Story and photos by Shilo Urban
Fox footprints cross the snow toward the little wooden chapel, silent and snug in the frosty morning forest. I slip inside to a realm of wonders hand-carved in pine: meandering grapevines, winged animals, a Viking ship. Angels rejoice in the frescos on high, while six tiny pews whisper rest, reflect. Lost in reverie, I don’t notice that delicate snowflakes have started to swirl down from the sky. All is calm.
Inspired by the wooden stave churches of medieval Norway, Boynton Chapel seems like it came right out of a fairy tale. I’ve found it on the Door Peninsula, the “thumb” on the mitten-shaped state of Wisconsin between Green Bay and Lake Michigan. With 300 miles of shoreline, this unhurried haven beckons to travelers with its bountiful cherry orchards and beaches in hidden coves. Eleven lighthouses grace the rocky coastline, and storybook villages light up in summertime with fish boils and outdoor concerts.
But it’s deep into December, and winter’s magic has descended; eight inches of snow fall the first night we’re there. Bundling up in gloves and scarves makes everything feel like an adventure — and I’m a kid out of school on a snow day. Farms sleep beneath snowdrifts, and cardinals flit among the birch trees. Windows glow with golden warmth.
And between the blazing fires and boughs of evergreens, Door County’s Scandinavian spirit shines through.
Swedes, Norwegians, Icelanders and Danes settled the peninsula in the mid-1800s, reminded of home by the rugged maritime landscape. Red barns with tidy white trim attest to their influence, as do the gnomes and straw horses that decorate homes during Yule. Their minimalist aesthetic appears in historic log cabins and modern hotels alike.
But Door County’s Nordic roots reveal themselves most vividly in the many makers and craftspeople I meet, the salt-of-the-earth heirs of the pioneers’ quiet diligence and sense of community. Vintners coax grapes from the ground, brewers turn grain into gold and glassblowers sculpt ornaments from sand.
Almost every shop and restaurant is family-owned, like Door County Coffee Company, a bakery and roaster whose Specialty Class 1 Arabica beans make Starbucks seem like dishwater. So is Bridge Up Brewing, where you can try their tasty beers — and their competitors’ — on tap.
More than 600 artisan cheeses are crafted in-state, and we find 54 of them at Wisconsin Cheese Masters: Goudas and Italian cheeses, good ol’ Colby and whiskey-infused, holey Swiss and stinky blues. America is home to 60 Master Cheesemakers, and every single one of them lives in Wisconsin. I buy a soft, buttery wedge of world-champion Marieke Golden and some Garlic & Herb BellaVitano, plus two or three others — Christmas came early this year.
We celebrate at Island Orchard Cider, sampling flights of liquid merriment made from the peninsula’s apples, cherries and pears. I had no idea that cider could have such nuance, from oak-aged to ginger-kissed, or that the face-twisting apple vinegars would be so much fun to sip.
As darkness unfurls, we stop to see the Christmas lights at St. Nick’s Tree Farm. A heavenly evergreen aroma wraps itself around me, lingering long after I’m back in my suite at the Edgewater Resort. Wind whips around my top-floor balcony as snow piles up — but I’m warm and toasty by the fireplace inside. Is there any better feeling? Safe and sound from the winter weather, yet witness to its majesty? After a long, hot bath, I lull into a dream-filled sleep.
I head to the Christkindlmarket in the morning for some holiday shopping, where it’s not reindeer but alpacas who greet me. With a steaming mug of glühwein to fuel me, I wander between the cozy huts and heated tents, browsing whimsical wool hats and beeswax balm. I pick up a red-painted Dala horse, enchanted by the Swedish toy, …but I am soon distracted by the sizzling smell of bratwurst. I follow it to the food barn and return with a sauerkraut-loaded hot dog in hand, enjoying my lunch al fresco — really fresco — by the crackling fire.
But I don’t fill up, because I’ve been waiting the entire trip for the Julbord dinner that evening. It’s a traditional Scandinavian Christmas smorgasbord that only happens two nights a year at Al Johnson’s Swedish restaurant, famous for having goats on its roof every summer. The crowd hums with happy anticipation — then erupts into cheers as the doors swing open and we glimpse all the festive delicacies. According to custom, we first try the smoked and pickled fish (six types), and I’m surprised to discover I’m fond of pickled herring. Next comes the Christmas ham and cold sliced meats with cheeses and salads galore. Finally, the hot dishes like roast beef, scalloped potatoes and steaming sausages. By the end, I can’t eat one more Swedish meatball — but somehow, I find room for a crispy butter cookie slathered with lingonberry jam.
Back home in Texas, the next day, where it’s sunny and 72, I wonder…did I imagine the entire trip? The wooden chapel, the flickering fires? Then I pull a heavy chunk of cheese out of my purse: It wasn’t a dream, after all — and anytime I’m longing for a white Christmas, Door County is waiting in the softly falling snow.