MIDWESTERN STATES
Mackinac Island, Michigan: a Great (Lakes) escape!
It's easy to succumb to the tiny island's magic -- carriages, picturesque Victorians, the world's longest porch. And did we mention fudge?
Great Lakes, Michigan & Wisconsin
Milwaukee, Wisconsin & the new Harley museum
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Mackinac Island, Mich.
Temptation drifts on the wind in this enchanted island in northern Michigan. Seventeen fudge shops crowd the downtown area, and delectable scents escape every time a door opens. Chocolate, peanut butter, more chocolate.
Each store offers free samples. "Try them all," said a tour guide when I visited earlier this month. "It adds up to about a pound of the best fudge you've ever tasted."
I'd never do that, I thought to myself when he said it. But I tried one. And then another and another. Chocolate cherry. Rocky road. Double chocolate chip. Hand-paddled morsels of heavenly indulgence. I was turning into a fudgie, a derogatory term islanders use to describe summer tourists.
But so what? There are worse things to worry about in day-to-day life. Such as the price of gas. Or whether I'll be mowed down by a Harley as I cross the street. On Mackinac Island (pronounced MACK-ih-naw), I didn't have to worry about either of those. The good people of this lovely island banned motor vehicles in the early 1900s. So my three-day visit brought plenty of opportunity to bike and walk off all that fudge. Leg power, or horse power (literally), is the only way to get around.
The island, between "mainland" Michigan and its upper peninsula, is one of those rare places that gives you a glimpse into a simpler life. A little fudge, some exercise, a chance to see beautiful scenery. What more could a summer vacationer want?
Maybe a touch of magic. Mackinac has that covered too. Close your eyes and you'll swear you've stepped back into the late 19th century. Victorian inns and homes with wide verandas, long wood balconies and conical turrets march up the verdant hillsides. And the absence of cars and other motor vehicles gives the island a dreamy ambience. Horses clip-clop along the street pulling carriages; couples roll by on bicycles built for two; American flags and bright flower boxes decorate homes and street lamps.
Then, of course, there's the Grand Hotel, a grande dame indeed. The stately hillside hotel, built in 1887, looms over the town like a royal personage and qualifies as a prime attraction. Tourists stream up the hill to visit but stop short when they read double-whammy signs near the hotel's entrance. One requires visitors to be dressed appropriately, meaning a coat and tie for gents (and boys older than 12) after 6 p.m.; the other notes that nonguests must pay a $15 fee to look around.
"We'd be swamped otherwise," said a pleasant guard near the entrance when I abandoned my fudge quest long enough to check in.
(I later learned that visitors who stay for the hotel's expansive $39 luncheon buffet receive a $15 credit.)
Part of the attraction here lies in the Grand's sweeping, wide veranda, called the longest porch in the world; it's 660 feet -- more than twice the length of two football fields -- and graced by 100 white rocking chairs and thousands of bright red geraniums. The 385 guest rooms are equally impressive, with no two decorated alike. And the family-owned hotel offers a host of genteel activities such as afternoon tea, croquet and ballroom dancing.
But the Grand also qualifies as a movie star of sorts. "Somewhere in Time," a romantic fantasy, was filmed here in the late 1970s;
The bittersweet love story has collected some of the world's most avid fans. They regularly visit wearing period costumes, ready to role-play their own versions of the film.
"I've wanted to come here for 28 years," said fan Sunnie Bunn. Along with her friend John Zinkl, she finally made it for her 50th birthday. The couple had raided vintage stores and wore only period costumes while weekending at the hotel. They drew a few glances, but most guests enjoyed their dress-up game as much as Bunn and Zinkl did.
Of course, everyone who stays here plays a dress-up game.
"Every evening at Grand Hotel is an occasion; most of the guests dress in their finest," reads a 28-page guest handbook that's provided when you register.
So what does that mean to a laid-back California native like me? Break out the wedding-guest dress and the pumps. Not exactly what I usually do on a summer vacation.
But within the Grand's elegant walls, where harpists play, tuxedoed waiters serve dinner and demitasse is poured nightly into fine china cups, it works.
"What we want to do is create a memory," said concierge and historian Bob Tagatz. They succeed.
CIRCLING THE ISLAND
The Straits of Mackinac, where the island is located, mark the transition between Lake Huron to the east and Lake Michigan to the west. The straits have been called a Great Lakes Cape Horn because of the treacherous gales and waves sometimes found here. But during the summer, these waters become a playground for the Midwestern yacht and country club set. Last week, 430 boats battled thunderstorms during the 100th running of the Chicago Yacht Club Race to Mackinac.
I was happy with simpler transportation: a rented three-speed bike. I took it on a circle tour of the island on Lakeshore Road, an eight-mile-long strip of asphalt that runs along the perimeter of Mackinac.
I asked the rental clerk about the route.
"It's the only state highway in America that's never had an automobile accident," she said.
"That's a pretty bad joke," I said.
"But the fudgies love it," she said.
There's that word again.
I took off, passing through the scrubbed-clean downtown. It was almost too perfect, I thought to myself, as if Disney had asked Imagineering to create the ideal turn-of-the-last-century town. I smiled. Mackinac Island was here long before
The route was flat, and like most tourists, I chose to ride it counter-clockwise, past the marina and Mission Point to Arch Rock, a 50-foot-wide limestone formation that looms 150 feet above the highway. To my right, small waves lapped at the island's shore. I cycled on, passing a family of four, with Mom and Dad on tandems with twin boys.
The late afternoon sky was vibrant, the air crisp and clean, the scenery a mix of lakeshore and forest views. A red-tailed hawk soared above me, riding air currents and scouting for dinner.
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