One glorious summer day in late July, the SS Wilfred Sykes was navigating the calm waters of northern Lake Michigan, drawing close to Wisconsin’s stunning Door County peninsula. With a commanding horn blast, it gracefully maneuvered through a narrow canal, soon gliding effortlessly past the lifted bridges and charming marinas of Sturgeon Bay.
Then, a familiar tune drifted across the water from a nearby pleasure boat. It was the unmistakable sound of a mournful guitar, a steady rhythm, and a powerful baritone voice recounting the legendary story: a grand vessel laden with iron ore, its “well seasoned” captain, the brutal “gales of November,” and the tragic loss of 29 souls to Lake Superior’s icy embrace.
Just as New England cherishes “Moby-Dick” and the Mississippi holds Mark Twain’s tales, the Great Lakes claim “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” This 1976 folk-rock classic by Gordon Lightfoot became an unexpected hit, securing its place in popular culture far beyond the radio, appearing on everything from bumper stickers and beer labels to Lego sets and internet memes.
Despite the song’s evocative imagery of Chippewa legend, many mistakenly believe it recounts a 19th-century or even fictional shipwreck. Yet, the tragedy of the Edmund Fitzgerald is a very real, and relatively recent, event. On November 10, 1975, this immense and modern freighter mysteriously disappeared during a sudden, violent storm on Lake Superior, leaving no trace.
Known affectionately as “the Fitz,” the ship has become a symbol of regional heritage and a draw for tourism across the Great Lakes. The upcoming 50th anniversary of its sinking will be honored at various sites, marking its place as a “Midwest Titanic” – the biggest vessel among over 6,000 ships lost to these vast inland seas throughout history.
However, this disaster remains shrouded in mystery: there were no survivors, and no clear cause like an iceberg. This enduring enigma has fueled countless books, articles, documentaries, and fervent online discussions, all seeking to uncover the precise reasons behind the celebrated steamer’s demise.
My journey aboard the Sykes was shared with John U. Bacon, author of the recently published “The Gales of November: The Untold Story of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” His book, meticulously crafted from numerous interviews and archival discoveries, delves into various theories surrounding the wreck. Notably, Bacon intentionally steers clear of a “whodunit” style, focusing instead on a broader narrative.
“My aim was not just to unravel the mystery of what happened, but more importantly, to understand the 29 individuals on board,” he explained. “I sought to explore their lives, their stories, and restore their full humanity, rather than merely portraying them as victims.”
For Bacon, an experienced journalist from Ann Arbor, Michigan, the deeper “untold story” also encompasses the majestic beauty, inherent dangers, and immense scale of the Great Lakes themselves.
During the era of the Fitzgerald, over 300 Great Lakes freighters plied these waters. Today, that number has dwindled to less than half. The Sykes, one of these remaining vessels, hosted me for a week as I journeyed across nearly 1,000 miles and three lakes, exploring how modern Great Lakes shipping contrasts with the enduring legend of its most famous shipwreck.
Celebrating its 75th year, the Sykes stands as one of merely a handful of operational steam-powered lake freighters left. To enthusiasts of the Edmund Fitzgerald, it’s a “V.I.B.”—a Very Important Boat—as author Bacon affectionately dubs it.
“It’s an honor to navigate a vessel like this,” remarked Billy Geoffroy, the boatswain and leader of the deck crew. “You can spend all day on the newer, larger freighters, but nothing compares to the experience of an old steamer.”
Exploring Fitz Country
Each year, from spring through early January, the Sykes transports pelletized iron ore from Lake Superior’s mines. During the summer, it shifts to limestone, shuttling between enormous quarries in northern Michigan and the steel mills of the lower lakes.
Our journey began on a Monday morning at Burns Harbor, Indiana. The itinerary: sail north up Lake Michigan, transit the Straits of Mackinac, load cargo at two quarries, then proceed south through Lake Huron—mirroring the Fitz’s ill-fated route—and finally across Lake Erie to Cleveland.
Great Lakes freighters, known for their long, slender design, are engineered to carry maximum cargo while navigating narrow rivers and locks. As we prepared for departure, Bacon stood at the edge of the deck, vividly recounting how 30-foot waves would have relentlessly crashed over the vessel during the catastrophic storm that claimed the Fitz.
As we cruised north on Lake Michigan under clear skies and across calm, cobalt-blue waters, the thought of such peril seemed distant. However, an unplanned stop in Sturgeon Bay offered a unique opportunity: an overnight road trip five hours north to the very western edge of Lake Superior, the departure point of the Fitz’s final, tragic journey.
Duluth, Minnesota, paired with its counterpart Superior, Wisconsin, forms one of the globe’s largest inland ports. Located an astonishing 2,300 miles from the Atlantic Ocean via the St. Lawrence Seaway, it’s the furthest inland port reachable by ocean-faring ships. This is undeniably “Fitz country,” with memorials dotted across parks, eateries, bars, and even the local Best Western, which proudly displays a 10-foot scale model of the ship beside its swimming pool.
