The Amish Stinkeye, Hobbit Habits, and Why I Love Geography

Last weekend while the wife was away, I took the opportunity to seek out another obscure coordinate of minor geographic significance: the marker where Michigan, Indiana, and Ohio meet.

Another routine weekend for the easily-amused explorer.

I had just turned north out of a ghost town intersection called California when I noticed the first of several Amish buggies plodding along in front of me. With a car coming the opposite way, I slowed to a crawl for several seconds while the approaching car passed. A young man and woman sat side by side, a load of hay tethered down behind them. Dressed in the traditional cloth of the Old Order, they rode with a very prim, circumspect demeanor, all straight-laced and vigilant.

The sudden deceleration was metaphysically jarring. In that 45 mile-per-hour shift I was suddenly very aware of the world outside my Ford Escape. Like waking up from a dream, the sounds of Florida Georgia Line, the blasting AC, the engine hum, and the rattling of backseat beer bottles were replaced by wind through budding trees, the clip-clop of horse hooves, the creaking of the wooden cart, and the faint smell of damp hay. The proximity of bumper-to-buggy may have constituted some unintentional tailgating, but no big deal. Within seconds, I zipped around and left them in dust.

A mile further, I stopped to turn around at Dove’s General Store—checking “Algansee, Michigan” off my list as I did so—and noticed an amusing juxtaposition in the parking lot. Next to the painted white parking lines was a series of hitching posts, which led to the Snapchat-worthy moment of seeing a Lexus idling proudly beside a loaded-down Amish buggy. ‘Something you don’t see every day,’ I mused.

Heading back, I noticed the original buggy I’d tailgated earlier was now on the side of the road. Engine trouble? Flat tire? Nope. Funny how instinctive those assumptions can come to mind on the road. Maybe the horse was out of gas…that can happen, right? The man—we’ll call him Jedediah—was fiddling with the wooden axle with firm, dexterous hands, while the woman (Elizabeth, perhaps?) sat primly on the buggy, staring down in bemusement. I slowed down to pass, though I believe Elizabeth may have taken my courtesy for gawkery.

Elizabeth trained her shrewd gaze on me, and the pastoral vibe of bucolic Americana turned Children of the Corn in an instant. I swear, the sun melted away behind dark clouds, wind whipped the horses into a frenzy, and the temperature dropped a dozen degrees in that moment. Shade had literally been thrown.

I averted my eyes instantly and once again sped off down the road, lesson learned. This may have been Amish country, but it was no place for spectators.

As the buggy shrank away in the rearview mirror, I couldn’t help but reflect on how different our commutes were. Jedediah and Elizabeth were likely on a routine delivery from one farm to another—a few miles added to the horse odometer at most. I was headed to Indiana, Ohio, and the furthest reaches of Michigan before bee-lining back to Grand Rapids, hopefully all before dinner.

Did they wonder where I was going? Do they always wonder where the cars that pass are going? Does Elizabeth always give the stinkeye to out-of-towners?

This isn’t the first time I’ve given thought to the Amish lifestyle. In some ways, I think I’d love it. I’ve mused wistfully to Taryn before that I may have been born in the wrong decade, or century. I would’ve loved to come of age in the era of French voyageurs and Czech sodbusters. Admittedly, my white male privilege would’ve come in handy, and even then I’m still likely romanticizing their experience. Depictions like Dances With Wolves, My Ántonia, and even the hobbits from The Lord of the Rings get my heart yearning for a world of adventure pre-dating technology and social connectivity, and I think I see some of that old appeal in the Amish. To be born, to live subsistently, and to die on a farm sounds kind of nice. As Bilbo Baggins would say, “It is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life.”

The Amish are a lot like hobbits, if you think about it. They aren’t the keenest travelers, their skills in communal agriculture and architecture are unmatched, and they stay wisely away from the drama and politics that plague mainstream media.

