24 Hours in Savannah

I met Savannah in the rain. And just as in a movie, that made the meeting even more romantic. 

A few sprinkles were already hitting the windshield of my rental car as I drove south from Charleston and detoured to Tybee Island Light Station before going into Savannah proper, during my whirlwind five-day trip to Greenville, Charleston, and Savannah. Crossing the long, scenic Islands Expressway brought me past marshland and numerous "turtle crossing" signs.

The rainy Monday afternoon turned out to be a great time to visit Tybee, which I imagine is usually chock-full of visitors. I had the place almost to myself. The complex of restored buildings at Tybee Island Light Station and Museum includes the tower itself, part of which still dates to 1773, the head keeper's cottage and assistant keepers' cottages, and a summer kitchen now housing archaeological artifacts.

It was fun to climb the lighthouse steps, even if I did get a bit freaked out on the breezy observation ledge at the top. You can see a panorama of the shoreline, the battery of historic Fort Screven, and the surrounding cottages.

Tybee Island Light.

The Tybee Island Museum is housed in Battery Garland, across the street from the lighthouse, and the entrance to North Beach is adjacent. On that drizzly afternoon, there were only a few people there, making it a perfect time to wander along the sand without dodging beach umbrellas and towels every few feet.

House on Monterey Square.

Following this hour communing with nature, I drove into the historic downtown of Savannah and checked into my bed and breakfast on Gordon Street, next to Chatham Square. Encompassing a set of adjacent townhomes from the 19th century, the Savannah Bed and Breakfast Inn is ridiculously classy. From its elegant parlors to its narrow wooden stairways to the exposed brick walls, it's a dream for a lover of old buildings. 

The front desk staff was happy to suggest nearby restaurants, so for dinner I took them up on their recommendation of Local 11ten, a swank establishment in a renovated bank building at the south end of Forsyth Park. I ordered the seared sea scallops, which were delectable (I may have had a rather large amount of the exceptional table bread as well).

I began to walk back through Forsyth Park, full of good food and admiration of the live oaks that stretch overhead in this iconic Savannah green space. A woman passing by with her boyfriend complimented me on my dress, prompting an exchange of smiles and greetings. It was such a simple and friendly moment, yet one that would almost never happen in D.C., where addressing a stranger is basically considered impolite.

Rain began to fall in earnest, and as I sought to escape the downpour without leaving the park, I noticed a single dry spot on the sidewalk, where the tree branches overhead had managed to overlap. I stood there, camera in hand, in my sundress and sandals, completely dry as the rain came down all around me. It was a lovely, suspended moment. More people came by, and more words and laughter were exchanged. 

Fountain and flowers in Forsyth Park.

After a while, the rain slowed a bit and I wandered on, willing to get a little bit damp in the pursuit of scenery. Monterey Square, just a few of blocks away, was especially mysterious and beautiful in the evening. Savannah's squares, I would quickly learn, are a big part of its appeal: perfect droplets of green space at perfect intervals in the grid of the old streets.  

The wet brick walkways shone under the street lamps, and as the evening sky darkened, the branches of the live oaks seemed to unfurl even more over the little park. Large old homes surrounded the square, each with their unique wabi-sabi patina, and backyard gardens were visible in glimpses behind curling wrought iron gates. I felt as it I'd stepped back in time.

Monterey Square.

Eventually surrendering to the descent of actual nighttime, I returned to the B&B to take full advantage of the cookies set out every evening in a big glass jar in the parlor, climbed the antique stairs to my room, and settled in to scare myself by watching the latest episode of "The Terror." It was too late to book a last-minute ghost tour, of which Savannah has infinite options for the traveler, being reputedly one of the most haunted cities in America.

Morning brought more precipitation as I visited Congregation Mickve Israel, a community founded in 1733 by Sephardic Jewish immigrants. The current synagogue building dates to 1878, and tours of the sanctuary and the fascinating little museum space upstairs are offered every weekday, basically any time you stop by, between 10 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. Those who journeyed across the ocean to settle in Savannah brought with them a Torah scroll from the 15th century, which is on view in the museum.

Mickve Israel sanctuary.

Upon leaving the temple, another swift downpour sent me scurrying under a nearby overhang, where I stood for about 10 minutes watching water drip off the bright green leaves of someone's front yard bushes. I've never been as content to just stare at foliage as I was when sitting out the rain in various Savannah squares.

I spent the next couple of hours exploring the Cathedral of St. John, Colonial Park Cemetery, and two indie bookstores, before taking a break for lunch at the hip Soho South Cafe. By then, the sun was out, and the combination of heat and humidity made the cafe's cold ginger beer and fresh fish tacos a deeply appreciated restorative.

Live oaks draped with Spanish moss overlook Colonial Park Cemetery.

After mailing a few postcards and exploring further north in the historic district, I walked all the way back to the south end of Forsyth Park and picked up a much-needed cold brew at The Sentient Bean, a large and popular coffeehouse not far from where I'd had dinner the night before.

Regrettably, I had to head back to the airport—and when I got back on the interstate, the clouds opened up once more and the rain came down in a blinding white sheet. This part of the trip was not romantic. I prefer dripping live oaks to the spray of speeding tractor-trailers.

My time in historic Savannah was all too short, but I can't wait to return and see more. It's our first impressions that linger when we think of a place, and my Savannah has the sheen of rain on trees and old brick, the softness of evening, and the warmth of friendly faces. 

Starting the Summer in Charleston: Old Buildings, New Sights

Live oaks are everywhere in Charleston.

Summer is my season. I love the heat, the humidity, the long hours of sunlight, the soft evenings. Perhaps being born in July in the Midwest gave me a natural affinity, but I think traveling and summer go together like peanut butter and jelly: all that warmth and sun means you can pack light, walk long distances, and absorb a lot of the place you're seeing.

I chose mid-May for a brief visit to South Carolina and Georgia, and the temperatures, mostly in the mid-80s, were perfect. After an unusually cool D.C. spring, this boosted my spirits into summer mode a little bit early. Driving into Charleston on Saturday afternoon via Ashley River Road, I had my car windows down, and the warm wind was filtered through the live oak trees lining the drive.

My first encounter with the distinctively Southern live oak was in New Orleans a few years ago. These trees speak to my heart—with their gnarled, sprawling branches, they have an air of mystery and protectiveness that lends magic to any park or roadside. Just seeing them makes me feel like I'm home. 

I was only in Charleston for about 40 hours, so I couldn't see everything. But I did experience much of the best of it: colorful shutters on 18th and 19th century buildings, excellent seafood, and plenty of live oaks. Please take my unscientific best-of breakdown with a grain of salt, and visit the city one day yourself to make your own list!

Best historic estate that doesn't gloss over its history

Drayton Hall.

