HELLO WISCONSIN!!! -Bustin to Bayfield

Not biting hard into the previous dish ? Good, neither did we. That menacing Monday morning we departed from an additional undisclosed location headed off towards the Wisconsin break wall. Sweet Mother Superior forecasted some unrelenting winds from the Northwest as we began our journey on the south shore. The winds around time of departure foreshadowed a ‘not so fun’ potential, but once we reached the lake and paddled beyond the break wall the seas were calm muddy waters. Presumably from the heavy Northeast winds from previous days’ fury, sediment was stirred a muck and gave the water an irony inflection. Onward we paddled towards SANDY beaches. Once again we had entered a land sparse with human habitants and a multitude of possibility. Miles melted beyond blades and so did our sunshine, sweet sunshine turning the skies grey, increasing the wind and locking down a surf landing near the Amnicon River where we met our buddy Joe Ko. Reconnoitering rendezvous aside it was great to be in the company of a fellow paddler whom hadn’t experienced this stretch of shore yet and was all about adventure.

While consuming a mid day snack we watched as the Lake dun built some burly waves and ended up camping at our present locale that evening. The next day we would take to the lake in cooler conditions and make way towards the mighty Brule River. This place holds an iconic image for the area. Serendipitous sand beach greeting the mouth of the river where it meets the lake stretching on towards the horizon in either direction. Avid agate hunters may be greatly rewarded for their efforts and lush green foliage rises from the banks of the river to the forest canopy. We kept our hunker down for the luncheon hour and paddled some additional miles after the foods had settled.

Back on the water our scale of daylight availability/ time to set up camp seemed to wane slightly and we wandered up the Iron River to seek shelter, which we may or may not have found. The details are a little foggy in there. I do recollect tall grass though, a cabin of sorts on the banks. I also remember the next morning the wind was HOWLING, and eating a righteous breakfast at some little boat landing on near the mouth of the said river. The pattern of the wind that day was to be burly in the morning and kilter off in the afternoon… and you know what? It did. Cool. We paddled on to the land of Port Wing, which has a SWEET beach, and then onward to the hebran town of Herbster. Right about the time we arrived in Herbster the wind began to build again and we made for the campground. A place where all the tent sites are right by the water exposed to the wind and fury of weather. We set our tent up in a niche best we could to block the wind and get warm. Some fisher folks were attempting to outrun this temptuous weather pattern getting rocked by the oncoming waves. Luckily captain Adventure bounded down the beach in his dry suit to help them steady their boat on the trailer and get the heck out of there. They even offered us their only fish that did not escape from the stringer during the commotion of the early eve. We respectfully declined and headed into town for some pizza and adult beverages. At this infamous watering hole we met another friend whom had escaped the responsibility of the real world for a few days to paddle. There we were, a solid crew of four not more than an hour away by car from our final destination, willing to work with what the lake had to offer. Mariah and Joe went to get his truck so it was not sitting desolate at the end of some dead end road on the lake and Alissa and I joined Skip and Shirley (folks from the North shore) for another fire (they have an additional rental on the south shore) and eventually called it an evening.

Morning rose, much after the winds and we knew we’d be in for a treat. Bummer. It was fairly heavy for a while. Buddies went and ran shuttle of the vehicles in case Mariah had to duck out early. We watched the weather and waited. Upon return it did not seem so favorable. More time waiting, walking, talking and eventually eating some lunch. For whatever reason on the south shore the weather didn’t seem to subside until early afternoon, for a few hours and then ramp back up in the evening time. We pounced upon our opportunity to pound some miles in our afternoon window and landed at a delightful little beachside cabin just outside of Cornucopia near Romans Point. RIGHTEOUS (T. DOYLE rules!) There we had a marvelous dinner of veggie burgers, spirits and high hopes for the remaining part of the journey into our home turf.

