Mighty Mac

I started in St. Joseph and drove north along the lake with no real plan except to follow the shoreline, and by nightfall on a September evening I was standing in Mackinaw staring up at the Mighty Mac. The sun had just let go of the sky but the blue hour hadn't fully claimed it yet, and the bridge hung right in the middle of it all, splitting the last glow of sunset from the deep blue rolling in behind it. I asked the Mighty Mac for a story, and he whispered in a soft voice about the people he has carried, the lakes he joins together, and the weather he has stood through — and I pressed the shutter so I would never forget it.

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