For six years, I lived on the road. Crossing the country too many times to count, I hunted for the extraordinary stories hiding in everyday life.
Along the way, I found my home in the front seat of a Jeep Cherokee, in the smiles and spare bedrooms of friends, in the arms of a guy in Wyoming who was crazy enough to jump in the seat beside me.
From the Pacific coast to the Catskill mountains and everywhere between, I grew more confident that no single place on earth
could hold my heart or satisfy my wanderlust.
Until the day I ended up here.
A little shark fin thrust into the cold heart of the world's biggest lake, Michigan's Keweenaw Peninsula is a windswept island barely known beyond the North. Those brave enough to make the long journey here are rewarded by a land of wild isolation and rugged beauty, the final frontier of four true seasons.
Rife with berries and butterflies in the summertime, a frozen cathedral of nature in the winter, the Keweenaw is a place mercifully forgotten by time since copper miners and lumber barons carried off the last of its valuables more than a century ago.
In that time, the Keweenaw has been quietly regrowing, under the watchful care of a small, sterling community. These Copper Country people are a rare breed--passionate yet laconic, honor-bound to their heritage yet progressively practical. They're the most utilitarian environmentalists you've ever met in your life. When you live in a place of extremes like this, these are the people you want on your team.
This is their story, told for perhaps the first time ever.