Head to eastern Wisconsin for a
BELGIAN BIKE TOUR By James E. Held Wisconsin's Ethnic Settlement Trail links a fascinating patchwork of ethnicities. While many in these
communities stretching along Lake Michigan are proud to be Pommeranian or delighted to be Dutch, we hear precious little boasting about being Belgian. Fewer still have heard that it's wonderful to be Walloon, and each year Brown, Kewaunee and southern Door counties seem to form mere passages to other vacation locations. Then again, fertile fields, grazing cows and tidy farmyards hardly appear unique in the Dairy State until a roadside religious shrine or limestone barn comes into view.
 Such anomalies are part of the Wisconsin Walloon legacy that forms a fascinating chapter in the state's ethnic heritage. Immigration from Europe to Wisconsin between 1853 and 1856 created America's largest Belgian community. Today, this region squeezed between Lake Michigan and
Green Bay is compact in size, rich in history and its gently rolling terrain also creates a great bike tour.
A glance at the map, however, only compounds the confusion when local communities bear such names as Luxembourg, Holland, Poland and Denmark. To direct my exploration, the Wisconsin Heritage Society puts out an informative cassette and map to guide the
traveler through the architectural and cultural landmarks, but hardly was I underway from Algoma when the Walkman tumbled from my jersey to shatter on the hard pavement of Highway S. In the absence of an auditory input on Badger State Belgians, the Ahnappe Trail, crossing the road, almost seduced me away. Still, I was determined not to let those enticing 30 miles stretching from Casco to Sturgeon Bay distract me from exploring the local Walloon heritage. Unlike in the Door County peninsula, the white dolomite of the Niagara Escarpment is buried deep under this dark, fertile farmland. On this September day, the recently harvested hayfields supported only stubble, but corn stretched out in symmetrical rows, and silos forming rural sky scrapers divulge the pungent silage stored within.
Although I had a traveled just mere miles, herd after herd of Holsteins
contentedly chewed their cuds, enjoying the sunshine as much as this lone cyclist. In a national tally of dairy cattle density, Kewaunee County ranks second only to the Amish country of Pennsylvania's Lancaster County, and the wind was laden with the scent of Queen Anne's Lace blossoms, as well as earthier elements. Well before the arrival of Belgian settlers in the 1850s, surveyors
established a grid that evolved into a system of smooth, paved roads. When the westerly gusts proved too formidable, I merely tacked like a sailboat onto Highway C, running perpendicular and northward from Euren. This Germanic name of this four cornered burg reflects the fact that Wisconsin Belgians remain an island of Romance culture. Most Dairy
State natives who relish the bratwurst have never heard of the local favorite sausage called trippe, or that Belgium has two distinct ethnic groups, Flemish and the French speaking Walloon. In the 1850s, a series of bad harvests prompted farmers to abandon their homeland and brave the Wisconsin wilderness. Legend holds that the emigrants set out with no clear destination, and on the 50 day sailing ship voyage, Dutch migrants on board convinced them to settle here. More than 30,000
Walloons from the Brabant and Hesbaye regions followed to found communities reminiscent of the old country like Brussels, Namur and the little village of Rosiere.
Since then, they have put down deep roots, and my stroll through the St. Hubert's cemetery reveals such family names as Rinse, Basinne, Quertemont, Massart and one Benjamine De Tampel, born in 1837 and died here in Wisconsin back in 1891.
Amid the culinary scenes of New York and other cities, Belgian
restaurants have become the rage. At Rosiere's local diner, however, the menu revealed no moules (mussels) and pomme frites or Ardenne ham, and a request for a glass of Chimnay Trappist Ale would only raise quizzical eyebrows in local taverns. If not paté, the meatloaf and mashed potatoes were delicious, and the local market did offer some trippe sausage and fresh rolls for an afternoon energy lift, as I headed east on County X. Just out of town, a cyclist on a sleek road bike whizzed by so
briskly that he was half a mile down the road before his brakes held.
"Where you headed?," we asked simultaneously. "My friends are going up to Door County this weekend, so I took this Friday off to do a quick century and meet them there this evening," he said. Laden with panniers, I explained the reason for my more measured pace.
"I do this trip at least four times a summer and never see another bike,"
he said. When he faded over a hill, that cyclist proved to be the only one I encountered, so the farm dog, who snarled at this two wheeled intruder daring to use his road, has precious few targets to chase.
I kept my pepper spray ready against the canine threat because I planned to backtrack after reaching my only goal on County X, the Vandermeuse Farm. In the yard with a handsome dolomite barn stands a battered outdoor oven, once so ubiquitous on Belgian farmsteads to
keep the threat of fire from farmhouses. During the summer, Heritage Hills State Park offers tours of the John Baptiste Massart pioneering homestead and other Belgian structures that were rescued for restoration. Highway C northward toward Brussels also offers several other spectacular examples of stone barns that actually reveal a tragic chapter in Belgian American history; just when hard work began bearing fruit, a firestorm stretched across Green Bay to devastate decades of
labor. The Peshtigo Fire of 1871 destroyed farms, orchards, livestock and human lives by the hundreds, as commemorated in Tornado Park on Highway 57. With extensive forests reduced to ashes, the shortage of wood led to using local clay and stone in rebuilding, as Old World masonry skills constructed sturdy homes, churches and barns of durable and fireproof brick or dolomite. These talented craftsmen created a handsome architecture that still embellishes this landscape, but the fire
was also significant in the clearing of the land, fertilizing it with ashes and making farming, not lumbering, the region's economic base.