Since I had a few hours to go before I could check into my Airbnb, I stopped along Ashley River Road to visit Drayton Hall. The eighteenth-century mansion and grounds are beautiful, and the tour honestly discusses all who lived and worked on the estate, not just the Drayton family. The house is empty of furniture, allowing guides to showcase its architecture and the changes made over almost 300 years. The African American cemetery on the grounds was the first in the nation. 

Best restaurant housed in a former auto shop

Leon's Oyster Shop.

My Airbnb in West Ashley was perfect in every way, and an excellent home base from which to explore. When I asked for recommendations for the historic downtown, my hosts let me know that the best restaurants are, in fact, outside the most touristy areas.

On their advice, I went to Leon's Oyster Shop, which is "on the peninsula," but north of the most visited part of downtown. Repurposing a midcentury auto shop, the oyster bar and restaurant has a vibe that walks the line between hip and casual. The chargrilled oysters were great, but it was actually the side dish I fell in love with: a spectacular marinated cucumber salad with sesame seeds. You can choose indoor or outdoor dining, but even the indoors feels airy, and the front garage door stays open. Leon's also offers free valet parking.

Before and after dinner, I walked around the neighborhood, taking note of the variety of architectural styles. Everything was a little bit worn, in that attractive way that makes you think "maybe I could actually afford a house here," and often colorfully painted. I saw Victorians, foursquares, Craftsman bungalows, and plenty of original windowpanes.

Best use of vintage metal lamps in an open-air market

City Market.

After sunset, I drove further downtown and parked near the City Market. This historic market has existed since the early years of the 19th century, being replaced after a fire in 1841 and refurbished in 2010. It was fun strolling through the spacious corridors, looking at local vendors' wares, people-watching, and listening to street musicians playing near each entrance. My favorite part was actually taking artsy photos of the vintage lamps and the perfect amalgam of brick, wood, and steel in the ceilings.

I spent a bit more time exploring the market district of downtown, but it seemed to be mostly hotels and tourists. The streets are not well lit, and venturing too far beyond Meeting Street or Market Street quickly takes you into dark, isolated areas, even though the streets are well-traveled in the daylight hours. 

Heading back for the night, I nearly took the fender off my rental car while trying to squeeze out of the tiny public lot. I recommend parking only in large garages or using Uber to get around, as downtown parking is difficult.

Best historic church for modern people

St. Stephens Episcopal.

On Sunday morning, I hit up Kudu Coffee for my caffeine fix, and then explored the Ansonborough neighborhood a bit in the quiet residential vicinity of St. Stephens Episcopal Church.

I passed the small, pretty Theodora Park with its tiled fountain (and while lingering there, learned that mosquitos in Charleston do not wait until evening to attack). Rambling around brought me past many lovely old homes, and up and down narrow streets.

The church itself, built in 1836, was small, light-filled, and welcoming. A visiting minister from Massachusetts who was in town for a "blessing of the bicycles" gave a heartfelt sermon, and part of the reason I selected St. Stephens to visit is its inclusivity—it's a church liberal enough for even a D.C. Episcopalian to feel at home in. 

Charleston is home to many historic houses of worship, earning it the nickname "the Holy City." Most of these are churches and synagogues, though—I had to do a Google search to find whether there were any houses of worship for other faiths (only a few, it turns out).

Best diner to live up to its Fodors Guide blurb

After services, I made my way over to Hominy Grill on Rutledge Avenue. Located in a historic Charleston single house, with beadboard walls and a pressed tin ceiling, it's cozy and classic. There's a small courtyard area where you can order a drink while waiting for a table to open up. This place was recommended in my Fodor's Travel guide to the Carolinas and Georgia, and it did not disappoint. I ordered the shrimp and grits, which came with mushrooms, bacon, scallions, and a tinge of lemon. It was perfect, and the "beermosa" was a good complement, even if I was too full of breakfast to actually finish it.

Houses on Radcliffe Street.

Best Instagram opportunity if you like entropy

Wandering from Hominy Grill toward the King Street shops, via Rutledge and then Radcliffe Streets, I found a cool neighborhood mixing residential with more historic houses of worship, such as the 1854 Brith Sholom Beth Israel Synagogue and the 1893 Central Baptist Church.

This area boasts many of the classic Charleston single houses with piazzas, narrow 19th century buildings with both upper and lower porches. My camera got a good workout with all the attractively disheveled views of clapboard and climbing vines, as well as front doors, mailboxes, and other details that had just the right touch of authentic shabby chic.

Best Instagram opportunity if you like neatness

Rainbow Row.

In the downtown historic district, closer to the Battery, I found photo ops like Rainbow Row, where several residences boast attractive pastel colors. The homeowners really keep up with their external paint jobs, which are pristine and Instagram-ready. The street—which, believe it or not, has its own Yelp review page—was part of a very run-down area in the 1930s and 1940s, and it was restored using the Caribbean-inspired colors for which current homeowners uphold the tradition. 

There are also some impressive mansions lining East Bay Street, as you walk south along the seawall toward the Battery. The park at the tip of the peninsula has old cannons and cannonballs set among the live oaks shading its grassy areas and benches, and locals and tourists alike strolling around.

Walking north up Church Street from the park will bring you down some lovely cobblestone streets past restored 18th and 19th century homes. The elegant air is slightly marred by the many large SUVs parked all along one side of the narrow streets, but one can't have everything. 

Best historic surprise in the suburbs

On my way out of town on Monday morning, I stopped for a terrific pour-over at Classic Coffee Roasters back in West Ashley, then called up Google maps to find a post office. A block from the post office, I passed a cemetery with two plaques, one in English and one in Hebrew letters: "Brith Sholom Beth Israel Congregation, 1886."

Apparently, this is one of two older cemeteries belonging to the synagogue I passed downtown on Rutledge Street. It has beautiful old headstones, stone fences, and those timeless live oaks watching over those resting in its grounds. What I most loved, though, was that each gravestone was inscribed both in Hebrew and English.

I'd never visited an Orthodox cemetery before—and I've always enjoyed seeing anything printed in two or more languages, be it a book of poems or furniture assembly instructions. It vividly illustrates how people from each nation and culture arrive in America with their own languages, customs, and distinctive identities—and hopefully keep them, even as they develop another, indefinably American identity alongside.

Brith Sholom cemetery in West Ashley.

In so few hours in Charleston, even after a lot of walking and wonderful discoveries, it's hard to distill a single impression. It's an old city, and some of the suburbs are as appealing as the downtown. It has dozens of historic sites to visit and Southern restaurants to frequent. I think of Washington, D.C., in its driven impatience and intellect, as a young soul, but I think Charleston is an old soul. I'd like to spend a more leisurely visit getting to know it, and coaxing out more of its secrets. After all, in the South, you can't rush things. Especially in summer.

Drayton Hall: History and Honesty Preserved

People are fascinated by the homes of the rich—particularly historic mansions. These solidly built, spacious, intricately carved structures serve as sheer eye candy. The grounds are beautiful, parklike spaces in which to stroll around. Old estates are a glimpse into how "the 1 percent" lives that is seductive even if you're not an architecture aficionado or history buff—but learning about the history of these homes makes them a much more enriching experience.

