US 20: Galloping the Straits to the Ultimate Tunnel

By 5.30am, I was out on the verandah; giving thought to the possibility of galloping the straits and riding to the ultimate tunnel. I’d already wandered up to the local service station to secure a large Columbian appropriately laced with sweetened Coffee Mate. My preference is always black, but only when the quality of the brew is reasonable; when it’s not, I like to camouflage the fact with a couple of generous shots of sweetened coffee whitener. Decadent, I know but there you go.

It had rained during the night; not that I’d heard anything. But the rain had coated the forecourt and driveway with that tell-tale residual sheen that only a significant downpour can impart. An almost full moon painted everything with a subdued silver glow and added luminescence to the water on the driveway. The downpour’s residue remained beaded on the paintwork and chrome of the Lowrider and Deuce; the water refracted the light that spilled from the motel’s verandahs and walkways.

Pimping the Iron Horses

I stubbed out the remains of my Marboro; ferreted the chamois out of Mel’s saddlebag; and set about wiping away the night’s beads of moisture. That being done, I took out my trusty Autosol [metal polish] and worked magic on all the accessible chrome surfaces. In the end, even I had to admit that our iron horses, replete with their metallic-silver and black paintwork highlighted with lashings of chrome, looked nothing short of spectacular.

Easing myself back into the verandah chair I tapped out a cigarette; flicked the lighter, drew a deep satisfying breath; and admired my handiwork while I savoured the last of my dark roast. At the end of the verandah a party of squirrels, homeward bound, scampered across the damp, neatly cropped lawn; and disappeared under the hedge. US 2, a ribbon of bitumen that ran past the motel entrance and away into the early morning darkness, was absolutely silent and devoid of movement; the peace and tranquility of early morning in Upper Michigan – pretty hard to beat.

A Visitor before Dawn

Then, I heard the muffled rattle of a door security chain; the protest of an unoiled door hinge; and suddenly, as the door opened, light spilled out of Unit 4 and flooded the forecourt. I’d been sitting in the half-light borderland between the verandah security lighting and the darkness of the forecourt; that no man’s land between day and dream where shapes are indistinct and edges are soft.

‘Morning,’ I said to a back lit shadow that emerged.

‘Top of the day to you, my friend,’ the shadow replied as it moved along the verandah towards me and then sat on the other side of the occasional table that held my empty coffee container and almost full soft pack of cigarettes.

‘Name Pete,’ he said and held out his hand across the table.

‘Lester,’ I replied and I took his hand.

‘Can’t sleep?’ he queried with eyebrows raised and a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

‘No . . . I just like this time of the day,’ I said. 

‘It’s peaceful. Quiet. Too early for any serious screw-ups.’

‘So . . . what brings you out at this time of the day?’ I asked

‘The aroma of tobacco . . . was hoping to bum a cigarette,’ he said.

‘Help yourself, Mate,’ I responded, pushing the packet and lighter across to his side of the table.

About my height and weight, he wasn’t a big man; trim without being wiry. He had a full head of hair; worn Keith Urban style and greying noticeably at the temples. If asked, I would have guessed his age to be around ten years south of mine.

Rebel in Training

I watched, intrigued, as he fumbled his attempt to extract a cigarette from my softpack; and then miscued with the cigarette lighter. With manicured nails and fingers that appeared callous free, he had none of the hallmarks of one used to hard manual labour. When he finally got his cigarette alight, he drew a shallow tentative breath and then exploded into a coughing fit.

‘You aren’t really a smoker, are you?’ I asked after a pause; but it was more a statement than a query.

He shook his head but continued coughing as tears welled in his eyes. I pushed my bottle of Michigan Spring Water across the table towards him.

‘Here Mate . . . take a swing. It’ll settle your throat.’

He tried to smile, and nodded in lieu of the thank you he couldn’t quite manage between coughing bouts; he did, though, manage to gulp down a couple of mouthfuls. Then, after he got a handle on his coughing fit, he looked up.

‘Thanks,’ he said in a husky half-strangled voice, and then was quiet for a while.

‘No, I haven’t been a smoker . . . but I’m working on it,’ he added.

‘Why would you want to,’ I asked. ‘It’s an expensive way to kill yourself.’

‘So . . . why do you smoke?’ he returned with eyes narrowed.

‘Ah, well . . . that’s a good question and a very long story,’ I said. 

