from the Sugar River Dairy

Several weeks ago, we were just finishing up our veggie hunt at the Westside Community Market. I looked at my still not too full basket. Potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes, peas… what’s missing? Yogurt. I like it with dill on a baked potato. Or with sliced cucumbers. It’s a very Polish thing – sour milk, yogurt, kefir – ubiquitous products in the old country. We drank them for supper, with potatoes on the side, or mixed with fruit, as an afternoon pick-me-up.

The vendors at the Sugar River Dairy stand were selling containers of plain yogurt and ones with fruit. We purchased both, polishing off the blueberry one right there on the spot. It stopped me short.

Pretty much the best I have ever tasted. This is no hyperbole. This is a fact.



The sun is still warm as we bike past the Sugar River. We paddled here once, before all the flooding spilled the Sugar waters beyond the river banks, creating green ponds around trees used to drier meadows.







Purchase photo 1891


This is farming country. Cornfields. Dairy farms. We see hints of family pride in doing things well.



Purchase photo 1890


We’re close to Albany, Wisconsin and the hills are something else. Our water bottles are almost empty by the time we reach 7346 County D – the address we picked off the Sugar River Dairy yogurt container.

We hadn’t announced our visit. Asking for an appointment is like asking for a commitment of someone’s time. I’d be happy just to see the place. And at this point, we would be happy to simply dump some more water into our empty bottles.

But, are we at the right place? There’s no huge building announcing production of anything. Yes, yes – there are some cooler trucks in the yard. This must be it.

It’s 5:30 and Ron, Chris and their oldest son are finishing the clean up for the day. And they are so welcoming! Would you like to look around? See how we do things?


Small. Yes. The whole operation could fit into a garage! But what care is taken into the making of this most wonderful, tangy, creamy yogurt!

Milk, brought in by Ron in his own milk-carrying truck. Three times a week, from just one farm twelve miles away, where they pasture graze their cows.










Heated (to pasteurize it), then cooled to introduce the culture. And then it all goes to this adorable machine which adds fruit and seals the containers.





Lids are placed by hand and then away it goes, to incubate, and finally cool off.



Buy photo 1889



So it’s a no-sweat operation, right?

No, not right. We’re a dairy state, correct? We produce milk, cream, butter, cheese. More and more, we note the appearance of wonderful artisanal cheeses, made right here, in Wisconsin. Small, family-owned businesses. Emphasis on quality. Last I counted, there were some five dozen artisanal and homestead cheesemakers in our state. What a nice support network!

How about homestead yogurt? I’m told we’re down to two – one near Green Bay and Sugar River Dairy.

Dannon, Yoplait (General Mills in the US) – they are the big players. Dannon has maybe three plants in the entire country. These spit out millions of little tins of yogurt that fill grocery shelves.

But wait, if Ron and Chris can do such a superior yogurt, where are the other local yogurt makers? Why aren’t they buying up machines that throw fruit into that heavenly, creamy, cultured milk?

We had to go to Israel to get this machine. None here for the little guy. And the fruit? Blueberries, peaches – you think we get them locally, right? Wrong. Michigan, right next door, producing all the fruit we could use, but they don’t prepare it for the little guys, in the quality way that we want. So we have to go to California for fruit!

Oh, but there’s moral and technical support for what you’re doing, no? I mean, we're so proud of what's happening here! Our state should throw accolades and awards your way!

No. It’s lonely out there, at the helm. Homestead production is so rare, so rare, that it’s one uphill struggle just dealing with bureaucracies and inspectors and agencies that cannot work out between themselves what it is that they hope to accomplish.

And still, The Sugar River Dairy continues to make the very best yogurt I have ever tasted. Why do they do it? Oh, that’s the wrong question to ask. The real puzzle? Why isn’t it easier for more farmers to do the same, so that our pasture grazed cows get to show off their milk and our dairy farmers can shove the giants to the side and place their own product out there, with the quality that they are so capable of producing?


We fill our jugs with cool well water. Delicious. We’re refreshed. We pedal home past many sad (in my estimation) cows standing in mud, waiting for their feed, primed to pump milk like robots for the big guys, and just one or two pastures of happy cows, grazing. Happy cows and great yogurt, supported by happy eaters like me.


