Carnegie Library now being used for cultural events and to find a big new library not far away.

Old Carnegie Library

New public library

warning!

My guess is that the old church now called “Huron Street Tabernacle” is the old St. Charles Catholic Church. Just a guess, but an active Catholic Church we saw as we were coming into town, with the name St. Mary’s above the door, is now St. Mary’s/St. Charles, so — . In any case, the Tabernacle is in rough shape.

Huron Street Tabernacle

St. Mary/St. Charles

I did not photograph any of the old mansions or the fabulous old horse chestnut trees we found. Sometimes I need to let my eyes and mind make their memories unaided. But we wandered and circled and poked around until we found ourselves on a road leading out of town, past what looked like an old schoolhouse.

Outside town --

When I consulted the map, I saw that we could stay on that road south until we reached an east-west road that would take us over to Alanson, so that’s what we decided to do. Back on familiar territory, we were happy to stop for coffee at the Dutch Oven Bakery in Alanson (now that was the best coffee anywhere on our trip), and I went a little nuts making purchases before we left — bread (David’s choice), plum bread (out of this world!), jams, and a terrific little spice cookie made there called dry bones, which are very delicious and quite addictive. Beware!

Dry Bones from Dutch Oven Bakery, Allison, Michigan

We made one last exploratory stop down the road at King Orchards for apples, and if I hadn’t been so unrestrained at the Dutch Oven Bakery I could have spent much more than three dollars at the orchard store. There’s not much better than a Michigan apple, though, unless it’s a whole bag of apples, and that bag was all we needed to get through the rest of our last day of travel.

Small glimpse of all that's outside

Little taste of what's inside

So we did not get over the Bridge this time. But getting away doesn’t have to mean going terribly far or staying away for a long time. Four days can suffice and did for us this September. Besides, close to home, a couple of hours are often enough to refresh our spirits….

Road to Cedar -- always a good county cruise....

Wandering Strangers, Part II

Old railroad depot, Harrisville

I’m still sorting through impressions and memories of our brief four-day September getaway, and it’s good that I have photographs and maps and other sources of information, because I’m finding it all too easy to forget which day we were where and what town offered what delights. Also, now that a friend has asked me for tips about places to visit and stay on the back roads of the Lake Huron shore, I realize all over again (once more consulting those maps and photos) that much of the joy for me of the northeast corner of the state is that there are no expressways. I-75 runs up the middle of the lower peninsula to Mackinac City, but east and west of that monster, high-speed highway cruising is more intimate. In the northeast corner, only occasional passing lanes widen the highways from their usual narrow, winding ribbon. 

We did wander off US-23 several times. For instance, between Tawas and Alpena we left the highway to tour Harrisville, and north of Harrisville we took Lakeshore Drive as far north as Black River, and north of Alpena we ducked inland to search out Posen and Metz. There was our real back roads expedition to Lincoln and of course the twists and turns, while mildly lost, that took us unexpectedly through Curtisville and Hale. But in thinking how to answer my friend’s question, I realize that she doesn’t really need to search out back roads — and wouldn’t find much lodging out there if she did — because most of the Lake Huron shore, at least between Tawas and Cheboygan, is reminiscent of Traverse City 50 years ago. It is log cabins, tourist cottages that look like little Monopoly houses, and one-story mom-and-pop strip motels for miles and miles. That’s what gives the area its charm, as far as I’m concerned. 

But there are a few towns large enough to be considered cities, too, namely Alpena, Rogers City, and Cheboygan.

Twenty years ago the Artist and I hit on the idea of escaping early spring cabin fever with a drive over to Alpena. At the time there was a fabulous old used bookstore there (last time I checked, it was up in the Keewenaw, in Calumet — yep, still there) that served as our destination for an overnight trip. We also sought out the John A. Lau Saloon, named for a ship-owning great-uncle of the Artist’s. Two decades ago, Alpena was a pretty sad place — but then, so was Northport as recently as 15 years ago. On more recent visits we have noticed new energy in Alpena (as many return visitors have noted in Northport), and last week we discovered for ourselves the Great Lakes Maritime Heritage Center, an informative, entertaining, and definitely worthwhile stop back along the river. After all, the very name Thunder Bay is thrilling, is it not?

