Searching for solitude, hoping for Rossport...

The map denoted a harbour of sorts in a bay not too far away with few islands thrown in the mix. The daunting issue was the five to six mile crossing to get there, something that would mark as a bit of a challenge should the wind return at its burly forecasted 15kts and seas at two meteres. The next morning we rose early and made a break for it, probably some of the quickest miles we’ve paddled, and entered our archipelago safe hold just as the wind was sending the waves into whitecap mode. RIGHTEOUS! We would then paddled about for the next 90 minutes searching for a place to hunker down should excrement hit the rotating oscillator. After much noggin scratching, debating and weighing of pros and cons we settled on a rock island tucked back in a little calm water refuge. Paddling back in this here bay we might as well have entered an entirely different world. The wind fought diligently to touch us, but the topography and islands shielded us well. The passages between these islands were much smaller and more boundary water like than Lake Superior. I can’t really think of a time thus far where we have camped upon one solid island of rock surrounded by dense forest lined with a floor of sphagnum moss. This solid ground would serve as home for the next three days as the winds decided to ‘step it up a notch’ into the 20kt range from the south west, (largest fetch we could possibly have) then the west (forward momentum deterrent), northwest (somewhere between probable travel and shopping day) and finally east (triumphant escape). At one point we did try to make a break for it, paddled out in the five foot swells (no wind) only to find no tangible refuge, the daylight waning and reality of landing in big surf not so high on the ‘smart things to do’ list. We returned to the isle, re-set up camp and made the best of it, realizing it could be worse. That night after losing the last of our water weight Alissa denoted a display of shifting colours in the sky. Without clouds or light pollution we witnessed a most delectable display of northern lights. One of those moments you just have to experience to truly appreciate.

During our days on the island helicopters continually flew overhead. Generally the same one, and we could only imagine what they thought of us.
**Radio banter…. Helicopter Noises**
“Uh, Chuck do you see what I see?”
“ That’s a big ten fore Robby. Bunch of trees eh?”
“Negative moron. Paddlers, down on that island.”
“Ohhh right. Affirmative. The obviously didn’t get the memo from that local Canadian who knows these parts well. Over.”
“Roger that. Yeah, then they would have known the wind comes from the South. All of it, all of the time.”
“Affirmative on your, Roger that.”
“Uh, Chuck, do you don’t have to say, ‘Affirmative on your Roger’- Just Roger will do, eh?”
“Roger that, Robby.”
“Let’s go to Tim Horton’s™.”
“Support on Tim Horton’s™. Over and out.”
**Doppler effect of helicopter noise diminishing.**

Had we made it to day four on the island we certainly would have constructed a sign which read ‘doughnuts please’. As we’ve learned to not over stay our welcome, and that three is the magic number, we ducked off the isle on day four of its presence and paddled, paddled paddled towards Rossport. That day we would cover a multitude of shoreline taking us by some columnar jointing which seemed to have toppled over providing a unique view. We would see the infamous Slate Islands and paddle by Terrace Bay, which some folks use to gain their admission to this abundant caribou environment. That evening we came upon a beauteous beach with some make shift shelter looking thing, maintained by some hiking club. Figuring folks wouldn’t be out romping about at this hour we settled it down into our home and enjoyed a spectacular sunset after a sub 30-mile day. (Pretty rocking when you can cover in one day what you struggled through in the three previous (before the wind bound-age)). The next morning we would be at it again, hammering the miles away and paddling into our intended destination of Rossport.

En route we continued to explore some intriguing geological formations further deepening our understanding of the natural history in this stretch. This section also takes you along the Kings highway an experience that can be trying at times, facing the experience on the lake (which at this point happened to be in the wind) against those folks traveling self-contained in their motor vehicles. Quite close, yet far enough away to continue to stay removed from each other’s existence, a honk and wave the only momentarily connection exchanged between worlds.

