This article is a condensed version of the journal entries found in Appendix 1 of the guide book An Introduction to Michipicoten Island: Lake Superior's Wild Heart by David. C. Whyte. It has also appeared in Bushwhacker Magazine and was subsequently re-printed in Qayaq, the newsletter of the Great Lakes Sea Kayaking Association.
By David C. Whyte
Michipicoten
Island lies
in the northeast corner of Lake Superior, approximately 67 kilometres
west
of Wawa and about 14 kilometres south of an uninhabited stretch of Lake
Superior's north coast. The island has a total circumference of about
65
kilometres, excluding bays and inlets. It contains approximately 30
remote
lakes, and is both rugged and heavily wooded.
Ojibway legends
about Michipicoten
spoke of giant lynxes that hunted rabbits the size of wolves. A large
unfriendly
spirit is supposed to have pursued and killed those few Ojibways who
dared
to land there, while off-shore waters were reputed to be inhabited by
the
"Memogovissioois," malevolent demons that lived underwater like fish.
Subsequent
attempts by Europeans to exploit the island's mineral resources (copper
and silver) met with failure and financial ruin. At least three
abandoned
mines are located on the island's north side. Lighthouses, shipwrecks,
steep cliffs, volcanic rock, wild surf, arctic vegetation and a herd of
woodland caribou are added attractions.
My trip took place from July
27 to August 9, 2001. This was a second attempt to reach the island. In
the fall of 2000, I waited at Wawa with three companions for four
futile
days while wind and waves swept the surface of Lake Superior, keeping
even
the largest fishing tugs in port. During the subsequent winter, the
other
members of our close knit group used various ingenious methods to
excuse
themselves from further attempts to reach the island. One succumbed to
marriage. Another sold out to the establishment and now works as an
investment
banker in London England, while the third retired and is therefore much
too busy to participate in any paddling adventures. Perhaps the island
really is cursed!
Once it became
evident that
my next attempt to explore Michipicoten would be a solo venture, I
realized
that a sea kayak would be the vehicle of choice. Given the rugged
coastline
and the frequent need to drag my vessel single-handed over gravel and
boulders,
I appreciated the durability (if not the weight) of my 16 ½ foot
plastic boat (P&H Capella). A few excerpts from my journal
follow:
July 27
Arrived at
Anderson Fisheries'
dock near Wawa after a 10 hour drive, and immediately began the
challenging
task of stuffing my kayak with food and gear. My packing technique is
similar
to that used to charge a muzzle-loading cannon. I drop each small
package
into the appropriate hatch, then ram it to the far extremity of the bow
or stern using the butt end of a spare paddle. Once my bright yellow
kayak
is stuffed to capacity like a well-constructed banana split, I get some
help carrying it onto the L and S, a large, white, steel-hulled
tugboat resting businesslike beside the wooden dock, its deck covered
over
with an imposing but reassuring, wave-proof "turtle" made of steel
plating.
As we clear the
lighthouse
at Perkwakwia Point and move farther out into Michipicoten Bay, I
prepare
to contend with nausea. The wind is from the southeast at about 30
km/h,
and we have an unsheltered crossing of some 54 kilometres to complete.
That's a lot of waves. To my surprise, despite a queasy 5-hour passage,
during which fishing nets are hauled in and the live contents sorted
and
gutted before my very eyes, I manage to retain my light breakfast.
My kayak is
unloaded at picturesque
Cozens Cove, near Michipicoten's southeast corner. Steep terraces, cut
into the reddish, rounded gravel, give evidence of the lake's past (and
future) violence. The tug wastes no time in pulling out. The crew is
eager
to get home while the lake permits. No one waves as the L and S
powers away from the small beach where I squat alone on the wet gravel
with my cold lunch. I'm marooned by choice, in the wild heart of Lake
Superior.
In due course,
I paddle out
of the cove and onto the main lake, rounding the high, barren, eastern
headland at a comfortable distance. At suppertime, I pull ashore to
make
camp in a small bay just west of Bonner Head on the island's north
coast.
