Miracles and Magic on Roads Less Travelled [US21]

It was late afternoon when we rode into Petoskey; the sun was well down on the horizon. Late afternoon had painted the sky in brilliant autumn colours. And, there was a chill in a breeze that wafted off Lake Michigan. Our journey south through Michigan over the last two days had uncovered miracles and exposed us to the magic of roads less travelled. But right then, after drifting along for a mile or so, we happened upon what looked like a stately old home. A vacancy sign hung from a white, painted timber post at the curb-side; and cars parked in an off-street parking area out front.

We idled to a stop and looked at each other.

‘What do you reckon,’ Mel said, with one eyebrow raised.

‘Looks cool Mate, let’s see what they think about bikers.’

We left  our Harleys, fully loaded on their side stands, and headed in to reception

Digs for the Night

Turned out, they didn’t mind bikers at all. They were welcoming, and curious to know how we’d turned up on motorcycles in their part of the world. So, we checked in and offered a recap of how far we’d come; and where we planned to go. Then we slipped back outside to unload and drag out T-Bags inside.

Our allocated room was on the first floor, with a bay window offering a panoramic view over the lake. We stowed our bags and stripped off our riding gear. Then it was into a hot shower to scrub off the grime of the day. By the time we were done, darkness obliterated our view. What remained was a silver moonlight path across the water, and an occasional light at the end of Marina piers.

I slipped out into the evening for a quiet smoke while Mel headed for reception. He wanted to get some advice about good places to eat. And I’d just about finished my cigarette when he emerged with a smile from ear to ear. The consensus mate, he said, was J W Filmore’s Family Restaurant on Spring Street. It was, apparently, inexpensive without being pedestrian and had a great menu.

Filmore’s Family Restaurant

So, in laundered jeans, fresh T-shirts, and polished boots, we strolled along West Mitchell Street. Then just after reaching the end of Bayfront Park, we crossed the Bear River Bridge, and turned onto Spring Street. Traffic along the waterfront had dwindled to a trickle. A gentle on-shore breeze filtered away the heat of the day, and a pervasive tranquillity had settled over the town. 

J W Filmore’s Family Restaurant turned out to be even better than its promise. The decor was neat without being stilted or formal; and wait staff were attentive without being overly familiar or intrusive. And the food? Well, that was tasty and reasonably priced; and the homemade apple pie, to die for. Well, maybe not to actually die for – but it was pretty good.

Later, after settling the bill and leaving a tip, we stepped out and turned towards our digs for the night. Sporadic motor vehicles continued to drift past each other on Spring Street as we strolled towards the waterfront. And it was then that we spotted the Bayfront Park Cafe and made a beeline there in search of coffee.

Digging Up the Past

After placing orders – an Americano for me and a Cappuccino for Mel – we stepped outside. And slipped into seats opposite each other over a wrought-iron table. Then, for a while, we sat that easy silence that can only live between two mates comfortable with each other.

‘Hey Mate,’ Mel said after a while. ‘What was our Dad like when he was a young bloke?’

When Mel was born in 1958, our Dad was 36 and President of the Sepik Mission. But, by the time Mel was old enough to consider the kind of man he was, Dad was into middle age. And, he had immersed himself in the Faith and politics of his church in the country’s capital.

‘A lot like you,’ I responded with a smirk.

‘No, serious Les, I want to know . . . what was he like?’

‘Yeah seriously, he was a lot like you were at that age. Except that, by the time I really got to know him, he didn’t laugh a whole lot.’

Risky Business

And just like that, a relaxed evening over coffee at the end of a long day suddenly turned potentially treacherous. I was not at all prepared for any of the directions that this conversation might take. Either by unspoken agreement or happenstance, we’d avoided anything as potentially dangerous as this. And, in truth, I was not sure where to start.

‘OK Mate,’ I said slowly. ‘But, I hope you know this could be a bit of a minefield.’ 

Mel nodded, but said nothing; the steady focus of those clear blue eyes left no avenue of escape.

An Eligible Young Man

Well . . . people say he was one of the most eligible blokes in town when he was a young. His dad was the retired and much loved Conference President. Tall with thick, wavy, blonde hair and blue eyes, he had enough mischief in him to be a lovable larrikin. Well, that seems to have been what the good church folk thought anyway. In other words, a lot like you were at that age. Except, he played a sax, not a guitar; and rode an Indian, not a Yamaha 650 trail.