Purchase photo 1888


And you. People who eat the stuff should demand quality. Look for the Sugar River Dairy yogurt at Whole Foods, or Willie Street, or Metcalfe's Sentry, or Brennan’s, or the Westside Community Market (among other places) and if your store doesn’t carry it, ask them why not. And say thanks to Ron and Chris if you see them at the market. For doing it the good way. Leading to this, one of the very best yogurts you’ll ever eat, on either side of the ocean.

(For the curious: the yogurt is not YET for sale outside of Wisconsin. Don’t even ask why. A tale of further continued frustration.)

from Wisconsin: closer to Madison

In the late late afternoon, Ed and I shelved our ongoing discussion about the meaning of life (and really – all discussions can be condensed to this, right?) and went for a bike ride. 35 miles round trip from Oregon (WI). Where did we go? I’ll tell you tomorrow. For now, enjoy the ride. Sometimes, you just need to get off your own brain spin and take pleasure in the beauty of the landscape around you (however sad it may be; because really, the rampant flooding in Wisconsin is so sad).



Purchase photo 1887





Purchase photo 1886






Purchase photo 1885





Purchase photo 1884

from Wisconsin: coming home

It’s Saturday. We are on Drummond Island and by all accounts, the weather is unsteady. By some accounts, the waters may be choppy on this day and the next. At the same time and perhaps most significantly, if you haven’t realized this yet (let’s be honest): Ed’s comfort level with risk is huge, and mine vacillates. In the matter of storms and choppy waters, I am on the conservative side. Ed is looking at me with true puzzlement. I have never known anyone who is afraid of being outdoors during storms, he tells me.

It becomes a stalemate. Or, more to the point, in a potential further expedition, I have become a stale mate. I want a gentle run. Ed would go along, but the sense of adventure would be lost. It would be like wheeling your great grandmother to the rose garden for an afternoon snooze. Nice, but sort of tame. At the same time that I refuse to be regarded as a timid softee.

And so, in spite of the fantastically sunny skies that are due in the next days, we turn the car toward the ferry and head home.


Purchase photo 1883


But slowly.


Purchase photo 1882


Because sometimes you pull back too quickly in life and you wish you had hung around just a little longer.

Since it is Saturday (market day back home!), we stop at a road stand and buy cherries and peas from a local farmer. The cherries are really from around Traverse City, but the peas are his own. Organic! – he tells us proudly.



Purchase photo 1881


In Escanaba, we find a café with WiFi and we search for a place to stop for the night. So that we don’t return on the run, defensively.

We find a small b&b just outside of Marinette, across the Menominee River (separating Wisconsin from Michigan). The b&b is tranquil, secluded. We need that sense of peace tonight.



Purchase photo 1880


We eat at a laidback place by the river and watch the sun go down.



Purchase photo 1879


And in the morning, we take the dog, Murphy, for a walk around the fields and forests belonging to our innkeepers.



Purchase photo 1878









Purchase photo 1877


We talk more about risk and adventure. It’s a long discussion. It doesn’t end until we reach Madison late in the afternoon.

The drive itself has such memorable Wisconsin touches!

We pass through the town of Peshtigo, where we take the time to visit the Historical Museum of Peshtigo and the cemetery where victims of the 1871 great fire of Peshtigo are buried.










The fire happened on the same day as the great Chicago fire. The Peshtigo fire claimed more lives and took more property than the Chicago blaze, but the big city’s notoriety completely trumped the story of the Wisconsin tragedy.

Further south, on the shores of Lake Michigan, we look at the thin strip of Door County across Green Bay. Hard to believe that the winds blew the fire across the bay, but they did and Door County, too, experienced significant damage.





But let me end this post on a cheerful note, as the day itself ends on a cheerful note. Discussions can lead to good outcomes and drives on the backroads can lead you to scenes where families of sandhill cranes traipse through fields of flowers. Did I ever mention how pretty this state is?



Purchase photo 1876

from the four-corners wireless hotspot on Drummond Island, Michigan

Three beautiful camping spots in a row. Secluded, with views of flowers and lake ripples, and sounds of frogs, birds and crickets. We wanted a fourth. It was not to be.

Maybe we should have stayed in Hessel or Cedarville. In the ice cream shop, CC was there – the man with the pony tail and a generous heart toward hitchhikers. I admire what you’re doing in the kayaks. He tells us. These days, I don’t go out much. Listen, if you want to throw your tent in my place, you’re welcome.

We should have thrown our tent at his place. And learned more about the community – its history, for instance (American Indians, sure, and then boat trippers from Mackinaw and the mainland; no roads up here until after the second World War).