‘Forty some years ago when I met the feisty one who later became my wife, she smoked and I didn’t. Then, for a few years we smoked in tandem; and then, she’d quit but I’m still at it. Truth is . . . I like it.’

‘Well, I’m trying a lot of things I haven’t tried before,’ he said sadly.

So there it was, he was a novice smoker; a novice biker too as it turned out . . . but not a novice talker.

Relationship Disintegration

Pete’s marriage had come apart – disintegrated was the word he used – about nine months previously. His children, at that stage, were old enough to make their own way in the world. The lady with whom he’d spent a little over a quarter of a century had discovered a new and improved passion in life; and had moved on. 

He’d sold the family home, because he couldn’t afford to buy his ex-lady out; and had split the proceeds with her. He’d then moped about feeling sorry for himself for a few months; somewhere tucked away in the back of his mind was the thought that she might change her mind. But then it occurred to him that, even if she did come back, it probably wouldn’t work out; what they’d had between them was long gone and probably not retrievable. So, flush with his share of the property proceeds, he’d gone down to his local Harley Davidson Dealer; and laid down cash for a black Ultra – any colour’s fine as long as it’s black – right? He’d sold off his share of the household furniture; put his books, files and excess clothing in a rented storage unit; and hit the road.

Hitting the Road

That had been almost a month previously. Since then he’d been serendipitously working his way across the country from what had been his home in Syracuse; through Buffalo, Cleveland, Detroit, Flint, and Saginaw to Mackinaw City. And then, after a couple of day’s break, he’d crossed the Mackinac Bridge to St Ignace and headed along US 2 through Escanaba and on to Crystal Falls. Wherever possible, he’d been sleeping in cheap motels and taking sustenance at down-market diners; in the words of Paul Simon, he’d been seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go; going places only they would know.

‘I woke in the small hours about a month ago,’ he confided, ‘and suddenly realised that I’d already lived more than half my life; but hadn’t really lived at all.’ I’d been teaching kids things they didn’t really want to know; about the finer points of rhyme and metre; about the seductive power of things oft thought but ne’er so well expressed; and, about the giants of American and English Literature. And, all the while, I’d been promising myself that one day, I would write my own truth; publish my own novel.

‘You sound a lot like me,’ I said. ‘I just took a bit longer to see things clearly than you did.’

‘Yep . . . but my kids think I’m crazy; losing the plot was how they put it,’ he said with a half-hearted grin.

‘Well, it’s your life, not theirs, isn’t it?’ I asked.

‘That’s pretty much what I said . . . though I’m not sure they were persuaded.’

More than I needed to know

Now, the thing about having conversations with guys like Pete, is that you don’t have to talk much. He had a pent-up reservoir of things he needed to put into words; and seemed dead set on getting as much of it out as he could. In my experience, there are those who need solitude to think; then there are others who need to verbalise everything before they can start making sense of any of it – Pete was one of those.

It was broad daylight before Pete ran out of steam; well perhaps, paused to draw breath, would be a more accurate way of describing the break. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t told Pete anything much about myself; where I’d been or why I was on the road. I usually don’t offer unrequested information; and he didn’t ask. Truth be told, it would have been impossible to find a gap in his monologue with enough space to offer a thought, opinion or personal reflection. In any case, the idea of interrupting his stream of consciousness thought process seemed obtrusive.

Taking Leave

‘Mate,’ I said, it’s been great getting to know you a bit . . . but now, I’d better check on my brother and find some place to have breakfast. 

‘True enough,’ he said. ‘And I need to get on the road again.’

‘For whatever it’s worth,’ I offered, ‘I don’t think you’ll regret doing what you’re doing. The only thing I regret is not getting on the road sooner. And, who knows Mate . . . once you have a few thousand miles under your wheels, you just might get around to writing that Great American Novel.’

After a hearty handshake and mutual well wishes for safe riding and good fortune, we parted company; he for his room and me, for another cigarette before I ventured back to see if Mel was awake.  

Feeding the Beast

We took breakfast at the same establishment we’d used for our meal the night before; and the service staff treated us like long lost pals. We slid into a booth in the corner. And ,while Mel gave his full attention to the menu, I worked my way through some seventy Facebook notifications.

When it arrived, the repast was spectacular; even the coffee was drinkable. Mel agreed about the meal but not about the coffee; but then again, he’d always held himself to much higher standards than I did. We lounged, ate, talked and laughed for much longer than usual but neither of us cared; there was no set destination for the day. We were just going to ride until we’d had enough; or until we found something sufficiently interesting to warrant a stop.

