Find Your Slice of the (Clam) Pie in Cape Cod

Every year, my friend Laura and I take a weekend trip to a place we’ve never been. Last year, it was the capital of cool: Austin, Texas. This year it was the capital of summer: Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

You could say our theme is simply a “girl’s getaway.” But more accurately, it could be called a “girls’ gastronomic fling.” From start to finish, our itinerary is dictated by where and what we will be eating. And as a requirement, we do not consider the impact on our waistlines. That’s life back home – and this is a fling, after all!

Given that we’re both known for having a raging sweet tooth, our first stop was naturally Four Seas Ice Cream, known for its homemade Peppermint Stick ice cream. If you can think of something that tastes more like summer than this winsome pink scoop, I’d like to hear it. But trust me – you won’t. It was the most refreshing thing ever.

Unfortunately, it only made us hungrier, though. After dipping our toes into the surprisingly warm waters of the Nantucket Sound, we made our way around Lewis Bay to The Raw Bar (not the famed original location in Mashpee, but the Hyannis “Hyline Location,” referring to where you catch the high-speed ferry to Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard). Our mission: to consume what I’d read was “the best lob-stah roll on the Cape.”

Now, everyone has an opinion on that, but the lobster roll here is known for two things: a ridiculous amount of fresh lobster meat and a hefty price ($25). I can confirm both. But as I’d come to find out, it’s also known for its “purist’s” presentation: the only ingredient beyond lobster and the roll? Mayo. That’s it.

If you love the taste of lobster unadorned, this could be your dream meal. For me, though, it was incredibly bland. I mean, would a few fresh herbs mixed in with the mayo hurt? Or what about a little butter on the roll? (You see buttered rolls in other places, but “not on Cape Cod,” a local told me, indignant at the very suggestion.) I tried to feel nonchalant about disliking a signature item – but I was now a little desperate to try another.

Despite the rough start, it wasn’t long before I’d happily devoured some of the other favorite eats and drinks on the Cape. In touristy, gay-friendly Provincetown (aka “P-town”), prior to an unexpectedly hardcore bike ride through sand dunes, humid forests and cranberry bogs, we wolfed down all manner of lobster delights at the famous Lobster Pot at the wharf. Lobster bisque. Lobster ravioli. Lobster salad. All very tasty.

In Chatham, a charming, walkable village on the Lower Cape that was our misty home base for the weekend, the non-stop tour of Cape specialties included the stuffed quahog (a yummy clam appetizer baked with cheese on the shell) at The Red Nun (named after a type of channel marker, not a pious woman), the crab cakes, calamari and clam chowder at the boisterous Chatham Squire, a local institution that’s one of the few places to stay open late, and a cold pint of Cape Cod Red Ale and Wachusett Blueberry Ale, micro-brewed locally and in Western Mass, respectively.

The piece de resistance, however, was the Clam Pie at the unbearably cute Marion's Pie Shop. This may not sound appetizing to you. It didn’t to me, either. But after ingesting way too much saltwater taffy (in flavors ranging from Beach Plum to Cranberry) from the Chatham Candy Manor, I wanted something that wasn’t sweet.

Trying to look past the beguiling pastries and fruit pies, I asked Marion what pie put her on the map. “Clam pie,” she said. No hesitation. Huh. I bought one, figuring I’d bring it back on the plane for my seafood-loving partner, Kevin. And I got an Orange Citrus Roll, the largest I’d ever seen, to split with Laura. (Some things, especially a sweet tooth, never change.)

Little did I know how good it would smell heating up that little six-inch Clam Pie in the oven – or how the thick, buttery crust would be among the best I’d ever tasted. As for the insides? Perfectly seasoned, nicely textured (no chewiness to the clams) and not a whiff of fishiness. For someone who only came to appreciate seafood in her late twenties thanks to an early hang-up about “fishiness,” I was beginning to truly believe Kevin when he said fishiness only happens when fish isn’t fresh. I tried more seafood dishes in a 48-period in Cape Cod than probably ever in my life, and not one of them was “fishy.”