But, we waved a cheery hand and went on to eat a plateful of fried local yellow perch at Pammi’s. At least I did. Ed had just polished off a lot of icecream and so he opted for a spinach salad with turkey. We have such different eating habits.





The plan had been to paddle from Drummond Island further east (near Canada; indeed, if you weren’t careful, you’d paddle onto Canadian shores). But, I didn’t want to fret the weather issues. Ed distrusts forecasts -- not surprising, since they've been off -- but this one is in my face stubbornly telling me thundershowers all day Saturday. The distances between the little islands are long. I do not want the risk. (Ed sees little risk in being in a boat during a storm; we are different that way as well.)

Still, it could be that the skies will clear and the day would be brilliant and sunny. I’m okay with reconsidering on Saturday. And I’m okay with camping another night. I have never met a person who loved camping as much as Ed does! So we’ll camp.

But where?

Before you board the ferry for Drummond Island, you can detour toward the coast and find a state park with camping options. We did that. It was Disneyland on Lake Huron. Crowded and cramped. We left.

The ferry runs every hour. The boat fills with SUVs and summer people. Our little car with the kayak gets pushed to the side. A first sign that we are not Drummond people.





Our map and a friendly Ecotours person (she was the one who enticed me to this area back in March, in Madison) assure us that there is state land just up the road, by the shore. You can always camp on state land. But we can’t find it. All roads lead to private property and “no trespassing” signs. I convince Ed that we should give this up. It’s near 10, near dark, and almost certainly this swatch of state land has no land access. Frustrating, but there you have it. Private always trumps here. Step on someone’s land and you can have a shotgun pointed at your nose. And so reluctantly, we go to the official Island campground.

And this one is even more crowded and even more crazy-packed. Here, Ed and I would choose different paths. He would put the tent down anyway, even if the only spot appears to be next to the outhouse. I say no and this time, I stand firm. Ed had been willing before we left to do the occasional b&b on this trip and I wanted to cash in on the promise.

The trouble is that it is the week-end, it is late and we have no backup plan. Our list of inns, b&bs, cottages, resorts, soon runs thin. Cell reception is nonexistent and so we drive from one place to another, in a futile pursuit of a room. Most places are full and nearly all are shut down for the night.

Until finally, we step onto the grounds of a rustic resort type place. Even without words, you can feel the wall of resistance going up within my occasional traveling companion. A resort is like a condominium to him. It represents all that he would like to avoid in life, this man with a real big foot, but with the desire to leave a very small (carbon) print on the planet and live in quiet simplicity.

I wake up some person somewhere and she is willing to let us have a room for a small charge. As well she might, since the place is freaky empty. It’s not that it’s posh at all. But there seem to be no people of any yoke anywhere on the premises.

A less than optimal closure, to be sure, but now I wince when I hear Ed’s final verdict for the day: we should have stayed at the campground.

In the morning we cheer ourselves with a cinnamon roll and eggs over easy. Food so often soothes raw spirits.

from Les Cheneaux Islands, Michigan

It’s Wednesday afternoon. We’re at the Cedarville boat launch. Kayak properly inflated (I hope). I’m properly attired.




A push and we’re in Cedarville Bay. In the company of gulls, the rare swan, and the occasional, annoying motorboat (ban the wake!).



Purchase photo 1875




Purchase photo 1874


Sometimes passing a barge pushed by a tug. To get stuff to the islands.





Our goal is modest: paddle past big La Salle Island and set camp on the uninhabited Government Island (it’s part of the Hiawatha National Forest). But the wind! I raise the possibility of capsizing and drowning. The waves are bouncing us around relentlessly. But Ed can’t hear. The wind rips out my words and tears them to nothing.

As we get closer to our destination, Ed pulls up and shouts out – great wind, wasn’t it? He and I often regard acts of nature quite differently. Terrifying! I respond. Your boat’s like one big life preserver. You can’t sink in that thing. My imagination can concoct a number of scenarios in which Ed is dead wrong, but I choose to not go that route. We are safe, we are on land. From which, btw, the waves look fairly… modest.



Purchase photo 1873


Our chosen site is so very pretty!



Purchase photo 1872





Purchase photo 1871


And quiet, except for the occasional boat putting along to who knows where. And here’s the upside of the strong wind: for this one night, there are no mosquitoes! They’ve been blown away, hopefully across Lake Huron to Ohio (but probably just to the next island).

