Wendy Killoran
The mystical power of Manitoulin Island had drawn me back. I had returned to kayak around this sacred island for a second time. In 2004, I’d paddled counter clockwise, starting and ending at South Baymouth with a partner. This time, during July, 2009, I was here alone to paddle clockwise and to paddle solo in the presence of the Gitchi Manitou, the Great Spirit of aboriginal North Americans. I would feel this mystical power as I had felt it in 2004.
The Chi-Cheemaun, the Great Lakes’ largest ferry boat and Ojibwe for “Big Canoe,” transported me to Manitoulin Island from Tobermory, following a chain of islands separating the Georgian Bay from Lake Huron. It was wicked weather for mid July during the ferry crossing. An Arctic wind created a frenzy of whitecaps. I huddled snugly in my parka as the ferry made its crossing. I was the only passenger who remained outside on deck, as the biting cold sent all the others scurrying for the comfort of the heated inside lounge. The tip of my nose felt frozen and I dug into my pockets for my fleece gloves, cinching the hood tightly around my face.
As I disembarked I truly wondered what to do. The weather was nasty! Where was summer? Where was the sunshine and warmth I had hoped to find? I booked a small rustic cabin at South Bay Resort, a one-kilometre drive from the ferry terminal. I decided I would paddle around the world’s largest freshwater island when the rain, wind and cold were gone.
On the first day of my paddle, a chill on Lake Huron had me quickly putting on neoprene gloves. A veil of fog hovered in a sinuous, serpentine line just above water’s edge, snaking along the limestone shoreline. I was headed westward, along the southern shore. Beaches and alvars, flat stretches of smooth limestone sloping ever so gently, were friendly landing places for a kayak along this shore. I followed a northwest bearing.
Soon the sun had burned off the lingering wisps of fog. Perhaps the Gitchi Manitou truly had responded to my silent plea for more hospitable paddling conditions. The wind had dissipated and the sun spread its warmth. My first stop on land was Michael’s Point. On my previous journey, the Great Manitou had quietly but firmly enveloped my partner Michael Bradley at this place bearing his name, with a stirring of unrest that had pulsed through his soul. He knew at that moment that his aging father had passed away; the sad news was confirmed soon thereafter, in South Baymouth, with a phone call home.
I paddled past limestone and at Carter’s Bay, past sandy, towering dunes. At Hughson Bay, two deer came to water’s edge, unaware of my presence on the water, a buck and a doe. I landed on a nearby alvar and was tempted to set up camp on the smooth limestone pavement but ventured farther west to Timber Bay, landing on a sandy beach and erecting my tent in a sheltered, grassy meadow facing the western horizon.
I had come here to feel the spiritual essence of Manitoulin Island which is named after the Gitchi Manitou, but had also come to paddle for pleasure, stopping when I desired and lingering when I wished to. In the past I had paddled great distances at the expense of getting to know the places I’d passed through more intimately. In 2005, around Prince Edward Island, I had averaged 50 kilometres per day covering 600 kilometres of shoreline in 12 days. In 2006, in Newfoundland, I had circumnavigated the 2,700 kilometres of shoreline in 68 paddling days, averaging roughly 40 kilometres per day, basically a marathon every time I’d hit the water. It had depleted me emotionally and physically to draw to the depths of my core to find the courage and the motivation to continue to paddle solo on the North Atlantic Ocean.
I would not allow this 350-kilometre circumnavigation to be dictated by speed and distance as daily goals. I wanted to smell the flower and pine scents wafting on breezes offshore. I wanted to pause and look into the depths and shallows of Lake Huron, the North Channel and the Georgian Bay to see the faults, boulders, rock slabs, and sand ripples from a few centimetres to at least twenty metres below my hull.
Paddling has always been a paradigm for my life. The flow of these journeys pulses through the blades of my paddle, stroking the water with a rhythmical cadence, like the heartbeat of a woman filled with passion for life and vitality for adventure. The kayak has become a means of visiting off-the-beaten-path places, but in itself, it is what draws me to being on the water, to feel my muscles push the paddle through water; whether clear like northern Lake Huron or murky along silty shores, whether calm and placid like on my second and last day of this journey or spirited with powerful, surging waves. I feel my vitality flow through me as the water flows beneath my kayak. But I also felt the Great Manitou smile upon me throughout this journey.
The beauty stirred me. At my first campsite at Timber Bay, as the sun descended toward the western horizon, golden rim lighting haloed the smoky grey clouds, as pairs of sandhill cranes, long skinny birds with a primal croak that resonates at least a kilometre away, flew to congregate in front of my campsite as day transmuted to dusk. Their guttural whoops and croaks were mysterious yet enchanting. The Great Manitou had manifested a magical ending to a fulfilling first day.
