Weather Predictions

September 6, 2007

Day Eighteen

Crystal Cove

Afternoon found the four of us hanging out on the dock in Crystal Cove. Patti and I were casting; enjoying the feel of the flinging rod and watching the lure fly through the air and then drift into the clear depths. Ranger Carl motored up and we paused to watch the best boatman on the island and one really nice ranger gracefully dock. Patti grabbed the lines and made them fast.

Ranger Carl talked to Nile about restoring the weathering buildings that were once a family resort. The porch, and all of the grace of its architecture, had fallen off the main house last winter.

We struggled with the question of why these log cabins should be preserved. None of us could embrace the idea of a tourist attraction on this quiet cove. But we do want to come each year and peek through lace-curtained windows at the treadle-powered sewing machine in its case of golden oak. We want to walk round back of the house and inspect the ten abandoned washing machines with their hand-agitated tub and hand-cranked ringers bearing witness both to the progression of technology and to a different way of living.

During a lull in our conversation on island history and preservation, I ask Ranger Carl a common island question: “What is the weather forecast for tomorrow?” Rangers have powerful radio receivers and the ability to recharge them each evening. It is part of their job to be current on weather predictions.

“Building to gale force winds out of the northwest with a small craft warning by tomorrow afternoon.”

I was stunned. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked hopefully.

Jim and I had agreed that morning that we would buddy up to round Blake Point tomorrow. He was scheduled for an early departure on the Ranger the day after. My ferry wouldn’t leave until two days later. But if the weather should turn too risky to round Blake, I’d be stuck until it shifted. The water taxi that might otherwise give me a ride wouldn’t come if the seas were too big for me. Jim had rigged a yoke for his kayak and was prepared to do the Duncan Bay portage by himself. But for me to scamper up the steep trail with a 75-pound boat balanced on my shoulder was out of the question. Even together it would be mean ten miles of walking to get our boats and all of the gear to the Tobin Harbor beach. But we could do it.

To prove that he was not making up a weather prediction simply to give us a thrill, Ranger Carl turned on his radio and we listened to “small craft advisory and gale-force winds”, spoken with the Quebecois accent of the Canadian weather predictions, considered to be most reliable for this north side of the island.

Paddling Together

September 6, 2007

Day Eighteen

Captain Kidd

After morning chores, yoga, breakfast, meditation, and an entry in this journal, I felt replete with the completion of my solitary enterprises. Niles, Patti, and Jim were sitting on the beach fifty feet from my perch on the gravel. I strolled across the gravel, sprawled beside them, and continued our conversation of yesterday afternoon.

But after a few minutes I was ready to get onto the water. We agreed to meet at the beach in ten, prepared to launch to one several possible destinations: Crystal Cove, Captain Kidd’s Island, or the arch in Amygdaloid. I’d never been to Captain Kidd’s Island; never been willing to risk the short exposed paddle with children.

Jim, Patti, and Niles humored me. We crossed Amygdaloid Channel. Wind was out of the west, providing a thrilling bounce as waves broke on the the shoals in the gap between Captain Kidd and Amygdaloid. We rounded to paddle the exposed route along the northwest side of Kidd.

Each boat found its sweet spot in the clapotis off the cliffs. After riding the waves, we slipped onto the silent water of the harbor wedged into Captain Kidd's northeast tip. We made our boats fast and set about to explore the wooden structures, pumps, generators, and folk art of the family that has inhabited this island since before Isle Royale became a park. Niles refastened a screen that had come loose. We hiked a narrow trail along the ridge to the white wooden bench at the lookout.

Arriving at Belle

September 5, 2007
Day Seventeen
Belle Island

By the time I landed on Belle Island, fog had vanished in sparkling sunlight and the air was balmy. No sooner had I run the bow of my boat onto the shore of Robinson Harbor, but I filled the water bag and laid it out on dark beach rocks to warm. The shower at Rock Harbor two days ago had been forgone to round of Blake; my hair hadn't been washed since six days ago at Chippewa.

With water barely warm and sunlight still on the beach to dry my hair, I headed up old stone steps to the ridge a hundred yards above the campground. Along with water, I carried shampoo, clean underwear and a towel. No sooner had I begun soaping when I caught a glimpse of Jim’s shirt on the point and headed my way. “Jim, if you interrupt my shower, I will kill you.” Without room to misinterpret my desire for privacy, Jim turned onto another trail back to camp.

Later I sat on the gravel bench that constitutes Belle Island’s beach while Jim entertained me with story-telling ranging from his dire experience rounding Blake (include the gruesome detail of throwing up when he finally reached a rock ledge where he could, just barely, land his boat) to the way that fish rise on the shelves around Belle and Amygdaloid when the weather turns cooler.

We were alone on Belle. Everyone there when I landed had left on the Voyager II an hour ago. Next to arrive after us were two paddlers in a double. We watched a middle-aged man give instructions to his partner on unloading gear and ask the location of mesh nets to contain a hundred small items that pack more easily into corners than a single large bag. Jim and I agreed that we would never trade captaincy of our single boats for one shared.

