5 Great Lakes Destinations: Explore The Outdoors Through Beachside Forests And Islands

by Elizabeth Seward on

A thick streak of teal striped the water as we crossed over it on the Mackinac Bridge. The Mackinac Bridge connects Lower Michigan and Upper Michigan. The waters I marveled at as we crossed were to my right, making up Lake Huron. Lake Michigan was to my left. I never suspected, until then, that I could see Caribbean blues in the Great Lakes. The drive I made from the Mackinac Bridge to Houghton, Michigan, was filled with detours. I pulled off the road a handful of times to take in the scenic Lake Michigan beaches along the way. The core beauty of the Great Lakes and surrounding areas seems to lie within the pristine nature of the outdoors. If you want to plan an outdoor adventure near one of the Great Lakes this summer but you don’t know where to begin, here’s a list that should help get you started.1. Isle Royale

Lake Superior’s Isle Royale is a rugged National Park. It’s the largest island in Lake Superior at 45 miles long and 9 miles wide. Comprised of 400 small islands in addition to Isle Royale itself, the park’s above-water land is still relatively small at 209 square miles. Wolf and moose populations make Isle Royale a popular destination, particularly because this is the only known place where wolves and moose coexist without bears. The largest trail is the Greenstone Ridge Trail. At 40 miles long, this trail is generally a four- or five-day hike. The island boasts a total of 165 miles of hiking trails. Visitors can also canoe or kayak around the area. A lodge and 36 designated wilderness campgrounds make Isle Royale ideal for a backpacking trip.

2. Hiawatha National Forest

The Hiawatha National Forest is an 880,000-acre forest in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. With over 100 miles of shoreline, this forest is a great destination for water activities. Steep rock walls create dramatic landscapes alongside tall trees, streams, rivers and waterfalls. Nestled alongside three of the five Great Lakes (Michigan, Superior and Huron), this forest is filled with campgrounds. What’s more, lighthouses, Native American artifacts and archaeological sites make this forest worth the visit for outdoor fun.

3. Apostle Islands

The Apostle Islands are a group of 21 islands in Lake Superior. These islands lie off of the Bayfield Peninsula in northern Wisconsin. Identified as the “spiritual home” of the Lake Superior Chippewa, the islands were originally named after the 12 apostles by historian Pierre Francois Xavier de Charlevoix, despite the presence of 21 islands. White spruce and balsam fir trees dominate the islands. Sea caves throughout the islands feature beautiful arches and chambers. Campgrounds are available on 18 of 21 islands. Scuba diving, kayaking and hiking are all popular activities on the islands during the summer.

4. Sleeping Bear Dunes

Covering a 35-mile stretch of Lake Michigan, Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore has been called the most beautiful place in America by many, including ABC’s “Good Morning America” in 2011. Forests, beaches, dune formations and ancient glacial phenomena attract visitors to this island destination. Primitive, rustic and even more luxurious (with electricity and showers) campsites are spread throughout the Dunes.

5. Chimney Bluffs State Park

Impressive clay rock formations drop into the shores of Lake Ontario at Chimney Bluffs State Park in New York. The park has only four miles of hiking trails, but the scenery is worth the short trek. Open daily from dawn until dusk, this park is not one for camping or multi-day journeying, but it is a great destination for a vividly beautiful day trip.

The Amish: Not Exactly Foreign

by Elizabeth Seward on

During a capstone communications course I took in college, our desks were arranged in the shape of a circle. This was done in an effort to enhance communication within the class and it worked well for me. We spent some time discussing subcultures within their larger cultural context. My professor’s slideshow on the topic displayed photos of Australian Aborigines back-to-back with the Amish. Many of my classmates were bona fide New Yorkers, as perplexed by the culture of the American Amish as they were the Australian Aborigines. But the Amish weren’t exactly foreign to me, at least not as foreign as the Aborigines. There are 249,000 Old Order Amish throughout the U.S. and Canada and, as far as I know, zero Aborigines. When the professor asked me to relay my experience with a specific Amish family to the class, I did as she requested, with the faces of my classmates forming a quiet, circular audience.