It’s obvious that a group or several groups of people in Alpena have been working hard at making a name for their town as “Sanctuary of the Great Lakes.” The obviously complementary themes of shipwrecks and diving are incorporated into every aspect of their publicity, and the art theme has been braided in, too, as you can see in the photos below. 

"Dive into reading!"

One of the most unusual and amazing places we visited in Alpena, however, had nothing to do with water or ships or diving or art. It’s a shop with the mysterious and intriguing name 'Traveling Ladders,' housed in an old pharmacy, where most of the old shelving and drawers and many of the old bottles and boxes — some of them still holding contents from a century ago — are still in place, along with unrelated antiques and some tasteful modern reproductions. The view from the (slightly scary) mezzanine took my breath away. And I loved the old painted floor. So much to see! My purchases were in the line called ‘ephemera,’ not books but charming little printed paper antiquities. 

I highly recommend a leisurely stop at Traveling Ladders. I guarantee it's like no place you've ever been before. Afterward you have your choice of several good places to get coffee or lunch or dinner nearby, which will give you a chance to recollect your wits and let your head stop spinning.

Storefront in Rogers City that caught my eye

We did not linger (in the rain) in Rogers City but pushed on west to Cheboygan, another town that seems to be undergoing a renaissance similar to that of Alpena. If we hadn’t decided to make for home by nightfall, we would have explored Cheboygan much more thoroughly. As it is, we saw enough to whet our appetite for another, longer stay in the area. 

But I’ll save my Cheboygan photos for another day and one more travel post that will bring us right back to where I am today, here in Northport.

TO BE CONTINUED —

Wandering Strangers, At Home Wherever We Roam

When we left home for a few days of fall getaway, the dominant plants in blossom in my meadow were still the tall, elegant, little grey-headed coneflowers of August. Not a single aster was yet flowering. I know because I looked specifically for the asters, anticipating that last wave of color but happy that the season’s last act still lay in the future, something to look forward to. 

As we made our way east, however, following the Au Sable* River east of Mio, I began seeing asters in bloom everywhere. It was as if we had fallen ahead of ourselves, skipping a full calendar week. Does the moderating effect of Lake Michigan retard the arrival of fall that much on the western side of the state? What else could account for the difference, since we did not change latitude or elevation by traveling east?

Whatever the explanation, I noticed something similar in and around Tawas City and East Tawas, where stands of cattails in wetlands were still green of leaf on Tuesday but by Wednesday, as we drove from Alpena to Cheboygan, suddenly (or so it seemed) brown and gold. We were stealing a few days “away from it all,” but time’s inexorable march had not slowed one bit. If anything, it seemed to be speeding up at the same time that the two of us were, briefly, slowing the pace of our life.

During four days and three nights away from home, while the Artist gloried in the rare treat (for him) of evening television at bedtime (we have not had TV at home for many years), I put in earplugs and curled up happily with Le Grand Meaulnes, the only novel of Alain-Fournier, a writer who died young and wrote no other books. I have seen this novel translated into English under different names, and since one English title given is The Wanderer, it seemed appropriate reading to accompany our own autumn wanderings. 

Young Auguste Meaulnes, though, does not set out to “wander” at all when he goes off for a little adventure near the beginning of the novel. He has a clear destination and means to reach it and return to school, but a wrong turn quickly delivers him far from anything familiar, and the road diminishes to more of a track. When Meaules seeks temporary refuge in the hut of an old peasant couple, he tries to ask his way in a roundabout manner, not wanting to admit that he is a stranger in those parts, but the old woman sees his confusion and guesses the truth: “C’est que vous n’etes pas du pays?” [Please excuse missing accent mark.] No, he is not “from there.” 

Our September wandering in northern Michigan was more intentional than that of the fictitious French youth. With no fixed goal or end to our little journey, we invented interim destinations from time to time and then chose tertiary roads that occasionally “deteriorated” into what felt occasionally like safari trails, pavement giving way to gravel and dirt, then to softer and deeper sand….

Like Meaulnes, we were not “from” any of the places we visited (although the Artist has historic family connections in the larger general area), but traveling within Michigan with Michigan license plates we roamed with the confidence of residents. (We were very surprised to find, in a restaurant parking lot on the outskirts of one town along Lake Huron, license plates from as far away as Pennsylvania and Texas. Far from home as we were, we were hardly the most unexpected strangers, but it’s clear that everyone is welcome at the Great Lakes Grill in Cheboygan.) And whether we are in Michigan or any other state, the Artist easily falls into conversation. Even when we have traveled together through France, a country whose language he knows only slightly, we did not feel like complete strangers, since an artist is at home wherever he may roam, especially any country with a tradition of art.