Very quickly, however, their gear was sorted, toted, and stowed beneath a tarp at their campsite. Niles and Patti strolled down, sprawled beside us in their ankle-length and sleeveless wetsuits, and joined Jim's and my wide-ranging conversation. Patti described to Niles why we are more interested in the Buddha and the Sangha than the Darhma. She illustrated for us the limited social scope of Bayport, Minnesota, the small town where she and Niles live; how she’d lived there for fifty years and had her first conversation with a lesbian woman a couple of years ago.

After enough conversation to know that we were sympathetic souls, Niles proposed that the four of us paddle together tomorrow. Woe baby! It was one thing to engage in water-side conversation where I could leave at any moment. It was another thing entirely to offer an entire day of solitariness on the altar of companionship. I was willing to consider the invitation, but I also immediately felt my limits.

“In this moment, I have no idea whether I would like to paddle with you tomorrow. As soon as I do know, I will tell you. Would you want to leave early?” For twenty days I had been submerged in the practice of being in the moment; of watching my mind play with future choices while remaining detached from each of them. This was my first chance to practice this lesson in the context of humans: to let a human proposition be like wind behind my left ear; a chirp of birdsong; the breeze ruffling hair on my left forearm.

First Time Around Locke Point

September 5, 2007

Day Seventeen

Belle Island

I left Duncan Narrows for Belle with fog and a choice between the protected route down Duncan Bay and two short portages, or an exposed route around Locke Point. Duncan Bay was calm and the weather forecasted no more than 3-foot waves. I headed east for Locke.

As I approached the point, I could see a thin line of rocks and a mish-mash of curling waves over shoals extending several hundred feet into the lake. The safest route would be to round past those curls. I headed out with eyes glued to the waves; simultaneously assessing which of them might dump me and where there was the break that I needed to get through.

After several minutes of paddling and still no opening, waves were getting steeper and more chaotic. I decided to bag it. I was outside parameters of the promises I’d made to Geneva and Lisa to be careful, to not paddle anything I wasn’t confident I could handle. I came about. Now my kayak was facing what should have been the shoreline of Duncan Bay and I saw nothing but water. Land in every direction had vanished into the fog.

I paddle shorelines, not a limitless horizon. I navigate by constantly comparing my charts with visible landforms. Focused on the wave pattern and anxious, I’d paid no attention to compass readings heading out. Now I was confused as to a compass reading to bring me back. The best I could do was to take a heading from the set of waves in a confused sea and paddle in a direction I hoped would put me back into Duncan Bay.

Within a few paddle strokes, and to my great relief, the line of rocks emerged from the mist. I noticed that landing conditions on the rocks were not bad; wave energy was breaking out on the shoals. Furthermore, water on the other side of the rocks, in the direction I wanted to go, was a mill pond.

I didn’t as much make my way round Locke Point as over it. I dragged my boat across a couple of black rocks, their flat, smooth tops no more than four inches above the water. Now I was floating in calm seas and headed toward Hill Point. If these sea conditions held, I would round that point and paddle to Belle Island behind the protection of Green and Dean Islands. If conditions worsened, I could pull back into Five Finger Bay and take the short portage into Lane Cove. The paddle from Lane Cove to Belle Island would be protected. I was home free!

The Portage without a Boat

September 4, 2007

Day Sixteen

Mount Franklin Trail

The Duncan Portage trail is bordered by tall boulders and lined with deep moss. The trees are taller and the world is wetter on this northwest facing shore, compared to the island on the other side. When I hiked this trail nine years ago, with one end of a 95-pound boat on my shoulder, I missed that beauty.

The wind shifted early this morning from west to east. What was blistering heat two days ago is now a chill. I am wearing fleece pants and polypropylene underwear beneath my nylon camp shirt, tucked down behind a rock with the sun warm on my skin. In this season there are few southerners on the Island. We are less confident of surviving the cold. Visitors from Michigan and Minnesota dominate, sporting an amazing array of jackets; pulling fluffy down things out of nylon bags scarcely larger than thimbles.

To Those Who Sent Mail

Dear Family and Friends:

For eighteen hours after they were placed into my hand, your letters remained unread. Outside my own mind, they are all that I have of you here. I have been savoring mystery and anticipating knowing some bit of your life and happenings in the larger world.

At the junction of the Mount Franklin Trail and the Duncan Bay Portage I pulled them out to read one. Once I opened the first letter, I devoured them all. As if they were opium-laced chocolate, I could not stop myself. Two of you wrote as you packed for Vermont Witch Camp, which is now over. Another two of you were were preparing for trips to California and a fifth packing for a trip to Acadia National Park. You wrote of wolves, of birds, and of friends over for dinner. If Bush has been impeached or begun another war, no one bothered to mention it.

Thank you for the generosity of your time, your thoughts, and the gifts. Thank you sharing a slice of your life and of the outer world.

With much love,

Juniper Lauren

Not Completely Asocial

September 4, 2007

Day Sixteen

Duncan Narrows

Last night I pulled onto the beach beside the Duncan Narrows dock and began hauling gear from my boat into the available shelter. The single site occupant, evident by the presence of only a single kayak on the beack, strolled round my cabin to offer a hand. I apologized for intruding in what would have otherwise been his solitary camp. “That’s OK,” he said.”You are headed west and I am headed east.”