The realities of Southern history

However, visiting historic estates can also be psychologically problematic. In the northern and western states, such homes often rose out of the profits created from the labor of miners or railroad workers, who never saw any of that wealth themselves. In the South, large estates and plantations existed because the homeowners paid nothing for labor: They kept slaves to work the land and take care of the houses. The cruelty, inhumanity, and lasting damage of the institution of slavery casts a pall over any visit to a historic Southern estate.

As described by many with more direct experience than I have, historic homes and tour guides often struggle to incorporate this reality into their exhibits and tour scripts, and visitors sometimes ask questions that betray their ignorance of the reality of slavery. What is the right way to talk about slavery at a historic site? Fortunately, the best sites make it a critical part of their exhibits, research, and outreach to address this question. Some individuals, like Joseph McGill of the Slave Dwelling Project, bring the reality home to people through visiting and engaging with extant slave quarters. 

Drayton Hall's imposing double portico, the first of its kind in the world.

Drayton Hall doesn't fall into the trap of trying to whitewash, as it were, the history of slavery in the South. In a matter-of-fact way, our tour guide discussed about how the home of John Drayton, although a country seat rather than a working plantation, was maintained through slave labor, and how after the Civil War, African Americans made up the majority of the labor force in the estate's phosphorus mining operations. For about 50 years, a community of miners and their families lived on the grounds. After that time, fewer people stayed on, as caretakers, gardeners, and landscapers, making improvements to the home and grounds over the years.

The tour script referred many times to individual artisans, household workers, and caretakers among the enslaved people at Drayton. Using the names of the people who lived and worked in a place makes a difference, even in a small way, in giving credit where credit is long overdue.

The African American cemetery, believed to be the first in the U.S., is preserved near the front entrance to Drayton Hall. Visiting the cemetery was recommended by several different staff members, from the tour guide herself to the gatekeeper at the entrance. It's a beautiful spot, and unobtrusive signs help the visitor learn more about some of the people buried there. The caretaker's cottage exhibit also shares information about those who lived there up until the 1960s, as well as the larger community during the phosphorus mining years. 

The African American cemetery was left to nature, in accordance with the wishes of Richmond Bowens, a seventh-generation resident and later gatekeeper of Drayton Hall.

A unique perspective on historic preservation

The house itself is unusual among historic estates I've visited. It has been preserved, not restored, and in choosing not to present the home with all the trappings of a particular period, the Drayton Hall Preservation Trust showcases the bones of the house itself. Tour guides are able to point out the different paint colors, changing fireplace technologies, portico repairs, and other shifts that took place from the home's establishment in 1738 through the transfer of the property to the National Trust for Historic Preservation in 1974.

Stripped of furniture and decorations, Drayton Hall is a beautifully carved shell that one can fill with the imagined activities of those who lived and worked there. Without objects to fill the space, the size of the rooms, the height of the ceilings, and the attention to detail in plaster and wood molding is all the more striking. There is a language to the layout of the rooms, I learned, with particular styles of decorative columns representing a visual code to guests of the time as to which rooms were most important. Doric details give way to Ionic, which in turn are replaced by Corinthian.

The interior of Drayton Hall is unfurnished, showcasing the design and functionality of the house itself.

From the newly published Drayton Hall: The Creation and Preservation of an American Icon, which I picked up at the gift shop, I learned that scholars believe John Drayton may have drawn up the plans himself based on study of architectural books, particularly the classical designs of Andrea Palladio.

Drayton Hall was progressively designed for its time, and the book shares the architectural elements and history of the house and grounds in a way that's both detailed and succinct. I really enjoyed reading about aspects that couldn't all be covered in the tour.

Structural safety issues are addressed by the preservation team, as are paint, plaster, and wood elements that crack or break down. The aim is to be invisible, however, in keeping the house as it is. Electricity, plumbing, heating, and cooling capabilities were never added to the property, even in the 20th century, but open doors keep the air flowing well throughout the building, even on a warm day.

A pathway circles the back of the estate by the Ashley River, and I wandered there to sit for a few minutes under the Spanish moss-draped oaks, watching boats go past. The breeze felt wonderful, and I lingered long enough that when I started back to the parking lot, I realized that I was the last visitor on the grounds.

The wide green lawn and the massive house were empty, and the breeze was ruffling tree branches above my head. The sun was getting lower and casting longer shadows. Walking alone across the estate, I paused to look around once more, feeling that eerie tingle one associates with old places—that sense that after you leave, the place is still full of ghosts and stories, even if no one is there to witness it. 

Drayton Hall is a good example of why we should keep our old places alive, and why we should never stop learning about our past.

24 Hours in Greenville

Greenville, South Carolina, snuck onto the itinerary of my extended weekend trip to Charleston and Savannah because of all the internet superlatives that have lately been attached to it. Now that I've reached the ripe old age of 40, I'm starting to idly consider where I might want to drift off to after I retire, and the next 20 years will certainly afford me plenty of time to wander the U.S. to see what appeals to me most. As long as I was flying into Columbia, it seemed silly not to drive a little bit out of my way to take a look at the city recently landing on so many "top places to live" lists.

Greenville, a small but rapidly growing city in the northwest of the state, is only an hour or two from several larger cities, such as Charlotte, Asheville, Columbia, and Atlanta. With local employers like Michelin, GE, and Lockheed Martin to replace the textile manufacturing that anchored the town in the last century or so, the economy is supposed to be healthy, and the presence of local theater, ballet, and art options as well as multi-use trails (and that hipster indicator of a strong economy, craft breweries) round out the city's claims to livability.

I was only there for one day. However, it was an awkward first date. I did not leave feeling that I particularly wanted a second one. It's nice, but it's not great. The city struck me as if it were the offspring of Asheville and Charlotte—in both good and bad ways, inheriting characteristics from both parents, but reaching the distinctive appeal of neither.

The good stuff

Greenville has put a lot of money and thought into making their main street and the park in the middle of town attractive. And Falls Park on the Reedy is everything it's cracked up to be. I've never seen anything like this small river and waterfall that run right through the middle of town. Looking at them, you feel you've stepped inside a postcard. The falls can be viewed from right up close, or from myriad walkways and bridges set at various heights. The day I visited, the temperature was in the mid-90s, and I was sorely tempted to dive right in. Kids were climbing on the rocks, parents were sitting in the shade, and ducks were parading by right and left.

The gorgeous Falls Park on the Reedy in the center of downtown.

Wandering further down the path by the falls, you come to a combination of newer hotels and older structures repurposed for local events, like the Wyche Pavilion. I'm a big fan of adaptive reuse, so I was pleased to see that Greenville was using its older historic structures and not just tearing them down. In other parts of town, old mills are being turned into living spaces and breweries. 