I grew up in Marietta, Ohio. The Amish don’t live in Marietta, but they do live nearby. We saw traces of them everywhere in town, but the people themselves were missing. Handcrafted furniture made by the Amish showed up in our stores. My friends Alex and Abby, who were twins, weren’t Amish, but their relatives were. And I knew enough to know that the Mennonites, who I once saw modestly lifting the hems of their floor-length dresses and wading in the pool beneath a waterfall in Hocking Hills, weren’t the same as the Amish.When I was 8 years old, my parents took my siblings and me to an auction on a sunny Saturday morning. We traveled what seemed like hundreds of miles at the time, but was actually closer to forty. Being only 4-foot-something, I remember this day as being crowded and boring because I couldn’t see anything. When we left, we took a beautiful antique sewing machine with us. The conversation on the way home wasn’t about the purchase, though. Instead, my parents guiltily discussed the Amish couple they’d beat out in the auction for the sewing machine. Not only did my parents place the highest bid on the sewing machine, but, without pause, they also struck up conversation with the Amish bidders before leaving.

My mother had jotted down the address of the Amish woman, Ruth, in post-auction conversation. Not one to miss a beat when it comes to keeping in touch, my mother soon after sent her first letter to Ruth. The two women began corresponding with each other one handwritten, cursive letter at a time. Moved by guilt, God, or both, my mother had decided to give the old sewing machine to the Amish family. Accompanying the machine would be an old wood-burning stove that had been dormant in our unfinished basement for years. Both the stove and the sewing machine were housed in the garage for a week or so while my father sanded, scrubbed, and polished them. We arrived at their farm in Chester, Ohio, two months after the auction.

The animals and the land were the things I noticed first and because of that, I leaped excitedly out of our aging Toyota Tercel. Rabbits, cows, pigs and ducks scurried away from me in clusters as I ran toward them. The land had been transformed into grids. Carved into the hillside, the rows of half-grown crops made neat lines that blurred into the hazy horizon. One of Ruth’s many daughters offered me a handful of unripe berries, and I noted the unpleasant, bitter taste. She asked if I wanted to try milking a cow (I did). We walked together down to the cow barn. My arms grew tired after only a few minutes. Not much milk had accumulated in those minutes. The cow’s hoof knocked into the metal bucket, spilling my paltry collection. We climbed the hill to the house where the adults had been familiarizing themselves with one another and exchanging gifts. The shiny sewing machine and stove looked out of place in the spartan living room and my mother was clutching a handmade quilt and an apple-filled wicker basket.

We visited Ruth and her family of 7 living children (the eldest son had drowned after a bridge collapsed some time ago) regularly thereafter. Through these visits, I learned small things about the Amish in passing. We could not take pictures of the family members, for instance. I learned not to talk about hairstyles, clothing, or anything else that might make the girls feel uncomfortable. I didn’t really talk to the boys in the family and it seemed as though that was the way everyone preferred things to be. As I grew older, visiting their family became more difficult. I started listening to rock music and that wasn’t something any of Ruth’s children had ever heard, or would ever hear so long as they refrained from using electricity. They weren’t allowed to read the books I was reading; they would never see the movies I loved. The more I began to individually develop, the less I had in common with the family. Had I taken on farming, homemaking, or religion as personal interests, perhaps there would have been more for us to discuss. By the time I began middle school, the best my parents could do was drag me to Ruth’s house kicking and screaming and the tantrum itself was evidence of yet another thing we did not have in common: Gelassenheit.

At some point in time, my mother must have started feeling the disconnect herself. She and my father once visited the family several times a year. These days, they don’t visit at all. Now that my mother keeps in touch with most of her friends through email, her natural gift for keeping in touch seems to have been hampered by the handwritten letter, so they exchange long letters only at Christmas. The letters have the same dull edges and climatic points that a year’s worth of Facebook statuses would.

While visiting the Amish Country near Warsaw, Indiana, last December, my friend slowed the car he was driving through the cold and heavy rain as a horse and buggy passed us. The orange triangle affixed to the bed of the buggy was the only thing visible through the mist. The sky was dark and I imagined the man inside the buggy was eager to get home to his family, and for a moment, the horse and buggy didn’t register with me as unfamiliar. I then imagined the attentive faces of my classmates in that communications course as I told them about my experience with the Amish. My experience associated me with them in the context of that classroom in New York City much more than my actual self was ever associated with them in reality – not exactly foreign, no, but not exactly familiar.

In Praise Of Service Journalism

by Meg Nesterov on

My career in the travel world started out by pure luck. I was assigned to work a temp office gig in the PR department of Condé Nast Traveler for two weeks, which turned into two years at the magazine, four more at a PR agency for hotels and travel providers and two more here at Gadling. Before and throughout my career, I’ve always been a major consumer of travel media, whether I’ve used it to inspire and help plan my personal travels, as a resource for how and where to pitch my clients, or for story ideas and to keep up with industry news. Some of my favorite stories to read or write have been service pieces, the much-maligned but reader-popular side of journalism.