On the Road Again

Eventually though, without discussing it, we decided that it was time to get back on the road. We tied on our bandanas, paid the check, tipped the wait staff and bid them farewell. That being done, we drifted out to the carpark; and generally celebrated our good fortune while I topped up my nicotine. Then, we mounted our trusty iron horses, fired them up and pulled out onto US 212.

At little more than an idle, we made our way along until we took a right at 5th Street; a street that shares the pavement with US 2 and US 41. Then, once we reached the town limits, we accelerated to our preferred roads less travelled cruise speed; and headed south though spectacular country towards the State Line. One of the things I find extraordinary about riding in the US is the quality and quantity of what appears to be a natural environment; apparently untouched, pristine and original. And, right then, this was the environment and terrain we traversed.

Brule River Boarder

Just before Tyran, we crossed the Brule River and, just like that, we were back in Wisconsin; the Brule at this point is the boundary between Michigan and Wisconsin. After Tyran we continued on towards Florence; a town that spreads along the north west shores of Fisher Lake. 

At Florence we left US 2 to refuel, stretch the legs, get a coffee; and, in my case, have a smoke. Then, without further ado, we headed back to US 2 and pushed on; through pristine forests; by clear lakes; past the townships of Hematite, Spread Eagle; and on towards the Menominee River; our crossing of the Menominee took us back into Michigan.

Menominee

The Menominee River drains rural forested areas in Northern Wisconsin and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula; the river together with its tributary [Brule River] forms, as we’d already discovered, part of the boundary between Wisconsin and Michigan. The Menominee’s headwaters are formed, some ten miles [17 km] northwest of Iron Mountain, by a confluence of the Brule and Michigamme Rivers. Further downstream, it is also fed by the Pine, Sturgeon, Pemebonwon and Pike Rivers before it finally empties itself at Green Bay on Lake Michigan.

Upstream, the Menominee had been dammed into a series of reservoirs; well, lakes really. The waters in these lakes are reported to be amongst the deepest and cleanest in Michigan. Downstream, however, where the river flows through areas that used to be iron ore mining centres, the river is heavily contaminated with arsenic and heavy metals; perhaps not superficially visible, but toxic nonetheless.

All that being as it may, shortly after crossing the Menominee back into Michigan we reached the city limits of Iron Mountain. We throttled back, drifted slowly towards the sidewalk and parked outside an establishment that seemed a likely prospect for coffee. Mel checked his blood sugar; I took the opportunity to have another coffin nail from my Marlboro softpack; and then together we headed across the pavement and into the cafe.

Iron Mountain

Iron Mountain had been a bustling mining city when the Chapin Mine was up and running. James John Hagerman and Dr Nelson Powell Hulst had discovered Ore in the area; they’d leased land from Henry Chapin [hence the mine’s name] of Niles, Michigan. Anyway, these two men formed a company and set about sinking shafts on the slope of Millie Hill. The bores made over the ensuing months and years were largely unsuccessful until finally the company’s resources ran out; it had reached the point of collapse. It was at this point that Hagerman and Hurst took a final leap of faith; they decided to sink one more shaft. This reached a depth of 90 feet [27 metres] before they hit upon the heart of a massive iron ore deposit. The rest is, as they say, history.

Mother of Invention

Discovery of the ore deposit, however, was not quite the end of the story. Land at the potential mine site and in the surrounding area was swampy and also heavily forested. To successfully mine to any depth at all, it was going to be essential to find a way of getting rid of a hell or a lot of water; and it was to this end that the Chapin Mine Pumping Engine was invented.

The Chapin Mine Pumping Engline

Edwin Reynolds, Chief Engineer for the E P Allis Company [now Allis Chalmers] of Milwaukie, specifically designed such an engine in 1890; it was gargantuan. It’s high pressure cylinder had a 50 inch bore [1,300mm] and the low pressure cylinder was 100 inches in diameter. The flywheel was 40 feet [12 metres] in diameter, weighed 160 tons, and operated at a rate of 10 revolutions per minute. The engine itself stood some 54 feet [16.4 metres] above the pump house floor; was fixed to a foundation 23 feet thick [7 metres]; weighed 540 tons; and required 10,000 tons of coal per year to operate.

The pumping system utilised a series of reciprocating steel rods extending 1,500 feet [460 mitres] down into the mine with eight pumps attached at approximately 180 foot [60 metres] intervals along these steel rods. Each pump forced water to the next higher pump and finally out to the surface.

