Yooper envy

NEAR MUNISING, Mich. – We’re in a new cabin this day … a chalet, the owner says.

And it has those characteristics.  A high-pitched, A-frame roof, knotty pine on wall and ceiling, and a decor that includes animal skins and a mounted deer’s head.

Miners Falls ... the roar is worth the wait.

Yesterday, early snows came. A couple of inches. Today, the snow slides down the steep roof with a roar, the warmer temperatures making slick what yesterday proved an icy grip.

I’m on the second-floor loft, staring out at 16 Mile Lake.  The small island across the way has a single owner, it appears. At least, when I sneak a peek by satellite, there’s a single house and single dock.

“It’d be nice to own your own island,” I yell down to Cindy, who’s reading near the fireplace.

“Yeah, but what about the shopping?”

Oh … that.

This is Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, a vast tract of land between Great Lake waters – Lake Michigan on the south, Lake Superior on the north – sparsely populated, yet heavy with pines, birches and hardwoods.  Its people are called Yoopers, and they are sometimes the butt of jokes from those down under:

Eino was coming out of Pickleman's Pantry in Newberry carrying a bag of meat pasties. Toivo was getting gas and saw him with the bag.

“Hey, Eino. If I guess how many pasties you have in dat bag, can I have one?”

Eino replied, “If you can guess how many I have, I'll give you both of them.”

Toivo answered, “Holywha! Okay, I think you have five of them.”

In fact, many of these jokes come from Yoopers themselves, a self-deprecating celebration of living in what sometimes seems a Northern wilderness.

The bridge too far.

The Yoops get back at those who reside on the Lower Peninsula.  They call us “trolls,” because we live “under” the massive Mackinaw Bridge that connects the two land masses.

Yesterday we visited Marquette, a college and port city to the northwest.  We saw the great ore docks, shopped high atop the city’s picturesque hills, and had lunch in a Cajun restaurant whose family has deep roots in French Canada.

Laissez les bons Yoopers rouler!

We were so impressed with the food that we invited the chef and her husband/waiter to visit us anytime in T.C.  And we'd cook.  

On our return to the cabin, we stopped by Laughing Whitefish Falls.  We took a short hike along the steady Laughing Whitefish River. Eventually we heard the pounding roar of the falls … the river’s massive, copper-tinted waters tumbling over a sheer drop, then sliding fast atop a broad, long washboard surface of rock to a deep pool below.

There the river returned to its steady ways, heading north to eventually empty into Lake Superior.

Laughing Whitefish Falls

Today we turned in a different direction – about 12 miles northeast to Munising, whose name translated from Ojibway means “near the island.”   Sure enough, Grand Island sits just to the north, massively guarding access to Munising Bay.

Not many folks live in Munising.  The last census counted just 2,000 or so.  But the area is known best for its Pictured Rocks and many waterfalls – Alger, Chapel, Horsehoe, Memorial, Munising, Miners, Scott, Tannery, Wagner, among others.  So there’s a brisk tourist trade in the summer and fall.

And so we set out to find at least some of these falls.

First, we made the required stop at the Pictured Rock overlook to snap photos of Miners Castle.  I’ve remarked before, when I stayed on the western shores of Lake Superior, how much rockier Superior’s coast is compared with Lake Michigan.  More like Maine, or California.

Miners Castle

And so it was here.  High atop the bluff overlooking Miners Castle, the winds howled off the lake, made even stronger by the high cliffs.  As if through a funnel pointing up, the winds slammed the wall, gathered tightly, then shot skyward.

I held onto my hat as I peered over the edge; below, angry lake waters swirled.  Folks talk about how great it is to kayak around Pictured Rocks.  Today, though, kayaks would be torn and tossed against the rocks like flotsam.

We then ventured to Miners Falls, just down the road.  Discovering these falls is a lesson in trust … the long path points the way, but you don’t hear the cascade in these dense woods until you are a hundred yards or so from it.

Path to Miners Falls.

And then the grandeur hits.  The awe overwhelms you … that something so mighty, so massive, so thunderous, could be hidden and muffled by tall oaks, birches and pines. Few people, relative to the world’s many people, know of this spot, I thought.  It’s an exclusiveness to be cherished.

We would go on to see Chapel Falls, hidden even deeper in the woods. We leaned far over the edge to watch Chapel Creek tumble and turn to noisy vapor.  We pledged then to come back with our children to see all of these falls.

Experiencing these tumblers in November is different from what the typical tourists see.  For one, the Yoopers themselves have relaxed, now that the downstaters are gone.  And a daily rhythm returns … there's quiet, much solitude, and Nature’s winds and water beat a tuneful drum, not fouled by the noise of throngs marching along wooded paths.

On the way to Chapel Falls, ferns remain.

Today, for example, the Chapel Falls trail was our own. The Park Service’s parking lot could accommodate hundreds of cars; the latrines were even two-holers – separate men’s and women’s.  Yet all were vacant when we arrived.

It’s better at this time of year, I think. Ice clings to the trees, each pine bough glistening as the sun shoots through ... like bright smiles. Granted, the forest has lost its leaves; yet, what in summer is a dense thicket of green becomes a pleasing community of trees, each one distinct in shape, angle and thickness.  Legions of them stretch on, over distant hills.

And anyway, the green is not far away. At the feet of this timber are small blankets of bright ferns, a reminder of what was … what again will be. 

Chapel Falls tumbles below.

As much as those on the U.P. joke about themselves, and we join in, they know their land is a treasure. It’s one they share with us in summer and fall.  But they do so jealously, I’m sure.

In a sense, they own this island called the Upper Peninsula.  Okay, it’s not an island.  Wisconsin’s vast border to the southwest guarantees that.  But it seems an island nonetheless, guarded by deep waters on at least three sides. And it is well tended by those who call it theirs.

“It’d be nice to own your own island,” I told Cindy.

Yoopers know.