Service journalism has been called the “fast food” of journalism, providing the reader with “5 of the World’s Sexiest Beaches!” or a suggested itinerary for exploring the city as in the New York Times‘ regular “36 Hours in..” series. While a narrative feature might probe into a culture’s essence, or try to evoke the feeling of a certain place in time, a service piece gives you quick tips, highlights the “best” of a place and may include lists, bullets and infographics. I like the definition of service journalism as “informational“: it tells you not just about a place, but how to get there, where to stay, what to eat, etc.At Condé Nast Traveler we promoted many different magazine articles from investigative stories on airline security to roundups of romantic getaways for Valentine’s Day, and it was generally the articles on how to save money booking your next cruise, or hotel packages involving chocolate-dipped strawberries that got an editor booked on the Today Show or a mention on the Associated Press. At Traveler, I worked with Consumer News Editor Wendy Perrin, whom I might call the Meryl Streep of service journalism: well-known and beloved in the industry, frequently honored but not as much as she deserves. Wendy publishes annual guides to the best travel agents, vacation rentals, cruise ships and dream trips. She was also a pioneer in social media, as one of the first “old media” editors to start blogging, and an early advocate of social networking platforms like Twitter as an essential tool for travelers. While a guide to the best credit cards for racking up frequent flyer miles may not sound poetic, Wendy’s writing regularly affects readers in a very real way, and she maintains an open dialogue to make sure readers are taking the best trip possible.

While I might read a travel narrative or even a novel to be transported somewhere else, a service piece helps me actually get going somewhere else. It was a L.A. Times article on the Corn Islands that got me to go to Nicaragua in 2007; of the few other Americans I met there, most of them were there because of the piece as well. A recent post from Legal Nomads might look like a standard list of travel tips, but it’s peppered with anecdotes, insights and links to other travel stories, and I was transported around the world with Jodi (and craving oranges) while I read it. A Nile Guide roundup of decaying castles has me plotting a trip to Belgium. Some of my favorite and most heart-felt articles I’ve written for Gadling have included finding the expat community and tips on travel with a baby. The Society for American Travel Writers’ annual awards have a category for service-oriented stories, but a few service pieces have snuck their way into other categories, such as the deceptively simple-sounding “Ten Reasons to Visit New Orleans.”

Looking through several of the major travel magazines, most stories are now accompanied by some kind of service information: a sidebar on farmers markets to accompany an essay on eating locally, or a back-of-book addendum of hotels and practical tips for a feature on a changing city’s political landscape. Perhaps all travel media should strive for this mix of inspirational, educational and doable. Our own Features Editor Don George explains that a successful travel narrative should describe a “quest that illuminates a place and culture.” A top ten list of summer vacation may not provide such a point, but a feature on visiting the Seychelles on a budget just might. Not all service pieces have to be fluffy, or recycled from press releases, or lacking insight. They can contain mini-narratives and discoveries, and at best, give readers the tools to create their own.

The Best iPhone Travel App Lists

by Elizabeth Seward on

iPhone travel apps were of no use to me just six months ago. Despite spending much of my time traveling across the globe, I held out on getting an iPhone for what seemed as long as possible. Once I finally did cave and walked into the Apple store with my wallet in hand, my undoing turned out to be much more fun and efficient than I had imagined it would be. So why did I hold out?

I’ve been working online for quite some time now. My first online article was published in 2000. Life has been a series of HTML adjusting and Internet comment treading for me since then. Until fall 2011, I avoided the iPhone and all other smart phones like the plague. I was convinced, for some reason, that having access to my email and all other sorts of toys in my pocket would distract me. I was sure this kind of access would lead to no other conclusion than me being constantly “at work.” The result of not having an iPhone was actually the very thing I feared, I realize now in retrospect. Without portable and constant access to my inbox, I spent a large chunk of my free time tethered to my laptop, hoping to catch emails from editors and clients as they rolled in. It was with great satisfaction that I learned the true benefit of the iPhone: the ability to readily respond to emails without having to be attached at the hip to my MacBook.Instant and continual access to my emails was just the beginning. While sitting in the Apple store for over 3 hours, eager to leave with my new iPhone, time passed remarkably quickly. The representative I was buying the phone from seemed concerned. He brought me an ice cream sandwich from the back. He apologized that the initialization process through Sprint was taking so long; he said it’s not usually so bad. Little did I care; I had already downloaded several free apps while waiting for the paperwork to go through.

