This display of light and water vapor provided a new perspective in our Canadian canvas, it symbolized a simpler, safer sea to travel upon. We were shielded by the wind while we paddled through an archipelago in the south channel of Simpson Island. 
Paddling through the calm channel revealed a character of the lake that we hadn’t seen in quite some time. Mirror-esque conditions provided an optical illusion where verticality knew no limits; aside from the loon swimming by, creating ripples in the surface, a snap shot would not solve the puzzle between reality and reflection. We paddled on.While we added additional strokes to the paddleometer (some fictitious creation in my mind which counts the total times the blades hit the water- roughly 36 to 54 hundred strokes per hour for those of you wondering…) the wind slowly added some speed of its’ own. The channel gave way to rugged coast, some littered with pieces of maritime history, other parts simply impressive enough with the simplistic natural history. Our caloric tanks eventually drained towards empty and it became essential to find a place to ‘snack’. Luckily we found a splendid space to consume lunch. What enticed us towards this place, without a doubt had to be the hatchet buried in a log near waters’ edge. Not too many places you encounter will come with a readily available woodchopper, which labeled this locale as a grade A winner.
We however did not intend to stick around long enough to put said chopper of wood to use, as we had our sights on St. Ignace Island. An isle that boasted large exposed southern shoreline and hidden saunas (properly pronounced as I stood corrected; Sa-ow-naw) just waiting to be fired up. This excursion and search for the abandoned sweat haus would have to wait though, as no sooner had our lunch been consumed than we headed back out onto the water to find waves of mammoth proportions battering against the shoreline. It’s no wonder they were not wetting the leaves on the trees. In all actuality the waves in our protected window to the Lake Superior world were tipping off around four feet, (spraying water roughly ten feet into the air from the rocks bordering our escape route) the wind blasting around 15kts in the direction of: in-your-face- a mixture that did not warrant a successful ending to our daily tale of exploration. Luckily we happened to know just the place, complete with woodchopper and killer view; (no pun intended.)
The sun rose the next morning along with the wind speed, which due to a low-pressure entrance to the area was supposed to diminish and swap around directions later in the day. It provided an opportunity to enjoy some sweet blueberry scones for breakfast and further develop our plan to search out some saunas. By early afternoon we were on the water headed for the next large island en route when we spotted two yellow kayaks; kayaks that happened to belong to our friends (Outward Bound instructors on a short break).
Unfortunately while we were headed out, they were headed back, so we exchanged tales of life on the lake, they of campsites to checkout and as soon as it began we both were off on our respective journeys; them back to making a difference amongst youngsters in the woods and us finalizing the remainder of our expedition. So we headed off to experience what St. Ignace had to offer.Offerings of challenge greeted us from our initial crossing into the maw of island life. For whatever reason, as strange phenomenon seemed to exist denoting an awkward wind direction trumping our efficient travel plans. Perhaps that is just another day in the life on the mightiest lake of them all. We made the crossing diligently, and happened to duck from the wind beyond Armour island. This area played host to some remote settlements, which were only accessible by boat. We know not whom owned such houses, garages, Direct TV® supported ‘escape’ cabins, but surely wished to have found a key and tossed logs in the fireplace as the wind wore through our paddling layers, water wetting the next to skin layers. To our dismay we were unable to locate the slightly talked about ‘Nirivia’ (apparently as it was spelled though it read Nirvana) a mystical land of bountiless smoked salmon, warm quarters for sleeping and a constantly smoldering coals for a swanky sauna… Perhaps some of that was made up in my mind, our OB friends had told us of a place and once the wind picks up my mind just happens to take it where it deems enticing. Regardless, we found no such locale. We did find a campsite with a gorgeous view of the lake, perched atop rocks a sweet place to set up shop, which is most likely exactly what the little bear who lived there thought as well. One brief encounter and allocation of bear scat-o-rino down the beach…. BOI!!! Enlightened us to move back a mile in the direction we had just paddled from. This provided an additional ‘PICSTER’ experience, setting up after dusk amidst wind, wetness and dropping temperatures. Due to the Ursus factor we dared not cook anything for fear our fatigue wouldn’t suffice sufficient energy to shake a stick at any visitors entering the campsite. Thus we had a reprise of a lunch type meal and plenty of hope tonight would yield hours of undisturbed rest.
