Melissa Hachkowski
Five years ago, when I first flew over Isle Royale in a Bear Skin Airline Special, the combination of aqua, green and pink rock reefs that surrounded the island caught my attention and engraved itself on my tripping slate as a trip to do, right behind the other four years of accumulated “must paddle locations.” After two foiled attempts at obtaining the Isle Royale National Park maps from the United States due to dilemmas with the map roll case at the border, it was clear that this trip had to be done solo. It was also clear that this was a big kids’ playground with many miles of marked trails for running, inland lakes to portage into, shipwrecks to snorkel on and of course the main reason of the trip: a nice big chunk of coastline to sink into my paddling rhythm on.
Travel dates need to be reserved well in advance for Isle Royale as it is the number one visited backcountry National Park in the United States. Two methods exist for the crossing to the island; transportation for yourself and your boat on a commercial shuttle or do a crossing. I opted for the safer option (a first in my life) of the shuttle; it was also the option, which meant Mom didn’t need to go on ulcer medication – again! I sat on the upper deck of the yacht en route, absorbing sun and chatting with other travellers of trips already done and added a few more to my list of must-sees.
My attempts at some shut eye, self absorbed sun tanning on the deck were interrupted by a huge looming shadow that didn’t seem to go away despite my feeble attempts to ignore it. Slowly, I forced myself to see what was intruding on my space. Ah – my first encounter with a park ranger! I’m sure he really was trying to be friendly with his welcome to Isle Royale, but I just didn’t get that warm fuzzy feeling with his greeting of, “I hear you are attempting to circumnavigate the island. Less than twenty percent of those who attempt it actually complete it. Where is the rest of your group?” I responded, “I’m a solo paddler.”
I’m not sure what you’d call his reaction other than a simultaneous combination of a head shake and a nod, not unlike the head rotations that your third grade Phys. Ed. teacher made the class do as warm ups. I might have cried my eyes out on the spot had my own parents not given me the same treatment every time I had headed out on a solo trip in the past. No one really understands the solo tripper except solo trippers themselves.
The shuttle arrived at Rock Harbour, site of numerous resorts built some sixty years ago, around 5:00 p.m. My original intentions were to paddle about 15 kilometres around the north end and find a decent site to camp, away from the populated area. However, the water was gorgeous and it insisted that I continue on since there were absolutely no other ripples on the glass-like surface. Without paying attention to time, I continued on into the Five Fingers area, at which point my second personality (a.k.a my stomach) spoke. The sun was still high, but being one not to argue with the more powerful boss within, I found a nice small beach to pull ashore and realized it was already 8:45 p.m.
The north shore of Isle Royale is the less travelled section of the park. This is without a doubt due to publications warning of 20- to 30-kilometre sections of unlandable rock cliffs. In actuality, I’d say there are ten-kilometre sections of rough landings; doable, but likely to cause damage to hulls in rough water. I found it rather amusing that the 80% who abandon their circumnavigation, usually near this point, end up portaging their boats up and across the island, back to the other side. The logic of that self-inflicted pain escapes me. The north shore proved to be uneventful. Few trails come out to this side of the park. The power boaters seemed to think this section was an ideal drag racing zone. Well, at least I got to surf a couple of waves on the trip!
I continued on around the island waiting for the all too familiar roar of waves coming in with approaching storm fronts. It never happened. The only consistent roar I heard was that of the daily visit from the park ranger demanding to see my permit. I made it into a game of “hide from the park ranger,” which I’m proud to say was quite easy, after I figured out the schedule! By the second full day of the trip, I had already completed two-thirds of the distance of my anticipated ten-day trip. So I decided to slow things considerably. Drifting into the seldom-visited Hay Bay at about seven in the morning, there were already two bull moose and a cow completing belly flops in the four foot deep water. I pulled up to the dock, tied off and was greeted by an otter that didn’t seem to mind me swimming in the water. It was entertainment at its best and soon a bald eagle circled the bay and perch began jumping. The whole experience was surreal to say the least. No animal, fish or bird seemed to mind my presence; and I lingered into the late afternoon. At one point, after collecting a cup full of wild strawberries, I decided to see how close I could paddle to a moose in order to get a good photograph. I paddled and drifted to within thirty metres without Bullwinkle acknowledging me. Needless to say, I chickened out of my own game before Bullwinkle did as little as bat an eyelash. The creek at the end of Hay Bay is deep enough for paddling about two kilometres upstream with minimal abuse to the hull. At this point, pull the kayak up on some rocks and river hike, ducking to avoid the overgrowth, and you’ll arrive at a beautiful pasture.
At this point, I had heard the legendary wolves howl twice, but had not seen them. I had also seen the site where a wolf evidently chased prey down a sandy beach resulting in a blood stained kill site. My intention of camping in Chippewa Harbour was to find the wolf pack known to frequent that area. I heard them again for the last time, but didn’t see them. I did however manage to wander aimlessly onto a trail that climbed directly to the highest point on the bordering mountain. The view of Lake Superior in all four directions was phenominal and I gawked for hours in the sun before noticing that the trail went further behind some twisted Jack Pines. This spot was one of two highlights on the trip. The view from the extended trail was from atop the ledge of a canyon wall, behind the mountain. I watched as first an Osprey and then other smaller birds flew between me and the top of the treeline, which was also below my elevation. It was nice to look down on the world from this priveledged vantagepoint and see a place that still remained unaltered by humans.
On the climb down, which I had marked with rock cairns, I chowed down on the season’s first blueberries. Just beyond this point, I noticed what looked like an overgrown apple orchard and similar pasture area. The apples from the trees were good. The wild rhubard in the orchard was zippy. But nothing compared to the wild strawberry patch I encountered and where I managed to pick more than enough fruit to bake a strawberry pie. This was the perfect desert to go with the potluck dinner of fresh lake trout, bread, fiddleheads and wild onions which I shared with two backpackers at the campfire. There were no leftovers. After dinner, the three of us wandered some more and found an old school house, no larger than fifteen square feet, one quarter of which was occupied no doubt by a wood stove. The remaining space was was filled with three school desks. (I think I’m teaching in the wrong era.)
The next few days were filled with exploratory hikes up rivers that led into beautiful cedar forests and inland lakes. It was on one of these aimless river-running hikes that I really began to like Isle Royale. About two kilometres upstream, in between two sets of 10-foot whitewater cascades, set amongst overhanging old growth cedars, at the base of terraced rock ledges was nature’s most perfectly created ten foot wide swirl pool. The electromagnetic gravitational pulling forcefield that this feature exerted on me was more than I could resist and I spent the rest of the afternoon amusing myself through a combination of body surfing manoeuvres over the rapids and sitting in the swirl pool.
By this point in the trip, the trail running had become a daily obsession; running through old growth forests does that. The north side of the island was cold in comparison to the south side. I went from paddling in 15°C highs to paddling in 33°C highs. The frigid lake was a welcome end to the daily runs. I had to entertain myself somehow as I hadn’t seen a single wave on the entire trip and I was now within 36 hours of boarding the shuttle home.
So, after my warm welome to the island, less-than-challenging circumnavigation, snorkling on shipwrecks and lunatic amounts of trail running, I learned to like Isle Royale. On a subsequent trip to the CPR Slip on the Canadian side of Lake Superior that month, a postcard tacked to one of it’s walls seemed to explain precisely my experiences and need to wander aimlessly, lost for extended periods of time on the trails.
None of us will ever accomplish anything excellent or commanding
Except when he listens to the whisper which is heard by him alone.Ralph Waldo Emerson