Remembering a winter trip to Traverse City in 2019
We were celebrating our anniversary and enjoying the North Country
NOTE: If all goes according to plan, my wife Dawn and I, son Bradley, daughter-in-law Lindsay, and granddaughter Mackenzie (almost four) will be going to Traverse City for a President’s Day weekend getaway. Since I won’t be near my computer to write a commentary on current events (lucky you), I decided to re-publish this column I wrote after Dawn and I traveled to Traverse City on that holiday in 2019—only we were by ourselves. As you’ll learn, the mid-February weekend coincides with our wedding anniversary. This year we’ll be celebrating our 40th year of wedded bliss, a special occasion which we’ll once again observe ‘in this city by the bay.’ As the Sinatra song goes, “Time goes by, or do we? … “To a place where our hopes hang high.”
* * *
Adventures at the 45th Parallel
Written in February 2019
Twice a year—once in February and again in August—we spend a long weekend at Traverse City. Not every year, I should add. On occasion, we’ve skipped the summer trip in favor of Mackinaw City and the Island.
There are other places in Michigan to visit. Other interesting things to do. But we’re creatures of habit, comfortable with the tried and true, the familiar haunts. Or, perhaps more accurately, that’s my inclination.
I think you could say I’ve become an “old stick-in-the-mud.”
So last week, on the President’s Day observance, we drove north on US-27, getting off at the Clare exit, headed west by northwest on M-115 towards Cadillac, then onto Mesick where we turned right and proceeded to our destination.
It’s a route I’ve taken many times now—spanning around 45 years.
One of the reasons we select this particular weekend is that it falls on our anniversary—Dawn and I having tied the knot on Feb. 16, 1985.
Most of the visits have included our son, Bradley, and more recently he and his wife, Lindsay. But they were unable to join us, so we were on our own—able to do whatever we wished and go wherever we desired.
Such freedom of choice and movement is a heady experience. The stuff of adventure or, over the course of three days, several adventures.
I would be remiss, guilty of sugarcoating the trip, if I did not include a report on the mishap that highlighted at the start of the mini-vacation, namely my unexpected plunge into the waters of Grand Traverse Bay. My first—and I hope last—Polar Dip.
We had arrived late on Saturday afternoon, checked into the motel, and then drove towards the Downtown. There was still some daylight left and, at first, I thought of parking the car, allowing us to stroll along Front Street checking out the unique shops—something we’ve also done countless times over the years,
But I decided to instead turn into the parking lot of Cinch Park, located at the bottom of the West Arm of Grand Traverse Bay and a block north of the Front-Street Business District. The year before the waters had frozen over, allowing us to join others who were on the ice—fishermen, skaters, and lots of folks just strolling around.
I wondered if there were people out on the ice again this year and, sure enough, there were.
“Do you want to go out?” I asked Dawn.
“Sure,” she replied.
We’d been in the car for much of the past four hours, so the idea of stretching the limbs and enjoying this modest outdoors’ excursion seemed appealing.
After parking the car, I went ahead. The year before I noticed that the ice on the boat ramp had been thin and even saw a woman break through and fall. Thus, I went to the concrete sea wall, a few feet away, and, using a solar light to steady myself, began to climb over. It was about two feet from the top of the wall to the icy surface. I noticed some snow banked up against the wall and a pair of footprints. It seemed quite safe. But as I put my full weight onto the snow, I was suddenly waist-deep in the water and did not feel any bottom.
I remember wondering if the ice would be solid enough to allow me to climb out of the water. If not, then I’d need to work my way to the launch. Grabbing ahold of the wall with one hand and pushing off the ice with the other, I was out of my predicament in less than 30 seconds.
I had noticed a young couple with a little girl nearby, and I saw that the man was scurrying over to assist me.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Just wet,” I replied, adding, “I guess I need to get in the car and warm up.”
Which I did.
Dawn, who was still in the parking lot and had not seen my ‘break through’, wondered what was going on. I explained as I shuffled towards the car. I handed her my smart phone and asked her to dry it off. Back at the car, I pulled out my wallet which, it turned out, had been protected enough to avoid getting wet. The check book, which includes a lot of phone numbers on scraps of paper, was less fortunate and all of the paper would need to dry out.
To wrap the story up, we were soon back at the motel. There, I changed into dry clothes, put the wet ones in the bathroom to dry, including my shoes, and then we headed back to the downtown. But not to the bay.
“I don’t care if half of Traverse City is on that ice,” I said. “I’m not going back out.”
I was no worse for wear. The clothing had prevented any shock from the cold. I had only been in the water for a few seconds and had never been in any danger. But, even so, the mishap could have turned out differently. I could have hit my head. The shock of frigid water might have caused problems with the heart. Who knows?
Over the next three days, while I tried to shrug it off, Dawn was re-telling the mishap to family and friends—and even a couple of strangers. I realize the what if—the thin line between ‘no big deal’ and a calamity— can, in retrospect, give pause.
* * *
OUR NEXT STOP THAT EVENING WAS THE CAFÉ AT THE HOLIDAY INN where I ordered a beer and Dawn, now promoted to being my designated driver, requested a Virgin Daquiri. The waitress brought my drink, but informed Dawn that a key ingredient was missing from her choice. So, she told the lady to bring a glass of water.
While I was slow to understand and then utilize social media, including the smart phone, I’m now fully aboard. I told the waitress that today was our anniversary and asked her to take a photo of us.
She took one with my phone and then another with Dawn’s. We then posted them on our respective Facebook pages, noting to our respective FB friends that we were at this place, celebrating our 34th anniversary.
Well, within minutes, the ‘likes’ and ‘congratulations’ were flowing in. Instant gratification.