“No, I am not going anywhere. I am staying here tonight.”

“I mean our cabins are back to back. They face opposite directions.”

He disappeared behind the wall of my cabin and I neither saw him nor heard a single human sound for the rest of the night. The next morning I carried my cup of warm oatmeal to his picnic table to demonstrate that I am not completely asocial. I learned that the man's name is Jim Yazvec from Minneapolis. I admired his paddling library, 6 heavy tomes on hydrogeology, sand, beaches, each wrapped in a gallon ziplock bag. When I told him that I felt I was alone at the campsite last night, he said “That is the best compliment you could give me.” Solitary travelers understand.

This morning the air is still. With an early rise I’d have safely rounded Blake. Still, I prefer the solitude of this campsite compared to a night in Rock Harbor and a rousing game of Island Jeopardy with park rangers and my fellow visitors in the auditorium. Two foxes ran by my camp several times this morning. I finally managed to have my camera in hand for this photograph.

I’ve slathered Arnica cream on my hips, back, shoulders, forearms, and sternum. My body is unfamiliar; harder all over, but the bulge in my forearm below my elbow is particularly strange. I’ve released a layer of fat and processed the toxins. Beneath is deeper level of physical wellness. Mergansers amuse my morning yoga.

I’ve packed the food away and am gathering what I need for a day paddle and hike. I’ll take the letters with me; savor them over the day. They are still unread, except Ruby’s. Hers ended up in my shirt pocket, after the dry bag was stowed and the hatch sealed. I read it before setting out; before water could wash the words away.

Jim got onto the water slightly ahead of me today. He is headed down Duncan Bay and will take the portages toward Belle Island. I'll leave for Belle tomorrow.

Rounding Blake

3 September 2007 Day Fifteen

Duncan Narrows

I awoke this morning to a rose-colored dawn over the thin thread of islands that separates the Three-Mile campsite from the open waters of Lake Superior. It was hard to leave my favorite spot, but eventually the boat was loaded and I was out of excuses for staying.

The wind was still and the water flat. After a good morning of paddling around the outer islands, I arrived at Rock with a business plan. First a load of laundry: critical path to a clean body, washed hair, spotless clothing and a hot, fresh hamburger at the grill. Once the laundry was started, I swept out the shelter, opened my sleeping bag, inflated the pad, hung water and kitchen bags, and headed to the marina with hopes of acquiring four ounces to top off my bottle from the fuel abandoned by seaplane passengers on the way home. Sure enough, the marina has two almost-full gallons of Coleman from which I was welcome to scavenge.

On the circuit between the marina, the laundry, and the Park Service Visitor’s Center, I stopped to scan the five-day lake forecast posted each morning at 8:00 a.m. Today: waves one to two feet, subsiding to calm by midnight. Tomorrow: Building to three to five feet. Wednesday and Thursday: four to six feet. Shit! I’d planned to leave Rock tomorrow and hang out at Merritt Lane for the right conditions to round Blake. If this forecast holds true, I’d either round the point tonight or sit right here in the harbor for four more days.

Seriously distressed, I decided to forgo my shower, grab the maps, and think things through over a burger. It is eight miles from here to Duncan Narrows, the closest campsite on the other side. I’ve paddled at least four miles this morning. It is late afternoon, but if I left immediately I would miss the Voyager II. I had plenty of supplies without my box, but I didn't want to miss any letters from home. By the time the hamburger was eaten and every potato chip crumb licked from the brown melmac plate my mind was made up. I’d take Blake Point in a calm sea, tired and in the dark rather than risk it with waves. But I'd wait to start until after the Voyager docked.

With a course set, I ran back to my shelter to repack my pad and sleeping bag, stow the rest of my gear, and throw everything into a Park Service trundle cart for one trip to my boat on the beach in front of the dining hall. I had just reached the beach when I heard Voyager II’s horn signaling her approach into the harbor. With a calm sea, Captain Mike had made good time and was early. I dropped my gear and ran down to the dock.

As the lines were made fast, Mike assured me that he had my box and several other packages as well. I stood on the dock amazed as he handed out letter after letter, box after box. One envelop was decorated with Victorian stickers of angels and flower-strewn hearts. Robbie, six-year-old staff in my home office, had decorated my cardboard box with crayon pictures.

Aware of the sun hanging low over the island, I sorted through cookies, noodles, chocolate, nuts, extra bags of granola, freeze dried dinners, bees wax candles, extra batteries and back-up journals. I grabbed up the stamped envelope I’d packed to return what I no longer needed and quickly stuffed it full. I stowed everything that would fit into the boat and handed out extra food on the dock. Captain Mike was happy with a bag of cashews.

If I died on Blake Point, it would be a shame not to have read the letters. But I dared not take time in that moment. I wanted to savor them, not devour them in a single gulp, with an anxious mind on the journey ahead. I carefully stowed the letters in a dry bag with my journal, books, and bottle of fountain pen ink. I tucked into my spray skirt, grabbed the paddle and headed out.

With eight miles to go, there was no point in pushing hard. I had a nice tail wind and a following sea. When Blake came into view, I knew I was close to half way. It was gently raining. Besides the squirrelly seas rounding the point, Blake’s challenge is the Palisades on the far side. Steep cliffs plunge ninety feet into the water at their base and offer no option for landing. On six previous trips, with children in tow, these Palisades have been the one piece of the northeast end of the island that I've not paddled.

