I got on my bicycle and pedaled, a little obsessed.
From my home in Kalamazoo to Lake Michigan and north to Beaver Island, I rode in search of the place where a polygamist prophet/king and likely con man took his flock in the 1850s. He's King Strang, and we'll get to him later.
This slice of weird Michigan history drove me to spend seven days pedaling more than 400 miles. I traveled through the late August heat waves, price-gouging motels, camping in crowded campgrounds, and through all the tourist towns along Lake Michigan.
To be honest, I would've done the ride with or without Strang.
This is my ninth year of pedaling off somewhere for a week or two, alone. On rides like this, it takes a bit of time to get over that nagging thought, “What the heck am I doing this for?”
Is it for King Strang? For fun and adventure? Because riding a bicycle, low and slow, allows me to see all the details?
"No, why, why, why?" I mutter the morning of Day 2, at my hosts Mike and Julie's Lakeshore cottage near Glenn, as I reach into my food bag and find egg, slimy egg, all over everything.
A plastic egg carrier had failed me. I washed every food package and the bag while gnawing on a protein bar and thinking of the 60 miles I needed to ride that day.
This would be a high-humidity day, with a heat index of 100.
Do I need to carry many bottles of water? Nah, too heavy. I'll buy water along the way.
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Campsite at the Bill Wagner Campground, Beaver Island.
The 20-plus miles after Holland, mostly along Lakeshore Avenue, are lovely, with an off-road pathway through woodsy neighborhoods. But there’s no place to buy water.
The teens hanging out at Grand Haven's Jumpin' Java gawked at the sweaty bike hobo stumbling to the counter. "I'll have a mango smoothie and a large water, and please bring me the water now. I think I'm on the verge of heatstroke," I said to the young barista. His look of alarm kind of alarmed me.
I know what I'm doing. Really. In 2016, I rode from the north to south,
Mackinaw City to New Buffalo, along the Lakeshore on the same route, U.S. Bike Route 35. USBR-35 provides a near-perfect tour of West Michigan on a variety of roads and pathways. One can follow it up into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula or down to Kentucky.
After food and a lot of fluids in Grand Haven, I reached P.J. Hoffmaster State Park. Set up my tiny one-man tent, ate some sort of mess from my supply of tuna packs, peanut butter, and tortillas, and sat at the site picnic table as night fell.
Then, I laid back and stared at the stars. No light pollution here. They were all up there, winking among the treetops. Just the stars and this slow, dehydrated speck of dust.
All the chatter of our society, the anxiety of the pandemic era, all the screens, the Facebook and cable news, are off. Just me and the stars, the faint sound of Lake Michigan past the dunes, and …
"Whooo?" An owl.
Hey, owl.
The Lake.
Morning three. When my back is turned, squirrels ravage my package of tortillas.
But it's okay. I'm in their world, now. I pack up, head to Muskegon. I see that the neighborhoods near Hoffmaster are being stalked by gangs of suburban turkeys. Things get more urban, but Muskegon's Lakeshore Trail gives me a chance to sit down, eat from my stash of emergency cashews, and stare at the wetland birds of Muskegon Lake.
I reach the Fred Meijer Berry Junction Trail, which leads to the Whitehall Pathway and the Hart-Montague Trail. Over 40 miles of no motor vehicles, just small towns, farms, prairie, and woods. The feeling of being on horseback, trotting along on a grand 19th-century journey, sets in — interrupted briefly by the roller coaster of Michigan
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Beaver Island, southeast coast, approaching rain.Adventure peeking above the trees.
Day four, the longest ride, 64 miles from Hart to Onekama. This is where "up north" begins for me. North of Ludington, things get woodsy. The land becomes hilly — look at your handy right palm map of Michigan, where the flatness of the palm ends and the bumpy fingers begin.
North of Manistee, Lakeshore Road brings me to a narrow little beach, just a buffer of sand between the road and the Lake. I get off the bike, take off my shoes, and wade my abused legs into the clear water.
The reward for all this pedaling came whenever I saw the big Lake. Lake Michigan has deep roots in my head, starting as an infant. The nostalgia of trips with family, friends. That time ten years ago when I first pedaled a bike from Kalamazoo, along the Kal-Haven Trail to its shore, and felt like I'd pedaled to the edge of the world.
I have to stop each time I get to a beach. Sun-warmed sand, the many shades of blue sky, reaching to the horizon, all impossible to capture with a camera. Thirsty, hungry, legs and rear aching, I'd stumble off the bike, take off my shoes, and wade into the water, a personal baptism each time.