The pumping engine, in its entirety, had a capacity of 300 gallons [1,135 litres] per piston stroke. So, at 10 revolutions per minute, 31,000 gallons [118,000] poured out through a 28 inch [710 mm] pipe every minute. All this meant that the Chapin Mine Pumping Engine could remove five million gallons [almost 19 million litres] of water from the mine site every day. At the time, the installed pump was estimated to have cost a quarter of a million dollars.

Preservation for Posterity

On final closure of that mine in 1932, the Pumping Engine was decommissioned; and, years later, designated a National Mechanical Engineering Monument by the American Society of Mechanical Engineers on June 6, 1987. When we passed through Iron Mountain, the Chapin Mine Pumping Engine was located as an exhibit at the corner of Kent Street and Kimberly Avenue in Iron Mountain, Michigan.

We cruised past the Chapin Mine Pumping Engine but didn’t stop, pay the tariff or go in. Instead, we continued east along US 2 through the townships of Norway, Loretto, Cunard, Hermansville and Powers. Between Powers and Escanaba, US 2 and US 41 are one and the same highway. 

Escanaba

Pushing on east at an easy pace we rode through Wilson and Harris and finally reached the city limits of Escanaba; where we eased off our throttles and idled into town. This city had a distinct holiday feel; it seemed like a good place to take a break, refuel and have some late lunch.

Escanaba, more commonly known as Esky, was originally the name of the Ojibwa village sited in the area during the nineteenth century. It is a port city located on Little Bay de Noc. With a population just under fourteen thousand, is the third largest in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula behind Marquette and Sault Ste. Marie. Although there seems to be some divergence in opinion about the meaning of the name, the general consensus is that it means ‘Land of the Red Buck’.

As a European-American settlement, Escanaba was founded in 1863. Early industry was centred around harvesting, processing and shipping timber; but iron ore was also mined in the Marquette Range and shipped out of Escanaba on barges. Later, after the Civil War, the Menominee and Gogebic Ranges also became important sources of iron ore. I’m told that Michigan continues to supply a quarter of the US output in iron ore. 

A Beacon for Sailors

As shipping traffic increased, a lighthouse was constructed to warn mariners of the treacherous sand shoals in Little Bay de Noc. That lighthouse was still there when we cruised in; but by then, I suspect, it remained mainly as a historic monument and tourist attraction. By the time we arrived in early autumn, it was clear that Tourism played a key role in the district’s economy. Reputed to be one of the safest natural harbours in the Upper Great Lakes, Escanaba is something of a magnet; a natural destination for yachting, powerboating, and water sports generally.

After our break in Escanaba we headed north on US 2 [also US 41] to Rapid River where we parted ways with US 41 and travelled due east through Nahma Junction to Thompson. Then we skirted the north shore of Lake Michigan virtually all the way to Manistique.

Manistique

Originally named Eastport, because that was the name of the Post Office, Manistique derived its name from the river of the same name; and was incorporated as a village in 1883; and as a city by the state legislature in 1901. Apparently, the name of the river was originally spelled Monistique; a spelling error in the city charter led to its current spelling. Also known as Emerald City, the nickname is said to be derived from the emerald green waters of nearby Kitch-iti-kipi Spring; the largest in Michigan. 

We took a break to refuel, wander about and get something to eat. To this point in the day, it had been a relaxing, laid-back ride. In the Upper Peninsula, US 2 threads its way through verdant forests; past tranquil lakes; and across crystal clear streams and rivers. For for much of the time, it skirts the northern coast of Lake Michigan. I found it so difficult to believe that such a massive body of water could be fresh, at one point during one of our breaks, I wandered across a beach and actually scooped up a cupped handful of water to taste it; and yes, it was fresh water.

Moving On

By the time we’d taken food and coffee in Manistique, we were pretty mellow; and gave serious consideration to calling it a day right there. But we finally decided that we ought to push on. After all, we hadn’t been on the road all that long and the sun was almost directly overhead; perhaps, most importantly, there were many more roads less travelled that could be checked off the bucket list before the end of the day. As we wandered back to our motorcycles, we noticed that the morning’s gentle on-shore breeze had morphed into a gusting wind that would, as the day progressed, begin to sap our endurance and body warmth.