I pulled my boat onto the last rock that afforded landing and climbed out to pee. I added layers of warm fleece, and topped them with a waterproof paddling jacket and pants. With an energy bar in the pocket of my spray skirt and a camel-style water bottle on the boat deck, I was set for a long paddle without a break.

As I pulled off the rock, I noticed a freighter looming ever larger behind me. Ranger Greg had warned me of their wake as they moved between Blake Point and Passage Island, but I could not afford to wait. I’d either get through the gap before the boat arrived, or deal with the wake.

Rounding the point, the seas were chaotic, as I’d been warned. But just past, I had the shelter of the lee side. On a calm sea I enjoyed a stunningly beautiful paddle beneath the towering cliffs. My paddle up Duncan Bay was accompanied by the gentle whisper of raindrops on still water, lingering for one glittering moment on the surface before falling into the larger lake.

It was raining as I pulled up to the Narrows campground. I unloaded my gear and am now snug in my shelter. I will not use more light for writing. The letters will wait for daylight. There is only another solo paddler here. The only sounds for the last hour have been the rain, a cricket, and a loon.

No Breath of Wind

3 September 2007 Day Fifteen

Three-Mile

There is no breath of wind and this morning the lake is glass. I’ll paddle the outer islands to Rock. Today is the day that I touch what passes for civilization on this wilderness island: a place where money can be spent and letters mailed. I am wickedly eager for the laundry machine and at the same time hesitant to leave this favorite spot.

Body note: I paddled hard yesterday against the headwind. The pain in my sternum is definitely about paddling and the hips are more sore than usual.

Another Sand Bath

2 September 2007 Day Fourteen

Mott Island

I’ve just completed my beloved sand bath. It is Superior water, but in this cove it is warm. There is a wild wind blowing this afternoon. I dare not paddle with it for fear that I could not paddle against it. I struggled mightily to cross the harbor and make a small headway west. Heading back, I’ll ferry across the harbor to Starvation Point and then ride the wind east to Three-Mile.

Dinner Companions

2 September 2007 Day Fourteen

Daisy Farm

Daisy Farm was buzzing with activity last night. Smoke was spotted in the afternoon on the south shore of Lake Richie. The location is a backwoods area virtually inaccessible to hikers. Presumably the fire was started by lightening from a rainless storm two nights ago. Park rules suggest that a fire started naturally should burn, replenishing areas of browse for moose and returning overgrown underbrush to a more natural and balanced state. Nevertheless, the Park Director has returned by seaplane from his Labor Day weekend trip to Houghton and called for the fire to be extinguished. With no significant rain in months, the island is a tinderbox.

Candy and Rolf Peterson paddled across the harbor to present their regular Wednesday evening lecture on the island moose and wolf dynamics. As we sat on the dock waiting for the lecture to begin, evacuated campers from every campsite between Daisy Farm and Chippewa arrived on Park Service boats. With the campers disgorged, the boats returned down harbor, carrying Rangers and all available shovels, pulaskis, pumps and water hoses to work on the fire through the night.

Long after dark, Tracy and Derek from St. Paul stood with me at the intersection of the Rock Harbor and Mount Ojibway trails. A young Chinese man and woman walked up and asked us: “Where is the Rock Harbor trail?”

The directions were easy enough; we were standing on the trail. But something about their manner gave me pause. “Where are you headed?” “Three-Mile Campground.” Three-mile is 4.2 miles along a rocky, poorly-marked path. All sunlight had vanished from the sky and the moon would not rise for hours yet.

“I don’t think it would be wise to try to walk that trail in the dark. Let’s find the Ranger. Perhaps you can stay in his cabin until morning.” We walked the narrow trail, but found neither the cabin nor the Ranger, who was five miles down the Island working on the fire. The three of us returned to my shelter by the light of their single torch and my headlamp on the trail.

With oriental politeness, my new friend, Guofu, expressed concern about sharing my water and food. I insisted; being well-equipped for guests. From my own full water bags I fill their long-empty 10-ounce grocery store bottle. Guofu drained the bottle and I filled it again. Eager for my own missed dinner and delighted to have company, I put water to boil for Mandarine Orange tea and layed out crackers, cheese, summer sausage, wasabi peas, walnuts and dried apricots on a purple bandana. Guofu handed his pocket knife to the woman, suggesting that she help me cut the meat. From their own plastic grocery bag, they provided deliciously moist, home-made pork jerky and my favorite butter cookies with tiny crystals of sugar sprinkled across the top.

They stayed in my shelter until sometime in the early morning. The sky was beginning to brighten, but the land was still dark when they left by flashlight. I encouraged them to wait for a bit more light, but they were concerned about two friends waiting for them at the Three-Mile campsite. I imagine the friends’ night was more uncomfortable than ours, wondering about the fate of my companions. No doubt a happy reunion is happening about now.

Mergansers, Wolf, and Sierra Club Volunteers

1 September 2007

Moskey Basin

Day Thirteen

The night was cold and this morning there is not a breath of wind. Water that was seething yesterday with waves and whitecaps is glass. Mist is as high as the ridge behind the south shore. In this stillness the whirr of bird wings is clearly audible.