After a second round (for me), we left for dinner, deciding to try Sleder’s Family Tavern. The place is located on Randolph Street in the part of the city known as Slabtown—a reference to the neighborhood’s lumber-mill past. The Tavern has a 19th century front and an old-fashioned bar that’s little changed since I first came here—young and single—in 1975.
Due to the late hour, the place was not packed—the crowd having come and gone.
I chose a salad, while Dawn picked their Buffalo Burger. Given the warm responses to our earlier Facebook posts, I came up with a more ambitious idea.
After paying the bill, I asked the bartender (a young lady) if patrons could still ‘kiss the moose.’
She said “yes” and pointed to the ladder tucked between a booth and the wall where the head of a friendly-looking moose was mounted. I asked Dawn to climb up and kiss the fellow, telling her I wanted to make a video.
While unsure of what I was up to and after a mild protest, she stood on the ladder—as shown in the above photo.
I then turned on the video of my phone and began the following narration:
“We’re here at the world-famous Sleder’s Tavern in Traverse City and this is ‘Randolph the Moose’ with my wife, Dawn. One of the traditions at Sleder’s is for people to kiss the moose, and this is our 34th wedding anniversary. Dawn, 34 years ago we exchanged our wedding kiss…Is the moose really a better kisser than me?”
“No!” she remarked in mock horror.
I still think she prefers the moose to the old goat she’s married to, but great actress that she is, it was a convincing performance.
The other customers were royally entertained, we received a couple of “congratulations,” and a young man offered to take a photo with both of us kissing Randolf. Well, I could hardly say “no,” so I got up on a chair and posed for the camera.
I posted the video, along with the photo of us both kissing on the moose, on my Facebook page and, once again, got a number of responses. I was on a social-media roll.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER A NICE BREAKFAST AT THE MOTEL, we drove on M-37, the length of the Old Mission Peninsula, to the lighthouse. Our intention was to put on our snowshoes and hike around the surrounding woods.
Both the lighthouse, the beach in front of it, and the woods are part of a township park. The woods have marked trails.
We used to do a lot of snowshoeing when Bradley was junior-high age. He’s 30 now, so according to my arithmetic, this was our first outing in 15 years.
The snow was ample, but fortunately the trail had been packed down, making the walk easier. While the temperature was cold, there was little wind amid the trees and, with the walking, conditions were comfortable.
We paused to take photos along the way and then, after we reached a spot on a high bluff overlooking the water, I recorded another video. It included the following remarks:
“Here we are at the Old Mission Park, snowshoeing. The Adventures of Steve & Dawn—The Hortons. We’re at the 45th Parallel, halfway between the Equator and the North Pole, although today it feels like we’re closer to the North Pole. We’re at the tip of the Old Mission Peninsula, looking out at the Grand Traverse Bay. To the north is Lake Michigan. A very cold, wintery, very scenic and beautiful day.”
I waited until the following morning to post this offering. Once again it generated a number of ‘likes’ and a few comments.
What was happening in Traverse City was no longer staying in Traverse City.
* * *
WE HAD OTHER ‘ADVENTURES’ THAT WEEKEND, including sharing supper at the North Peake Restaurant on Sunday evening with our friends, Randy and Buffy Learmouth.
In other, earlier columns I’ve written of how I met Randy the night I started working at the Big Boy in May of 1974. He was the head cook. Other than a few years when I stopped going to Traverse City, we’ve remained in touch ever since.
Part of that familiar routine—created over the years—includes a visit with them.
* * *
ON SUNDAY MORNING, IN THE MOTEL ROOM, as I was waiting for Dawn to finish getting ready for our snowshoe hike and whatever else the day would bring, I decided to do another post. I had taken this photo of my father as part of posting, done nearly a year-and-a-half earlier that marked the 50th year since his unexpected death.
With this date being another noteworthy one, I found the photo in the album part of the phone and typed in the following sentiment:
“This is the graduation photo of my father, Verlyn Horton, Fowlerville High Class of 1946. Had he lived, today Feb. 17th, would have been his 90th birthday. Of course, few of us live that long. He certainly didn’t, passing away in Nov. 1967 at age 38. But he and others who have gone, those we harbor an abiding affection for, live on in memory. So, Happy Birthday Dad.”
* * *
I’LL BE 68 LATER THIS YEAR. I’ve long ago managed to live longer than my father. At present, I appear to have my physical health and believe (although there may be some dispute) that my mental faculties are still in good working order.
All and all, I’ve been a lucky fellow. I’ve had a couple of close brushes and maybe others that I’m unaware of. I’ve had, thus far, lived a pretty good life—not as good as I sometimes wish for, but better than I deserve.
I hope, and anticipate, that I’ll have plenty more birthdays to observe and lots more trips to the north country to enjoy. But who knows. True, I have ancestors who have lived to a ripe old age and older relatives, still thankfully with us, who have reached their golden years and are active.
Still, as every mother’s child eventually understands, there’s always the sudden and unexpected turn-of-events, accidents that can be life changing or even fatal, not to mention illnesses that can strike like a viper’s bite.
My plunge into the Grand Traverse Bay and my father’s death from heart failure at an early age are testaments to how things can turn on a dime.
Thoughts of one’s mortality might seem an unusual souvenir to bring home from a vacation, but they add depth and breadth to the fun times we’ve once again been able to enjoy and share.
The years pass by. Too quickly it seems. One day you’re kissing your bride and 34 years later you’re having a smooch with a moose. These are adventures, if you will, that we had at the 45th Parallel.
* * *
Steve Horton is a mid-Michigan journalist and commentary.
Fun and reflective - how do you beat that?
Happy anniversary!
Nice article. Happy 40th anniversary! 🥂🎊