But it’s hard to stay completely in the bubble, as Bilbo learned when Gandalf came knocking at Bag End one night, and as two young Amish boys learned just weeks ago near this very intersection. A casual afternoon horseback ride became a shocking injection of real-world trauma when they stumbled across the dead body of Jeremy Barron, a sexually abusive boyfriend who was murdered by a meth cook from Ohio. Barron’s body was dumped in the woods of Camden, Michigan where it rotted for several weeks before discovery.

Welcome to the real world, boys.

The story goes to show that events reflective of worldly affairs, both terrible and miraculous, can happen anywhere. But it’s still a small scratch on the eclectic surface of global culture, or even Michigan culture. Just weekends ago I was driving through the apocalyptic suburbs of Detroit that haven’t seen the renaissance yet—Inkster, Ecorse, Melvindale, all characterized by boarded-up storefronts and arsoned houses. Before that, I was driving through the rural Upper Peninsula towns of Chatham and Eben Junction. And while I spend a lot of time championing the incredible natural beauty and charming quirks of these places, it’s tough to admit that these towns are still suffering severe population declines and tax base reductions.

Geography is fascinating. I am enamored by the cultural, geological, and economic factors at play across the world, and I believe I am better for having visited them. Hours are spent pouring over Google’s topographic maps, and I really can’t describe the peculiar delight I feel when driving out and matching those blue map lines and green public land patches with the actual physical world, but it’s something special. That, and being a sucker for novelty—i.e. going places for the sake of having been there—explains a lot about what motivates me.

I love Michigan passionately, and I think it’s important be an informed part of the conversation on land preservation, economic development, and community projects going on across the state. It’s rewarding to see the positive changes happening in Flint, Jackson, Muskegon, Battle Creek, and Lansing, all cities believed to have dying business districts a decade ago.

This is where I ultimately decide I could not be Amish; I simply love travel and experiences too much. And before you cite the wild, hedonistic exodus toward city life that some Amish youths choose, it turns out the concept of rumspringa is typically nothing more than unsupervised Amish youth group where adolescents discuss the pros and cons of staying in the Church. Many choose to stay, some choose to leave.

Bilbo wasn’t like the other hobbits. For as much adoration he had of The Shire, he too realized, with a bit of nudging, that in life “there was only one Road; that it was like a great river; its springs were at every doorstep and every path was its tributary.” The world is full of geographic significance, both great and small, and I want to experience as much of it as I can.

There’s a melodramatic meme going around which boasts, “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” While I roll my eyes at the relationship application, it fits my attitude towards Michigan to a (Model) T, if you’ll excuse the pun… You’ll appreciate sunny days at Pictured Rocks more after you’ve spent slushy winter nights camping in crummy State Game Areas. Your awe for Grand Rapids’ culinary scene will be all the more respectful after trying to track down decent bar food in River Rouge. Those charming Leelanau boutiques will seem all the cuter once you’ve driven through the boarded-up main streets of Galien or Yuma.

Perhaps the nerdiest thing about these trips I take—and I’m not embarrassed by this—is that I drive these deserted main drags imagining what they could look like. Take Camden, the village where the murder took place. I was disheartened to see eight out of ten beautiful brick facades all boarded up and for sale, but it doesn’t have to be that way. Culture takes a long time to change, but maybe an overhaul of the city’s website and some entrepreneurial spirit could turn things around. Promote tourism; highlight the lakes, rivers, and parks around town, get local businesses on social media, and host community events. Dig up quirky pieces of area history. Convince the local Amish to set up bed-&-breakfasts, a la Schrute Farms. Persuade a home-brewer to set up shop downtown and think of a clever moniker to attract business: ‘Come check out Borderlands Brewing Co! Enjoy our classic Camden Kolsch at the southernmost brewery in the Great Lakes State!’

These are the thoughts that keep me up at night.

Interest in geography isn’t an obligation, but with modern info-technology and transportation capabilities, it is a privilege to be able to discern the world through a wide lens. We have the ability to observe how natural features affect other cultures’ ways of life, and we ought to learn from it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, another weekend is upon us, and I think I’m quite ready for another adventure.

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