The Keweenaw Tour - Part#2 In The U.P.

Brad, Jack, And Me On The Shore Of Lake Superior

It was somewhat of a spur of the moment decision.  By that I mean I had been thinking about it for the last 3 years, but hadn’t been able to take the plunge.  I was still teaching for two of those 3 years, and this last year was too convoluted on both sides to commit to anything. So when my cousin said he was going up to the base of Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula to help his son pack up an apartment after his junior year in college, I jumped at the chance to join them; figuring I could both help and visit with them at the same time.

As mentioned in “Think I’m In Love - Part#1 In The U.P.” I spent 24 hours camping and fishing in the Ottawa National Forest of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula on my way to Houghton. (Click on the link if you want to catch up with that adventure.)  Once I drove out of the woods and had cell phone reception, I sent out some texts to family members as to where I was and my predicted time of arrival further Up North.  It’s nice to be disconnected from technology when I’m on an adventure, other than using a phone to take pictures, but for those wondering how things are going when I’m camping, it can be a little unsettling.  Apparently my cousins had been wondering back and forth on our common texting thread if I was okay and when I was expected.  In my mind I had said I’d meet up with them in the afternoon, so I’d simply pushed it to the limits to maximize my time outdoors.  My cousin Brad was having to drive from Southern Michigan anyways, so I figured we’d hook up just in time for dinner.  Once contact was made in the early afternoon, the barrage of texts that came through were pretty funny.  My son Todd summed it up best when he stated, “That was exciting to hear updates coming through on my run.  Nothing gets the blood pumping like a lost Dad!”  I’ll admit that I loved the idea of being the “Lost Dad,” especially since I wasn’t.

I met Brad and his son Jack in the Walmart parking lot after descending into Houghton, Michigan.  From there I followed them to the Super 8 Hotel where we were staying; on the Keweenaw Waterway, across from Mont Ripley Ski Area, and next door to Michigan Tech University where Jack attends.  The three of us regrouped and then Jack went into full bore tour guide mode.  It’s something he seemed to enjoy and a trait I was soon to realize he was pretty darn good at too!

First up was a burger and fries at Quincy’s in nearby Laurium.  Although I was still kind of full from my cookout in the campground earlier that day, it’s a meal that I’m always looking forward to having.  The rustic decor was cool, and as promised by Jack, the burger was delicious.

Quincy's Restaurant

From there we drove up to Douglass Houghton Falls.  Its drop is the highest in Michigan at 110 feet.  Looking at it is a little dicey at best right now, but they are in the midst of developing a parking area in lieu of pulling off to the side of the road and are apparently going to build walkways and decks to cut down on erosion and near death experiences.  The views were spectacular and although it did begin to drizzle, we carefully worked our way to the bottom of the ravine to take pictures, explore the rocks, and check out an old mine shaft.  I’m sure the area has gone through many changes over the years, and will continue to do so as they work to make it safe, but it was well worth the visit.  It was getting dark as we left and headed back.

Watch That Last Step
It's A Doozy!

Apparently Jack Had Done This Before
Crazy Kid!

I Was Amazed At The Height
Of The Waterfall

Jack In The Mouth Of The Mine Shaft
That We Had Explored

For The Love Of God, Be Careful Jack : )

At the hotel, Brad and I settled in for the night knowing that the following day would entail working, exploring, and partaking in some sort of an adventure.  His son Jack headed back to his apartment to continue packing.

Early the next morning, Brad and I ran along the shoreline of the Waterway.  The air was chilly, but it was fun to run an unfamiliar route.  We got cleaned up, ate a continental breakfast, and headed over to Jack’s apartment.

Cleaning out Jack’s room, and filling the van that Brad had driven up, didn’t really take too long.  It basically came down to the adage, “Many hands make light work.”  The packing itself resembled the assembly of a jigsaw puzzle; when every piece has its specific place.  Once finished, Jack proudly stood on the rickety old porch so Brad could take one last picture; both to document the occasion, and as proof that the building had once stood somewhat upright - and as of yet was not the pile of rubble it was destined for the next time winter winds blew out of the Northwest.