Piracy on the Kalamazoo River
Onward. North to the beatific/painful/maddening hills of M-22. North to stunning Sleeping Bear Dunes, the woods of the Heritage Trail giving way to sand mountains. North to the sunflower fields on the Leelanau Trail. North to the boat to take me to Beaver Island.
Why am I doing this? A drive, and an obsession. Just like James Jessie Strang, but with my bike replacing his claim to be the true ruler of the Mormons.
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Sunrise on Lake Michigan, Bill Wagner Campground.
An island, cut off from the rest of society, is a perfect place to build your own society, your own world. That's what the King of Beaver Island did.
I planned this ride after discovering Miles Harvey's 2020 "
The King of Confidence, A Tale of Utopian Dreamers, Frontier Schemers, True Believers, False Prophets, and the Murder of an American Monarch." Harvey paints Strang as a megalomaniacal conman, and someone we'd call, in modern terms, a cult leader.
Strang's story in summary: An atheist lawyer known for committing various forms of fraud converts to the new religious movement of Mormonism. He becomes leader of a Mormon settlement in southeast Wisconsin. When the religion's founder Joseph Smith is killed by a mob, Strang unveils a letter supposedly from Smith reading that if Smith were to perish, Strang would be the new leader of the Mormons.
Brigham Young says otherwise and eventually takes his people to Utah. Strang, having seen a beautiful island in northern Lake Michigan, takes his people to Beaver. Though it is occupied by white and native Odawa fishermen and traders, Strang sees it as an empty wilderness ripe for his Earthly kingdom.
He's declared a king and a prophet in his island town of St. James. He turns the island into a viable community (albeit a theocracy), introduces polygamy, marries a few more wives to the displeasure of his first.
Strang declares that it's okay to "consecrate" (steal) wealth and goods from "gentiles" (non-Mormons) and runs a literal piracy ring on the Great Lakes.
Newspapers of the time
reported that Strang's crew went as far south as Ganges, (now Ganges Township, south of Saugatuck/Douglas). Their pirate schooners landed near Grand Haven to rob stores and burn sawmills, then looked to consecrate goods around the mouth of the Kalamazoo River.
President Millard Fillmore sent a warship, the U.S.S. Michigan, to the island to arrest the King and take him to trial in Detroit. The former lawyer defended himself -- using his great charisma and public speaking abilities, Strang is acquitted.
In 1856, Strang is shot in the back by a couple of disgruntled subjects in the main street of St. James. One of their reasons was that the King had ordered all the women to wear pantaloons. The assassins escaped on the U.S.S. Michigan, leading to a suspicion that the federal government had a hand in the plot.
Mobs from Mackinac Island and mainland towns sailed over to ransack and burn Mormon buildings, and to drive all Mormons from Beaver.
I've always thought that Michigan history, compared to those regions that saw Civil War and Revolution, is kinda dull. But Strang's reign -- why hasn't HBO made a series out of this, "The King," starring Paul Giamatti as Strang?
I read Harvey's account, written in the florid style of the mid-1800s, and got a little obsessed with seeing where it all transpired.
Cead Mile Failte
After seven days of pedaling, I'm at Charlevoix, handing my loaded bike to a dockhand, boarding the Emerald Isle. "Cead Mile Failte," the ticket reads. "One Hundred Thousand Welcomes" in Gaelic.
For the two-hour ride, I stood outside on the top deck, cold wind buffeting. The mainland shrunk to a dark line of hills on the horizon, and Beaver Island grew to become a wooded coastline, green in the sun, the sparkling Paradise Bay welcoming just ahead.
Irish immigrants came to Beaver Island because it reminded them of their homeland. When the Strangite Mormons were driven off the island, the Irish took over and created a small fishing empire. Fishing died out, farming the sandy land wasn't profitable, and eventually, tourism became the economic driver of the island.
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Surly Troll at Lake Michigan, north of Manistee.
Just off the boat, I shoveled a great breakfast into my face on the porch of the Dalwhinnie Bakery and Deli, looking out over the windy Paradise Bay. I got on my bike and headed to the east side of the island.
It was Labor Day weekend, and surely all the good spots would be taken at the Bill Wagner Campground.
I ride around the camp and see that only around four sites are taken. There's the perfect spot! I rush to claim it, hit a sandpit. My loaded bike starts to go down. Pedal spikes gouge my right ankle. Blood is running down, reaching my shoe. I looked like a wounded obsessed wild-eyed nutjob, stuffing my cash in an envelope and putting it in the registration slot at the un-staffed entrance.
Sent a message to my wife letting her know I'm still alive. Set up camp. Walked down the sandy path linking my site with the beach. The distant hills of northwest Mitten were low on the horizon. The wind and waves of Lake Michigan had her imitating big sister, Lake Superior.
