The New Yorker was fishing in the upper peninsula of Michigan. His guide was a typical woodsman.
One night by the camp fire he regaled the New Yorker with accounts of he severity of the winters in those parts - how deep the snowdrifts were and how biting the winds from off Lake Superior and how thick the ice was and how low the thermometer fell and how long the cold weather lasted.
"Well," said the Easterner, when the native had halted for breath, "we have some pretty bad cold snaps along the seaboard but nothing to equal what you describe. How do you manage to stand such conditions?"
"Me?" said the guide, "I don't try to stand it. Before it freezes up solid I pack up and get out of here and go down south for the winter."
"To Florida, I suppose," hazarded the New Yorker.
"Nope," said the native, "Grand Rapids ..."