The Blissful Hiker continues her magical thru-hike of the very special island national park, Isle Royale. She discovers that the animal she would most want to be in another life is the busy beaver, a creature with the grit to swim fifteen miles to make this eden its home.
In this episode:
MUSIC: Poema del Pastor Coya by Angel Lasala as played by Alison Young, flute and Vicki Seldon, piano
available on iTunes
The Blissful Hiker continues her magical thru-hike of the very special island national park, Isle Royale. She discovers that the animal she would most want to be in another life is the busy beaver, a creature with the grit to swim fifteen miles to make this eden its home.
In this episode:
MUSIC: Poema del Pastor Coya by Angel Lasala as played by Alison Young, flute and Vicki Seldon, piano
available on iTunes
It drizzled last night and my lake is now shrouded in dense fog. In this mist I notice for the first time witch hair draped over branches of the big cedar, the same cedar that I slung up Blueberry my backpack, hopefully high enough and out reach of the long black-socks-fox.
No swimming this morning as I put on rain gear, mostly for the shrubbery car wash to come. The wind is high as I make tea and eat bars. Here’s hoping it gives me views from the Feldtmann fire tower.
Almost immediately, I cross an oily wetland on boards, one broken and sunken. A few days ago, the ranger told me to take it slow on these crossings, some of which are high up on stilts with nothing to grab hold should I lose balance. After falling once already and nursing a bruised foot, I tell myself it is absolutely forbidden to fall again and carefully – oh, so carefully – shuffle across.
Last year, I walked two long distance thru-hikes – New Zealand’ Te Araroa and the Pacific Crest Trail in the western United States. My plan this year was to hike two shorter trails close to home – the Kekekabic, a continuation of the Superior Hiking and Border Route Trails and part of the 4,600 mile North Country Trail – one I am definitely section hiking – and then Isle Royale, a National Park in the far northwest corner of Lake Superior and part of Michigan.
When the pandemic hit, it all seemed a bit nonsensical and I set the plans aside – until the opportunity came in the form of an offer to stay at a friend’s empty house in Grand Marais, just a short flight from the island.
I hiked a small loop when my plane was delayed to magical Hugginin Cove, then continued to Lake Feldtmann at the urging of hiker pal from my radio days. It’s so quiet, it feels expectant as though I need to walk gently and observantly – in an odd sense, I feel even more a visitor to this natural setting of wolves and moose, beaver and loons then anywhere I’ve ever hiked.
The forest is dark and wet and I walk well all alone this early morning in spite of my foot being bruised, hopefully not anything worse. I know the ridge comes soon and it suddenly appears as expertly built stairs heading straight up to pines. The sun pushes through, silver and bright. Crickets with fancy wings leap out of my way as my feet walk on large stones in a kind of concrete emulsion.
I pass a large pile of shredded hair and wonder what struggle happened here. There’s no view whatsoever only twisted branches eerily reaching up through the white out.
But there’s another surprise, one only possible to see in the dampness – thousands upon thousands of spider webs outlined in glistening water droplets. Oddly, long filaments as much as 20 feet long string from branch to branch.
A Sand Hill crane sounds her clackety metal noisemaker alarm as I pass, every note echoing in the canyon below. Seven lift at once on magnificent wings. They circle as I stand transfixed only to return and see me still there, so again fly off, this time, so close I can hear the whoosh of their wings.
I walk in and out of trees, imagining the view I might have seen. A large beaver dam holds a pond above the trail and I maneuver just below. How many beaver live in this community – and maybe more intriguing, how did beaver find their way here at all, fifteen miles off the mainland?
The fire tower floats into view. Crows cackle and I decide to take a break sitting down on my tiny therm-a-rest. There’s no improvement after 48 steps, so with a laugh, and whistling a few lines from “Misty,” I decide to head down.
Moose tracks are everywhere in cloven V’s, some sliding on the muddy slope. I come upon fresh piles of poop and wonder if I’ll see them today. A couple comes towards me, and say I’m the first person they’ve seen in days, likely because the planes haven’t been flying. They advise me to claim the shelter with a view at the bay and I tell them to nab site two at the lake.
