The setting sun pancakes into the clouds, orange and pink. Fog that hung over the water this morning and delayed my trip is gone now, only a memory in washed-out haze on the horizon fading into slate blue cliffs of Canada.
A beaver swims towards me, crossing the cove in a half submerged brown fuzz of determination. He leaves a ripply v-shaped wake in the mostly calm water, the gentle surge as though someone has given just one light tap to the Big Lake and set it in motion, thoomping and fizzing in the crevices beneath me.
A loon wails in the distance for his mate. I’m here, where are you? Dragonflies hover next to me, feasting on gnats as the resident beaver slaps the water like a cannonball.
A sliver moon hangs in the sky gradually sliding from white to orange as it follows the sun over the horizon. What a perfect site I have – a flat tent spot, a board bench for tea in the morning and this private rock veranda.
This is my first night on Isle Royale, at a place out of my way, not in the direction of my hike at all, and really an accidental landing pad. What force set things in motion to create the ideal circumstances to get me here? Whoever, whatever, you are – thank you.
I launched The Pee Rag podcast in late May and spent the first 14 episodes sharing the sounds and emotions of my thru-hike on the Te Araroa, New Zealand’s long distance trail. We got as far as Auckland and then I went on another actual backpack trip and decided to put New Zealand on pause for a few weeks, and bring you to this other very special place.
Last year, I walked two long distance thru-hikes and since coming home, have spent most of my time getting set up in a new career including building a professional recording studio. I had only two hikes on the agenda and then the pandemic hit. We stayed pretty close to home until one of my friends offered us her house for a week in Grand Marais, Minnesota, right on the shore of Lake Superior.
And also, just a short flight away from Isle Royale National Park, one of America’s least visited parks. At 206 square miles, Isle Royale sits at the far northwest corner of Lake Superior, like a long, squinty eye of a beast. It is the fourth largest lake island in the world and the second biggest in all of the Great Lakes – and it’s a backpacker’s paradise.
Made up of long ridges running southwest-to-northeast, Isle Royale is a tilted strata of volcanic rock.
Because it’s a 15-mile swim or a bitterly cold ice-crossing, there are no bears on the island, or porcupines, skunks or raccoons. But there are beaver, otters, black foxes, red squirrels, snakes, and frogs – though no one is entirely sure how they got there. In addition, Isle Royale has been the subject of the longest predator-prey research study in the world – between the island’s moose and wolves.
Over the past two years, the National Park Service has reintroduced wolves as their numbers have dwindled due to inbreeding. I’ve been promised to at least hear them at night.
Because of Covid, many of the docks and all island amenities are closed and no ferries are running. There are only two flights a day on tiny planes, taking hardy backpackers like me who long for the quiet solitude in boreal forest and “balds” of Canadian Shield.
This may very well be the best year to hike this enchanted place. But my flight was not going anywhere the day of departure. Thick sea fog had developed on the lake creating white out conditions at a very low ceiling. There’s nothing to do but wait, which we do at the iconic Java Moose on the harbor, Artists Point reflected in the stillness, the air chilly without the sun. I surprise myself feeling so sanguine in this moment. The paper is filled with analysis of the Democratic convention with Facebook chatter at a high pitch. I read and snack and wait as the sun slowly peeks out, a silvery burst of light breaking into the mist.
Finally, five hours later, Jon at Seaplane Central calls saying get back up the hill, the plane’s coming in to get you.
She’s a sleek de Havilland single-engine Beaver rocking slightly as she steadies to land rather quickly on miniature wheels under massive pontoons, like a grand piano being rolled on stage.
It’s just a pit stop for gas, and two big steps for this solo hiker and solo passenger. Thomas takes my temperature and asks me a few questions about my health, and, even though we’re both masked, reminds me smoking is not allowed on board.
High above spruce bogs and undulating forests, the flight path leaves the shore near Grand Portage. The island’s mountains pop up through one low leftover blanket of clouds and I barely feel our landing on deep and protected Washington Harbor.
Four backpackers are overjoyed when we arrive, stranded for a few days because of fog. Thomas hands me a fuel canister from a locked cage at the dock and then I check in with Ranger Jenna for my Leave No Trace lecture. Communicating with our eyes and eyebrows behind masks, I learn that moose are far more dangerous than wolves and to practice the “rule of thumb.” If I put my thumb up when I see one and can’t cover the moose, I am too close. I should always know where a good tree is to hide behind should they decide to charge.
