One of my favorite mini vacations is wandering the Upper Peninsula with my sea kayak on top of my Jeep, looking for intriguing waters to paddle. I take the kayak because it allows me to explore the bays and inlets of Lake Superior with ease and safety, and also inland lakes. A favorite destination is Beaver Lake in the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore Park between Munising and Grand Marais. The access is at Beaver Lake Campgrounds. From there you can spend a day exploring the lake, or you can paddle to Lake Superior via Beaver Creek. You're going to have to get out of the canoe/kayak and pull the boat at some point, as the creek is shallow. For more information on this destination and others, check out my book, the Paddler's Guide to Michigan, below.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Monday, June 16, 2014
There's nothing more enjoyable than visiting local fish markets in Michigan beach towns. They're nothing like their city cousins in big towns, where the fish is sandwiched between the chicken and pork, all encased in plastic. The fish takes center stage in the small markets where the person behind the counter helps select the pieces you want and wraps them in paper, the way it should be. White fish is a favorite, but I usually can't resist picking up smoked fish for lunch or a snack. Since I buy wine based on it's name, I usually pick up some Fishtown white, a Michigan wine. A chef from Maine who worked on yachts once advised me during a bar conversation in the U.P. to bake white fish until it flakes. Use a fork to test it. Then in that distinctive Maine accent he said: "Then you can pour any sauce on it you want." I follow his advice to this day.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Many people have taken photos of the Mackinac Bridge over the years, and they're in photo albums, on computers and phones. Taking a picture of the Big Mac is difficult. Most are shot from the same angle in Mackinaw City. If you're looking for a different view, simply drive across the bridge, turn right on U.S. 2 and take it to Straits State Park on Church Street. I've been going to the area for years, but only stumble on the park last year, when I was looking for a new bridge shot. The park was a delightful discovery, and is a refuge from the crowds in Mackinaw City and St. Ignace. The beach was uncrowded and it was July. There are camp sites near the water, walking trails and a shallow beach for letting the kids swim.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Seems like people had more time in the past for handiwork. I know things like this are dated, but it doesn't stop me from admiring them. This unconventional rock planter is at the Traverse Bay Lighthouse in Leelanau State Park just north of Northport.
A trip to the lighthouse, built in 1858, makes for a good outing when in the Traverse City area. The stone flower bed was built by James McCormic in 1926, and it reminds me of backyard projects at northern Michigan homes. It's similar to the old bottle fences people built, but which are disappearing due to neglect. This one should be around for a while.
Monday, June 9, 2014
But I've been doing this for a long time. I was born to it. I have my father and grandfathers to thank. They weren't trendy chefs or restaurant owners cashing in on a new trend, they were old school farm people, for which "buying locally" came naturally. It was in their back yards or down the road. So on Father's Day, I'm paying tribute to them.
My father was an Arkansas kid, who grew up on small patches of farm land near Little Rock during the 1920s and through the Depression years of the 1930s. As a teenager, he raised a patch of musk melons, the best he ever saw, he said. But he couldn't sell them in Little Rock because the price wouldn't even pay for the gas needed to get them to market. He had to watch them rot in the field. It was an experience that affected him for the remainder of his life. "People were hungry in the city, and I had a good crop, but I couldn't get it to them," he'd say. In his later years he worked in an inner Detroit soup kitchen to feed people.
He later attended agricultural school at the University of Arkansas, and eventually taught farming at the Henry Ford Trade Schools in Dearborn. He'd lament that urban sprawl in western Wayne County was chewing up good farm land.
Because of that background, our family trips took on a new dimension. The countryside wasn't just scenery. I learned there was a reason that fields were plowed in a certain way, and that fruit trees were planted on the south and west side of hills -- to get more sunlight. Every farm building has a specific use, and the quaint wooden ones weren't built to look that way, but for a specific reason. I wish I'd listened better. To this day, when driving through the country I marvel at the architecture of old, abandoned farm buildings. I know that in my misty childhood I was once told what they were.
On those trips, my father would pull over to the side of the road and walk into a farm field, pick up a handful of soil and examine it. It was embarrassing as a kid, but I now value the education.
I started to value country rides with him, as I grew older. In his 70s while dying of leukemia he still had the energy to get worked up about a herd of cattle he saw. "Somebody ought to shoot that farmer for the way he's keeping them cattle." He went on to say they were covered with flies and should be washed down with a certain solution, to keep the insects away.
Even when watching the TV news, he saw things differently, especially when there would be a famine in an African country. He didn't listen to the politics of it, but would look at the landscape and point out that a simple irrigation project would allow the people to have a farm plot that would produce food for people and forage for domestic animals.
|The author harvests corn in Arkansas in the 1950s.|
Every square inch of my grandfather's ten acre plot was dedicated to producing food. There was a large garden with okra, corn, tomatoes, watermelon, and other produce. There was a peach orchard. There were also chickens and pigs. The pigs intrigued me, they'd eat anything, and once it was almost me. I was about five and was sitting on the rail of the pig pen watching them feed. My father and grandfather were nearby picking peaches. I lost my balance and fell in the pen. I heard my grandfather yell: "Get that boy out of there before them pigs eat his guts out." It was a direct, honest lesson that affected my view of pigs for years to come.
My oldest son was able to learn some of this when he went with my father and his brother to buy some sorghum near the family farm in Arkansas. He returned hours later, laughing. "It took us two hours to buy it," he said. "First, we just had to gossip with the guy, and then gently bring up the fact that we'd heard he made it. Then we had to take a taste. The guy then gave us the entire history of sorghum making. Finally, we were able to buy some."
I hoped he'd learned more than just about southern politeness and how you can't be too direct when talking to an old southerner. I hope he learned that it's important to know where your food comes from and how it's made, so he can pass that along to his two daughters. The locally grown food movement may seem terminally hip, but it's really just a return to older values. I for one hope it grows.