Let’s pause here for a second – shelters? you might ask. I was kind of surprised myself, imagining large three-sided buildings with platforms for a multitude of sleeping bags. While not the self-contained style of New Zealand huts with water tank, oftentimes fireplace and fully enclosed, Isle Royale shelters are enclosed on three sides with wood and one with screen, including a loud, bang-ey door if you don’t set it gently.
They’re also intended for individual use. Built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the late 1930’s, they’re erected by docks and in locations where it was easy to haul and manipulate building materials. It doesn’t really occur to me to use a shelter, but my tent and myself are damp from the dew and maybe spreading out on a wooden floor will be pretty nice.
I’m on a long, straight, flat section with raspberry bushes over my head. Along the way I see beaten down areas where moose bed down for the night. I notice wolf tracks in the mud as big as my fist. Dragonflies hover in the grass, one a bright red with blue wings.
It’s clearing and getting hot. The heat and humidity take me by surprise as I expected the refrigerator effects of the Big Lake to keep the temperatures low. The bay feels close as more cedar appear as well as a new type of meadow, the grass a burnt sienna. Two pale sherbet butterflies flutter in harmony.
At the turnoff for Siskiwit, I come to a huge dock with five bulldozers ready for work the beginning of the coming week, which is thankfully tomorrow. The bay is a giant horseshoe facing east with the campsite on the south flank. Massive bright yellow floats keep the building waves from eroding the unfinished worksite.
The place is deserted now and I have the pick of shelters, taking the one with a view as directed looking straight down to the work site. I hang up the alicoop to dry and organize my things, filter a little water, then head inside for a nap.
What luxury! Sure it’s just a bare floor with the ceiling sloping slightly, but it’s all mine tonight. The ranger told me two days ago in Windigo not to deface the walls, which are plenty defaced already – lots of bragging, a few pictures and a good share of vulgarity, some quite clever. I laugh the hardest with the simple statement, “We farted here.”
I change out of my wet clothes and hang them up, dump everything out of Blueberry and set my mattress in a corner so I can cozy into Big Greenie and watch the sun peak out showing off the mountains I’ll climb over tomorrow. Butterflies land on my drying clothes, their coiled tongues sucking the damp and I drift right off.
Two hikers arrive named Christian and Jamie and take the other shelter. We chat at the beach where I filter water and discover it’s only us tonight as it was last night too as Feldtmann Lake. They’re carrying a weather radio and tell me to expect scattered thunderstorms tomorrow. A scrawny black fox leaps up onto the picnic table and poses for handouts, but I disappoint him by banging a pot instead.
Well, it might rain and it might not. That’s tomorrow and right now the air is finally crisp and I’m comfortably spread out in this massive structure all my own. The fog returns, then lifts for a sunset in a deep magenta only seen at these latitudes. I close my eyes and prepare for whatever tomorrow brings.
Maybe Christian was right about the rain. It’s drizzling and the clothes I hang up to dry inside are damp from the dew. The good news is that in spite of the gloom, the ridge I’ll walk today is visible, double humps of tall trees.
Drizzle, rain, thunderstorms – they’re not going to stop my forward progress as I immediately meet sloppy, black mud. But I’m wearing rain pants which serve double duty for actual rain and for the wet bushwhacking nightmare I’ve been warned about. Apparently not so many walk the Feldtmann Loop to begin with, and this year, the trail has seen fewer hikers and even less maintenance.
The beach is flat, red rocks gleaming in the morning light. I lean down careful not to tip over with my pack on and send one skipping. I can see out to the islands all in a row at the point, then frighten a flock of mergansers, running on the water and flapping wildly just to get out of range.
The trail ducks on and off the beach, entering a confusing bit of grass matted down with dark coffee colored water below in unknown depths. Why not just send me on the beach, I query the air, in a particularly nasty section.
I backtrack out of this mess, my shoes and socks completely soaked already and not willing to get more of my body wet. Picking my way along the sand, I notice moose tracks. Look here, even the locals don’t bother with this crappy trail!
For a brief moment, it feels a bit like New Zealand, a kind of déjà-vu all over again of epic mud and thick, overgrown wetlands with just one tiny plank to cross them before depositing me right into the thick of it. I laugh out loud thinking of my friends from Whanganui who suggested using the code word ‘high grass’ to their Te Araroa visitors just in case they got into trouble or were about to lose their minds and want to quit.