As if I need anything else to make the place seem dreamier. As a parting image, check out the little outdoor seating area in the back of our B&B when we arrived. The couple had two champagne flutes in hand, as if ready for their photo shoot. Life is just too good here.

Sane or Insane?

Back in the fall, I put up an anonymous poll asking: “What do you think of Amy moving to New Mexico?” The verdict was 66% of you found my relocation “insane.” It was a bit shocking that so many of you think I’m completely cuckoo, but hey, I asked.

Now that I’ve had time to look back at this life-changing decision, I thought I’d do my own analysis of the “saneness” of a geographic 180. I’m going to try to be as objective as possible (if it is possible). I’ll also try to answer those of you who’ve asked if I’ve had any “buyer’s remorse” or shall we say “mover’s remorse.” So here goes…

Arguably insane factors:
•Moving to a place where you know no one and have no family
•Going from a city of 11 million people to a hamlet of under 2,000
•Relocating to a different state that you’ve only visited four times
•Buying a house in this new place without living there first
•Choosing a town smaller than your hometown (which felt small)
•Leaving the world's best temperate climate for true winters

Arguably sane factors:
•Doubling our living space without paying more per month
•Fulfilling the dream of home ownership where buying makes sense*
•Invigorating our personal growth with a conscious lifestyle change
•Moving to a lower cost-of-living area where we can save more money
•Following our gut instincts about what places inspire and soothe us
•Taking maximum advantage of the benefits of our flexible careers

So what I see here is that this move was equal parts sane and insane. It’s a matter of perspective. Is it insane to want to both get more and save more? Is it insane to want the opposite of what you have? Is it insane to think you can make friends anywhere…at any age? Is it insane to crave space and tranquility after once dismissing it? Is it insane to want to buy a home but not stretch financially? Is it insane to seek to change yourself? Is it insane to just leap?

It may be. And it certainly would be – at different points in time. But for me, at this age and stage, it’s also the fullest realization of being a telecommuting freelancer. I’ve traded job security for the risks and uncertainties and financial fluctuations of “going it on my own.” But I’ve also bought myself the ability to live how and where I please…and now I’m finally capitalizing on that. It’s a way of paying myself back in intangibles that makes the equation fully add up.

As for mover’s remorse, we were frustrated at being snowed in this winter…three separate times. I had “a moment” during the last major snowstorm. But that’s about it. Because I already feel at home. I’ve already made some new friends. I’ve already felt a change in myself. I’ve already gotten used to the quiet. (A car alarm in Santa Fe this weekend was like a traumatic flashback.) And I’ve already fallen in love with the simple life again – in a way I probably never could have if I hadn’t lived and breathed the excitement of the big city.

Freedom means many different things, but to me, this is it. “You are free to move about the country,” as the Southwest Airlines slogan goes. It may sound insane (and it is, partially) to pick up and move somewhere you barely know, but I’ve never felt saner.

*See the New York Times' very helpful "Buy Versus Rent Calculator" to determine where it's smart to buy...and where it's better to rent. Based on our previous rent and current mortgage, as well as assumptions of a 3% annual rent increase and a 1% annual home value appreciation, we will save $29,697 over six years by owning here, with an average savings of $4,950/year.

Kidding Around in the East Mountains

Last month I got to experience “kidding season” for the first time here in New Mexico. This was not a month-long April Fool’s Joke, as it turns out, but the time of year when baby goats or “kids” are born and bottle-fed on goat dairy farms.

For reasons I have yet to uncover, the East Mountains area of Albuquerque is rife with goat dairy farms. This has turned out to be a serious perk of living here given that my partner Kevin is lactose intolerant and may well be the top consumer of all goat dairy products, including goat cheese, goat milk, goat yogurt and goat butter. We used to only be able to get these products at Whole Foods. Now we can now get them right down the road. Who said country living wasn’t convenient?

Our first tip-off was finding a surprising number of local goat cheese brands at Whole Foods and the wonderful Montanita Food Co-Op. After trying Old Windmill Dairy’s amazing Holy Chipotle Chevre, I went to their website (beyond my taste buds, they’d captured my interest with their cute tagline: “The Little Dairy on the Prairie”) and discovered they offered cheese making classes. I had barely uttered the words before Kevin agreed that we should sign up.