With a click of our heels, we drove the loaded vehicles back to the hotel parking lot and piled into my Jeep Liberty.  Brad resumed his usual position of riding shotgun while Jack gave directions from the back seat.  We had the rest of the day to explore whatever and wherever we wanted.  We headed North.  Along the way we stopped by a couple other waterfalls, including a few on the Eagle River.

The Eagle River Timber Arch Bridge

The Same River - Looking The Other Way

As we drove, Jack pointed out the local sheriff’s house and other points of interest; commenting once that he couldn’t believe that someone had exchanged their Camaro for a Charger of which he wasn’t too keen.  I asked him if he was familiar with these people and how he knew this information.  He nonchalantly said he didn’t, and added something along the lines of he just paid attention to things that he saw.  I was beginning to feel as if the world I knew was turning a bit upside down; which was kind of spooky considering that I myself am alert and observant to the small details that slip by most others.  Jack’s attention to detail, however, was teetering on a different level.

After visiting the famously small Jampot bakery, we made a quick roadside stop at the Great Sand Bay Trailhead.  Brad, who typically is reserved and a man of few words, got out to randomly talk to an unknown guy who had been working to stake property lines in the woods east of there and was putting away his gear.  Apparently, through talking, they  soon realized that they both knew fellow surveyors.  When he returned to the Jeep and reported on what he had learned, Jack commented that you had to be careful back in that area the guy had been surveying - as the ground was marshy and full of sink holes.  Seriously, what was happening to my world?  Who were these people and what had they done to my cousins?  Brad was breaking out of the norm of what I’d come to expect the last 50+ years, and how did Jack know these things?

Continuing up M-26, we passed Eagle Harbor and pulled into the boat launch for Lake Bailey.  Over sixty years ago my Dad had camped on the island in the middle of that lake with his friend Tom Royce.  They took a side trip in the midst of their adventure and spent the night up on nearby Mount Baldy, by throwing their sleeping bags on top of juniper bushes for cushioning.  After taking a few pictures of the lake for my Dad to see later, we snapped some branches from a recently fallen dead tree to use as firewood before driving a few miles up to Esrey Park on the shores of Lake Superior.  It was a beautiful setting despite the overcast skies and cool temperature.  Choppy waves crashed on the rocks beside us.

Because we’ve always wanted to, we scooped water from the world’s largest fresh water lake into a pot, and set it over the fire we had started in the grill.  We boiled the heck out of it to use for Brad’s coffee and the hot chocolate for Jack and me.  Next to the pot of water we placed the two brook trout I had caught the afternoon prior - while on an overnight camping trip.  The flaky, pink, meat would be the perfect light lunch prior to finishing our drive to the tip of the Keweenaw Peninsula.

Scooping Water From Lake Superior

Boiling Water & Cooking Brook Trout
At Esrey Park

Once we were finished and had climbed around on the rocks, we backtracked a hair and got on the Brockway Mountain Drive.  It rides the backbone of the peninsula and allows you to see a grand vista of Lake Superior and its rugged shoreline.  We stopped at the observation area and took several pictures that included the area we had visited earlier around Lake Bailey, a freighter out on the big lake, and later the little town of Copper Harbor.  The skies cooperated and opened up enough that we were able to see the rough outline of Isle Royale National Park; far to the North as an island on the horizon.

Lake Bailey, The Island & Mount Baldy
On The Horizon

A Close-up Of Lake Bailey's Island

Copper Harbor

Copper Harbor And Lake Fanny Hooe.
Fort Wilkins State Park Is Located
On The Strip Of Land
Between The Lake And Harbor.

After descending into Copper Harbor, we drove straight through the town and into Fort Wilkins State Park on the shore of Lake Fanny Hooe.  We purchased a daily sticker and looked around the East campground.  It was a trip down memory lane for me personally, as my wife and I had twice brought our kids here to camp when they were young (2004 & 2007).  I found our old campsites, as well as the old cedar tree we had sat on for our family picture.  Remembering such times made me reflective and somber.  I love where we’re at with our family of adults, but how fun would it be to go back, for just a day, and enjoy everything that made your kids your kids?!

Jodi & Todd - 2004

Old Cedar Trunks Out
Over Lake Fanny Hooe - 2025

Our Family On The Same Trunks - 2007

Neither Brad or Jack had ever visited the old fort in the park, so we walked over to tour the various buildings.  We didn’t just walk through, however, we went into every single building - and if I’m not mistaken, read every single sign explaining the life and times when Fort Wilkins was an outpost in the northern wilderness.  All of us immersed ourselves in the history of it for about an hour.