Mel knew the general shape of our Dad’s history, but what he wanted was detail. Of course, I hadn’t been around in those years either. But I’d inherited a fair amount of detail from Dad, his brothers and other members of the family who were. 

‘This is going to be a long answer to a short question,’ I said. And we probably won’t get it all done tonight . . . you sure you want to know?’

‘Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,’ he returned with a melancholy smile. 

‘OK . . . if you really want to know, we’d better have another coffee’

Mel slipped back inside to place the order while I lit a cigarette and took a long draw. Although still early, the moon added a silvery sheen to parked cars, shrubbery, and Lake Michigan in the distance.

Old Times

He returned, and eased himself into his chair. In due course the coffee arrived; complete with those little shortbread biscuits that you get in fancy establishments – or would-be fancy establishments. I stubbed out the remains of my cigarette, and launched into it.

Dad would have been about 12 when his Dad, Lou, retired as Conference President. He bought a farm at Jindong, near Busselton. And moved there with the children that were still at home; Norman, Gordon, and Dad. Back then, Busselton had no secondary school. So, fresh out of primary school, Dad went to work on the farm. I really don’t know exactly how long he stayed. But after a while – probably a couple of years – he’d had enough.

I can’t be sure that Dad actually lied about his age. Perhaps nobody asked, or maybe back then, they weren’t too particular. Whatever the case, Dad left the farm. Then he got a truck driver’s licence, and a job hauling cattle from Marble Bar to the railhead at Meekatharra in the northwest. There’s no railway to Meekatharra now; that closed back in ‘78 – but there used to be. Back in those days, hauling cattle up there would have been lonely and tough. There were no sealed roads, no roadhouses, no motels, and certainly no places to eat.

Breakdown

‘What age would he have been then?’ Mel asked.

‘Probably about 15, I reckon.’

So Dad headed up to the State’s northwest to haul cattle. And he’d been doing that for a couple of years when, just on sunset, there was an almighty crash. The whole cattle-train shuddered to a stop.

He climbed down from the cab, and crawled underneath to see if he could work out what had happened. What he discovered was not good. The engine, gearbox, and transfer case mounts, fatigued by constant pounding, had sheared; and dumped a thousand kilos of drive train on the cross-member. The truck was not going anywhere.

Summer temperatures in the northwest usually hover around 45 degrees. Even at night they only drop to about 30 degrees. In winter, daytime temperatures are a little more moderate but, when the sun goes down, it can be freezing.

A Lonely Vigil

After inspecting the damage, he climbed back into the cab to take stock. In those days, few vehicles traversed that stretch of road; one or two a week – if you were lucky. It was late December and he knew that, as soon as the sun came up, the temperature would quickly climb. He had food, a few tins of baked beans, and a couple of gallons of water; but not much else.

The rig comprised a prime mover and three trailers loaded with cattle; and he decided that the best he could do was release them to fend for themselves.  Fortuitously, the prime mover had ground to a halt so quickly, the trailers had partially jackknifed. So it was possible to lower the ramps enough for the cattle to exit.

By the time all the cattle had been freed, the sky in the east was showing signs of dawn. He opened a can of beans and drank some water. Then he spread his swag out under the truck, and settled in to pass the day. He was well aware of the old rule of the outback – when in trouble, stay with the vehicle.

Observing the Sabbath – or Not

Then, it suddenly occurred to him that it was Friday night – the Sabbath. The longer he’d spent on the road, the less attention he’d given to Sabbath observance.

Now Mate, you’ve been part of the church you whole life. So you probably know what went on in his head. When disaster strikes, we try to work out what we’ve done to get God so pissed off. I guess we’re all prisoners of the Old Testament. Truth be told, God probably doesn’t get pissed off that easily. Hell, if he did, we’d all be dead. And, if it’s true that He made us, He’d have to know that humans fuck things up all the time. It’s what we do.

Doing a Deal with God

In any case, in very short order, Dad came to an inescapable conclusion. He decided that his current situation was a direct consequence of his cavalier approach to observing the Sabbath. During the hours of darkness that night, the Old Testament injunction played endlessly in his head. 

Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour and do all they work.  But the Seventh is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God.  In it, thou shalt not do any work . . .’ 