The following Sunday we drove down many, many dirt roads until we found our way to the Old Windmill Dairy a bit late. Fortunately, we were still in time to sample all of their chevre flavors – my second favorite soon became The Great Caper – and learn how to make goat mozzarella cheese. Bottom line: it’s not easy! They were still working out their exact recipe in fact before going into production.

Beyond yummy snacks, I also got a real appreciation for all the science involved – not to mention the pitfalls. Exact temperatures. Sterilized equipment. Very clean goat utters. There are a lot of things necessary to make safe, bacteria-free cheeses that taste great – and not “goaty.” One of them is making sure the male goats stay very far away from the females. Why, you ask? Because as Ed, one of the owners, explained, they stink (it’s their natural musk for mating) and like to pee on females.

After the class, we got to go see the baby goats, some only a few days old. My favorite moment was watching this bleating herd of kids chase the farm hand – their long ears flapping comically. (See the picture below.) But this was soon eclipsed by getting to bottle feed a baby goat ourselves two weeks later. Ed informed us that we actually lived on the same road in Edgewood as another goat dairy farm – South Mountain Dairy. We couldn’t believe our luck! And, as it turned out, they hold bottle-feeding open houses every Sunday in April.

So of course, we had to go to that too. Fortunately, the timing was perfect as we had friends visiting that weekend with their toddler, who loved playing with all the goats. We bottle-fed a fidgety kid, we walked around the high-tech goat housing (the owners of South Mountain Dairy both retired from Sandia Laboratories) and we eagerly bought all the products they had on hand, including drinkable raspberry yogurt, apricot chevre and lemon chipotle marinated feta. All fantastic. All different than Old Windmill Dairy’s product line (which you can buy in CSA fashion). Score.

So between these two dairies and an organic CSA farm called Frost Hill Organics that’s started up five minutes away, we should be able to buy a lot of what we eat from people we actually know. And, after watching Food Inc. (the Oscar-nominated documentary about the industrial food system), I’m pretty happy about that.

Riding Ten Thousand Waves in Santa Fe

I've learned that when you’re having a hard time relaxing, it never hurts to follow the Japanese example. No, I’m not talking about getting a karaoke room - although I know several people who would swear by that. I’m talking about soaking in some hot springs in the mountains (what they call onsens) until your skin turns pink, your mind clears and your entire body begs for a nap.

For my birthday this year, Kevin and I checked into a Japanese-style spa resort called Ten Thousand Waves in the mountains above Santa Fe. We had spent the two weeks prior clearing out the contents of his mother’s home. Upon returning to New Mexico, we were wiped. Recharging was clearly in order, but we needed something to help us snap us out of the “what has to be done next?” mentality.

Fortunately, Ten Thousand Waves had just what we needed. “The Natural” spa package promised “total transformation in just three hours.” Sold! Dressed in our robes, bright orange kimonos and spa sandals, we followed the stone path and climbed several steep sets of stairs from our suite to check in at the spa. After catching our breath and sipping some cucumber water (lest you think we’re pansies, I should mention the entire resort is 20 acres), we then ascended several more levels to our private outdoor hot tub.

Fenced just high enough for privacy – and just low enough to let you take in the scenery - our tub looked like a steaming cauldron in the cold mountain air. Snow covered the ground beyond the fence, and when the wind rustled the ponderosa pines, small flakes fluttered into the hot water for a kamikaze death. Disrobing was not something to take your time with. It was winter, and we were at an elevation of 7,800 feet. So we jumped in quickly and exhaled deeply. Before we knew it, our 50 minutes were up, and the attendant was at the gate beckoning us to the next treatment.

With noodles for legs, we shuffled indoors to a couples massage room for the “yasuragi” head and neck treatment. The name “yasuragi” means “comfort” in Japanese, and for me, this was truly the best part of the package. With warm camellia oil slowly dripping down my scalp, I was more than comforted. I was practically asleep. They say most people hold tension in their head and neck, and I’m definitely one of them. After the “yasuragi” was over, my scalp pulsated with a happy lightness, and I welcomed the mental blankness.

