A Superior Ride

Story by Paddy Tyson// Photos by Paddy Tyson
March 1 2013
Snow Fall Record in Keweenaw County

The world’s largest freshwater lake offers a variety of terrain and rugged scenery for the motorcyclist.
I was flooded with light and a sense of warmth when the mirrored window slid back. Inside the building, the world’s most beautiful woman was brief but firm. “Identification please, sir. Are you carrying any guns or alcohol?”
I replied that I wasn’t and hoped she’d sense that I meant her country no harm, but ached to mention that her CBSA uniform really suited her.
“Welcome to Canada.”

In less than a minute, the formalities were over and the window slid shut, severing any opportunity of marriage and leaving me out in the cold in more ways than one. With the onset of darkness, the temperature had plummeted and there was just me, Yamaha’s Super Ténéré and a heightened awareness of my own mortality. It was only a further 40 km to the city of Thunder Bay, Ontario, but the very real threat of hitting a moose loomed as large as the imagined shapes I could see through the gloom. The words of just about everyone I’d met in the last week were ringing in my ears: “Whatever you do, don’t ride at night. The wildlife is bigger than you.”

I flicked on the PIAA accessory lamps that I’d laughed at when I collected the bike, and the roadsides were suitably illuminated, granting me perhaps an extra second’s warning of any impending impact with the local fauna. The psychological effect of the extra light lifted my spirits, though. And it wasn’t snowing anymore.
Motorcycle trip Lake SuperiorI was “riding Lake Superior,” making a 2300 km circumnavigation of this mighty inland freshwater sea, the world’s biggest by area. The route was taking me across three states and into the unfeasibly large and beautiful province of Ontario, and I had chosen late October to do it. Yes, you laugh. I think the guys at Yamaha Canada thought it might be a joke, too. I’m foreign. What would I know? To add to the hilarity, the only official Yamaha accessory that wasn’t fitted to my 2012 Super Ténéré was heated grips. That little oversight was to lead a grown man to tears.

What did the ride ahead hold in store? My anticipation began to build back in Sault Ste. Marie, where my room in the Delta Waterfront Hotel looked out over the black waters of the channel and shipping canals that separate Lakes Superior and Huron. Across the darkness the lights of Michigan twinkled, promising different money and a huge number of unpronounceable destinations the following day.

Rather than explore the Sault, I’d planned an early start, just in case I was delayed at the border. And it’s inherent in the nature of a circular route that I’d be back in eight or nine days anyway, and would have time to immerse myself in the bountiful local tourism then.

My first experience on this ride would be the hugely emotional one of crossing an international bridge, symbol of unity between nations and landmasses. At 51 years old, the aptly named International Bridge between the United States and Canadian cities that share the Sault name had celebrated its half century with the addition of terrifically patriotic lighting.

Motorcycle Tour through Lake SuperiorThe red, white and blue of the American half was matched by the white, red and white of the Canadian side. But as I sat in the Docks Riverfront Grill admiring the colourful spectacle that lit the night beyond the statue of a moose, I couldn’t help wondering why the Canadian side wasn’t red, white, red like the flag. So I asked the waitress, who was as surprised as me. She said that no one had ever asked before nor had she even noticed. I think I’m a nerd.

It was late morning before I cleared the U.S. border, having had my fingerprints taken, my iris scanned and a promise extracted that the sole purpose of my journey wasn’t to overthrow the federal government. The skies were black as I set off for Paradise.

It seemed like an achievable goal. Nestled on the shores of Superior’s Whitefish Bay, Paradise, Michigan, conjured up images of white sand beaches, parasols and bronzed bodies, but that was only about 30% accurate. Most of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula is sand, coated with rich pine and broadleaf forests, and when there were gaps in the cloud, the sunlight immersed me in a kaleidoscope of autumnal colours.

