The Mystery of the Old Mooring Poles

The 1910 Alger House, an opulent villa shrouded in mystery, looms with its Italian Renaissance Revival architecture and three imposing stone fireplaces from the 16th century. Rich with Italian elements, the estate was once christened “The Moorings” by the Alger family, for the curious Venetian mooring poles that marked the property. Two of these poles stood at the top of the lake stairs, while the other two rose hauntingly from the dark waters of Lake St. Clair. 

These Venetian styled canal poles, known as pali di casada, traditionally served as markers for Italian palazzos, guiding visitors who arrived by water. Usually striped in a family’s crest or colors, these poles bore silent witness to the comings and goings of those privileged enough to visit. For the Alger’s poles, no one today knows exactly what colors decorated these poles, whispers among staff hint they may have once donned red and pale beige to match the villa’s stony facade and rooftop. 

But did the Algers ever truly have a gondola swaying on the lake waters, tethered to one of these poles? A solitary reference exists, hinting at a gondola—but any photographic proof has been lost to time. Still, as Russell Alger Jr. was known for his speedboats, the boat well likely housed both his boats and possibly other watercraft that visitors might glimpse on foggy mornings. 

The Algers also had a seaplane, a relic from an early 1911 Wright biplane, which they would bring to rest at their mooring poles after gliding over the lake at twilight. Modifications were often made by Russell and his partner, pilot Frank Coffyn (no pun intended) as they attempted daring test flights over Canada and Belle Isle. With nightfall, the plane would be moored once more to the poles, waiting silently in the shadows until the next day’s flight. 

In time, the mooring poles’ function evolved from welcoming visitors to silently guarding the Alger’s mansion and waterside memories. Yet the mystery deepens: Where did these legendary mooring poles disappear to? 

Some say the lake itself claimed the poles, and that by 1930 the pair farthest from shore had already vanished, swallowed by waters. The last sighting of the remaining pair, the ones closest to the seawall, occurred before 1951, when a violent storm reportedly broke up the stone stairs and tossed them onto the bowling green. The poles were never seen again. 

Did these relics of the Alger legacy find their way to the lake’s hidden depths? When construction began on the Fries Auditorium in the late 1950s, the waters near the shore were filled with concrete and debris; perhaps, these last pieces of the Algers' Venetian dream lie entombed there. Or, like the Bronze Nymph recently unearthed from the river’s depths, perhaps the mooring poles still wait, buried beneath the lake’s shivering surface—a ghostly reminder of The Moorings, lost but watching, ever patient to resurface.