Next came the full body massages followed by a salt glow. Personally, I could have done with continuing the “yasuragi” and forfeiting all the rest. While most of the massage felt wonderful, parts of the salt glow had me alert with anxiety. On the thinner skin of my calves especially, I felt like I was being assaulted with sandpaper. Later, in the sauna, I asked Kevin if he found the salt glow as painful as I had, and he hadn’t. So go figure. Apparently I have sensitive calves.

It wasn’t enough to keep me from slipping into a near-narcotic stupor, though. We made dinner in the suite’s small but functional kitchen, lit a fire in the fireplace (with Buddha sitting above), passed out at 8 p.m. and slept for ten delicious hours.

When we woke, for the first time in many days, there was nothing we needed to do, other than make a pot of coffee and try out the complimentary organic granola in the fridge. That, and have a long discussion about our Warmlet, the suite’s Japanese-style heated toilet. I found it a bit startling. Was it turned up too high? Or was it just the cold temps that made it seem overly toasty? More importantly, what IS the optimal temperature for one’s behind?

After this ridiculous dialogue (although perhaps not so ridiculous given the warnings posted on the Warmlet above, including a note that the young and elderly should be supervised), we needed no further proof that our adrenaline rush was over. We were finally relaxed. Perhaps a little too relaxed. But let’s face it, sometimes mindlessness is bliss.

Relocated, Refocused, Rebooted

I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaaack. And I can hardly believe it’s been five months. Or maybe I can.

Between closing on our new house, packing up our lives, making decisions on every item we owned (keep, donate or throw away?), driving a 26’ Penske truck to New Mexico, unpacking endless boxes, shutting off and starting up a million utilities, furnishing the new place, figuring out what light switch worked what light and why the garage opener didn’t work, changing our address with everyone and everything, and dealing with all the other bureaucratic rigmarole, the process of getting our new life started has been all-consuming.

Add to that the unexpected hospitalization and – a month later – passing of my partner Kevin's mother in December, and you can see why all elective activities had to be shelved. As the executor of her estate, Kevin needed my help with the overwhelming legal, financial and emotional responsibilities he now shouldered, and I needed to be there for him. Beyond taking care of his well-being and many of his mother’s affairs, traveling to and from Charleston, South Carolina (where his mother resided), and keeping the pieces together with our new home, there was no extra bandwidth available for anything else.

Until now. Last week, I was driving east on Interstate 40 from Albuquerque to my newly adopted hamlet of Edgewood, and I saw the largest rainbow I’d ever seen. It started at ground level (which in Albuquerque is at an elevation of 5,000 feet) and jutted up over the 10,000-foot-tall Sandia Mountains to the east. Doing the math, I realized this rainbow was 5,000-feet tall!

I kept gawking and uttering sounds of idiotic amazement until...I saw another rainbow. Just as big. On the other side of the road. Unwilling to let the moment pass, I fumbled for my camera and found myself swerving into the next lane. Which was occupied by an 18-wheeler. Crap! I thought, is this photo worth risking my life for? Yes, I heard my subconscious respond. I need to put it on the blog!*

It was at this very moment when I knew that A) I had become truly enchanted with New Mexico, just as the motto on the license plate promised and B) that my bandwidth was opening up again. I hadn’t thought about the blog in months, and suddenly, I NEEDED to post on it. It was a moment of pure joy to find the urge returned – and one of many that I plan to post about. More regularly, of course. Because I sense that an insatiable discovery process is about to kick off within myself, and I hope you’ll come along for the ride. It’s time to see, do, find and experience a blitzkrieg of new things. The rough stuff is behind us, and the honeymoon phase of living in a new place is here.

So, thanks for understanding about my absence, and stay tuned as I reboot this blog from the cactus-dotted countryside. I’ll be sharing my deepening courtship with New Mexico, and yes, I’ll be hitting the road again soon too. Coming up: Denver and Cape Cod. Pull up your armchairs, travelers, and let’s wander.

*Sadly, my photo did not come out. The wipers got in the way. So much for my death-defying bravery.

