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.