August 20, 2025
I woke up this morning to beautiful surroundings. Yesterday’s clouds were breaking up and I glimpsed blue sky peeking through, meeting Lake Huron on the horizon. Mackinaw Island was waking up and I was ready to go exploring.
We had breakfast at the hotel and I managed to spill a full glass of water all over the table. I confirmed that my reflexes are still pretty good though since I dove out of the way fast enough to avoid getting soaked. Fun times.
Mackinaw harkens back to a simpler time before motor cars and fast paced living; all transport is either by horse or bicycle. The houses are beautiful Victorians in varying shades of blues, yellows, greens, and I even saw some lavender. The mad perfusion of color continues with flowers bordering buildings, sidewalks, and roadways. Hanging baskets on lampposts hold cascading blooms, lush and brilliant, evidence of green thumbs and horticultural knowhow. Gentle waves lap at the shoreline and sailboats, ferries, and tugs move about offshore among several of the lighthouses visible in the distance.
After breakfast we climbed aboard a horse-drawn carriage pulled by two Percherons, large and docile, and accustomed to their task. Lucia, our Romanian guide, filled us in on all the local trivia as he handled the huge horses with ease. He told us that he, like many of the others working on the island, is a student and working only for the summer. The island has 300 permanent residents with 400 more that are “snowbirds” who leave when the weather turns cold.
The Grand Hotel, he told us, was built in 93 days. It seemed impossible, seeing the majestic size and intricate detail of the original structure. Six hundred workmen were hired to get the job done and the paint on the walls was still wet when the first guests arrived. Years later when an addition was added, doubling the original size, it took two years to complete. I suspect the first half was done before regulations strangled efficiency.
Lucia drove our carriage past “the island’s deepest darkest secret,” a building he said housed the only vehicles on the island: an ambulance, a fire truck, and a police car. When all the downtown tourist area is shut down in winter, snowmobiles are permitted since they are “on the snow so not technically on the island.” The motorized vehicle ban was enacted in the late 1800s when a backfiring car caused an incident with a startled horse. Now it’s simply to maintain the historic charm of the place, which it does very successfully.
We unloaded at the top of the tallest hill and browsed in the conveniently located gift shop. Our group picture was taken and available for purchase. Yes, I succumbed and bought one. Paul bought us each a donut and some coffee. The donut was warm and dripping with icing and totally worth the calories.
A different carriage took us back toward town and Jesse, our new guide, introduced us to his three massive Belgians. There are 600 horses on the island for the summer season but most are flown to the mainland for the winter. Some years they can be transported across the lake on the ice bridge if the weather is cold enough for long enough.
Jesse drove us through the church cemetery, Protestants on one side of the narrow road and Catholics on the other. Further along a picket fence surrounded a military plot where most of the graves are marked with “U.S. Soldier” because their names are unknown. According to Jesse, many years ago, the wooden crosses bearing each name, became so worn they were illegible. When stone markers were placed it was no longer known who was who, even though their names are recorded in the official records as being interned there. The flag flies permanently at half-staff to honor the unknown soldiers, one of only three or four military cemeteries in the country permitted to do so. Jesse told us many more facts, most of them interesting, as we drove past the old fort, now a museum.
The carriage stopped to unload those of us who chose to walk back to town. Paul and I decided it would be prudent to combat all the excellent food we’ve been served so we clambered down with a few of the others. We passed an Amish family with their six or seven youngsters and I could see why our area of Ohio holds such fascination for the many tourists. They really did stand apart in startling contrast to the “world” rushing by on all sides. Our walk into town was beautiful, the narrow lane taking us down a steep hill surrounded by panoramic lake views, rooftops of house scattered throughout the wooded landscape and a picturesque church tucked in amongst more flowers.
Down below on tourist-filled streets at the water’s edge the many shops were in hectic operation. Bikes zoomed by, those with battery power ignoring the 25 mph speed limit. Horses and carriages were everywhere and the pungent odor of horse manure and urine filled our nostrils. Paul and I dodged around the teeming masses streaming here, there and everywhere. I had a hankering for an ice-cream cone, having just walked half a mile downhill, so at the first opportunity I procured one and it was delicious. A toddler went by with his father and when he saw me happily licking my rather large cone his eyes lit up and I heard him demanding ice-cream as his parents hustled him down the street and away from me. Sorry people for complicating your day.
