The Blissful Hiker meets trail angels who share food, beer and good advice, learning to be flexible at times and not hold too tightly to plans, because sometimes that can lead to a dangerous situation.
In this episode:
MUSIC: Surveyors - Eagle Flies Away for horn and mixed media by Eric McIntyre(used by permission)
CONTEST! Enter to win three pairs of Balega Socks, the best blister-resist, non-slouching, foot-massaging socks for the long haul!
Deadline Monday, Sept. 28 at midnight!
The Blissful Hiker meets trail angels who share food, beer and good advice, learning to be flexible at times and not hold too tightly to plans, because sometimes that can lead to a dangerous situation.
In this episode:
MUSIC: Surveyors - Eagle Flies Away for horn and mixed media by Eric McIntyre(used by permission)
CONTEST! Enter to win three pairs of Balega Socks, the best blister-resist, non-slouching, foot-massaging socks for the long haul!
Deadline Monday, Sept. 28 at midnight!
The day starts with loons calling across the lake, mournful, then in that hysterical yodeling which sounds, frankly, loony. I don’t bother packing quickly since the sky is clear and I feel no pressure to move.
But I’m out before the boys – one of which wanders into my camp accidentally after using the outhouse, apologetic and embarrassed as he shined his light directly into my tent – and then the father and son on the other side, who I walked in on as they were changing clothes, but fortunately for all of us, strategically placed overgrown ferns hid any private bits.
I’m in the middle of Isle Royale – crossing in a kind of thru-hike of my own devising. This morning I woke up next to Lake Desor and head straight back in the woods.
They’re dense and dark, layered with tall, straight trunks. All I can think of are the Knights who say ‘ni’ from Monty Python. No one is here in my green tunnel except a bull moose quietly eating, 20 feet off the path. His head follows me as I pass, but he never takes a step.
I come to an open area of rock and climb to the top with views of Superior and in front the jigsaw shape of Lake Desor where I happily swam twice. Back into the forest I go, up and down, through mud and over planks. There are fewer mushrooms here and no berries as I simply move forward, thinking this must be what much of the Appalachian Trail is like.
The ranger in Windigo warned me about Ishpeming Point, a kind of island joke. The tower sits above the trail about a story-and-a-half with trees towering above it. I don’t bother climbing the stairs for a ‘better look’, and take a pass on the left behind mattress and T-shirt.
I walk over bare rock with obstructed views to water beyond, but mostly clouds building then clearing. The wind is up and refreshing. Walking on and on, mostly easy until a muddy patch slows me down.
Finally, views open to a magnificent inland lake, the big lake beyond. Two men are coming up and tell me they swam in Todd Harbor and someone was using the one shelter as a base from their boat.
That’s ok. It’s still a lovely day and I really have no need for a shelter. I just always hope to find a super campsite, so I press on, walking steeply down now to the north side of the island and another inland lake.
I don’t bother checking the campsites at Hatchett Lake and instead move on, walking a long way through thick green forest. Soon, I come to a beaver dam holding back a pond above me with the crossing below on one rickety board, the other submerged. I was warned about this and carefully cross, knowing the one will hold me.
But of course, I just have to test the other board and sink right in, my shoe suddenly full of murky water. Serves you right, Ms. Curiosity!
This area is lovely and open, mostly huge birch trees with thick trunks or thin tall ones high into the bluebird sky – and the vegetation is dryer with more autumn reds and yellows. The trail undulates up and down, over a washout before reaching an area marked by pink ribbons. It’s a new dam and these beavers were busy! I can’t imagine how they constructed this marvel, one long enough to stop a river and flood a small forest.
The ribbons take me on top of it, logs packed tight with mud and finally let me out on Minong Ridge. Going east is open, but the other rugged 20 miles is closed for safety. I am clearly on the easy part and quickly arrive at the harbor, a couple assuring me I should camp at the first spot.
Of course, I like to explore first, so leave my pack to see what else is available. I take a wrong turn and start hiking the trail I’ll walk tomorrow. Not a bad thing since I run into a man who just got off a fishing boat and ask him the obligatory, “Do you have a beer I can buy?”