I swam in the cold water, got as much filth off of me as I could -- no shower since a Days Inn at Traverse City -- then stumbled ashore to lay on the sand.
The sun came out. I fell asleep. I'm here. Alone on the beach. I began to think of it as my beach.
Wake with a start to a German Shepherd nosing around me. "Hey, puppy!" I say.
The man with the dog gives me a look like he just discovered a drunk passed out. I greet him. He says a flat, "Hello," and continues with the dog down the beach.
I casually gather driftwood, take it to my campfire ring. It'll make a nice fire, if I need one. I'm sitting at the picnic table, simply vibing with the trees. Feel alone, and that's alright. The few occupied sites seem to have no one home.
A woman rolled up on a fat-tire bike. "Did I talk to you yesterday?" she asks.
"I don't think so. I just got here."
She says it must've been another bike tourer with panniers like mine. She says she lives on the island and likes to check on the campground, "see who's here." She's concerned about people who just leave campfires burning, she says while looking at my sticks in the pit.
She appeared to be in her 60s and has the bike and fat tires one would need to ride on the bumpy dirt roads of this place. A large rearview mirror hangs off her helmet in front of her face — the same brand I have on my helmet, excellent for keeping an eye on approaching motorists.
I tell her I'm amazed at what I've found so far. All the tourists must be staying at St. James. The rest of the island feels almost unpopulated. I've loved visiting Mackinac Island, but this island is better, not overrun by tourists.
"The tourists come off the boat thinking that they're on Mackinac," she says. "They ride out into traffic, weaving and wobbling around. If they don't have bikes, they rent them and think they can circumnavigate Beaver just like Mackinac. It's a 40-mile trip around the island, on dirt roads. They don't know what they're doing."
She looks at me, my bike. Pauses, thinks a bit. "You probably know what you're doing." She tells me that tomorrow would be the day to ride around the island because most residents "will be at a big funeral." (A
memorial for traditional musical and island community cornerstone Ed Palmer.)
She leaves me to my solitude. I wonder, does she check daily to see what ne'er-do-wells might be at the camp?
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One of the many sandy slopes of Sleeping Bear Dunes.
That first day and the coming days I notice that island residents wave to me when I ride around. Friendly, but I suspect the wave also is a way of saying, "I see you're here, on our island."
Another time when it seemed like I was being watched when a pickup truck followed me to a popular tourist destination, Protar's Tomb. It's a lonely spot in the woods, and I was by myself. The driver pulled up next to me to say, "How ya doin'" and then drove off.
There are under
600 residents on the island. Eight people per square mile. They are isolated, surrounded by water. Roundtrips to the mainland are inconvenient and expensive.
Every summer day their tiny port town is invaded by people from all over the world, like the shirtless rollerblading dude I saw expressing himself on Main Street, and the wealthy couple who asked me if campgrounds would supply them tents (yes there is a "
glampground," where you can get a supplied tent, ready with a queen-size bed).
This is their home, so no wonder they might wave to everyone, yet give visitors the side-eye.
Maybe the watchfulness comes from the island's history of obsessive outsiders wanting to make the island theirs.
The King
A couple of days later, I was in St. James, visiting the
Beaver Island Historical Society.
I met with museum director Lori Taylor-Blitz, to see the inside of the only Strang building left standing. The King's printshop makes up part of the museum. The shop's press turned out everything from Strang's religious screeds to northern Michigan's first daily newspaper.
The printshop had become a boarding house after Strang's assassination. When the building became part of the island's museum, it was modernized. The museum is now renovating the space, exposing the old walls' hand-hewn lumber, with the goal of making it look as it did in the 1850s.
As we talked, another storm was blowing in, the winds were howling outside. There's no electric light in the room. Natural rain-soaked morning light gave everything a gloomy but dramatic cast. Strang's stern portrait hung on the old wall.
He's staring out the print shop window, across Main Street, where we can see a historical marker, "The Assassination of King Strang."
Two disgruntled followers, Thomas Bedford and Alexander Wentworth, attacked him in that spot in 1856. Strang was on his way to give an official greeting to the captain of the U.S.S. Michigan, which had recently returned to the island. The two shot him in the head, face, and spine, and clubbed him with a horse pistol, before fleeing to the warship. Ship officers were watching the scene and made no effort to stop the shooting. The ship then took the assassins to Mackinac Island where they were briefly arrested, then released and treated as heroes.
"After he got shot, there was an angry mob that came in and burnt down all the (Mormon) organizational buildings," Taylor-Blitz says. "They took over the homesteads and they ran the Mormons off the island."
Museum assistant Sharolyn Hunter came in to continue the story.