Then, as the day wore on, the temperature climbed steadily towards 45 degrees. And Dad started bargaining with his heretofore neglected God; to wit, get me out of this and I will not only keep the Sabbath, but will do whatever you want me to do. Clearly he was begging for miracles and magic on roads less travelled.

Mate, I’m not being trite here . . . or disrespectful. I’m in my sixties and haven’t been part of the church for over forty years. But, when we lost Rachael, I racked my brain to determine which of my many misdeeds was sufficiently dastardly to warrant that kind of divine retribution. Old habits die hard; even with me. In any case, that’s what Dad thought.

Against all Odds

Then after a day in the blistering heat, as the sun inched its way over the horizon and darkness settled in, Dad saw what he thought was a light away off in the distance. As the darkness deepened, the light got closer. Then one light became two; and he could hear the heavy growl of a diesel engine.

Eventually a huge diesel crane truck materialised out of the darkness and shuddered to a halt. And that truck had a crane, floodlights, and welding equipment. In fact, it had just about everything anyone could wish for if they were broken down in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, by sun-up they’d lifted the massive diesel power plant. They removed, braced and welded all the mounting brackets. And they bolted the engine, gearbox, and transfer back into the chassis. Then, after a hot cuppa with his rescuer, a very grateful young Ernie cranked over his engine, and got back on the track heading south.

Man of His Word

Dad honoured his deal with his God. Back in Meekatharra he told his foreman what had happened and what he was planning to do for the future. Then he quit and caught the next train back to Perth.

By the time Dad got back, he was still only nineteen. Lou, his Dad, had sold the farm and was living back in Perth. Old Lou was pretty chuffed about his youngest son’s decision to study for the ministry. In fact pretty much the same way our Dad was when you decided to study for the ministry. And Ernie had pocketed enough from truck driving to pay for a couple of years of study at Carmel College.

Narrative Interruption

And, just at that point, a waitress came out to our table.

‘Can I get you gentlemen more coffee . . . or anything else?’ she queried.

We were the only patrons left in the coffee shop. But, she was too polite and service oriented to ask us to leave.

‘No . . . thank you, we’re about to head off,’ I said, as I handed over two ten dollar bills.

Thank you, I’ll be back with your change.

‘No need . . . thank you for your service,’ I said with a smile.

And, as she headed back inside I leaned close to Mel and whispered:

‘There’s only a certain amount of average coffee you can drink in one night, Right?’

We collected wallets and phones and then walked in silence for a while as we headed back towards our accommodation. But finally, Mel turned and said:

‘I don’t know any of this stuff . . . how come you know?’

Navel Gazing

I just let the silence draw out for a few moments and considered how to phrase a response.

‘Probably just my insecurity Mate,’ I said with a grin.

I’d thrown that out there as a semi-humorous one-liner. My hope was that Mel would either let it go or read between the lines; he didn’t do either.

‘What do you mean . . . insecurity?’

And there we were, right on the perimeter of a minefield. I let the question hang there for a minute or two while my thoughts went into overdrive.

‘Mate . . . I’ve been a bit insecure, uncertain, and fearful most of my life.’

‘You serious,’ he said, with more than a note of incredulity in his tone.

‘Serious as a funeral Mate.’

‘You’d have to be the last bloke I’d call insecure, uncertain or fearful. You always seemed to know exactly what was what . . . where you were heading.’ 

‘Ah . . . well, that’s because I’m one of the world’s great bullshitters Mate. I’ve had a lifetime to practise hiding all that crap; at keeping up appearances.’ 

My first memories are of living in other people’s houses, wearing other people’s clothes, and moving all the time. I don’t think I had any idea who I was or where I belonged. There was a whole world of stuff I didn’t know. And not knowing makes you insecure, uncertain, and a bit fearful.

Early Memories

I remember being at the Mission Flats with Auntie Rae, over the road from the hospital in Wahroonga. It was strange, new, confusing and frightening. Mum had disappeared, my brothers had gone too and I didn’t even know where Dad was. I was just a little bloke who had learned how to speak with kids on the Mission. So, hearing people speak English was probably strange too.

Then Dad got out of hospital and we headed back to Perth. And this was another new place and more people I didn’t know. At first, we lived with Nana Blair at Osborn Park but, after a couple of months, she kicked us out. So we moved to yet another unfamiliar place. Then there was a wedding, and someone new moved into our place and insisted that I call her mummy.