Wyche Pavilion, once part of an old carriage factory.

I walked the entirety of Main Street itself, which has a couple of fun shops like the Mast General Store (endless bins of nostalgic candy brands!) and a smattering of restaurants. But I was generally underwhelmed by the options on a main drag that's billed as the center of the community.

Also, I was there during the Artisphere festival, meaning that everyone in town seemed to be walking the streets looking at artist booths and stopping into tents of wine or food tastings. The quality and variety of the art on display was very impressive, as good as anything I've seen at a big city art fair.

Swamp Rabbit Cafe and Grocery was my favorite local business. It is set near the Swamp Rabbit Trail, a paved path that runs for many miles through Greenville and to points north and south. I saw many runners, cyclists, and young parents with strollers making use of the path. I went to the cafe for lunch my first day and for breakfast my second, and everything I got there was fresh and excellent, from coffee to salad to baked goods. There is also a bike rental facility a few steps away.

The not-so-good stuff

One of the side effects of this art festival was that many downtown streets were blocked off to traffic, even in the evening. Since this area is where nearly all the restaurants are located, this presented a problem when looking for dinner. In my rental car, I circled endlessly as my GPS tried unsuccessfully to direct me to parking areas.

Sculptures at the Artisphere arts market.

The streets in Greenville are laid out somewhat strangely, so it's difficult to get around whenever you need an alternate route. To get to the western side of Greenville from the east, I had to go pretty far out to find a larger loop highway that would get me from Point A to Point B without crossing downtown's barricaded streets.

Another issue is the crowdedness of the local haunts. I couldn't tell how much of this was an influx of visiting artists versus the average Friday night crowd, but the impression I got was that there are so few good places that everyone goes to the same three, and they're swamped.

After giving up on downtown dining, I attempted to go to the White Duck Taco Shop casual dining establishment next to a brewery in a repurposed warehouse area, but the restaurant was so packed that it would have taken me at least half an hour just to reach the register to make a carry-out order, much less to find a table (believe me, I asked if I could jump the line, and was told that carry-out orders had to be called in ahead of time). I wasn't going to go drink beer without any food, being a lightweight, so I just headed back out.

Similarly, the Swamp Rabbit Cafe had extremely long lines both times I visited. My impression was that if there were more than one organic cafe or hipster taco joint/brewery in town, it would spread out the love a little. Greenville needs more establishments to meet its growing customer demand.

Last but not least, I was a little shocked by the clear delineation between the up-and-coming areas, full of condos and young white people, and the places where—only a street or two away from the hipster craft brewery or fancy repurposed mill—there were neighborhoods of intense poverty and seemingly 90 percent residents of color. This is a problem in most cities. But I was surprised that in such a small city, touted as so livable and appealing to new residents, the rich/poor and black/white divide would be so striking. The city has seemingly put fewer resources into good, affordable housing and social equity than into the downtown tourist areas and bringing in new people. 

Isn't one of the main reasons to live in a smaller community the sense that it cares about its residents? Isn't that one of the things that's supposed to distinguish it from the big city? In my admittedly abbreviated tour of Greenville, I felt the town still had a ways to go in becoming its best self.

Kentucky Bourbon Distilleries

As someone who spent four years living in Kentucky in the late 1990s, I developed an appreciation for its famous export, bourbon, early in my adult life. I refuse to buy any bourbon that is not from the state where it was invented—made from water filtered through its characteristic limestone and oak-aged in historic warehouses in the bluegrass region. (Whether that preference is science or sentiment is up for debate.)

The sweet concoction that is the mint julep may be a popular icon of Kentucky Derby festivities, but true bourbon lovers will tell you it's a waste of a quality spirit. The best way to experience bourbon is neat—or, if you must, on the rocks. And the best way to choose your favorite is by tasting as many as you can.

One of Buffalo Trace Distillery's historic buildings.

The bourbon distilleries of central Kentucky offer visitor tours of their historic grounds and warehouses, and they always end with a tasting of several of their products. The Kentucky Bourbon Trail concept is run by an association of distilleries (and you can get a cute passport to put stamps in). It's a great resource for finding the distilleries near you. Some distilleries do not take part in the branded trail, however.

Since 2014, I've been going on annual distillery tours in the greater Lexington area with my sister Hillary at holiday time. It's become a tradition. The old buildings filled with bourbon barrels are atmospheric, and peeking into the vats of mash and hearing about the distillation process is interesting too.

Bourbon aging in charred oak barrels at Woodford Reserve.

Buffalo Trace, my personal favorite bourbon, is made in a distillery that does not happen to be part of the trail, but it's an essential stop on any tour of Kentucky distilleries. Located in Frankfort, it offers several types of tours, including ghost tours and historic landmark tours. The 19th century brick buildings are beautiful to look at, and the tasting room is spacious and attractive. I hope to go back to this one for one of the specialty tours.

In Versailles you'll find Woodford Reserve, a distillery with photogenic aisles of oak barrels aging in its warehouses and rows of them outside waiting to be rolled from one spot to another. The "official bourbon of the Kentucky Derby" offers tastings on the tour right next to the aromatic ricks of barrels—probably my favorite method so far. The visitor center has a fireplace that was particularly nice on a rainy December day.

The tasting room at Wild Turkey Distillery.

Wild Turkey in Lawrenceburg stands out for having the most informal tour, even considering the droll industry standard for tour guides. Our guide was not above the corniest jokes, and the unintentionally goofy tour bus video of Matthew McConaughey reflecting on the Americanness of bourbon had my sister and I exchanging smirks. On the architectural front, Wild Turkey's industrial-style, metal-sheathed warehouses are a contrast with the stone and brick you will find at other locations.

The Spanish mission–style architecture at Four Roses.

Also in Lawrenceburg, Four Roses is under renovation, with modified tours currently available. We visited in December 2017, and it was still an enjoyable tour, although we did not see much of the interiors of the main buildings. The tasting portion of this one was also a bit abbreviated, but the Spanish mission–style architecture was unique and may warrant a second visit for me when full tours are running again.

I've always visited these historic distilleries in the winter, and I imagine they're even more lovely in the warm weather. Since there are also distilleries in the Louisville area, you can even combine attendance at the Derby with a visit nearby to learn a little more about the history of Kentucky's distinctive spirit—without the crushed ice and sugar syrup.

Pro tips:

• Make sure you check the websites of the distilleries you want to visit before setting out; they all have different visiting hours. For some, you will want to make reservations ahead of time.
• The distilleries all have shuttle buses that take you from Point A to Point B, so there's no need for walking shoes. However, since you will be standing outside for portions of each tour, dress appropriately for the weather.
• If you're a lightweight, allow for a bit of time poking around the gift shop after your bourbon tasting before you get behind the wheel to leave—or appoint a friend or family member to drive home.
• You'll usually get a free take-home glass from the tasting, so buy any souvenir glassware after your tour, rather than before.

