Written by Marianne Mansfield
Reader alert #1: This not a typical piece of writing for me, or as a dear friend calls them, “Marianne’s Fire in the Belly” pieces. That ilk will return posthaste. I can’t help it, though; I’m compelled to write an essay about my summer vacation.
Reader alert #2: The Michigan Bureau of Tourism did not pay me to write this.
Reader alert #3: This is an interactive column. Prepare to participate.
Hold up your left hand, palm facing away from you. Splay your thumb out a little and your pinky out a little more. Now, picture the head of a roadrunner arching over your hand from the left to peck at the tip of your middle finger.
The roadrunner’s neck represents the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, which, for the duration of this article, will be referred to as “the UP.” For more information about the UP, rent the 2001 movie “Escanaba in da Moonlight.” It’s all true, and so is what you are about to read.
The state of Michigan is divided into two peninsulas surrounded by the five Great Lakes, hence the moniker “Great Lakes State.” The UP and the Lower Peninsula are divided by the northernmost tip of Lake Michigan, but more effectively, a cultural crater the size of the Grand Canyon.
One crosses into this, the other world of Michigan, by traversing the Mackinac Bridge, known even to those who reside in the Lower Peninsula as simply “The Bridge.” If you are from the UP, it is “Da Bridge,” and often pointed to as the demise of the best way of life, which the citizens of the UP can today only dream about; no lowlanders, no foreigners (anyone who wasn’t born in the UP).
I’ve been told you can enter the UP from the west, Wisconsin, but I just can’t imagine why. To enter the UP over The Bridge is the only legitimate way. Opened in 1957, it is a five-mile span from shoreline to shoreline over the confluence of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron. That distance allows driver and rider alike the temporal space to acknowledge that they are leaving a familiar existence, and entering a world unto itself.
In the UP the air feels fresher, more robust. The space is more expansive. You can spread your arms wider, throw a beer can further without hitting another soul.
Those souls you do encounter can be divided into two groups. Those who belong there, and those who are being allowed to interlope only briefly, as long as they swear to members of the first group, and on the head of their firstborn grandchild, that they will leave.
UP businesses are required to display a stuffed animal head on one wall, in lieu of a license to do business. If a full head is unavailable, a rack of antlers can sometimes be substituted.
The UP is known for several food dishes endemic to the area. Most famous, however, is the Pasty. Yes, Pasty. The “a” is short. A Pasty is something like a pot pie, but is hand-held. Dough is wrapped around meat and vegetables, including potato, carrots, and rutabaga, and baked. They were originally made for men who worked in the mines to tote for their lunches, as they were transportable and filling. Wild rice is also commonly marketed in the UP, mostly to those who don’t live there, I think. It is not a rice, actually — it is a grass, and as far as I can tell, largely tasteless. While one sees many roadside stands offering it, I’ve never seen it on the menu in any restaurant or bar. The joke is on us.
Speaking of bars, when in the UP, it is customary to drink. Alcohol. You may not be able to find a gas station for miles, but you can count on finding a bar at any intersection of two roads, dirt or paved. The best bars are those that have been there long enough to have passed through generations of owners, all from the same family. Before entering any such establishment, it is a good idea to make sure your buttons are lined up and your pants are zipped, because the locals who have arrived (or perhaps never left the night before) before you will be favoring you with an unembarrassed eyeing, from the tip of your head to the tips of your toes. I figure it’s the UP welcoming custom.
Yoopers, as the locals like to be called, proudly proclaim the UP the 51st state of the United States. I must say, I can’t argue with them. It certainly boasts its own culture and mores.
It is one of the few places I have ever visited that is self-secure. Yes, the economy hovers between dismal and nearly expired, and the weather is something residents engage in battle with on a regular basis, but most people seem just darned happy there. And they would be happier still if the rest of us would just go home.
To that point, one day I was checking out The Whitefish Inn for supper — not dinner — in Curtis. I chatted with the owner about the menu:
Me: Do you have specials?
Owner: Everything’s special. (no smile)
Me: How’s the whitefish?
Owner: We named the place after it, didn’t we? (no smile)
Me: Do you have the wine Sauvignon Blanc?
Owner: (sigh) It’s the UP, ma’am. (tolerant grimace)
I love the UP. I find myself wondering what it would feel like to fit in there, but I don’t and I never will. So I’m just glad that, for now, anyway, they allow visitors.