Paddling by Cornucopia set us down memory lane towards the sandstone cliffs and caves we’ve known quite intimately over the previous many seasons. It was like being in the back yard. For hours we paddled over the teal colored water, admiring as if for the first time, the rusty color of the sand stone, the birch and pine stretching towards the sky and getting splashed by the caves from some rebounding waves. Very much familiar, yet slightly estranged, we had just paddled around the lake in its entirety and now we were back among familiar ground. Shore rather. We had lunch, somewhere on lunch beach and continued to paddle into the western realm of the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore, crossing Sand and Little Sand Bays. WOW! We were really here. The colors of the trees were just beginning to change, and after a short break facing York Island we headed around the tip of the horn beyond Frog Bay and crossing the channel to Oak Island. The water at this time was placid and pure. Of a sudden it didn’t seem so much that we were returning from a mighty journey, but just a brief jaunt in the islands we knew and love so much. Uncanny feeling really.

That nite we camped near the sand spit and had a campfire – the only one Alissa and I actually experienced on trail the entire time we were out. Temperatures dropped, providing good sleeping weather- stars shone brightly and the familiar sounds of the islands took the mind from spinning to unconscious bliss.

Our final day on the water we rose to sunny skies and southeast winds. Brisk at first, but they leveled off in due time. We were I think nine miles or so from Bayfield, 90 some days since we had left and an entire world of experience. The journey was so reminiscent of a return from guiding a trip I had begun to think in my head, now one of us can clean the dishes, the other can wash the gear, I’ll vacuum the sand out of the boats and so on… but not this time.

Meandering about the sandstone cliffs over the Fedora flooded the being with connection to this fascinating place. All that it emulates and how much more it needs to be explored. Alissa and I joked about this journey just being a scouting mission; the real adventure would begin later. We were greeted by a WELCOME BACK sign as Mariah and Joe hopped out in Red Cliff to organize the next, shuttling phase of the trip. Alissa and I paddled the remaining three miles or something like that back to Bayfield, to a world we could not even imagine.

We arrived in Bayfield amidst Apple Fest. GREAT GOOGALY MOOGALY!! So many people, so many apples, so little time. Luckily upon our inception back to the area the beach near the Cooperage was empty, save for a few floatplanes and passerbyers. WOW. We’d MADE it. A reality that would take a short while to settle in, but we’ were here, alive, well, grizzled – something no one could take from us. There we had it, ninety days from beginning to end, around seventy actual paddling days thousands of photos worth even more words, memorable moments, a heck of an endeavor coming to a close a mighty Session on Superior

And just like that we arrived: SHIZAM Bayfield Wisconsin. DONE.

Navigating da' North shore: The Final Frontier

The next morning we would do our best to get on the water before the wind (northeast to 15 knots picked up), however we eventually learned the harder you try to hurry the longer you have to wait. Some strange paradox that only seems to exist when you actually need to get somewhere. Anyhow, I digress. So there we, blue skies, sunny, lake doesn’t look too bad – we shouldn’t be in any trouble as long as we get our move on. After several trips of hauling gear to and fro to our boats the Hildebrandt’s dog decided to follow us over to the lake. A place that, I have been told, is ‘not for dogs’ without their owners. Luke is running about, being a yellow lab, because that is what they do. They also are very intrigued by anything that remotely resembles something to play fetch with. It’s Sunday, people are about enjoying the day and some young couple tosses a stick in the water. No big deal right? WRONG. The break wall is 15 ft above the water so when a large lab drops into the water it’s a trite hard for him to get his footing and back out of the water. I didn’t notice for a short while, but five minutes elapsed time I noticed the dog swimming in circles by the end of the break wall. “What the flipnasty basty is going on?” I had denoted in my mind. Do I take a kayak over there, do I swim, do I… well the water is cold, so immersion is out of the question. I ran over to the other side of the break wall and holler at this dog. People are around, presumably believing this is my dog and I am irresponsible for letting it plop into the lake. I have no time or tolerance to care about this notion though. I climb down to water level and holler more at the dog. He swims over, but unable to see where to get out swims away from the rocks. Rationally, I cinche up my sandals, pull my up my pants and climb into the water at thigh level so I am supported by the rocks. I call the dog again and he swims over, then away, then back, then I grab his blasted collar and pull him towards me. I crouch down and lift this K-9 er out of the water and place his paws on some solid ground, he seems obliged. Then not knowing where to go from there, he starts to meander back down to the water. Not on my watch though, so I pick him back up and hoist him to the next level of rock, eventually making it to the walkway. The walkway where a crowd has gathered, giggling and reinstituting my faith in human kind… The same human kind that threw the stick in the water in the first place, saw the dog could not get out and walked away. Anyhow our slaphappy lab buddy was then put on a towrope, a.k.a. leash and escorted back to his respective home on the other side of highway 61.

