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.