Jodi And Todd At The Fort - 2007

We then swung over to check out the rocky beach that overlooked the lighthouse in the harbor.  It was super calm since the last time I was there with my family back in 2007; when thunderous waves had crashed and boomed into the rocky shore.  We skipped stones like kids ourselves.

Calm Enough To Skip Stones - 2025

2007

At Jack’s suggestion, we all got a “Portside” sandwich for dinner at the Mariner North restaurant.  The sandwich of shaved beef and fries hit the spot!  Before leaving town we stopped in the Minnetonka Resort after driving along the waterfront near the Isle Royale ferry.  The woman in the resort’s gift shop was unpacking boxes to stock the shelves for the summer rush of tourists but stopped for a while to talk to us.  Both Brad and I commented afterwards that we’d have loved to sit down and listen to her talk more about Isle Royale.  We had found out that she’s on a committee for the island and has taken countless groups there over the years.  It’s a place that Brad and I, along with his twin brother Brian, have talked about visiting since we were wee lads.  She sounded like the kind of person that could answer any questions we’d have that would perhaps someday help us step foot on its shore; she was someone with valuable firsthand knowledge.  I bought a T-shirt and two stickers from her to add to the back window of my Jeep.

Leaving town, we made one more stop at Hunter’s Point Park.  Cindy and I had walked the trails with our kids soon after it had originally opened.  Trails were now marked with signage and started from a developed trailhead.  For once on this trip, I knew an area of the North Country a hair bit better than Jack.  Not that it was a competition, but it was funny how knowledgeable he was on most of what we had visited.  We hiked to the point on the narrow strip of land that creates the western arm for Copper Harbor; talking, looking at rocks, and listening to the waves on the northern shore as we went.  Arriving at the tip, we wished that it was warmer so we could wade the gap to Porters Island.  Instead we posed for a picture and once again skipped rocks.  On our way back to the Jeep we scared out a deer that had been hiding right next to us and just off the trail.

Hunter's Point - 2007

Driving the return trip to Houghton, we talked as men who were content.  It had been a great day spent together as family members!  We stopped twice more before coming into our hotel after dark.  Once was for ice cream in a waffle cone at “Sundae In The Park” located in the small town of Mohawk, and then at F.J. McLain State Park to watch an awesome sunset over the pier and light house.

That evening, Brad and Jack slept in the beds of the hotel, and I crashed on the floor - sandwiched between my two wool blankets that I’d had for camping.  I was so tired that I slept solid throughout the entire night!  We woke early though, packed our gear, and had breakfast at the “Copper Range Depot” to fuel up for our drives home, but not before picking up some Cornish pasties at Roy’s for Cindy and me.  With one final picture to commemorate our time together, we went our separate ways; Brad and Jack - each in their own vehicles headed back to Jackson County, Michigan and me to the Illinois-Wisconsin stateline border.  It had been quite a tour of the Keweenaw Peninsula and one we’d long remember!

See you along The Way…

Jack, Me, & Brad
Saying Goodbye to Houghton, Michigan
At The Base Of The
Keweenaw Peninsula

Think I'm In Love - Part#1 In The U.P.

I had a day.  Not in the typical sense of it being bad, overwhelming, or more than I could handle.  I literally meant I had a day!  I had about 24 hours to myself before I promised to meet up with family.

The day before leaving, I spent a few hours looking up some possible get-a-way locations in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (U.P.).  Once I had narrowed down the possibilities, I called the Ottawa National Forest Visitor’s Center.  I was able to talk to a representative named Karl who answered my list of questions; everything from out of the way places to camp, to rules on collecting firewood, and his thoughts about local trout fishing.  He was super helpful & encouraging, which energized me to start packing!  I could hardly wait to explore a new area I had never been to before.  Granted, I had driven by the general area about a dozen times or so over the course of my lifetime, but I had never veered east to the actual rivers and woods I planned to immerse myself in while camping and fishing.