Though unlikely now as it’s too early for rut or the mating season.
I also learn that of the dozen wolves on the island, many have lost their tracking collars, so the howls I hear might actually be rangers calling to the wolves. It is a distinct pattern, so I should be able to tell the difference.
She then covers packing out my garbage, camping only in designated sites (due to Covid and a small staff, cross-country camping is forbidden this season) leaving everything as is (except for berries!) putting out my fire completely and being considerate. Imagine this for a second: Isle Royale actually has designated quiet hours!
It’s getting late and I don’t have time for my original plan to begin walking south then east to cross the island. Both the pilot and Jenna suggest I walk five miles in the opposite direction toward Hugginin Cove, assuring me it’s a magical spot.
No time to waste, I get started right away taking the longer eastern side of the loop on beautifully built narrow wooden walkways over wetlands teaming with insects. There’s a tiny bit of up and down in a green tunnel of loaded thimbleberry bushes – plump explosions of sweet and tart.
The air is perfect – not too warm or too cold, though humid and I’m already sweating. I graze as I go arriving at the cut off for the Minong Trail, closed this year due to Covid. The most remote and strenuous of the trails, a search and rescue can take up to 16 hours and could be further complicated should the team need respirators. I was disappointed not to walk it this time, but where I am now – wet and bushy – challenges me enough.
I pass a turnout for an abandoned mine, but only see remains of a log building. Minong is the Ojibwe word for this island and has been mined for its pure copper since the pre-contact era. Long, thick boards take me past a marsh of light brown grasses, the water spilling out below me. More thimbleberries reach as high as my thighs offering their fruit in embarrassing quantities.
Birch and spruce change to cedar as I approach the lake, sidling the shore over rocks and roots. A fishing boat bobs in the water nearby and the sun burns hot in reflection. Thimbleberries give way to blueberries bunched close to the ground, plump and juicy. Canada’s ridges in dark blue seem to rise from the shimmer.
I come to a mossy boulder a bit high to climb up, but I notice a smaller rock next to it and decide to use it as, quite literally, a stepping stone. I step up, using my stick to balance, but the stick fails to make purchase and my foot slips down fast in the crevice between the rocks, folding on itself in a wedge.
Yow! That did not feel good at all. I put my weight on the foot, recalling the time in New Zealand I wiped and thought I’d broken the bone. I’m fine, but I can feel a bruise swelling under the skin.
The campsites are close and I know I can soak my foot in the frigid water, so I move along carefully, chiding myself for not being more careful. An injury is absolutely out of the question, I simply cannot fall.
As I approach the tiny bay, I see tents set up with a few people staring out into the view, motionless and absolutely silent as though at a religious service. Coming around the curve, a sign shows me the five sites and, more important, the whereabouts of the outhouse.
I cross a bubbling stream as crows flap noisily past and a squirrel chatters above. Sites four and five are empty, but awful, tucked deep back into the woods with poor water access.
Wait a minute, the tents were next to these, that means they must have been in sites two and three. Where is site one?
I head back, crossing the stream and passing the tents to see the small sign for site one that I must have missed coming in. The thin trail takes me along the water on crunchy pebbles and over some downed trees. I see a bench through the curtain of trees, and, glory halleluia, no tents!
It’s a perfect site and I set fast with just enough time to grab some bars and head to my rocky veranda and submerge my injured foot, cooling the half-dollar sized bruise as the sun sets.
Maybe it’s not by design that I got a late start and could only hike to this heavenly place, but that was some luck in not being too late, or too injured, a magical coming together of things. And the secret, I think, is being open enough to notice, and equally, alert enough to be full of gratitude.
All night, the sky lit up like a strobe light, thunder rumbling long and menacing, but not one drop of rain reaching me. I packed everything inside the tent including my muddy shoes, afraid a creature would make off with something vital.
The sunset was so perfect last night from my private rock outcropping, but this morning is socked in with fog. I pack up quickly, noticing one fat slug curled up under the alicoop’s tarp. I have neighbors, but I only see one quietly emerge to grab water. I leave before their tents come down.