In all that dislocation and chaos, I decided that I must be an outsider; that I didn’t belong. The only thing in my life that was constant was Dad. He wasn’t a member of my family, he was my family. So, I guess that’s where the whole insecurity thing started. And, I guess, I paid closer attention to Dad than most kids do.

Back to Now

We’d reached the car park at the front of our digs and Mel stopped; so I stopped too. He was quiet as we both looked across the coastal reserve to where Lake Michigan stretched away into the darkness. Finally Mel looked, with tears welling in his eyes, and me and said:

‘Mate, I had no idea . . . well, I’ve never really thought about it I guess.’

‘Well,’ I said with a grin. ‘Why would you? It all happened fifty-five years ago . . . you weren’t even born then.’

He just nodded and turned back to look across the lake into the darkness; but remained silent.

‘Hey Mate,’ I said, trying to set things on a lighter note. ‘Why don’t you grab a seat on the verandah while I go and make us a decent coffee. Then you can enjoy a brew while I have a cigarette before hitting the sack.’

Calling it a Day

We talked quietly for a while; long enough for me to have a couple of cigarettes. But, eventually we called it quits and headed up to our room with its view across the lake. I had every intention of continuing with the narrative. But Mel had settled in to sorting the pics he’d taken during the day. So, I stretched out on the bed for a while . . . and that was the last thing I remembered.

When I woke, the sky outside had just started to lighten in prelude to a new day. My dreams during the night took me back to those early days in Perth. I experienced again the rising panic of that little boy; lost in a sea of unfamiliar people, places and happenstance. When I woke, I was still lying there on top of the bed. But sometime during the darkness, Mel must have spread a spare blanket over me. 

Grateful to be awake, I slipped quietly out of the room, down the stairs, and into the reception foyer. I found a pod of Dark Columbian Roast, and slipped it into the coffee-maker. Then I pressed the button that glowed blue in the half-light. And listened to the machine gurgle as it dispensed the dark, aromatic brew.

Early Morning

With Arabica in hand, I stepped out onto the verandah, eased into a recliner and lit a cigarette. Over the lake sporadic clouds bloomed just above the horizon. But otherwise the sky was clear; the air crisp but without even the slightest hint of a breeze. All in all, the weather omens were good for a leisurely gallop down Lake Michigan’s eastern seaboard. 

On the basis of the little I’d seen, Petoskey seemed like a fairly ideal place to live. With a population of a little under 6,000, it perched on the shores of Little Traverse Bay. Before the Anglo-American entered, the Odawa [or Ottawa] occupied the area. Indeed, in their language, Petoskey, means ‘where the light shines through the clouds’. And within hours, I knew the light would do just that. 

Petoskey’s Past

By 1850, missionaries had moved in and established missions near Little Traverse Bay. Mormons based themselves at Beaver Island. Jesuits established missions at L’arbor Croche and Michilimackinac. And a Presbyterian missionary by the name of Andrew Porter set up at the village of Bear River.

Then, close on the heels of the missionaries, entrepreneurs arrived. Amos Fox and Hirem Rose, with fortunes made during the California Gold Rush, set up enterprises under the name of Rose and Fox. Or, maybe it was Fox and Rose; I’m still not entirely sure. Originally based at Northport, in the 1850s they later expanded their business interests to Charlevoix. 

The Rose and the Fox

Following dissolution of the Rose-Fox partnership, Rose relocated permanently to Petoskey and in 1873 built the first dock. Then, when the Grand Rapids and Indiana Railroad extended into the area, he purchased large tracts of land and trolley cars, to facilitate transport between Petoskey and Bay View. 

He established the first general store in Petoskey, developed extensive lime quarries [Petoskey Lime Company], set up a lumber enterprise, built the Arlington Hotel, and was responsible for significant harbour improvements. In all, he seems to have been a pretty busy and enterprising guy.

Breakfast with a View

By 8am the sun was well up; and the day had turned out even better than its early promise. I’d already wandered the shorefront, checked out the watercraft at the marina and chatted to a few early morning strollers. So I headed back inside to see what was on offer in the breakfast room. Cereal, waffles, stewed fruit, toast and jam, coffee and/or tea, and bagels; as complimentary breakfast go, not too bad.

I turned, with every intention of heading upstairs to see if Mel was awake. And almost bumped into him coming through the door.

‘How long have you been out and about? He asked.

‘A few hours . . . long enough for a coffee, cigarette and a bit of a walk down to the marina.’

