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What a magical country
PLUS: Donald Trump's threat, Vivek Ramaswamy's lies & why Mitch McConnell must go (video commentary)
When you ride across the country, you get a chance to listen to a lot of music. For anybody who’s having a hard time, I hope you'll listen to this song by Rodney Crowell:
In reading comments from yesterday’s post, there are so many questions about my conversation with Fred. I'm going to talk about it, but before I do, I want you to listen to this Kenny Chesney song with Ziggy Marley:
“Love for Love City” is about St. John, USVI. St. John is a place that has deep meaning to me. To all who have ever been there, I don't know if there's a perfect song, but this is as close to perfect as it gets for me. It was written in a moment of crisis, about an island ravaged by a hurricane.
More to come on this…and thank you all for your recommendations along our route! I wish we had time to explore them all.
Duluth is a beautiful city. I could have happily spent another night there, but the schedule rules. We drove across Wisconsin and the Iron Range.
I was excited to cross the border into Michigan. It is one of America’s most interesting states, and its people saved human civilization through their industrial know-how and genius in the middle of the last century. I’m well travelled in Michigan below the Mackinac Straits, but had never been through the Upper Peninsula (UP). It didn’t disappoint.
We had rolled down US Highway 2 since western Montana. Mostly two lanes, it had carried us across the Great Plains, skirting the Canadian border, a concrete ribbon cutting across gas fields, grazing fields, wild grass, prairie wildflowers and endless farmland. It crossed the headwaters of the Mississippi River, the Iron Range of Wisconsin, and ran adjacent to the sandy banks of Lake Superior, whose turquoise waters glistened in the sun.
US 2 turns east across the vast pine forests of the UP before Lake Huron appears like a cobalt jolt of blue from the deep green of the forest. The highway that started in Everett, Washington, passes within feet of the lake paddled by French fur traders in the 17th century as Europeans and the Indigenous peoples made first contact. There was no America, but there was an Iroquois Confederation.
Like all long rides, this one came to an end. It deposited us into the charming town of St. Ignace at the north, across the interior of the peninsula and to the banks of Lake Huron, where the Mackinac Straits lie dead ahead.
The ferry ride to Mackinac Island was 20 minutes of bliss. The temperature was perfect — in the low 70s. The sky was perfect, and the sun was warm. When Mackinac Island came into view my jaw dropped. It is a magical place. There are no cars or vehicles of any type. It has been that way since 1898.
There are few places that I have ever been that are prettier than this. It is an all-American place. I am grateful to spend a night on this wonderful American island in the state of Michigan, where history is everywhere.
Today’s video commentary
I cover Donald Trump's horrifying claims on Glenn Beck, Vivek Ramaswamy's lies about 9/11 and Mitch McConnell's latest health scare:
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