The ferry ride over to Mackinac Island was about 20 minutes from Mackinaw City, which is where Mackinac Bridge launches cars, trucks, motorcycles, and tractor trailers over Lake Michigan and into Michigan's rugged and green Upper Pennisula (The UP). The spelling and pronunciation of Mackinac and Mackinaw was confusing and awkward until a shop keeper on the Island set me straight. "It's pronounced Mack-eh-naw, like ball, Mack-eh-naw, " she said again slowly, "The Island was named by the French originally, the 'c' is silent, when the English took over, they spelled it like they heard it. It's aww." That explained it, the dang French, the dern Brits!
I thanked her, she had already talked me into some matching gloves for a toboggan I was buying. "Gotta get the set," she insisted. They were a dark burnt orange, I dug the color, I was easy. A few days later in Wisconsin my dad wore them trying to keep from freezing, he dug the color. He was skin and bones, had two blankets and a hat on, it wasn't cold, he was dying.
No motorized vehicles allowed on the island, but for $5 extra bucks, I brought my bike with me on the ferry. It was like a dream, an ancient Great Lakes harbor town with horse drawn wagons and bicycles everywhere. And fudge shops, and historic forts, and old church steeples, and the Grand Hotel, and other hotels, and a plush golf course, and paved trails. I rode around the island, 9 miles in all, the backside was native shoreline, took some side roads, walked the Spring Trail's 207 wooden steps to peer through Arch Rock, sat in a grass field, bought some fudge, and made the last ferry back with time to spare. It was grand.