Nice, so we’re outty correct? WRONG. We shuttle the boats back to the landing at the harbor and begin to load up. At this time our DNR friend returns. He lets us off with a smile today and goes out in the building seas to check people’s registration (a.k.a. play in a powerboat in waves). He’s out for all of 15 minutes and then heads back into the harbor. People get paid for this. We head out. Paddle towards the ominous bluster of D town. Houses are constant and the waves are getting bigger. The mind peace starts to get a little knackered and the wind is pushing hard. By the time we are within a mile of the lift bridge we are in 4-6ft seas. We see one motorboat venture out and constantly monitor the banter from the lift bridge to see if any LARGE boats are coming in. We cannot see any on the horizon, but then again it’s rising and falling a four plus feet at a time. Within a half mile of the bridge it becomes apparent we’ve been blown off course. STRESS!! We fight the wind and waves to jockey back into position and get right on track to enter the burly break wall near the Duluth Lightbridge. As luck should have it there are no shortage of people on this break wall wondering what the whoo nasty, we are doing out there. COMPOSURE. We keep on fighting the good fight with the waves until a 45’ yacht comes screaming into the canal. To their credit they probably could not see us, as when the waves break they are white precisely the color of our boats. So this boat blazes us, creating more chaos in waves, and musters a bolstered ‘sorry’ as we get rebounded between their swell and that from the wall. In a matter of moments we are out of the insanity around the corner of that channel and watching a bustling Duluth do what it does…

Floating amidst a real concrete jungle we took some time to gather our thoughts, emotions and theatrical outbursts. People walking by above offered congratulatory remarks or absentee thoughts of “what a ride eh?” It’s consoling to know people acknowledge your existence and commend your efforts. It served as a reflecting point, actualization as it were, to process that this event was probably one of the more dodgy experiences on the journey. Take a constricted area, big water, rocky shoreline and what seemed like a myriad of spectators- add that to an area you can’t really make any mistakes in and ‘you’re in DULUTH’.

We kicked off towards Canal Park and found a beach allow our lower extremities to regain consciousness with gravity. Walking around never felt sooooo good. We changed attire and roamed across the same lift bridge that had served as an eternity moments previous (not before watching a MONSTROUS BOAT- the American Courage venture into port). From there we met up with friends, had a festive beverage and then planned the precise experience of parking our boats in a safe hold and spending the night on a real live futon. (Thank you friends formally from Bayfield living in Duluth) We are in the home stretch.

Navigating da' North shore: almost done...

At this point we were roughly 26.2 miles or something like that from Duluth, which we held vaguely ambiguous excitement and fear for. Excitement because we would be in the home stretch and fear because Duluth is a BIG city, which does not really house many places to ‘camp’ and store a kayak. As luck would have it we would depart from Two Harbors a slight bit later than we would have liked. When you get into the later parts of September you cannot leave at two in the afternoon and hammer out 20+ miles before the sun goes down like you can in July. Regardless we knew of a few places en route to D-town that may serve our needs. Plus there was the mighty Duluth Tent n Trailer for any weary campers. We paddled toward the city as the sky went from azure to opaque in a matter of hours. Houses jogged by with a higher frequency and we pushed on past Knife Point to avoid any wryly waves, should they had arisen. Somewhere in that remaining stretch, appreciating the geology, changing colors, steam train that was flying by, we accepted the fact we would not make it to Duluth. No worries though, we could camp at the previously mentioned campground right? So we thought anyway.

