Tucked along the southern shore of Lake Superior in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, the Bay Furnace Ruins rise like a crumbling monument to Michigan’s industrial past—half-swallowed by moss, wind, and time. Once the heart of a bustling ironworks town called Onota, this lonely stone structure is all that remains of a dream fueled by iron, fire, and ambition.
My fascination with ruins made this a must-see destination during my last few hours on Michigan’s spectacular Upper Peninsula. It’s only a short hike through the woods from the parking lot to the ruins. The gloomy, overcast sky added an appropriate moodiness to visiting this ghost from the past.
Ore from the Earth, Dreams in the Fire
Between 1870 and 1877, Bay Furnace was one of many charcoal blast furnaces operating across the Upper Peninsula. It was powered by iron ore hauled in by barge from the Marquette Iron Range, about 30 miles to the northwest. Over its brief life, more than 20,000 tons of pig iron were produced here—melted down, cast into bars, and shipped out across the Great Lakes to fuel the engines of American industry.
The process was intense, labor-heavy, and elemental.
Charcoal—produced in massive kilns from the surrounding hardwood forests—was used as both fuel and carbon source. Inside the furnace, layers of charcoal, iron ore, and limestone (a flux) were fed in from the top. A roaring blast of air—powered by a steam engine and water wheel—was forced into the base, stoking the fire to over 2,800°F.
The ore smelted into molten pig iron, which was tapped from the bottom of the furnace into sand molds, forming thick, heavy ingots ready for shipping. The furnace ran non-stop for months at a time during the iron season, manned by rugged workers and fed by an ever-churning local economy.
A Fiery End
But the dream didn’t last.
On New Year’s Day 1877, a fire swept through Onota. The wooden buildings burned quickly—mill, homes, blacksmith shop, and the crucial casting house. With the local forests already depleted and iron prices dropping, the company couldn’t justify rebuilding. The town was abandoned almost overnight, leaving only the stone shell of the blast furnace standing.
Resurrected by Preservation
For decades, the Bay Furnace lay hidden by trees and time. But in the 1960s, the U.S. Forest Service took interest in preserving this rare remnant of the UP’s iron-making past. Restoration efforts began in the 1970s, with careful stabilization of the furnace stack and interpretive signs added to help tell its story.
Today, the site is part of the Bay Furnace Campground in Hiawatha National Forest—a quiet, lakeside escape with a front-row seat to both natural beauty and industrial history.
Steps to the Past
A short walk down stone steps near the furnace leads to the shoreline of Lake Superior, where the past lingers in quieter ways. Look closely at the water’s edge, and you’ll spot timbers half-buried in the sand and waves—the remains of the original dock that once welcomed ore-laden barges from the Marquette Iron Range.
These ships were the lifeline of Onota, bringing in raw ore and hauling away pig iron. The dock extended hundreds of feet into the bay, built sturdy enough to support rail tracks and ore carts. It would’ve been a bustling scene—creaking wood, clanking chains, and the rhythmic loading and unloading of iron bound for foundries across the Great Lakes.
Today, only weathered remnants of those timbers remain, softened by time, lichen, and surf. But standing there, with Superior stretching out in front of you and the ruins just behind, you can almost hear the echo of laboring footsteps, steam whistles, and the roar of a furnace that once turned stone into steel.
Clouds grew heavier as I stood on the water’s edge, looking out and trying to see into the past. A bit of melancholy descended upon me as I realized this would be the last time I would stand on the edge of the marvelous Lake Superior, at least for a while. Before the weather could turn worse, I headed back to my Jeep and began driving toward the Mackinac Bridge.
