Winter Carriage Tour Of Mackinac Island: A Snowy Sleep Story

Tonight's sleep story will take you on a winter tour inspired by the lovely Mackinac Island in Michigan.

You will travel on a snowmobile across an ice bridge and take a horse-drawn carriage to the East Bluff to see the Victorian cottages.

Then you will be magically transported to an old lighthouse.

Finally you will continue your carriage ride down to Main Street where you will warm up as you enjoy dinner and a treat and finally hunker down at a historic inn for a night of blissful sleep by the fire.

Welcome to the Whispering Willow.

I'm Diana and I will be your guide.

Take a deep breath and settle into your bed.

Close your eyes and put one hand on your stomach and the other just beneath your heart,

Noticing how the warmth of your hands on your body soothes and calms.

Focus your attention on the weight of your body as you sink down,

Feeling the weight of your head on your pillow,

Feeling the strength and softness of the bed that supports you.

Know that you are safe in this place.

There is nothing you need to do but relax and drift as my voice carries you on a wintry evening adventure.

Remember that you deserve this time because you've made it through another day.

I am here to ensure you enjoy the final moments of your day as you drift into the blissful space between wakefulness and sleep.

Simply burrow down into your bed and close your eyes,

Allowing my voice to guide you through this winter sleep story.

Be intentional about your breathing for a moment.

Take a slow deep breath,

Letting the air fill your lungs completely,

And then exhaling any tension,

Any tightness,

Any thought that doesn't belong with a long,

Audible exhale.

Do this three more times,

Inhaling and exhaling in a deep,

Steady rhythm.

You may sigh or yawn as you exhale to tell your body it is okay to let go and relax.

When you are finished,

Allow your breathing to settle into a natural rhythm,

Focusing then on your breath and leaving everything else at the side of your bed or outside your bedroom door.

Concerns about today or thoughts about tomorrow.

Knowing anything that requires your attention tomorrow will be there when you wake.

What's important right now is this moment.

This time for relaxation and imagination.

This time for you to reset.

It's time for the story to begin.

Mackinac Island is located at the Straits of Mackinac where Lake Michigan and Lake Huron meet.

Sitting in Lake Huron,

The island lies between the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan.

In the depths of winter,

When the lake is nearly frozen,

The ferry that typically runs from Mackinac City to Mackinac Island cannot make it through the pack ice,

So the island is essentially cut off to casual tourism in the winter,

Giving the island a deeply quiet,

Almost storybook atmosphere this time of year.

Some winters,

When the conditions are perfect,

An ice bridge forms between the mainland and Mackinac Island,

Providing a temporary winter route for visitors.

This is the route you find yourself on tonight.

As you take your next breath,

You notice a cold,

Slightly metallic bite to the air,

And as you open your eyes,

The wind bites at your cheeks.

You take inventory of your setting and notice you are riding on a snowmobile across a portion of the lake that is deeply frozen enough to hold your weight safely.

Your driver sits in front of you and you ride behind,

Holding onto the handles of the backrest with your thickly gloved hands as you travel across this ice bridge.

You are wearing a heavy parka in your favorite color,

With fur lining the hood that fits securely around your head.

You have a snowsuit beneath that keeps your chest and legs completely warm and protected from the wind,

And your fur lined boots keep your feet warm and dry.

The snowmobile hums steadily beneath you,

Leaving a trail of powdery snow in your wake.

The vast expanse of the Straits of Mackinac stretches on either side,

A mix of glimmering ice sheets and shifting open water,

Groaning and cracking softly with the cold and bitter breeze.

Behind you in the far distance,

You see Mackinac Bridge.

It stretches across the icy straits,

Its steel towers rising like sentinels above the shimmering water.

Ahead of you,

The island slowly rises,

Its limestone bluffs dusted with snow.

You see the silhouette of Fort Mackinac with its stone walls and watchtowers perched stoically on the high ground in the distance.

This historic fort was built by the British during the American Revolutionary War and was an active military post for over 100 years,

Protecting this key shipping route through the Great Lakes.

Today,

It serves as a living history museum.

Closer to the shore,

The Victorian buildings of downtown peek through a shimmer of frost,

Their rooftops glinting in the remaining light of the afternoon winter sun.

Beneath the snowmobile,

The ice is solid but even.

Beneath the snowmobile,

The ice is solid but uneven,

With plates of frozen water jostling gently,

Reminding you of the power of the water that lies beneath you.