‘You’re a sick lad, you know that,’ he said with a smirk.

‘Yeah, I know . . . as my grandson says, it is what it is . . . and it can’t be what it’s not.’

We both laughed and headed to the table by the bay window; the one with a view over West Mitchell Street, the waterfront reserve, and Lake Michigan in the distance.

On the Road Again

By 9 am, we’d packed, checked-out, loaded, and were ready to fire up for the day. We cruised south along West Mitchell Street until we ran into US 31. Then, at the town limits, accelerated for a leisurely gallop past Bay Harbour, and southwest towards Charlevoix. 

Once past the golf club, US 31 initially skirts Lake Michigan. And through occasional gaps in the forest, majestic vistas of the seemingly endless water of the lake delighted our senses. The sky was impossibly blue and virtually cloudless except for distant residual wisps just above the horizon. And along the roadside, the foliage was verdant; the air crisp and clean. It was one of those days when you wouldn’t be dead for quids.

On approach to Charlevoix we throttled back and idled into town. Although not planned that way, we’d rolled in right on time for Market Day. Although we’d only been on the road for forty minutes, the town looked festive. It seemed like an ideal place to take coffee.

We left the Lowrider and Deuce under the spreading branches of a jacaranda. Well, the tree looked exactly like the jacarandas out the front of the ancient chapel at my old boarding school. But perhaps, in North America, they’re called something different. Anyway, we locked our luggage and headed across towards the crowd. 

Charlevoix

Local folk had set up stalls and booths cheek by jowl all along main street. Browsers, shoppers, and sightseers packed packed the sidewalk. Joining the crowd, we worked our way along to what looked like a promising purveyor of fine coffee. Well, probably not but we thought it worth a try. We took a table on the sidewalk, basked in the sun, and waited for our order to be taken.

On the other side of Main Street, lawn spread to a fenced pedestrian path that ran along the water’s edge. And beyond that, a marina offered civilised and orderly accommodation for a range of high-end fishing and pleasure craft. And, after a quick survey of Round Lake, we concluded that there probably weren’t too many impoverished citizens in Charlevoix.

Fishermen were the first foreign settlers in the early 1850s. Then, after the 1862 Homestead Act, Civil War veterans and speculators came. In 1864, a large dock was built at the mouth of Pine River. The down was that the docks was exposed to frequent storms. So plans were developed to connect Lake Michigan to an inland harbour at Round Lake. The Pine River channel was dredged in 1869.

Lake Charlevoix’s water level was two feet higher than Round Lake. And this, in turn, was two feet higher than Lake Michigan. So, to facilitate marine traffic, a channel was cut between Lake Charlevoix and Round Lake. And Pine River was dredged to provide access to Lake Michigan. As a consequence, water levels dropped in both Lakes Charlevoix and Round Lake. But navigation was established between Lakes Charlevoix and Michigan. 

Charlevoix’s Early Years

During the 1870s, Army Engineers expanded the river channel width from 75 feet to over 100 feet. And increased the channel depth from six feet to twelve feet. These days, it’s unlikely that environmental authorities would let you get away with this. Being that as it may, Charlevoix was declared a port of entry in 1876. And it became one of the busiest ports on the Great Lakes. 

Lumber mills proliferated because forests along Lake Charlevoix could finally be harvested. Charlevoix became a fueling stop for the wood-powered steamships on Lake Michigan. Then the railway arrived at Bear Creek [now Petoskey] in 1873. Passengers and goods made their way to Charlevoix via boat or stagecoach. Industry and commerce boomed and Charlevoix became a desirable tourism destination.

During the Prohibition years, Charlevoix was also a popular place for gang members from Chicago. The Colonial Club, on the city’s north side, became known as a ‘hangout’ for the powerful and influential. And a converted lumber barge, Keuka, served as speakeasy and sailed nightly between Boyne City and Charlevoix. A murder aboard the ship and pressure of US Treasury Department surveillance, however, forced the owner to scuttle the vessel.

Moving On

By the time Mel and I cruised into town, all this exciting stuff was done and dusted. The whole lumber industry thing was well and truly over; probably because loggers has cut out all the commercially viable timber. Clearly though, Charlevoix was still a very desirable tourist destination – and I could see why.

