Alpena is All Right

 July 18: Alpena Is All Right

Miles 375-405, 30 Miles

We are out by 8am.  Now that we are in city limits, we are impressed by this south neighborhood in Alpena.  Stately old houses with big trees cozily curl up to the lapping waters of Thunder Bay.

It is cool and I feel 100% better than on yesterday’s painful slog.

Alpena has changed a lot since we last visited 20 years ago.  It has invested in culture. 

There are interesting murals and art alleys and event spaces sprinkled throughout the active downtown.

When we find the coffee shop by the inlet, we are put off.  There are two men Fussing about getting free coffee one in polo shirt and khakis but Dreadlocked beard is harassing a younger man who hasn't seen a shower for quite some time and whose baggy swim shorts keep falling down showing his nun too clean but. He says why did you throw away the cup never throw away the cup if you want more coffee!

There's also a man in full pirate regalia three corner hat heavy boots short pants ragged shirts uh who sitting nearby and another intently staring at his phone which is blaring some kind of star tell all.  The fan offers to tell us offers to take care of Heidi while we go in the coffee shop we say thanks but no thanks

We take the dog in. No one says a word.  We sit in the back.  The manic guy and the unclean guy are chattering in a back booth.  Another older guy---bald head, big laptop computer is talking on the phone, getting louder and louder—about “why he HAD TO QUIT!  (his job?) and then pouring out a big stream of “ and then they…and so I…”

I go up to the counter to get the Wifi password and the Pirate is politely ordering a regular cup of coffee.  He carefully counts out the $2.25 while saying, “I’m not like those other guys.”

When we leave, we encounter the dreadlock beard guy juggling three balls on the sidewalk.  As we pass, he says, “There’s a trapdoor here.  I don’t where the trapdoor leads”, while pointing at a manhole cover.

We are on our way to the NOAA Maritime History Museum.  Along the way, a tall fellow in a Viking Tours shirts hands me dog treats.  He is part of the BIG to-do along the inlet because of the first visit of a Viking cruise ship.  We weave our way through booths, tables, people setting up food stands, and general hubbub along the waterway.   The atmosphere is electric.

The museum is amazing—and free.  (Your tax dollars at work.)  It chronicles the more than 200 shipwrecks around Alpena, which has been an active port since 1830.  Schooners (some with three masts and 10 sails)  carried all the goods, and provided all the transit for this area.

The northern entrance to Thunder Bay is quite tricky, with a large point, multiple shoals, and a shifting bottom.  However, to my surprise, most wrecks were not from running aground or being capsized.  Most were collisions in the busy shipping lanes.  Before motors, radar, and electric lights, many of these tall ships were sailing blind through dark, fog, or bad weather.  Even after the advent of steamships, and later giant ore haulers, collisions caused one wreck after another.

Radar and radio communications have drastically reduced the number of wrecks in the clear, cold water of Thunder Bay, but the legacy lives on.  Several shipwrecks are so close to the surface they can be seen by paddle boarders.

A dominant feature of the museum is a replica of a early 20^th century boat, pitched at an odd angle, as if it were facing large waves. Even though the boat was not moving, the pitch gave me vertigo.  We stared at the small hard berths of the sailors where perhaps I could lay flat, but no way could Wes. I don’t think either of us could make it as crew on a boat in these waters.

On the way out, two presenters from the Great Lakes Fishery Commission had a jar full of lamprey, several of which had their horrifying, circular sucker mou
ths attached to the jar. Only about 18” and lithe like eels, the presenter said they had become the apex predator in the Lakes after their accidental introduction in the 1940’s.  They suck the blood and body fluids of any fish—but nothing eats them.  “Not even humans,” she said, who find the flesh like extra rubbery calamari.

After the excellent museum, we started following the Northeast Bike Trail, a 70-mile rails to trail conversion going from Alpena to Cheboygan.  It passes by Alpena’s event center, ice rink, and Museum of Northern Michigan Culture, an impressive array of public infrastructure that says a lot about Alpena’s investment in community culture, despite the city’s small size.

The Northeast Trail is a disappointment.  The gravel trail is returning to grass.  It’s slow going and we let Heidi out to run alongside the bikes.  She can keep up because we are moving so slowly.

