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.

Two Toonies per boat Please...

Black Bay was crossed in two sections, first to a small island for a snack and then over to the other side, where had the sun been setting we would have been in the shadow of the giant. We continued down the coastline, trying to decipher whether or not we would be able to make it to Pie Island (an area which held some slight anxiety due to others’ accounts which we read about). As the afternoon would progress we would not press on to Pie Island, but layover in Silver Islet to acquire some needed sustenance and as luck would have it, they also had ice cream. Something, when you are on trail is seldom smart to pass up.

After enjoying the said creamed ice we would make our mandatory donation to the Silver Bay Islet harbour. You see the town of silver islet exists for people boaters by boaters, provided they are mostly Canadian. As luck would have it, when we arrived to this shack-orific community hanging on the east shore of the Sibley peninsula, a large blue building reading the word ‘STORE’ hailed to solve all our future pangs of hunger. However while inside this provider of overpriced calories we would learn that it cost a whopping TWO toonies (roughly four dollars from the states of united unison) to use the boat launch-, as two other kayakers happened to enter the store and attempt to pay there. These fellow Canadians would not end up paying sufficient coinage, which as luck would have it, draw attention to our presence by one of the ‘Volunteer’ harbour masters. We had not even used the launch, nor were we on it at the time, but as her Majesty’s will would warrant, some guy, we’ll call him Peter hollered down to us as he explored the fee box.

“How’s it going? Is this your car up here? Did you two place your fee in here”
“Uh, fine. Nope not our vehicle. Not yet, we were fixing to break down our larger bills in the store”
“Right, so this isn’t you’re registration?”
“That’s correct it is not”
“Where are you headed?’
“Back to Bayfield Wisconsin.”
“Ah, Bayfield, well if that was your car I would tell you to move it up over there.”
“Yeah, no, not our car, these kayaks are all we have.”
“Say, what have you got, perhaps I could just give you change, then I don’t have to come back to the box later.”
“Uh, well I’ve got a $10 note, so if you’ve a toonie or a couple of loonies we should be set.”
“Yep, I can do that. You see the Ontario Government pledged to allow us to keep all the fees collected from this here launch and put it into restoring the dock out there; so in a sense, we’re all harbour masters.”
“Very well, glad we can be of contribution.”

You know being an honorary harbour master in a foreign country is certainly an honor. However it didn’t negate the fact that, the same government had no qualms restoring a dock on the shores of the lake while simultaneously identifying fifteen areas, prime enough to quarry rocks for road bed (which would utterly destroy the shoreline and deplete water quality, among other negative impacts on the Lake’s shores). There was some sort of mixed message in there. But there is a digression.

We were off from our blue building adventure to paddle down the shale-laced shores of the Sibley Peninsula towards Thunder Cape. The late afternoon hour did not warrant a successful window of time to cross over to Pie Island for desert, thus we settled for a nice niche on the western part of Tee Bay. In that particular location the land becomes topographically inclined to increase your feeling of insignificance in the terrestrial fashion. The forest and rock erupts from the lakeside creating some imminent compound of beauty and fear. Luckily though, this beauteous sight kept our fears at bay the next day when a ‘STRONG WIND WARNING’ kicked up some gnarly nor’ easter (that’s maritime speak for wind from the north east) in excess of 30kts. Needless to say twas a bit of a sitting around day. No matter, you’d have that.

Braving Black Bay, Searching the Sleeping Giant

Our next jaunt of adventure, if portrayed through instructions via a scavenger hunt may read something like this:
Be ready to paddle like a yo-yo, retracing your previous paddling distance to locate a safe-haven should you need it.
Realize that said safe-haven will keep you further away from where you want to be, so actually head out amidst those surly seas.
Do not pass go, if go was to accomplish the twenty miles you desired to cover. – Whoa where did that Monopoly™ lingo appear?
Brave 4-6 foot seas in a beam wind for an additional rowdy crossing.
Have helmet ripped off boat, but fail to notice for a few minutes.
Admire white floating object in water that resembles a helmet.
Turn around in heavy seas to retrieve noggin protector.
Meander into unknown bay searching for place to camp, which is sheltered from wind.
Not locate a place like that.
Find a potential place with vertical beach style take out.
Hem and haw a slight bit.
Land diligently, and with grace.
Realize this place provides a glimpse into an abundant agate land.
Decide it is such a cool place it would be beneficial to stay an extra day; the extra day would have nothing to do with incorporative weather.