It would have been easy to call it quits right there; to laze in the sun and soak up the ambiance. But we’d only done about twenty miles, and the road less travelled just couldn’t be denied; by either of us. So, we strolled back to our motorcycles, climbed aboard, fired up. Then, finding our way back onto US 31, we headed south. We cruised through Norwood, Eastport at the upper end of Torch Lake and ultimately Elk Rapids.

Elk Rapids

During the second half of the 19th century, Elk Rapids had developed into something of an industrial hub. It boasted an iron works, a cement factory, a chemical plant, and a railway depot. But in the early part of the 20th Century a majority of these closed down. And the town slipped into an economic decline that continued until the tourism boom of the early 1950s.

We took a break there for coffee but then pushed on towards Traverse City. The road ahead mostly skirted the edge of Lake Michigan. On our right we caught glimpses of breathtaking lake vistas framed by verdant green foliage. As we continued the day warmed, but the air remained cool as we cantered our way south along the coast.

Traverse City

Our V-Twins thumped lazily as we continued along US 31 through Yuba and Acme. Then, on the outskirts of Traverse City, we rolled back throttles in deference to local law enforcement; and speed cameras. A massive roadside billboard offered an assertive welcome to visitors; Welcome to Traverse City – Cherry Capital of the World. 

With a reported population of just under 16,000, Traverse City actually has some 154,000 living within the Greater City area. And it turned out that the billboard claim of world status in the cheery production department, was not entirely bombast. Now, I wouldn’t know if Traverse City is actually Cherry Capital of the World. But it is certainly the largest producer of tart cherries in the US. And each year, Traverse City hosts a week-long National Cherry Festival. It is said that the region also produces grapes and is a centre of MidWest Wine production.

The Ojibwe, Ottawa, and Potawatomi people were first settlers in this region. And the site where Traverse City stands was originally known as Kitchiwikwedongsing. This was often shortened to Wequetong meaning: at the head of the bay.

Colonials and Settlers

When Euro-American explorers entered, they named the area Grand Traverse Bay. The name derives from the original French voyageurs who made the long crossing [Grand Traverse] from Norwood to Northport. The region was occupied by a succession of colonial powers. Firstly the French, then the British, as a Province of Quebec, and finally the Americans after 1776.

The Reverend Peter Doherty established the first permanent settlement on the Old Mission Peninsula. Originally known as Grand Traverse, it is now known as Old Mission.

 Then, in 1847, Captain Horace Boardman purchased land at the mouth of the Ottawa River [now Boardman River] at the head of the bay. At the time, this area was still settled and occupied by First Nations people. But Boardman together with his son, constructed dwellings and established a sawmill near the mouth of the river. The mill was later sold to Lay & Company [Perry Hannah, Albert Lay, and James Moran].

What’s in a Name

Up until the early 1850s, the only Post Office in the region was located at Grand Traverse [now Old Mission]. However, while in Washington, Albert Lay persuaded the US Postal Service to authorise a Post Office at his new settlement. By then the newer settlement, deriving its name from Grand Traverse Bay, had become known as Grand Traverse City.

The Postal Service suggested suggested dropping Grand from the name. This they said, would avoid confusion with the Post Office at the nearby Old Mission. Lay agreed to the shortened name and the new Post Office became known as the Traverse City Post Office. The town subsequently adopted the name as its own. However, the town was not actually incorporated as a city until 1895.

Cherry Capital

It was around this time that the first cherry trees were planted on the Old Mission Peninsula. I guess, at the time, no one could have predicted how important this would become. By 1925 Traverse City hosted the first National Cherry Festival [initially called the Blessing of the Blossoms]. And today, this festival draws upwards of half a million people to the area annually.

We continued around the lake until US 31 became Front Street, crossed the Boardman River and became Grand View Parkway. Then, at Westend Beach, we were faced with a decision. We could take M 22 and head north towards Northport and the top of the Leelanau Peninsula. Alternatively, we could take M 72 across the base of the peninsula, and save an hour or so. This dilemma seemed a good excuse to park the bikes, have a coffee, take a break, and stretch our legs.

Roads Less Travelled

Mel headed in to check out the menu. And, you guessed it, I found a seat outside where I could have a quiet smoke. And while doing that, a black Road King slowed, stopped, and then backed in to the curb. The biker was probably about my age but stockier. With a full head of shoulder-length grey hair and an impressive beard, he’d decided it was time for a coffee. And, he wandered up the sidewalk towards where I sat. Pausing, he took a long, hard look at my T-shirt; and said:

‘Hey Buddy,’ he said. ‘That’s a cool T-shirt . . . where’d you get it?’