Its right about here the story starts to get interesting so we’ll ensure it is well documented:

We arrive to the McQuade Safe Harbor, a new establishment created by the Minnesota DNR for boaters. This is a marvelous area for boaters and outdoor enthusiasts, no camping, but a dandy place nonetheless. We hop out at the boat launch and I make a pilgrimage across the highway to find a number for this ‘campground’. You know, make sure that there are sites, as we were entering the ‘fall color’ season. The first place I stop by had no vacancy. So I meander further down the way. A quaint little locale known as the Beachside Cabins, a locale where we would end up staying, informed me that the very campground I had desired to inquire about had, as it were, been bulldozed for condominiums the year before. BUMMER. However, it was better to hear that there, than have paddled an additional mile and a half down the shore get shot down in the end. Fair enough, they rented us a little camper for the evening, heat, electricity- all those things.

I skipped back down to the boat launch did a handspring over the guard rail by the highway… Just kidding, wanted to add a little zest to that. But really, back on track now. I am walking down to the boat launch to see what appear to be authoritative figures… SHOOST! I thought to myself. Not because we had anything illegal about us, but literally two days previous I made some joke about making it the entire way down the MN shore and not having to show our boat registration. (Something all boats must have in MN). But here we were 10.5 miles from Duluth and the law was on a mission, an investigating mission. Now this would not have been such an ordeal, however my boat, technically wasn’t registered. I had a license for my original boat, but since I had swapped that out in Marquette I wasn’t about to pay an additional $24 fee to register another boat. So I held my breath and now was going to pay for it. Alissa did all the sweet-talking she could, but at the end of the conversation I was still in handcuffs and getting finger printed. Then as luck would have it through the mandatory boat search, apparently it is illegal to carry Leinenkugel Honey Weiss in Minnesota. You following that? Well if it held any validity I would have some nice ocean front property in Colorado for you. Catch the drift? So we didn’t get busted for having the boat technically un-registered. Because we were good law abiding citizens and had gone through the trouble to get the registration in the first place they would merely flex their lawful muscles and let us off with a ‘warning’ of sorts. (E.g. you’d better pass along to all your other boating buddies to make not make haste with the boat registration business).

Wiping sweat from my brow I informed Alissa the GREAT news about the campground. As we had no real choice we proceeded to unload the boats, schlep gear, paddle the boat to the other side of the harbor, schlep some more and then carry our boats across highway 61. WEEEEEE!! (Why is it whenever we are really having fun we refer to ourselves in the plural? – thanks Mitch) All righty, so we’re staying in this trailer in some quaint little locale. Cool. We meander to the local eatery and retire to a festive campfire at the Beachway. Owners Skip and Shirley Hildebrandt are notorious for housing campfires every evening for their guests. An event that can draw a diverse crowd to share the warmth of flame and tales of their travels.

Navigating da' North shore: Grand Marais to Two Harbors

Through the next week we would essentially take a fly-by tour of Minnesota’s notorious north shore. Learning that state parks are indeed a paddler’s safe haven due to the spacing of the sometimes-apparent primitive sites on the water trail. We would gain additional support of human presence tooling by highway 61, increased housing and towns that began to grow in population.

Those concrete jungle-esque formations aside (we denote formations because the towns there are small, but when you’ve been out a rambling for many months in the company of one generally a small town suddenly seems BIG) the north shore does contain some of the sweetest rivers a day’s paddle you could wish for. If these rambunctious waters ran year round it would certainly be a Mecca for those short boats (see post from November 4, 2008). Paddling by them via the lake route roused pangs of longing for some river running experience, but to no avail the weather didn’t produce days of rainfall to raise the mighty waters. Regardless they were appreciated nonetheless, watered or not.

Reflecting back on the North Shore, it seemed like a slight blurr, due to the travels, boondoggles and ensuing adventure perhaps this is why:

Leave Grand Marais, paddle to Cascade River State Park. Appreciate the close proximity to G town. Awe in wonder over the geological immensity of the shoreline. Arrive near large retaining wall and cobbled beach. Stash boats in an undisclosed location, shuttle gear and bodies into campground.


