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.