Imagine if the Grand Canyon was called “Brad’s Big Hole” or if Niagara Falls was named “Nicole’s Splash Sploosh.” That’s essentially the situation here in Wisconsin, where the state’s true highest point isn’t Rib Mountain but rather something much humbler sounding.
And what if I told you Rib Mountain isn’t a friggin’ mountain at all, but rather a measly hill that just happens to abruptly emerge out of Wisconsin’s otherwise flat landscape? For decades, people thought it was the state’s highest point—until surveyors in the 1940s began poking around and realized something wasn’t quite adding up. By 1962, surveyor Leonid Risberg confirmed that the real top dog of Wisconsin elevation was Timm’s Hill, topping out at 1,951.5 feet. The land was once homesteaded by logger Timothy Gahan, who operated his camp on the 19-acre lake near the base of the hill (hence the name).
Timm’s Hill never once pretended to be a mountain. It confidently, modestly stuck with “hill.” It’s an honest hill, not a smarmy fraud like Rib Mountain.
With this hilltop history rattling around my head recently, there was only one thing to do: see it for myself and crush a can of Miller High Life in the highest of places. Like a goddamn Neil Armstrong no one wants or needs.
On a late-summer afternoon my wife and I cruised east of Tomahawk through endless woods. Minutes from the summit, I realized how unassuming the area was. The hill is barely visible from the road, the incline so gradual it hides itself. Rib Mountain may be a lower elevation, but at least it’s dramatic—flat as a pancake one second, shooting skyward the next.
Eventually, we saw the tower rising over a gorgeous little lake:
To our left was the only building we’d seen in 20 miles, a café decked out like a Swiss chalet, called Hill of Beans. We didn’t stop—my stomach was already juggling gas-station caffeine and a bag of SunChips. No need to test its limit on this day.
Unlike the grueling Rib Mountain hike (if you start at the bottom), Timm’s Hill is practically a drive-up. Park near the top and stroll an easy 200 yards to the observation tower.
From the ground, the view is modest. But at the top of the tower is a sweeping panorama of Wisconsin’s green quilted landscape:
That’s where I cracked the tallest tallboy of Miller High Life I could find. The can foamed over—was it the elevation? Or because I’d smuggled it in my wife’s “adventure purse” while it rattled all the way up? I’m blaming elevation and sticking to it. Either way, it tasted right. Never as good as from a bottle, but exactly the beer the moment deserved.
Halfway through, I noticed signs of past elevation enthusiasts. Shout out to S + R, who carved their love into the tower with a date of 1965. May your romance be as enduring as Miller High Life. If High Life has held up since 1903, so can you.
Strolling back down, we slipped our note into the mailbox stuffed with high-pointer check-ins. Rib Mountain may be taller in ego, but Timm’s Hill is taller in truth. My name now sits among the ranks of peak-baggers; though let’s be honest, this was less Everest, more “light jog after lunch of SunChips.” Still, Wisconsin’s highest point was an excellent spot for a Miller High Life toast.
P.S. Not sponsored by Miller High Life, though I would gladly accept a lifetime supply or cold hard cash. If a High Life rep is reading this, I’ll be waiting behind the abandoned Shopko next week Monday. I’ll be waiting for that briefcase of thank you cash.
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