Field Report: The Elusive Nain Rouge

The Elusive Nain Rouge Detroit: a city of contrast. Boarded-up warehouses and glittering skyscrapers; Motown and techno; coney dogs and vegan cupcakes. But what gets lost in the story of this city’s rise, fall and rebirth - a story retold ad nauseum to the point most residents are tired of hearing about our “grit” and "resilience" - is just how old this city is. And as any squatch hunter will tell you, time breeds legends.

Founded in 1701 on Haudenosaunee land by French explorer Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac, Detroit sits at the crossroads of wilderness and industry. From this advantageous choke point on the Great Lakes, successive waves of settlers - first French, then British, then Americans, then British again, and (probably) finally Americans - projected their power into the continental interior. But could there be a deeper story hidden beneath this tale of colonial conquest?

According to local folklore, when Cadillac first landed on the northern shore of the strait, an Odawa fortune teller warned him to be nice to a mysterious, mischievous imp. Instead, Cadillac beat the little fellow with his cane. Dubbed by the French “le Nain Rouge” - the Red Imp - has since made it his purpose to pay Cadillac back. The Nain was sighted before the disastrous (for the British) Battle of Bloody Run, wherein the Odawa Chief Pontiac whooped their little red coat butts. Years later, during the War of 1812, the imp was also implicated in General William Hull's disastrous attempt to reinforce the city before food shortages forced him to surrender it to the British. The Nain Rouge allegedly cleared Detroit out of all supplies except soap and whiskey, leaving Hull’s men drunk and useless, but smelling fresh. More than a century later, two utility workers claim to have spotted the Nain just before a brutal police raid on a blind pig sparked the notorious 12th Street Riot of 1967. Perhaps the little red devil could relate to being marginalized for the color of his skin…

In any event, as Head Honcho of the Midwest Squatchin’ Division of Squatch Hunters International, I took it upon myself to search for signs of the Nain. My adventure began on a Friday evening. We Pingrees have no concept of taking the weekend “off.”



I started the search at Z’s Villa in the Milwaukee Junction neighborhood. Yes, I was at a bar/pizzaria/deli on company time, but if I know two things about squatchin’ it’s this: always loosen up first, and never squatch on an empty stomach. So, after a couple games of volleyball, I tucked into a delicious Motor City Club sandwich. As I masticated a mixture of marvelous meats, I set about asking my teammates for leads.

While my good hearted teammates had plenty of friendly companionship and encouragement to offer, they lacked any knowledge of the elusive Nain’s whereabouts. So I mounted my e-bike - a 1500 watt behemoth I affectionately call Ol' Reliable - and made my way down to Cass Corridor.

If I may briefly digress, every spring equinox, the people of Detroit gather to march against the Nain Rouge in Cass Corridor (since rebranded as “Midtown” to help e-bike riding hipsters like myself feel more at home). The “Marche du Nain Rouge,” as it is called, is a festival of costumes, floats, and music. The Marche is a gathering of loyal Detroiters who seek to spook the imp out of hiding and, hopefully, into fleeing to somewhere north of 8 Mile. I felt certain that I would uncover more local knowledge of the Nain over in Midtown. After all, so many people seeking mob justice must know something. Otherwise, why would they bother?

And, indeed, I did find a couple helpful residents. I stopped in at Third Street Bar, one of the finer local watering holes, to continue my investigation and catch the end of the Tigers game. They were in Philadelphia to kick off an interleague series against the Phillies. Over two and two thirds innings, the Tigers’ bullpen fell apart, squandering 6 stellar innings of work from Jack Flaherty. Up 3-0 to start the seventh inning, the Motor City Kitties ended the night with a 5-4 loss. Perhaps it was the Nain messing with them. More likely it was the Phanatic.

