I see her on the shores of Lake Superior, backlit by the soft glow of the setting sun. A crepuscular halo makes her hair shimmer with an aureate glow. She is holding an oversized fish slice.
I watch as she meticulously combs the pebbles with the two-foot-long slotted spatula – the kind you get in a set of barbecue utensils – while she simultaneously scours the ground with a white-blue torch beam. The pockets of her polyester fleece and combat trousers bulge: the woman seems to be collecting something. As she works her way down the beach towards me, I am compelled to ask, “What exactly are you doing?”
The woman – Pat, it later transpires, a retiree holidaymaker from Minnesota – glances up at me, a grin playing on her lips, and replies, “I’m looking for Yooperlite.”
I must look puzzled because she pauses, giving me a moment to take in her jumbo spatula, before continuing. “It’s a type of rock that glows under UV light. It’s called Yooperlite because it’s only found here, in the Yoo-Pee.”
Then she stoops and returns to her sifting, the fish slice she brought all the way from Minnesota to Michigan glinting as it catches the last rays of sunlight over Horseshoe Harbor.
The term ‘Yooperlite’ is a nod to the local term ‘Yooper’, which refers to the proud residents of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula – an area affectionately known as the UP (Yoo-Pee). Over time, the term Yooper has come to symbolise more than just the people, however – it represents a lifestyle intertwined with rugged wilderness, harsh winters and the enduring spirit of those who call this place home.
Yooperlite is a natural emblem of that same spirit: hidden beneath the surface but, once you look more closely, you’ll find it shines.
The term was coined by Erik Rintamaki, a rock enthusiast who only discovered Yooperlite in 2017 while he was looking for agate stones on the shores of Lake Superior. A type of syenite rock that contains sodalite – a mineral known for its striking fluorescence under ultraviolet rays – Yooperlites are exclusively found in the Upper Peninsula, primarily here, along the beaches of Lake Superior.
Emitting an otherworldly, orange glow, their striking luminescence has made them something of a sensation since their recent discovery, drawing visitors from far and wide, eager to see this geological oddity for themselves.
“We search for agate by day,” says Pat, nodding her head towards two other hunched-over women, further down the beach, “and Yooperlite by night. The best time to find it is after dark; the rocks light up like little lanterns.”
A quick glance heavenwards confirms what I already suspect: the darkening sky over the Keweenaw Peninsula – which forms the narrow tip of the greater Upper Peninsula – is perfect for just that. There is no light pollution here to dim the celestial display mimicked by the ethereal, glowing pebbles below. The irony is that scouring the Earth for such treasures once compromised the serenity and dark skies of the UP – industrial mining defines this region’s past.
There’s not a sound the next morning at the top of Brockway Mountain lookout, except for the rare song of a passing bird and the occasional whisper of leaves as they’re stirred by a zephyr. A creak of timber is heard, not from the hundred-thousand trees that enrobe the copper-rich valley below – punctuated by little Lake Medora, which flashes steel-blue amid the verdure – but from the skeletal remains of the wind-worn Brockway Mountain dedication sign, which stands in bone-weary celebration of the lookout’s preservation.
Around it, despite the chill October morning, a smattering of wildflowers trembles in the gentle breeze. In the dawn sun, red berries shine like unpolished rubies in squat shrubs, and specks of yellow and blue are outnumbered by hardy, purple bursts of thistle.
Looking south, lush green trees huddle around Beauty Pond like a forest of bristling Narcissi ogling their own reflected radiance, while those drowned in its centre are osseous and emaciated. Away from the water, thousands more rust on the surrounding hillsides in hues of orange, gold, saffron and hibiscus.
As I sit in silent contemplation, the trees rustle back to life as the wind picks up, and the birds concealed within decide I’m harmless and continue about their business. A dormouse lies dead, but otherwise unmolested, in front of an information board that speaks of the owls and raptors that today sail on these currents. A small sacrifice to Mother Nature as she heals this land.
The Upper Peninsula’s landscape was forever scarred by the Michigan Copper Rush, which began in the mid-19th century. The discovery of vast copper deposits under the rugged hills and shores of the peninsula sparked a frenzy that brought thousands of miners here from around the world. The rich veins of the purest copper were like nothing seen before.
It’s said that the UP’s mines produced around ten billion pounds of copper over the course of their operation, making it one of the largest copper-producing areas in the world. The towns of Calumet, Hancock, and Copper Harbor boomed as they became industrial centres, and the miners worked slavishly to extract copper from the earth. Large swathes of forests were cleared, rivers and lakes were polluted, and the air thickened with fumes.
But as quickly as the industry arrived, it disappeared. By the early 20th century, the richest veins of copper had been mined, and the industry began to decline. Mining towns were abandoned, once-bustling streets were silent, buildings crumbled. The environment, pockmarked by years of industrial extraction, began to heal as human activity subsided.