When I awaken the next morning, Lake Huron was dead silent, a placid expanse of water that appeared as limitless as a mighty ocean. Over two dozen sandhill cranes stood just one hundred metres distant, aware of my presence while a new day dawned as silent and still as the breathless, windless lake. The near full moon reflected in the lake without distortion as my camp stove hissed to boil water while I was yet again bundled in my parka and tuque. As I carried my kayak to the water’s edge, the flock of cranes flew away, not sure what to make of this unusual intrusion.
The day that followed was surreal, like paddling in a dream. Throughout the day, the mirror calm waters begged me to look down at the lakebed. For the entire day, even more than a kilometre from shore and twenty or thirty metres deep, I could clearly see the lakebed below. It cast an enchanting spell upon me as I focused on what lay below me, as much as what lay ahead of me. The soft, pale turquoise hues in the limestone shallows contrasted dramatically with the green tinted black depths as I paddled a couple of kilometres from shore with mirror reflections of billowing cumulus clouds in the water between Mutchmor Point and Dominion Point. To the south, on the horizon off my port beam, sky melded with water as the breathless air created not a ripple on Lake Huron. The minimal wake that I produced and the dip of the paddle intruded little upon this silent stillness. Paddling solo, I was silent. I allowed this reverie to permeate me. It was why I was here. At this moment, nothing else existed and this serenity filled me with an overwhelming sense of peace and harmony.
By late afternoon, after a brief interlude in the town of Providence Bay and after a group of loons had serenaded me with their haunting songs, flowing with clarity and volume over this silent, flat expanse, and after a lunch break on a smooth, flat alvar just east of Shrigley Bay, I decided to land on a secluded, sandy beach at Portage Bay. I erected camp at the edge of a dune and then waded naked, completely uninhibited, into the frigid bay, sand squeezing between my toes. I just couldn’t bring myself to take the plunge. My calves were numb and I was refreshed.
The sweeping, sandy beach was bordered by another alvar. Barefoot, I walked over the smooth, flat limestone, amazed at how flowers and shrubs take root in a minuscule crevice or a small hole in the rock. These plants are hardy, surviving extreme conditions and yet this open, flat rock habitat intrigued me. It is unique and the world’s largest concentration of alvars exists here along the south shore of Manitoulin Island. The island’s north shore is dramatically rimmed by the Niagara Escarpment plunging steeply into the North Channel but here, along the south shore, it slopes gently on a tilt and then on an equally gentle gradient it is submerged by Lake Huron. Many places are polished smooth and possess striations, all parallel in the direction of the last ice age’s glacial retreat some ten thousand years ago, depositing erratic boulders, rocks scoured and rounded which travelled from the Canadian Shield farther north; basalt and granite littering these limestone flats like forlorn bowling balls. The alvars often become inundated as water levels from the lake fluctuate even slightly.
The third day on the water brought a building headwind. Grey, sombre clouds replaced the cerulean blue from the previous day. The water looked agitated and the waves obscured the lakebed’s features below me. I stopped on a spit at Murphy’s Harbour, tempted after only two hours of paddling to set up camp, but the journey beckoned me to launch again.
I passed Misery Bay, unsure of what possible misery had been endured there to result in this uninviting geographical name. Due north of the bay’s tip is the island’s narrowest stretch of land, only 4 kilometres wide in comparison to its widest section at 64 kilometres. I was relieved to have passed Misery Point. Along the entire south shore, with the exception of the Chi-Cheemaun entering port at South Baymouth and a handful of pleasure boats at the mouth of Providence Bay, I had seen no other watercraft. The south shore’s waters are treacherous for boats with extensive shoals, shallow waters and a myriad of “sunkers,” immersed glacial erratic boulders, sometimes clawing at the water’s surface several kilometres from shore along this 130-kilometre long south shore. It felt almost desolate. I relished the solitude, having just completed another year in the classroom where noise and drama are ubiquitous.
Paddling across Carroll Wood Bay, the port beam waves were building in height and forming whitecaps. A few times I braced to maintain balance. Forward momentum diminished considerably. Walkhouse Bay, on my 1:50,000 topographic map, resembled the perfect, sheltered location for my incognito-style camping but I was disappointed when I found endless reedy shallows and boulder strewn bogs. I found a tiny spot just big enough to establish camp and was relieved to have found safety from the brewing storm. Skies were dramatic with ominous-looking clouds and sun shafts piercing through cracks, illuminating the grey bay in silver splashes of brilliant light.
Searching for a flat stone on the rocky shoreline as a counter for my campstove, I startled a garter snake. When I found my rock, it felt warm in my hands like a freshly baked loaf of bread.