Admittedly, I spend a lot of time on my phone these days. I’m sure I’m in good company when I say it’s a great device to have around during times of restless boredom. Long lines don’t bother me so much anymore.

“Have it your way, long line. I have Instagram.”

But the iPhone has also been a remedy for many other now-retired daily pains beyond sheer boredom. When I went on tour prior to the iPhone, I actually printed off step-by-step directions from Google Maps. Embarrassing? Perhaps. Efficient? No way. I used to do things like ask strangers for directions, fruitlessly hunt down public restrooms and show up at restaurants that were already closed because I didn’t know their hours. I no longer carry any of these burdens.

Travel has been made easier because of the iPhone and its apps and everyone seems to know it. In fact, everyone seems to be blogging about it – including us. Rather than peruse a never-ending list of isolated iPhone apps that are good for travel, why not peruse a shorter list of roundups wherein the most useful iPhone travel apps are suggested?

Here are some lists I like, containing apps I have found useful in my own travel:

Top 20 iPhone Travel Apps from National Geographic
The Best iPhone Apps For Travel from Travel + Leisure
6 Great iPhone Travel Apps from PC Mag
Most Popular iPhone Travel Apps from Businessweek
Top 5 iPhone Apps For Traveling from Huffington Post
Best iPhone Travel Apps from Frommers
Top 25 iPhone Travel Apps from Main Street
The Best Travel Apps For iPhone from Lifehacker
80 Terrific Travel Apps For Summer Vacation from AppStorm
Best iPhone Apps For Traveling With Kids from Travel Mamas
7 Awesome Backpacking Travel iPhone Apps
10 Free Travel Apps from USA TODAY
11 Best Travel Apps from Aol Travel
The Best iPhone Apps For A Road Trip from Techlicious
10 Apps To Turn iPhone Into Your Best Travel Companion

And from Gadling:

10 Best Travel Apps For Frequent Fliers from Gadling
Travel Smarter 2012: User Your Mobile Apps Better from Gadling
6 Useful iPhone Apps for Road Trips from Gadling

Journey To Secret Beach in Austin, Texas

by Elizabeth Seward on

I walk through the open gate and into a dusty backyard BBQ party. I offer the contents of a grocery bag to the men manning the grill. The afternoon sun on July 4 in Texas isn’t subtle. Dozens of friends are gathered here and sweating in unison. I find a place to relax in the shade — a slice of watermelon in one hand and a cold beer in the other. I think of my puppy, Fiona, at home. I’ve just left her alone for the first time. Once an hour has quickly passed, I excuse myself on behalf of Fiona’s assumed despair. I think of her barricaded in my kitchen, all eight pounds of her. Before I leave, I’m invited to rejoin my friends later at a purported “secret” beach, appropriately and memorably called Secret Beach. I’m given specific directions that are promised to take me there, but I never go. I open the front door to my house to find Fiona hiding under the couch in the living room. How she managed to jump over the 4-foot-tall stacked plastic storage bins that closed off the kitchen without budging them whatsoever is a mystery. Clearly distraught from her first home alone experience, I instead decide to take her with me to a friend’s pool, where she’s allowed to be but not to swim. I could have taken her with me to Secret Beach, but I didn’t know that at the time. I emailed a friend a few days later to get the directions to Secret Beach in writing. I saved the email knowing I’d want those directions sooner or later.

%Gallery-152063%The summer in Austin is oppressive. It’s my first summer in Texas, but the record-breaking drought and heat aren’t making the transition easy. Locals commiserate. “I’ve been in Austin all my life and this is, by far, the worst summer ever. I’m so sorry it’s your first”, they tell me, attempting to reassure me that the hard time I’m having isn’t because I’m a newcomer. But my instincts tell me that no matter what they say, the brutality of this summer is weighing more heavily on me, a recent transplant from the north. Everyone is feeling exhausted and visibly so. Beat down by the relentless heat, which has been in the triple digits for over 70 days now, I receive the pitying facial expressions of air-conditioned drivers paused at stoplights as I walk Fiona. Walking her isn’t easy to do — her paws are too soft and raw for the burning asphalt. A friend tells me he can only walk his 6-year-old Samoyed when it’s dark. This gives me the idea to become nocturnal.

