During Prohibition, the frozen Detroit River became America’s busiest illegal drive-thru. Clever Michiganders turned Henry Ford’s affordable Model T into the original party wagon, using the river to smuggle booze from Canada.

Known as “The Funnel,” the river funneled an estimated 75% of the country’s illegal alcohol. At midnight, you might have seen Model T Fords creeping across the ice, headlights dimmed, loaded with liquor.

The combination of Detroit’s auto industry, Canada’s legal distilleries, and Michigan’s thick winter ice made for a bootlegger’s perfect storm. Sunken Model Ts still rest beneath the ice, rusty relics of Michigan’s most notorious rush hour.

Only in Michigan do you drive south to reach Canada. That’s right—Detroit’s geographic quirk means heading south across the river to Windsor.

Back when lumber was Michigan’s liquid gold, tiny Manistee pulled off something remarkable – it became one of the wealthiest cities in America, claiming more millionaires per capita than almost anywhere else in the country.

Forty sawmills churned away day and night, turning the endless forests into endless fortunes. And what do you do when you suddenly have more money than you know what to do with? You build the kind of house that makes your neighbors’ jaws drop. 

Enter Millionaire’s Row, where Manistee’s lumber barons tried to outdo each other with increasingly elaborate Victorian mansions.

Take the Charles Rietz mansion – this wasn’t just a house, it was a 26-room flex complete with a ballroom (for all those totally necessary Tuesday night balls), a billiard room (because what else do you do with all that spare time?), and – the height of 1800s luxury – four indoor bathrooms.

But Manistee’s lumber barons weren’t just building fancy houses – they were building a proper city. While other lumber towns were still basically muddy camps with delusions of grandeur, Manistee had street lights, parks, proper sewers, and its own fire department.

Today, Manistee’s entire downtown is on the National Register of Historic Places.

While some of the grandest mansions, like the Rietz place, are long gone, enough architectural treasures remain to give us a glimpse of when this little Michigan port town showed the world how to get rich quick and build beautiful while doing it.

Michigan is famously known as the Wolverine State, but finding an actual wolverine here has been about as likely as a Lions Super Bowl win.

The nickname traces back to 1835 during the heated Toledo War between Michigan and Ohio (yes, over that Toledo). Legend has it, Ohioans started calling Michiganders “wolverines,” not as a compliment, but to insult us as stubborn and aggressive, much like the ornery critter.

Instead of taking offense, Michigan ran with it.

The University of Michigan doubled down, making the wolverine their mascot. Every fall Saturday, thousands of fans cheer for an animal most Michiganders have never seen.

Then, in 2004, the impossible happened: someone spotted a real, live wolverine in Michigan. It roamed the thumb area until 2010 and became a local legend.

In classic Michigan style, we embraced it like we’d known it was coming all along—because, hey, we’re the Wolverine State.

Nobody really knows just what flavor it is, but Superman Ice Cream is a Michigan-exclusive treat.

With its vibrant tri-color blend of blue, red, and yellow, it mirrors the superhero’s classic costume.

Whatever it tastes like, it’s definitely a scoop of our Michigan. (And blue moon? Just what is that?!)

Back in 1995, a group of fifth-graders in Niles discovered something surprising: Michigan didn’t have a state reptile. For most kids, this would’ve been a “neat” moment before going back to watching Saved by the Bell. But these were Michigan kids.

They decided the painted turtle—the colorful little guy you’ve probably seen sunbathing on logs—deserved the honor.

Instead of just writing a report, they went all-in, Schoolhouse Rock-style. They contacted their state representatives, learned how laws are made, and pushed their turtle agenda all the way to Lansing.

And they won. Public Act 281 of 1995 made the painted turtle Michigan’s official state reptile. Not bad for kids who couldn’t even drive yet.

The choice was more than symbolic. According to Native American legend, a turtle named Makinauk played a big role in creating Mackinac Island.

It’s a fitting tribute to a reptile that’s as much a part of Michigan’s story as the Great Lakes themselves.

If you’ve spent any time in Michigan, chances are you’ve heard of Euchre—or better yet, been dragged into a game.

This fast-paced card game is so ingrained in Midwestern culture that enthusiasts call the region the Euchre Belt, spanning states like Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky, and Pennsylvania.

The game’s roots trace back to German immigrants who brought it to the Midwest, but it was Michigan’s factory workers who made Euchre their own.

Picture it: a lunch break at the auto plant, a half-built Ford as your table, and a deck of 24 cards. With its quick pace and simple scoring, Euchre was the perfect way to pass 30 minutes.

It’s been called the “queen of card games” since the late 1800s and was even popular during the Civil War, with soldiers from both sides playing together during lulls in fighting.