He says no, but he has one he can give me. Hooray! Four guys and a boat – one just returning to brag about the best shit he’s ever taken – invite me for dinner when they return with today’s catch.
But first, I need to find the group sites. He sets me straight and I land on fabulous site one with it’s superb view of outer islands with Sleeping Giant and other cliffs in Canada behind.
I literally snag the best site seconds before two other hikers walk up. What a place it is! A private rocky beach to climb down to on cedar roots and soak my feet and filter water, plus myriad mossy cliffs to park myself and read my book all afternoon.
As I set up, a stunning snake slithers through, large and bright but too fast for my camera. Mergansers swim past, their heads bent over in the water. They suddenly speed along, beaks agape scooping up fish. A black spider with long dainty legs pulls herself expertly along a filament upside down then disappears into a tree.
I keep moving spots for the best view, the softest moss and a bit of shade. I see the guys fishing near the small islands. A ranger’s boat built like a pipe whizzes past just as a search and rescue helicopter flies by low.
A glorious nap in the alicoop is disturbed by that very ranger coming to check my permit. It’s hard to be too mad at Corey who’s friendly and earnest and happy to answer all my questions like what’s in all those cases on your belt? Handcuffs and ammo. Better not piss him off!
He loves it here, telling me it was Lake Mead last year and the Nez Perce in Idaho before that. I’m up now, so head back to my perch and read. The waves burble and hoot like an organ pipe against the rocks, the sunset is bright pink before covered in cloud, turning the water a silver blue. Thunderstorms are expected tonight and I hope I chose my tent spot well.
More people arrive, three couples in all, one bringing foraged chanterelles. We talk and laugh, drink, eat and some pass a pipe around the fire. One couple lost their water filter and boat owner Andy loans them his. Another lost his tent and Andy suggests sleeping under his tarp.
Jake brought a smoker and makes the most tender beef I’ve tasted in a long time. They ensure I’m ok and tell me to ask for anything if I need it.
Turns out I forgot a light, so Frank gives me his for the night to get back to the alicoop. The air is finally dry and cool, the waves b’plooping against the rocks. Well fed by my generous and kind trail angels, I am feeling beyond good.
Rolling thunder wakes me with flashes of light like so many strobes. I feel scared as the wind picks up and wonder if the enormous birch behind my head with branches only at the top will stay standing. I pop out to poop and pee before it rains.
No rain hits until it’s light and it’s only a sprinkle, so I pack up and get started on the short walk to a bay with shelters. I liberate three spiders with bulbous bodies and stringy legs who spent the night huddled under my pack’s lid. A slender black fox with a bushy striped tail visits for handouts.
The trail heads up through dense woods. My rain pants protect me from the wet overgrowth. I catch glimpses of small islands off this main island, all uninhabited except for their native creatures.
I walk straight into a refreshing wind and think about the pipe passed around last night. I’m not against smoking, but like headphones on the trail, I don’t see a need to alter my mental state while hiking and prefer to be completely alert and in tune with my surroundings.
Right now, my surroundings are threatening and expectant. I hear thunder to the north and south, growling like a warning. It’s so dark when I walk through forest, I can barely see where to put my feet to avoid the mud.
But I feel good and it’s not far today, just shy of seven miles. The sky suddenly lights up. 1-2-3-4-kaboooooooom-boom-boom. The storm is still far and the thunder sounds like it’s in the clouds rather than hitting the ground.
I pass a huge pond created by beavers and it begins to rain. It’s still light, so I forge ahead without stopping. From the ridge I can see the Sleeping Giant a dark slate blue, the clouds heavy gun metal gray.
Light flashes and I count this time to 13. Surely I’m safe from being hit, but usually rain follows lightning. On cue, it begins raining harder and I stop to put on my rain coat and cinch the hood. It’s not cold, and I feel safe and swaddled in my cocoon as I push on, up on exposed lichen-covered rock, small inland lakes below.
The sky is angry but the rain stops long enough for me to catch the views from above and find the trail which seems to disappear any time I walk on rock.
It’s a long way on this exposed ridge and I’m happy not to have lightning as I move along quickly, using my sticks to negotiate the steep downs. Finally I am going down for good just as the heavens really open up and it pours.
