Almost two hundred years before I entered Michigan's Upper Peninsula, this remote patch of wilderness helped prevent a war between two states.
FRANKENMUTH
Frankenmuth, known as Michigan’s “Little Bavaria”, was formed in 1845 as a Lutheran mission colony to provide comfort to the German settlers in the area and convert the Native Americans to Christianity. It was originally intended to remain loyal to Bavaria and speak only German. The name means “courage of the Franconians”.
(photo credit: FamilySearch.org)
The colony didn’t work out as planned, but the community remained close to their German roots. Starting in the 1960s, Frankenmuth turned its heritage into an asset, creating a “Bavarian experience” in the US.
(1985 picture, photo credit Reddit user RavenswoodITguy on r/pics)
Gio, one of the bartenders at The Paddle Bar in OHIO, recommended I stop by Frankenmuth on my drive through Michigan. I had visited a similar Bavarian mountain town, Leavenworth, Washington, a year before on a road trip with my wife. That trip turned out to be one of our final weeks together. Frankenmuth was a third of the way to my final destination of Marquette, so it seemed as good a place as any to stop.
My arrival into Frankenmuth was punctuated by torrential rain and my wipers were on high. The world outside was a swirling blur of color with flashes of clarity. I drove by some large white tents set up in a local park that were packed with people from what I could tell. I found a parking spot as close to the tents as I could, donned my red raincoat, and hustled there, trying as much as possible to avoid getting soaked.
In a happy accident, my visit had coincided with the annual Frankenmuth Bavarian Festival. Inside the tent were an area selling food and beer, rows of tables, a polka band, and a large dance floor. It was festive; people of all ages tapped their feet or spun around the dance floor. The band's music was trapped under the tent and rain thundered against the heavy canvas above us. The resulting cacophony made the very thought of casual conversation impossible.
I hung out for about an hour under the tent and enjoyed a traditional German Helles beer. I would have loved to explore the festival more, but the relentless rain made everything challenging. I hustled across the street to the Bavarian Inn for dinner.
The dining room where I ate in the Inn was downstairs - not quite a basement, but it felt like one. It shared space with a sprawling shop selling kitschy souvenirs. Paintings on the walls depicted Frankenmuth’s founding fathers and scenes from Grimms’ Fairy Tales. The busy patterns of the carpet and upholstery tied the pink & green theme to every table.
A smiling older man in lederhosen walked from table to table, serenading each one with an accordion.
The place was like the Disneyland version of a Bavarian dining experience, which I suppose is appropriate considering Walt Disney’s connections to Bavaria.
(photo credit: Disney Store on Amazon)
The items on the menu seemed a little pricey, but they did come with bread and a choice of side dishes. I decided on the Frankenmuth dinner so I could try their famous chicken, the schnitzel, and the sauerbraten.
I was shocked when I learned that the dinners didn’t come with a choice of sides, but ALL of the sides: From the menu:"Stollen (fruit & nut bread), backofenbrot (housemade white bread), noodle soup, cole slaw, pasta salad, cranberry relish, a Michigan seasonal salad, baked dressing, vegetable du jour, 100% real mashed potatoes and gravy, buttered noodles and housemade ice cream." I ate the equivalent of three meals before my assortment of meats ever came.
The food was absolutely on point and I found myself wishing that, like Bavarian cows, I had four stomachs so I could eat it all. As it was, I did the best I could and rolled my fat & happy self back through the rain to my car. The hotels in Frankenmuth were all booked up due to the festival, so I stayed in nearby Saginaw.
THE UPPER PENINSULA
Prior to this trip, when looking at a US Map, I had considered the Upper Peninsula of Michigan “no man's land”. Or, to be more accurate, I had never really considered it at all. I had never been there, and I didn’t know anyone who had. That’s why I picked it as my destination - I had no idea what to expect.
The UP, as it’s known, is an anomaly. It looks, by all accounts, like it should be part of Wisconsin rather than Michigan. In fact, it shares 200 miles of border with Wisconsin but only connects to the “mitten” of Lower Michigan via the Mackinac Bridge.
The way the UP became part of Michigan is an interesting story that goes back to The Toledo War and the Frostbitten Convention in 1836.
(photo credit: Rural Insights)
25 years before the first shots of the Civil War were fired, Ohio and Michigan nearly devolved into armed combat over a strip of land between Michigan and Ohio only 8 miles wide. The Toledo Strip as it was called, included rich farmland and the Lake Erie trading hub of Toledo. Due to conflicting surveys, inaccurate maps, and some vague wording in the Northwest Ordinance, both Michigan and Ohio claimed this land and bickered over it for decades.
(photo credit: Spectrum News 1)
In 1833, Michigan had reached the requisite population of 60,000 and wanted statehood, but Congress refused to consider their application until the dispute with Ohio over the Toledo Strip was resolved. Both states posted armed soldiers in the area and fought a war of words, legal action, and bluster for the next three years. Shots were fired on a couple of occasions, but the only injury of the "war" was a sheriff who got stabbed with a pen knife while arresting Toledo’s mayor.