Movin on from Marathon

JUST KIDDING. Wanted to make sure you were still reading, ha! We did wander up into Marathon, which happened to, dare I say, seem like a bleak town. Not once did we run into someone who smiled. There was an interesting energy about the place and perhaps we just stuck out enough to not fire the ‘friendly synapse’ in the folks we met. We happened to stock up upon some essential foods; assuming we would be able to make it to Rossport, our next stop, in four days time. (Little did we actualize, this was the PRIME time to have those Nostradamus skills.) We had put the positive energy out there that would warrant this leg of the journey to flow smoother than the previous ten days to cover 122 miles. (Three or four of which were weather days). Until that point I had felt pretty good about our food selection, we planned, and prepared ourselves to eat boxed food- which in our neck of the woods came from a natural food section, meaning our boxed food, was not necessarily unhealthy. Buying ‘boxed food’ elsewhere enacted me to feel like Edward Abbey’s character Hayduke, enforcing me to mumble ‘chemicals, chemicals, chemicals….’ As we ate our meals over the following few weeks… Back at the boats, repacked and jonesing to go, a fellow Canadian, one whom knew these parts offered us some fish, unfortunately packed to the gills ourselves and not owning a fillet knife, (let alone possessing the knowledge of what to do with one) we gracefully declined. He told us of some camping places and informed us that the wind, “ALL OF IT ALL THE TIME, would now be from the South – good luck.” This of course would make perfect hypothetical sense as we were now on the north shore… Que Sera, Sera.

We camped on some swank sand abode facing Detention island, (little foreshadowing there) hoping tomorrow would be a more prosperous day. Yielding no such return we fought 4-6 foot beam (from the side) swells and 15 knot winds during our just under five mile crossing. Slightly gripped from that experience we hung out on Detention isle until later in the afternoon and made a break for it, still swells, but no wind, warranted our arrival to Pic Island just after sunset, where we would literally almost camp on the water. This would be a defining corner stone of the journey, gentle rolling swells up no wind until we reached the Pic-ster right as the sun was going down some blast of 10+ knot wind ripping over the isle into our faces giving that early evening chill. (We would later refer to late-day decisions with reference, ‘We don’t want o have another Pic Island experience do we? Thus recollecting a dark , wet, cold, windy creation of camp.) No worries though the next day would yield an early start. Banking on the pattern of the winds we should be able to at least make it to the provincial park before it kicked up. (Insert laughter here) How wishful we were in our thinking. By the time we rose, our reference buoys were registering some heavy wind from the southeast, no need for alarm though we were in the wind shadow from the island. We paddled out and positioned for the 1.5 mile crossing no big deal right? Except the wind was wrapping around the island causing the waves to crash over you one way while the wind pushed you another, exciting times. We fought through that only to never find the boat launch for the campground and got pressed deeper into this bay yielding no real safe ground to land. At one point we saw a small fishing boat, and I mean small, like the one Uncle Bob uses to catch bass on the weekend with his buddies, all of us thinking the same thing, “What the heck!?” Shortly after that a miraculous saving grace appeared in the form of a sail boat moored, unattended with a note that read ‘ If you’ve found this boat, it’s yours to keep for free… Really! There are instructions how to sail located in the cabin…’ ok so that didn’t happen, but we did stumble, upon a sandy beach with, bum bah daah baaaahhh…. A CAMPSITE!! A few of them actually. SWEET. Protected from the wind we watched the waves build and break all day and attempt to plot our route whilst staying warm in the sunshine.

Knowledge Enhancer

We may be off trail, but there is no time like the present to keep enhancing knowledge of geography, ecology, pedagogy... all those things. Today feels like a special day so we will post a special factoid for those of you whom have been kept in the dark.

Now on our travels near and far we have never met anyone who did not have a liking to this famous 'huny' loving bear. As a youngster I knew this bear and his arsenal of amigos was out of this world, but I had no idea we would wallow through his home town during our extended travel. Did you know that Winnie the Pooh was from White River Ontario? Wholly haute dang, neither did we, until we passed on through.

So keep those synapses firing. Make sure to set your clock back, and if you are venturing out to celebrate Floyd's Birthday make sure you do so responsibly. Ralphie, certainly doesn't want to hear about any celebratory mishaps in the paper.

Do what you can, with what you have, where you are and keep those days filled with health, happiness and laughter...

