A Post-Industrial Wonderland

Northern Michigan and the Apocalypse

During the summers, one of my favorite things to do is explore the state forests of Northern Michigan. Its deep woods are crisscrossed by two track roads that get maintained maybe once every two years if they are lucky, and there is something so exhilarating about barreling down these roads in a car clearly not made for them. I love taking just a fishing pole, a knife, and my wits to go searching for new places to fish and forage. I remember one fateful time I decided to try and wade the mouth of a small river called the Betsie. The Betsie River is a snake that slithers across the county, ending at Lake Betsie and eventually Lake Michigan. I was bouncing along the backroads when suddenly I turned a corner and saw what could only be described as a meth head encampment. It was a series of the rustiest set of three mobile homes I had ever seen. In front of them were about 40 empty beer cans and a large chained up dog. As a Christian, I have been raised to respect all people, and to give them the benefit of the doubt. But I immediately got a bad vibe when I saw this little hovel. I decided to leave them to their own devices and be on my way. While I proceeded to have a good day fishing, I never really forgot that encounter. For some, it would be terrifying. But I disagree. Maybe it’s because my confidence is inflated. I am after all a broke, 6 foot two inches twenty-year-old with very little to lose. Even though I saw the potential danger, I thought it was fun. It got me thinking about the nature of Northern Michigan and what I love about it. When I saw that meth head camp, it made me feel like I was living in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. And in truth, I kind of am. When you start to really understand Northern Michigan, you start to realize that that’s what it really is.

To understand Northern Michigan, you need to understand its history. Northern Michigan was first explored by the French and was a prominent center for fur trapping. But what really changed Northern Michigan was logging. Michigan was full of gigantic white pines, bigger than any seen before. It also had valuable stands of maple and beech trees. Immediately the potential of these logs was seen, and a series of logging operations began. Using the rivers to float logs downstream, Northern Michigan was raped and made bare. The loggers left nothing behind except industry and rot. This continued for many years, and Northern Michigan wood helped build some of the greatest cities in the world. With all of that logging money, Michigan flourished. Ferries crossed the big lake every day transporting people and goods back and forth. There was a strong railroad system that you could ride across the state. There were schools, hospitals, libraries, everything a growing civilization could need. Things were looking up. But the good times did not last. The endless logging led to the extinction of countless species and the destruction of the environment. And eventually, the logs ran out. Without logs, all that investment was sitting there doing nothing. The rise of the Highway system and the growth of the Sun belt, along with the rise of NAFTA and the offshoring of manufacturing delt further blows. The railroads closed and most of the ferries shut down. People began to leave for California, Arizona, New York, Florida, anywhere but where they were born. With the industry gone, nature began to come back. Forests regrew, animals returned, and towns became smaller and smaller. The country sides were hollowed out, both in terms of investment and people.

Even today this trend continues. Certain parts of the State are growing, mostly people moving from a big metro area to enjoy the nature and lower cost of living. But they won’t fix the problem. They stick to certain areas and rarely stray from them. Even though I live in the heart of what I am coining as the Transplant Republic (Counties on the Western Shore of Lake Michigan, especially around Charlevoix, Traverse City, and Petoskey), I don’t see them in the woods during hunting season. In addition, most of them are too old to have kids. They raise their kids, make a lot of money, sell their house, and then retire in Northern Michigan. They just contribute to the problem of aging counties, empty churches, and rusting buildings.

Typical Northern Michigan Scene

Traveling through the rural parts of Northern Michigan, there is a certain ethos in the air. When you see towns that are waiting to die, filled with the old who can’t afford to move to Florida and the odd young junkie, there is a feeling of missing grandeur. There is a feeling that this was a place of greatness, one that could be claimed again if only someone would care. They are placeholders, ruins of something more that sits on the edge of your memory. Look at the outskirts of the town, and you can hear the woods scheming and plotting, waiting to creep in when the last resident finally dies. When I mention the post apocalypse, this is what I’m describing. It’s not Mad Max style everyone for themselves. It’s akin to the Lord of the Rings. When Frodo and the gang travel across Middle Earth, they camp in abandoned ruins. They see the great works of early empires and how the people who remain are isolated and closed off. Rumors abound, of orcs and trolls and goblins moving closer to the cities, of bandits hiding in the woods. Northern Michigan feels the same way. My grandfather, an avid train lover, would take my mom on hikes down the abandoned tracks of the Ann Arbor railroad to scavenge for rail ties and signs. That’s the kind of apocalypse Northern Michigan faced. The resources have been picked clean, the companies have left, and the people are left wondering. The whole region is a big open question mark. Why are we here?