I pass the sign for the Minong Mine, the oldest in the United States, a copper mine used for at least 4,000 years by Native Americans. This is hardly the time for a visit and I skip it, sloshing my way towards the cove and hopefully a free shelter.
There’s never any knowing for sure what awaits a hiker at the end of the trail. I’m sodden and hoping for a place to spread out, but I tell myself I will be fine in my tent if need be, to hope for the best – and be open to it – while planning for the worst.
The campsite is deserted, so I make my way to shelter four as recommended. I can’t possibly express how welcome this structure is in a rainstorm. But before I spread every last thing out on the wooden floor and hang my things, I head to the water to filter two liters.
Of course, it immediately stops raining. The moment alone here on the rock, one lone seagull sitting on the dock, is magical. Quiet, mysterious, the long, thin bay reaching out into the mist, it’s entrance obscured.
I haul my water back up and make lunch. Someone left a can of tuna in oil and the guys gave me a beer ‘for the road,’ so it’s a feast on the floor of my shelter. I put on my dry camp clothes and crawl into Big Greenie to read and take a nap.
As I said, a hiker never knows what to expect and have to learn acceptance and to take things as they come. It would be easy to be angry because the day was so wet, but it feels better to be elated that I snagged the best shelter, that it’s absolutely quiet, that I have a bonus beer and tuna.
The sky is gray but getting lighter. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Graffiti on my walls tell a good story, especially what it must be like in a more usual summer, one hiker wanting to kill boaters who race into harbor to claim all the shelters, another wondering if a person has the ability to keep their voice (and laugh) to a low bellow.
Soon, other hikers arrive and claim all the shelters. The two from last night, one who lost his tent, end up sharing with a single guy. The rain starts up, but doesn’t last long and I head back down to the dock.
Black bugs flutter above the water, their reflection a perfect dance partner. Water bugs with legs like oars, pull forward then let the current drag them back. A loon sounds its mournful call as a fish jumps. A large snail slowly makes progress along an algae-covered rock. A white throated sparrow sings its ascending melody and light raindrops create rings on the placid water.
Four hikers wade into the ice cold water as a boat slowly makes its way towards us, slowly as to cause no wake and disturb the loons. It’s moving so slowly, we can’t figure out what kind of boat it is. Black. Big. The ranger?
No, it’s a dive boat with dozens of tanks and compressors. Six men jump off and unload their gear on the dock to clean it, then refill it for the next dive. This is serious business; technical diving to 250 feet in the icy water of Lake Superior. Regular air doesn’t work at these depths, so the men breathe a mixture of helium.
Of course I have to ask if that makes their voices sound funny and indeed it does. I’m surprised to learn helium is not renewable and there is a limited supply. Jeff, a Canadian I talk to the most, fills me in on this risky hobby.
He’s been honing his skills for 30 years and has many redundancies for any possible equipment failure. The gas they expel from their lungs is captured and reused since it takes 90 minutes of decompression to return to the surface after only 30 minutes at depth.
And why do this activity, one expensive and dangerous? Because Great Lakes wrecks are preserved in pristine condition and are absolutely fascinating. None of these guys have a death wish or appear out to prove something. From my vantage, they appear genuinely curious and highly trained.
What really catches my attention is the mantra ‘three strikes, you’re out.’ When they dive, if three things go wrong – even minor things – they stay on the surface.
It reminds me of Richard’s feelings the day we kayaked near Grand portage and we had a few minor problems – launching in the wrong place, forgetting our lunch, bringing the wrong hat. They added up in his mind so say that particular day was not our day. The waves weren’t huge, but the wind was weird and the sky was black on a day that was forecast as calm. Jeff would say they’re messages to give up and try another time.
Expectation and driving towards a goal is good up to a point. Even in the lower risk world of hiking, being able to know when to stop or change plans is extremely important. Being flexible and allowing the day to unfold brings possibility when hanging on tightly can at best, make one unsatisfied or at worst, in danger.
It’s quiet now except for crickets and beaver tails splashing cannonball warnings. Tomorrow is supposed to be sunny and I’ve been given suggestions on the best sites, but I’ll practice what I preach and let tomorrow take care of tomorrow.