Mackinac Island — Getting to Mackinac Island in the winter can be a little tricky. Some days the ferry doesn’t run due to ice. Other days it’s running, but only once every 24 hours. This is when you have to take a plane. Maybe “have to” isn’t exactly right. It’s something more like “get to.” After taking a small twin-engine plane over the straits in early February, I think I’ve found my new preferred mode of transport to the island.
There’s no online booking for the flight from St. Ignace to Mackinac Island. It’s old school. I called Fresh Air Aviation about a week before I wanted to fly, talked to the receptionist there, and booked the flight over the phone in about 15 minutes.
In addition to all the typical details, they also asked for my weight. The planes are small and every pound matters. They seat passengers based on it. The pilots like to have more weight up front. If you are on the thinner side, you’re going in the back. The price isn’t too bad—$54 each way. One bag, weighing up to 40 pounds, is included free of charge.
The plane left from Mackinac County Airport in St. Ignace. The airport feels more like a waiting room at a dentist’s office. No security checkpoints. No TSA. Trim blue carpet, wooden chairs with soft blue seats, a fireplace in the corner. Just the quiet hum of a heating system and a few people whispering. The planes only carry six passengers.
To the west, long tall windows look out over the runway and our waiting plane. To the east, the waters of Lake Huron and Mackinac Island. Wearing jeans, knee pads, and a navy Fresh Air Aviation hoodie, our pilot, Forest, sat there waiting with the rest of us.
He told me that he flies an average of 22 flights a day, and 56 flights in a day is his record. At this point, he’s done the trip thousands of times and says that it’s really no different than going through the drive-thru at McDonald’s. They don’t cancel flights too often.
At 3:25 p.m., the last two passengers walked in the door. Five minutes later, the seven of us—Forest included—were out on the runway and walking up a set of movable wooden stairs onto our plane. There are two seats up front, six for the passengers, and baggage is thrown in the back a few feet behind the last row. Everyone gets a window seat, and there are even dim overhead lights if you would like to do a little reading on your short jaunt to the island. Luxury in the puddle jumper.
A few minutes later, we were off flying over Lake Huron. The wind tossed the plane around like a seagull on a breezy beach. We wobbled to the left and the right, bouncing up and down. At first it seemed troubling. But Forest wasn’t concerned. It’s business as usual. He was just going through the drive-thru.
After the initial shock and realization that we were flying in what feels like a tin can, it was really very fun. In a small plane, you know in a more intimate way that you are in the air.
The view from above is northern sublime. The cobalt blue water of the straits. Craggy chunks of ice floating along the waves. In the distance, a long patch of ice stretches from Bois Blanc Island over to the shore of the Lower Peninsula. The Mackinac Bridge dividing Lake Michigan and Lake Huron faded behind us. We came around the south end of the island and can see snow-covered streets downtown looking down through our little windows. The Grand Hotel. Shut up and still. Sleeping.
Turning north, we flew along the wooded coast, where icy white trim runs up against a huddle of thick trees. The majority of the island is covered in woods. Dark green, brown, and black. Few realize this if they stay downtown and only see the island from sea level, but it’s clear from above.
The airport is smack in the middle of Mackinac Island. The runway is a bright white, snow-covered patch screaming in the middle of a sea of trees. We come in from the west, touchdown gently, and are off the plane a few minutes later.
The flight takes only five minutes. It’s funny to see a departure and arrival time five minutes apart on a reservation. It’s nice to get to the island so efficiently. But truthfully, I could have spent an hour up there. It’s too beautiful, and it passed too soon.
Off the plane and into the bitter wind. Dusty snow swirls on the runway. The airport is small and quaint, as you would expect on an island with essentially no cars and a winter population of 500. In front, a few snowmobiles were parked near the entrance. Waiting under the overhang was the horse taxi that took us to town.
As we loaded our bags onto the back of the carriage, a snowmobile revved its engine and sped away from the airport, heading down the snowy road, disappearing into the woods. The engine buzzing, fading into the distance. One of the island’s hearty winter residents heading off to another quiet corner of the island.
O.W. Root is a writer based in Northern Michigan, with a focus on nature, food, style, and culture. Follow him on X @NecktieSalvage.