The air smells crisp and clean,

Carrying faint notes of pine and the distant salty tang of Lake Huron as you near the shore.

You hear the sound of horses' hooves and carriage bells drifting faintly from the quiet streets of the island,

Welcoming you to a place that feels frozen in time,

Both stark and magical.

Though it is late afternoon,

The cloud cover makes it dark enough that the lights that line the harbor fence glow brightly.

Your driver eases the throttle and the snowmobile slows to a stop at the edge of the North Shore Harbor.

Your driver explains that a horse-drawn carriage is waiting for you just down the street on the right.

You thank him for the ride and he nods quietly.

You walk up the bank of the harbor to Main Street and see a horse-drawn carriage waiting for you,

Just as your driver promised.

Its wooden wheels sit firmly in the snowy path at the side of the road.

You climb aboard,

Settling into the warm red and green plaid blankets provided,

And the horses begin their steady clip-clop around the main road.

You notice a home on your left that catches your eye.

It has a rich cedar siding that both complements and contrasts with the historic Victorian homes nearby,

Giving it a warm natural texture against the backdrop of Lake Huron.

You ask your driver what it is and he tells you it is called Boardwalk Cottage.

Built in the 1980s by a family of hotel owners,

It is regarded as one of the island's finest residences.

It has a small picket fence along the front with a gate that is covered by an arbor.

At first,

It appears to be a quiet retreat near the water with snow-covered grounds that make it look like a storybook cottage by the lake.

But your driver tells you that the quaint entrance belies the home's size and character.

At its back,

The home boasts large windows and outdoor spaces that offer awe-inspiring water views.

Inside the home is spacious and modern with the feel of a refined seaside retreat.

There are two large patios for outdoor cooking and relaxation just steps from the lapping shoreline.

Your driver states that in the springtime,

The now-gnarled and bare branches on the arbor are covered with the lilacs for which Mackinac Island is famous.

As your carriage ride continues,

The streets wind gently uphill,

Flanked by bare winter trees,

Their branches etched against the sky,

And the occasional Victorian storefront peeking through a dusting of snow.

You near the East Bluff and the carriage slows as a line of Victorian homes come into view.

Painted in cheerful winter colors,

Bright yellow,

Robin's egg blue,

And soft pastels,

They sit perched along the slope,

Elegant and timeless,

Against the backdrop of the icy water below.

Snow dusts their rooftops and railings,

Highlighting the ornate woodwork and steep gables.

You ask the driver to stop.

He pulls the carriage to the side and stops next to a lamp post.

You remove your blankets,

Placing them back on the seat,

And step off the carriage onto the snow-covered path.

As you walk toward the wooden fence at the edge of the bluff,

You hear the snow crunch beneath your feet.

You look out over the straits.

From this vantage point,

The world seems to pause.

The round island lighthouse gleams faintly in the distance off the eastern shore,

Surrounded by the icy straits of Mackinac.

It is barely visible in the thick blowing snow.

Built in 1895,

The lighthouse was deactivated in 1947 and remained dark until it was preserved in 1996 and fitted with a solar light.

The lighthouse's red brick cylindrical tower rises from rugged limestone outcroppings.

Connected to the tower is a white wooden two-story building.

The bottom floor would have served as a utility and storage space,

Housing coal or oil for the light,

Tools the keeper would have needed,

And the foghorn mechanism.

The second floor would have been the main living quarters for the keeper and their family.

The glow of the light shining in the distance is steady,

Not rotating,

Providing a reliable reference point for mariners navigating the dangerous straits.

As you gaze at the unfaltering light,

Your world seems to shift and you find yourself in the lighthouse's main living quarters as it would have been over 100 years ago.

The atmosphere of the keeper's quarters is cozy but sparse.

You see a small stove for heat,

A table,

Four chairs,

And a small kitchen.

On the right is a bathroom with a small sink and clawfoot tub,

And on the left you see two small bedrooms,

One with a double bed and one with two twin beds.

Each bedroom contains one chest of drawers.

All the furniture is made of heavy oak and the cupboards and shelves are made of pine,

Holding neatly stacked dishes and books.

Though the furnishings are modest,

The colors of the fabrics and rugs are rich tones of red and blue,

Providing a feeling of cozy simplicity.

Several tallow candles burn around the main living space and on the table you see an oil lantern.

In the back of the room you see a spiral staircase leading up from the living quarters to the lantern room.