Making it to Marathon

Michipicoten to Marathon (entry four)

From here on out we explored through channels around small rock outcroppings and isles the reminder of the Pukaskwa. I continued a devoted mission to find the beach that featured a photograph of a biadarka on the back cover of Northland Magazine, but to no success I embraced the scenery we did experience. On our last leg of the journey we happened to find ourselves using that crux line, “should we stay or should we go… Now… If we go there will be trouble, if we stay there will be double… Ohhh chorus reprise”. But really, the wind was predicted to pick on up, the appraised location was somewhere between Picture Island and Playter Harbour which meant a fight to an unknown territory past the Pic river, but there was solitude in this bay. The bay, which at that point was actually behind us (probably due to our beastly paddling skills) meaning in all reality we were in Hattie Cove- not to say this locale is not beauteous in its’ own right, but we kept on keeping on, made it to some little break in the rock (really more of a retaining ground for drift wood and logs, supplied with some sand for prime tent pitching grounds) north of the Pic River and called it home for the night.

The next morning we would rise early style and paddle on into Marathon- bit of a shocker after completing the previous 122 miles. The land was littered with industry, sour smelling air and an abundance of Chevy trucks. (Censored inappropriate generalization about pickup gangs). Ahhhh, the great Canadian civilization. Our motivation for Marathon revolved around hope we had a food box there, which we were not in DIRE need of, but close. Actually who would we be kidding we needed more food. Upon looking for a place to take out, we landed possibly landed on paper mill land, although we can neither confirm nor deny this and come to think of it I can’t remember the exact date in which we may or may not have been there (as I have heard some terminology, I believe called ‘trespassing’), we found a beach, called the post office only to be informed they could not locate our food box…Which, translated into real life, meant the temp worker did not know where to look for our box- a task I can imagine could be quite daunting considering it probably was the ONLY one from the states that said ‘HOLD FOR KAYAKERS’ – but hey, (no worries) hang loose right? I joke around about this, for all the information was gathered from a conversation that went a little like this:
“Hello, is this the Marathon Post Office”
“Yes it is”
“Hello, my name is Captain Adventure, and hopefully your cavernous center of communications, bountiful boxes and lucrative letters houses a mighty cache of food for us in the form of a United States Postal Service flat rate box. My partner and I are kayaking around this mighty Lake and we sent the box ahead of time.”
“Wha-? Captain Adventure? Is this a prank call?”
“Look fellow maple syruping, took wearing citizen, the details of our presence concern thee not in the least, doth you have a box from the United States of America denoting the phrase ‘ hold for kayakers’?”
“I am really not certain, I do not believe so, but... I can check.”
-‘Oh CANADA’ plays in the background for hold music.-
“I am really not seeing the box which you seem to desire Capt. Adventure.”
Perhaps you are not looking hard enough. – Censored thought.
“The regular worker is not here”
“Have you kidnapped them? Where are they, did they make off with our food cache?”
“She’s on Holiday.”
“Ah, I see, holiday. Did she need an abundance of food for this for this extended leave? Well, anyway what time are you open until?”
“Actually, we closed half and hour ago; but you can call again Tuesday, because we Canadians also celebrate the day of Laborious recognition Monday, thus we are closed until then.”
“Interesting, so you are not seeing the box?”
“No. But you can call on Tuesday”
“Very well. Thank you.”
“Good Bye”
“Stomp on the weak ones.”
“Wha-?”
Click.

Ah, remorseful day and feeling. It was on the weekend before Labour Day. (Canadian style, you gotta add that extra vowel, make it count). I think Saturday, but as mentioned before we can’t be absolutely for certain due to that whole paper mill land thing. Anyway, Saturday to Tuesday for no absolute guarantee a food box was going to be there… No thanks; we’d been there before ‘Ontonagon –style’. We meandered up towards an actual boat launch and asked some locals where the town was.
“Marathon, you’re here, this is Marathon.”
“This seems like a boat launch to me.”
“The town is right up there, up that hill, you can’t miss it”
“About how far, less than 5 K? (That’s Canadian for 3.2 miles)”
“Oh, its right up there, you can’t miss it.”

Well guess what? We missed it…

Ursus Americanus, Wild Waves and Quartz intrusions Oh my!!