At the historic Split Rock Lighthouse, perched on 130-foot cliffs about 50 miles north of Duluth on Lake Superior’s rugged shore, site manager Hayes Scriven guided us. Soon, nearly 2,000 visitors are anticipated here for the annual poignant ceremony of lighting the beacon, commemorating the Fitz.
Scriven estimates that three-quarters of the lighthouse’s yearly visitors are already familiar with the Fitz’s story. “Almost every week, I’ll encounter someone here playing the song on their phone,” he noted. Yet, among the local populace, opinions on the ballad are quite diverse.
“Many around here are quite tired of it,” confided Tom Byrnes, a retired bartender, during our visit to a local bar in Silver Bay, a frequent stop for the Fitz’s crew. “It was popular initially, but its melancholic and unending nature eventually wears thin.”
Byrnes was barely out of high school, tending bar on that fateful November 10, 1975, when a drenched patron rushed in with the chilling news: the Fitz was in distress. He likened the moment to hearing his school principal announce President Kennedy’s assassination. “It was simply one of those days you never forget,” Byrnes reflected.
Bacon, with 13 books to his name, including one detailing a devastating 1917 maritime explosion in Halifax, Nova Scotia that claimed nearly 2,000 lives, devoted almost four years to researching and writing “The Gales of November.” He conducted over 100 interviews, connecting with family members and other individuals linked to the crew who had previously kept their stories private.
His book vividly reconstructs the storm, drawing on cutting-edge research. A computer model, utilizing historical weather data, illustrates how a collision of icy Canadian air and a southwestern storm system generated hurricane-force conditions. Within minutes, the lake’s surface transformed “from calm to ferocious,” as Bacon describes, with waves potentially soaring over 50 feet high.
Though the wreck triggered numerous investigations and legal battles, it was Lightfoot’s song—a surprise number two hit on the Billboard charts—that etched the tragedy deeply into the public’s cultural memory.
Bacon sought out and interviewed the journalist behind the brief Newsweek article that ignited Lightfoot’s inspiration. This article provided many of the song’s iconic lines and rhythmic elements, from the opening tribute to the Chippewa and “the big lake they called Gitche Gumee,” to the “slashing” winds and the 29 tolls of the church bell at Detroit’s Mariners Church.
Additionally, Bacon spoke with two musicians who performed on the track. Remarkably, the song was recorded in a single take—the very first time Lightfoot (who passed away in 2023) had ever played it with a full band.
Bacon found reassurance in discovering Lightfoot’s integrity; the artist cultivated strong bonds with the victims’ families. He famously declined Jimmy Fallon’s request to use the song for a comedy sketch, and in live performances, Lightfoot thoughtfully altered lyrics—such as the line implying the main hatch “caved in”—to avoid endorsing a theory (later disproven) that blamed the crew for improper securing.
“Gord’s deepest desire was for the families to find peace,” recounted Rick Haynes, the band’s bassist, to Bacon.
The shipping company, Oglebay Norton, however, presented a different narrative. Bacon reveals that they initially offered the victims’ families only a final paycheck and a meager $750 for personal belongings. Furthermore, when Bacon attempted to access the company’s archives (which subsequently went bankrupt in 2004), he discovered that all documents pertaining to the Fitz had vanished. “How can that not raise suspicion?” he questioned.
Bacon himself refrains from drawing definitive conclusions about the shipwreck. He echoes the sentiments of Bruce Hudson’s mother, whose 20-year-old son, a deckhand from Cleveland, lies with the rest of the crew 530 feet beneath the lake’s surface: “Thirty people know – 29 men and God. And no one is speaking.”
A Living, Floating Antique
Upon our return to Sturgeon Bay, the Sykes continued its voyage northward on Lake Michigan. We passed serene, forested islands with sandy shores, showing no signs of human settlement except for a few lighthouses. Instead of the biting Canadian winds, a haze of wildfire smoke cast the sun in a surreal, reddish glow.
As dusk settled, we sailed beneath the majestic Mackinac Bridge, a vital link between Michigan’s upper and lower peninsulas and one of the longest suspension bridges in the Western Hemisphere. On the stern deck, a crew member strummed a worn-out boat guitar, while in the pilot house, the sounds of the Butthole Surfers played on satellite radio, creating a unique backdrop.
In the quiet pre-dawn hours, around 2 a.m., we arrived at Drummond Island, close to the Canadian border, ready to load half a cargo of dolomite limestone. As Geoffroy and Second Mate Sean Erhardt prepared to drop anchor, Geoffroy’s stark warning—”Get ready for seven seconds of controlled violence”—was punctuated by the distribution of earplugs.
