Bike Jail

Hog Island, MI – St. Ignace, MI

We interrupt our regular scheduled programming for a special report.

Mackinac Island.

Yes, we had to actually ride to get to Mackinac – and I’ll get to that. But clearly the headline for the day was the tourist trap they call Mackinac Island. (Did I mention this place we saw yesterday called the “Honest Injun’s Tourist Trap”? Probably not. I may write a whole piece one of these days about the U.P.’s “interesting” language and symbology (is that a word?) around Native Americans . . . Particularly the business establishments. But not today.)

First order of business. Getting there. As the name implies, it’s an island. And at least in the summer, when there’s not an ice bridge, that means taking a ferry.

I don’t know about the rest of the world, but for the Mungers catching ferries is a harrowing experience. It is, apparently, physically impossible for us to get to a ferry terminal early. Even if we had had Swedish pancakes – which, by the way, we didn’t this morning, I just don’t think we could do it.

Sure enough, despite having talked all morning about how we wanted to catch the 12:30 ferry – because the next ferry did not leave until 1:30 – and we were only going to be on the island a few hours – we ended up in a mad rush at the end.

We’re biking along at a good clip, but inevitably there’s a picture we just have to take. For instance, I had to take a picture of a billboard imploring us to: “Explore the World Famous Mystery Spot – only two miles ahead!” (I’ve been searching for the mystery spot since at least 1995 – probably really started looking for it in college – so the opportunity to explore THE Mystery Spot was more than a little intriguing.) And then Diana had to stop to take pictures of the Mackinac Bridge. We both thought it was important to take pictures of the dunes and the shore. You get the idea.

We finally arrive at the campground at noon and we still have to register for a site. Diana says there is no chance to make the ferry by 12:30.

“I can put up the tent in two minutes and it’s only ten minutes to the ferry,” I say.

We leave the campsite at 12:16. It’s a mile-and-a-half; it should be no problem to get there by 12:30.

And we do. We’re there at 12:25 and feeling pretty good about ourselves. Except there are only two other parties there – and, worse yet, there’s a sign saying that the ferry leaves from another dock one mile to the north. Admittedly, Diana is better at situations like this – that is, situations where reading and paying attention to the directions are actually important. Despite the sign, my strategy is to go talk to the other two parties and see what they think. Diana? She’s already on her her way down the road – muttering as she goes that she doesn’t know what I’m doing . . .

We don’t have our packs on at this point, the road is flat, and we are highly motivated – so we are biking faster than at any point on the trip to date. We arrive at the next dock with time to spare – like two minutes. Except there is another sign: “Ferry leaves from a dock half mile to the north.” Now, I may be slow on the uptake, but I’ve figured it out now too. We both put it in even higher gear and bullet down the road. (This whole episode does the beg the question of why the ferry service has made getting to the terminal into a scavenger hunt . . . But there’s no time for philosophical questions at this point . . .)

We pull up, the ferry is still there – we’re in business. It is 12:29 pm.

Except the ticket person is having none of it.

“Do you have your tickets?”

“No,” I stammer, “but we could . . .”

“Next ferry’s at 1:30,” she says dismissively.

Diana asks if we can buy the tickets online after we board.

“No!” she replies. And “This is the U.P. – we don’t do online.” is implied. Loud and clear.

Before the implication sinks in I’m racing off to the ticket building. No one’s at the counter, but miraculously a woman comes out quickly and processes our tickets – one for each of us and one each for the bikes (for a whopping total of $102!) in about 17 seconds.

I’m back out on the dock in a jiffy. And this is where our marital division of labor shines. Diana – being Diana with all of her New York-ness – is not about to let that ferry leave without us. I don’t know what she did, but we caught the ferry.

Oh, this was supposed to be a special report about Mackinac Island and we haven’t even arrived on the island yet . . .

Let’s get to it.

The fudge is good – though it’s difficult to know which of the literally 15 different fudge shops in a two block span that one should go to. Ultimately, we went to Joann’s Fudge – because it was the only shop that would sell us less than a one pound block.

Mackinac is completely car free – which is very cool – and works great for the 17 different bike rental shops, and the kitschy horse drawn carriages and taxis – who are all making a killing with the tourists who think that bicycles and horses are neat in a Little House on Prairie type of way. (As it turns out, though, it can feel more dangerous biking with people who have never biked before than it does on roads with big semi tractors zooming by. At least the semi drives know which way you are supposed to go on the road – and they don’t have the problem of needing to go a certain speed just to stay balanced . . .)

We circled the island – about 8 miles. Very pretty. Lots of nice interpretative historical and nature signage, and a cool natural arch.

And then we made our big mistake. My Dad had gone to the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island when he was young and was very impressed with the geraniums, among other things. So we decided to check it out.

We biked up the hill to get there (we knew we were going up hill because Diana’s Wahoo does a special beep when you go up a “big” climb – which seems to be a determination completely in the discretion of the Wahoo – since the beep only happens on occasional hills that it apparently determines are worthy of a beep.). We get there – out of breath because the Wahoo told us to be out of breath – because we had, in it’s estimation, biked up a hill. But there’s a sign saying that bikes are not allowed on the hotel property.

We put them against the fence and enjoy the Grand-ness – and the geraniums – which, sure enough, there are a lot of. For the first time on our trip it is actually almost ice cream weather, so we get a cone (Mackinac Island Fudge, of course), and stroll the porch – which is, I guess, the longest hotel porch in the world. Who knew?

It’s beautiful, and we’re with the beautiful people, and we wander the grounds, finally returning to our . . .

WAIT!

Where are our bikes?

WHERE ARE OUR F’ING BIKES?!?

What?!?

I ponder our options. No, that sounds too rational. My mind goes into afib – skipping between 73 thoughts in about a nanosecond – none of them making any sense . . . I’m thinking I’m going to run to the terminal before someone has a chance to take the bikes off of the island on the next ferry! Hmm. No. What? Where are our bikes?!!!?

As we look around we see a vaguely official looking person standing there.

“Umm, we had some bikes here? You wouldn’t have seen anyone take them?”

Completely not picking up on our panicked vibe: “Oh, yeah, we don’t allow bikes on the property so our security people removed them.”

She points up the hill still further – where we quickly see that our bikes are in bike jail. Safe and sound.

Well, that got the heartbeat going a little bit . . .

The rest of the day? Nice campground overlooking the Bridge and next to the water, another day of fresh fish over an open fire, and, oh, I am now a more successful explorer than the famous Jean Nicolet – who in 1634 explored the north shore of Lake Michigan and, according to the interpretative historical marker that we saw along the route today, “found no Orientals.” Because, you see, I DID find an Oriental along the north shore . . . (See the photographic proof).

And because I am now a successful explorer – maybe not Lewis & Clarke, I’ll grant you – but up there with Nicolet, and the Duluth guy who discovered, well, Duluth, I decided that I would, for the sake of posterity and, more important, science, provide a 100% accurate, true and correct, map of our travels. 

Next stop – Canada! The country. Not the ginger ale.