From the rock in front of my shelter last night I watched a squadron of twenty Mergansers sweep into and out of the cove; their heads mostly under water. The wild and unmistakable call of a wolf rolled into my ears from the southwest. Three Sierra Club volunteers, out of a group of 10 arriving on the island today, joined me on the rock for several minutes of conversation. I watched their excited, talkative energy like I watched the Mergansers: as if they were an alien species.

Given Over Again

31 August 2007

Day Twelve

I am camped at Moskey Basin at the western end of Rock Harbor. The wind is strong out of the east and cold in a way that it hasn’t yet been. Paddling would require battling that wind. I have chosen to hike the trail to Daisy Farm campground.

Daisy Farm, on the shore at the intersection of four the main trails, usually bustles with backpackers, paddlers, boats on the dock, miscellaneous researchers and park staff. Arriving there today, I hear voices of two pre-teen girls wading from the dock. Two children can make a campground seem crowded. When the family and two men I passed earlier on the trail shoulder their packs to head for Rock Harbor and the sea plane that will carry them back to Houghton, however, I am the only person in the camp. The park is emptying of people like the last grains of sand from an hour glass. I’ve imagined being the last person on the island, but this experience resonates deeply.

Personal insanity has hit me today like that headwind. Two days ago I was confident, feeling my body strong and healthy in a new way, proud of doing this trip completely by myself. Today I am plagued by self-doubt and deflation. Part of these emotions is low blood sugar. I have no interest in the lunch of flat bread, cheese and summer sausage that lives in the yellow deck bag on my shoulder. I am spontaneously fasting. At the end of the seven-mile hike from Moskey to Daisy I am light-headed. Walking requires the same careful attention as the trip itself; but trees, the trail, the sound of bird calls all have an altered clarity. I am both mindful and given over to desire ~ against my better judgment.

Fresh Masa

29 August 2007 Day Ten

While pumping water from a ledge extending 50 feet into Chippewa Harbor, I break my two-day silence to greet a fellow traveler. I am surprised to learn that we share the same home town: El Paso, Texas. Rarely do I meet anyone on the island from the south, never mind the desert. Each of us made our way from a world of sand and creosote, Mexican and chilis to this cool, verdant boreal forest. No one born here could appreciate its magic as we do. I offer my best treasure to the only person I’ll meet likely to love it as much as I, a fresh masa tortilla to supplement a freeze-dried dinner.

The moon is one day past full and nevertheless rises perfectly over the mouth of Chippewa Harbor. We spend the evening on the water-pumping rocks, mesmerized by the golden orb and its dancing reflection. Long past dark, but not terribly late, I return to my shelter for sleep. Tomorrow is a moving day. I must wake early and be strong for the paddle on an exposed coast.

29 August 2007 Day Ten

Chippewa Harbor to Lake Richie Trail

It rained last night and the sun rose into a cloudless sky. I am lying on a boardwalk through the marsh. With my yellow deck bag as a pillow, I am in a position to effortlessly watch three different species of warblers, dragon flies and two woodpeckers obligingly twurtle, chirp, and fly into the branches directly overhead. A blue jay arrives to find out what the fuss is about. This simple beauty is the greatest blessing and most lovely moment of my life.

I want my ashes sprinkled here, as if my ashes being here would allow me to hold on to what I loved best; allow me to hold onto a cooling breeze; bare rock and three-inch deep moss. The sound of wind as it approaches and then moves on; waves of wind separated by stillness. Holding on is illusion; the truth and the preciousness is that I must move on. Even if I could stay, the sun would move, the wind would change, this verdant green would transform to a chilling white.

P.S. Straightening the shelter this morning, the headlamp was on the flood by my sleeping bag.

Given Over Completely

28 August 2007, Day Nine

Chippewa Harbor

Today I gave myself completely to the lake. Waves were level with the top of my head ~ about a meter. I easily navigated the swells, but kept a continuous watch for reefs or shoals where they steepen or break. My boat finds the place it wants to be, today quite far from the shore. There is no question that any difficulty or capsize would be more easily dealt with in deep water than attempting to land.

I paddled 10 miles with only a short break in Blueberry Cove. When paddling manageable conditions along exposed shore, I want to arrive at protected water before conditions change. I did NOT want to give today's head wind time to build. Something shifted deep in me today with the paddling of those big waves. Death, for better or worse, has taken a step back. I am more confident.

(Later) Sitting zazen, my body continues to pulse with the rhythm of the waves: the sense of lifting and then settling. With a soft gaze the wood floor flows gently like water. Wrapped in a veil of solitariness, I speak with no one all day. A week into the trip, I imagine what minimal clothing I will wear when I do one load of laundry at Rock on day 14, since I can’t sit naked while everything gets clean

My back is stronger, it more easily loads and unloads about 50 pounds of gear plus the 50-pound boat. But I still get caught by a sharp twang if I am inattentive. My right shoulder has been slightly sore for the last few days. I baby it: don’t carry with that side; and rub it with Trameel.