Finally, of course, whenever we wander into a bookstore we feel at home. The Book Nook in East Tawas is harder to find than it used to be; however, we followed the website clues, persevered, and received a warm welcome from Heather and Susie (below), leaving eventually with half a dozen new and used books, well satisfied with our visit and ready to roll on north. 

In Cheboygan (I'm skipping a lot here, some of which I'll fill in later with another post) it was Purple Tree Bookstore that made us feel at home, and again we did not leave empty-handed. By next week Purple Tree may have become Blue Roses (new owners are working through a lot of changes), but they will remain in the same location on Main Street, easy to find. The bookstore has a coffee bar, one big table and small ones, and comfortable seating throughout the store. 

I hope that visitors to my bookstore in Northport, regardless of the distance they have traveled from home, feel as comfortable in Dog Ears Books as I feel in other people’s bookstores, all the little literary oases I am so happy to find along life’s byways, where I am warmed by the sight of shelves filled with books and an owner or employee’s smile of welcome.

Naturally, many of the tiny communities we sought out or stumbled onto lacked bookstores of any kind. Some had a post office and a sprinkling of small businesses, while others had only a name and maybe a township hall, if that. Here are a few of the places we saw along the less-traveled roads of the northeast lower peninsula: Curtisville, Hale, Lincoln, Posen, Metz, Topinabee. Do any of my readers know any of these places?

So many sights not recorded by camera or phone! A group of deer feeding in the yard of a remote log cabin. Elsewhere, one group of sheep crowded the doorway of an old barn while another leaning stood shoulder to shoulder against the fence of their pen, all staring off in the same direction. (Looking at what?) Geese in a corral, roused to a squawking chorus of alarm when we slowed down to get a look at them. A dilapidated old lodge resort, slowly but surely falling into ruin, too far gone to be saved.

The larger Lake Huron towns of Alpena and Cheboygan seem to be undergoing a kind of renaissance that has to be beneficial to the entire area, and I’ll have a separate post on those towns soon. We will definitely be revisiting Cheboygan on future trips. There's a town neither of us had seen for years but one with a lot to offer happy, curious wanderers.

And yes, Sarah had a good time, too. She is a great home dog, a great bookstore dog, and a great travelin' dog!

---

*I can’t help pronouncing the ‘Au’ in Au Sable as ‘Oh’ though the Artist assures me that ‘Aw’ is the local preference.

TO BE CONTINUED --

Waves on Lake Huron

In Praise of Aimless Wandering

When is a path more than a path?

What does the word ‘explore’ mean to you? I’ve come to the realization that it means something very different from its standard definitions to me, something rather idiosyncratic. Investigate or examine systematically, for diagnostic or scientific purposes? Me, not so much. Then there’s this etymological stuff about “setting up a loud cry,” as hunters hallooing to other hunters. Again, unh-unh. When I'm out doing what I call exploring, I'm as quiet as I can be, trying to take in my surroundings with all senses.

I look into synonyms and find myself rejecting them all, although ‘question’ and ‘look into’ are getting closer to my feeling for the word 'explore.' If Phil Caputo is right when he writes, “Without a design, a journey becomes aimless wandering” (The Longest Road, 2013), how far from scientific is anything purporting to be exploration if there is no design to the search? Once again, I confirm within myself a bias in favor of “aimless wandering.” How can I set out searching for something in particular if I have no idea what the territory will contain? And yet, if I pass by a bit of terra incognita without looking into it, how much will I miss? All of it, surely!

Our world presents an infinity of aspects to be explored – nature, history, culture, psychology, art, literature, molecular structure, genetics, to start with a very abbreviated list. Some people choose an area and proceed systematically, and that’s not a bad plan. It’s pretty much the basis for university studies, in fact, and preparing for a career demands such an approach. I’ve done it, haven’t you? Don’t you still do it when a situation demands systematic inquiry? My point isn’t that systematic inquiry is bad or should be forsworn but that “aimless wandering,” whether in a library or in the woods or simply in our own minds, can offer rewards of its own.  