(photo source: The History Channel)
President Andrew Jackson finally intervened to avoid a catastrophe and brokered a compromise. Ohio would take the Toledo Strip and, in exchange, Michigan got the remaining ¾ of the Upper Peninsula that it didn’t already control. That land was part of Wisconsin at the time, but Wisconsin wasn’t even a territory yet, so it had no leverage.
(photo credit: The Mitten State)
At the time, this compromise was seen as a big win for Ohio and a loss for Michigan. However, when Iron and Copper deposits were found in the UP the following decade, public opinion changed. The states' dislike for each other simmers to this day, and goes deeper than the Ohio State/Michigan football rivalry.
Today, the UP is home to 1700 miles of coastline along lakes Michigan, Superior, and Huron, a bajillion trees, and 300,000 proud “Yoopers” (UPers). The local dialect and food were heavily influenced by its early Finnish settlers and the wave of French Canadians that moved there in the late 1800's to work for the lumber industry.
The local musical comedy group Da Yoopers lovingly parodies the UP's culture.
I crossed into the UP shortly after midday on Sunday. My drive first hugged the coastline of Lake Michigan, then crossed the forested middle, and finally followed the coast of Lake Superior from Munising to Marquette. I stopped at a small beach, but the wind off the lake whipped cold rain into my face and chased me back into my car. This was June in the UP? It felt more like winter on the Jersey Shore.
MARQUETTE
Marquette, not to be confused with Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, is a small city of 21,000 people along the upper coast of the UP. I unloaded my things into my Airbnb, then took a short walk downhill into Marquette's quaint downtown. I browsed at Taiga Comics & Games and had dinner at the 906 Sports Bar and Grill, right next to the Delft Theater. I ate The Nimrod, which was a burger topped with cudighi (a local spicy sausage), and other meats.
Washington Street, which was the main drag of downtown, had a straight-shot view of Marquette Bay. I walked down there to try and work off the brick of meat in my stomach. In the water I found a structure that looked like it had climbed right out of Blade Runner or Dune.
This retired Lower Harbor Ore Dock has become one of the iconic landmarks of the UP. The iron deposits that changed everyone's opinions of the UP in the 1840's were discovered in the area. Mining industry established a base of operations there, and Marquette was founded in 1849, though they called it New Worcester for the first year.
(photo credit: Marquette Brownfield Redevelopment Authority)
This ore dock was built in 1931 to facilitate the transfer of iron ore from mining railcars to lake freighters that would carry it to steel mills in the lower Great Lakes. The structure allowed a train to drive straight onto it and dump its cargo into steel bins under the tracks. When freighters pulled up to the dock, chutes were lowered that carried the ore from the storage bins down to the boats’ cargo holds.
This particular ore dock was decommissioned in 1971, but another one still operates just a mile up the coast along Lake Shore Drive.
I tried many of Marquette’s many bars and restaurants while I was there. I particularly liked Breakers Roadhouse, which was a few blocks down from where I was staying, and Stucko’s Pub and Grill, which are owned by the same couple, Mike and Sonia Stucko.
Blackrocks Brewery was also very cool. They used barrel staves and kegs to make up the front of the building. Inside, similar to The Paddle Bar, regulars kept their own earthenware mugs at the bar, hanging from hooks on the ceiling.
Remie’s was an exceptional dive bar. 'Nuff said.
Trenary Toast Cafe was a charming breakfast spot on a corner of Washington St. serving scandinavian inspired plates and delicious coffee. In 1928, Finnish loggers formed the town of Trenary. The town got to be known for its rusk, a twice-baked bread dusted with cinnamon and sugar that is known today as Trenary toast.
(photo credit: Trenary Toast Home Bakery)
The restaurant that was recommended to me by locals more than any other was Lagniappe, a Cajun restaurant with a sketchy entrance off of an alley. Maybe the kitchen was having an off night, maybe I was spoiled from having been in Louisiana so recently, but I thought my cajun crawfish pasta was over-seasoned and inedible. They did mix a mean cocktail though.
The highest rated restaurant in the entire UP is in Marquette. I’m talking, of course, about the Dumpster Water Grill. The restaurant was totally booked up while I was there, which is understandable because people travel from far away to dine at the DWG. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to select from the many enticing options on their menu such as Sand Encrusted Barrel-Fired Asparagus and Mixed Berries Suspended in Hot Dog Water Gelatin.
(photo credit: Support the UP)
Their chef is a gastronomic celebrity. As their website states:
“Executive Chef Ryan has carefully crafted our menu from many lifetimes worth of worldly experience. Born in a remote fishing village in 1954 Soviet occupied Tanzania, Ryan made it his mission to bring the recipes of his Grandfather, Colonel Prosciutto Linguine of the 33rd battalion His Majesty's army, to the modern era. The dream is alive today, and you have to taste it to believe it!”