Depart Cascade River State Park paddle towards Temperance River State Park. WOW there are some HOUSES on the shore. Lay over at Lutsen for some lunch. See a short boat on a car, have strong desire to follow the flow to some moving water; break daydream, climb back into boats, hammer remaining miles to Temperance River. Fail to fight urge and paddle up the mouth of the river. Sweet rock formations enwalled in last little part of canyon. Paddle back out to beach, scope campsite. Find primitive cart-in site, get back in boats, paddle down to beach closer to campsite, and haul the goods up the bluff… Sleep

Watch burly waves crash into beach next morning. Figure we’ve gotta be making ground Set out towards Baptism. Unable to find primitive campsite (back up plan) as weather was getting a little rowdy. End up finding primitive campsite, which was totally exposed to wind and waves, entry move was timing land on sheer rock between sets of 3-4ft breakers. This type of landing probably would have eaten one of our boats. We hem and haw about camping on private property, in the end move on. Paddle, paddle, paddle a little more to State Natural Area-, which denotes ‘no camping’. Work out some deal with Naturalist of sort (this part, by the way could totally be hypothetical depending on who reads it) to stash boats in undisclosed location. Boats safe, cool. Reconvene with the Mom unit and seek shelter with some local Inn- they rent us a little house and we spend the night indoors out of the NASTY thunder storms.

Next day, attempt to paddle from this undisclosed hypothetical location, which may or may not be 14 miles from the Baptism River. Solid. Ok, so we haul all the gear down to the boats. The lake is ROWDY. South westerly ripping down the shore at 15+ knots. Darn. We debate. There is no place to land between this safe haven and the Baptism. Bag paddling that day due to wind. Haul all the gear back up to the car and head towards the baptism to camp. In ranger station meet some lady who is a business partner to the woman who wrote Deep Water Passage. Small world. Friends from the North Country arrive later that evening and we generate a plan for tomorrow’s paddle.

Wake early the next day. Break camp, load gear, head back to boats. Not thinking clearly we load the boats, realizing this could have been the SECOND time we could have paddled empty boats. (First time was when we paddled into Ontonagon for our food box). BLAST- missed opportunity. Anyway, we loaded the boats up and set out to paddle a delectable stretch of shoreline. Wind building slightly, no big deal. Witness the mighty Manitou Falls, a great blue Heron and continue along the shore. WILD big houses and really no where to get out. We get met by our friends near the Baptism and head into the river for lunch on a very unique sand bar. Fueled up and ready to go again, we paddled out into the lake towards Palisade head. WOW. BIG BIG ROCK. Little exploration in some sea caves/ stacks and keep on headed west down the shore to Split Rock State Park. There is an infamous lighthouse here. Definitely cool. Attack the landing rigmarole and load our gear into a cart for the cart-in campsite. Ahh home for the evening. Set up camp and head out to shuttle vehicles. Couldn’t help notice that there was a sweet restaurant between the campground and location of friends’ vehicle. Delicious food. Back to camp for sleep.

Fairly decent morning next day. Got quite close to a grouse in camp, exploded into the sky right in front of me. COOL. We make breakfast, break camp and then cart our goods back down to the boats. Load on up and kick off towards Two Harbors Minnesota. Great paddle. Lot of houses and sketchy shore line. The colors had begun to show a bit more of themselves and the presence of higher population became much more apparent. We stop on some island about six or eight miles out of two harbors and gain wind of heavy storm system moving toward our present location. Bummer. So we huff, and we puff and we blew the miles behind us. Arrived in Two Harbors Campground to find the last campsite had just been taken, (by my Mother) and began our daily ritual of unpacking, hauling boats and setting up camp. Knowing the weather was going to boost it up later, we set a solid camp and did the only responsible thing we could think of: go into town for pizza - way safer than cooking outside in a lightning storm. We then took advantage of a laundry mat w/ internets to clean our clothes for the first time in (mumbled) days. It rained, poured and kept the folks at the National Weather Service busy. The sound of thunder in the distance and patter of the rain eventually brought soothing closure to an event filled day.

Righteous rock formations


Friends from the North Country, on the North Shore...


Sneaking through something...


Where the Baptism meets Superior


Grand exit of the Baptism River


Great Blue Heron, gellin', err I mean standing there on a rock...


Da' mighty Manitou dumps into Superior...