We hike to the other coast admiring everything. It is the season for wildflowers, and their upturned faces surprise you in clearings and at the water’s edge.



Purchase photo 1870



In the evening, we sit down to a meal of organic freeze dried vegetarian Jambalaya. Mixed in a pouch, with boiling water – made possible by Ed’s archaic gas burner and enhanced by my cool bottle of La Vieille Ferme rosé (I believe in scaling down to meet the occasion). Possibly, the observant reader will have noticed the pink screwtop sticking out of the side of my kayak.





We sleep for upwards of ten hours. In my dreams I am the doomed explorer, the failed protector and the terrible parent. I wake up thinking I can do better. Waves? I’m up for you! (Taking a morning bath in the cold waters of the lake adds punch to my resolve.)



Purchase photo 1869


At first, it is smooth out there. The winds are clearly recharging and we are paddling with big smug grins. A piece of cake.

Our goals are loftier though. We want to head out on the open waters of Lake Huron and cut across to an island further down the chain: Marquette Island. Now, maybe you’ve paddled on the Great Lakes or even the open seas. I have not. It is an entirely different kettle of fish out there!

The waves roll in heaving masses of dark deep water, in a slower, mightier motion. You are but a drop of nothing out there. THE LAKE is in charge. In competition with the sky, which threatens to spill blood or at least water on top of water. So that everything is having, moving, threatening. And I have to remember that I am on a “life raft” (Ed’s term) and the wind is blowing me in, not out. And I do remember, when the brain takes over and the palms stop sweating.



Purchase photo 1868


Finally, we turn into Voight Bay and gradually, the waters settle. (As does my stomach. Eventually.) Indeed, the air here is quite still. We find yet another lovely, empty spot and set up tent. With the smell of juniper berries and the sight of flowers.



Purchase photo 1867





Purchase photo 1866


It’s not dusk yet and so we take a walk across the island. The forest has a powerful smell of cedar. And indeed – we cross one of the few remaining cedar swamps in the area. The mosquitoes are so pronounced that we walk slapping our legs in a nonstop windmill action. But it’s worth it. The woods offer occasional clearings of flowers, but mostly they are dense and wild.

And on the other side of the island, we come to the marshy bay where reeds give a different tone to the still waters.



Purchase photo 1865


At dusk, we are in our tent. I am just in awe of the technology that gives us this bug free and rain free existence. Oh, did I mention it? It's raining now. Hard. For hours, we listen to the heavy drops on rain fly. So steady is the rain that we almost give up on our organic freezedried vegetarian Bare Burito dinner. But we're lucky. The patter turns into a drip and Ed braves the bugs to boil the water for our pouches of food. I bring out the remains of the rosé and chocolate. I have camping skills, no?

And in the morning (Friday), the clouds are less threatening. Or at least, the threat is still to the south of us. Somewhere in Ohio.



Purchase photo 1864


I’m anxious to leave. Instant espresso, a bite of cereal, no lake bath, no no no, let’s GO before that cloud explodes on us.

We need to head back into Lake Huron to go around the island and I want that part behind us. My kayak bow is swept with waves again and again and even the skirt doesn’t keep the water from dripping in. I am sitting in a puddle, even as I know, I KNOW, that I am in a huge life preserver, right??

Finally we turn in, paddling through the gentle waters of the inlet leading toward the village of Hessel. It’s our longest trip yet, but it ends on a quiet, contemplative note. Ed is drifting, with an open bag of trail mix, I am closer to the shore, looking at flowers and driftwood.


Purchase photo 1863


Closer to Hessel, we admire the small and great boat houses – some with antique wooden runabouts inside, we pass an occasional fisherman, and we look at the distant regatta of sailboats.



Purchase photo 1862




Purchase photo 1861


We are in Hessel. At the Marina, I head for the shower. Warm, long, wonderful. A local resident with a bushy gray pony tail gives us a ride to Cedarville where we retrieve our car. At the library, I recharge my batteries and I post. Tomorrow, we paddle further east, by Drummond Island. Tonight? Unclear. Ed's hoping for a desolate campsite...

Les Cheneaux Islands: arrival

420 miles later, we are ordering pizza at Ang-Gio’s in Cedarville, Michigan. You could look upon Cedarville as the gateway to Les Cheneaux Islands (on Lake Huron). But that makes it seems big and grand. Cedarville is small and homey. And that’s a good thing.