This layout makes the quarters feel connected to the purpose of the lighthouse,

Though as you climb to the top of the lighthouse you feel the slight isolation of the lantern room as it stands high above the island and the water.

You gaze out through the lighthouse windows and can see for many miles in any direction,

But you also feel the cold draft sneaking through the cracks of the tower,

Reminders that the outside world is both beautiful and unforgiving.

The steady glow of the light casts long shadows along the walls and you realize that each evening someone had to tend this beam,

Ensuring it never faltered,

For the ships navigating the icy straits depended entirely on this light for safety.

Breathing deeply you smell oil,

Wood,

And the crisp scent of lake air as you take in the magnitude of the keepers constant watchfulness and duty,

Holding lives in their hands.

Yet there is something comforting and inspiring about it.

The keepers unwavering vigilance reminds you that even one steady consistent effort can guide others safely through uncertainty.

Just as the light cuts through the ice,

Darkness,

And storm,

Your own small acts,

Being present,

Showing compassion and caring,

Maintaining a routine,

Can make a difference for those around you.

You feel a sense of hopefulness wash over you.

When you open your eyes you are standing back on the east bank looking at the lighthouse from a distance.

The howl of wind over the frozen water and the distant groan of shifting ice jars you back to your present reality and you walk back over to the carriage and climb in,

Covering yourself in the thick cozy blankets as the driver begins to urge the carriage onward.

As the carriage curves toward Main Street's downtown area you pass historic inns and small shops,

Their windows fogged and warm with the glow of indoor fires.

The white steeple of St.

Ann's Church rises gracefully above the village rooftops,

A beacon of peace and calm.

The harbor gradually comes into view with boats resting on ice or floating gently in open patches and the familiar North Shore streets stretching out to meet the water.

You breathe in the sharp clean air carrying subtle hints of pine and the distant smoke of hearth fires and appreciate the peaceful winter scene unfolding around you.

A mixture of frozen water,

Historic architecture,

And timeless stillness.

The sun has disappeared and the island is now covered in winter darkness.

The driver pulls the carriage up next to the historic Mackinac Island Inn which stands proudly along Main Street.

This stately building of stone and weathered wood is painted in soft muted tones that have mellowed with age.

As you step out of the carriage you see tall windows framed by dark shutters and the faint warm glow of lamps inside.

A wooden sign creaks gently in the winter wind.

Your driver tells you your bags are already in your room and you climb the stone steps of the inn holding on to the brass handrail leading to the front door.

Inside the inn feels cozy and welcoming.

Just off to the left of the lobby you see a large parlor.

Plush rugs cover wooden floors and leather chairs and small tables invite visitors to pause.

Unable to resist you step inside the parlor.

As you do the air changes and the coolness of the gives way to a gentle steady warmth the kind that doesn't rush toward you but waits patiently until you notice it.

A large fire burns within the stone fireplace and hearth the source of that gentle warmth you feel in the air and shelves lined with books and historic knickknacks hint at the building's venerable past.

The quiet hum of life,

Soft footsteps,

The murmur of conversation,

The occasional tinkle of a bell creates a calm rhythm that feels timeless.

The room is softly lit.

Lamp light seems to rest in the corners rather than filling the space entirely.

Nothing here asks for attention.

Everything seems content to simply be where it is encouraging you to do the same.

There is an overstuffed chair already turned toward the fire and it beckons you.

Its cushions deep and familiar as though it has held many evenings like this before.

As you sit your body settles all at once the chair supporting you fully as your weight sinks down.

The warmth from the fireplace reaches for you gradually spreading from the hearth to your legs,

Your chest,

Your hands,

And finally your face.

The fire crackles softly now and then.

A gentle sound followed by stillness,

Then another quiet crackle,

Then stillness again.

You focus on those still spaces between the noise,

Understanding the strength and value that lies within them.

You notice how the flames rise and fall without pattern,

How the light shifts slightly across the walls,

How shadows move and then rest as though they are dancers at a grand ball.

Your hands rest easily,

Your shoulders soften,

Your jaw loosens.

Even the muscles of your face seem to remember how to let go.

Time feels different here.

There is no schedule in the parlor,

No reason to measure the minutes.

The fire doesn't hurry and neither do you.

If a thought passes through,

You let it drift by like a spark lifting briefly from the embers,

Appearing,

Glowing softly,

And then fading on its own.

You rest your head on the back of the chair.

The room remains quiet.

The walls are thick and the cold night stays outside.