‘Alice Springs,’ I said. 

‘Where the hell’s that?’ he asked.

‘Right in the centre of Australia, Mate,’ I responded.

And just like that, another conversation kicked off. He wanted to know what I was doing smack in the middle of the United States. So I filled him in on how we’d got there, and where we were headed. And I took the opportunity to get local advice on our dilemma.

Local Knowledge

‘Hey Mate,’ I asked. ‘Is it worth taking M-22 around the peninsula, or should we just cut across to Empire on M72?

‘Well buddy,’ he responded. ‘If’n you’re gonna to ride M22, you gotta do all of it . . . all the way down the coast’

‘That good eh?’

‘Yep, that good . . . probably as good as it gets!’ he said.

‘OK . . . thanks,’ I said. ‘ I reckon we just might do that.’

‘You’re welcome,’ held out his hand for a biker’s handshake. ‘You have a good day now . . . and welcome to Michigan.’

By the time I got back inside, Mel had ordered. So, while he worked on his snack, I sipped on a dark Columbian Roast. When we were done, we climbed onto our iron steeds, and headed on M22 towards Sutton Bay and Northport. 

Sutton Bay

It was probably after 1pm before we cleared town limits and accelerated along the western shore of Grand Traverse Bay. Cloud cover had grown, but warmth from the mid-day sun was mitigated by a cooling breeze off the lake. In motorcycle road trip terms, it was about as good as it gets. On our left there was a wall of green forest. And this was occasionally relieved by small-holder properties, cherry tree groves, and a growing number of vineyards. On our right, waters of Grand Traverse Bay sparkled in the sunlight as they stretched across to Old Mission peninsula.

Sutton Bay was only a short hop north and, even at our fairly relaxed pace. We were there almost before we knew it. Perched on a bay of the same name, the town is an agglomeration of shiplap buildings in oranges and reds. Sightseers, window-shoppers, and visitors just out to soak up the atmosphere filled the sidewalks. And there was plenty to soak up. Cafes, glassware vendors, and souvenir shops lined Main Street. And, between buildings, there were expansive views of marinas and the waters of the bay.

The idea of stopping for another coffee and snack was seductive. But, in unspoken agreement we idled on through to the town limits and then accelerated towards north. Our road hugged the coastline for most of the way to Omena Bay. Then, it paralleled the coast but traversed inland through yet more vineyards and cherry tree groves.

The Perfect Resort

Northport is just about all you could imagine in the way of a picture perfect coastal resort. The town straddles a Creek, and boasts an extensive marina that shelters an impressive array of fishing and other pleasure craft. Within the historic downtown area there are art galleries, clothing boutiques, purveyors of glassware and a myriad other keepsakes. There are also cafes, bars, wine cellars and restaurants. In other words, enough to keep sightseers and holiday makers amused for days.

We paused only long enough to fuel the bikes, get a coffee, and stretch our legs again. Then it was back onto the Lowrider and Deuce and back out onto M22. However, instead of heading north, we set off towards the south-southwest. 

Leelanau Peninsula

It is said that there are some twenty-five wineries on the Leelanau Peninsula. We certainly passed a few as we headed inland towards Lake Leelanau. The scenery was breathtaking. Our V-Twins thumped through undulating terrain, unbelievably green meadows and dense forests. Neat acres of cherry trees, and vineyards with neat rows of vines, stretched off into the distance.

Fishtown

Leland, otherwise known as Fishtown, is built on the site of one of the oldest and largest Ottawa villages on the Leelanau Peninsula. Where the River flows into Lake Michigan, there was a natural ‘fish ladder’ which seems to have been a traditional Native American fishing area. 

White settlers, who began arriving in the 1830s, also took advantage of the location as a fishing settlement. Antoine Manseau, with his son, and John Miller built a dam and sawmill on the river in 1854. The dam raised the water level by 12 feet [3.7 m]. So, what had been three natural lakes in the river became a single body of water. Now known as Lake Leelanau, this body of water is navigable all the way Cedar; about 13 miles inland. Wooden docks were constructed and this allowed steamers to transport new settlers and supplies.

Foundries, Fishing and Resorts

Between 1870 to 1884, the Leland Iron Company operated an iron smelter north of the river. It processed ore from the Upper Peninsula using charcoal made from local maple and beech timber. Ultimately, the Leland Lumber Company purchased the site and operated a sawmill there.