The tall grass here gets tangled on the boards, causing me to trip, though I manage to stay upright. A big, beautiful frog leaps in my path and I try to get his photo before he leaps away. When I fail, I grab his leg and return him to his ‘sitting,’ but he will have none of that, thank you very much! and hops out of my reach.
I cross a large creek on a bridge and eventually find my way through a boggy area and back on another beach, this time of pebbles sinking under my steps. At the end, a sign points to Island Mine and I say goodbye to the beach, and hello to mud, moose and wolf tracks leading the way.
The trail changes almost immediately, heading up a gradual slope through maple, oak and birch, widening as the deep brush disappears completely – and most noticeable, the mud. My stride is long and full, as I fly up the hill, my breath rhythmic.
I come to a small wooden fence protecting a deep hole, remnants of a mine. It’s lined with boulders and I want a photo, but am very careful not to lose my camera because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t get it back. A few steps later I come to a pile of tailings, then it’s up and up some more, before heading down steeply.
I know I should be coming to the next campsite soon – one I have no intention in staying in – but first hit a small stream. People complained on forums that the water source at this site was poor and I see someone has tried to remedy that by creating a boulder dam. Now it’s easy to collect water and I quickly down an entire liter.
Up the hill I reach the campsite junction and continue on to the famous and highest trail on the Greenstone Ridge. A better name might be Green Tunnel Ridge since it’s all forest with very few views. Still, it’s incredibly easy walking after the past few days and I cruise through noticing the sky clearing to a robin egg blue.
At my feet are thousands of mushrooms, nearly all in bold bright yellow or stoplight red like clown noses. I pass a couple and a single man are headed my way and it feels like I’ve finally arrived on a trail as cruisey as the PCT. I skip past them to get to the summit of Mount Desor and finally some views.
I reach rock outcroppings and see bright blue water below. But it’s obscured by trees and I just assume I must not be at the top yet. I walk on and on, up and down, in and out of dense forest until I finally realize that spot where I could see a small corner of blue water was the summit.
Not exactly dramatic for the highest point of the island but I’m certainly happy to be in bright sunshine with the air dry and the wind blowing. I guess the thunderstorms died out. I even consider moving on since it’s so early, but decide to at least check out South Lake Desor.
The sites are crowded and far above the water. I set my pack in one thinking I guess I could stay here, but maybe I’ll take just a second to check things out. No shelters in this out of the way place, but since this is a weird year with Covid, the ranger told me I am welcome to take a group site. I didn’t give it much thought, but now I’m curious as the sign for the sites points in the opposite direction of the single sites.
It’s a fair distance, down and across a bridge then back up again. I hear two young men talking to each other, and I see through the trees they’re wading in the water, very close to the trail. It seems beautiful stairs have been built to an exquisite beach. Perfect! Their site is across from the access but the next site is all mine, precisely 100 steps away.
I set the alicoop and then head to our shared beach to filter water and wade in. They’re nice guys just about to enter nursing school and here on their very first backpack trip. It seems they’re sharing a two-man tent so things are a bit crowded, but they’re loving the adventure anyway and tell me all about what’s ahead, especially that the next lake is not so great. I made a very good choice to stay here tonight.
They leave me alone to swim in crystal clear water with a sandy bottom. Not much swimming, to be honest, as the water is only up to my hips, but so refreshing to dunk. I nap and read under quaking aspens, then swim again, dinner at the beach on a log, my feet crushed into the sand as waves gently touch my toes.
Dragonflies hunt for bugs, one not afraid to buzz close to my face. The sunset show is directly in front of me, the clouds spelling a giant A and an arrow, pointing where, I wonder. It’s absolutely quiet and I have the beach all to myself. I hate to leave the magic, but mosquitos send me off. Just as I pack up, a beaver starts swimming across the lake, a deep mauve-purple now.
Years ago, someone asked me if I was an animal, which one would I want to be. I think a beaver. They always have projects, they have a lovely home and community and they’re very much in charge. Have you ever heard the slap of a beaver tail?
The wind is gentle in the trees, crickets chirping and waves lapping. The stars are brilliant and I am all cuddled in. And just how did the beaver get to Isle Royale, 15 miles off the mainland, you might ask. No one knows for sure, but talk bout grit. My guess is, they swam.