The first fellow I met at Third Street was named Andrew. We got to talking after a rare Wencel Pérez home run. Andrew wished me a good squatch, but he wasn’t too sure where to find the Nain. However, he had noticed an apparent warehouse break-in over at the Dequindre Cut the weekend prior. After filling up his bags with produce from Eastern Market, Andrew and his girlfriend had wandered over to the Cut and noticed a busted out window on one of the abandoned warehouses adjacent to the park. Knowing there was nothing left in any of those warehouses after decades of neglect, I figured it couldn’t be some ordinary smash and grab. No, that sort of hooliganery sounded like the work of the Nain. I added the potential break in to my list of clues.

I thanked Andrew and headed outside to inspect the patio for signs of the Nain Rouge. Instead, I found only well cultivated flower pots and some cornhole boards. Disappointed but not discouraged, I returned to the bar for refreshment. Sitting down, I struck up a conversation with the gentleman next to me. He introduced himself as Adriel, but his DJ name is Adriel Fantastique (Adriel Thornton (@adrieldetroit) • Instagram photos and videos). Adriel seemed to know everybody at Third Street, and he was very impressed with the new shawarma place down the block. The amount and quality of food they serve is fantastic for the price - to the point that we had serious doubts as to the long term viability of the business model. But once we had exhausted the economics of take-out mediterranean food, the conversation turned naturally to cryptids. Adriel was as knowledgeable about both squatches and e-bikes as he was about nearby to-go options, and we discussed my plan to locate the Nain at length. However, he wasn’t quite sure where to find the slippery imp. Instead, he extended an invitation to his ambient brunch set at Mudgies on Sunday, and that sounded quite nice.

I closed out my tab and made my way home. It was clear I would need a good night’s sleep if I was going to continue this search properly.

I’ll be honest, the next day was a bit of a wash. I had planned to continue my search Saturday on Belle Isle, but my plans were forced to change when I found myself stuck behind the slowest golf card I’ve ever seen. However, while Evergreen Hills Golf Course - operated by the City of Southfield, MI - may be home to some inconsiderately slow golfers, it is also home to critters that better embody the spirit of the Nain: coyote pups.



These little guys entertained us endlessly as we waited (also endlessly) for the card in front of us to clear out of the tee box. As the little yotes rolled around, play-fighting, I couldn’t help but think. Maybe the Nain Rouge has more in common with the coyote than just a well known penchant for tom-foolery. Indeed, both critters have lived in this land since before the first humans walked over the Bering land bridge into North America, since before smallpox and one-sided treaties decimated the descendants of those first people, before the railroads and automobiles and skyscrapers and ticky-tack Levittowns transformed this country into what it is today, for better and worse. Both are misunderstood. Scorned as dangerous pests by the newcomers to this land, they are chased from their homes and blamed for all manner of nuisance. Yet the coyote survives. No, it thrives. Coyotes live in every city, in every national park, and probably on every golf course of the lower 48. And they will be here long after this civilization is gone. Just playing in the sun.

Perhaps this is a clue to help me find the Nain. Sunday had to be the day. I prepared my kit.



A good squatcher prepares himself for every eventuality. For today’s ride, I packed a pump, spare tube, full socket and allen wrench sets, two tire levers, and a presta valve adapter. Plus a couple of electrolyte beverages produced by a manufacturer who has not yet signed a sponsorship agreement with Squatch Hunters International. While my poor Carhartt (who should also consider a sponsorship) fanny pack couldn’t hope to hold all these supplies, my Ol’ Reliable is more than able to carry the load.

Smoke from wildfires blazing as far away as Manitoba cast a haze over the whole city. Perhaps the Nain Rouge set them too. Maybe actual Sasquatches set them. But I wouldn’t let the smoke cloud my eyes. It was time to go.

I took off towards Detroit’s largest park hoping to find the spirit of the Nain, or at least some more cute coyote pups. This park is called Rouge Park and sits astride the Rouge River, so it must bear some relation to the Nain Rouge. Or at least, that was the thought.