Top Five Things I Will Miss About Los Angeles

1. My friends, hands down. (You all mean the world to me, and I WILL keep in touch. Fortunately, you'll be just one hour time difference and a short flight away.)

2. The weather. It IS the perfect climate. No matter where you go, it's downhill weather-wise from here. I have tried to prepare myself for this.

3. The beach. There's nothing as relaxing as an afternoon reading, snacking and dozing at the beach. Once I got an umbrella (ahem, fair skin), I was sold.

4. The walkability. From my apartment, I could walk to get coffee, a fresh croissant, gelato, Thai food, prescriptions, dry cleaning, a pedicure and a haircut.

5. The food. So many ethnic cuisines. So many great restaurants. So much money spent at them. (Okay, I won't miss the last part).

Oh The Places You'll Buy

I apologize for neglecting my blog over the last two months. It's been an unacceptably long gap. But I DO have a good excuse. My boyfriend and I were on a fervent house-hunting mission that involved two back-to-back trips to New Mexico, one rejected offer, endless mortgage paperwork and last but not least buying our dream home in Edgewood, New Mexico! (It's quite a good thing our "first love" house didn't work out, huh? Thank you, divine intervention.)

Yes, the big news is that I am leaving Los Angeles, my beau of the last nine years, and committing to a rural area 30 minutes east of Albuquerque and an hour south of Santa Fe. If you've got a bit of whiplash, you're not alone. It happened fast. At the same time, it's the culmination of things that have been building for a long while. They include: my long-standing crush on Santa Fe, my growing love affair with small towns, a ticking real estate clock, the high cost of living in Los Angeles, the "turnoffs" of an urban mate and, of course, the quest behind this very blog ("Where should I take my lance?"/"What kind of place is right for ME?").

Then there were all the omens, as Paulo Coelho would call them. Colleagues kept telling my boyfriend he should really consider relocating to New Mexico due to the booming film production. My results from Find Your Spot skewed heavily towards New Mexico. U.S. News & World Report named Albuquerque the Best Place to Live for 2009. HGTV announced their 2010 Dream House is in none other than the East Mountains of Albuquerque. Friends gave us the first season of "Breaking Bad," which is set in Albuquerque. It was uncanny.

So, we did it! We followed the signs and let the momentum take over. The funny thing is that all the feelings surrounding relocation - excitement, jitters, fear, optimism, possibility, reinvention - are awfully similar to what you experience with a new romance. In both cases, you are taking the plunge based on some information, yes, but mostly gut instincts and first impressions. It's the kind of decision that makes you feel hyper-alive.

Just as in the early stages of a relationship, I will have to get to know this alluring place that has drawn me in but still has many secrets. Stay tuned for the the good, the bad, the weird and the wonderful about Edgewood (population 1,800), Albuquerque (population 800,000), Santa Fe (population 75,000) and New Mexico (1.9 million).

There are other unknowns, too. What does it mean for a girl with wanderlust to commit to a place? (Let's face it, buying a home is a big geographic commitment.) How will this flip-flop-wearing urbanite fare in the country, where her new neighbors raise goats? Or in a high-altitude, high-desert area, where six inches of snow fell yesterday? And what about dating other places - can I be platonic when I travel, now that I've found a match? These are just a few of the things I will be addressing in the coming months.

All I know is that it's about to get interesting, folks.

Somewhere in Time on Mackinac Island, Michigan

I saw the 1981 film “Somewhere in Time,” starring Christopher Reeves and Jane Seymour, as an impressionable preteen. And I admit...I cried at the end. (Go ahead and judge me, cynics.)

Ridiculed by some as a cheesy romance with a preposterous plot – the NY Times called it “the big-budget film with the highest giggle content” – and yet beloved by others as the ultimate time-traveling love story, “Somewhere in Time” does have a few things that are unassailable. There’s the beautiful Oscar-nominated score by John Barry, the fantastic costumes, and the thing that left the strongest impression on me: the magical setting of the Grand Hotel (opened 1887), which somehow lent credibility to the movie’s premise.