Early the next morning I rose with the birds and grabbed my running gear for a 5 mile run through the town near our home.  The run was cold and drizzly; a bit atypical for the later part of May, but I cranked it out.  Once back home, I said goodbye to Cindy as she left for work.  I showered and cooked up a respectable breakfast; the kind of breakfast that’s perfect for the iron skillet that sits permanently on our stovetop for just such a purpose.  It was the kind of breakfast that would either make you really sleepy 20 miles down the road, or stick to your ribs until you reached your destination hours away.

Despite the constant rain up through Wisconsin, I drove with purpose and made good time.  The Visitor’s Center was scheduled to close at 4:00 and I needed to get one of the few remaining maps that Karl had said were left.  Like a good salesperson imploring a scarcity marketing tactic, he had convinced me that I needed to get that “collector’s edition” of a map.  I love maps!

After a quick stop in Eagle River, Wisconsin, I made the final push and arrived at the center with time to spare.  Karl, who I had spoken to the previous day, produced the map for me to purchase.  I broke out my reading glasses and we spread the map out on the countertop.  Together we poured over it so I could pinpoint various features and ask questions that came to mind as I looked at the squiggly blue lines of rivers and twisting gray roads marked as gravel, dirt, or the two tracks “not maintained for passenger cars.”  Gleaning as much information as I could gather was my purpose, but it worked inversely.  The more I gained and stored in my brain to recall later, the more giddy and anxious I was to get going as soon as possible.  With a wave and a promise to swing by later to let them know how it had gone, I headed out, trying to drive away respectfully and not squeal tires in excitement!

Actually, under the suggestion from Karl, I drove the short distance west to Sylvania Outfitters and talked to the owner, and apparent local legend, Bob.  He gave me a brief history of the local Watersmeet Gneiss metamorphic bedrock which had recently been determined to be the oldest in the United States.  You could tell he was proud of the distinction over rocks found in Wyoming and the Canadian Shield of Minnesota.  I thanked him and bought an Ottawa National Forest Sticker.  I was in the midst of the maiden adventure voyage for my “new” 2004 Jeep Liberty, so I needed to start the usual collection of fun, out-of-the-way stickers I like to have outline the back window of my vehicle.

Within minutes I was driving the dirt roads of the National Forest.  It felt good.  It felt right.  Curvy dirt roads have a sensual attraction - especially through thick coniferous forests.  I pulled into the small campground of choice a little after 4:00.  Only a handful of sites were there, and only one was occupied on the opposite end.  For all practical purposes, I had the area to myself and it felt perfect.  I chose a site that was under a grove of red pines.  From there the river was still clearly audible.

What the campground lacked in people, it made up for in blackflies.  I tried ignoring them while I unpacked some of my gear and set up the tent.  Hiking back into the woods, I found a few dead maple trees that I bucked into manageable lengths for an evening fire.  I stacked the firewood behind a massive red pine.

Since the late spring days were gradually growing longer, I still had time to go fishing at a nearby creek I had seen on my drive in.  The creek felt more personal and intimate than the larger, faster moving river next to the campground.  I put on my waders and began walking alongside the bank; careful to watch my footing and avoid both the vibrations that would scare the trout, as well as the numerous beaver slides between the water and clumps of tag alder, dogwood, and willows.  The large rodents had clearly been busy.  As busy as a… Well, you know!

The terrain was sublime, with plenty of room between the creek and the thick forest of spruce, balsam, birch, and tamarack that lined each side.  Two things stuck with me as I made excellent cast after excellent cast on this, my inaugural trout fishing trip of the season.  The first was that the temperature was quickly plummeting; which sent the blackflies packing!   In fact, they completely disappeared, never to be seen again.  The second was that although I wasn’t hooking into any fish, I had seen a few, and that was encouraging.  I knew it would be tough fishing with the falling temperature, winds out of the north, and the rising air pressure.  When you stand in such a beautiful setting, however, you really don’t care what an ichthyologist (fish biologist) or a meteorologist may say about how weather affects the fish.  I don’t tend to think much about such things anyways, focusing instead on nature’s vivid elegance.

Periodically I looked ahead; expecting a moose or black bear to walk out of the brush at any moment.  Such a spectacle would have been natural and proper in such wild terrain.  And although it was possible, I’m not going to lie that it probably would have surprised the heck out of me!  Still, I smiled to myself at the likelihood and continued walking and casting undeterred.  I was already falling in love with this creek and forest and we had just met!

