The country around Bayfield is in a primitive condition now, but the time is rapidly approaching for a change. By and by this will be a great resort for tourists and seekers after health. Nature has made it for a sanitarium. No mineral springs have been discovered warranted to cure all diseases, but nowhere in this Northwest has nature compounded purer air, distilled sweeter water, or painted lovelier landscapes. The time will come when the people of Chicago, Milwaukie, and other Western cities, seeking rest and recreation during the summer months, will flee to this harbor of repose. The fish are as numerous here, and as eager to bite the hook, as anywhere else on the lake, while the streams of the main-land abound with trout. By and by this old red sandstone will be transformed into elegant mansions overlooking the blue waters, and it would not be strange if commerce reared a great mart around this harbor. The charter of the Northern Pacific Railroad extends to this point, and as the road would pass through heavily timbered lands, the company will find it for their interest to open the line, as it will also form a connecting link between the West and the iron region of Lake Superior.
But whether a city rises here, whether a railroad is constructed or not, let me say to any one who wants to pull out big trout that this is the place.
An Indian who has been trying his luck shows a string of five-pounders, caught in one of the small streams entering the bay. There is no sport like trout-fishing. Think of stealing on tiptoe along the winding stream, dropping your hook into the gurgling waters, and feeling a moment later something tugging, turning, pulling, twisting, running, now to the right, now to the left, up stream, down stream, making the thin cord spin, till your heart leaps into your throat through fear of its breaking,—fear giving place to hope, hope to triumph, when at length you land a seven-pounder on the green and mossy bank! You find such trout in the streams that empty into the lake opposite the Apostle Islands,—trout mottled with crimson and gold!
Bidding good by to our generous host and hostess we take an eastward-bound steamer in the evening for a trip down the lake, stopping for an hour or two at Ontonagon, then steaming on, rounding Keweenaw Point during the night, and reaching Marquette in the morning.
Fishing-boats are dancing on the waves, yachts scudding along the shore, tourists rambling over the rocks at our right hand, throwing their lines, pulling up big trout, steamers and schooners are lying in the harbor, and thrift, activity, and enterprise is everywhere visible.
We see an immense structure, resembling a railway bridge, built out into the harbor. It is several hundred feet in length, and twenty or more in height. A train of cars comes thundering down a grade, and out upon the bridge, while men running from car to car knock out here and there a bolt or lift a catch, and we hear a rumbling and thundering, and feel the wharf tremble beneath our feet. It is not an earthquake; they are only unloading iron ore from the cars into bins.
A man by means of machinery raises a trap-door, and the black mass, starting with a rush, thunders once more as it plunges into the hold of a schooner. It requires but a few minutes to take in a cargo. And then, shaking out her sails, the schooner shapes her course eastward along the "Pictured Rocks" for the St. Mary's Canal, bound for Cleveland, Erie, or Chicago with her freight of crude ore to be smelted and rolled where coal is near at hand.
The town is well laid out. Although the business portion was destroyed by fire not many months ago, it has been rebuilt. There are elegant residences, churches, school-houses, and stores. Men walk the streets as if they had a little more business on hand than they could well attend to.
The men who used to frequent this region to trade with the Indians knew as early as 1830 that iron existed in the hills. But it was not till 1845, just a quarter of a century ago, that any attempt was made to test the ore. Dr. Jackson, of Boston, who visited Lake Superior in 1844, pronounced it of excellent quality. He informed Mr. Lyman Pray, of Charlestown, Mass., of its existence, and that the Indians reported a "mountain" of it not far from Marquette. Mr. Pray at once started on an exploring expedition, reached Lake Superior, obtained an Indian guide, penetrated the forest, and found the hills filled with ore.