Navigating da' North shore: Grand Portage to Grand Marais

As our day wore on waves bounced us up and down actualizing our reality of not making as far as we would have liked. With no definitive campground available we ended up seeking refuge in Horseshoe Bay amidst a public land trust. Twas a good thing too, the next day the wind picked up and we watched waves rise and fall from the comfort of under da tarp. The tarp pulled triple duty that day shielding us form wind, rain and hail – Cool.

Later in the afternoon we were visited by some locals whom tried to make it to Isle Royal in their much larger lake-going vessels, however they too were thwarted by Superior’s mighty seas. They shared stories, spirits and food to ease the world of weather waylay we had succumbed to experience there in Horseshoe Bay. Regardless of the weather, we were very much appreciative for the shelter the bay offered, we watched stationary as water toiled up and down capped in white for the remainder of the afternoon.

Our next morning we launched bright and early style with intent to make it to Grand Marais Minnesota, a fine destination in northern Cook County. There we would meet up with my (Brian's) mother and hop down the coast using state parks as our residency for the next week. Simple plan, simple lifestyle.

Once on the lake spirits of motion, the water rising and falling under the kayaks roused us. For it felt only natural at this point to paddle in seas of the 2-5 ft variety. Paddling down this stretch of shore re-emphasized the harsh reality of lack of landing zones. The rock, all very jagged in every which way did not allow for an easy take out, unless the conditions were quite calm. Combining the shoreline with an abundance of lakeside housing fostered a somewhat debilitating experience. On the water you were but a mere catalyst of travel trying to recapture that ambiance and independence of adventure one beach at a time. We paddled for just over seven miles before we were able to land, a mere skip in the big picture, but a quantum leap in reality of privatized shoreline adjoining our next many days of north shore adventure. Our acceptance beach was that bearing the name of Paradise and to hop out and work the legs thoroughly it was named rightly so. This place has a special connection for folks all over the lake, a devote refuge of rocks 13 miles north of Grand Marais; it is a perfect place to seek solace while traveling either way on highway 61 especially for those whom that break out their ‘agate vision’. In the short time we were there sixty minutes or so, Alissa produced a handful of agates which bore a unique marking to the world, you see Paradise beach has it’s own specific agate, which it shares with the world. Superior does her best to move the gem in and out of reach for the hounds, but ever so often one can be blessed to appreciate its’ intricate bounty.

While combing the beach for auspicious agates the wind began to build and waves shift the shoreline from the North East. No big deal though right, at least it would be at our backs. However, I will be the first to admit it was a slight difficult to motivate into a burly wind and breaking sea. People who were arriving by road would generally gallivant down to the beach and mill about for, oh perhaps 10 minutes and then bound back to the vehicle to allow their bodily cells to regain consciousness. We suited ourselves up for immersion of the upper body (big wave protection) and headed out into the maw.

On the water we rose and fell with the swell, saw the Coast Guard’s spiffy new boat, wondered what they were doing out a day such as this, and undoubtedly they returned the favor. Some hours later we arrived in Grand Marias, sneaking into the break wall we quickly sought out a place of luxurious camping at the Municipal Campground, which very much to our surprise was almost full. WOWSERS. We rendezvoused with my mom, set up camp and took on the Gunflint to eat, drink and be merry.

Looking back towards the Susie Islands...


Passin on the entrance to the Pigeon...


Making a break for the states...


Sunrise in Minnesota...

Cruising outta Canada

When the morn broke vibrantly the next day it brought with it some heavy winds south easterly- Yoikes! We spend the majority of our last full day in Canada under our trusty tarp listening to some apparent flight school student circle our peripheral vision for what seemed like days- yet it all reality it was just a few hours. Regardless we wanted to make our fleeting moments in Canada really count so I thoroughly accepted my fate as card game loser.

The necessity for the tarp waned and we enjoyed that warm late summers’ breeze from the south. You cannot have a day like this without some sort of celebration, right? I mean we were around 40 kilometeres from the border, we’d crossed Thunder Bay in some heavy winds without incident and we had an entire un eaten packet of no bake JELLO brand, Oreo desert stuff. (I swear we normally don’t eat this kind of product, but it was a purchase of desperation in Scriber). I, being the genius I sometimes am not, thought it would be great idea to eat said delectable dessert a few hours before sunset. “Oh, you know, no big deal, we’ll be able to fall asleep.” Yeah, six hours later lying awake, it is safe to inform the outside world that this was indeed a not-so-great idea.