Caromont Farm Snuggle Sessions

Cuddling baby animals provokes glee in children and adults alike, as well as dissolving the stresses of the world for an hour or two. Caromont Farm, in rural Esmont, Virginia, is just about the warmest and fuzziest place you can find near D.C.—both figuratively and literally.

A small artisan cheese farm run by Gail Hobbs Page since 2007, Caromont opens to the public several times a year for special dinners, culinary workshops, and best of all, "snuggle sessions"—opportunities to canoodle with the baby goats born every spring. The very smallest of these kids are about the length of a terrier, and in separate pens, there are larger "teen" goats.

Cuteness warning: baby goats in sweaters.

All of them are friendly, interactive, genuinely cuddly creatures. I have been to Caromont's Snuggle Sessions two years running, and the goats are utterly delightful. You really haven't lived until you've had a baby goat chew on your hair or sleep in your lap. During my visit this year, one of the kids in sweaters fell asleep in my arms within about 20 seconds of being picked up. It stayed there, completely zonked out, until my foot fell asleep and I had to move.

Taking a goat nap.

If you get down on all fours, the goats will climb on you as if you were a small hill. Naturally, watching goats clamber over you and chew on your clothes also provides great amusement for the other visitors in the pen. If you lay down in the grass or straw, they will nap along with you. This phenomenon made the Caromont visit a huge hit with my animal-loving boyfriend.

Visiting with the "teen" goats.

If you tire of goat cuddling, you can move on to trying samples of Caromont cheeses, which employees offer at tables under a nearby tent, as well as take your favorites home. Unfortunately, you are not allowed to take the baby goats home.

Two gorgeous peacocks wander the farm as well, showing off their impressive plumage, and they are quite vocal, so you can't miss them.

Book early in the season to get tickets for a Snuggle Session, which are listed on the farm's website and its Facebook page. They are hugely popular, and sessions can sell out many weeks in advance.

Pro tips:

• Wear clothes you don't mind getting a little dirty, and be mindful that your hair, jacket edges, shoelaces, and hat brim will all be nibbled.
• Make sure you've charged your phone, because you'll want to take photos and video.
• Leave your purse in the car. There's nowhere to set it down while you're playing with goats.
• Bring baby wipes or hand sanitizer if you like, but an outdoor sink, soap, and paper towels are also provided for visitors, next to the surprisingly clean port-a-potty. They think of everything!

Chocolate Moose Coffee

Whenever I am in Beckley, West Virginia, I have to stop at Chocolate Moose Coffee. This independent coffee shop is tucked into an unassuming building right off Harper Road, one of the main drags through Beckley. Its friendly moose-head sign has welcomed me on many a frosty December morning on my annual drive home for the holidays.

Kevin, the owner, who lives in a house next door, has run this business in various incarnations since 1989. Chocolate Moose Coffee is just part of this property, also home to Mountain State Miniature Golf and the Outside-In Climbing Gym. In addition to coffee, the spot offers ice cream and smoothies, so it's your haven in both warm weather and cold, whether you prefer caffeine or sugar. 

The interior decor alters in small ways from year to year. This visit, I spent some time admiring the mural on the back wall and poking through the board games. Up in the front of the store is a small fireplace and two chairs. There is also, of course, a stuffed moose head on the wall.

When I stopped by this time, the resident cat, Mr. Feeny, happened to be on the premises, collecting admiring coos and petting from customers. He comes and goes as he pleases. If you're lucky, you'll catch him when you stop by. 

The Chocolate Moose Facebook page, filled with reviews from pleased customers and photos of the tight-knit staff, suggests the shop also hosts the occasional live music event.

The coffee itself is very good, and possibly made even better by the mere fact that you will not likely see another local coffee shop in a 50-mile radius. It's so much better than stopping at the Starbucks at the next travel plaza. I set off for the rest of my long drive extremely happy with my Americano in its jaunty illustrated sleeve.

Coffee: ★★★★ Great, freshly ground coffee that has been consistent in quality in my stops here over the past several years.

Food: ★★ There are a few bagels and muffins to be had, if you look for them, but the real non-coffee treats here are the ice cream and smoothies.

Ambience: ★★★ Appealing enough to stay and sip your coffee, pet the cat, or play a game with a friend.

Service: ★★★★ The owner has always been the one behind the counter when I stop through, and he is always friendly.

The Almost-Ghost Town of Thurmond, West Virginia

Every year, I drive through West Virginia on my home to visit family in Kentucky for the holidays. I always look forward to the journey, both for the swooping, mist-laden hills that rise around me on I-64 and for the warm comforts of Biscuit World and Chocolate Moose Coffee at my Beckley stopover. West Virginia holds a particular fascination for someone who dwells near a big city, with its rough history of coal mining towns and strikes, the spectral legends of its mountains, and its Appalachian bluegrass musical tradition.

In previous years, I'd toured the Beckley Exhibition Coal Mine, puttered around Hinton, and admired the Grandview Overlook of New River Gorge. This time, I had a few hours to kill before I left Beckley to head back to Alexandria, Virginia. A pamphlet I'd picked up at the highway Welcome Center alluded mysteriously to the "near-ghost town" of Thurmond, about 20 miles north of Beckley. As someone who can't resist the lure of an old and potentially abandoned site, I knew I had my morning itinerary set.

The former railroad boomtown of Thurmond, West Virginia, now has only five residents.

The only trouble was, it was about 15 degrees out. In my old Nissan Sentra, going down what I imagined might be bumpy roads into a very rural area, I was a bit nervous about what I would do if something happened to my car miles from the nearest highway.

Following Thurmond Road along Dunloup Creek to the old railroad town.

Fortunately, Thurmond Road is a well-kept, one-lane highway easily found off Route 19, and it follows Dunloup Creek for much of the way. Ice had formed in irregular halos around the rocks in the creek, and curtains of icicles hung from the cliffs on the other side of the road. It was quite a pretty drive.

A construction warning sign greeted me as I reached Thurmond—I had chosen to visit one day before the bridge was closed for work. As it was, construction was actively being done on the railroad side of the bridge, but cars were still allowed to pass along the road portion. My car was the only one I saw anywhere in the vicinity, besides the trucks belonging to the construction crew. 

I pulled up in front of the Thurmond Depot, a 1904 structure that serves as a visitors center (closed that day, alas) and a functioning rail station for Amtrak passenger trains. There was also signage about the town's history and a brochure and map showing the current and former landmarks of the depot and town. It was bitterly cold, but I would have to walk to view the historic buildings along the railroad tracks. So I bundled up and left the warmth of my car.

Three structures remain of the early 20th century main street: the Mankin-Cox building, the Goodwin-Kincaid building, and the Bank of Thurmond. The Lafayette Hotel burned in 1963. The coaling station and the commissary also remain. In the bright sunlight, nothing seemed spooky, and the buildings were in relatively good condition.

