An Afternoon Drive on South Manitou Island

By Mike Buhler
Sun extreme sports correspondent
Driving up the Glen Arbor boat ramp at 8 p.m., Hugh Gordon is greeted by a score of laughing, curious onlookers. As he parks and exits his 1967 Amphicar, the crowd immediately gathers, and like a carnival barker, this experienced salesman greets their curiosity with a familiar patter.

“Why yes, this is the Amphicar, made in Germany. Where else can you get the complete package: boat, trailer, and car? It gets 30 miles to the gallon, and the seats fold down so you can sleep in it.” It takes Hugh no time to convince the crowd that they all need one.
We departed the boat ramp (after paying our $5 launch fee, naturally) at 11 a.m., and on the trip to South Manitou, I was able to learn the history of this man and his machine, as we headed to a picnic by the Valley of the Cedars.
The Amphicar was produced in Berlin from 1961 to 1968 by the Quandt Group, a post-war British-German cooperative. Based on a design by Hanns Trippel, the father of amphibious cars (or schwimwagens, as they are known in Germany), the car was a hit in the USA, with over 3,000 of the nearly 4,000 produced landing on our shores. Federal regulatory changes by the Department of Transportation and Environmental Protection Agency were too much for the Amphicar to overcome, so the factory closed in 1968.
Back in Detroit, on a snowy day in December, 1966, Hugh Gordon plunked down his cash and purchased his first Amphicar, and unwittingly charted the car’s course to survival. Purchased as a second vehicle to his stylish Mustang, Hugh eventually made the Amphicar his primary vehicle, as he drove the country selling Volkswagen parts to dealers and repair shops.
“I’d pull up in the Amphicar, open the bonnet, and sell parts right out the front of the car. Dealers would always remember me, and I’d get more orders because of it,” Hugh recalls. A few years later he added Mercedes-Benz parts to his line, “because I could make lots more money,” he notes.
With a degree in Political Science and Drama from The Principia, Hugh is masterful with people. The car is a natural icebreaker, but he engages total strangers so quickly that it is easy to see how successful he was as a parts salesman. However, trouble loomed.
Suddenly plagued with vision difficulties, Hugh had a series of detached retinas and even a cataract. “Here I was, at 40, and the doctors said I had the eyes of an 80-year-old.”
Fortunately surgery, a positive outlook, and his faith in God restored Hugh’s vision. Yet all the while he planned for sightless days. Knowing car parts, and knowing that he could talk on the phone, Hugh decided to move into Amphicar parts, and opened Gordon Imports in 1979.
Years earlier, in California, where Hugh had settled, he met his wife Jeanie. They wed in 1977, and Jeanie was instrumental in the formation of Gordon Imports. The couple work side-by-side, and except for this trip today, are nearly inseparable. “I wouldn’t be here without her,” Hugh says fondly. While Jeanie is happy to go on short jaunts around Big Glen in the Amphicar, she was just as happy to avoid the two-hour trip one-way to South Manitou, and read a book at their summer home on Harbor Island.
With determination, good fortune and the forging of an overseas friendship, Hugh was able to buy most of the remaining Triumph Spitfire engines that power the Amphicar, and many of the transmissions and other parts. Over the years, he and Jeanie, accompanied by one brother and an assistant at the shop, have managed to buy or remanufacture virtually every part for the Amphicar.
He shared all this history while puttering out to the island at a leisurely 5 knots, the twin nylon propellers of the schwimwagen propelling us forward, and the front tires serving as rudders. We did detour long enough to say hello to a down-bound Hunter 37 called Sundance, but its spinnaker gave it much greater speed than we could achieve.
Nearing the lighthouse at South Manitou, we took a tour of the bay, and when we saw the boat ramp, our hearts sank: it was two feet high and dry, a victim of the low water levels. After consulting a variety of perplexed swimmers and waders in the bay, we decided to give the sand a whirl. Halfway there the car dug into the sand and we were stuck. As luck would have it, Boy Scouts were at hand, and four kindly lads from Kalamazoo gave a small push, and we were onto the hard roads of the island.
For our land and sea adventure, the Amphicar was packed to the gills. In the boot (trunk, up front) were a spare propeller, come-along, five gallons of gasoline and a whole host of tools. In the back seat were our lunch, life jackets and, of course, towels, bug spray and sun-block. In my wallet, the annual National Park pass, and some emergency phone numbers. The Amphicar, titled in Michigan, is licensed for both land and water. The Park pass allows us entry to the island, and the roads belong to Leelanau County, so nary a law was broken or even bent. The roads are not of the best quality, but certainly passable, allowing us clear travel all about the island.
We were able to see historic farms and barns, Florence Lake, the wreck of the Francisco Marazon, the Valley of the Cedars (note to Road Commission: please cut the tree—I had to hike one mile), the lighthouse and several beautiful vistas across reverted farm fields. A few stunned hikers, and a wonderful and curious Park Ranger were also encountered. [Park regulations prohibit publication of the Ranger’s photo or remarks without prior approval from the Superintendent—ed.]
Upon completion of the island tour we topped off the gas tanks, put the top back up, secured the doors with watertight latches, and Hugh shifted into first gear and engaged the PTO for the propellers. The Amphicar zoomed down the boat ramp, glided effortlessly down the sand, and once in the water, Hugh put the drivetrain for the wheels into neutral, set the truest form of cruise control, and piloted us back toward Sleeping Bear Bay. With a smooth lake we made great time on the return trip, and left the windows down.
Between sips of Diet Pepsi we discussed weather, philosophy, religion, California politics and how the Gordons came to Glen Arbor.
“Oh, that was easy,” Hugh relates. “Both of my younger brothers attended The Leelanau School, and I had come up to visit them.” I was regaled with tales of Hugh and an unnamed brother pushing a junk car over the bluff of Pyramid Point, and of the Amphicar driving right into the Marazon, mooring, and a failed attempt to liberate the ship’s wheel. The veracity is not as important as is the wry humor with which the tales are told. Then, there are the legal ramifications, so one has tread carefully, and this reporter does not wish to pry.
Approaching Glen Arbor the sun lights up the wooden hulk of Le Bear Resort, and the pointing throng that gathers on shore is easy to spot. Once on land the propellers are disengaged, the bilge pump is shut off, and with the top down, we race down Harbor Highway into the sunset, smiling.