Night time brought distant rumbles and a deluge of rain thrumming the tent fly. I was relieved when it seemed that the rumbles were receding. But at 2 a.m., a new thunderstorm barrelled through, with blinding spears of lightning and deafening bellows of thunder within a split second of these flashes. The rain was torrential and I buried my head beneath the sleeping bag as the flashes of light were too bright even through two layers of tent fabric. The pelting of rain eventually subsided. In the morning, at the crack of dawn, a muted silence had replaced the wild thunder and rain. I peeked outside and discovered a blind world of dense fog. I finally fell into a deep sleep and waited until almost noon to depart. I had no desire to paddle in dense fog. In the summer of 2008, I’d spent over two weeks ensconced in dense fog along the east coast of Nova Scotia, staring at the built-in deck compass, until its image was seared into my retina.
Once the fog lifted however, the wind returned. I paddled into building headwinds and growing waves. Not a moment too soon, I entered Burnt Island Harbour as a bald eagle moved about at water’s edge. I landed the kayak on an expansive alvar in the lee of the howling wind and recalled my visit here in 2004 when I’d thought to myself, “I’ve never seen a white egret in the Canadian wilderness,” and within two minutes a white egret had appeared out of the fog and gracefully flown into the bay, where it fished amongst the shallow reeds nearby for the remainder of the evening. Had the Great Manitou truly responded to my silent thought?
I explored the flat expanses of rock, noting the various textures, striations, pock marks, crevices, and smooth, polished limestone. It fascinated me to find natural pavement both at water’s edge and deeper in the mixed forest of cedars, spruce and birch, which continued to submit to the wind, branches dancing, leaves flickering.
There is virtually no mention of Manitoulin Island in historical records from 1700 to 1825. The reason for an apparent out migration of the aboriginal people continues to be a mystery but as a result, Manitoulin Island became a lonely, desolate location which was seldom visited by humans and thus created a feeling of mystery in the minds of the aboriginal people. It was known to all surrounding tribes that a spirit superior to all other spirits resided on the island, the Gitchi Manitou, and it was considered appropriate that this island home was most suitable. That sense of mystery and spiritual power enveloped me. Just like the aboriginals from long ago who slept and dreamt at Dreamer’s Rock on Great La Cloche Island nearby, their dreams becoming their reality, it seemed that my thoughts would also become my reality. These experiences are mystical, yet they are real.
Dawn in Burnt Island Harbour arrived with pink clouds fused with deep purple and indigo hued alvars, an artist’s palette of rich colours to tantalize me visually before sunrise. I slid the kayak into a finger of shallow water perfect for launching and continued my journey westwards along the southwest reaches of Manitoulin Island on calm waters. Loons sometimes did a low, circular fly-by to check out this colourful novelty in their quiet domain. My loon calls started to sound more realistic, but it is still a challenge to ululate effectively, something native throat singers are quite talented at.
Three large dome tents appeared in the distance but as I approached I saw that I had been duped. They were orange, lichen-covered, erratic boulders camped where I would pitch camp had it not been so early in the day.
I rounded the southwest corner of Manitoulin Island under partly sunny skies and a light tailwind stirring up the water enough to inhibit clear views beneath me into the depths where La Salle’s ship The Griffon is believed to have sunk to its watery grave in 1679 when it was reported lost with all its crew. I saw the red and white Mississagi lighthouse perched on a low limestone bluff, established in 1873 to aid navigation for early explorers and fur traders who plied these sometimes treacherous Mississagi Straits. I landed the kayak on a flat shelf of limestone, secured it to a large boulder, and feasted on seasoned, fresh whitefish at the Fog Horn Station Restaurant. (Though I am equipped to fish, it is not something I ever seem to do.) This delectable gift from the cold waters of Lake Huron agreed with my taste buds, its flavour lingering in my mouth. Two campers at the lighthouse campground watched me launch.
I wanted to camp somewhere along the Mississagi Strait, on a cobble beach overlooking Cockburn Island, the next island west in a chain of islands, but a good landing spot eluded me. I was well fed however, and let the rhythm of my stroke take me around the northwestern tip of Manitoulin Island.
I was now on the north shore, paddling eastward, feeling energetic from my break at the lighthouse. I paddled into Meldrum Bay with a growing tailwind, but the shore was completely lined with cottages. Before I knew it, I had been on the go for ten hours and found myself pitching camp in the waterside municipal campground in the town of Meldrum Bay. A surprise awaited me there. Across from the campground is Meldrum Bay Inn run by a couple from California who had left corporate life three years earlier and opened a B&B with a gourmet restaurant. I dined on an outside terrace overlooking the small marina, surrounded by colourful, lush hanging flower baskets, enjoying a glass of Chilean wine and local smoked trout fettuccine with capers. This day had been one of feasting on local fish. I slept fitfully, both well fed and tired from a long day’s paddle – a well earned tiredness.