Most of the town of Thurmond, which only has five residents, is now a National Park Service property, and has informational placards for visitor context and is kept tidy. It's not a truly abandoned site. All of those five residents are civically active— and, incidentally, voted in 2015 to ban discrimination against LGBT individuals, making the town the smallest in the nation to pass such an anti-discrimination measure unanimously.) 

A view of the old buildings from across the railroad tracks, near where the engine house once stood.

As Park Service signs convey, the town's quick rise and fall in the 20th century were tied to the growth and decline of the coal and timber industries in the New River Gorge. In 1910, for instance, Thurmond's C&O Railroad operation brought in more freight revenue than Cincinnati and Richmond together—and that's not counting the thousands of passengers going through town.

The biting wind kept me from spending too much time exploring, but picking my way along the still-active railroad tracks to take photos of the area made me want to return in a warmer part of the year for more investigation.

You can also visit the overgrown remains of former coal towns nearby, if you are willing to hike a bit. 

The old coaling station used to service thousands of trains a year.

It's worth it to go off the beaten path in any state, but in West Virginia, you don't have to go far off the interstate to find history, nestled as it is in those trademark mountains. The New River, too feisty that day to form ice, tumbled by below the railroad bridge, reflecting sharp points of sunlight. On a regular day, with no construction, it was easy to believe you'd hear little but the river's rush and the wind coming down the railroad tracks. Maybe even a ghost or two.

Afternoon Jaunt: The Weems-Botts Museum

This past Sunday, I found myself with a free afternoon and took inspiration for a historic spot to visit from a book on Virginia's haunted places. Although I'm not sure whether I believe in ghosts, the mysteries of the unseen make for fun October reading, and the book referred to several historic sites in Northern Virginia to which I had never been.

One of these was the Weems-Botts Museum. Not far off I-95 sits this remnant of the historic area of the once-busy port city of Dumfries. Opened as a museum in 1975 by the Historic Dumfries Virginia nonprofit, this home was built in sections, beginning in the 18th century, and is now a small museum and research library open several days a week to visitors.

The Weems-Botts Museum.

What makes this museum unusual is its arrangement by time period. Different sections of the house are arrayed in furniture and artifacts that represent different owners and eras. I really enjoyed this approach to telling the story of the property.

Those owners include:

• Parson Weems, first biographer of George Washington (and originator of the cherry tree story), who used the building as a bookshop in the Colonial period.
• Benjamin Botts, a lawyer who defended Aaron Burr at Burr's 1807 trial for treason  and who perished in the famous Richmond Theater Fire of 1811.
• The Merchant family, who inhabited the home for 99 years and are the focus of the rumors of hauntings attached to the museum.

The table set as if for a meeting in the original 18th-century portion of the house.

My tour guide was Karleen Kovalcik, who was extremely knowledgeable about the history of Dumfries and of the house. From her, I learned that Dumfries used to rival New York and Boston in its shipping trade, before erosion and the silting of Quantico Creek diminished the port and led to Dumfries becoming the smaller town it is today. She led me through all the different rooms, many of which have objects and papers you can pick up and examine. 

A small room in the back of the house also showcases Civil War artifacts and other period items, such as a striking example of a Victorian crazy quilt.

In addition, it was interesting to tour a smaller residence. So many historic sites are mansions, and seeing a middle-class building that served as a shop, a law office and a home over the past couple of centuries was unique in my experience.

While I was there, I noticed nothing paranormal, other than the overeager security beeps while I was in the Visitors Center—and Karleen mentioned that electronics often behave oddly in the annex. Those wishing for a spooky experience of the area should take the (outdoor) ghost walk tours offered by Historic Dumfries on Saturdays in October.

The museum also holds free children's days, a holiday open house, and other special events.

Shenandoah National Park: The Lush Backyard of the DMV

If you live in the D.C. area, you’re familiar with the concept of “the DMV”—the sprawling territory that encompasses the District, Maryland, and Virginia. We often think of ourselves as residents of all three areas, even though we live in just one. Commuters may drive two hours to their jobs in the city. Moms and dads shuttle their kids to lessons in another county. And weekend warriors think nothing of heading east to the Chesapeake Bay to kayak, or west to Shenandoah National Park to hike.

Only 75 miles west of the District, Shenandoah is practically in our backyard. For me, living in Alexandria, it’s become my favorite destination on a Saturday or Sunday. Just heading out I-66 to the northernmost entrance at Front Royal lowers my blood pressure, because I know that in only about an hour, I’ll be in the woods.

Corbin Cabin is still standing on an old homestead. It can be booked through the Potomac Appalachian Trail Club.

Much of Shenandoah is designated wilderness, the portions of land with special protections that were originally set aside to remain (or be restored to) nature “untrammeled by man.” Other parts of it are national parkland only. Throughout the area, you can find traces of the history through ruins of old farmhouses, stone fences, and cemeteries from the families that used to live in the Blue Ridge Mountains before it was designated as a national park.

Extending from Front Royal for 105 miles south to Waynesboro, Shenandoah is bisected by a sliver of road, the two-lane Skyline Drive. The parkway winds through the woods, expanding to frequent scenic overlooks of hills and valleys. On either side are the mountains of the Blue Ridge.

You can’t find an ordinary view off any of these overlooks—they are all stunning. The wildflowers and grasses next to the low stone wall make up the foreground; the middleground is the layer of trees within the next several hundred feet; and finally, the great vista, encompassing hills and valleys in shades of green and blue. The overall effect is of being on a movie set, with shrubs sharp and vivid against a dreamy painted backdrop.

Just one of the many idyllic overlooks off Skyline Drive.

But the real reason to go, at least for me, is the trails. There are over 500 miles of trail in Shenandoah—short hikes and long hikes, flat paths and strenuous climbs, solitary trails and those with plenty of company. You can find hikes with overlooks, through meadows, past historic features, through streams, and up to waterfalls. Over the past couple of years, I've enjoyed quite a few, and already have some favorites.

More ferns than you can shake a stick at on this section of Sugarloaf trail.

I love the Compton Gap trail for its closeness to the park's north entrance, its uphill workout, and the spectacular geological formation of "columnar jointing" you can observe. The Snead Farm loop takes you past the remnants of an old farm, with the foundation of the house still intact and the barn kept in very good condition. Jeremy's Run trail takes you across several streams, if you enjoy rock-hopping and potentially getting your boots a bit wet. And the Sugarloaf trail starts near an old Civilian Conservation Corps building and brings you through an especially lush section of ferns.

My next goal is to tackle more of the hikes in the central part of Shenandoah, which will require more driving on my part, but will pay off in access to some of the steeper climbs in the park.

Earned my junior ranger patch. So proud.

You can find details on the various trails on the Shenandoah Suggested Hikes page, if you like to really plan ahead. If you're the spontaneous type, though, stop at the Dickey Ridge Visitors Center, five miles in from the Front Royal entrance gate.

