JOHN PEPIN

The morning was cool and the skies still dark when I tried to move quietly out the back door, headed for the garage, my arms loaded down with cameras, keys and a rain jacket.

No morning birds singing today, at least not yet.

As I drove along the twisting blacktop road, the sun was beginning to climb up from behind the smoky, blue-gray clouds that hung along the horizon line.

“‘How far are y’all going?’ Ruby asked us with a sigh. ‘We’re going all the way ’til the wheels fall off and burn; ’til the sun peels the paint, and the seat covers fade, and the water moccasin dies.'”

Well, maybe not quite that far for me today.

I was traveling east. It had been a good stretch of time since I had been out this way.

I made a right turn at the big lake and headed south and then east again. The summertime seascape off to my left wasn’t much beyond miles of silvery blue waters, laying mostly flat, reflecting the growing sunlight back to the sky.

The roadside turnouts for gaining access to the soft, sandy beaches below the grass-covered dunes had a parked car here and there, likely overnighters digging the coastline, starry-skied, soft-sounding waves vibe.

There were early risers in the now tall grasses at the sides of the road – sandhill crane parents whose colts were gaining size, strength and mass. Seemingly fearless, the cranes bobbed their bills and snaked out their long necks as they fed just off the graveled shoulders of the highway.

Though they approach so close to vehicles whipping by at speeds of 70 mile per hour and more, I have never seen one of these birds dead along the road. I am sure it happens occasionally, but I have never seen it.

Contrary to this behavior, I am assured by a railroad worker friend of mine that the cranes react quite differently to the passing of slow-moving trains. The birds fly off, firing their loud and prehistoric-sounding distress calls into the air.

What is the difference between a car and a train to a sandhill crane?

I don’t know the answer, but I think the circumstances are interesting to think about.

Outside my driver’s side window, the beaches turn to northern hardwood forests, then a few scattered homes, then more and more, along with a few tourist-related businesses.

Within a couple of minutes, I am in the heart of a little Upper Peninsula town bursting at its seams with vacationers. At least one local has a T-shirt that says, “Welcome to Munising, now go home.”

A confluence of events led to this now regular summertime condition, none perhaps more significant than the paving, years ago now, of an old sandy and rock-bottomed dirt road.

That action allowed much greater access to the spectacular mineral-stained sandstone cliffs, beaches and forests stretching for miles and dunes towering up from the chilly drink of Lake Superior.

Within a few minutes, I am stopped dead on the highway, even though the speed limit is 65 mph.

However, I am not the only one. There is a lengthening line of cars stalled in our travels for about 10 minutes before a construction worker reverses the message on the sign she is holding and lets us all move forward.

Some people say there are two seasons here: construction season and winter.

From here, the road stretches out in a lone straight line through swamp country and former ranchlands now grown up with mature trees off the sides of the highway and a parallel set of railroad tracks.

Crows and ravens are the only birds or animals I see out this morning.

I pass through the now comparative ghost towns of a few villages that were once bustling communities during the pine rush days.

I enter one big watershed drainage and then another, even larger.

A big bend in the road keeps me headed east past a picturesque lake, a teaspoon creek and some wide and sprawling hay fields. I approach an intersection which offers me the last of three opportunities I’ve had today to head south to the shores of Lake Michigan.

Instead, I keep moving straight ahead.

A bridge out and more construction prevents me from taking a cut-across road that would have brought me down close to the mighty river and a dam that backs it up into a big basin teeming with wildlife.

Instead, I take the less-direct route through another faded lumbering town at the gateway to the river’s impressive valley and winding watercourse that eventually ends at Lake Superior, in sight of the Canadian shore.

This is one of the region’s most spectacular and storied wild and scenic rivers, the tremendous, tannin-stained Tahquamenon, mentioned by the poet Longfellow in his epic Song of Hiawatha.

I now head north out of town. Within a half-hour, I’ll be quickly approaching my destination. I pass more wetlands that stretch, seemingly in endless fashion, on both sides of the road.

Then more forests appear, and I cross small, late-summer starved creeks that are low or barely flowing. Pines change to tamaracks to hardwoods and then to cedar and hemlock moist and wetter areas.

I see a sign pointing to the entrance for the Upper Falls – one of the most photographed places in Michigan – but I go right past.

The parking lot was packed almost to capacity with cars even on a Monday morning. The state park here sees about 600,000 visitors every year.

The Upper Falls are more than 200 feet wide and about 50 feet high. A viewing deck brings visitors right to the brink of waterfall. It is spectacular to experience.

However, I keep snaking along the blacktop road for about four more miles. I make my right-hand turn at the Lower Falls, which even in its name, connotates a lesser experience compared to the Upper Falls.

But I don’t think that’s the case.

I prefer the Lower Falls, which is a magnificent series of rapids that splits in braided fashion around either side of an island. There is a sweeping landscape vista to view the whole scene from at once from a downstream vantage point.

A wooden boardwalk trail leads visitors though a thick stand of cedar trees upriver, with viewing decks along the way. The island is accessible from the mainland by boats and a new all-access, aluminum pedestrian bridge.

I recall the rainy, windy day last autumn when I came here to photograph and film the assembly of the more than 140-foot-long span. It was built in Florida, trucked north and then airlifted in four sections up over the trees and the raging river from the parking lot, to be laid in place atop temporary scaffolding.

The operation was an incredible sight to see.

I was back here today for the ribbon-cutting and dedication of the bridge.

As I waited assembled with dignitaries at one end of the bridge, Ronald A. Olson, chief of the DNR’s Parks and Recreation Division approached, unaware of the namesake recognition he was about to be feted with.

It was my job to take pictures at the event and accommodate visiting media.

In the early afternoon sun, Olson stood near a birch-log podium, casting a long shadow down the trail and back over his 17 years with the DNR.

A true innovator who developed new ideas, including the state’s Recreation Passport for state park entry, expanding lodging options at parks and creating unique partnerships to solve big problems, Olson was well-deserving of having a bridge named after him.

Two wheelchair users in attendance made their way across the span over the river to an accessible trail on the island. After circling the land mass, they returned and stopped in the middle of the bridge to admire the river.

They then approached Olson and thanked him and the DNR for the opportunity the new bridge afforded them. Olson sliced pieces of the ribbon used in the dedication ceremony and handed them out to passersby who had asked for a little souvenir of history being made that they witnessed.

With the festivities concluded, the trail along the river and over the bridge was filled with park visitors. It felt good to be standing in the sunshine, being a small part of something that was contributing to a greater good.

I took a few pictures of Chief Olson with the bridge in the background and at one of the scenic overlooks where the rapids roared just a few feet away, a mist floating into the air.

It was a glorious day, with the temperature at near 90 degrees. Park visitors waded into the shallows around the rim of the island to cool off.

I paused briefly at the big vista, looking at the island and the root-beer-colored waters that tumbled over the rocks. I took a deep breath to take in the air.

Though it contrasted significantly from the quiet and hidden places I typically seek out in my often-solo explorations into these Great North Woods, there was no place I could think of that would have been better to be than at this place – right here, right now.

It was a trip well worth making that I wish I could do all over again tomorrow.

Editor’s note: Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.