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.