The paragraph above makes it sound like I hate Northern Michigan. But I promise this article is not a hate letter; if anything it is a love letter. I love the Tolkienesque feel of the landscape. There is a sense of mystery that I never felt living in California, and that I still don’t feel at school in Chicago. You never know what’s around the next corner or bend of the river. The woods feel endless and ever growing. The people who stay in these landscapes are some of the coolest I have ever met. For every Balrog that lives here there is a Gandalf. I’ve gone to sauna parties in the dead of winter, running through the snow to make it back into the sauna before you freeze. I’ve spent days hiking through the woods, looking for medicinal herbs and mushrooms. I’ve heard tales and rumors that don’t feel like they should still exist in the “1st world.” A friend of mine regaled me about the 2008 Financial crash, when his county couldn’t even afford to hire police officers. He would travel around in his 1994 Toyota with a pound of weed and a loaded shotgun in the front seat just in case. I’ve met a hallucinogenic mushroom grow lab owner who loved bluegrass, regenerative farmers who compost their own poop, and a stone mason from Vermont who I am pretty sure is Tom Bombadil in disguise. I’ve heard rumors of secret recording studios for the rich and famous in dying towns, and of cougar kills sighted in the woods. If someone told me the Mines of Moria were hidden somewhere in Northern Michigan, I wouldn’t be surprised.

In short, Northern Michigan is forgotten. It’s a merry crew of people who would die before they left home. They spend their time building mad contraptions, playing cards all night, and sipping on homemade hooch. But that’s how we like it. That sense of forgottenness gives us the gift of freedom. Not the supposed freedom that Texans and Floridians talk about from their HOAS and lifted trucks. The freedom that comes when no one cares to spend the money to hire cops. The freedom that comes when the tourists leave in October and your county loses 5,000 residents. You can drive for miles and not see anyone. I have this vivid memory of me at school in Chicago. I was feeling crazy after a really bad day and decided to go for a drive. I drove for an hour, and all I saw were strip mall after strip mall, like a cancer that couldn’t stop growing. I honestly thought I was hallucinating. But in Northern Michigan, you can pass woods that haven’t seen a saw in 100 years. That’s real freedom. If you are a good neighbor, help others, and don’t do anything immoral, you can do whatever makes you happy. Post industrial living at its finest, for those brave enough to do it.

This is what hiking in Northern Michigan feels like

The freedom living in the post apocalypse gives you is so immense it boggles the mind. At one of my last jobs, I met a man named Robbie. Robbie was a bit of an alcoholic and spent his days at the store nursing a hangover. Although I feel bad for it now, I judged Robbie. He drank too much, had a baby momma, and was usually late to work. But Robbie had life figured out. Every summer, he would take a few jobs and work like hell. But as soon as October came around, he stopped. He spent the rest of the year till May fishing and hunting. As he put it, “You can come ice fishing with me, but the drinking starts at 7.” This guy, living in the middle of nowhere, was freer than 99 percent of the people in this world. Talk about the real 1 percent. That’s the beauty of being forgotten. Your competition doesn’t exist. They all moved away to the big city to fight for 9-5s in a suburban hell. When no one else is fighting over the scrap heap, you can be the king of it!

Northern Michigan isn’t as remote as Alaska, as mountainous as Montana, or as empty as Wyoming. It certainly isn’t what I would call prosperous. But it’s a land of mystery. For those who want to discover ruins of the past, or see the woods grow strong again it’s the place to be. The coyotes howl in the shadow of the train tracks. Bald Eagles perch on old smokestacks. Wild ramps grow in between the foundation of forgotten cabins. Industry came and went, and it isn’t coming back again. All that’s left are the empty woods, the cold lakes and streams, and the terminal towns. That’s just fine by me.

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