Michigan: 4 nights, 4 cobbs

Pesky mosquitoes, wolverines, nasally accents, frigid winters, the perpetually disappointing Detroit Lions – these were the associations I had always made with Michigan.  Following his return to his hometown of Traverse City, my friend Matt had started regaling us with images of a much different and more enticing place.  And so it was that I found myself excited to see the land by the lakes during the tail end of warm summer days, to reconcile these differing perspectives.  

After an easy arrival process through the quaint Cherry Blossom airport, I quickly found myself on a quiet country two lane zipping out to the farm.  Matt’s friends and housemates, Brent and Erin, welcomed me as if I was an old friend myself and soon enough we were drinking local Michigan whiskey by the fire under a star-filled night.  

The next day we traveled west to Sleeping Bear Dunes.  As we first emerged onto the windswept sand dunes, I no longer felt like I was in Michigan, but almost like I was in another world.  Shrub-brush, petrified pieces of driftwood poking into the sky, steep faces of sand like mountains of snow; Luke trudging across Tatooine came to mind.

After several miles and a gradual ascent up a plateau we suddenly stumbled upon a few Monarch butterflies.  I looked up and realized there weren’t just a few, but hundreds of butterflies perched on the leaves of trees above.  They flittered about playfully and seemed to bask in the warm afternoon sun.  A gentle breeze rose up from the Great Lake below, a canvas of alternating turquoise and dark blue a fitting backdrop for this colony of beautiful creatures.  We continued on, reinvigorated by our fortuitous encounter, as we had inadvertently lost the trail just before.

After reaching the top of the dune and then heading back, we decided to walk the last few miles along the shoreline.  Every mile or so, we would make a stop to cool off and swim in Lake Michigan.  The water was a perfect temperature, refreshing yet warm enough to linger.  The white sand, tropical hues, and remoteness made me feel more like I was strolling along a beach in the Caribbean, certainly not how I ever would have imagined a beach in the Midwest. 

Surfing in Michigan is to most an oxymoron.  While certainly inconsistent and unreliable, if the conditions align, there is a whole community of avid surfers ready to commit and chase down a windswell.  Sunday looked to be the most promising day for some potential waves, so after checking the available surf cams and looking at wind direction forecasts, we’d decided to head north to Charlevoix, in hopes of getting some northwest swell.  The day’s itinerary started with some wine tasting, however, so off we headed to Mari to sample some local rieslings.  The day had started out with blue skies, but in short time, dark clouds had rolled in and a rather intense downpour had forced some patrons inside.  We began reassessing the situation.  Some quick research showed that there actually seemed to be a southwest wind swell which would be peaking in the afternoon, and Matt received corroboration texts from some surfer buddies that there, in fact, were waves out west.  So shortly thereafter we were off, through a quickly passing hailstorm, then past farmlands, forested lakes, and towards the fishing village of Frankfurt.  

By the time we arrived 75 minutes later, the day had become beautiful, a warming summer humidity balanced by the ocean breeze.  Looking out at the lineup, a lighthouse along the far edge of the jetty to the left, and a long stretch of dune cliffs to the right, there was a solid crew of surfers catching consistently chest high sets, an occasional runner connecting to the inside. There was barely a wetsuit in the lineup, as the warm water and air could have just as easily been confused with Hawaii.  The stoke and smile levels in the water were high, as surfable waves in the summer are a relative rarity.  Winter storms are what really kick up the waves, when the conditions are much less inviting and only a smaller group of the most hardy show up.  After several hours of paddling and wave riding, we sauntered up to an outdoor table at the local brewery and contentedly scarfed down handfuls of popcorn, washed down with cold, refreshing brews.

Returning to the farmhouse near sundown, Brent already had a warm campfire burning bright and ready to greet us.  To follow up on the next-door neighbor-sourced pork belly we’d eaten the night before, we decided that fire-roasted steaks were in order, once again complemented by requisite corn cobbs, in addition to old world red wines and Traverse City whiskey.  Later in the evening, we wandered out front to the road, where the prior evening we’d watched approaching thunderstorms light up the wide sky.  This time the constellations were out in force, and the moonlight bright enough to allow exploration of the abandoned house in the adjoining field.  

The next morning was a picture perfect Michigan day.  We headed out to Duck Lake, grabbed the kayaks, digged up earthworms for bait, and set to the water.  After several bites, but no success in reeling one in, we paddled over to the undeveloped state park section of the lake and up a narrow little lily-pad filled stream before a beaver dam blocked our way.  After another refreshing lake swim and a long paddle back across the lake, we had started walking back along the road, when we were stopped by an older gentleman in his driveway.  Being a close-knit neighborhood where everybody knows everybody, he accusingly inquired which house we lived in.  After a short conversation it emerged that he and his wife had lived in Lompoc, CA for many years, just up the road from my home of Santa Barbara.  He coached the baseball team there for 30 years and so I asked him if he knew a former co-worker of mine who had played there back in high school.  This coincidental connection excited Coach and soon enough we were inside their house looking at old memorabilia and championship photographs from his prior teams.  We parted ways from Coach, his wife, and son feeling like new friends, with invites to dinner as well as the upcoming Lompoc reunion.  Touched by their friendliness and inspired by the quick bond with those who’d been strangers just minutes before, we smiled onward into the day, with a quick pullover for our nightly corn supplies before driving toward the Old Mission peninsula.

The Old Mission peninsula AVA is an enchanting sight to behold.  It stretches for 19 miles into Lake Michigan, with resulting bays thus visible in both directions, often from the road meandering up the narrow peninsula, or sometimes from a vineyard  perched upon a hill.  The water that essentially encompasses the region has a moderating effect on the climate, limiting the amount of frost in the winter and thus allowing grape growers more success.  Matt had begun helping a small production wine maker – tending to the vines, learning the craft, and beginning to prepare for the upcoming harvest season.  He gave me a tour of their small vineyard and we followed it up with a tasting at a nearby collaborating winery.  Squinting from the hot afternoon sun, gazing across the vine-filled fields to the water on the horizon, it was once again hard to believe I was in Michigan.  I took a big sip of crisp, acidic riesling – the region’s most successful varietal – which paired with the setting wonderfully.  

Nearing the end of my trip, we realized there were a few quintessential things I still needed to experience.  So we promptly proceeded to an old dive bar establishment and ordered up shots of Ice Hole.  The next morning I picked out a block of decadent local fudge and on the way to the airport gulped down a Vernors.  My last night naturally involved another backyard campfire, as well as more cobbs of corn.  We had a small, eclectic mix of vinyl music on hand, but the Bambi soundtrack transitioning to Japanese hip-hop somehow seemed perfect.  The air felt slightly cooler, perhaps a harbinger of the upcoming fall and then harsh winter seasons.  But it’s an unspoken rule amongst Michiganders that such observations are best kept to yourself.  Better to focus on the present, relishing the magic of late summer evenings, aware that its fleeting nature is part of what makes it special.