As I started to consider heading back and cooking dinner, I saw movement a few creek bends up in front of me.  I wondered to myself what it was.  It didn’t really match anything I could picture, and yet its motion was constant.  After a minute of two, a man sitting in a canoe came into focus.  He had been fly fishing with a streamer and casting ahead as the current carried him along.  I gathered that it was his truck I had seen parked in the woods just off the dirt road where I had started.  We talked as he paddled, and I hiked on the bank beside him.  Apparently he had had about as much luck fishing as I had, but he admitted that he had done well in the past.  I didn’t doubt it.  We told stories of big animals we’d seen before and fishing trips of the past.  I asked him questions about the area, and for being a local, he appeased me and answered them as best he could.  Just before I got back to the bridge and gravel road, I came upon a wood turtle.  He seemed pretty chill and didn’t seem to mind my presence, but then again, maybe it was the nippy temperature that was slowing him down.  You know, being a cold blooded reptile and all.

For dinner I boiled water in a pot for rice while slicing up a yellow pepper, mushrooms, pineapple, and a big tomato that I cooked together within my camp skillet.  It was more than I could eat, but with a yeoman’s effort I attacked and polished off a good amount.  The leftovers were packaged and thrown into a small cooler, before I washed down the meal with some hot chocolate.  The temperature, while continuing to fall, was now dipping below 40°.

Unlike when I had camped this past winter, and the temperature had bottomed out at a flatline zero, I knew my sleep system was going to work perfectly to keep me comfortably warm.  I was counting on it.  In fact, I was looking forward to it!  I was in my tent by 9:30, but wrote in my daily journal for a while before falling asleep around 10:45.

I woke at 4:00, listened to the waterfall at the river for a while, and then slept again from 5:30 until 7:00.  According to my thermometer, it had gotten down to 32.4° during the night.  But I was comfortable despite forgetting my pillow and having to use my fleece pullover stuffed inside of its own sleeve. I got up and boiled some water on my campstove.  Down on the rocks beside the waterfall and river, I ate a breakfast of oatmeal topped with granola, raisins, strawberries, and a drizzle of honey.  Finding myself easily captivated by my surroundings, I felt like it was darn near perfect.  And while I’ve been to some beautiful places, and have witnessed some spectacular vistas, I think I was falling in love.  The constant roar of the water and rising sun shining off tree tops began to stir me to get going and move.  I wanted to begin exploring!

After cleaning up my dishes, and straightening up my site, I looked over my new map and headed off up a national forest dirt road.  Within a few miles I stopped to check out a small creek.  I considered fishing it, but thought I might have a better chance further downstream as it gathered volume.  I decided instead to take a little detour and go look at a tiny body of water called “Corpse Pond” - while wondering what the long forgotten story was behind its name.  The two-track trail off the dirt road started out promising, but eventually petered out to little more than a foot path.  Several times I got out and sawed up a couple of downed trees to allow my blue Jeep through, but it was of no use.  Between the narrowing brush and squadrons of mosquitoes attacking as a united front, I quickly realized that if I continued any further, my desired destination of Corpse Pond was going to come into fruition when I became its poster child namesake!  I pictured an unlikely autumn hunter stumbling upon my remains out in the middle of nowhere beside a shallow swale, chock-full of algae.

With a shudder, I backed up, turned around, and made my way back to the dirt road; with the windows down to suck out the blood thirsty skeeters.  I checked on the same small creek a couple of miles down, and although there was a nice clearing to access the water, the creek itself was clogged with beaver dams and choked full of brush.  I'd be next to impossible to fish it.  It would have to remain a sanctuary for small brook trout to survive and flourish unencumbered.  In the end, I elected to head back to the creek I had fished the night before.  It was wider, deeper, and I had much more yet to explore.

At about that time the wind picked up considerably, which in turn pushed the mosquitoes for cover.  Neither hide nor hair was seen of them for the remainder of the day - which was a godsend!

After pulling on my waders and putting my pole together, I yanked my fleece hat down over my ears, zipped up my coat, and put on my polarized sunglasses.  Doing so allowed me to see through the reflective surface of the water and into the depths below.  As I had found the evening before, with the edge of the creek clear of brush, I was able to carefully walk the bank instead of wading against the current and tippy-toeing through the dark, deep bends.  I love those deep cut bends as they are mysteriously alluring, but they can be downright scary too!