Day arrived with a sense of zest mixed with lethargia, totally not related to lack of sleep. The sky blue
Sun bright
Water calm
Shoreline dynamic and
BEAUTIFUL

We were on our way back to the states.

The land that exists between our little encampment and the gateway to the North Shore of Minnesota is truly an entrance into a different realm of reality. Ducted between islands and the shoreline exposes a paddler to a multitude of topographical features, secluded beaches and cultural history which dates back to the Voyageurs. Undoubtedly a momentous day of paddling and that just landed us to the border. We continued beyond the mighty Pigeon River and paddled all the way to Grand Portage. WHEW! - Talk about mileage.

Grand Portage turned out to be a blessing in disguise, despite the fact after landing we realized the campground which was advertised, did not actually exist leaving us to paddle across the bay to R.V. Land. Upon arrival we perched ourselves atop the site with the least amount of goose gifts. After setting camp we meandered into the small town to consume a meal we didn’t make on the whisperlite stove. A great serving of trout and pasta re-aligned our main objective and we waltzed up to the gas station/ general store/ casino/ post office to find… a phone and Hagen Daz bar-, which was found totally by accident.

The next morning we would do some running about. Eat a delicious breakfast in that same multi tasking building and then attempt to locate via payphone our next food drop box in Grand Marias. The preliminary results came back negative, which sent us into a frenzy, “we need to pick up some re-supply food”, luckily there was a grocery store in this multiville to host our caloric needs. Needs that upon a fifteen-minute delay and investigation would have saved us 15 dollars. On a whim I had walked into the Post Office, located roughly 16 feet from the payphone we were using, only to be greeted by one happy postal worker. “You must be a kayaker!” Apparently she’d been watching our box for the previous many days, noticing that it did not hop up and grow legs. As September wore on, this North Country native knew the lake would soon be donning its rowdy wear. She was relieved, as were we, when she was able to hand over the goods. Re-packed and reloaded we headed out into the mighty lake once again in attempts to keep on keeping on towards Wisconsin.

Tunder Cape eh?

The sun burst through the clouds the preceding morning declaring the notion of delightful productivity. We hauled our gear down the embankment with increased enthusiasm only to realize such energy would extend to a four- legged friend. One with a mighty rack… of antlers (*not horns, which as I once called them, but was trumped by logic and reason that deer, a BUCK rather can not play musical tunes from those formations atop its’ melon). Apparently we dun scared that deer and faced with the daunting choice of scampering back up in the woods un noticed vs. swimming across the open bay before us (a distance greater than a kilometer) it chose the latter in stride. Now until this point in my life, I had never seen anything so extraordinary. When Alissa hollered “ there’s something swimming in the water, I think it’s a moose, or a deer” – I had to respond in some mobster-esque monotone. ‘aaaaaaahhhh eeeeehhhh whaaaaddddyyyyaaaa meeeaaann? Theeeyyyrreee ain’t no deeeeaaaaarrr ooooowwwtttt theeeerrreee’- (Think bad mix between some intimidating character in the God Father and the T.V. character da Fonz). But sure enough there was a buck out there swimming away. Fascinating.

Some time after our black nosed, ambitious antlered friend had made it ashore safely we set ourselves underway for what he had hoped to be a momentous day on the water. The initial press was done in a 10kt headwind laying the foundation for a fairly debacle-ish day. The sky blue, clouds traveling well spaced and sun beaming down on 5 point something miles that separated us from the highly scrutinized island of pie. The folks we had talked to, accounts previously read, heeded a strong caution whilst dealing with this temptuous isle. The weather can change there in the bay of Thunder don’t you know? We could have had painted a picture with much more foreshadowing, but we’ll just cut to the chase and lay it out straight.