The lake now lies calm and mirror-like. A few stray ripples glint an
irregular
rhythm in the lowering sun, before dying with gentle music on the
cobbles
at my feet. Loons and cormorants coast silently near the shore, and
dragonflies
dance over sun-warmed boulders, snapping at the few stray mosquitoes. I
relax, taking advantage of an arrangement of smooth driftwood, a
comfortable
easy-chair designed by nature and installed by wind and waves.
July 29
Today, I had
planned a brief
hike to the site of the old Bonner Mine. How naive! All told, I spend
almost
five hours in the dense humid bush, slapped, scratched, hung up and
disoriented
by the verdant under storey. My pace is limited (sometimes literally)
to
a slow crawl and I suffer much discomfort from thorns, heat and bugs. I
eventually gain the summit of a small hill about 600 metres from the
coast
and am rewarded with a tantalizing view of the sheer north face of
Cuesta
Scarp, a prominent cliff about 5 kilometres to the south, deep in the
island's
interior. That would be about a two-day journey at my current pace. The
anxiety of being alone in dense bush at this remote location begins to
weigh heavily on my mind. Break a leg in here and I'll never be found.
I resolve to return to camp, having seen no trace of the old mine, and
gradually ceasing to care. Crashing northward though the dense
vegetation
with all the subtlety of a wounded moose, I am both startled and
excited
by the sight of a large woodland caribou bounding though a small valley
below me. It's gone before I can even think about my camera.
Back at the
coast, a large
beaver cuts through the chilly water toward me, like a furry torpedo,
before
climbing onto a rock and trying to stare me down. Beavers are usually
timid,
but it appears that the Michipicoten Island variety are downright
arrogant.
July 30
Coasting easily
westward, I
am soon peering up at vertical cliffs about 150 metres high. For the
most
part, these are not sheer to the water but are set back from the
shoreline,
so that their bases, lined with a steep talus of shattered rock, are
hidden
behind a dense ribbon of intervening forest. The tops of the hills,
reaching
an overall height of about 200 metres above lake level, are also hidden
from view by the angle of the cliff. The shoreline is comprised mostly
of cobble beaches interspersed with rock outcrops. Round boulders of
various
hues, including black, ochre and white lie scattered on some beaches
like
forgotten bowling balls. There are numerous rocky shallows.
Next stop is
the site of the
old Quebec Mine. This time I am not disappointed. Metal pipes, a large
pulley and various other metallic debris are arranged along the
shoreline.
In the deep gloom and quiet of the adjacent forest, evidence of a
large,
abandoned industrial enterprise is spread over a number of acres. There
are cogs, wheels, flanges, springs, plates, bolts and rusty metal
fittings
of all shapes, sizes and descriptions. There are bottles, boilers,
wooden
barrels, tools and the moss-covered stone foundations of a number of
former
buildings that once housed 150 miners. A grey, deeply weathered
head-frame
leans crookedly away from the deep, water-filled rectangular outline of
the main shaft. Rusted pipes pierce the surface of the black water.
Never
profitable for it's unlucky owners, this mine has been dead for over
100
years and even the mounds of the old tailing piles are densely wooded.
August 2
I stop to eat
an early lunch
at a small peninsula known as "The Junction," just 3 kilometres beyond
West End Light. I've turned another corner and am now poised to paddle
eastward along Michipicoten's southern coastline. My eyes wander
southward
to an archipelago of small islands stretching along the southern
horizon
and impulsively, I decide to make Green Island my next temporary home.
The lure of this distant, isolated hump of green, framed by the open
expanse
of the lake, is irresistible and outweighs any concern about making the
direct, open water crossing of three kilometres. I load up and set out
on a course of 120 degrees. As I leave the shelter of the main island,
the northwest winds take hold and soon I'm riding a 1.5 metre swell
that
takes me from behind and shoves my kayak's bow deep into each trough.
It's
an awkward, twisting motion and I'd soon be sick if I wasn't so busy
with
the paddle. I pass close to Black Rock, a rugged tooth of sooty basalt,
fringed by a welter of wind-tossed foam. Gulls scream and breakers roar
as I fly past, hull dropping into each trough with a loud smack, solid
spray streaming from the bow with each upward heave. I am a man of war
from Nelson's fleet, or a pirate ship heading for Treasure Island.