My journey to Rouge Park took me along Outer Drive and through some of Detroit’s finest neighborhoods. I picked up the trail near historic Sherwood Forest and followed it through picturesque North Rosedale and Minock Park all the way to Outer Drive’s intersection with Rouge Park Drive. From there, it was only a short ride before I found myself crossing over the eponymous river. I stopped to admire it.



The Rouge has its headwaters up in Oakland County. From there it flows south and east through Detroit and on to the industrial complex of the Ford Motor Company, past the Marathon refinery, and into the Detroit River at Zug Island - a coke battery. As you may imagine, the Rouge was once heavily polluted. It even caught fire in the late 60s, around the same time the Nain was said to have stoked an uprising over civil rights abuses. Could the Nain have been upset with us? Perhaps he was disgusted by our racial discrimination and ecological destruction and sought to teach us a couple lessons. I couldn’t be sure, but I felt that I was on the right trail.

That trail took me past the Detroit Aeromodeler’s RC Flying Field, also in Rouge Park. And the aeromodelers were out having a grand time! Unfortunately, your humble Midwest Correspondent lacked both the photographic skill and equipment necessary to capture a picture fit for publication. Planes, each about 3 or 4 feet in wingspan, would alight a few feet above the pilot’s head, then climb a hundred feet in a second and a half, flashing colorful roundels from each wing before diving back down only to loop back up again. It didn’t matter what I did. The planes looked like so many distant flies to my cell phone camera.

Feeling a bit of hunger in my stomach, I took a swig of unaffiliated electrolyte drink and pressed on. Away from the Rouge, but hopefully closer to the Nain - and lunch. Before long, I found myself at one of Detroit’s newest parks, the Joe Luis Greenway. To call the JLG a park is a bit of an understatement. It’s really a 27-mile ring of biking and walking paths connecting downtown Detroit to some of its most furthest flung neighborhoods and nearest flung suburbs. An impish endeavor if ever there was one.



I was kicking myself for not following my own rule. I was squatchin’ on an empty stomach, and I felt the need to feed. But I didn’t let the pang in my tummy take away from my enjoyment of the Greenway. The path, lined with black eyed susans and little shrubs, wound down to Warren Avenue, where it ended in a giant playground. The joyful sounds of children playing mingled with classic RnB from a boombox on the other side of the park. It was 80 degrees. I couldn’t stop smiling.

I turned on to Warren and put the pedal down, and then up, and then down again. Because that’s how bicycles work. I could have continued along the pathways of the Joe Luis Greenway, but I was ready to get some grub. I remembered my conversation with Adriel Fantastique the other night. Ambient house and a deli sandwich would be the perfect combination. I made a bee line for Mudgies.



Along the way, I couldn't help but notice the spirit of the imp had possessed a few of my fellow Detroiters. Take this cheeky fella above, who decided to park in the bike lane despite ample on- and off-street parking just off camera. It surely could not be that this was just the work of another lazy, selfish driver. No, the Nain must be nearby, using his cunning magic to blind motorists to the obvious road markings and “No Parking” signage. I bet I could have found the red imp had I stopped to check the patio trees, but my stomach growled and decided the issue for me. Let this be a lesson: never squatch on an empty stomach!

By the time I made it to Mudgies, the patio was packed. Adriel drew a real crowd! There were so many people enjoying his set outside that I had no choice but to tuck inside and steal a seat at the bar. It’s alright, though. If I’m being honest, I was fading and in no shape for a social call.



The Gutty (with an egg) and Bloody Mary fixed me up. But it was the four glasses of water I drank that really had me feeling reinvigorated. I couldn’t linger, though. I still had a few more places I wanted to check for signs of the Nain Rouge. On my way out, I paused on the patio to enjoy the ambient beat and soak in the vibe. Now that I know Ambient Sundays are a regular thing, I’ll have to come back and “dig the scene,” as the kids say.