It’s a boggy, thimbleberry zone with ups and downs over fallen birch, their bark pealing into tight scrolls. Mostly, I ‘walk the plank’ expertly arranged over wetlands, a thin trickle moving the coffee-stained water. They’re hardly just nailed together planks. Often, trail workers built short stairs to accommodate the undulating land.
I hear a loud crack of a twig in the brush, the only creature able to accomplish that would be a moose. Through the brush, I see her massive body, a dark brown blur pushing deeper into the forest. Moose Number One!
I press on over roots and rocks, damp and slippery with algae. Beaver have been hard at work here as the evidence shows massive trunks delicately chewed into a triangular point like a sharpened pencil. The air is humid and I’m sweating, but thankfully, there’s no car wash (yet) from the plants as high as my chest leaning over the trail. I could really use a machete, I think, when I suddenly hear heavy splashing below followed by a large moosey sneeze above.
I can’t see either of these besides a brown blur, but their gigantic presence is palpable. I slip past, looking for trees should I need to dart behind one. Two more today! Is that three moose or three mooses? Meese?
Soon I return to the cut off I took last night, completing the loop and heading back towards Windigo. I cross several streams on wide boards, now extra vigilant to stay upright. Near the visitor center, I meet the father and son I saw last night, impressed I plan to walk to Rock Harbor. I smile and thank them for their well wishes, hoping I’ve got what it takes.
I was warned these are not fast miles because of the rocks and overgrowth. I’m inclined to agree, already feeling a bit spent with nearly nine miles to go today. I pass about twenty hikers, all anxious to get off the island but with no idea when the planes will begin flying today. A father tells me he and his sons camped at Feldtmann Lake and suggest site two, so I aim myself in that direction and begin the loop.
Rain was predicted all day, but aside from the fog, it’s dry and very quiet. The trail follows massive Washington Harbor, long and deep and nearly always calm. Across is an island with a small house and a sailboat.
I drink a liter of water with watermelon flavored electrolytes, then head up towards the ridge through thick birch. A small spur takes me to an overlook with views to a pond and Superior beyond. I open a bag of mangos I dried at home, and they are pure nectar out here.
The sun is bright now and I hear the plane coming in. A bit of wind dries me out. Huge crickets with wings leap out of my path with a sprinkler’s clackety hiss.
I am nearly certain no moose hang out on a ridge, but when I enter the forest, I am surprised by one just next to the trail. I back up and hide behind a tree, holding up my thumb as instructed to see if he disappears and I am far enough away. He has an enormous rack and beard, but seems uninterested in me, continuing to graze on stemmy plants.
I take a few pictures of his narrow backside which slopes to a camel-like hump then joins his large, lovely head, mostly nose and antlers. He appears so calm as I gently walk past, watching me almost quizzically, a cartoon character with little interest in coming closer.
The path is high above any water, but is covered in smoothed stones, an ancient shoreline crunching under my feet. I again am welcomed by an abundance of thimbleberries, which I gobble up leaving red stains on my thumb and index fingers. The only improvement possible is the addition of raspberries to the mix, sweeter and crunchier.
I join a stream and filter water and it’s nonstop bushwhacking for miles, mostly flat, but I have to watch where I put my feet in a green tunnel of mud and mosquitos. I stop briefly for a drink and arrive to find my pick of the sites. Score! Site two is right on the shore of Feldtmann Lake. I set the alicoop and hang my sweaty clothes in the breeze, making an early dinner before heading to Rainbow Cove, about a mile’s walk to Lake Superior.
This shore is water-smoothed stones, tumbling with a tinkly sound as the waves lift them and gently set them back down. The sun hides behind a cloud before exploding below as it reaches the horizon in magenta and purple.
It’s not the best skipping stone beach, but Richard would be proud I make three hops with a few flat ones. Better yet, there are long finger-like stones I lob in without a splash, just a ‘thoop.’
As the sun disappears, I walk back the flat path above the stream, the bees out earlier on the purple aster are all asleep now. I hold my puffy above my head so it won’t pick up dew.
A few steps from the turn off for my site, a fox greets me on the path, long black socks and a wily expression. I snap his picture and walk on, but he appears ready to play, bending forward then jumping from side to side.
Eventually he trots to a clearing under cedar, scratching his back with his hind leg. ‘Little fox, you better not be stealing anything from me tonight!’
All is well when I return, the wind up and the waves crashing. I dip in the lake to my knees before turning in - and then tie my shoes to one pole just in case.