Today, Euchre remains a Michigan staple, offering a rare break from screen time. It’s a game of partnerships, subtle signals, and knowing when to “go alone”—much like life in Michigan itself.

Along the Lake Michigan shore near Saugatuck, you might have walked right over a ghost town without knowing it.

Back in 1836, Singapore was poised to be the next Chicago. With a prime harbor, a booming lumber industry, and even its own bank, the town seemed unstoppable.

But the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, which created a demand for Singapore’s lumber to rebuild the Windy City, turned out to be the town’s undoing. The forests were cleared, and with no trees to anchor the dunes, the sands began their slow, relentless march.

The dunes crept forward about 10 feet every year, burying homes and businesses alike. Some residents even had to climb out of second-story windows when their front doors were swallowed up. By 1875, the town was completely abandoned.

Today, archaeologists believe as many as 40 buildings are buried beneath the sands, with only a modest marker left to remind visitors of Singapore’s ghostly past.

The Michigan Dogman has haunted imaginations for over a century. This mythical creature, described as a seven-foot-tall, bipedal canine with a dog’s head, human-like torso, and piercing blue or amber eyes, is said to let out a chilling howl resembling a human scream.

The first reported sighting was in 1887, when lumberjacks in Wexford County spotted the beast. Most sightings occur in Michigan’s northwestern Lower Peninsula and seem to follow a ten-year cycle, with reports spiking in years ending in 7.

Urban legend or cryptid? You decide.

Michigan eats more potato chips per person than any other state and produces about a quarter of the nation’s supply. Call it our salty side.

The J.W. Westcott II is the only boat in the world with its own ZIP code (48222, in case you’re feeling inspired to send a postcard) and probably the only postal service where a life jacket is part of the uniform. 

Today’s J.W. Westcott II is a 45-foot vessel that’s been faithfully delivering mail to Great Lakes freighters since 1949.

The delivery method is as unique as the service itself: they call it “mail in the pail.” The boat pulls alongside a massive freighter—both vessels still moving—and a bucket full of letters, packages, or even DoorDash orders is hoisted up to the ship.

The service runs 24/7 during the shipping season because the mail never sleeps, and neither do Great Lakes freighters.

As of 2024, the J.W. Westcott II is celebrating 150 years of connecting people, one bucket at a time—a uniquely Michigan job that has stood the test of time.

You know you’re in Michigan when “going to Hell and back” is literally just a day trip. But here’s the kicker – you can actually drive from Hell to Paradise in a single day. Talk about the ultimate Pure Michigan experience.

Let’s start in Hell, because why not?

This kitschy little town in southeast Michigan leans all the way into its devilish name. With just three buildings, you can cram in plenty of unique experiences.

Become Mayor of Hell for a day (serious résumé material), get married in the quirky Chapel of Love, or cool off with a cone from the Creamatory at Screams.

Don’t forget to send a postcard from Hell—because, really, how could you not?

Then it’s time to hit the road for Paradise.

The drive is a 300-mile adventure that takes you through some of the most scenic parts of Michigan, crossing lakes, forests, and the famous Mackinac Bridge into the Upper Peninsula.

The straight-through drive takes about 6-7 hours, but the real fun is in the journey. Stop along the way, explore the sights, and soak up the magic as you make your way from Hell to Paradise.

Back in 1850, Michigan had a king. No, really. James Jesse Strang, a former lawyer and self-proclaimed Mormon leader, threw himself a full-on coronation on Beaver Island, complete with a crown reportedly fashioned from an old tin can.

Strang’s rise to power began after the death of Mormon founder Joseph Smith, when he convinced a group of followers that he was Smith’s rightful successor. By 1848, he’d led them to Beaver Island, where he essentially declared himself ruler and transformed the remote island into a bustling community.

Under Strang’s reign, Beaver Island thrived. His followers established the first newspaper north of Grand Rapids, built a sawmill, and turned the island into a major pit stop on the Great Lakes.

Strang even managed to get himself elected to the Michigan legislature. Twice.

But his “my island, my rules” approach didn’t sit well with non-Mormon settlers, especially when it came to disputes over tithes and fishing rights.

Tensions reached a boiling point in 1856 when two disgruntled followers shot Strang. He died shortly after, and his kingdom crumbled.

Following his death, non-Mormon neighbors took matters into their own hands, invading the island and forcibly expelling Strang’s followers.

And just like that, Michigan’s experiment with monarchy was over.

Today, Beaver Island is a peaceful and beautiful spot in Lake Michigan. The only thing royal about it now is the view, but its quirky history lives on as one of Michigan’s strangest stories.

Colon, Michigan, is home to an annual magic convention and more magician graves than anywhere else. Even the streets are magic-themed.