With the world’s longest porch, and a majestic position high over the water, the Grand Hotel is the world’s largest summer resort, and one of the best preserved from the 19th century heyday of refined repose. In the film, it seemed like a fantasy confection, too gargantuan and too luxurious to possibly be real. But it is real, and it’s still in operation today on historic Mackinac Island, an island off the coast of Northern Michigan in Lake Huron. Even the gilded, aristocratic feel remains, as the “Proper Attire” requirements below demonstrate.

You can’t miss the Grand Hotel as you approach the island by ferry. It’s big and long and white, and the closer you get, the bigger it gets. But by the time you’re in the harbor, there’s even more to gawk at, thanks to the charming Victorian homes dotting the hillside. Helping to preserve the feeling of a past era, the first thing you notice after exiting the boat is a very interesting sound: the complete absence of car engines. That’s because the only methods of transportation allowed on the island are your own two feet, horses and bicycles.

It’s hard to convey what a difference this makes. You really do feel “somewhere in time.” Or occasionally “multiple places in time,” such as when your cell phone rings just as a horse-drawn carriage passes. There’s also some timeless humor, too, such as watching the hotel bellboys struggling to cart luggage on bikes as well as the “poop scoopers" sweeping away the horse manure as soon as it hits. Yes, this really is someone’s job. (See the photo below for proof.)

After taking in the neck-straining Grand Hotel up close (as well as an equally grand burger at the hotel’s Jockey Club), we began to wander the back roads of the island, which are really more like lanes or paths than roads. It wasn’t long before we were beckoned into what literally seemed like an enchanted forest. The trees were evenly spaced. The yellow wildflowers made a lovely blooming carpet. The sun cast beams of light in selectively beautiful spots.

I couldn’t even roll my eyes when our little lane turned into “Cupid’s Pathway.” It really was the spot to fall in love. Carefree and semi-lost, we passed a beautiful old cemetery and eventually climbed some stairs to an old fort at the highest point in the island.

After our walk in the woods, we made our way back to the tourist congestion in town. Admittedly, it was a Sunday in July, which is the peak of the island's "season" (May-October). Canadians. Americans. Foreigners. You name it, they were all here, and like us, they seemed to be trying to decide on the best place for fudge. Why fudge? All I can tell you is that for over a century, Mackinac Island has been known for its legendary fudge. The trend apparently started when an island resident got tired of the maple candy exported from Canada and decided to make his own treat.

Finding a fudge shop is not hard. There are at least six main fudge franchises (including Murdick’s, Ryba’s and May’s), and each has several storefronts. So no matter where you are in town, you’re likely less than two doors from a fudge purveyor. It’s choosing the fudge shop that’s so hard. They all have different recipes and flavors. Some are more traditional in their offerings – chocolate, vanilla, peanut butter, etc. Others have gotten pretty creative, offering flavors like Traverse City Black Cherry and Amaretto Chocolate Chip. Yet like a cartel as tight as OPEC, they all charge the same price – around $7/slice, or three for $16.95.

After several taste tests as well as observing the fudge-making process (it’s made daily in the stores on big marble tables), we settled on Joann’s Fudge. The main reason was that there were dark chocolate options offered among the 30 flavors. Most of the other shops only had milk chocolate fudge, which was much sweeter. We ordered the divine Double Dark Cherry Pecan for ourselves as well as several gift “slabs” to take home. We felt complete as fudge-eating trolls now.

With the pressure off, we headed to Mary’s Bistro for a drink on the waterfront deck before catching the ferry back to modernity. Above is a parting shot of the view of the Mackinac Bridge (connecting the Lower Peninsula and Upper Peninsula of Michigan) from the boat.

A River Runs Through It in Grayling, Michigan

When I first “mapquested” Grayling, Michigan, I saw that it was three hours north of Detroit and dead in the middle of Northern Michigan. (Yes, the U.P. is farther north, but people call this area Northern Michigan. Yet another slight!) My initial thought about the town we’d be staying in can be summarized as: “Looks like the boonies.”

As it turns out, historic Grayling (population 1,952) has been “on the map” as a top fishing destination for well over a century. For that, it can thank the famed Au Sable River, which flows right through the middle of town and ends at Lake Huron. Back in the late 1870s, this lovely river began drawing trains full of fishermen looking to hook the town’s namesake species, the Grayling.

