The North Channel, 16 August 2013

Eagle Island, ~6 paddling miles from Spanish Ontario.

We drove from Leigh’s house in Maple City, Michigan to Spanish. Stayed last night at the Spanish River Inn. We arrived about 8:30 p and were up until 11:30 going through gear one more time. The night before completeness check seems to be an inevitability: the urge to pull everything out of the car, check it, and re-pack.

Memory: Arriving in Copper Harbor at about the same time of day in June, the end of a long sunny summer day. The Ferry Queen rocked almost imperceptibly against her moorings, silhouetted against a still-blue evening sky. In the hotel room, I pulled granola bars from boxes, stuffed them into gallon zip-lock bags; mac-and-cheese from its box into a bag, marking proportions and times on the bag with a sharpie. Why did I wait so late and still assume that it would all get done in time?

Lesson for today: 1 nautical mile = 1 minute of latitude. That is why there is no scale on the charts.

This moment: lying in my hammock strung between 2 pine trees. I broke dead branches to make aclear space. The sky is blue, white clouds rimming the horizon. Sounds: very faint rustle of leaves in a light breeze, the canvas of my Tilly hat rubbing against the nylon string of the hammock. The dive bomb buzz of an insect for a moment and then it is gone. The low, barely-audible throb of a boat engine, a whisper of water on a sand beach. Warm sun, cool air, wet panties, bare legs.

Tasks for today: Britches on the boat, line to fasten day hatch cover, laundry.

Remembrances Four Months Later

January 16, 2008

Austin, Texas

Four months after leaving, I miss the Island as if she were a distant lover. In noisy downtown Austin, I particularly miss the water sounds: the dull roar of surf breaking on outer reefs, its gentle lap on protected shores; the whistle of water as it drains through beach gravel between each wave; the random patter of rain drops on a quiet Duncan Bay; my paddle still so as not to mar their gentle whisper.

I miss fifteen different crazy loon calls, the chirp of the chickadee, the warning call of jays, the warblers twitter, raven’s caw, the crazy cackle of a flock of sandhill cranes and the organizing trumpets of geese as they fly in a ragged vee on their way south. I miss the clang of the bell buoy in Middle Island Passage, ringing in all but the calmest seas. Cricket chirps. The rustle of aspen leaves in the lightest breeze and the deepening sound as the wind picks up and more trees begin talking.

I miss the sound of the short-lived curl of boat wake on a beach; the thrumming of diesel engines on the freighter ~ audible for an hour over a calm sea. And the special rumble of the Voyager II as it spins its thread of mail and island news. The absolute silence of the red fox as she makes a morning tour through the camp in search of available loot. Squirrel chatter, human voices, footsteps on the trail. The rustle of a mouse on the shelter screen, desperate for a taste of chocolate brownie that she smells cooking.

I’ve carried this trip and the Island with me during the four months and six days since I returned to this shore. I live my life more slowly and largely. I wait to make commitments until I feel that pull in my belly that I felt when I turned out of Rock Harbor headed to Chippewa. I watch my head spin a thousand stories about how things might be and remember that they have little relationship to what is or will be. I dream of the next trip.

Wheel of Fortune

September 10, 2007

Last Day

Three-Mile

As I contemplated organizing and packing my gear for the last time, I wondered whether I would take the protected route through Rock Harbor to the marina, or cross and take one last open run on the Superior side of the islands. I found myself peculiarly cautious. The clouds were dark, but the sea was glass flat. Although my mind said that the exposed paddle would be safe enough, I had spun the wheel of fortune a hundred times and watched it land on my number. I was deeply reluctant to tempt the fates with one more spin.

The basis for my uneasy premonition was clear when I arrived at the marina. Forecasters were predicting the first fall storm, with seas building to 20 feet over the next 24 hours. Voyager II passengers booked for the following day were brought in from their last night’s camp and placed on the boat returning to Grand Portage that afternoon. Every small craft on the entire Lake was headed for protected berth. I was headed home.

Preparing to Leave

September 9, 2007

Day Twenty One

Three-Mile

It was gray and wet with a cool wind from the east. The seas were calming, but I didn’t feel tempted to paddle in the cold. I was wearing all of my layers: my thickest underwear, pants, shirt, fleece and rain jacket, a fleece balaclava around my neck. If I stirred farther than a tour of the campground today, I would head up the Mount Franklin and Tobin Harbor Trails.

This was my last full day on the island. The trip had been everything I hoped it would be in solitude, self-discovery, self acceptance, independence, and getting to know my own mind.

I found out how much I enjoy being with just myself. I had only spent two of the last twenty one days with other people: yesterday with Jim; and the afternoon before with Jim, Patti, and Nile. Other days I’d shared a meal with other travelers, mostly solitaries or pairs. Five of us shared an evening on the dock on West Caribou. More often, though, my meals had been alone. All of the decisions, the coming and the going, had been mine alone.

Later.

Despite the warm sun on the grass beside this beaver pond, I felt my soul preparing to leave. She waited long on this island, lingering in love.
I could barely remember why I was going home. Vague memories of a daughter, a son, Lisa. Work that might make some difference. A black cushion on a black mat in a dimly lit room growing light with the dawn. Elizabeth. In less than twenty four hours I would watch the island sink behind the horizon from the rear deck of the Queen and wonder if I’d see her again. Regardless of how many days I spent on this island, to know even one day here is a perfect and miraculous gift.

Deep Stillness

September 8, 2007

Day Twenty

Three-Mile

There was a deep stillness on the island; barely a ripple on the water and the merest whisper of breeze to rustle the aspen. I had seen the first honking lines of black dots sweeping north to south across the sky; geese heading south on a north wind. My friend Jim, last of the warm and brief friendships that have graced this trip, left on the Ranger III this morning.

My body was tired. The seven mile paddle from the Tobin Harbor seaplane dock around Stoville Point to Three-Mile seemed long. I had eaten twice as much as on any other day and taken a nap.

The shelter mouse I saw a week ago paid a visit. She knew the score when it comes to missed cracker crumbs, bits of cheese and summer sausage fat remaining on these rocks from lunch.