The decline of the copper industry, though economically devastating, provided the space for a new, more sustainable economy to emerge: tourism. Over the past few decades, the Upper Peninsula has reinvented itself as a haven for natural beauty. The allure of the Yooperlite, the dramatic landscapes, and the dark, starry skies have drawn visitors seeking outdoor adventures, from hiking and kayaking to stargazing and winter sports.
It’s not just tourists who have been attracted to the UP. Conservationists have found the region to be a vital resource for studying wildlife, and ecological restoration and preservation. One of the most heartening aspects of the peninsula’s reinvention is how the remnants of the mining era have become part of the UP’s environmental recovery.
The Porcupine Mountains unfold around me in ridges of old-growth forest. I’d spent the morning hiking here, beneath canopies of sugar maple and hemlock, the trail fringed with ferns and moss slick from last night’s rain. From the rocky Lake of the Clouds Overlook, I watched fog lifting off the treetops like steam from some vast, somnolent engine.
Earlier in the week, I had taken the public tour of Quincy Mine, with its crumbling hoist house and yawning shafts – a sobering glimpse into the industrial past that once defined this peninsula. Carp Lake Mine, by contrast, is silent, sealed to the public, and hidden beneath a forested hillside in the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park.
Tanner Barnes, a PhD student, unlocks a heavy iron door and leads me into the mine. The darkness is absolute.
“We have four species of bat that hibernate here: northern long-eared bats, tricoloured bats, big brown bats and,” he says as he directs his torch beam to the mine’s ceiling, revealing hundreds of balls of fur, “these are little brown bats.”
What was once a vampiric puncture wound of industrial extraction has become a sanctuary for bats: these abandoned tunnels provide them with a stable habitat. Researchers like Tanner explore these shafts, studying the bats and working to ensure their protection with experimental initiatives like artificially cooling sections of the tunnel to impede the growth of Pseudogymnoascus destructans – a fungus that causes the deadly white-nose syndrome that has killed 90% of these bat species since the early 2000s.
Bird researchers, too, have found this region a fertile ground for study. The peninsula is a stopover point for migratory birds, with its forests and wetlands providing an ideal habitat for a diverse range of species. Ornithologists and conservationists monitor bird populations to preserve and optimise critical habitats, ensuring the UP remains an important part of the migratory corridor.
Later, a few steps from the boardwalk in Nara Nature Park in the town of Houghton, back on the Keweenaw Peninsula, Dr Jared Wolfe reaches into a huge ‘mist net’ that is stretched between trees. He pulls out a struggling bird, which gradually calms as he cradles it.
“During migration, they fly at night and settle into places like this by day. Then it’s a race to acquire the food resources necessary to complete their migrations. So they’re intrinsically tied to the variation of the quality of habitats,” says Jared, a professor at Michigan Technological University’s College of Forest Resources and Environmental Science. “We capture the birds, tag them, and use state-of-the-art technology to measure how much food they’re eating.”
With this data, Jared and his team create silvicultural prescriptions: detailed plans for foresters, landowners and restoration ecologists that outline specific actions that should be taken to improve these wildlife habitats and make the environment healthier.
Today, the same forests that were once cleared for mining and logging have slowly but surely regrown and been redeveloped, providing homes for deer, black bears, wolves and beavers. The region’s wild ecosystems are thriving once again, and the UP has become a sanctuary for native species.
Skies once darkened by industrial smoke have reclaimed their natural state. With minimal light pollution, the peninsula is now home to the Keweenaw Dark Sky Park, a place where stargazers can witness some of the clearest night skies in the world.
From where I stand this evening, back on the shores of Lake Superior, the Milky Way’s primordial spill pours across the heavens while shooting stars streak through the night. Among the pebbles, Yooperlites burn like little, fallen meteorites. And, for now, the only mining I can see is inexplicably being done with a fish slice.
Need to know: Michigan
Getting there: The UP is remote. It has a few regional airports with flights from international airports such as Detroit, Chicago and Minneapolis – but most people hire a car and take a road trip from one of those gateway cities.
Getting around: Hiring a vehicle (best done from your arrival airport) is essential for getting around the UP. Some towns do have public transport systems, but you will need a car to explore beyond them.
Best time to go: Late spring and summer are great for hiking and outdoor activities, while winter is more for ice skating, snowshoeing and cross-country skiing. Come in mid-October to see the region’s stunning autumn colours.
Where to eat: Cornish miners left their mark on the Upper Peninsula with the enduring popularity of the pasty – a treat that is pretty much unknown in the rest of the US. Roy’s Pasties (royspasties.com) in Houghton is the local favourite – but don’t expect British standards. Also try Fitzgerald’s Restaurant (fitzgeralds-mi.com) in Eagle River for fine dining with views across Lake Superior.
Where to stay: Victorian Hall (laurium.info/victorian-hall) in the town of Laurium is a delightful brick and sandstone Victorian mansion. Keweenaw Mountain Lodge (keweenawmountainlodge.com) is the base for the Keweenaw Dark Sky Park.
Further information: visitkeweenaw.com / theporcupinemountains.com / michigan.org