The rangers know these trails backwards and forwards, and will whip a map out from under the desk that exactly matches what you’re looking for in terms of length and difficulty. They highlight the trail for you with marker and tell you about what to expect, as well as any options you have for making a different loop or lengthening your hike to see certain nearby features. I store all these maps in a folder at home, for when I want to re-hike one.

While you’re at the visitors center, check out the small exhibit on the park and any ranger-led programs that are being given that day. I confess to having become a big national parks geek in the past couple of years, and I learned to my delight that you can fill out a junior ranger workbook, no matter what age you are, and earn your ranger badge or patch. They are serious about this—Ranger Larry checked all the pages and even asked me questions about it. The rangers also have a sense of humor: Ranger Thomas even administered the junior ranger pledge to my "hiking hamster" buddy, after checking her diligent work.

Shenandoah National Park is the ideal place to get outdoors, embrace nature and let all the cares of the city fall away from you for a few hours. I've been here in all seasons of the year, and during all sorts of personal challenges, and being here always centers and refreshes me. Do yourself a favor and explore the variety its wilderness has to offer—almost right in your backyard.

Resources:

• Shenandoah’s Suggested Hikes page has a chart of many of the hikes available.
• Hiking Upward is an incredibly useful website with descriptions, photos, and hiker reviews of many hikes in the area, not just in Shenandoah National Park.
• The Virginia is for Lovers tourism website has a Top 10 list of popular Shenandoah hikes.
• I reviewed the nearby Happy Creek Coffee and Tea recently on this blog—it’s my favorite place to stop and revive after a long hike.

Cape Henlopen State Park: My New Favorite Delaware

As a resident of the D.C. area, my former associations with Delaware have been limited to interstate tolls on my way up to Philadelphia and a day trip to the rowdy beach town of Dewey in my 20s.

Now, I have a new and improved definition of Delaware: Cape Henlopen State Park, near Lewes. This area was recommended to me by a friend who knew that I care more about nature and history than tanning. He was right. It’s tailor-made for those in search of a quieter beach experience.

My trip involved driving on two-lane highways past cornfields that would make Iowa envious. But bring your patience, as many drivers are considerably slower than you’d find in D.C. Less than three hours after hitting the road, I was on the Atlantic coast. I drove straight to Cape Henlopen State Park, where you can either buy a day pass or an annual pass. They handed me a map with all the sights and facilities clearly marked.

A clearnose skate swims over to investigate.

Making a stop at the nature center, I discovered a child-height water tank full of clearnose skates and horseshoe crabs. You are allowed to touch both species. The skates swoosh around the tank and one another, and what is more, they apparently like to be petted. This made my inner eight-year-old extremely happy. If you duck down below the water line, they will swim over and stare at you through the glass while they think inscrutable skate thoughts.

After driving for so long, I wanted to stretch my legs, so I took the 1.5-mile Pinelands Nature Trail, an easy walk in the woods. The forest path takes a level journey through widely spaced pines, with sections of dirt, pine needles and bright white sand underfoot. The sound of your sneakers on the pine needles makes a satisfying clomp, and the only other noise is the pleasant background of frogs, insects, and birds. I passed only one other hiker.

A close-up from the piney woods.

I took a quick break to check in to my motel back on the highway, then returned with full beach paraphernalia in the late afternoon. There is plenty of parking at the main beach (at least, there was in September), as well as a large and surprisingly clean bathhouse for showering and changing. The beach was dotted with bright umbrellas, families, and retiree couples enjoying the waves.

Since I’m used to the Great Lakes, the behavior of the ocean caught me by surprise. Instead of a series of whitecaps, the water seemed serene except for one single breaker that endlessly curled over, struck the sand and surged up the beach. Walking up to what I thought was several feet from the water’s edge, I was caught off guard when the water flooded in past my knees and almost pulled me off balance with its strength. The frothy whiteness reached far up onto the sand and then receded with a slight hissing sound.

Tiny shorebirds followed each receding wave, pecking in the sand for some food too tiny for my eyes to catch. Then they’d race back up the beach ahead of the next encroaching wave.

Cape Henlopen beach on the Atlantic coast.

After leaving the main beach and following the winding park road to “the Point,” I found a vista overlooking the peninsula and lighthouse, with a tiny, quiet stretch of sand. Driving out of the park as the sun went down, I passed a herd of deer taking a twilight nibble in an open space across from the nature center.

Sunset on "the Point."

Tower 7 offers a high-level view of the park.

Strolling in downtown Lewes after dark was the perfect way to end the day. Only a tinge of cool in the air, old-fashioned lights in the windows of the 18th and 19th-century homes lining the street, and inviting shop windows made an appealing tour.

The next morning, I returned to the park to see the WWII-era lookout Tower 7, a concrete cylinder representing one of several built on or near Fort Miles. Today, a spiral iron staircase replaces the ladders used by soldiers of the time. You can climb all the way up to the top, though a wire screen shields you from both falling and getting unimpeded photos of the view. The best shots are to be gained from the wide slits a floor or two below, the same slits through which soldiers kept watch over the coast.

The whole Fort Miles area is great for exploring. The concrete barracks—the only remaining example of that type—are open and empty, allowing you to fill them with your imagined depiction of bunks, lockers and soldiers writing letters home. Historical signs throughout help fill you in on the context. The guns in the park are either replicas or real guns similar to those used in Fort Miles, but are not original to the setting.

A short uphill walk on the paved road takes you to the top of the “Great Dune,” from which you get a gorgeous view of the beach, scrubby pines and waving dune grasses. There’s a picnic table nearby, if you’ve brought provisions.

My final stop before heading home was one more visit to the water’s edge. The sky was lightly overcast, and kids were playing in the waves. Their parents watched from underneath those ubiquitous bright beach umbrellas. I wandered along the shore for a while, now more expert in planting my feet when a particularly speedy wave rushed up past me.

Beachgoers playing in the surf.

My decision not to put on my swimsuit for the stroll proved shortsighted, though, as the surf was mischievous enough to require a change of clothes when I got back to my car. But no matter. The way that being out in nature disrupts our comfort zone—sometimes playfully, sometimes dangerously—is part of its appeal.

Back at the car, knocking the sand out of my beach shoes, I felt like myself again—back in my body, the mind quiet. Summer, to me, is fundamentally this feeling: the remnants of sunscreen and sweat on my skin, windswept hair, makeup mostly gone. It’s the absence of thoughts and the sensing of the physical environment.  No one knows or cares who I am, how much I make, or what I accomplish. I belong to nothing but myself and the water.

Cape Henlopen is definitely a place I will return to. It combines so many of my favorite things: history, natural beauty, wildlife. I'm curious to see it in all seasons.