Sometimes, without our having seen it coming, a new way beckons. It promises nothing but adventure. Maybe we had a specific agenda in mind for the day, and this alluring path can only pull us off-course. Shall we follow? Is there room in the day for improvisation, for a detour from schedule and well-worn habit? If not that day, will we go back another day and take up the challenge? What is there to lose, and what might we gain? 

Along the unfamiliar way, questions arise. The path is raised, and alongside it, water and autumn leaves are held in earth that seems to have been excavated. Soon we reach a spot along the path that transects a small stream. The water has been guided underneath the path so it can flow freely on to open water nearby, joining the Great Lakes.

Farther along, a clue too obvious to be missed shows amidst fallen leaves. What do you see in the image below? 

An old, rotting bit of trash farther back on the trail takes on new significance in light of this new evidence. It bears further scrutiny. Again, there is no plan other than curiosity. I could more easily find answers by visiting the local historical museum or putting out an inquiry to those who grew up here decades ago. And it isn’t that I am rejecting those avenues, so much as that here, right now, I have a chance to wander back in time by myself, in the very place that still holds that time, to wander and question and search in near-silence to hear what the contours of the land will tell me.

I could be wrong. I could so easily be wrong. But I don’t really care whether I am right or wrong in every detail. I come from a railroad family, and this bit of trash could be (couldn’t it?) an old railroad handcar, the kind my father used out in South Dakota when he went on survey for his employer, the Milwaukee Road. (Follow this link for a history of railroad handcars, especially if you've never heard of them before. One thing I know for sure is that I am exploring an old railroad line. There is no mistake possible about that.

I cannot stumble over old rails or rotting ties without a tug at my heart. Memories come pouring back – a thrilling ride in my grandfather’s steam engine, the move from South Dakota to Illinois, family trips to Ohio and Florida, a school band and orchestra odyssey to the National Music Festival in Enid, Oklahoma – but more truly, I am not living my own past here in the woods: I am living a past that was never mine, exploring life lived by people I never knew, a century before I came upon the scene.

On my second exploring adventure to the old railroad line trail, I see what looks like a branching path off the mainline. Or was the curving line the mainline, the straight path ahead a spur? These questions can be answered another time, with old maps and old books and information from old local people. For now, for this morning, I would not trade the excitement of the questions for any list of answers. 

Ours is a soggy township, clay and sand that drains in all directions, always, eventually, to Lake Michigan, and everywhere along the old rail beds water had to be engineered. 

Are you familiar with the name Errol Morris? This unconventional filmmaker studied philosophy, right on up to the stage of his doctoral dissertation, but at last his committee lost patience, and he was dropped from his program. He “lacked focus,” they said. Indeed, he would begin with a question, but that always led to another question and another and another and another, and he could not resist following every beckoning path that led away from the highway toward his degree. Well, I have my degree (and no fame as a film director or anything else), but I see the curiosity Morris showed as another and different kind of perseverance. His willingness to wander, to let himself be diverted again and again, is what exploration means to me.

Some writers begin with an outline. Others begin with a question. One painter I know sometimes gets herself into a bind with projects that grow out of all proportion to their beginnings. Her husband suggested once that she lay out a plan before starting work. She replied that if she knew ahead of time what the result would be she wouldn't have to do the work. 

It is not uncommon for someone to come a few feet into my bookstore, just far enough in from the door to address me directly, and ask, "Do you have such-and-such?" and if the answer is no, that someone will, nine times out of ten, thank me, turn around and leave -- without so much as glancing at what I do have in stock! I've been a bookseller for over 20 years and am still amazed by this phenomenon. I can understand that someone might want a particular book and be disinclined to buy anything else that day, but not even to look around? To sail right on past my little Treasure Island without exploring so much as a single cove? 

Plans and lists and projects are good ways to get things done, but there's got to be more to life than getting things done. There's got to be time for daydreaming, for exploring, for aimless wandering, for letting life surprise us.

Still green on November 20th

Postscript from elsewhere: I come back to add this link to someone else who thinks the way I do. I wonder what others think about serendipity (one of my nicknames for Sarah!) in science?

It is 10:50 a.m. on Friday morning as I type these lines, and the snow is being driven horizontally past the bookstore windows. Forecast is full of snow, snow, snow from here through the U.P. In case you were wondering....