We fired up the motorcycles and idled our way through town towards US 2. Once back on the highway we accelerated to our preferred roads less travelled speed and pushed north by northwest towards Gulliver. We passed the Dreamland Motel and Restaurant on the left just before US 2 took us almost due east and just north of Milakokia Lake. Then, after crossing the Millecoquins River, we were back to skirting the north shore of Lake Michigan most of the way to St Ignace.

The Mighty Mac

A couple of miles short of the city, we noticed a McDonald’s Restaurant on the left; it seemed like a good place to stretch our legs, take some pictures, and have coffee. Because we’d decided not to go into St Ignace itself, this would be our last stop in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula before we merged with the traffic on Interstate 75 and crossed the straits bridge to lower Michigan. Throttling back, we crossed the west-bound lane and idled into the carpark. Now, in Australia, any suggestion that you’re going to Maccas for coffee would normally be greeted with either incredulity or snorts of derision. In the US however, we found that Maccas offered better coffee than most; with the possible exception of Starbucks.

Afterwards we wandered across the road to the Visitor’s Centre, Gift Shop and Lookout – termed Overlooks in the US. Sitting on the viewing platform, we talked about our last few days on the road, and took countless pictures of the Mackinac Bridge; of course, the pics we took didn’t come within a bull’s roar of doing justice to the structure itself.

A Dream of Crossing the Straits

The idea of a bridge across the Mackinac Straits had been around for a very long time. I guess, where there are two land masses separated by a body of water, it is human nature to speculate on strategies for crossing from one side to the other. A case in point occurred just after New York City’s Brooklyn Bridge was opened in 1883. At that time a St Ignace store owner reprinted an artist’s conception of that famous bridge in his advertising captioned Proposed Bridge across the Straits of Mackinac. Then, in 1884, an opinion piece in a local newspaper, highlighted the alleged failure of the ferry system as a viable option for all weather, year round strait crossing. The article posited that this could only be achieved via the construction of a bridge or tunnel.

Further, in 1888, at the first meeting of the Grand Hotel’s Board of Directors, Cornelius Vanderbilt is reported to have said we now have the largest, best equipped Hotel of its kind in the world for a short season business . . . now, what we need is a bridge across the straits.

During the ensuing years through to the first decades of the twentieth century, the idea of a strait crossing remained just that – an idea. Numerous concepts were proposed including a floating tunnel and, a series of causeways and bridges that would start at Cheboygan, some 17 miles south of Mackinaw City, traverse Bois Blanc and Round Island, touch the southern tip of Mackinac Island and leap across the deep chanel to St Ignace.

A Ferry Service

Then, in 1923, the Michigan State Legislature ordered the State Highway Department to establish a ferry service. The problem with this was that, within five years, traffic became so heavy that vehicles had to cue for hours. To address this issue, the Governor ordered the same department to carry out a bridge feasibility study. The resulting report was favourable and estimated that construction costs would be $30 million. Several initiatives were taken in an attempt to get the project under way but, eventually, the idea was dropped; funding seemed to be a major sticking point.

Legislating and Feasibility Studies

By early 1934 the matter was back on the legislative table; the State Legislature created an Authority empowered to investigate the feasibility of a bridge. Now, without being too cynical, I have to say that this seems to be a universal strategy utilised by governments around the world. That is to say, when a particular initiative is difficult, fraught or expensive, a government’s response is either to establish a committee or commission a feasibility study; it’s a way of sitting on your hands while giving the appearance of doing something.

In any case, the Mackinac Bridge Authority, like the State Highways Department before it, concluded that it was feasible to construct a bridge directly across the straits at an estimated cost of $32.4 million. The Authority subsequently made attempts between 1934 and 1936 to obtain loans and grants from the Federal Emergency Administration of Public Works; the PWA declined the applications.

Setbacks and Frustration

This setback notwithstanding, a new direct route was selected; boring samples were taken; traffic, geologic, ice and water current studies were completed; and, a causeway jutting out 4,200 feet into the straits from St Ignace was constructed. So, when preliminary plans for a double suspension span were completed in 1939, construction seemed imminent. But, with the outbreak of World War II in 1939 and then America’s involvement after Pearl Harbour, progress ground to a halt. Finally, to add insult to injury, the State Legislature abolished the Mackinac Bridge Authority in 1947.

