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.