It wasn’t long before Paul and I got separated. I looked for him for a few minutes and then decided he was fully capable of taking care of himself. He didn’t answer my phone call, or my text which did irritate me just a little. As I walked back up the crowded street I saw a sign that said “Hamburgers” and I remembered he had mentioned that is what he wanted for lunch. I went in and there he was with a few others from the bus. He asked me why I had not answered his phone calls or texts. As I recently heard in an old movie, “What we have here is a failure to communicate!”
By mid-afternoon we meandered back to our hotel to meet the rest of our group, then made our way to the dock for our ferry back to the mainland. Unlike our trip to the island yesterday, the lake was calm with nary a wave nor raincloud in sight. I climbed up top and it was beautiful!
By late afternoon our bus reached
Thunder Bay Resort, a rustic, neat-as-a-pin cluster of buildings far from any
signs of civilization. One of our hosts
stepped on the bus to welcome us and told us a bit about the family-owned and
operated establishment we were about to enjoy.
She told us about their recent purchase of two robotic lawn mowers they
have named Bill and Ted because they are not too smart. And about the man who had started out with
forty acres that gradually grew to over four hundred, now known as the Elk View
Preserve. Sadly he passed away only six
months ago but his passion to help rebuild the dwindling Elk herds in North
America, and to provide a place for visitors to see them in nature, has
continued.
We barely had time to change clothes and freshen up before a horse-drawn wagon pulled up to our doors and collected us for a trip through Elk territory. Al, the loquacious driver, told us about his beautiful Belgians, Pete and Diesel. He regaled us with jokes, a lot of facts about the preserve, and a few personal anecdotes sprinkled in. Jeff, our guide, is also a member of the family who owns and runs the place.
We drove through heavily wooded forest and reached a locked gate, ten feet high, the strong wire and steel posts reminding me of Jurassic Park. Jeff jumped down and slid the tall gate aside, explaining that it had to be at least ten feet in height because deer can easily jump an eight foot fence. They are trying to keep the deer OUT and the elk IN. I was hopeful this evening would end better than the movie but as we slowly made our way down a lane bordered on both sides by more of the same heavy duty fencing my imagination did take a few turns and I decided if the water in my bottle started jiggling I was going to run for it.
Jeff explained their breeding processes with the goal of producing the perfect bull with the perfect rack. They have around forty in their herd and with the annual birth/death ratio that number remains steady. The current leader of the harem is Thunder Jack. One of his progeny, named appropriately, Jackson, is projected to be the next leader of the herd. Their management of the elk is limited to preventing inbreeding and culling out the superior specimens to increase the odds of that perfect bull. Al told us that they do not interfere if an animal is injured during the normal course of elk life, that they let nature take its course. We saw a stand of dead trees and Jeff told us the elk had used them to rub the velvet off their antlers but will never return to a dead tree. Unfortunately, this rubbing on live trees by the elk will often kill the tree.
After an hour or so of elk watching we arrived at a charming cabin deep in the woods. Inside was yet another family member waiting to receive us. Two huge elk heads framed a large stone fireplace and a wreath with twinkly lights lit up the center. More elk heads were on the other walls and seeing them up close was awe-inspiring, their massive size much more evident in close proximity. We had been warned to stay back from the fences because if they charged we would not be able to move fast enough to escape their reach. The elk racks on the hearth demonstrated again how large these animals are.
More twinkly lights were suspended along the walls and one huge elk-head over the doorway was sporting a dark red scarf around its neck. Jazz music was coming from somewhere and the incongruity of that genre in this rustic atmosphere struck me as particularly incongruent yet added to the overall appeal.
Tables were prepared for us and we were indulged in yet another five-course meal with wine tasting and all the trimmings. We were the only guests for the evening and they treated us like royalty. A grapefruit wine and an orange mandarin wine were the featured samples handed out. The names made me leery but both were quite pleasant and mild to the taste.
After we were all filled to capacity we rejoined Al and Jeff for the return ride back to the lodge. It was dusk, the endless pines stretching in every direction, the gloom beneath them impenetrable without flashlights. I asked if they had ever had any Bigfoot sightings. Without hesitating Al said, “Yes, last Tuesday.” Everyone laughed but I had an uneasy feeling he might be telling the truth.
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