Somewhere in the distance,

You hear the inn settling gently with the quiet creak of wood and the hush of warmth moving through old rooms.

Sounds that don't interrupt rest,

But support it just as you are supported here,

Held by the chair,

By the fire,

By the simple fact that nothing is required of you.

You can stay as long as you like.

The fire will continue to glow whether you watch it or not.

The parlor will remain warm and still.

For now,

You rest here by the fire,

Letting the evening settle completely in its own quiet way.

The scent of burning firewood and delicious food wafts through the air,

Causing your stomach to grumble.

The kind woman at the front desk seems to read your mind.

You raise your head and turn to her as she walks over,

Hands you a key,

And says,

I've taken your supper to your room.

It's just up the stairs to the left.

You walk up the large staircase,

Which rises gracefully from the lobby with polished wooden steps and a handrail of dark,

Solid wood.

The walls along the stairwell have framed vintage photographs,

Historic maps,

And old postcards of guests from Mackinac Island's past.

The hallway walls are lined with gentle wall sconces made of brass.

You find your room and step inside.

Warmth immediately envelops you.

The fireplace crackles softly,

Amber light dancing across the walls and casting gentle shadows on the polished wood floors.

Beside the hearth sits a deep overstuffed armchair.

Its cushions are made of rich red velvet,

Inviting you to sink in and relax.

You notice an envelope and meal on the nearby table.

You open the envelope and the unsigned note simply says,

Welcome to Mackinac Island.

You sit down,

Uncover the meal,

And immediately smell the rich aroma of tender meat,

Savory broth,

And slow-cooked root vegetables mingling with the sweet scent of freshly baked bread ready for dipping.

Beside the stew sits a cup of hot spiced tea with gentle notes of cinnamon and clove that perfectly complement the hearty meal.

On another small plate,

You notice a square of dark,

Creamy fudge wrapped in a package labeled Sea Salt and Caramel,

Mackinac Island Fudge Company,

And you recall passing this storefront on Main Street earlier that day.

After you finish your meal,

You break open the package and place a piece of the fudge in your mouth,

Its chocolatey decadence melting slowly on your tongue,

A perfect treat to have with the spiced tea.

Each bite,

Each sip warms you from the inside out with comfort,

Warmth,

And a feeling of indulgence in the island's cozy charms and specialties.

All of this gives you the strongest sense of belonging.

To one side of the room,

A door opens onto the private bathroom where a generous soaking tub gleams under soft candlelight.

The tub is perfect for a long,

Warm bath to melt away the cold from the winter's day,

And nearby shelves hold plush towels and thoughtfully arranged bath amenities.

You strip off your clothing and slip into the hot bath,

Adding a touch of lilac-scented bath oil to the water as you sink deeply into its warmth and reflect on all of the experiences of your day,

The snowmobile ride,

The carriage ride,

The lighthouse,

The cottage,

And the time spent in the parlor downstairs.

After your bath,

You towel off and lather your body with lilac-scented lotion before you pull on your coziest bedtime attire in a color that makes you feel warm and loved.

You step into the bedroom and notice a grand four-poster mahogany bed standing in the middle of the room,

Its dark wooden frame rising elegantly toward the ceiling.

Rich bedding,

Plush quilts,

Silky sheets,

And layers of warm blankets in shades of cream and gold promise a night of cozy comfort.

The pillows layered on the top of the bed are in shades of red and gold that complement the fabric of the chair,

The rug,

And the curtains in the room.

Your belly full,

Your body clean and soothed,

And your mind filled with warmth,

You pull back the covers and slip into the bed,

Allowing your body to sink into the depths of the mattress and pillows,

Feeling the comforting weight of the blankets on top of you.

As you lie in bed,

You notice the warmth and crackle of the fire flickering on one side of you.

On your other side,

You can look out the window and see the reflection of the moon on the snowy hill behind the inn,

Tall ice-covered trees in the distance.

The wind blows fiercely outside now,

Sending the large snowflakes flying sideways at times.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath,

Feeling gratitude for the adventures you experienced today,

Feeling completely contented happy and peaceful,

Basking in this moment,

This place,

These feelings.

Your mind calms,

And a wonderful exhaustion washes over you,

The feeling of a busy day well spent,

And you drift down deeper and deeper,

Lower and lower,

Leaving the world behind,

And allowing this magical snow-blanketed moment to wash over you,

Transporting you gently from the waking world into the world of blissful,

Peaceful sleep.