(Later still) I am writing this by flashlight, which is humorous or sad or ironic. I’ve been careful to neither read nor write after dark to conserve batteries. Tonight I find, or rather do not find either the precious light or the batteries. Seems I’ve left them at the last shelter at Malone Bay. Most upsetting. But for Ronnie throwing this extra light in my bag I would be in a sad and slightly dangerous way. On this rocky ground even a few steps from the shelter at night risks a twisted ankle. So tonight I am face-to-face with both my vulnerability and imperfection in a world that cares little whether I live or die. I find it easier to have faith in a loving God when my life depends less on that love.

(Photo Note: This is the same shore, but on a calm day. Today the paddling requires too much attention to risk moving my hands for even one quick photograph.)

Exfoliation

27 August, Day Eight

Siskiwit Lake

I set out this morning to make a 14-mile round-trip trek to Ishpeming tower. But I started late and eventually realized that desire to achieve my goal was replacing everything of beauty with anxious hurry. I traded my ridge-top quest for a path to the lakeshore and an exfoliating bath. I’d pay $100 at a spa for the feel of my skin following a vigorous rub of fine, clean sand and a bracing rinse in this chilly lake.

This question comes to my head: what is my life’s purpose and how does being here on the island serve that purpose? I could make up something, but truthfully I’ve no idea of the answer. With that great insight, it is time for lunch: summer sausage and cheese on crackers!

(Later) Now that my belly is full, I’ve more insight into how this journey serves me. I am learning to be with myself. I am learning both the practice and the value of slowness; to live outside of hours and minutes. I have days, nights at different campgrounds; the Voyager II schedule around the island. I have three shorter time markers: the lightening sky at dawn; the position of the sun when there is enough daylight for dinner and evening camp chores; and darkness, when I crawl into my sleeping bag for the leisurely onset of sleep.

An Almost Full Moon

26 August, Day Seven

Malone Bay

An almost full moon has risen. There is still substantial twilight in the sky, although the Menagerie Island lighthouse tower has become a dark silhouette, no longer lit by the setting sun. I have been watching carefully for the first lighthouse flash; it flashes every 6 seconds across the bay from sunset until dawn. I can see it from my sleeping bag; an embodiment of generations of isolation and attentiveness for the purpose of guiding ships to safety. I have never slept better.

I myself am a small ship – one with a motivated engine. The breeze seems to be picking up and shifting to the south. Like all sailors whose lives depend on the direction and strength of wind, I am acutely aware of changes.

Sea state is an on-going occupation of my imagination; and definitely scarier when I am on shore. I imagine huge waves, capsize, and impossible landings. On the water I know that conditions are within my ability. On exposed water I keep three things at hand: negligible probably of capsize; high probability of re-entry; and continuous assessment of potential landing options. I also start early, pay careful attention to food and hydration, and stop before exhaustion.

This is the time for last minute tasks requiring light. The canteen is full and by my pillow. I’ve arranged extra clothing to pad my hips against the wooden shelter floor. I am extremely pleased to have found the crystallized ginger, my favorite treat before brushing my teeth and bed.

Habits of the Mind

25 August, Day Six

Malone Bay

I am sprawled on the shelter floor in panties and a tank top. I made the 10 miles this morning from Chippewa Harbor in calm seas and a north wind in my face only at the end. Lake Superior is 18 inches lower than last year; I had to walk my boat between Ross and Hat Islands. Otherwise we were aground. I saw another bald eagle; that makes 3 days running. The loons regularly tell me that I am crazy, alone on this big water in that small boat. Today I suggested to them that they notice that the waves were perfectly calm.

I’ve definitely decided to forgo paddling to Windigo, though I feel I could. I’m getting all that I desire on this trip without working that hard. The agenda for the next few moments is a swim, prelude to a nap. There’s been no one here for the last 2 hours, but a backpacker has just shown up, so the swim will be with clothing.

(Later) I can run, but I can’t hide. Even here, where the choices are limited, my mind goes round and round about what to do. Shall I sit or write or cook or nap or do camp chores? How can it be that in a setting so different that the habits of the mind are so much the same?

Babies Practice

24 August, Day Five

Chippewa Harbor

I sit on the rocky shore at the west end of Chippewa Harbor, about 700 feet north of the Lake Whitlessey portage. There is breeze up the harbor from the east, but it is warm enough to swim. Sun and clouds play back and forth. This moment is not bright, a blessing to my eyes. I’ve had a leisurely morning of camp chores: hand wash, picking thimbleberries for pancakes, dumping chlorinated Rock Harbor water from my second bag and pumping fresh into both. I rinsed sprouts and put quiona to soak.

These are long days of aloneness, a monk’s existence with time for attention to each detail. Sometimes the freedom to choose weighs heavily. In those moments I choose nothing, to sit, or to write. These are the sounds: a raven caw makes the most noise; wind rustles aspen leaves and pours down rock; gentle waves lap on shore. A gust of wind brings more trees into play. There is an airplane high overhead; a rare human-origin sound.

(Later) Meditating on the shore of Lake Whitlessey, my eyes closed against the bright sun on the water, I hear a sound to which my mind can assign no meaning. A distant aluminum canoe dragged across plastic? I can’t resist temptation to open my eyes and scan the lake to my right, expecting to see a paddling party. No humans, but 50-feet in front of me a mama loon swims beside two fluffy gray young ones. That ineffective high scraping sound is the babies working on their call. Mom blurts out an occasional clarion call to remind them how it goes.