I'm pleased to
find that the
east end of Green Island offers a beautiful, sheltered campsite. In the
evening the northwest winds increase in intensity, whipping the lake
into
a froth of whitecaps, completing the isolation. The sun sets in the
west,
the moon rises in the east and lighthouses pulse on either horizon. My
tent shudders and rocks in the gale, held down by anchors of
stone-covered
driftwood.
August 3
Up early to a
beautiful, calm
morning. I decide to continue my exploration of the outer islands.
There's
a striking low angle view of the Davieaux Island lighthouse as I pass
along
that island's 2-kilometre length. The light stands proudly at the
summit
of a heavily wooded cliff, like the red topped turret of some medieval
castle. A quick scramble up a small embankment yields a view of some
red-roofed,
white-sided storage buildings, and a large concrete heli-pad. The
lighthouse
was automated in the 1980s and there's no one about. It's eerie. I
stroll
slowly over to the crosspiece of the large, painted "H" and sit down,
eyes
skyward (just in case). I run my hands over the pebbly surface, then
succumb
to an urge to lie face down on the cool cement, like a drunk on a
sidewalk.
I didn't get much sleep last night. When I regain consciousness, some
members
of a small flock of Canada geese are eyeing me nervously from the edge
of the pad, honking softly, long necks bobbing and weaving like a field
of snakes.
August 4
A day spent
exploring Quebec
Harbour on Michipicoten's south coast. The harbour was once home to a
small
but lively fishing community and a place of refuge for fragile
paddlewheel
steamers making the dangerous run from Sault Ste. Marie to Port Arthur
(Thunder Bay), but all that is in the past. Among the more interesting
features to be seen are the wrecks of three vessels that lie near the
east
end of the 3-kilometre long harbour. The remains of the 1902 steam tug Captain
Jim lie partly submerged, the bow high and dry, the stern hidden
beneath
the water. The boiler sits exposed within the hull, looking very much
like
a rusty old steam locomotive rising from the harbour on invisible
rails.
A portion of the hull is covered with a large beaver lodge, a visible
sign
of the tug's new owners. The Billy Blake lies a few metres
further
east. About ¾ of her rusting metal framework remains exposed
above
the water like the skeleton of a beached whale. The 1883 coastal
steamer Hiram
R. Dixon is the largest but least exposed of the three harbour
wrecks.
Its resting place is marked on the surface by a line of protruding
timbers
resembling an old pier, but it is only after gliding over top of its
resting
place and looking down through about 4 metres of clear water that the
true
extent of this 45 metre long steamer becomes evident. Timbers, metal
sheathing
and various fittings of all sizes and descriptions lie scattered on the
harbour bottom.
August 5
Tonight the
surf is high and
waves somehow contrive to crash in on both sides of the gravel bar on
which
I'm camped. As I lay my head down to sleep, I feel a distinct, regular
vibration in the ground like the measured tread of an approaching
giant.
Wind? Waves? Thunder? Something else? It's a very lonely night.
August 6
This morning
there's a stiff
southwest wind. The shelter offered by Four Mile Point is short-lived
and
I'm soon sliding and bobbing along in a 1.5 metre swell. The waves are
sneaking up from behind, and I nearly twist my head off my shoulders
trying
to get a glimpse of what's coming next. Soon the rocks and shoals of
Dixon
Reef lie before me like a minefield of exploding whitecaps, haystacks
and
confused seas. The swell builds as I approach the shallows, so I decide
to by-pass the whole mess by cutting southward, away from land. It's
sometimes
hard for a part-time sailor like me to remember that the safest passage
is not always the one closest to the shore. I have to battle my
coast-hugging
instincts.
