"Even the Founding Fathers knew a dismal, god-for-saken place when they heard about it.

Shortly after the American Revolutionary War, rumors circulated about the immense mineral wealth in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. But most lawmakers expressed doubt that the Lake Superior region would ever be developed. Patrick Henry, he of the “Give me liberty or give me death” speech, was especially caustic. “The entire region,” Henry stated, “is beyond the most distant wilderness and remote as the moon.” Old Pat got it right, eh?

The U.P. is a forbidding place-dark,
endless winters, gloomy forests, hordes of biting insects, fearsome wildlife and desperate human inhabitants. Visiting the Upper Peninsula will be one of the worst mistakes of your life. I can guarantee that once you get here, your entire energy will be devoted to how to flee.

The local residents know all this but cannot or will not leave because they are addicted to suffering. Just consider these names of only a few locations in the U.P.: Misery Bay, Dismal Seepage, Germfask, Pine Stump Junction, Hog Island. Don’t those names conjure up beauty and tranquility? Paraphrasing Gertrude Stein, there is no here, here. Why would you want to visit 16,347 square miles of desolation?

The Upper Peninsula is beyond the end of the road. It is far away from any modern civilization, and the residents don’t like to follow any of your usual rules. If you want to have a good time on your vacation, don’t expect it up here-head for the Wisconsin Dells or Disney World instead."

You probably think I’m exaggerating. Well, let me tell you about what happened last deer season at the Kernow Hunting Camp in Big Bay.

The members of the Kernow Camp are all getting a bit long in the tooth and most of them are nursing various ailments. Instead of hunting alone, they decided to pair up so that if someone had a problem, his partner could summon help. Old Bernie Medlyn, who had been through some heart troubles, was paired with his good buddy, Harvey Treloar, and on opening day they went up to a new deer blind on the Salmon Trout River.

It was almost dark when Harvey struggled back into camp dragging a beautiful eight-point buck. All the old guys ran out of the cabin to admire Harvey’s deer. It was the best whitetail buck taken at Kernow Camp in many years and Harvey basked in all the praise and awe. When the excitement had settled down, Alex Pentreath asked, “Say, Harvey, where’s Bernie?”

Harvey looked down at his deer and then up at the circle of his longtime hunting buddies. “Well, guys, Bernie got real sick after lunch... and he died,” Harvey said. There was a collective audible sigh of shock and disbelief.

“But Harvey,” Alex said incredulously, “you dragged this here buck back to camp and left Bernie in the woods?” Harvey took off his blaze orange Stormy Kromer hat, looked down admiringly at his eight-point buck and replied, “No one’s going to steal Bernie.” The men looked at each other, nodded in agreement and filed back into the camp to have a celebratory drink to Harvey’s successful hunt."

"My friend, Keith Dunstan, leads woods walks and bird watching outings; he always tells the participants up front about his stringent criteria for cancellation, I quote from Keith’s directive:

“There is a huge logging chain fastened to an oak tree in my backyard. When the wind is so strong it blows the chain out horizontal to the ground AND lightning is striking the chain links-then we stay home.”"

"Whenever the annual snowfall reaches 300 inches-which happens most every year in these parts-[Ray Bullock] hosts a huge party; all the Yoopers celebrate by cutting a hole in the ice on Teal Lake in Negaunee and plunging into the frigid water. I’ve told you before that people are weird up here."

"Now, really, can’t you see why you wouldn’t like it here—not for a visit or, most certainly, not as a place to call home. Those who do live here know that the Upper Peninsula is a dismal region of forbiddingly frigid weather, dark gloomy forests, hordes of biting insects, dangerous wild animals and somewhat quirky human residents.

Oh, sure, on first impression during your brief vacation the land may seem like a paradise, the perfect respite from your city life, and we may seem normal, even a bit friendly. But we have our own brand of misery from being cold and isolated too long. Don’t expect us to give you welcoming bouquets or, despite what you may have heard, sing quaint shanty songs for your amusement.

...

Keep in mind that we live here in the wilds far away from any organized law enforcement and we don’t follow the usual norms of human interaction. So, don’t get too friendly or trusting. Everyone up here seems normal until you get to know them.

