Migraines and Misadventure in Michigan

The life of a travel writer is rarely glamorous, but some days are worse than others

BY AARON HELMAN // POSTED OCTOBER 9, 2025

When my wife gets a migraine, it comes on suddenly, but not without warning. It starts with an aura of light. After that, violent and twinkling stars start flashing in her periphery. The stars are a useful warning sign because as we ride our bikes somewhere through the nowhere parts of Michigan, they tell us that we've got about fifteen minutes before my wife will be unconscious.

The next fifteen minutes will go by very quickly, so we have to hurry to find a safe place. We find a bench. The bench will have to do.

The map says we're a mile-and-a-half outside of Port Austin, and so we push to make it to town before the inevitable happens. We make it. We find a bench. Ashley collapses into it and swallows down handfuls of emergency meds that she carries with her at all times. The medicine will make her nauseous before it makes her sleepy. She does not cry. Her eyes are closed behind her sunglasses. The tiniest amount of light has become blinding. Her head is pounding, jackhammers beating against her skull from the inside. There is nothing I can do. I can only watch as she clutches her arms around her ears and waits to pass out.

And then the parade starts.

Not forty feet from our bench, the police motorcycles blare their sirens as if in competition with the firefighters wailing their emergency cries right behind them. A round of classic cars rev roaring engines, and a marching band plays a patriotic tune.

It's the Fourth of July in Port Austin, Michigan; and it's hard to imagine a worse time or place to land with a migraine.

A float hauls a Jimmy Buffet cover band down the parade route, and they play Margaritaville twice. The Delorean from Back to the Future is here for some reason, and it is loud as hell. Kids on trucks throw hard candy at us and spray Super Soakers intermittently. There is a cannon and the cannon goes boom. Our hotel is 30 miles away, and it's on the other side of this parade.

I am making phone calls, frantic and trying not to be. There is nowhere in this town to rent a car or get an Uber. There is nowhere to stay, not tonight anyway. Port Austin doesn't sell out very often, but it does on the Fourth of July. Finally I track down a tow truck driver who can give us a lift, but there's just one problem: His truck is hauling an entire Jimmy Buffet cover band through a parade, and he won't be able to get to us for several hours.

“That sounds about right.”

“Sorry bud, any other day, I'd be right there.”

“Do they play anything else besides Margaritaville?”

“They do not.”

We never did see Port Austin, didn't get to gaze upon its famous Turnip Rock. We didn't see Port Hope, either. We saw the inside of a camper van, driven by a man in a mood to give a free ride to some strangers. Given the circumstances, the view was as wonderful as any vista we'd seen of the lake during the previous two weeks atop our bikes. Thirty miles in the camper van disappeared much quicker than they would have on a bicycle.

Just like that, we were in the town of Harbor Beach, standing in the parking lot at our motel. Our motel was unimpressive, and it was the best motel I had ever seen. Even a cramped shower goes a long way at the end of a day like that one. There's not a lot in the way of amenities in Harbor Beach, and whatever there might have been was closed on account of the holiday.

We wandered over to the Dollar General, tired legs taking measured steps, Ashley squinting through her sunglasses as we perused the aisles and chose TV dinners, Gatorades, bean dip, and ice cream sandwiches for dinner. We microwaved our meal and ate in our room with the lights off. Everything tasted like salt and mush, and the processed cheese burned the roof of my mouth. The air conditioner in the window was failing to keep the room cool. By 7:00 we were tucked into bed, somehow asleep two hours before the fireworks began, and if they boomed in the sky, they did not wake us.

The next day arrived in the morning, just like it always does.

Aaron Helman is an author, historian and adventurer from South Bend. You may have seen him around South Bend drinking coffee. Learn more about his work or check out his books at aaronhelman.com.