Commercial fishermen started using the area as a base from 1880. And they built wooden shacks to process their catch and service their fleet. At one time, as many as eight powered tugs operated out of ‘Fishtown’. But, by the time Mel and I arrived, the Fishtown Preservation Society owned this historic settlement together with two remaining tugs. Having said that, the area is still home to a working fishery and a charter business. The riverfront boardwalk was lined with shacks that had been converted into tourist shops.

By 1900, wealthy individuals from Midwestern industrial centres began to visit Leland and build summer cottages. They arrived by Lake Michigan passenger steamer or via the Lake Leelanau steamer from the railhead near Traverse City. This ultimately led to a proliferation of resort hotels, and the growth of Leland as a summer resort destination.

Cruising South

We idled slowly through Leland but didn’t stop. It was just one of those comfortable, easy days when you just want to keep on rolling. The vistas were spectacular and the road almost completely devoid of traffic. So we pushed on south from Leland, around Good Harbour Bay, and then west towards Glen Arbor. Our best guess was that we would roll into Frankfort shortly after 2pm. And there we would take a break for fuel, lunch and a bit of a walk around.

Frankfort

At Glen Arbor, we turned south and crossed Green Lake. Then, we cruised slowly through Empire and pushed on further south towards Little Platte Lake. There, we turned west again, cruised around the top of Platte Lake and headed on into Frankfort.

At Frankfort’s town limits, M22 becomes Crystal Avenue, and we idled slowly along this until we reached Main Street. We refuelled, parked our motorcycles outside of the Stormcloud Brewing Company, and strolled towards the waterfront in search of lunch. And right there, a couple of blocks back, lurked just what we were looking for. A diner, brazenly advertised the availability of the best chilli in Michigan.

Now, chilli is right up there on Mel’s list of favourites. So he headed straight in to study the menu. I, on the other hand, malingered outside in the street long enough to have a cigarette. And by the time I’d finished, Mel had ensconced himself at a table on the verandah under an expansive umbrella.

‘I’ve ordered for both of us Mate.Thought you’d probably want whatever I was having,’ he said.

‘See,’ I returned, ‘that, right there, is why I like riding with you!’

A Good Call

Now, I hadn’t eaten chilli anywhere else in Michigan. But I do have to say that what we ate in Frankfort would have been pretty hard to beat anywhere. Mel certainly knew his stuff when it came to ordering food. And perhaps that billboard out in the street was not all that brazen after all.

After our late lunch, we wandered down to the waterfront; well, the beach really . . . because that’s what it was. Fine white sand ran from the curb right down to the sun-dappled water of the lake. And that water spread out before us right to the horizon. In my head, I knew that somewhere over that horizon, Milwaukie lurked at the water’s edge. Somehow though, standing in the sand, I just couldn’t see it as anything other than a beach by the ocean.

M-22 More a Lifestyle than a Road

It must have been about 3 pm by the time we returned to our motorcycles; not that it mattered. Our only plan for the day was to continue south until we ran out of light. We climbed aboard our motorcycle, fired up and worked our way back to M-22; and continued south between Upper and Lower Herring Lakes.

If your not into motorcycles, you’ll find it difficult to get your head around our sense of exhilarating freedom. We were euphoric as we cruised past Arcadia, Onekama, Portage Lake and ultimately to the end of M-22. The afternoon was balmy and the terrain impossibly green. Our road undulated and curved as it snaked its way down the Michigan coast. It was challenging enough to make it interesting; but not so much as to be demanding. My mate at West End Beach had been right about M-22. He’d said that it was not so much a road as a way of life. And that afternoon we’d gained a bit of an insight into what he was talking about. There really were miracles, and there was magic on roads less travelled in Michigan.

Manistee and South Haven

Just before Manistee, we rejoined Highway 31 and pushed on south towards Luddington. There, we bypassed the city centre and continued along US-31 towards, and then past Grand Haven. And by the time we reached the city limits of South Haven, the sun was just about to slide into the waters of Lake Michigan.

Up ahead, Mel spotted the fluorescent glow of a vacancy sign and slowed. We both pulled into the right lane and then into a narrow service road that paralleled US-31. Out on the highway, drivers had already started turning on headlights. And, without discussing the matter, we decided in unison that this was where our road for the day would end.