The next morn, we arose early on to advantageously make use of the sun’s brilliance and drying power of all that is nylon. While warming up our stove decided to go on a hunger strike and we again foraged for the non-cooked meal. No matter though we would paddle on and along the southern shore of St. Ignace Island through bays, amidst islands even get a wave and hollar from fellow Canadians. Near of the Southwestern portion of the island a gargantuan Canadian flag flapped slightly in the light breeze- denoting something of interest we ventured into a protected bay to discover the Canadian acclaimed CPR slip. A marvelous piece of land donated by a Thunderbayians for the use of the people of the lake. A volunteer group had erected a main building (including two bunk beds, a table, potbellied stove, cabinets, cooking supplies journals and few metric tons of character), sauna, fire pit, fish cleaning station and a locale that seemed to be a hot hub during the summer months. Fascinating place and uplifting to see all the communal effort and pride put into it. After consuming calories we set out, sans sauna (insert sad face here) due to a positive weather window providing potential to gain some much needed ground. This, surprising as it were, would change shortly after we got on the water providing a tireless headwind to paddle into on our way to Flour Island. Making the crossing wasn’t too bad, it was the actualization that in order to make our destination would put us at risk, paddling around severely exposed shoreline with no easy exits. Once in the near shore waters of Flour we ducked into a bay and found a potential sneak through the island in some wetland looking feature. Paddling between peninsulas the wind disappeared, the trees shot towards the sky and we once again would paddle atop mirror images of ourselves. We encountered a few otters whom snorted at our presence and ended up pushing into some tall grass until it tierra firma was discovered. This solid ground surrendered a ‘return to from whence you came’ card and we meandered back out into the open channel. This time we headed south in search of potentially promising beaches. Of which on our three options we quickly struck out. There was but one GRACEFUL looking beach. SAND.
Actual sand back in this rocked out landscape, but upon close inspection it contained hoof prints. We’re talking monstrous moose tracks, larger than my head. The tracks spread the entire beach somewhat erratically, mixed with some bear prints right on the water line. Although desperate weighing the pros and cons set us back on the water as neither one of are fluent enough in moose lingo to attempt and negociate the use of their area for the evening.Back on the water we had planned to back track a few miles to an area that had looked more promising. Sluggish were the movements to make that happen and as a wildcard I decided to scope out a beach adjacent to this moose highway. As luck would have it this area, looking rough on the outside, happened to be warm and fuzzy on the inside, figuratively that is. People had camped there before. There was an old tent platform and a few flat places in the forest to set up a tent. Salvation at last! We partook in the daily ritual and soon were on the rocks cooking dinner… AWAY from camp. A swirl of energy and ambition quickly arose in the air and informed Alissa (who desperately wanted to see some Moose) “Here comes your moose.” As if we were watching a dinner theatre a massive cow trotted out into our view across the small bay (on the beach we didn’t stay on). Sprinting across the beach away from the bull that was chasing her. Right there, where we had been perhaps an hour ago, huge animals now frolicked in some clumsy courtship. She would wander in the water, hop back on the beach and the bull parade around her. Back down the beach out of view, back across the beach into view a spectical that endured for minutes. During such spectacular sights of nature it seems that my camera devotedly enjoys playing hide and seek, this time inside the kayak, opposed to at my side. I slowly got up to at least fetch the binoculars to take in the seen a little closer. This consisted of rolling out of my crazy creek chair and crawling belly down on the beach, a rock beach mind you that made precarious noises as I did so.
Unfortunately this spectacle was all it took to raise the flag of caution. (I mean someone in a blue fleece and khaki pants crawling across a grey landscape is no need to fret right?) The cow sensed danger and abruptly turned off the ‘game of hard to get’ with her partner and they both trotted off out of view. No matter, I was assured they would be back. (Yet I did not risk creating a greater noise distraction by opening and rummaging through the kayak and solely returned with the binoculars). Moments later the moose seemed to be exercising their freedom of speech ~ which in all actuality, if I were to translate it sounded a bit for like some Issac Hayes style of music- if you catch my drift. No sooner had their song ended than they romped back into our field of view apparently ‘de-tensified’ from something and waded into the water. Deeper and deeper until their torsos were cooling off, Superior style. The meandered our direction… Amazing at first, then not so amazing. They gained more and more ground until it became apparent we would have to announce our presence to not have an up close and personal stand off. We hollered, tossed rocks into the water, hooted, waved, yet this just seemed to satisfy their curiosity as they strode towards us. Finally, in my calm, collected, inside voice I mutterd a “hey moose”. A phrase the cow apparently understood, her ears perked up and head turned away. She began to trot off quickly towards the cover of the tremendous trees she and her partner only knew so well. And like that, as suddenly as it began, they were gone.
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