Michipicoten to Marathon (entry three)


However that peaceful existence would be abruptly cut short by some Ursus Americanus exploration in the evening hours. Once you retire to your marvelous nylon shelter it is all but too easy to drift off and think everything that ends well shall be so throughout your slumber. Tonight though was a misconception. Whilst journaling we heard a noise in the nearby forest and shrubbery. To my wishful thinking, I kept saying ‘it sounds like a hoofed animal’- for no reason other than the shear wish that perhaps if I thought long enough it may go away, or be an actual hoofed animal- not so much the case. This animal was on a mission, a food-finding mission. A boisterous beast plopped out of the woods, right next to the tent. Absurdities, profanities, yelling, loud noises, flowed freely from the tent to scare said beast. To no avail, as this particular beast, we’ll call refer to it by it’s given name ‘a black bear’ would not back down. (Nothing gets between a bear and its’ desire for food!)

A bluff charge to the tent. A quick romp through the woods and an additional very sleepless night. Yippee! The next day we were awaken abruptly by some boat crunching noises. Alissa deemed it a bear on the kayaks. In my pre dawn-esque existence I imagined some bear dragging one of our loaded sea kayaks through the woods; in which case I wanted nothing to do with that bear. But sometimes you have to rise above that fear and rise above it we did as we tromped down to the beach in skivvies w/ driftwood in hand ready and willing to knock the bloody socks of anyone or beast messing with our lake exploring craft.

To no real surprise we found the kayaks tampered with. (EEEK!) Alissa’s got flipped over, pivoted 90 degrees counter clockwise to the way it had been and wedged underneath my boat. Adrenaline pumping, we made like a few trees and got the heck out of there (I know the proper response is ‘leave’, yet when that word is pluralized it doesn’t work so hot, eh?) knowing darn well there was some bear sitting just out of sight from us waiting for food. I could just imagine its’ thoughts as it witnessed us mowing (pronounced mah-oww-ing) down some Cliff Bars™ on the water, away from the immediate grasp of its inquisitive paw. “Aw geeze…. C’mon, I need that! Can’t they see I am so famished? (Emace-oed in the books of S.Domek.® terminology). They’re eating right out there on the water!? What type of world is this?” A world where we do not want to be the reason for habituating bears to food from humans, that’s what kind.

Off on the water we paddled into what seemed like a pleasant day. Nice. Due to our abrupt breakfast, we ended up cooking some brunch at a nice beach a few miles, (or was it six?), from where we started.
Back on the water, wind at our backs. Waves started to white cap. Then SHAzaMM!! (Think a word denoting EXTREME AWESTRUCK event.) We were in the midst of a melee. Not a for-serious melee, but one conjured up in my head. Waves easily became two meteres, and our minds… expanding to comprehend effective action. We quickly embraced the importance of not paddling through constricted areas. Soon we were in burly breaking waves, the horizon rising and falling 6-8 feet at a time (and on the slight occasion 8-10 ft YOIKES! –Think Shaggy from Scooby Doo). Now, had the shoreline not been so dern rugged, and boats not loaded the experience may have been more enjoyable and perhaps carefree; but this specific test with the boss (as locals on the south shore refer to Lake Superior) happened to be a bit much. Up and down, down and up, brace on the left, brace on the right, take a brief surf; quickly realize that is not in your best interest… If only we had those Nostradamus –esque visions to foresee our future for the next few days we’d have… Well, to be honest I don’t know what we would have done, but I am sure it would have been spectacular.

You can always go back and attempt to decipher what coulda, woulda and shoulda made a difference with your performance. But the reality of our situation happened to be the waves got HUGE and we were committed. So we held our own, sang songs, which for me usually works in waves three feet or larger, (the theme to Mario® seems to suit just fine, what with the rising and falling of the wave you can imagine yourself in one of the fastidious levels gathering coins, super powers or dodging those blasted mushroom characters- but I digress) or just gracefully kept the boat upright until we were able to duck into a bay out of the wind and get our bodies on solid ground just north of Oiseau Bay. We reveled in the remaining daylight feeling accomplishment and empowered. (Just about as empowered as Mario must feel at the end of the level when he jumps and slides down the flagpole, fireworks exploding all over the place… Yeah, that’s about right.)

