Cross Village — If you drive to the end of M-119 and stop, you’ll find yourself in Cross Village, population 79. Past Harbor Springs, through the tunnel of trees, beyond Good Hart, this little collection of houses, streets, and stop signs is the last ember of human civilization until you reach Mackinaw City.
Past the old Holy Cross Catholic Church on the north side of town is wilderness. Sturgeon Bay Beach, Wilderness State Park, O’Neal Lake, and not much of anything else. Cross Village is, verifiably, in the middle of nowhere. Yet, there is a reason to come here, to the end of the road.
One block from a post office that was once obviously a family home is Legs Inn. The facade is old, smooth stone. Stove legs, the inspiration for its name, line the roof. There’s a weather-worn wooden teepee in front of the parking lot. The head of a stoic American Indian wearing a headdress carved in wood, facing east, hangs over the front door. A totem pole. A dark green Michigan Historic site plaque in both English and Polish.
In 1912, Stanley Smolak came to the U.S. from Poland. He moved up north to Cross Village in 1921. A decade later, he, with the help of the Odawa American Indians in the area, built the Legs Inn. He used local timber and stones to make this stunning place. Smolak was an artist, and the building is a testament to the fact. Using tree roots, fallen branches, and driftwood to create an otherworldly interior, he built a special world.
The front door is dark, auburn wood. The handle is a polished tree branch. Inside, the walls are stone and stained wood. A scaffolding of exposed beams, chandeliers, and ceiling fans loom above. No sight of drywall or anything that might feel factory made or less than art.
The walls are covered with paintings of old American Indian faces in headdresses, Polish plates, symbols, and scenes. Two old worlds. A polished totem pole stands next to the the front desk. Moose, deer, bears, birds, and other animals, shot long ago, are hung on the walls and next to the doorframes. A huge piece of old wood sits on top of a piano under an small window facing south, the dusty evening light glowing in the glass. Over the bar are haunting faces carved and painted into aging wood.
Legs Inn is full of nooks and crannies. Behind the bar, next to a fireplace, is a dark room with a single pool table. A foyer with two empty tables, an Old Style glass lamp hanging overhead. The cool, damp air fills the dimly lit rooms. It’s part-lodge, part-resort, part-hideaway.
The food at Legs Inn is just as special as the place. Lake Michigan Whitefish prepared to perfection, a stocked bar, and a menu full of homemade Polish food. Gołąbki, pierogi, naleśniki, and potato pancakes. The little world Smolak created in Cross Village is a fusion that I am not sure exists anywhere else on earth.
Next to a solemn face carved into a slab of cracked wood is a door to the patio. Lines of tables on a veranda opening to the west, yellow stained glass light fixtures hanging over the seats, window fans slowly spinning, churning the humid air. The warm light, the sun descending in the west, Lake Michigan just beyond the bluff.
The patio is full of flowers, carvings, tables, and chairs. From every seat we can see the waves sparkling on the big lake. Beyond the patio, before the wooden fence on the bluff, there is a big patch of lush green grass. People meander with their drinks, looking over the lake. A few sit on on wooden Adirondack chairs, talking together. A well-tended garden on the southern side of the lawn. Children spin in circles on the grass, laughing.
High above the water at Legs Inn we can see Waugoshance Island to the north of Sturgeon Bay, freighters floating south in the distance, and Beaver Island on the misty horizon. The sound of Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” plays softly on the speakers, just audible from the grass.
Legs Inn is timeless. Or perhaps it is out of time, or maybe not of our time. Whatever it is, or whatever you want to call it, it isn’t like anywhere else. Sitting there, watching the scene unfold high above the lake, at the end of the road, we were somewhere else.
It’s the absence of traffic, the quiet of the land, the diamonds on the water, the music from before, the scene that fewer see, the drive on the way there, the knowledge of where you are and how far you are, the feeling it’s a secret even if it isn’t.
And to imagine being here in the early 20th century. To be Smolak, to build Legs Inn with the Odawa. How much farther was it? How did the world feel then? It’s the end of the road today. What was the road then?
Yes, our world today is different. But the Legs Inn isn’t, or at least it doesn’t seem so. It feels like something else, something special. It’s in the air, the sum of the parts, something that can’t fully be explained in words. We didn’t feel like it was now when we were there on a quiet Wednesday evening in late May. We felt like we were then, or somewhere else, at the end of the road, nowhere else.
O.W. Root is a writer based in Northern Michigan, with a focus on nature, food, style, and culture. Follow him on X at @NecktieSalvage.