After running the gauntlet of traffic across hectic Highway 57, tranquility quickly returned on entering Door County, and any disappointment of replacing my battered Walkman faded in the welcome absence of suburban sprawl, strip malls and even vacation homes. Still, on any tour here, it's wise to include tools and spare inner tubes against any
mechanical problems that would otherwise strand a cyclist. I pedaled a mountain bike, but with the well paved and maintained roads, the tour bikes offer less resistance, and extremely light traffic posed no threat to the flock of wild turkeys scurrying out of the cattail and willow swamp of Gardner Wildlife Refuge.
Near the Engelbert farm stands one of the few remaining religious shrines where pious farmers paused for roadside prayers to the Blessed
Virgin. As with the outdoor brick ovens, only a handful remains, but churches are in abundance at the junction of K. Along the steep slopes of Green Bay, the breezes pick up refreshing nautical ions. The landscape likewise changes from the rich, black soil, and along County N the hard bedrock rises so close to the surface that the tombs in the nearby cemetery are elevated, as in Louisiana's Cajun country. The road meanders along the shoreline to offer great, late afternoon vistas of both
fields and the bay, as my day ended at Chaudoir's Dock and Park, once the site of a massive 19th century shipyard.
Next morning, conversation at the restaurant revolved around the Packers and perch fishing as I downed a lumberjack helping of pancakes. Not wanting to backtrack, a frontage road along the bay kept me parallel and clear of traffic on Highway 57 until Dykesville. With a turn onto County S, I immersed myself in Belgian country where only a
few pickup trucks passed by. The roar of machines came not from traffic, but rather tractors working in the fields, while the spire of the church at Lincoln loomed to the west. Then I headed west on K toward Champion, on a pedaling pilgrim of sorts to a chapel of some celebrity.
Biking into the parking lot, I saw a diligent nun with wheelbarrow and pitchfork outside the convent door.
"Excuse me sister, but is this where Mary appeared to the girl," I asked
with all my parochial school politeness.
"Yes," she replied with a smile, "just follow the path along the wall to the shrine," before disappearing behind a heavy door.
Back in 1858, Adele Brice, an 18 year old farm girl, claimed she saw and spoke with the Blessed Virgin. Her vision met with mainly skepticism from the church hierarchy. But for the devout settlers, the miracle vindicated the decision to leave the Old World and settle here in
Wisconsin. Adele's sincerity and piety eventually convinced the archbishop to build a convent here, and during the Peshtigo inferno, it was one of few structures to survive, spared it's said by the ardent prayers of the nuns. Except for the hard working woman I spoke with, the walls surrounding the grounds sequester the sisters from the outside world, and the ornate decor on the shrine is a sharp contrast to the region's rustic simplicity. As I mounted my bike again, an elderly couple
pulled up in their car, freshly arrived pilgrims who had traveled from Pennsylvania, driven that distance by "our devotion to the Blessed Virgin," they explained.
Once again on an earthly plane, a huge produce stand next door tempted me with the fruits of the land and an impressive array of vegetables. I listened to the owner's lament as she tallied my apples and carrots.
"Farmers are the only people who buy retail and sell wholesale," she
groused. Nodding in sympathy, I sincerely hoped my little cache of carrots and apples would somehow help before I continued westward toward Green Bay.
For a finale, I saved the end of my tour for the opening chapter of the Belgians' story. In 1853, the intrepid immigrants, landing in Sheboygan, could find no one who spoke French, but someone made them understand that Green Bay had many of their linguistic compatriots. Solely by chance, they met there Father Edward Daems, a young
Belgian priest who led them to the site marked by a handsome red brick memorial just outside of Champion. Francois Petiniot, Joseph Jossart, Jean Martin and other settlers wrote enthusiastic letters home to begin the exodus that ended across the Atlantic at Aux Premier Belges.
Today, Walloon speakers are an endangered species, and only 13 chapels and shrines remain. On the lattice of rural roads, country stores and schools stand empty, but a core of people remain, dedicated to the
preservation of Walloon culture. In 1990, the state recognized this region as its first rural National Historic District. Physically, this trip of 50 some miles offers few challenges, but a little homework on the Belgian heritage in books like Holand's Old Peninsula Days or Web sites such as www.uwgb.edu/wisfrench/library/history/belges/wibelges.htm, www.travelwisconsin.com or www.doorcountyvacations.com/SOUTHERN_DOOR.HTM will augment appreciation. You can also time your trip with Brussels' Kirmess celebration held each July, but otherwise a Belgian bike tour remains a quiet, yet very beautiful, experience.
Bon Voyage!
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