Henry Rowe Schoolcraft had a lot to be proud of, no question. With little formal schooling, he picked up the family glasswork business and even published an academic paper on it. On the side, he studied mineralogy under the private instruction of a local professor, who praised his scientific aptitude. When his glass business went bankrupt, he headed west and joined another Easterner in testing the Missouri territory for mining potential. This won him a gig on the Cass Expedition, exploring the wild and mysterious Upper Peninsula.
Join Us on the Road
The Connoisseurs' Gasoline and Coffee Fund
Summer here makes you forget there ever was a winter. The northern latitudes make for long days that make it seem like life here is, and never was anything but, dragonflies whizzing among wildflowers, their colors vibrating in air clear as glass. The world looks fresh as clothes hung to dry on a line. Read more
After six months worshipping at the feet of Lake Superior, we’ve begun our initiation rite: a three-day, 30-mile pilgrimage along the most iconic shoreline stretch of the Upper Peninsula.
Kaaterskill Falls might be America’s oldest tourist attraction.
Quimbo Appo was an immediate curiosity when he showed up on the streets of lower Manhattan, and not only because he was Chinese. He brought with him an Irish wife and a three-year-old son whom everyone thought was just so cute—he looked as white as his mother, a real Yankee boy to all appearances. Appo proudly told people that the boy had been born on the Fourth of July. Any time the Times ran a story about the Chinese in Manhattan, they mentioned Appo as a “model citizen of his race.”
Things did not go great for the American revolutionary troops at the Battle of Minisink. An army of British loyalists joined forces with a troop of Iroquois led by a Mohawk war chief named Joseph Brant and chased the colonists up a hill and against a bluestone outcropping known now as Hospital Rock. (You can guess how it got that name.)
Old Miami is a bar for the misunderstood.
The legendary Tin and Lint bar on Caroline Street started its life as a speakeasy. After weathering the Prohibition years, it was an institution such that it needed no name…just a lone beer sign winking from its ground-level window.