Strang managed to survive, and was shipped back to his first Mormon settlement in Voree, Wis., "where, as he (Strang) states, his true love" — Hunter gives a bit of an eye roll — "his first wife, was willing to take him back to nurse him."
His first wife, who had left Strang and the island a few years before, was likely still not happy about the whole polygamy thing.
It's not hard to see that people might travel to Beaver Island not just for its beauty, but for its unique history. Hunter says they get many visitors who come to the island because of Strang.
"We often get a certain amount of Mormons who come here to see what is it that Beaver Island has, and how he was connected to the island," she says.
"The King of Confidence" portrays Strang as a conman, his people as thieves -- but it also includes details that make the King's a complex story.
The book looks at 19th-century news media — a nation of newspapers that made no effort to be unbiased, often reprinting without question salacious stories of Great Lakes piracy and debaucherous polygamists. The book also shows the obvious religious bigotry the Mormons faced.
The mobs that came when Strang was gone may have had justifiable reasons to be angry — there are credible accounts of Stragite piracy and theft reaching as far as the shores of Lake Erie. But the mobs were also whipped into a frenzy by the era's media.
"King of Confidence” tells of the Strangites' struggle to turn Beaver Island and St. James into a lasting settlement. It's all still there in 2021 — the town, his King's Highway, and farmland originally cleared by Strang and his followers.
"On a personal basis," Hunter says, "my thought is there are obviously issues with his sect of the Mormons. But they did some positive things here on the island. Many of the infrastructures were further developed by him and his group."
She says that the St. James Township Cemetery has many markers labeled "Unknown." "That is where we believe Mormons were buried." Original gravestones are missing, maybe removed during the chaos "to prevent the desecration of graves" by anti-Mormon mobs, she says.
How do the islanders feel about Strang now? "I think some of our locals would probably say that he was a goofball," Hunter says.
But the King left an aura of mystery haunting the island. She says rumors abound that after seizing his ill-gotten wealth, he buried his wealth. "There are people who have come here to try to locate King Strang's mysterious pot of gold. Some people think it's located on High Island, which is owned by the state so probably treasure hunting over there isn't in somebody's best interests. Other people think it's still here on this island. Or there isn't any, and he spent it all."
It's likely that the Strangites started stealing because when they arrived, the Island was nothing but trees and a few fishing settlements.
"There are some farms on the island, but farming, really -- it's sandy soil, so they were limited in what they could grow. So, stealing things — 'Oh, you got a good haul of fish? We need to take that fish because we need to feed our people!'" Hunter muses.
Another Dreaming Outsider
I had two more days before my wife and friends joined me. I knew ahead of time that after spending over a week as a lone bike voyager, I'd be stinky and uncivilized, so I'd reserved a room at the Harbor View motel.
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Mark Wedel, still a bit uncivilized after his long solo bike journey, trying the fruit of one of the many wild-growing apple trees. It's said that Mormons brought apple trees to the island in the 1850s.
The hotel is reasonably priced, with an actual view of the harbor. A great mid-century modern stay, it feels nostalgic without feeling old and shabby. Glad to spend some time in the 1960s after thinking so much about the 1850s.
But before I packed up camp at Bill Wagner, I trotted down my sandy path to see the sunrise.
The sky has cleared, the lake is shimmering in peace. My mind empties of its usual chatter, replaced with a zen void that just digs existence in this world.
Pack up, hit the dirt road, head to King's Highway.
After checking into the motel, I head back out to explore the north side of the island. St. James feels like a small town, but at its edges, it quickly becomes wilderness, with hiking trails into deep old woods that lead to a variety of stunning views of the lake. Rocky beaches, sandy dunes, marsh stalked by a heron. The green islands of the archipelago are not far offshore.
I ride west, see Font Lake, where Strang baptized his flock. Note that Font has its own island -- it's an island in a lake on an island in a lake.
Ride to Donegal Bay. It's sunny and warm, devoid of people. I nearly strip down to my underwear to go swimming. Instead, I stretch out on a lone bench in the sun. Napped a bit.
Back in town, I buy a bottle of northern Michigan rye, sit in the motel courtyard, drink a bit as the Emerald Isle toots its horn and slowly heads out of the bay, taking some poor souls back to the dreary overpopulated mainland.
I could live here. Maybe start my own religion based on biking, the lake, the woods.
Though I doubt that residents would let another outsider do something like that again.
Mark Wedel has been a Kalamazoo-based freelance journalist since 1992. He's covered everything from The Beastie Boys to invasive species. He also writes a lot about biking. His book on riding from Pittsburgh, Pa., to Washington D.C., "Mule Skinner Blues," is available on Amazon.