This particular day and the next would be spent in this gallivanting granite landscape. Some intriguing intrusions just a hop, skip and jump away from our tent made it all worth it, even if it did rain like mad the next day, continuing to thwart our forward momentum with wind. Hanging out under our ‘white lightning’ tarp (muchas gracias Granite Gear!!!) we had sufficient time to really explore the reality of Lake Superiors’ Isostatic Rebound, which is when the land rebounds (e.g. bounces back from YEARS of glacial depression, or its’ weight upon the land). Currently the Western half of the lake is rebounding quicker than the eastern and due to the immensity of this Canadian Shield shoreline it’s not too difficult to understand why. Everything over here seems much heavier from the geology to the weather.

Rapid recollections - making it into the Pukaskwa

Michipicoten to Marathon (entry two)

On one occasion we would endure an escape during the daily building of the wind, only to take off the water and wait out the weather an hour later. This particular occasion yielded us a SWEET place to stop, probably one of the most perfectly protected bays and beach campsites (multiple) that one could ever wish to encounter, yet we had to press on after the wind settled down in order to effectively keep moving.

Another time, we made it as far as lunch, which landed us in this hole of a bay, no beach, rocks, spiders, poison ivy, excitement, all those things. Upon departing from that ‘sanctuary’ we paddled an entire twenty minutes on the water before accepting the reality of 15-20kt winds we were not going to make it anywhere in such seas. We sought refuge on an island and waited out the wind. Patience eventually lead to calmness in the waters of the lake and we pressed on, towards an amazing view of Michipicoten Island and one heck of a campsite to boot! Nestled somewhere, between beauty and amazing-ness we had the perfect beach-protected bay combination, one begging us to partake in its’ imminent bounty of blueberries; HECK YES!! This locale bears the name of Les Petit Mort Rocks, which to our infinite knowledge of the French language (this is a joke) translates to “Little Rocks of Death”. Understandably so in heavy seas, that this here place could pose a problem for travelers, it also could serve a façade for berry-lovers that is to deter people and beast away from this locale on account of its name of demise. That next morning we foraged and made some delectable blueberry pancakes (pretty much the best ever). Fueled up for a glorious day of paddling, we traveled on until the Wheat bin where we did some lunch/dinner combination (you can do those sorts of things every now and again you know). A note to future travelers this place hosts one amazing beach, a great place to camp and a dank-o-rific place to chill out.



Alas, the Pukaskwa finally graced our presence after many anticipated miles and stories about its’ legendary allure. We paddled in around Pt. Canadienne to find an untouched, (as it appeared from several hundred yards out), beach blessed with a mighty maple leafed banner. Upon closer inspection, deductive reasoning skills determined this a campsite, one used several times before, sometimes by others much sloppier than ourselves; nonetheless it would suffice to call home for the evening. As the sun dropped beyond the western horizon and night encroached our surroundings a lone figure, (a paddler as it were), masked by dusk arrived to the beach to ask “If we minded he camp on ‘our’ beach.” ‘Our beach?’ There’s a preposterous thought. Whose beach is it anyway? Certainly not any of the travelers whom set foot upon it- regardless to avoid digression, and keep on a rambling, we gracefully told him ‘there were no worries,’ in his camping here.



We would later learn this fellow was from Ann Arbor Michigan (originally from Marquette) and out for his yearly solo pilgrimage to the Puck. Commendable for certain, as our pre-emptive impression had all but rattled our nerves and we were just trying to make due. The next morning, which was bloody cold, we exchanged information about campsites, we told tales of a fat blue berry cache, and he of some commendable campsites. We then made about finishing our breakfast and paddling out into the vast wilds. Upon departure we would see a few folks (from a far) enjoying a canoe excursion, (covered canoe this time), and find an infamous Pukaskwa pit. Although there is no exact certainty as to what these pits were used for; there is speculation that they served purpose in vision quests. Though we can neither confirm nor deny these postulations, the one we did encounter had a pretty glorious view; and given sufficient time, one could imagine that life would of a sudden seem much simpler and enchanting.