40 Hours in Munising

“The wolf” is what I called Lake Superior as a child. The largest freshwater lake in the world and northernmost of the five Great Lakes, its shape on a map is distinctly lupine. It captured my imagination through the many stories of ships caught and worried in its merciless teeth during storms.

Thousands of ships have been wrecked in Superior, and thanks to its cold, clear waters, you can view many of them in the shallower areas, just feet below the surface.  There aren’t many places you can get the thrill of seeing, with your own eyes, one of the ghost ships of yore. But in the small town of Munising, Michigan, you could do this every day.

In addition, I was eager to visit Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, a study in sculpted, colorful cliffs that would make any photographer drool. The south end of the park is right next to Munising, and the north end next to Grand Marais.

Pictured Rocks viewed from the water.

Pasties and vintage motels

I was already visiting western Michigan in August, so I set aside just a couple of days in which to pay homage to Superior. I flew into Detroit, rented a car, and drove six and a half hours straight up the middle of Michigan and through the Upper Peninsula to the shore of Superior.

Miners' pasties are a thing.

My route from the “Mighty Mac” bridge started westward, skirting the northern edge of Lake Michigan. I passed a series of signs advertising traditional miners' pasties and smoked whitefish at roadside stores.

Several abandoned motor inns from the 1930s and ‘40s strongly tempted me to stop driving and capture their picturesque disrepair with my camera. But I resisted, and eventually, turned north for the last hour on a two-lane highway into town.

Small town charm, sort of

Munising has clearly made tourism its bread and butter. Some downtown buildings retain vintage character in brickwork, glass blocks, and painted signs. The restaurants are few and basic in menu selection, but there is a good coffee shop. You can get the requisite postcards and cheesy souvenirs at several locations, and even nice local pottery and photographs at UP-Scale Art shop on West Superior Street.

During the summer tourist season, hotels and motels book up early, and the rates are high. My small two-story motel was over $150 a night for a quality level that would usually rate $60. The place was having issues with its water heater when I arrived, but the owner texted me updates of the progress, and the hot water was soon restored. Also, I was close to downtown, so overall, it was a win.

Shipwrecks and cliffs

I chose Glass Bottom Shipwreck Tours to see Munising Bay. There are a couple of other outfits that will take you to see shipwrecks or gaze on sunsets over Grand Island and the southern shoreline of Pictured Rocks. Glass Bottom Shipwrecks took us on a two-hour trip that not only showed us two shipwrecks, but also much of the cliffs and the East Channel Lighthouse.

It’s hard to describe the feeling of passing over the deck of a schooner that sank in the 1870s, a mere six feet below the bottom of the boat. There’s plenty of time to look, because the boat is divided into groups, and each group gets to view from the glass bottom. While the boat is making another pass over the wreck, you can see the shipwreck just as well, if not better, from looking over the side of the boat.

The canal schooner Bermuda, sunk in the 1870s.

Kayakers and small pleasure boats were out on the bay in force that day, as it was in the mid-80s—an unusual phenomenon for the Upper Peninsula, even in August. The kayakers largely stuck to the cliffs, wending their way in and out of the trademark small archways in the cliffs.

East Channel Lighthouse on Grand Island.

I was only slightly disappointed not to get caught in a violent gale while on my cruise. That day, the lake was serene and friendly, not at all wolflike. It was idyllic. I couldn't have picked a better day to be out on the water.

A little of everything

After my long travel day and my time out on the water, I could have used a nap before heading out to hike in Pictured Rocks. But I only had that afternoon to see it, so I ate a quick lunch in my motel room and shouldered my daypack.

A ranger named Cheryl at the visitors center was extremely helpful in planning an itinerary for me. The park is quite long south-to-north, and I wouldn’t be able to hit all the places I hoped before sunset. That meant likely missing Au Sable Point lighthouse and the tall dunes at the north end, as well as some of the super-crowded sections near Chapel Beach.

Sand Point Beach.

However, Cheryl took the time to point out a diverse group of sights: Sand Point Beach and its nearby marsh trail, Munising Falls, the Miners Castle overlook, and the trail to Miners Falls.

This turned out to be a perfect blend of different environments. Sand Point is a perfect sugar sand beach, and the lake was shockingly warm for wading. If I’d had my suit on, I would have jumped in for a swim. The marsh trail across the road was a lovely boardwalk circuit through cattails, pines, and lily pads that I had completely to myself.

Miners Castle Overlook.

Going up the stairs near the right side of Munising Falls takes you to a path touching the cliffs, which are riddled with funny indents, holes, and micro-caves that are really more interesting than the actual falls.  Further on, the Miners Castle overlook shows off the postcard-ready Pictured Rocks formations: the dark green pines, the blended rock, and the almost Caribbean turquoise of Lake Superior shallows.

My favorite stop, though, was Miners Falls and the trail leading to it. The forest here is like something out of a fairy tale. Nowhere to be seen is the busy underbrush familiar to hikers in the East. Here, there are just ferns and grasses softly carpeting the ground among the trees. If I had sat down under a birch tree, a unicorn would probably have laid its head in my lap.

The falls itself is striking and noisy, especially after the days of rain that preceded my visit. A few teenagers had been brave enough to climb up behind its spray, and they emerged soaking wet and triumphant. The sun was already getting low by the time I got back to the trailhead and mulled over whether I should chase the sunset to the north end. Knowing it would be nearly dark when I got to Au Sable, I decided to save it for next time.

Even though I didn’t get to see all of Pictured Rocks, what I did see was like a selection of delectable small plates. I’m so happy I had the chance to finally see some of these spectacular views in person.

After a good night’s sleep and a morning stop at Falling Rocks Café and Bookstore for sustenance, I left Munising and began my journey back down to the lower peninsula. Would I go back? Definitely. But next time, I’ll add another 12 hours.

Practical tips for your visit:

1. Remember, it’s about the lake. You’re not there for plush hotel surroundings, craft breweries, or high-end shopping. This visit is about Lake Superior and its majesty. Once you are out on the boat, kayak, or beach, your mind will be wiped of everything but that incredible clear water passing you in little wavelets. Let go of your expectations and enjoy the surroundings.
    

2. Stop by the grocery store. Do you like fruit? Do you like vegetables that are not iceberg salad? Go to Bob’s Family Foods and pick up a few things to supplement the basic fare in the local restaurants. Munising doesn’t have great cuisine, but you’re in the U.P—you’re just lucky you don’t have to kill a deer for dinner.
    

3. Ask the rangers for advice. Before heading out into the Pictured Rocks or Hiawatha National Forest areas, stop by the ranger station in the center of town. They’re experts on all the trails and their features, and can recommend the right length and challenge level for your hiking abilities and time constraints.
    

4. Zero in on your top activities. Chances are, you only have a short time to take in the many sights: shipwrecks, lighthouses, beaches, and waterfalls. You can fish, dive, kayak, hike, or take a sunset boat cruise. Choose the outdoor adventures you are most excited about and prioritize those.