Paddling by Thunder cape inspired confidence, the water was calm, people were looking at birds or something, no large lake-going vessels were present and a lone sailboat motored aimlessly towards the city of Thunder Bay. This is what adventures are made of. Setting our sights on the monstrous land mass ahead of us we began to paddle, paddle like a demonic beast toward our destiny. However paddling with such primordial voracity seemed to put us in a class of watercraft, which we seldom experience, the ‘faster than the sailboat class’. This caused some minor traveling, routing rather, confusion as we overtook our sailing friend and he had to stand down to our course. Which, I am certain there are some folks out there shaking their noggins, but to our credit we did try to hail this vessel with the VHF radio – to no avail. (And yes, for those naysayers I did have the unit on…. This time). So we made the crossing in around an hour, which by fully loaded boat standards was fairly encouraging. Re-hydrating and snacking in the shadow of this topographically endowed island was quite a treat and made time for a small reflection upon keeping on…

And keep on we did for the remaining twenty plus miles of the day. Paddling around that east side of the island we began to feel the wind build in an unfavourable way. Not much else to do than paddle we held our own. This side of the island is fascinating. In places the rock (basalt?) raises right out of the water towering overhead in hexagonal type patterns that look stamped in. Add to this scaled effect (like some gigantic reptile) and cover it with vibrant orange lichen. We are hesitant to believe that there is much of anything on this here lake that makes you think ‘ho-hum, how disinteresting’. THIS STUFF IS COOL! Ok, so back to the water. We’re paddling the wind is getting heavy, the waves bigger and our opportunity to stop disappeared a while back. The south side of the island (south east-ish) met us will full out beam winds, burly breaking waves and a crux decision. I imagine this like some Indiana Jones scenario with a big bridge spanning a canyon, you know the ones with wooden planks, some missing etc; well yeah so there’s this bridge (a.k.a. crossing of a bay) we could do, looks a little dodgy, perhaps we could stay on one side (a.k.a. land in the bay) and wait to cross when conditions seemed a little less-oh how shall I say- Insane. But, if Indiana Jones, err- we don’t make this crossing the bridge (weather) could further deteriorate and we would be so stucks… And although wearing a fedora is cool, it’s usually more appreciated in the company of others, am I right?

We kept paddling. Made it across this bay, got fairly wet, and then faced the next challenge, even more mind boggling than the first, what flavour of cliff bar to have for a snack? Joking…. Still joking. There was the exit to Thunder Bay, broken into a few small crossings which we fought through in big seas and unrelenting winds. However, stroke after stroke we eventually made it to a little isle in the midst of a melee. Brief rest and we continued across the bay to another island, Flat Island as it were, to seek shelter. This island had a weird vibe, it was after all quite flat, there were an abundance of trees, but on closer inspection it seemed to be the host to several derelict structures, docks, etc. One place we investigated happened to have a pan sitting on a picnic table, like someone just up and left their cooking creation of a sudden and disappeared. To all we know this could have been a farce and those folks were watching us from the woods. Anyhow we did not seek residency on Flat Island. We paddled another mile or so crossing into the wind and sought out refuge in any uninhabited place with some beach… Luck and daylight seemed to run in unison that day and in the waning hour of sunset Alissa found a marvelous little bay to set up shop. At that point in the day after 23 some miles in the wind (the day hosted more miles than that) and waves, wet clothing, not much for sunlight we were ready to be done.

Settling into camp we hung all the wet stuff, got the tent up and began to appreciate the serenity and evidence of wildlife. A boisterous otter swam up to inspect our beings. “How cool is that,” or was it “how cute is that?” Alissa denoted as this little water lover swam by snorting. Well, when you take into consideration the snort is not so much a term of endearment, then it’s difficult to gauge the cute factor. The otter swam off and we thought nothing of it. That is until we were eating our dinner when FOUR more otters came back. He or she had left our little locale to recruit four of its buddies to come see what the heck was going on. They swam by a few times sticking their heads above the water, snorting, diving back down and eventually swam away. Who does that? Veer off and recruit buddies- Crazy. I half expected to wake up the next morning to find our hard goods bearing some graphic inscription bearing the notion “You otter be on your way or ELSE!!” – Sorry, couldn’t resist.