A search for the world’s largest and a close call
Every trip comes with a food bucket list. This one included poutine, pierogies, fish and chips, Old Dutch ketchup potato chips, pork tenderloin sandwiches, and the one item I had been searching for since we crossed into Michigan: a pasty.
Bucket list food
We would be leaving Michigan before lunch, so I frantically searched for a shop that was open for breakfast. I got lucky and found one right off the highway. At Lawry’s Pasty Shop in Marquette, I ordered the original, while my husband, who insists on eating the right food at the right time, decided upon the breakfast version stuffed with ham and eggs.
Not even a question–gravy makes most things better
With breakfast complete, we knew that the tourist part of our journey was almost at an end. The roads ahead were familiar, and home was getting closer, but neither of us wanted to stop exploring. Instead, we decided to embrace a time-honored Midwestern tradition, chasing the world’s largest everything.
We were off to a good start already, having seen some unique examples in previous days, but we knew that there were more out there.
Every road sign and town became a possibility, but we almost missed the first ones. I was scouring Google Maps and travel websites for examples along our path when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a chainsaw with “Big Gus” painted on its bar. I had seen the signs for Da Yoopers Tourist Trap, but figured it was just a gift shop. I was to be proven very wrong. I quickly switched my search to the chainsaw, tapped my husband on the shoulder, and told him to find a place to turn around. We had to drive a few miles before we could do so safely, which gave me plenty of time to wonder if it would be worth it. Spoiler: it was.
It even works
The chainsaw sits at one of the finest examples of a tourist trap I have ever seen. Not only does it house the world’s largest working chainsaw, but it also displays the world’s largest working rifle, aptly named Big Ernie, and the largest motorized tricycle in Michigan, if not the world. We wandered around like lost little kids, seeing who could find the best treasures. Among other oddities, the grounds play host to a deer camp, where the deer are the campers and a ’57 Buick with a snowplow.
We couldn’t resist a picture of the bike next to the world’s largest working rifle
One giant roadside attraction led to another, and we soon found ourselves in the mining town of Ironwood, home to two more examples of the world’s largest. Our first stop was at the Stormy Kromer factory, where a giant version of the hat was displayed alongside a history of the iconic headwear.
If I lived in Michigan, I would defintely be rocking one of these
Our second stop in Ironwood was to be Hiawatha Park, home to what was once promoted as the world’s tallest Indian. Time, and changing perspectives, have caught up with it, and nearby signs now explain the historical inaccuracies and racial biases that once went unquestioned.
No longer the world’s tallest
We had barely touched Wisconsin on the way to Boston, but this time we would be able to spend a little more time in the state. A “quick” detour turned into much more as we followed signs to another world record: The Superior Entry, the only natural opening through the world’s longest natural sandbar.
When we took this detour, we didn’t actually know that we were on the tracks of another world’s largest
By this time, the need for a front tire had grown urgent. We called around and were finally directed to The Hog Pen motorcycle repair shop in Duluth, where a man, aptly nicknamed The Turtle, was able to fit us in. This is not a fancy shop; there are no crisp uniforms, no fancy machines, and no delicate sensibilities. There is one man; he was slow, he was cheap, and he was good at his job. After three hours and a “lunch” of a microwaved pretzel and a hot dog at the bar next door, we were back in business. Bemidji and a day with family were our destination. So far, the weather had been hot, but clear. That was about to change.
Growing up in the Midwest teaches you to respect a wall of clouds. Ten miles from our destination, the skies opened with a vengeance. We were on a straight stretch of road with no exits, no shelter, and no shoulders, and our rain gear was in the trunk. We needed to pull over, but we couldn’t see. Cars sprayed sheets of water as they passed, and my husband did his best to avoid deep water, searching for an exit while hugging the white line because that was the only thing visible. Fortunately, exit signs for Bemidji popped up, and we left the highway for safety. The rain started to taper, and we made it to the house, soaked to the bone and freezing cold, but alive and well. I have no doubt that the front tire The Turtle installed earlier that afternoon helped get us there, and I’ll always be grateful to him.
We were happy to stay put for the day. There was time to rest and dry our clothes while spending time with family, but we had missed one of the world’s largest in the storm. We couldn’t leave Bemidji without checking one more off our list, so we took a short break from the festivities to visit The Big Fish Supper Club, where the world’s largest muskie holds the entryway to a now-closed eatery. That and a visit to the Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox statues on the shores of Lake Bemidji rounded off our day and marked an end to our wandering without a set destination.
The next morning, the detours would end, and the three-day push for home would begin.
Carousels and Curiosity 
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