Open Superior

23 August 2007, Day Four

Chippewa Harbor

I arose this morning at first light and began packing. An early start minimizes paddling against head wind; if the morning is still, it usually stays fairly calm until noon. Not that I think it matters much today. I am headed for Moskey Basin, deep within protected Rock Harbor.

As I cross Middle Island Passage, however, I notice waves gentling lapping on the shore. Where yesterday there was a distinct curl breaking around the north end of Dragon Island, this morning there is barely a ripple. Unconscious that I've made any decision, I watch my boat swing left toward open Superior water and the exposed shore.

I’ll just check out Conglomerate Bay. But some part of me knows where I am headed. My path across Conglomerate forgoes the interesting shoreline and heads toward the distant point. In the middle of the Bay I tuck behind a rock and scramble out for a cup of granola and the weather report. Perfect timing. As the Voyager passes I am protected from her wake. Two kayakers show up on the horizon and for a moment I hope that I’ll have company or even backup in the adventure ahead. But they turn and dive deep into the bay.

Do they know something I don’t? Don’t let stories in my mind take the place of what I see in the waves! But my hands are shaking as I pull the weather radio and breakfast out of the deck bag. The forecast is good – one foot waves at the center Superior buoy. I am riding swells on which I am stable and could self rescue. In this sea I can land along most of the shore. If I am ever to make a solo paddle to Chippewa, these conditions are ideal.

West Carribou Alone

21 August 2007, Day Two

West Caribou Island

There are ghosts at this shelter as well, but I am happier here than at Rock Harbor. Rock is a clash of worlds: lodge guests at $250 per day; yachts that cost more than the net worth of me plus my four closest friends; hikers just off the trail.

The fog settles and light dims. As the world quiets I realize that no one will be on this island tonight but me. There are no human sounds but mine. These are all the sounds I hear: the penetrating call of the loon and surf on the Superior beach. I can tell by the sound that the surf is calmer than at mid-day. I hear the scratch of the pen on this paper and the irregular clang of the bell buoy in Middle Island Passage. I hear the slow drip of water from the shelter roof onto the line of rock where the soil is worn and occasionally a pine cone falls on the roof. That is all. I could be the only person on the planet.

The brilliance of this trip is beginning to seep in. For 21 days I have escaped the clutches of civilization and its slave-master time. I've thrown out my planned itinerary. It served its purpose of allowing me the fantasy of being here when my body was still in Austin. Here my movement will be shaped by wind and wave, by rock and desire.

Stoll Trail

20 August 2007, Day One

Stoll Trail

My shadow grows long and still I press past the time I feel that I should prudently turn back. I am driven, like Heathcliff, by the hope of encountering ghosts of my beloveds. In my case the ghosts are two twelve-year-old girls dressed in bandanas and giddy laughter. We stopped to swim off Scoville Point on a warm July afternoon seven years ago.

Today is late August and I sense the difference in the light. The water is a deeper blue. Wind is strong out of the east, unimaginably flung by the power of Hurricane Dean, 2000 miles and half a continent south of here. I’ve not reached the place I’d hoped to and yet I am turning back. This trip is filled with goodbye and the awareness of death – knowing that I could live 40 more years and not step foot again on this trail that I love.

First Day

20 August 2007, Day One

Rock Harbor

I am here. Many emotions run through me, primarily fear. I’ve only cried once; it is the children. I was talking to a man waiting for the Queen with his daughter, about 14 years old, and two sons, maybe 10 and 12 years old. They have finished a backpacking trip. I explain something to them that, in this moment, they know better than me: how wonderful it is to be on the Island with children. And also how I miss mine, now grown and on their own, the sadness I feel to be here without Geneva.

My back is tender from lifting my boat twice today, to and part way from the ferry. I am proud to carry it on my shoulder and want to look strong. I reject Don Watson's offer to help until he says "Save your back."

Rock Harbor is quiet. It is late in the season. Gas prices keep motor boats on a distant shore. That’s a good thing, but the feeling here is eerie. The sky is blue through a light layer of clouds. Again I wonder if the season is too late for me.

Everyone arriving from the ferry listens to a short lecture on doing our part to keep this Island wild. Our ranger today is Karena. On an Island dominated by youthful testosterone Karena’s graying hair lifts my spirits. When I step into the Visitor’s Center to pick up the magic paper in a zip-lock plastic bag, that will claim my space on the island for the next 21 days, Ranger Karena checks me in. “How many people in your party?”

“One.”

“Solo-it’s the only way to really get to know the Island.” A thousand times during the next 21 days, times of both elation and self-doubt, I am going to replay these three sentences through my mind. I am not crazy for being here alone.

The Night Before

19 August 2007

King Copper Motel

Copper Harbor, Michigan

Why solo? Why the whole trip? In this moment I don’t know. The breezes are fresh and the ferry is delayed in her return. The sun is bright but not warm. I’ve noticed color in the leaves of the trees beside the narrow road from Houghton to this tip of the Keneewa Pennisula. Have I missed weather warm and stable enough to allow me to do this trip? People seem wider here, carrying an extra layer of fat. It may be too late for a trip to the island with my thin Texas blood. A dump in this wind would be cold and dangerous.