We have driven through great heat, followed by low-lying clouds. Dark ones that almost touch the road. It's dusk now, at 9 (we’re on Eastern time now), and Ed wants to search out a place to put down the tent. I’m thinking the first night should be in a motel, with a shower, but this is really Ed’s call. I’m way too bossy about where we stay in France. This time, I tell myself to shut up and go along.

We’re looking for a small stretch of National Forest along Lake Huron. Of course, we turn into the wrong dirt road. Gordon, a local resident, is out and about (sign says: Gordon and Eleanor’s house) and so we pull up to get our bearings.

The Hiawatha Forest? Next road. Nice beachfront, put down your tent anywhere. Just up a mile or so.
And the mosquitoes?
Worst ever.

But Gordon doesn’t live in Madison. He’s hanging out by his mailbox at dusk. Worst is relative. Where do you like to eat in Cedarville? – we ask Gordon. He shrugs. All three are the same. Try the one left of the blinking light. We thank him and head out.

It’s pretty here.



Purchase photo 1860



We find the dirt road, the coastline – empty here except for one couple who appear to be settled in for the long haul. We turn away from them, and drive along the rutted lane looking for a good spot where we can return and set camp after supper.


Purchase photo 1859


Late suppers, after a day without proper meals, are always special. I'm totally taken with the freshness of the onion, the tomato, the mushrooms on a thick crust pizza. (I ignore the salad bar which, as so many up north, should never be called that; when carbs outnumber veggies, change the name!)




And now we head back to our chosen camp spot. The night is dark. And it’s starting to rain again. We wait it out. Putting up a tent in the rain is miserable and you never quite recover until the sun dries things out again.

Miraculously, the rain stops. Or at least pauses. We hurry. It’s rocky, and there are bugs, but Ed’s quick and we’re inside the tent, gear and all, within minutes.



I wake up at dawn and find a nice blanket of mosquitoes clinging to the netting. A welcoming committee. (Sorry to have doubted you, Gordon.)

But it is a sunny morning (caveat: weather changes very quickly here; very very quickly) and with each hour, their numbers diminish. By 8, I leave our tent and stroll down to the banks of Lake Huron, where I wash off the day of travel. With very cold water. If any part of me was sleeping still, it got a healthy wake up slap now.



the tent, the grasses, the water





Purchase photo 1858



We drive to the villages of Hessel and Cedarville to find a possible put in point. Before the clouds take over again. They will, I can tell, but for now, we can contemplate the utter loveliness of the simple harbor, the lake, the few boats, the place with the good pizza and the shop with the not so good coffee and the even less great Internet. It's all as it should be.



in the village of Hessel
Purchase photo 1857




Purchase photo 1856

Les Cheneaux Islands: departure

I was, in more youthful times, an enthusiastic camper. In Poland, the minute my parents gave permission (and they did this very early; tormented by their own lives, they hardly knew my age or whereabouts during high school and university years) for me to go on long kayak trips, I went. Again and again. Down rivers linked by lakes. In small groups and large kayak clubs, sharing a tent most often with strangers. We pulled up on shores and asked farmers for bread and cheese and opened cans that smelled of grease, with chunks of something I would never before or after consider eating.

That was then. So what’s changed? Two things, really. Moving here, I noticed that American streets may not be paved in gold, but her skies, come summertime, are indeed filled to overflowing. With mosquitoes. On our mountain hiking trip two years back, the bugs were so bad, that we could not eat outside. Or stand still. Or sit down. Of course, that was Canada, but I think they cross the border freely.

And I have weather issues. This I carry over from Poland and my country summers with my grandparents. After storms, we’d bike to the village to see whose barn had been struck and what the damage was. Lightening was no joke. And I still find it somewhat terrifying if I am outdoors. I have been studying the ten day forecast for Les Cheneaux for a long time, and I swear, there has not been a stretch without scattered storms all summer long.

These issues notwithstanding, Les Cheneaux Islands, to me, are like a mystical dream. We watched a slide show this last winter, during the paddling convention here, in Madison, and maybe it was that we were in the middle of a deep freeze, with no spring in sight, or maybe I was in some weepy vulnerable moment, but the images from Les Cheneaux stuck with me. We have to go there, I said to Ed.

So this is it: one kayak on the car roof, the other, inflatable, in the trunk. Packets of freezedried chili, bags of trail mix. Deet. A new tent that, to our knowledge, will keep rain out. What am I forgetting? Too late. Off we go.