The parasols must have been down for the season and the sunbathers headed somewhere slightly more appropriate, like the Caribbean, because I saw neither, but I witnessed a lifetime’s worth of sand in an attempt to make up some of the time I’d lost at the border. I defied editor Roberts’ sat nav and set my own course due west from Paradise to Grand Marais, seeking a little adventure. The forest trails on one of my maps looked reasonable, but 261 kg of Super Ten only highlighted that I’m still crap at riding deep sand. My little 80 km shortcut not only lost me more time, but also meant that I was sweating profusely when the first snows finally fell – but it was just a flurry and wasn’t settling. When I got back on the blacktop and could stop fighting with the handlebars, Hwy 58 down to Melstrand was a delight; the Metzeler-shod Yamaha letting me explore lean angles between the trees, gently kissing the tarmac with the undercarriage. My earlier delay meant that I had no opportunity to see the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore Park from the vantage of a cruise boat, but I was getting a good feeling about the area and made a mental note to return if I ever get the chance. I found a great little spot called the Bear Trap Bar and Grill, and eventually managed to explain what I meant by a hot cup of tea. God bless America.

A fresh layer of snow had been deposited when I emerged from my pit stop, so I unfolded the map and was hit by the sudden realization of just how far away my reserved Calumet accommodation really was. I knew it was going to be a cold ride when the altitude gently increased as I left the town of Marquette and the road headed inland. Only a few hundred metres higher than the coast, the area was almost devoid of colour and the difference was stark. Fall had clearly happened much earlier. I cursed my sense of adventure once I’d lost all the feeling in my hands and feet and started reading signs that said it was only a hundred and something miles to go. Dinner at Quincy’s in Dollar Bay made it all okay, and the staff at the AmericInn in Calumet couldn’t have been nicer. There’s a big sign outside declaring “Bikers Welcome,” and they really mean it. I was told to park up on the sidewalk under the roof of the building, so that the bike had some security and shelter from any ice that may fall from the roof … great. What were they expecting? I found a little bar nearby and spent the evening with a Pick Axe Blonde or two.

Calumet is on the Keweenaw Peninsula, famous for its copper mining history. There are all sorts of mining tours for passing tourists, like the famous and accessible Quincy Mine, which used to have 92 levels reaching down 9260 feet and which still contains the largest steam hoist in the world. Or there’s the more rudimentary and adventurous Underground Mine Tours in Greenland, Michigan. But the roads on the peninsula are just a delight to ride. The 41 from Calumet to Copper Harbour – with its picturesque lighthouse – is sublime, rolling with the contours of the countryside, the bends smooth and continuous through the dense broadleaf forest. Almost at lake level, the leaves still hadn’t let go of their hosts and the yellows and oranges provided the canvas on which some iridescent reds and pinks could shine. Out of season, there was no traffic and I loved it, but it was only a warm-up for the much more technical and frankly hilarious Hwy 26 along the coast back to Eagle River. Each time either wheel attempted to lose traction, the TCS or ABS lights would flash at me, just goading me on. I’m sure it’s all very irresponsible and I deserve to be edited, but aren’t bikes fun? I was celebrating the natural beauty of the place the way bikers do. The aquamarine waters of the lake came ashore in crisp white breakers on the rocky outcrops and sandy coves. I gained an hour crossing into the Central Time Zone before Wisconsin, and met Jayne, a Canadian nurse who now owns and runs Ehlers Store in Cornucopia, Wisconsin.

Buying this historical store in backcountry Wisconsin was just one of those things she thought she’d do after riding her F650GS down to Mexico for a few months. Now over 100 years old, the store has received an injection of her drive and enthusiasm, and looks like it’s really prospering. She told me of a route inland that would cut through the top end of the Chequamegon National Forest and which contained some of the best riding in the area. It wasn’t on my map and the sat nav was confused, but I blindly followed her advice and directions and for the next hour seemed to have the landscape to myself. Oh, the joy of trusting complete strangers. And so, as far west as I’d reach on this trip, I crossed my second significant bridge and arrived at the Aerostich RiderWearHouse in Duluth, Minnesota, in the middle of a rainstorm. I was strangely excited to finally walk into the Aerostich building – perhaps the mecca of tough motorcycle adventure clothing – to behold the array of garments. Spread over three floors, the old candy factory now hums to the sound of stitching. The 65 staff perform every operation on the premises, and every product includes the details of the individual responsible for production. It makes for a great warranty system and instills real pride in the job. I had taken the decision to give my credit card a beating and avail myself of the 10% discount for collecting my jacket in person, but they didn’t have my size. No doubt I’ll just have to ride there again! Duluth’s most famous landmark has got to be the lift bridge over the canal, a vertical platform lift of some 125 feet. It’s a real engineering marvel in the redeveloped Canal Park area, a hub of enterprise and reinvention. Once a dilapidated ex-industrial area, the redevelopments in many of the old brick buildings are spearheading Duluth’s rebirth. There’s a boardwalk, cafés, bars and a delightful Harley satellite store right next to a huge indoor entertainment complex.