Through out the days journey we paddled beyond Deep Harbour and through Otter Island, where as luck would have it we would see not one, but two otters. Fancy that, certainly not false advertising. We enjoyed the geologically endowed shoreline and a brief jaunt passed the final plunge of the Cascade River into the Lake. Shortly after that twisting torrent of white we triumphed beyond Triangle Harbour until our arrival just north of Newman’s Bay, which was recommended by our new friend. A delightful place it was indeed, big beach, tucked back and away from the lake. A small river off in the distance and an obvious desired location by paddlers and hikers alike. We took the afternoon to re-group the thoughts, strategize for the upcoming days, and bathe in Superiors’ then, frigid water. Ohhhhh what a RUSH. We’d conclude that daily experience with a dank meal and glorious sunset. A peaceful end to a peace perusing day…

Canadian Chronicles

Let the adventure begin. Or continue rather...

Michipicoten to Marathon (entry one).

Our minds still in a frenzy from the previous 72 hours we arrived back in Wawa, Ontario late in the afternoon on the 18th of August ready and poised to be back on the water. We wouldn’t depart until the next day after reveling in a full night of sleep (not on a bus) re-packing and organizing our lives back into drybags. The life out of the kayak seems so simple.

Departure from the beach near our boats’ safe hold at Naturally Superior (these folks are friggen AWESOME) provided a neutral initial entrance into the water, neutral with a hint of sluggishness. ‘Geeze were these boats this heavy before?’ Indeed they were, give a week off and start fresh with a food re supply packs on additional poundage to the vessel. Yet we paddled on, back into the rhythm, back into the lake, back into a headwind and approached one of the most exposed population depleted area of the lake. That Northeastern knuckle we all know and love as the Pukaswa. Rigtheous.





We would paddle a few days before obtaining entrance to the Puck (as some locals call it) due to some heavy weather and unrelenting waves. For all informative purposes we’ll think of this portion as the ‘Pre Puck’. The beginning of said journey took us in and out of a few islands, passed beauteous sand beaches, secluded, as they were, amidst a backdrop of the entire southeastern part of the lake. Still holding substantial daylight we were able to dine in the late afternoon and keep on kicking until dusk settled in; as was almost the case while jockeying for a campsite around the Dog River. The beach adjacent to the mouth maintained its existence as a monstrous gravel bar, warranting tricky landing in the surf, which at our rendezvous was breaking slightly. We were unable to reach the campsite up the river due to a conflict of interest between the waves meeting the current of the Dog, so we headed down the shore further to the False Dog harbour. It appeared to be a great place to camp, which is why the motor boaters whom zoomed in before us probably were fairly stoked. We ended up paddling back into another bay which had no view of the lake, (something we tried to avoid so we could keep an eye on the weather), so we returned to the gravelbar from whence we came and landed betwixt the wave sets on the gravely beach next to the Dog, river, just for clarification purposes, we had not found a K-9 friend.





Our next morning we galavanted up and out of camp to beat the wind forecast, a forecast that could induce nerve bending travel around Point Isacor (re-named for our journey point I so Scared – due to reading several accounts of harrowing experiences in the pinnacle of its presence). Paddling out and away from the beach by 7:50 A.M. we felt fairly good about life, the clouds, what bark was made out of on trees, you know the essentials in life; yet these warm feelings would briefly shift as we ducked into a seldom sought after campsite to potentially hole up for the day in accords with the wind. However, this place was literally a hole in the forest, some cleared trees large enough for a tent, horrible place to land, and not much area to stretch the legs. Seeing some other paddlers on the water elevated our confidence and friends from the Thunderbay Coast Guard a.k.a. weather radio, informed us the wind would not break us in two. With that, we finished a snack, re-precariously moved our boats from the rocks and headed back in the lake to paddled beyond IsoScared. This particular area preps ones mind for that total seclusion and isolation which can solely be experienced on this side of the lake. The highway and rural communities dip away from the shore leaving your thoughts, ambitions and spirit to wander with the animals, natural history and tales of the past.