However, there was work to be done. I needed to get to Belle Isle, the one-and-a-half mile square mile island park in the middle of the Detroit River. Perhaps there I would find some sign of this evasive imp. So I jumped onto the Southwest Greenway and headed towards the River Walk. The Southwest Greenway runs along a below grade rail corridor from Corktown, where Mudgies is, to the Detroit River, ending at a massive under-construction park that should open in a few months. Once it does, it will be the largest park along the 4-mile chain of parks that make up the River Walk. I will follow up then to investigate whether the Nain approves of our new recreational grounds.

The journey to the River Walk was uneventful, but once I got there it was packed. And rightfully so! It was a glorious day in Southeast Michigan, despite the looming Canadian haze. Throngs of walkers, scooterers and bikers filled the promenade. I hopped off Ol’ Reliable and walked along with the crowd.



Across the river, to the south, I could see Canada. Windsor, Ontario, specifically. I wondered to myself whether they might know something about the Nain’s whereabouts. But surely they must have bigger fish to fry. After all, Manitoba was burning. And all of Canada is Sasquatch country. Not long after, I found the queue for Belle Isle.



For practical reasons, this correspondent does not recommend attempting to drive onto the island during peak summer season. This line of cars was backed up over a mile, but Ol’ Reliable was able to zip right by them thanks to this handy bike lane.

Once on the island, I found more signs of the playful imp. The beach was packed with families and friends. Barbecues smoked under every pavilion. Pleasure boats glided atop the choppy river. But with so many people out and about, opportunities abounded for the Nain to pull some prank or mess with an unsuspecting victim. How difficult would it be for the Nain to squirt lighter fluid onto a charcoal grill, incinerating some luckless grillmaster’s patties? What are the chances he might steal a sandal or worse, a beer, while a beachgoer cooled off in the river? I needed to stay alert.



I turned onto Central Avenue and continued through the petrified forest. While not a true petrified forest, it’s still quite eerie. Dead trees lined the parkway. Could they have fallen victim to the Nain Rouge? Some say he may have poisoned them. The DNR says these trees were killed by flooding. But I think they’re hiding something. People would panic if they knew there was an immortal imp running around with enough herbicide to kill a wetland!

In any event, I felt it was time to park Ol’ Reliable for a bit and continue the search on foot. I stopped at the Belle Isle Conservatory to have a look around. Opened in 1904, the Conservatory is home to thousands of species of plants both out in its gardens and within its palatial greenhouse. In the garden I found a calming menagerie of native bee balms and flowering bushes. Sweet scents brought some relief to my nostrils after a day of breathing wildfire smoke. But inside the greenhouse, I found something that took my breath away.



There! Do you see it? That little hut beneath the waterfall. It’s just the right size for a faerie creature. And it’s in the perfect place, too. The Conservatory draws thousands of visitors each day during the summer, but it closes at 5:00. The Nain could easily return here, to this quiet country home, each evening after a long day of stealing sandals and lighting rivers on fire. He’s been hiding in plain sight. How clever.

Feeling satisfied that I had at least located one of the Nain’s hiding spots, I allowed myself a few minutes to soak in the Conservatory’s various biomes. From palms to desert cacti to jungle plants. Each room of the greenhouse was dedicated to a particular habitat. The wild contrast on display in this museum of living things only further convinced me that this must be the imp’s home base.

I sauntered outside into the midafternoon sunlight and took stock of Ol’ Reliable. Propped up against the bike rack, all 85 pounds of plump tires, proud handlebars, and lithium ion justice, she looked ready to conquer the world. So far today, we’d conquered about 35 miles of pavement and pathway, but Ol’ Reliable still had 50% battery. Plenty for the ride home, and perhaps even one or two more stops.

My route back to the top-secret Squatch Hunters safehouse (located at 20143 Livernois, Detroit, MI 48221) took me through the Dequindre Cut. This was no coincidence. I hadn’t forgotten Andrew’s tip. The Nain may be guilty of a break in.



