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 Indigenous 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.
Tuesday, August 4
Outside Lehto's Pasties in downtown St. Ignace, a woman wearing a royal blue Shepler's uniform carts a wheelbarrow of balloons across the street to the ferry terminal. The multicolored balloons are held in place by plastic sheeting. 20 minutes later we’re at the zenith of the Mackinac Bridge. Far below us, sunny little whitecaps texture the Straits as we approach the Lower Peninsula. I ask Sky if he's ever considered Huron and Michigan to be just one giant lake. Emotionally, my vacations always seem to fizzle out after Mackinaw City. I love my home peninsula, but if I'm heading south, the spell is broken as soon as the bridge meets land.
We’re back in Ann Arbor around rush hour. I drop Sky off at his sister's house and head home to Ypsi to unpack and clean my camping gear, presumably for the last time this season. Outside, the air is sweet and fragrant. I peek over to the other side of the treehouse where Nick is torching lollipops for one of his Dum-Dum Desk installations. It’s good to be home.
Wednesday, August 5
In front of Speedy's Big Burgers, a kid wearing a full motorcycle helmet wobbles by on rollerblades. He's doing his best, but it's not going well. I ride my bike up Pearl Street near the strip club, then head north toward home. I'd intended to stop somewhere for a happy hour drink, but the humidity is prohibitive. The sky darkens as if it will storm, but I know it won't. The weather has been such a tease these past few weeks.
After dinner, I mix a Manhattan with no cherry because I have none. I've considered asking someone to go in on a jar of Luxardos with me. Their expense always strikes me as outrageous, but I've found no acceptable Maraschino substitute. I’m always disappointed when the jar goes bad before I can use them all. Who will join my cocktail co-op?
Meanwhile, in actual Manhattan, Jesse is sprucing up her bathroom in a whimsical renaissance motif with an armored knight toilet roll holder and plug-in candle sconces. She has also ordered a box of fancy toilet paper, each one individually wrapped in images from America's national parks. She sends Greg and me the funniest unboxing video I've ever seen. "Bless my heart. Flippin' gorg. Stop! Can you even stand it? The answer is no, you can't stand it."
Thursday, August 6
In my inbox, circulated by colleagues, is an article announcing the imminent demise of four major music publications: Brooklyn Vegan, Revolver, Alternative Press, and Goldmine. The latter two have been around for as long as I've been reading about music, and Brooklyn Vegan became a pillar of the indie rock blogosphere during my own band's brief ascent. Even the stalwart Pitchfork, reporters of this development, had to join the global media behemoth Condé Nast just to survive. This is my industry and it's sinking faster than we can plug the holes.
In the evening, I engage with the only part of the music industry that never seems to die. The comfort and reliability of having a gig on my calendar is a safety net that has carried me through most of my life. It ebbs and flows, but somehow live music persists.
Friday, August 7
The humidity is relentless and it takes forever to cool down after my run. I take a cold shower, then luxuriate with a late afternoon siesta. For almost an hour I lay around with Esteban doing absolutely nothing. It's amazing how little a cat can accomplish and how good it feels. I could learn a lot from him.
I walk with my cat-mind into town, deliberate and slow. I visit a couple book stores and an antique shop, allowing my gaze to drift across the goods with gentle curiosity. I buy an ice cream cone from Danielle at Cold Comfort, then walk down the stone staircase behind the arts center into Riverside Park where I relish the last bite. There are few greater pleasures than the last inch of a sugar cone filled with half-melted soft serve.