The Duluth H-D Sport Center is one of two in the city owned and run by Dennis and Suzanne Pawson. Still a family business, the main shop, up on the hill on the outskirts of town, contains a fantastic display of all the machines that were used by Dennis’s dad in the early days of the business, including his old sidecar outfit, which he ran every day, all year long, before finally getting a van. The huge photos around the walls are a real nostalgia trip, but every one is of a local Duluth resident and friend of the business. If nothing else, stop by for tea. Yes, they have tea! I pulled in to the Canal Park Lodge and was gifted special covered motorcycle parking. I felt like a royalty. These people had really thought about attracting riders. There were rags to dry and polish the bike, and little wooden platforms to ensure the kickstand couldn’t sink into the tarmac in the height of summer temperatures, not that that concerned me. I wanted to stay longer in Duluth, but I left on a high and had really enjoyed Hwy 61 north along the coast, until Trooper Gunnerson appeared over the brow of a hill with his coloured lights already flashing. He explained that travelling in excess of 75 mph in a 55 zone was a crime in Minnesota, and that he had detected me committing just such an offence at exactly 15:48 hours.

Choosing to smile – and not to outrun the trooper’s vehicle – probably helped him decide to let me off with a written warning, but I suspect the fact that my European driver’s licence details were not accepted by his onboard computer had a greater bearing on his decision. Mobile radar systems are so unfair, but I felt I’d scored a tiny victory, as he failed to spot my bald rear tire. Highway 61 took me up past old family-run, fish-smoking businesses and to Split Rock lighthouse, a preserved beacon to the men and women who saved the lives of thousands of seamen as their ships provided the lifeline so essential to industry and population alike in the Midwest. The mighty nor’easter winds are as violent on Superior as any ocean storm. After entering Canada and being so cruelly shunned by Miss CBSA, I pressed on with frozen hands to the imagined warmth of my reservation at the Village Inn in Thunder Bay. The brightening moonlight gave the wider forest and muskeg landscape a mysterious grey pallor.

Occasional fields serving pastoral agriculture were the exception rather than the rule, and really marked the landscape as very different from that south of the border. Thunder Bay is reinventing itself too, rather like Duluth. Serving prairie agriculture to the west and forestry to the north, its primary function was as a railhead and port on the inland sea, but the city is now concentrating on pharmaceuticals and health-care research, and rapidly becoming a real cultural and social hub. The bitter winters and local lumber trade meant that many of the earliest European settlers were Scandinavian, and the street and business names still clearly reflect that, but new developments, especially on the waterfront, mean the town is shaking off its rough frontier image by embracing street art and wider multiculturalism, and thankfully, the First Nations peoples, who – after all – were here first. As if to illustrate this new enlightenment, I was spoilt by the diverse menu of the Caribou Restaurant and got to sample the wares of the Sleeping Giant microbrewery, named after the mountain silhouette lying across the bay.

The Yamaha shop in town, North Country Cycle, fitted a new rear tire the following day, and I set off again into the great wide open, picking up the Trans-Canada Highway and turning east to ride it as it hugs the northern shore of the lake. It seems hard to believe that this bitumen lifeline was only completed in the late 1960s, finally linking Canada’s coastlines. Shortly after I left Thunder Bay on the brand-new divided highway, the snow flurries began again. When the divided highway ended and the sat nav announced that my next turn was in 468 km, the enormity of the day’s ride sank in. It’s an undoubtedly beautiful, though rugged, shoreline when it’s visible through the trees, but in any other direction, the vista is predominantly forest sweeping over the land. The colour was diluted here, with conifers in the majority, and the interspersed rich reds and yellows, so prevalent on the south shore, had passed, leaving only the more tenacious leaves still clinging on. Here the storms had also come earlier and more viciously, so the exposed grey and silver barks watered down the forest palette. Before the arboreal hypnosis set in, I stopped at the monument to that Canadian and global hero, Terry Fox.

