The U.P. We Know and Love!

Thompson, MI – Hog Island, MI

Maybe it was the wind – howling into our faces much of the day. Maybe it was the lingering cloudiness. But for much of the day my view of the U.P. was eroding.

The breakfast place was meh – and they didn’t have wifi. (Isn’t there a federal requirement that anyplace calling themselves a cafe must have wifi? I’m going to write my senator . . .)

Then Paul Bunyan cropped up – as if Paul is from Manistique! Worse, and this part is really hard to swallow, they had a bronze plaque with a list of Paul’s supposed friends. Who believes that Paul Bunyan was friends with Dr. & Mrs. Neil E. Grossnickle? Do we really think that he would be friends with anyone so uppity as to have to insert their middle initial into their name? Or how about Wm. L. Hentschell, Sr. & Jr.? If Paul knew them at all he thought they were pretentious as hell. Friends indeed . . .

And then there were basically no services for 50 miles.

I mean, there were plenty of businesses – or what, at one time were businesses.

We went past restaurants with mantras like: “DINING * FOOD.” For some reason this place was closed. Couldn’t figure that one out. I mean, if there’s dining isn’t there food? Or is there something that I’m missing?

Another place had a big sign saying “ROCKS FOR SALE” – with about ten large-ish rocks sitting along the road. That place was still in business (for reasons I don’t understand) – but it was hardly helpful for us.

Or how about the Bates Motel? Really? I mean I realize the U.P. is a few years behind, but Psycho hasn’t made it’s way up here yet? And it’s not just the owners who are apparently in ignorant bliss. The place is stil open, so the customers must be unaware as well. And it’s not like it was the only motel . . . Or, I guess there aren’t that many choices now – but we must have passed a dozen shuttered motels along the route today – most of which looked like they only finally closed in the last few years. How did the Bates stay open while they failed? The mysteries of the UP . . .

The businesses that were open were not exactly inspiring. I’m not usually a big second hand smoke complainer. But we went into a little mini-grocery where after you walked in the door it tasted like you were eating cigarettes. The raspy voiced chain smoking caretaker whom I think we interrupted mid-seventy-fifth-cigarette-of-the-day was a real joy, let me tell you . . .

And then there were the businesses that weren’t there at all. I mean the U.P. is constantly bragging about it’s pasties. Home of the Pastie. Best Pasties in the World! Blah, blah, blah . . .

But you know how many pasties I’ve had since we arrived? Exactly one. And it came from a pastie chain – Dobbers. Never heard of it? Neither had I. I love pasties – but this one was dry and the crust was hard. It did have one seemingly redeeming feature – it was ready immediately. But that was because Dobbers just keeps them in the oven drying out – so that the requisite fast food customer service teenager can just hand you a pastie without any inconvenience. In any real pastie place the person serving you is at least 80 years old – and they’re like the seventh generation in their family making pasties. Their great-aunt Bertha’s third husband started the store in 1896, but he died and Bertha inherited the place, and now Delores, who’s serving you now, has been doing this for 63 years. That’s a pastie place!

As the day wore on, and the wind whipped in our faces, I became more and more hungry. And I started dwelling on the lack of pasties. What is the point of being in the U.P. if you can’t get a pastie when you need one?

And here’s what really got me bitter . . . There wasn’t one pastie place, but the cigarette woman sold Diana a fudge pastie (one of those kitschy things that seem to be made out of brown wax – like a chocolate Easter Bunny), and somehow there seemed to be marijuana dispensaries on every corner. Places with names like Farmhouse Provisioning Center. Here I am. I’m hungry. I’m in the U.P. And the Farmhouse Provisioning Center does not sell pasties. It doesn’t even sell hot dogs. It sells pot. And if you’re going to sell pot don’t you think pasties would be a natural complement anyway? I mean, you smoke a joint, you get the munchies, and you buy a pastie. But then, great marketing plans don’t seem to be a U.P. thing . . .

The thing is, though, that all that bitterness is gone. The U.P. totally rallied at the end of the day.

We’re tired. We’re windburned. We’re cold. And we’re hungry. And we only have a mile or two before we ride into the last “town” of the day before our campsite: Naubinway. Pretty much at our lowest point of the day. We’ve been scrounging for dinner supplies. Best vegetable: iceberg lettuce. We didn’t bother. Anything else? One shriveled little onion from the chain smoker lady.

When, what should appear? Not eight tiny reindeer. Duh!

No, much better than that. A farm stand. Michigan peaches. Plums. Pears. Apples (we didn’t buy any apples – we have our own supplies . . .). Cherry tomatoes. Zucchini. Corn. You could even purchase “grown live geese” for $30. I mean, we didn’t. But it’s the principle!

So now we’re on a better path anyway. As we enter Naubinway our hopes are UP. (Do you see what I did there? That passes for humor UP here . . . One of the reasons I like the place.)

It turns out that there is seemingly no difference in marketing approach between the good businesses and the bad ones. Down a side street, barely visible from the main road, we saw a hand-painted sign: “Smoked Fish.” We ride down there. There is no visible business establishment. There is a yard full of junk, including a few old – I mean really old – forklifts. Fortunately there is a man standing there doing some yard work or something (there was plenty of yard work that could be done . . .)

“Do you sell fish, like fresh fish?”

“Fish? No, I don’t sell fish, but if you go to that shed over there Allen can help you I think.” And he points a hundred yards down an alley at an old building with no apparent relation to the “Smoked Fish” sign.

We approach the shed. There’s a hand-written note taped to the door: “Call Allen at 906 543-7538.”

We call, thinking that no one will answer – but what choice do we have?

First ring: “Uh, hello.”

“We were hoping to buy fish.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Now we’re thinking about how to kill time while Allen drives over from Marquette . . . But before we can take our helmets off Allen drives up. He goes right in the unlocked door with his phone number on the note and pulls out a big tray full of fish fillets.

It’s important to note that Allen pretty much fits the exact description of the person who should be working at the pastie shop. He’s about 80. He used to fish on the lake, but now he just sells the fish for his brother, who still fishes – although the harbor where he usually fishes out of on Lake Superior is “sanded in” or something like that – so he’s been fishing on Lake Michigan . . .

Things are looking up!

We get a little smoked fish as well – which takes the edge off our hunger . . .

And then we see a pastie shop (didn’t get one because we were aiming for dinner, but made me feel better about the whole place), and then find a place with real wild rice.

Now we’re talking!

And I didn’t even mention that now that Diana has become a baked apple expert she was foraging for apples all day.

Dinner was amazing. Fish, veggies and wild rice were wonderful. Baked apples (and peach) were molten heaven.

U.P. – You really redeemed yourself today!

Although I’m counting on St. Ignace – where we get the ferry to Mackinac Island tomorrow – to have a homemade pastie shop with someone named Delores or Herbert or something like that making pasties – and Diana will be on my case to get out of there while they’re baking because we’re going to miss the ferry. . . That’s the U.P. we know and love!