Not taking No for an Answer

Ordinarily you might have expected that this action would have buried, once and for all, any prospect of a bridge across the straits. Not so. Bridge backers swung into action; a citizen’s committee was established to lobby for the recreation of the Bridge Authority; and, by 1950, appropriate Legislation had been enacted. This Legislation did, however, limit the ambit of the Authority to determining, yet again, the feasibility of the project.

Early in 1951, the Authority submitted a very favourable Preliminary Report stating, among other things, that a bridge could be built and financed with revenue bonds to the value of $86 million. However, because of material shortages caused by the outbreak of hostilities in Korea, legislation to finance and build the bridge was delayed until early 1952. The Authority then immediately asked the Reconstruction Finance Corporation to purchase $86 million worth of bonds.

Financing the Mighty Mac

Before the Agency had even completed its evaluation of this request, a private banking organisation expressed interest in managing a group of interested investment companies keen to be engaged in the project. The RFC accepted this offer and was ready to issue bonds for sale in early 1953. However, due to a weakening of the money market, insufficient interest was shown in the to guarantee successful underwriting.

In an effort to make the bond issue more attractive to investors, the State Legislature passed an act that, in effect, guaranteed the cost of maintaining and operating the bridge would be covered by gasoline and motor vehicle licencing taxes. Although the subsequent attempt to finance the construction through a bond issue initially failed, the money market had staged a recovery by the end of that year; $99.8 million of Mackinac Bridge Bonds had been bought by investors; and, contracts that had been awarded contingent upon financing were activated.

Getting the Job Done

The five mile bridge, inclusive of the approaches and the world’s longest suspension bridge between cable anchorages, was designed by Dr David B Steinman. The Merrit-Chapman and Scott Corporation was contracted to build the foundations for $25.736 million. The American Bridge Division of US Steel was awarded the $44.533 million contract to build the superstructure. Construction began early in 1954 and the bridge was opened, on schedule, to traffic on 1 November, 1954.

On a road trip like this one, time doesn’t mean a great deal; each day seems to fall into a natural rhythm with a life of its own. That being said, it was probably mid-afternoon before we climbed back aboard our motorcycles, fired up, and headed back out onto US 2 for the last couple of miles to the on-ramp for Interstate 75.

Onward to I-75 South

Overhead, the sky was about half-filled with scudding clouds; out across the lake to the west, a bank of dark blue-grey sat just above the horizon; and the wind was probably gusting to somewhere around 50 knots. So long as we continued east, this wind would be at our backs and not a problem; when we turned cross-wind to head across the strait the wind effect would be an entirely different matter.

As usual, Mel had the lead; I was some 50 yards behind when we leaned right to take the on-ramp for I-75. Cracking open our throttles, we accelerated to merge with the stream of traffic headed for the bridge. As we hit the causeway and the road began to rise for its approach to the bridge, we found ourselves clear of buildings and trees; the cross-wind hit us with savage force and pushed us sideways and into the inside lane.

The closer we got to the first tower the higher the road surface and the more pronounced the cross-wind effect. Mel’s sunglasses were snatched away by a sudden gust but there was no stopping to stage a retrieval. Then, we hit the bridge itself; the road continued to rise towards its apex, and the wind started to play serious havoc with my attempts to maintain a consistent lane position. With eyes focussed on Mel’s back and my attention absorbed by the increasing difficulty of maintaining lane position, I didn’t notice the change in road surface. What I noticed was a change in the road noise from my tyres.

Crosswinds and Grids

I looked down very briefly and noted that I was riding a kind of massive metal grate; disconcerting to say the least. Corralled between a low concrete ridge separating us from oncoming traffic, and the traffic in the other lane, there was no way out; no stopping and no going back.

Now for those of you not familiar with the Softail Deuce, it has a narrow 21 inch front wheel and a significantly more pronounced rake than the other motorcycles in the Harley Davidson stable. This is not a problem on a smooth sealed road surface; on a metal grid surface, slick with a whole Summer’s road grime, what you have is not so much steering as a wandering directional generality. This compounded the effect of the cross-wind that not only carried on a lateral assault but also came up through the open grid road surface. And if you cared to look down, which I didn’t, you could see diminutive white-caps on the lake surface some 60 metres below.

Eventually, as they say, all good things come to an end; well, fortunately, most terrifying ones do too. By the time we’d reached the middle of the crossing and the apex of the roadway, I was feeling a little more confident in my ability to maintain a modicum of directional control. The gradient from this point was all down and, as we approached the southern shores of the strait, the impact of the cross-wind was no longer so pronounced.