That there happened to be a simple prognosis of our existence, trying at times, but generally more rewarding than not. We moved away from these immense islands boarding the Black Bay Peninsula in search of a famed Sleeping Giant. En route to find this slumbering gargantuan geologic marvel we paddled vigilantly into a headwind for twenty-five miles. Debilitating as it were we continued on through a few isolated islands, past a fishing camp, which contained mismatched cabins mixed with some menacing maritime menagerie. We knew our locale certainly had to be closing in on the famed Edward Island, more so because that is what the map denoted. We paddled across the channel against a 15kt headwind and ducted behind an island to gather our bearings, this enabled us to better speculate as to where a blasted bay would be, one which would allow us a safe camping spot for the evening. Nestled in the bay we neurotically navigated through we found a perfect stomping, or lying ground rather. Sparse trees gave way to a few open flat areas surrounded by the tall grass where we pitched the tent in early evening light. We dined upon a fine cuisine of noodles and salmon beneath the rising moon, preparing for a hopefully prosperous weather the next day while crossing Black Bay.

Morning light rose providing splendid sunshine and bountiful blue skies. We were able to dry our waterlogged gear from the day before and enjoyed some energizing oatmeal (stay tuned for a special recipe). Before departing our protected bay of salvation Alissa noticed a sunken ship below the surface. Although we have no details on this wreck, it wasn’t on the map, we can neither confirm nor deny this one burned to the waterline then sank. It appeared as an elongated canoe of sorts, but the stern housed a large engine compartment. We pondered its story while we paddled though much calmer waters into a boundary water-esque array of islands when the small channel finally gave way to an enormous bay lined with an iconic geologic feature.

Drop on down to your local place of polling & VOTE!!!



doesn't matter how you get there... you'll be glad you did.

health, happiness and laughter your way...





*photographed on location Lester River, downtown Duluth MN. Care of Joe K.

Interpreting island insight

The next morning the differential between air and water temperature produced a luminescent fog, one that illuminated the channel paralleling our site in the early morning sun. 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.

Relaxing in Rossport?

The quaint little town which housed our food box, a kayak shop-Superior Outfitters, the famed Rossport Inn and a viable presence of the Canadian Pacific Railway, several times a day.
In our minds Rossport had become the enchanted city. A definitive tangible representation of a distance denoting we were more than half way home. (And it only took us how long to get there?) We would even paddle through a culvert to bring the small town into certain view – how cool is that? Several friends and fellow travelers along the way had recommended this town to us. And as luck would have it we would meet some friendly folks from our realm of the world (Rick and Mary from Mason, WI) while experiencing one of the most delicious (and certainly expensive) meals of our lives. This was the one locale in which we had planned to stay at an INN, momentarily relax etc. However upon settling into this triumphant town we soon realized we’d missed some details in the appreciation factor. First, there is no grocery store here; you have to travel 15 miles back in the direction from whence you came. Second, small town does not denote small prices, due to the lack of abundant amenities, be ready to pay for it. Third make sure you lay in your bed before you commit to a room, otherwise when you flop down for a good nights’ rest, you may find that the mattress has been molded for a pear shaped individual leaving your feet slightly higher than your head while your bum hangs near the floor. (Kind of like a hammock, but not). Last, is there some type of amnesia vortex in this region where everyone you talk to forgets to tell you about the TRAINS? Bring ear plugs, because as natural as they are to existence, engineers seems to have no qualms about blasting the horn several times as they pass the one crossing in town…. You know, people are pretty observant, they see the warning lights, they hear that ‘ding, ding, ding’ noise and even witness thousands of tons of metal hurdling down those steel rails at ungawdly speeds- pretty sure you could go with out that blasted horn. But I digress…

After struggling through that night of sleep, or lack there of, we regrouped at Superior Outfitters. Where owner Dave Tamblyn had been sacredly guarding our food box like a bear, ok we don’t know that for certain, but he did keep it safe and no mice got into it so that was awesome, for a few weeks. While discussing our food issues, prep packing our boats, he even offered the most unprecedented random act of kindness we’d experienced province side… The use of his vehicle (actually it was his wife’s, which is why it may have not been that big of a deal) to drive into Schreiber and purchase some buffer food. How cool was that? Way cool! We experienced velocitation for the first time since the wedding (always a fun experience when twenty minutes in the car is the equivalent of three hours on the water) and loaded up on all those important essentials for quick meals and spiffy snacks. It was also on this journey into town, the grocery store, adequately named Costa’s (cause it was gonna costa you a lot) that I almost cried. Seeing that freshie produce: avocados, tomatoes, pears, kale, garlic, peppers etc and knowing it would not last a wink and a half in the cooler was the clincher in potential Canadian blues. So close to fresh food, yet so very far away. We made haste in the store, restocked what we needed, even paid $11.22 for one pound of cheese (darned conversion of grams to pounds) and were on our way.

Back to Rossport, back to packing the boats, we set off in the late day sun towards our new appreciated and highly praised surroundings, the Rossport Islands…

Our first destination landed us upon Wilson Island, great sand beach, lots of deer tracks - we scared Bambi's relative upon arrival, and even a nice tree stand for viewing the lake, (or shooting at some food if you're into that). We then set camp, made a marvelous meal and watched the moon rise in the indigo sky.