Because of the visits to the museum and coffee shop, we are riding at midday.  Even though there are trees on both sides (cedar and spruce dominate), there is not much shade.  At least the weather is cool.  As we ride for the first 12 miles, we are struck by the obvious signs of the March ice storm.  Limbs are broken; trees have fallen because of the three-day ice storm.  The birch trees are the most damaged, and while the trail has been cleared, the forest floor is littered with branches.

We are looking forward to taking a break at the one bar and grill on the route.  We pull up to the place and are disappointed to see that it will not open for another hour and half.  This is a drag because we are nearly out of water.  We eat the cheese and crackers I impulsively purchased in Harrisville.  It is the only food we have.  We sit on the porch and consider our options.   Concerned about going forward without enough water, I decide to try the Bolton Bar number—and get an immediate answer. 

I tell her we are two bicyclists on the porch, “Could we please get some water?” I ask, envisioning getting some water from the nearby hose.

“Sure!” she says, “I’ll be right there!”

Mandy, wearing a short, tight lace dress, lets me in and fills our bottles from the bar squirt tap. say, hesitantly, “We were looking forward to our lunch break here.  Do you think you could sell us a beer?”

“Sure!”

Before long, Wes and I are sitting at the bar in the cavernous wood and concrete building.  Heidi is drinking water from a bowl Mandy has provided.  There are country music posters on the wall and the tv is tuned to the Cowboy Channel.

We sip our beers- new favorite quite popular in the tip of the mitt—Amber Bock.  Mandy offers to make us something to eat as long as it is deep fried—like chicken tenders.

“Sure!”  we say.

We watch the rodeo on the TV, when to our surprise, one of the contestants is from Laramie, Wyoming.  She’s a young breakaway roper names Jordyn McNamee.  That must be Mike McNamee’s daughter—no granddaughter.  I knew Mike McNamee from my 4-H days 50 years ago.  When I google her, I learn my guess was right—granddaughter of my old friend from so many years ago.

Turns out that Mandy is a barrel racer—and a farmer—who runs the bar “on the side so they can have a little cash flow—ha, ha, ha!”

I ask about the cedars, which seem less damaged than the spruce and the birch.  She says, “They don’t break at the top like they do.  When they get too heavy, the whole tree topples.”

We leave just as the real cook arrives, grateful for Mandy’s kindness and hospitality.  As we thank her at the porch, I ask if she is from around here.  She says, “No.  I was raised about 10 miles from here.” 

We leave the Northeast Trail to return to the shores of Lake Huron. We are cycling on the road and have a fun time exploring this backwoods above Lake Huron.  The route is hilly, a mix of field and forest. We hadn’t realized how much we had been climbing on that gravel trail, so it is fun to zoom down big curves and steep hills—with no cars!

Our hotel is situated on the west side of Grand Lake, a classic captured lake.  I get there before Wes, so go to register.  The office is locked.  I peer through the window. It is stuffed to the gills with packages and what-not.  I press the Ring doorbell.  No one answers.  After a while, nonplussed, I start to leave, but don’t know where to go.  A Southern voice comes on the speaker, “Can I help you?”

I identify myself.  She says, “I’m with the grandkids. Can I register you over the phone?  You want to use the same card you used to make the reservations?”

I did.

“You’re in Room 4.  The door is open, and the key is on the wall.  Just go make yourself comfortable.”

Our room has large portrait of a cow, for reasons we can’t fathom.  The motel has a big commons area, lots of outside seating, and small dock, but there are no services, not even vending machines.

There’s a Dollar Tree a mile away, and a deli two miles away.  I leave Wes and Heidi to stare at the lake and cycle to a hopping deli and jumping bar.  There must be 40 cars in the parking lot.

Back at the motel with a gigantic, delicious sandwich, tasty salad and some good wine, we watch the lake as we dine outside.

A bevy of kids and dogs arrive—the owners’ grandkids.  One of their dogs is Heidi’s mini-me—same color, same face, same tendril ears, even the same dark undercoat.  She is a longhair dachshund/chihuahua mix.  They also a big bouncy Golden Doodle.

Before long another family arrives, with a super friendly black lab.  Kids and dogs are running around and squirting each other and the dogs with big bright green squirt guns.  One little boy runs up to the commons area, “Dad! I saw a perch this big!” he says, holding his little hands about a foot wide.

The air is cool, the lake is blue, and we savor our hand-made food, surrounded by the joyous sounds of play and delight.   Pure Michigan.