The quirks emerge in full blown adoles­ cent humor, especially when we are forced to go “down below.” Even persons with college degrees and responsible jobs have difficulty controlling their inner adolescent:

The Dismal Seepage Community School District sent Ron Tresedder down to the lower Peninsula one summer to update his teaching credentials. Ron had been assigned to teach a new course on human reproduction for high school students in the fall.

Held at Michigan State University, the summer workshop was taught by Dr. Harold Gordon, physiologist and expert on the topic of sex education. Perhaps to emphasize his expertise, Dr. Gordon always wore a long white lab coat, unbut­toned, over his street clothes.

On the first day of class, Dr. Gordon strode purposefully into the lecture hall holding aloft a clear glass bottle with an object immersed in liquid. Walking close to the front row of students he held the specimen even higher.

Ron noted that the professor’s left hand was in the pocket of his trousers. Clearing his throat for attention, Dr. Gordon pronounced “In my hand I hold a diseased penis.” The class was momentarily transfixed until Ron, unable to inhibit his inner adolescent, called out from his seat in the back row, “What ya got in the bottle, Doc?”

A quaint shanty song, you say? You just don't find that sort of thing up here

"One other thing: Don’t tell Yoopers to have a nice day. They know what kind of miserable day they are bound to have, the same they have endured all their lives. Cheery advice to experience anything “nice” in the U.P. just rubs salt in ancient wounds."

"Visitors to the Upper Peninsula should keep in mind that getting people lost is one of the few pleasures we have in this frozen wasteland. Old Eddie Uren is a legend and grand poohbah at getting tourists lost in the vast forests. Last fall, at a coffee shop in Manistique, two mushroom seekers from Grand Rapids made the mistake of asking Eddie where they might find morels in the Hiawatha National Forest. I scribbled down on a napkin exactly what Eddie told them:

Head northwest on County Road 442. After two miles or there­ abouts, it will turn to gravel. Proceed on for several miles-l’d say about 6.2 miles-and look for a blighted elm tree in an old farm field; it’s easy to spot because a Holstein cow with three black spots on its right side will be grazing there.

Turn right on the next two-track road and go exactly 54 rods through the woods to Whiskey Creek. Park by a dead popple tree with a blue jay’s nest in the third crotch on the north side...

At this point the tourists’ eyes were glazing over and they made furtive movements of distress. Backing slowly away, they offered thanks and then fled toward the front door.

“There’s an old broken down outhouse on the edge of the field,” Old Eddie called out and then, sporting an angelic smile added, “You can miss it.”

"The women in the Upper Peninsula are desperate for attention, to say nothing about a little affection. The men up here believe it “spoils” a woman to give her a compliment or tell her that he loves her. When confronted about this, Yooper men counter with something like this: “Hey, I told my wife I loved her when we got married-why should I have to say it again unless I change my mind?”

Although Alfred Penver’s wife is an excellent cook, he never says anything appreciative about her culinary skills. When Eliza asks Al if he likes her pot roast or apple pie, he just grunts, “I’m eating it, ain’t I?”"

Please don’t come to the Upper Peninsula and try to alter the land or our way of life. Don’t set about to change this place into the place you have Just left (or fled).

It is what it Is and we like it that way.

Rather, approach our beloved north country with reverence and awe.

Tuck yourself in here and let the land change you.

We're on day five of being stranded at a roadside motel.
"Hey Mom, when we do Quick Cleanups, it only takes like 20 seconds to clean the whole hotel room! This is great! Maybe we should get a smaller house!"

Modern housing standards are ridiculous. 1200 sq ft used to be a big home for a small family of 4 or 5. Now, it's considered too small for two people

Daily Poor: Live in the pod.

Yah, das right, youbetcha, eh.

Based Daily Poor reader's plan to live the good life:

I am moving from an insanely high cost place to a very low cost place.

Fortunately I am a high earner, but I am tired of the rat race and I’m checking out.

I’m checking out of this economy, I’m checking out of my insanely busy schedule, I’m checking out of this materialism fuelled artificial shit hole.

We’re going back to a simple life and it will be more fulfilling than anything. I can’t wait to garden, have animals, build a guest house, and live off the land.

This is our 2-3 year plan.

Wife took a flight out of town Friday morning and back in this afternoon. Our small town airport took about 5 minutes to get her from walking in to ready to take off. She arrived an hour early, being used to Chicago airports. But it was totally unnecessary.

I wonder if this sort of thing is a pattern, or if I'm reading too much into a single trip going well.