It’s a sobering and yet inspiring spot, and Terry now has Lake Superior to his left as he continues his cancer-research fund-raising run toward the Pacific, looking forward through his now bronze eyes. I thought it time to man up. What was a little hypothermia? Yes, I didn’t have heated grips, but every challenge should be put in perspective. The map showed a minor settlement roughly every 100 km, and I visualized every one of them: a clearing in the forest with room for an expanse of gravel or tarmac, a few fields, a truck stop and gas station, a couple of restaurants and motels with gaudy neon and a cluster of clapboard houses surrounded by pickup trucks in various states of decay. It’s an outback Canadian thing, where function always trumps aesthetic, where there’s an air of transience and always the threat that the brutal elements will overcome the precarious economics. But every settlement offers respite from the bitter cold if I need it. Here’s a population inextricably linked to respect for the lake, as there is little but forested wilderness for hundreds of miles to the north, into which the occasional gravel track darts enticingly.

The onset of winter was, of course, just teasing, but I wasn’t prepared to explore, as the Weather Channel had been warning of an impending cold(er) front. From the main road, my surroundings still amazed me as the terrain subtly changed. The rocky outcrops moved from reds to greys and the tree species and colour of their remaining leaves reflected the varied soils. Gaps opened between the pine and birch to reveal mirror-calm black pools or glimpses of tumbling waterfalls, and the conversation at every truck stop was as colourful and friendly as it is throughout Canada. “Cold, eh?” Just in case I hadn’t noticed. The Super Ténéré was beginning to gain excessive attention, and if I didn’t stop, I got waves, enthusiastic thumbs-up and toots from everyone. But the cold was unrelenting. I stopped after Terrace Bay and was the lone visitor to the Aguasabon waterfalls and gorge, channeling yet more water to feed Superior. The Yamaha’s digital dash said the air temp climbed to 3°C, and the engine coolant reached a balmy 65°C by lunchtime. The last of the cliffs and sandy bays were left behind as the road headed inland from the shore at Marathon. The land again became a little higher, only by a few metres, but the snow line was stark, capping every minor hill in a dusting that robbed the tree species of their individuality and transformed the upper half of the technicolour vista to monochrome.

The road never challenged as a European road might through similar landscape, and the surface remained almost perfect but for occasional slush. The easy going was a relief for my frozen form as I rolled into White River, the home of Winnie the Pooh, or at least the bear cub that inspired A. A. Milne’s stories. Winnie accompanied Canadian soldiers (from Winnipeg) on their way to battle in Flanders Fields during the First War, but they left him for safekeeping in the London Zoo, and Milne’s son Christopher used to visit regularly, entranced by the beast. I called a halt to the day in Wawa and had the good fortune to meet a Mojo reader from Chapleau, Ontario, outside Young’s General Store and next to one of the many giant geese that seem to inhabit the area. The tourist season really was over and the proprietors of the Best Northern Motel, Mark and Teresa, were heading south in the morning. I’m glad they hadn’t gone yet, though, as there’s nothing quite like a good meal to banish the cold, and the Best Northern contains a fine restaurant serving Eastern European specialties. The morning revealed more snow on what is perhaps the most scenic part of the north shore, the Algoma region. I’d hoped to spend some time in Wawa, but during breakfast in the Kinniwabi Pines restaurant beside the motel, I learned the road had been closed behind me at Marathon. The cold front arrived before the snowplows were ready, so I thought it prudent to ride for the safety of Sault Ste. Marie. The Algoma area would be a joy to behold in the summer, but with only a handful of stopping places, I tried to stay ahead of the heaviest snow, believing that, surely, no one could die in a place as beautiful as this. The snow caught me. Crashing trucks closed the highway at Wawa, but the Super Ténéré plugged on regardless until the sun returned and I fell into the welcoming arms of Sault Ste. Marie – circle complete.

Visit ridelakesuperior.com for loads of information on biker-friendly accommodation and for details on the wealth of things to see and do. Plan your trip this summer through the website, and you’ll have access to special deals and an interesting little biker reward treasure hunt.

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