Weeknotes: August 3–7, 2026
Monday, August 3
At the southeastern corner of Whitefish Bay, Lake Superior drains its bulk into the St. Marys River, a neck of water engineered to pass 80 million tons of iron ore, limestone, and other cargo annually through the Soo Locks. Before today, my only other memory of visiting Sault Ste. Marie is of a boozy October night in 2003 to celebrate my friend Nate's 30th birthday. I have video evidence of our bizarre hotel bar karaoke session on an old Sony camcorder, which I now feel obligated to recover. In my mind, it was some sort of Lynchian bacchanal, eerily lit and populated by masked strangers, though I’m guessing the video will reveal a tamer night than I remember.
I’m camping with my friend Sky across the bay at Tahquamenon Falls. Today I've booked us an afternoon voyage on the Nokomis, a butter-yellow sightseeing vessel that ferries us upriver into MacArthur Lock. Once inside its massive gates, we are raised 21 feet from the level of Lake Huron to that of Superior. Exiting the lock, the captain warns of his obligatory horn blast with a courteous "3, 2, 1…" Further upriver on the Canadian side is Algoma Steel, a hulking industrial menace of rust-red ducts, smokestacks, and cranes that marks our turnaround point. A smaller Canadian lock lowers us back down the ladder alongside a couple pleasure boats. Behind us, a family of eight are packed like sardines into an elegant wooden Chris-Craft tethered to a vertical guide rope.
On the Michigan side, looming incongruously over the river, is the Tower of History, a brutalist viewing tower built in 1968 by the St. Mary Catholic Church as a shrine to its intrepid missionaries. Inside its musty lobby, opposite a mural of Bishop Baraga, a bored teenage girl accepts our $8 fee. On the wall is a map of the U.S. where visitors can mark their place of origin with a colored pushpin. Michigan is full, so Sky plants his red pin in Minneapolis where he now lives. Faded dioramas of Ojibwe artifacts are scattered around the room. A looped video mutters away in a dark alcove. We take the elevator up to view the city and locks from 210 feet.
After beers at the Wicked Sister and a hike around Monocle Lake, we pull off at Pendills Beach where I log an evening swim in a shallow, sandy stretch of Whitefish Bay. It's my fourth Great Lake swim of the summer. Only Ontario remains.
Weeknotes: July 13–17, 2026
Monday, July 13
Another heat wave arrives, as if reporting for its week-long residency. I write the forecast in my notebook, just to see the temperatures all neatly lined up in my own handwriting. Around two o'clock, I relent, button up the house, and turn on the air-conditioning. In icy privilege, I sit on my bed and work, back propped against a pillow.
Later, at the brewpub, I get to know a couple I met earlier in the summer who are relatively new to Michigan. Both are fascinating — erudite and well-traveled, with a bundle of interests that bisect my own. They tell me about living in Antarctica and cycling across the U.S. We discuss running, writing, and Howard Frank Mosher. I note with satisfaction both are notebook carriers, and as we trade book recommendations, my Japanese brass pen gets passed back and forth across the table.
Weeknotes: June 22–26, 2026
Monday, June 22 – Friday, June 26
Last Saturday, after not very much deliberation, I bought yet another tent, a nice one with enough room for my cot. At Ossineke State Forest, just above the 45th parallel, I fall asleep to the music of wind and surf, practically alone at this remote, rustic campground.
Tournotes: July 17–19, 2024
Wednesday, July 17
Just after highway marker 334 on I-75, the bridge suddenly appears on the horizon. Depending on the atmosphere it may be a hazy mirage jutting out of the woods or a sharp relief of cream-colored gates against the blue. Today the weather is dramatic and I make my crossing to Dina Ögon's pastoral "Oas" while freighters churn into the straits from sunny Lake Michigan. To the east, stormclouds fall across Lake Huron in a foreboding smear above the three nearby islands. Dead ahead is an uncertain mix of gray and white over the green expanse of the Upper Peninsula. Crossing the Mackinac Bridge is never not special. Midway through, the right lane is cordoned off where two workers in hazmat suits blast flakes of Federal Standard 595c #14110 (foliage green) off the massive suspension cables with a firehose. I don't think I have ever crossed without encountering some type of maintenance. At the toll booth in St. Ignace I pay my own fare and that of the car behind me, a custom I learned years ago from K.