According to the Old AuSable Fly Shop, the fishing was ridiculously abundant at the time – upwards of 100 Grayling per person could be caught per day, with yields of three to four fish per cast. But that was soon to be all over, though. The logging industry began using the Au Sable River for transportation (inventing the flat-bottom “Au Sable Boat” to navigate such a shallow river), and in doing so, built dams, stripped the banks, cleared/leveled the river and essentially destroyed the Grayling’s habitat and spawning beds.

Not surprisingly, the Grayling are gone. 100% wiped out. Wealthy individuals (including Henry Ford, Thomas Edison and others in 1914) as well as the state tried to reintroduce them, but to no avail. It’s a damn sad story. But Grayling, the little town, held on. So did the fly fisherman, who now rent riverside cabins (much like the one we’re staying in, pictured below), put on fancy waders and set their sights on brook, brown and rainbow trout. (The Au Sable is designated a "blue ribbon" fishery for brown trout.)

But that’s not all this lush, beautiful area has to offer. In addition to being a fishing mecca, the Au Sable River attracts kayakers and competitive canoe paddlers. Yes, unbeknownst to me (and I suspect many of you), there is a sport involving racing in canoes, and it’s a big deal in these parts. Every July since 1947, the Au Sable River Canoe Marathon, one of three events making up canoeing’s Triple Crown and the longest such race in North America (120 miles), has started right here in Grayling.

I say starts here because it doesn’t end until roughly 14-15 hours later (and that’s for the first-place finishers, mind you.) It begins at 9 p.m. and goes all night, non-stop, until the next afternoon. The approximately 180 paddlers (in teams of two) must first sprint down the main street on foot, carrying their canoes over their heads, before jumping into the river in the center of town. Locals have told me it’s “pure chaos.”

From there, it’s about skill, speed (50-80 strokes per minute!), endurance...and good help. Paddlers have crews, much like race car drivers. But in this case, they’re known as “feeders” or “bank runners.” These dedicated folks position themselves at various points on the river and hand off food and water to their paddlers every two hours. That means a lot of standing in the dark in cold water.

(Photo credit The Bay City Times)

Making things even nuttier is the fact that spectators, too, stay up all night, driving and parking along the river and watching paddlers go by at various locations. The event guide recommends that the “the fully equipped spectator” have, among other things, a full tank of gas, toilet paper, an alarm clock, rain gear, a first aid kit, a battery-powered radio and a flashlight. Now you can see why the race has come to be known as “The World’s Toughest Spectator Race.”

Tragically, I fly out hours before the 2009 canoe marathon begins. So I’ll have to have my boyfriend report further. But consider yourself previewed – and myself enamored by yet another small town that’s way more interesting than I anticipated.

How to Speak Michiganese

We’ve been having a lot of fun trying to master the accent here in Northern Michigan, which primarily involves elongating your “o’s” by pulling in the sides of your mouth. For example, you say, “Oooooooh yeah.” Or “Minnesooooota.” But beyond the accent, there’s also a colorful regional vernacular, which I will now share with you.

The U.P. – Pronounced “the U-P.” This is the Michagenese abbreviation for the Upper Peninsula, the horizontal finger that is north of Lake Michigan and south of Lake Superior. Check out this state map if you don’t follow.

Yoopers – These are people who live in the U.P., which is pretty much an entirely different world. Case in point: the Yooper language was named the official state dialect by the Michigan legislature in 2003.

Trolls – What Yoopers call people who live “below the bridge,” or in other words, south of the famed Mackinac Bridge, which connects the Upper Peninsula and Lower Peninsula. Thus, folks in Grayling, where I am, or Detroit, three hours south, are all trolls.

Fudgies – This is Michiganese for “tourists,” particularly those who visit the popular Mackinac Island area. Apparently there are an inordinate amount of old-fashioned fudge shops on the island. I’ll find out how many when I head there this Sunday, so stay tuned!

Oh, and one more thing. Mackinac is not pronounced "Mak-in-nac," as it would seem. It's pronounced "Mak-in-NAW." Say it wrong, and you'll out yourself as a serious first-time fudgie.