I succeed in living by night for a month or so. But between raising a new puppy, totaling a car, shopping for a new car and planning my upcoming wedding, the inconvenience of a nocturnal lifestyle isn’t suiting me. I return to the daylight in the weeks before my October wedding, slowly readjusting to societal normalcy. My wedding is blessed with rain; a beacon of hope that graces the multi-day outdoor event with cool breezes. With a marriage license signed, an elaborate wedding set-up and torn down, and the weight off my chest from entertaining over a hundred mostly out-of-town guests, I find myself able to kick my feet up at my own home. But my feet are on boxes. Boxes filled with vintage lace, plates and glasses, and bins filled with silverware and candles. I lay my head on a collection of solar-powered camping showers strewn across my couch. The opportunity to depart from the wedding immediately following the ceremony for a honeymoon wasn’t an option. Perhaps I could have planned better, asked more of our family members and friends, but I didn’t. Instead, my husband and I work during the week following the wedding. We work in 12-hour chunks scrubbing the floors of the cabin on the property we rented, Austin Heaven. We are washing dishes so that they might be sold, and we are making back-to-back trips between the property and our house in Austin — a 30-minute commute without any traffic. And there’s always traffic.

Eight days after the wedding, two out-of-town friends remain in our home. One friend is an optimistic, ukulele-playing young lady. She has decided to extend her stay permanently and will be looking for a place of her own soon (she eventually moves into an actual closet). The other flies back home tomorrow to Germany, where he works as a physicist, which I find both fascinating and intimidating. With a flea market-looking, post-wedding home yielding not a single interior space for our guests or selves to relax, I have an idea.

“Do you guys want to go to Secret Beach today?” I ask in a tone that I hope conveys to our guests that I, for one, am getting out of the house and into the water regardless of what they choose. They think this sounds “awesome” and I do too. Perhaps more importantly, Fiona hasn’t had any exercise whatsoever since running around the wedding property eight days ago. She sees her leash and rejoices; her paws stretched out and pressed against the door as far up as she can reach them. She is ebullient. We put on our swimsuits, spray on sunblock and I pack a few towels. When we arrive to the end of the road on Austin’s southeast side, I’m not sure where to go next.

“Let’s just park and walk,” I say, hoping the path down to the water isn’t too inconspicuous. We see the white building that was referenced in the directions as a landmark, but we don’t know where the referenced trail nearby is. I debate calling the friend who gave me the directions, but part of the adventure is finding the path on your own.

In the parking lot next to the white building, a man is wet and ushering his dripping dog into the back trunk of his station wagon.

“Do you know where Secret Beach is?” I ask him, certain that he does.

“Secret Beach?” He responds. “It’s not so much of a secret anymore. Back when I discovered it, well, actually, my dog here discovered it, ten years ago, nobody knew about this beach but us. He just went nosing around down there one day and I followed him, I wanted to see where he’d take me. And he took me to Secret Beach. Nobody was down there but us; we founded it. Been comin’ here ever since then, but more and more people seem to show up every time.”

“Wow, you discovered it,” I say, catering to his “I Found It; It’s Mine” gasconading bravado. “Well, I hear it’s beautiful. Can you tell us where it is?” I continue.

“Look,” he says pointing. “Now you follow that path right there all the way until you see another dirt path to your right, take that one, the one to the RIGHT, don’t miss it. Follow that path down and around all the way and I don’t know what you’re going to do, little lady, wearing sandals like those. It’s not easy to get down that hill without slipping. But once you’re down the hill, walk through the trees and then BAM! You’ll hit the sand and the water.”

As the man leaves, another man arrives wearing swim trunks and guiding his Boxer puppy in the direction that had been pointed out to us. Fiona chases after the puppy as we journey down to the sandy beach, finally arriving beneath the late afternoon sun. Beams of light shoot through the canopying trees and hit the water like kaleidoscopic images. Fiona and the Boxer puppy hit the water like exploding cannonballs. With gnashing teeth and splashing water, the two dogs share their first swim. Letting the cool water move through me as it travels farther east, I am unencumbered. I soak in the feeling of having a low-populated and beautiful retreat this close to home.

Autumn is beginning to set in and it looks good on the drought-stricken land — a shoe that finally fits. We cycle in and out several times from the water to our outspread towels. There are only a handful of other people here on this Sunday afternoon. The beach sand is soft and the shells that are scattered alongside the Colorado River are plentiful. Our shoes are behind us in a haphazard pile. We’re a group of unapologetic nelipots.

Once we feel fully depleted, I stuff everything into a large tote bag and we climb the steep hill back up to the dirt path that leads to the parking lot by the white building. Secret Beach isn’t exactly secret enough to warrant the mysterious title these days. But it is still a place I like to go; I am reprieved here from the overcrowded swimming holes in and around Austin. If you want to find it, you won’t have a hard time. Research it or ask a local. I’d tell you myself, but I don’t want the blood of sharing semi-secrets on my hands.