Standing on the edge of Lake Michigan, the air carries a specific, saltless dampness that smells of cedar and ancient stones. I remember the summers when the humidity would cling to your skin like a wet wool blanket until the northern breeze finally broke through the pines.
There is a primal comfort in walking toward a flickering neon sign after a long day of skimming stones across the glass-like surface of the water. Scalawags is the sensory anchor of a Michigan summer where the floorboards groan under the weight of sandy flip-flops and the sharp scent of malt vinegar cuts through the humid afternoon.
You can hear the rhythmic hiss of the deep fryer long before you see the counter, a sound that promises the kind of honest meal that defines the Great Lakes experience. Every visit feels like stepping back into a simpler timeline where the only deadline is the setting sun…