While continuing with the general flow of traffic, we worked our way towards the outside lane. Then, at the Exit to US 31, we took the off-ramp and headed south until, just west of Lake Carp, we pulled off into a rest area.

A Fright Break

‘Hey Mate, did you get my sunglasses?’ Mel asked when we’d shut down and things were quiet enough to carry on a conversation.

‘No . . . I bloody didn’t!’ I responded.

‘Why not . . . what’s the matter with you?’ Mel said with a grin.

‘I was too busy crapping myself,’ I said with mock gravity.

‘Yep . . . that was a bit of a test of character – must have been extra exciting with that skinny front wheel of yours.

Mel checked his blood-sugar while I had a Marlboro to settle my nerves; well, that was my excuse anyway. I did notice though that, when I held the light up to light my cigarette, my hands were still shaking. I guess there are times in life when you feel the fear – but do it anyway.

We chatted while Mel chewed his way through a couple of biscuits and an apple; he then suggested we head on out to Lake Shore Drive. This, he said, would allow us to cruise down the east coast of Lake Michigan through the Tunnel of Trees. Well, I’d never been anywhere near this part of Michigan so it didn’t matter much where we went; and a quiet gallop along the shores of the lake seemed just what the doctor ordered after the adrenaline rush of the bridge crossing.

Cross Village

So, we fired up again; we’d done galloping the straits and now we were off to the ultimate tunnel. We continued along US 31 until we reached Levering Road. Then, taking a right, we headed directly into the late afternoon sun until we reached Cross Village; at the Junction of Levering Road and Lake Shore Drive.

The Drive was almost devoid of vehicles as we coasted to a stop outside a little stone church that faced the road and looked out across the lake. Although there was probably another hour or two of daylight left in the day, the sun was getting low in the sky; it gave a sheen to the surface of the lake and highlighted foam thrown up by a diminutive wave break along the shoreline. The storm front we’d seen earlier had bypassed Cross Village and moved on; taking with it the boisterous, gusting wind from earlier in the day. All that remained was the gentlest of breezes and the red-gold early promise of an impending sunset across the lake.

What are Poor People doing Today?

We shut down our motorcycles and dismounted. Suddenly there was absolute silence except for the rhythmic sound of gentle breakers on the sand.

‘Mate,’ I said. ‘What do you suppose all the poor people are doing right now?’

‘What poor people? He asked, with eyebrows raised and a quiet smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

‘The poor people who don’t have 100th Anniversary Harley Davidsons,’ I returned.

‘Oh them!’ he exclaimed.

‘Well . . . right now they’re probably finishing up jobs that they hate, for the day; and, fortifying themselves to do their hour’s battle with gridlock on their way home. And if they’re already stuck in the gridlock, they’re probably dreaming of open highways, the rhythmic beat of a big V-Twin, and road trips that they’re never going to make the time to take.’ 

‘A bit harsh,’ I observed. ‘But, probably pretty much on the money.’

I turned, took out a Marboro, lit up and strolled across the neatly trimmed front lawn of the church to read the plaque.

Redpath Presbyterian Church

The Redpath Presbyterian Church was organized in February, 1888, and dedicated in October, 1890. Then, in 1918, a fire that destroyed most of the town also destroyed the church. It was rebuilt in 1921 and this seems to have been largely as a result of the efforts of a pioneer missionary. The Reverend John Redpath, who was eighty years old at the time, canvassed all the resort areas in the county to raise funds and worked at any task, however menial, in order to re-build. His persistent faith and constant endeavor seems to have been the prime motivating factor in this church’s reconstruction. 

However, after the timber industry ended operations in the area, the population of Cross Village declined and this little picturesque stone church stood empty; at one point there was even a plan to convert the building into a retail store. Repeated attempts to reopen the church failed, and the building became neglected and vandalized.

Old Churches and New Beginnings

Then two young couples, who regularly holidayed with family in the area, asked the Presbytery for permission to reopen the church for regular services during summer. Permission was granted, and five services were conducted in the summer of 1965. By 1967, many attended regularly when they were in the area. By the time we pulled up just off the front lawn, this beautiful little stone church had a regular calendar of services each Summer between Memorial Day and Labor Day Sunday.

I guess we must have been there for the best part of half an hour. We talked about what the place must have been in the late nineteenth century. The breeze was gentle and pleasantly fresh without being cold. Outside the Legs Inn a row of half a dozen Harley Davidsons rested on their side stands but no one was about and we didn’t go over to find out. Instead, having stretched our legs and learned a little of the local history, we climbed back aboard our motorcycles and headed south.