During the late 1960s, the Fitz earned fame for its “D.J. Captain,” Peter Pulcer, who entertained passengers with baseball scores, Mozart, and captivating stories broadcast over the ship’s loudspeaker while navigating rivers and locks. Though those specific traditions have faded, vessels like the Sykes continue to attract onlookers in busy areas, a testament to their enduring appeal.
“It’s one of the few professions where people genuinely enjoy watching you work,” Erhardt commented with a smile. “You certainly don’t experience that at a fast-food restaurant.”
Tom Wiater, president of Central Marine Logistics—the company operating the Sykes—grew up in Detroit, captivated by maritime lore and keen to avoid the family liquor store business. After completing his studies at the Great Lakes Maritime Academy in Traverse City, Michigan, he began his career on the Sykes as a deckhand.
“While the crew’s faces may change, the spirit, the sounds, and the atmosphere on board remain constant,” Wiater shared.
Wiater is a staunch supporter of these historic steamers and the rich history they embody. From the pilot house, he demonstrated the fascinating blend of archaic and modern navigation equipment: traditional paper charts and the original brass Chadburn—the telegraph system for conveying speed commands to the engine room—coexisting with advanced GPS and electronic charting systems.
The Sykes, he proudly stated, “is a living, breathing antique on the water. Its continued operation is a testament to the unwavering dedication of everyone who works on her.”
The tragic loss of the Fitz, which spurred significant maritime safety reforms, remains the last major shipwreck on the Great Lakes. For contemporary sailors, it serves as a stark reminder of the inherent perils of their profession.
Erhardt reminisced about his maritime academy graduation, where all the cadets joined in singing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” during karaoke. Yet, during our voyage, a passenger who lightheartedly began to sing a line from the song was quickly silenced, a subtle acknowledgement of its solemnity.
Inevitably, conversation shifted to “the blackout”—a chilling incident from last January during one of the season’s final runs. The Sykes had lost all power on Lake Superior, eerily close to the very spot where the Fitz met its fate.
While emergency lights flickered to life, the vessel was left with minimal controls and no heat. A raw cellphone video captured the dramatic scene: the ship pitching violently in massive swells, its deck blanketed in snow, as a crew member’s expletives underscored the gravity of the situation.
Another ship soon arrived, securing itself alongside the Sykes to tow it to a safe cove. What was a terrifying ordeal is now simply another compelling sea story.
“A truly great sea story is one where everyone makes it back alive, but the experience itself was utterly terrifying,” stated Mike Helmer, a mate’s assistant from Mackinac City, Michigan.
Lake Huron’s Unpredictable Embrace
Today, both commercial shipping and shipwreck tourism thrive on the Great Lakes. After loading at Drummond, as we proceeded to another quarry, Wiater highlighted rusted remnants of wrecks jutting from the shallow waters of the DeTour Passage. This area is part of over a dozen diving preserves in Michigan, collectively spanning 2,300 square miles and safeguarding approximately 200 historical shipwrecks.
Our journey continued to Calcite, an immense open-pit quarry near Rogers City, Michigan, spanning over 8,000 acres—so vast it’s observable even from space. Fully loaded, we then set our course for Cleveland, as immortalized in the song. (Though, historically, the Fitz was actually destined for Detroit, a less poetic destination.)
Cruising down Lake Huron, the aroma of massive Saturday night steaks, grilled to perfection on deck, filled the air. Below, in the scorching engine room, where temperatures soared past 100 degrees, Al Oswald, a Navy veteran with a distinctive New Jersey accent, gestured towards a barely perceptible breeze from a corner.
“You learn to live like a cat out here,” he quipped. “Always finding the warm spots in winter and the cool spots in summer.”
As night fell, we entered the St. Clair River. Around 3 a.m., south of Detroit, we passed the dormant steel mill at Zug Island—the very spot where the Fitz would have discharged its cargo, and where its crew might have frequented the legendary sailor bars detailed in Bacon’s book. (As one retired sailor vividly recounted, “The Honey Bee catered to country alcoholics, while the Hinky-Dink attracted the psychotic ones.”)
A week after departing Burns Harbor, we entered Lake Erie on Sunday morning, heading towards the mouth of the Cuyahoga River. There, the crew faced the challenging task of navigating 13 intricate turns right through the heart of downtown Cleveland.
Captain Mike Grzesiek, who began his career on the Sykes three decades ago as a dish washer, is set to retire next year. Throughout our journey, he remained a man of quiet demeanor, speaking little.
However, during breakfast on our final full day, he opened up. He shared insights into the different vessels he’d served on, discussed the industry’s fluctuations, and detailed his calm, pragmatic strategy for enduring storms that would have sent less experienced sailors “curling up in a ball.”
“You simply confront it and push through,” Grzesiek remarked with a chuckle. “But honestly, looking back, nothing was ever truly that bad.”