I'm soon clear
of the reef
and starting to anticipate a lazy afternoon on a sandy beach. Suddenly,
a heavy fog rolls in and the view around the next small headland is
completely
obscured. The crash of surf seems to surround me and I'm cut off from
my
usual frame of reference. I utter a monosyllabic adrenaline-generated
expletive
(that rhymes with "pit") and consider my options. I could just bob
around
in the surf until the mist clears, but I'm back in the high wave zone
near
the shore and feel quite unstable. I could paddle away from the island
and into the mist and attempt to navigate by compass, but paddling on
instruments
takes a lot of faith and practice, especially in near shore currents,
and
I don't much like that option either. For want of a better plan, I let
myself drift slowly towards the dimly visible beach, while prying and
bracing
to keep the kayak upright and perpendicular to the waves. Soon I can
see
that the shore is composed mostly of rounded boulders as opposed to
sharp
outcrops. This is relatively good news. The bad news is that the beach
is completely exposed, pounded by surf; but I can see a few small rocks
near the shore that might offer some scant shelter, so I make up my
mind
to go on in. In accordance with all the textbooks, I time the landing
so
that I run aground perpendicular to the beach, just behind a breaking
wave.
At this point I'm supposed to leap out and drag the kayak (and myself)
to safety before the next wave rolls in. Unfortunately my right leg is
asleep and the beach is very steep and slippery. I leap out of the
cockpit
but my leg collapses, so I do a shoulder roll on the boulders. I look
up
in time to see the next wave crash in. The boat and I both advance up
the
beach by this means, then I grab onto the front carry handle and dig
in,
so we don't get sucked back into the lake. Finally, I crawl gradually
upward
out of the surf zone, dragging my kayak, leg full of pins and needles.
Crash landing accomplished, I sit on the beach for a moment, still
firmly
encased in my life jacket and neoprene spray skirt, clutching my paddle
like the pilot of a wrecked plane still gripping the severed joystick.
I soon begin to relax and shed the excess gear, then pop open a hatch
in
the kayak to grab some food. Come rain, shine, or total immersion, I'm
always hungry.
August 8
This evening,
the distant rumble
of thunder can be heard from the west. It's a very slow-moving storm if
it's moving at all, and it's at least another two hours before the
first
faint pulses of lightning can be seen. I pace the beach restlessly in
the
deepening twilight, pausing on occasion to watch the sky behind the
grey
clouds flicker like an old fluorescent light fixture. Suddenly, I'm
surprised
by a flash and roar from behind. Surrounded! I sprint for the dubious
shelter
of my small tent as cold, heavy rain begins to fall. About seven hours
later, the longest and loudest thunderstorm I have ever experienced is
over. It was quite a show. At the peak of the storm, the interior of
the
tent was regularly lit up as though by a strobe light, lightning
flashing
at a frequency of about once every five seconds. Since I hid under my
sleeping
bag where the storm couldn't see me, I was not harmed.
August 9
In hindsight,
this whole day
was an anticlimax. The L and S cruised, business-like, into the
cove exactly on schedule. My kayak and I were aboard in minutes and
then
we were off. As we cleared the cove and gulls soared in the wake of the
tug, I vowed that some day, some way, I would return to my island and
discover
the many secrets still locked away in its silent interior. Then, as the
East End Lighthouse gradually receded into the horizon, I closed my
mind
against the assault of four hours of nausea.
Whether due to some special
magic of the lake, or just good piloting by Horst Anderson, I again
kept
my food where it belonged, and the hungry gulls were disappointed. We
landed
at 4 p.m. Two hamburgers later, I was ready for the long drive home.
If You Go: Potential
visitors should be advised that no services of any kind are available
on
the island, and any itinerary should allow for weather generated
delays.
Paddling on Lake Superior can be very challenging and the ice cold
water
leaves little margin for error. While the majority of the island is a
non-operating
provincial park, portions remain in private ownership. Staff at Lake
Superior
Provincial Park (705-856-2284) can provide details. A popular method of
reaching the island is to charter a fishing tug from Anderson Fisheries
(705-856-4835). For those who like to leave travel worries to the
experts,
guided, fully outfitted paddling tours of Michipicoten Island are
offered
by Naturally
Superior Adventures in Wawa (1-800-203-9092).
Maps: 41N/12 and 41N/13 (1:50,000 Scale)
Recommended
Reading: David
C. Whyte: An
Introduction to Michipicoten Island - Lake Superior's Wild Heart.Describes
the history, biology and physical features of the island and includes
photographs,
species lists and a list of scenic locations.
Back to the Michipicoten Island Page