The Dequindre Cut, similar to the Southwest Greenway on the other side of town, is a converted rail corridor that runs under city streets from the riverfront up past Eastern Market. Think of it as the inverse of New York’s High Line park. The Cut is both a transportation artery for Detroit’s lower East side and a year-round street art installation. Murals adorn almost every vertical surface along its length - and some of the horizontal ones. Roller skaters, bikers, walkers and wheel chair rollers stroll, ride and glide up and down its smooth tarmac. But could this pleasant park hide a devilish secret?

The Cut is lined with old warehouses. Disused now, for the most part. But they were once an integral part of the city’s food distribution system. Boxcars could be loaded and unloaded directly into the warehouses through Cut-facing doors. From there, the goods were distributed to wholesalers around the market, and on to restaurants and grocers across the eastern Lower Peninsula. According to Andrew, a window on one of those old warehouses had recently been forced open. It could have been the work of the Nain. However, as I approached the warehouse section of the Cut, I quickly assessed that now would be a terrible time to follow the imp. It was a House Sunday, and DJ KⓇW ( K®W (@krwmusic) • Instagram photos and videos) was spinning some chill house music for a couple hundred people. There was no way I could attempt a pursuit now without causing a fuss. Instead, I vibrated and bobbed to the music with the rest of the crowd as I slowly walked Ol’ Reliable through a cross section of Detroit’s residents, all gathered here to enjoy a free concert.

People of every class, creed, and complexion joked, jostled, and jammed as the records spun. The faint note of marijuana smoke mingled with the grey Canadian wildfire haze. Coolers overflowed with Heineken, sandwiches, and potato salad. Some people were sitting in lawn chairs they had brought for the occasion. Some milled about. Others danced. Maybe, close by in his warehouse hideout, the imp was dancing too.



Leaving the Dequindre Cut behind me, I retraced my steps from this weekend. Up through Milwaukee Junction (pictured above), past Z’s Villa, then up Second Ave and past the construction site of the latest extension to the Joe Luis Greenway. Although the Nain Rouge continued to elude me, I found something more important. I had rekindled my love for this city. My journey had brought me not just closer to this cryptid, but also closer to my home. Although his physical presence had eluded me, the Nain's fingerprints coat the surface of Detroit like a stainless steel refrigerator. I had befriended total strangers, burned 1300 calories biking and eaten that much twice over in deli meats. I had heard, seen, and felt every art form imaginable. I had breathed in the scented gardens of Belle Isle, admired the gritty (there, I said it) graffiti of the Southwest Greenway, and vibed to Ambient Brunch and House Sunday. I had ridden from Outer Drive to the Dequindre Cut and back again, along the way uncovering a vibrant city exploding with mirth and whimsy.



But it wasn’t over. Not quite yet. The final leg of my journey took me through Palmer Park. Sitting on 140 acres of “virgin” forest, this is the closest anywhere in Detroit will come to the land that the Nain knew before that fateful caning at the hands of Cadillac. Nowadays, these woods are home joggers, disc golfers, and a surprising number of deer. But I like to think that the Nain retreats here still, just like many Detroiters, to escape from the hard world of concrete and iron outside. To a place where the constant din of automobiles is reduced to a low trundle, and only the occasional splash of a disc against chains breaks the quiet.

So, are the legends true? Has this imp really been punishing Motown for 300 years? Is he paying us back for our hubris and exploitation? Well, in my opinion, the Nain Rouge is real, but his motivations are not so vindictive. My quest for the playful demon took me from a golf course in Oakland County to the model airplane field in Detroit, from two brand new greenways to two historic delis, and from the Canadian border to the edge of endurance. And nowhere did I see anything that looked like a punishment. Does a weekend full of volleyball, music, and flowers sound like punishment to you. Maybe, centuries ago, the Nain sought revenge for the abuse he suffered. If he had, I wouldn’t blame him. Cadillac sounds like a prick. But do I think for a second that he still holds a grudge, that he plots against this city and its people? Absolutely not. I think he’s doing the same thing we do when the days are long and the nights are short - he’s living his best life. Happy squatchin’ out there, little guy.