Beaver Island: a journey into the strange unknown

We weren't lured to Beaver Island because of our lesbianism, despite the sexual innuendoes by friends. I will concede that it could be a novel motivation to explore the world. On the list would be Arse in Indonesia and Cockburn Island in Ontario, but I digress.

My girlfriend and I found out about the island anchored in Lake Michigan from one of its natives on the Camino. His name was Sean, a Caucasian doppelganger for Lionel Richie. He shared tales about an idyllic Americana unspoiled by progress. We decided to find out for ourselves. Our experience was not halcyon; it was instead a trip inside David Lynch's Twin Peaks.

The twin engine Piper Aztec hovered over the 21km (13 miles)-long island of roughly 650 people. Swathes of dense woodland stood encircled by sandy shores. It was late October and the cobalt water had a growing chill, the wind ripped golden leaves asunder. Fiona sat beside the pilot; she turned back to me and gave an euphoric thumbs up. I noted the mainland fading and remembered that I couldn’t swim.

By day four Fiona had evolved from a liberal urbanite to a woman alternating between death tools. The descent began with a chainsaw. I watched as she sliced a tree, then axed the wood with uncharacteristic vigour. She finished her transformation by firing a revolver at tin cans to local applause.

After the gun-show I went for a walk. The island felt claustrophobic, lonely and secretive. I happened upon a lighthouse and leaned against it, a visiting fisherman joined me. Upon hearing my accent he shared some island history.

"It's known as America's Emerald Isle due to its strong historical ties to Ireland. "

“No way!”

"It's true! During the 18th century loads of emigrants from Co Donegal settled here."

“Some journey.”

“Sure was.”

I checked my watch.

“Going somewhere?”

‘A Halloween party.’

He laughed. ‘Stay safe missy.”

We waved at each other as he sailed away.

*****

“Lighten up,” Fiona said as we drank beer in the only pub while wearing witches outfits.

“There’s something unsettling about here.”

“You’re acting paranoid,” she said as Frankenstein bought us a round.

It was the small skulls nailed to the outside of the wooden cabin that yanked her into my reality.

“Where are we?”

“Last night you told the locals you wanted to pet a fox so here we are.”

“I wasn’t serious.”

They led us into a work shed. Fox fur beer koozies, pelts and gloves dangled above us.

“Clarice,” I whispered.

“Stop!”

Outside the animal hide shrine we watched 50 caged foxes quiver as they awaited their fate. The bleak grey sky felt their misery. Tears welled in Fiona’s eyes, our guides uaware. The tour ended with an introduction to a fox in a tiny wheelchair. “He’s got cerebral palsy, so we won’t kill him. He’s our pet,” they smiled. I looked at the miniature wheels roll him in circles, then squeezed Fiona’s hand.

It was now time to escape. We left that day by ferry.

Entries to The Irish Times Travel Writer competition, in association with Travel Department, are now closed. The winning writer will be annoucned on October 29th. See irishtimes.com/travelwriter