As I departed Meldrum Bay, the sun was brightly sparkling on the water. I paddled towards a scintillating isosceles triangle of light, never reaching it but the compass bearing pointing directly into it. I paddled south of Vidal Island, in the lee of the northwest wind. At this point, waves were coming from my stern and small enough to create a conveyor belt effect. I felt like I was on a “people mover,” and continued to paddle with vigour with this added bonus of speed. I zoomed along at 8 km/h, where normally with my fully loaded kayak averages between 5 and 6 km/h. But the wind continued to pick up strength and speed and the helpful assistance was now less apparent as my bow plunged into troughs with water sloshing over the bow but never splashing me due to the steep pitch of the kayak’s deck.
At Griffith Island, I start to question whether I would reach Cape Roberts, where I wished to camp. To my starboard, Shigniconing Bay offered respite and a beckoning beach, but the spirited water filled me with exhilaration and I aimed for Cape Roberts which was already visible far in the distance. I felt charged and alive. The kayak danced with grace over the 1.5-metre waves which raced me towards Cape Roberts. Often, I was dumped with lapfuls of water which spilled onto my sprayskirt as whitecaps unfurled their water onto me. It was exciting but I started to feel a sense of urgency. I paddled with strength and focused purpose.
I rounded Cunningham Point and was literally shoved by the wind and waves into protected Cunningham Bay. I decided to land along a cobble-boulder beach, strewn with fossils. The North Channel was filled with whitecaps, but I was exactly where I wanted to be, on a long, fairly isolated beach under warm, sunny skies. I pitched the tent in a flower dappled meadow and spend the afternoon collecting fossils and sunbathing.
Next morning, with a continued light tailwind, I was thankful that I’d chosen to paddle clockwise with the wind and waves in my favour rather than opposing my efforts. I rounded Cape Roberts and made a 9-kilometre crossing of Bayfield Sound to reach the north shore of Barrie Island. I wanted to stop at Blackstock Bay where I knew that an inviting beach awaited me. And knowing in advance of suitable landing places lessens the anxiety of this, often unknown, factor when kayaking. As a kayaker, there is a strong connection between the interface of land and water. It was not a strenuous paddle in the least, having yet again the benefit of the conveyor belt. I spent two delightful days there, sunbathing, collecting fossils and noticing minute details which surround me; swallowtail caterpillars chowing down ravenously on the tender leaves of the tip of the milkweed plants and depositing necklaces of spherical, emerald turds from this gluttonous feasting. Logs, bleached silver with a busy network of gnarled roots like a crocheted doily, hosted saplings as though an artist had designed this sculpture. I was enraptured. The sky was filled with dramatic clouds with a large gradient of tints and a striking quality of light. A thunderstorm was brewing. Eventually it arrived but not with the fury I had experienced earlier. I was thankful for my safety.
Crossing Julia Bay, I was keenly aware of the increase in boat traffic plying the North Channel. With my low profile in the water, I hoped that I was visible. I arrived at the town of Gore Bay with my list of things to do and found myself at The Island Pantry, an organic food store with glass jars lining shelves as though I’d stepped back in a time warp to the pioneer days. I stocked up on goodies: dark chocolate-covered almonds, dried vegetable flakes and candied ginger.
I spent four more days paddling. At Heywood Island, the sky was painted with a full rainbow, colours splashed vibrantly against the pewter grey clouds. As the journey neared its completion, I paddled around the Wikwemikong Unceded Indian Reserve. It is huge, the entire eastern quarter of Manitoulin Island. Beauty surrounded me. Fickle weather had me crossing a calm Wikwemikong Bay, the last long crossing, only to change into a formidable headwind once I was across and paddling southwards along the eastern shore. I approached a dark curtain of rain as I paddled through translucent turquoise water. A sense of magic abounded.
On my final day, it was placid and the languor long-lasting. Dawn arrived with streaks of periwinkle, peach and amber over the mirror-calm Georgian Bay. A coyote at water’s edge stared over the flat expanse, just as I did. The day seeped deep into me. Was I under a spell? Low limestone cliffs plunged vertically into the turquoise and jade green water. I saw every detail beneath me. To put off the completion of my trip, I stopped in a tiny cove, a few kilometres shy of where I had started, amongst delicate fingers of smooth limestone stretching into the listless lake. The rock was invitingly warm to the touch. I lay down, liberated and completely uninhibited, and proceeded to diminish all the tan lines on my body, soaking up the warmth, like an embrace from the Great Manitou Himself. This magic soaked deeply into me. I just let it be. Was the Gitchi Manitou encouraging me to linger longer?