Taking Ownership

Michigan 119 snakes along the eastern shoreline of Lake Michigan through an area once inhabited by Odawa Indians. In 1936, Alice Irwin used her newspaper column to gather grassroots support aimed at preserving and protecting the trees that lined this road; the route developed and subsequently became known as the Tunnel of Trees. 

Apart from its beauty, the Tunnel of Trees has a critical ecological function; the trees’ roots hold the soil in place and help the ground to absorb water. This, in turn, replenishes the groundwater that feeds Lake Michigan, and mitigates flooding. The foliage also reduces the force of falling rain on bare surfaces and hence, reduces erosion.

The Ultimate Tunnel

We were riding in late Summer and the byway was breathtakingly beautiful, cool, and unbelievably green. In odd places, we could see the first hint of the yellows and reds that would soon arrive with Autumn’s chill; a chill that had already begun its unrelenting march south from Canada. Most of the drive has no marked centreline and no road shoulders; indeed, it is said that this is one of the nation’s narrowest roads. Hardwood trees and evergreens grow right to the edge and their leafy branches reach out to each other from both sides of the road to form a solid canopy over the byway.

With Mel in the lead, we leaned into a myriad curves, braked hard for the hairpins, and revelled in the rolling thunder of our big V-Twins accelerating out of countless corners; the thumping, rhythmic beat of our engines reverberated back from walls of dense forest. There was something irreverent, perhaps even sacrilegious, about shattering the peace and tranquility of this arcadian temple as we worked our way through indescribable scenic beauty; but we went ahead and did it anyway. The Tunnel of Trees stretches between Cross Village and Harbour Springs and is only a little over 20 miles long; but embedded in that 20 miles are 135 corners; every biker’s dream ride.

The Old Council Tree

Just short of Good Heart, Mel slowed and then stopped at a turnout unobtrusively secreted at the edge of the forest. Cigarette break, I thought; and perhaps Mel needed to check his blood-sugar. But, it turned out to be the Area of the Old Council Tree. It is said that, in the late 1700s, First Nations Tribal Leaders would regularly meet in this area; under a tree that was so big, it was used as a navigational marker. Amazing what you find when you take the time to stop and look . . . right?

We idled along past the Good Hart General Store; an authentic 193 structure that is the area’s bakery, deli, grocery store, and general post office. Then, it was on to the Devil’s Elbow; a savage hairpin where we were forced to shift down to second gear to avoid an unplanned excursion into the woods. Local First Nations people claim that an evil spirit lived in the ravine and haunted their forebears after dark. Fortunately it wasn’t dark when we cruised by; so we escaped unscathed.

Having negotiated the hairpin at Devil’s Elbow and eluded the resident evil spirits, we continued our canter south. At Middle Village, we slowed but didn’t stop. Instead, we meandered south at an ultra-leisurely pace towards Harbour Springs.

It was getting late and, although the sun had not quite dipped into the lake over in the west, the warmth of the day had gone. We weren’t cold when stationary but there was a fresh edge to the temperature at cruise speed; even at Tunnel of Trees cruise speed.

Harbour Springs

When we got there, we discovered Harbour Springs to be a stunningly beautiful waterfront community nestled along the northern shore of Little Traverse Bay. At the city limit we were welcomed by a magnificently carved oak sign that informed us, among other things, that Harbour Springs had been established in 1829. 

We pulled into a waterfront parking area and shut down; but only long enough to stretch, snap a few pics and, in my case, have a cigarette. The brevity of our stop had nothing to do with the quality of Harbour Springs’ charm and everything to do with our desire to get to Petoskey before it got completely dark.

End of the Road . . . for the Day

After our break we continued along M 119 which, in Harbour Springs, is one and the same road at Main Street, and headed towards the Airport. At the intersection with Conway Road, M 119 turns at an almost perfect right angle and heads due south to Petoskey.

We passed Round Lake on our left while, on the right the Petoskey State Park spread out from US 119 to the Lake Michigan shoreline. And, just after Spring Lake we arrived at an intersection with US 31; the same US 31 taken  just after crossing the Mackinac Bridge. Leaning right into the on-ramp, we accelerated to join the flow of traffic and, a few miles later, entered the outskirts of Petoskey.

Just a thought . . .

Feel the Fear . . . but Do It Anyway