I am filled with doubts and tempted to give up the trip before I’ve begun. In my mind I review my equipment. A couple of my systems are not redundant. I’ve only one bottle of cooking fuel. Should I spill it, the island itself must become my backup. I could cook with wood. And I’ve only one fountain pen and bottle of ink.

Tonight I will carry my gear from the car into my room, review and repack. My ears ring with the stillness of this small community after three days of driving. My feet barely connect with the earth.

Where it All Began

This trip began eighteen years ago, on the sofa with my baby daughter, Geneva, in my arms and a paddling book in my hands. Through the stories I read, I crossed the Atlantic, circumnavigated the Big Island of Hawaii, floated the Yukon, or poked into Baffin Bay between Beluga whales and ice floes in a human-powered boat. When she turned one, I bought an Aquaterra Gemini – an open cockpit, double-seated, beamy plastic boat that weighed about 95 pounds. With fierce determination, I figured how to leverage an end of that boat to the roof of my Isuzu sedan and then twist and rock it into kayak saddles. Eamon sat in the front seat and Geneva between my legs.

Twice a week I’d gather the boat, life jackets, paddles, sponge, water, a plastic container with a new-age maple-syrup-sweetened version of cheerios, raisins, and walnuts, a mylar emergency blanket to tuck around us if things got cold, rainy, or windy. The list of essentials lived on the refrigerator door. I could be on my way with two children, completely rigged and that boat strapped to the car in 15 minutes.

It had to be that fast to fit into a life that included childcare, housework, my PhD research, consulting jobs to help ends meet, and political work to pass a citizen’s referendum to limit development in the Barton Springs watershed. I can’t tell you how I fit all of that into one life. But the list of paddling necessities on the refrigerator door and six hours on the lake every week was what kept me sane.

In 1991 David, Eamon, Geneva, and I made our first Isle Royale trip in late June. The Ferry Queen out of Copper Harbor dropped us at Rock. We made the short portage to Tobin Harbor, paddled across and began an attempt at the Duncan Portage.

What were we thinking? Well, the map says the portage is just a mile. How hard could it be? Hard! The trail climbs to the Greenstone Ridge, 178 feet above the level of the lake. We had two plastic seakayaks that weighed 75 and 95 pounds bare. In addition to the boats and the gear, Geneva, just two years old, also had to be carried. I didn’t get far with a baby on one hip and a kayak on the other shoulder.

We saw the biggest bull moose I’ve ever seen on the island from the boardwalk on that portage. He was about 20 feet in front of us with a rack that looked 10 feet from tip to tip. David still talks about how nonplussed Geneva and Eamon were at the sight of his magnificence. At two and six years old, you see a lot of things you’ve never seen before. You don’t know that a person might live their whole life and never see that again.

The afternoon faded and it became clear that we weren’t going to reach the Duncan Narrows Campground. We gave up the portage and turned back. Too tired to make it back to Rock, we spent the night illegally camped on a rock outcrop on the shore of Hidden Lake. In the dim light of a setting sun and gathering clouds, we watched a baby moose nursing Mom in the shallow water at the lake’s edge. It rained during the night, filling the rock bowl in which we’d pitched our tent. We woke to find the contents of the tent floating in 3 inches of water!

Never mind the water, we hiked toward Lookout Louise and saw a patch of 30 to 50 magenta lady slippers along the trail. I’d only ever seen 2 or 3 of these orchids and never more than one precious flower at a time. To see them again is the one reason that I’d come back to the Island in June, with its mosquitoes and black flies and before the thimbleberries ripen.

Along with the rain came a storm. We easily paddled the sheltered water of Tobin Harbor, but the waves in Rock were more than our vulnerable and inexperienced crew were going to take on. We spent the next 2 days gazing out across the surf in Rock Harbor from the ferry dock.

Finally the storm broke, the waves calmed, and we paddled a short hop to the Three-Mile Campground. As the sun came out, we sat on the rocks 20 feet above the water. Eamon and Geneva gathered long grass stems and wove them into my hair to create an odd headdress.

The same water that kept us stuck at the ferry dock for 2 days was now glass; so calm and inviting that we risked crossing the harbor and paddling on the Superior side of Mott Island. Any part of the Island with a direct lake exposure has a particular magic. On one side rock towers high above our heads and on the other there is just water to the distant horizon. Beneath my hull I can see the lake bottom 60 feet below.

Rock on these exposed shores carries a special energy that seems to me to be a residual of fierce winter storms, ice and pounding waves. I’ve never seen the Lake under those conditions except in my dreams. But I look at the towering cliffs, the deep and narrow cuts and I can feel in my skin the power of that Lake in winter.

It was just one afternoon, sitting on a rock, paddling that outer side of Mott. But an afternoon is plenty of time to fall in love. Never again would spring weather come to Austin without my dreaming of loading the boats and heading to the far north end of IH 35 and then a bit farther to the ferry dock. And never again would summer weather begin to turn to fall without my wishing that I could squeeze in just one more trip to the island before she is locked in winter’s ice.