Within the first couple minutes of fishing I came upon the same wood turtle I had seen the night before.  It was in a different spot, but the same section of river bank.  He was eating earthworms, and undaunted, allowed me a close up picture while he ate.  Ten minutes later I had a solid hit from a fish.  The brook trout went airborne; dancing on the liquid silver surface of the creek.  Wild trout have so much spunk no matter what size they are.  As I reeled it towards me, I peered over the high bank and into the dark water; wondering how I’d scoop it into my net.  Fortunately it leapt again and took care of the issue by throwing the spinner and its hook.  I was just happy I had seen a trout.  Maybe they’d start feeding as it gradually warmed.  A few minutes later I caught a spunky 10 inch brookie and elected to keep it.

Catching and holding that native trout helped put the wax seal on finding a special area to camp and fish.  Surreal was the word that resonated in my soul, since I hadn’t even known of its existence until a couple of days ago.  The area definitely had the kind of vibes that grabbed my attention and I was intrigued by its aura!

After fishing for another hour, I began repeating the mantra of, “just one more bend.”  I knew the end was near.  It’s the kind of thing that a person who fishes hears echoing in their head when they’re absolutely loving what they’re doing and never want to stop - but know that they need to soon; it required a reaction minus the stomping and whining.  Very soon I was going to need to put the hammer down to hike back, pack up my tent and gear, possibly cook a lunch, and then drive another 80 some miles further North to meet up with my cousin Brad and his son Jack.  I looked ahead and saw a series of beautiful bends.  I promised myself that I’d stop there, break down my pole, and begin the trudge back.

Just before I reached that stopping point I had another solid hit.  I could tell the fish was bigger.  I worked it over to the bank and lifted it within my soft rubber net.  Native brookies are absolutely beautiful!  The green, worm-like marks across its camouflaged back belie the beauty found on the remainder of this trout’s sides and belly.  A brilliant white streak trims their orange and black fins.  Yellow spots speckle their flanks beside blue halos that surround pink dots.  I decided to end my exploratory fishing then and there.  I added that 12 inch brook trout with the one I had caught previously and knew that I’d share it the following day with my cousins; cooked somewhere special I was sure.

Before hiking out, I paused for a moment and tried to take a mental snapshot of where I was and what I was experiencing.  I was both speechless and spellbound.  Here within the loving embrace of the Northwoods, beauty ran deep.  From soft needles on a tamarack bough to the delicate flower petals of a forget-me-not or serviceberry bush.  I held that beauty to my heart.

Forget-Me-Not

Serviceberry (a.k.a. Juneberry)

Closing my eyes, I pictured the layout of my location on the map I had purchased.  If I remembered correctly, I thought there was a trail marked a little ways into the wood from where I stood.  I debated whether I should walk back the way I had fished in; along the many twists and turns of the snaking creek, or if I should hike into the wall of green and hope that I’d stumble upon that unknown path.  I chose the latter, and risked wasting time wallowing through underbrush and getting lost.  What I found surprisingly took me back to the Jeep within 15 minutes.  It was well worth the gamble.  The whole trip was playing out that way.

CLICK BELOW FOR A QUICK VIDEO OF

A WINDY DAY ON A BEAUTIFUL TROUT CREEK:

Once back to my site I carefully packed away my gear and then thought about whether I should just get on the road, or cook the final meal I’d been looking forward to.  I elected to fry up the beef stew meat, boil water for some noodles, and then combine these with a can of cream of mushroom soup.  I ate beside the river’s waterfall again and then saved the rest as leftovers to be eaten on a later date.  On the way back to my campsite I picked up a bag of various pieces of garbage that had been left behind by others.  It was the least I could do to feel as though I was giving something back to the forest.

Looking around the site as I stepped into my Jeep, I felt contentment creeping through my body.  I had spent just shy of 24 hours in the Ottawa National Forest and yet I already felt as if I had known her my entire life.  I think I was in love.  In fact, I was sure of it!

See you along The Way…

Fringed Polygala

New Growth Of A Balsam

Skunk Currant

Wood Anemone

Marsh Marigold