While traveling this stretch of the lake we were reading a borrowed copy of ‘Teasing the Sprit’ (THANKS BRIAN AND NEYASHA!!) a manual, or user guide if you will, to that portion of Canadian coastline. The book, very detailed and rich with stories, also heeded warning to the Lake Superior traveler, denoting such phrases, as “Paddling Lake Superior is a risky venture High skill, endurance and self reliance are necessary when plying Superior’s sea. Be honest about your paddling skills. In sudden weather shifts, quickly paddle to shore and wait; and Remember, Lake Superior kills quickly.” which to the first time traveler of this region can all but inundate ones fear of the area. However, we heeded the cautions held our own and traveled with diligence and a safety conscious mind at all times.





The shoreline diluted its sandy depositions and traded the former existence for pebbles and boulders of granite, which just in case anybody out there was curious, is a trite harder to land on than that good ole’ quartzite. While bouncing about in the waves searching for the famed ‘kayak sanctuary’ we found a secluded sandy beach within a semi protected bay to keep our boats and spirits safe from the boisterous attitude of the Lake. Luckily we did find this locale, as we would spend the next two days perched against the tree line awaiting an escape back to the clear waters of Superiors’ ambiance. Our first day was well earned with heavy wind and waves lapping against leased perch on the beach. The next day we were abruptly awaken pre-dawn by a heavy thunderstorm, one that we could hear gain presence across the lake until finally it was right on top of us, less than a second between lighting shout and thunder response. People always talk about how lightning drills are bunk, they waste time, etc. But really, can such challengers tell us of a time when they felt more alive. I mean really, every cell in your body is ignited with adrenaline, awaiting fate and happy to hold that crouched position atop a therm a rest. We arose few hours later and thought there was a great opportunity to head out on the water as no waves were present. No sooner had our hopes risen than the simultaneous rise of the wind speed occur. The blue sea quickly turned white and we once again were watching the waves lap against our shoreline. Upon inspection of the high water mark from the previous night, it was confirmed the highest wave came within 22 feet of the tent. Good thing Marmot® products come with a waterproof coating. When we finally snuck away from this gem of solitude we sighted another paddler on the mighty seas of Superior. It turned out to be none other than some guy, (probably Canadian) in an open aluminum canoe, loaded to the hilt with stuff and paddling with a kayak paddle. He was grateful to see other forms of life as he had been holed up for the previous two days and thought he was a ‘chump’ for waiting out the weather. Mind you this is a guy in an OPEN canoe w/ no flotation or cover, telling us he thought he was a ‘chump’. The then proceeded to enlighten us that the waves around the point were not breaking, but gentle five to six foot swells or ‘rollers’ as he deemed them. This place would set as a foundation to reinforce the heaviness of the weather and Canada.

Bah dah bah dum da dum.... Charge!!!

Whoah, whoah, whoah there young bucky!!!



No need to fret the land sharks!! The Canadian Chronicles will be updated soon; along with tales of the gnarly North shore and final frontier on banks of Wisconsin.

Back to your regularly scheduled parusing of the internets...

But before you go, here is a slight indulgence of a few of our random favourites, thus far... (We've several thousand photographs, certainly there will be more fav's to come.)












Health, happiness and laughter your way...

The hour that the ship(s) came in...

Shortly after the hour that our ships came in... Cause we paddled them


Up close and grizzled, well I am, Alissa doesn't seem to pack on the burly bearded look like I do...

Frantic followers, regular readers and meandering mothers,

As of around 1 p.m. central daylight time on October 4th, 2008 within five nautical miles from, we the Session Crew Alissa and Brian hath landed in beautious Bayfield Wisconsin... Amidst an audacious apple fest. You know, we figured why not go for the culture shocker of the century.

So some of that is in jest, we did however arrive in the stupendous sun and abundant festivities of apple-ness Saturday afternoon. Our friends Joe and Mariah helped us sneak away under the radar with a borrowed ride (Thanks to the G squared team!) and slowy re-integrate into sometype of lifestyle for which I am lacking rock tastic terminology for.

We wanted to just drop this here shout and let you all know there is plenty more to come with stories (the Canadian Chronicles, if you will), photos and bountiful thank yous for everyone involved.

Until then, keep doing what you do, being who you be and keeping those days filled with health, happiness & laughter...