(photo credit: Detroit Free Press)
The Dumpster Water Grill was a COVID-boredom project started by Ryan Moore, a computer science student at North Michigan University. He created a fake restaurant with a fake website and menu, then posted a Google review for it. Others, appreciating the joke, added their own photos and Google reviews to the listing. Today, it has over 300 Google reviews and - remarkably - Google has not taken the listing down.
(photo credit: Google user Isaac Albano)
The restaurant even has listings on Restaurant Guru and Evendo. You get the sense however, that they are not in on the joke and some AI probably scraped the Google reviews and wrote the posting.
(photo credit: Restaurant Guru)
On Wednesday afternoon I was treated to a small concert in front of the Peter White Public Library. Part of their Concert on the Steps series, I saw Flagship Romance, the “unforgettable alternative folk duo” from Kentucky. It was a nice way to spend an hour on a sunny summer afternoon.
That evening, after some delicious poutine at Stucko’s, I was treated to a spectacular thunder and lighting show on my way back to my Airbnb. The wind and weather move fast in the UP, so the storm was on me before I knew it. I was soaked through by the time I made it back but, not one to miss a good thunderstorm, I sat and watched for a while from my deep porch.
HIKES
The UP is known for its remote wilderness. By the next day, the weather had cleared up nicely, so I decided to go for a hike. I had a couple of work calls in the afternoon, so timing would be challenging, but I figured I’d give it a shot.
Everyone had recommended that I visit Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. The Chapel Loop trailhead was along the coast, a 90-minute drive away. I had cell signal most of the way to Munising, but it dropped shortly after. I wasn’t surprised, but it certainly made things inconvenient. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to complete the 10.4 mile loop in the time I had, but I was hoping to at least make it to the water where the views were supposed to be spectacular. Now, I had to budget an extra thirty minutes to drive back to a place where I could take my calls.
(photo credit: Pictured Rocks Cruises)
I started on the trail at a brisk walk. The thick canopy of trees made the trail much darker than I would have expected. I skirted or jumped over frequent muddy patches, still wet from the storm. I ran calculations in my head: if I got this far in that amount of time, I could make it to the coast, take pictures and get back in time. My math was constantly updating, reflecting the progress I could see myself making on my hiking app, AllTrails. For stretches I would break into a light jog, determined to make it. Other leisurely hikers looked at me strangely when I blew by them, clearly in a rush to get somewhere.
Just over a mile and a half in, I realized it was not going to happen. Rather than rush on, I decided to turn around and walk back at a leisurely pace - to enjoy the tranquil space. There were far fewer mosquitos out than I would have expected, which was good because they love me. Light green ground cover along the path contrasted with the deeper green of the trees.
A small offshoot of the path led down a series of stairs to a scenic overlook, high above Chapel Lake.
The path crossed over a rushing stream that became Chapel Falls. Taking just a tiny detour off the path, I gazed straight down, mesmerized by the water crashing below me.
Although it would have been nice to see Pictured Rocks, I enjoyed the scenic walk back much more than I had the frantic race to the coast. It felt like an appropriate metaphor for this chapter of my life.
Driving back to Munising, the UP wind pushed the low scattered clouds past at such a pace I felt like I was living in a timelapse video. I made it back into cell range with time to spare and took my calls from the car with an ice cream.
My final morning in Marquette, I got up early to hike Sugarloaf Mountain, just a few miles to the northwest. The trail is only half a mile, but it’s mostly straight up. Some of the climb is on a wooden path and stairs, others parts are on packed dirt.
My legs were burning and my breath was heaving by the time I made it to the top, but I forgot my fatigue the instant I saw the view. The vastness of Lake Superior stretched out before me, twinkling in the early morning sun. The buildings of Marquette, looking very small indeed beside the expanse of forest, could just be seen in the distance.
Wooden observation decks, one of which was closed for repairs, provided the vantage points for these breathtaking views. A rough stone obelisk stood at the corner of one lookout. It had been erected in 1921 by one of the very first Boy Scout troops in the country to honor their scoutmaster, Bart King, who lost his life in World War I.
I found myself smiling as I descended the wooden stairs down Sugarloaf Mountain. This hike, I thought, summed up the UP. Life in the Upper Peninsula can be challenging, the conditions not for the faint of heart. It doesn't have the bustling energy and exciting distractions you find in large cities. However, if you have the resilience to deal with the sometimes harsh weather and remoteness of it, you will be treated to some of the most spectacular natural beauty that can be found anywhere in the United States.
I steered Pierogi into the blinding sun on my way out of town. I had 850 miles ahead of me, broken up across three days. Rather than retrace my steps back through Michigan, I had decided to take the scenic route through Ontario, entering Canada at Sault Ste. Marie.
I was returning to my hometown of Ithaca, NY. I had a date to officiate the marriage of my mom to her partner of 6 years, Jeff.
Yes, and…
Matt
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