GLSKA TRIP REPORTS - 2004

A selection of GLSKA Trip Reports from the 2004 paddling season

[Past Trip Reports from the Archives]   [Current Trip Reports]

THE GHOST OF DUNK’S BAY

Rob Muylwyk

      Early one Saturday morning, in the middle of August of 2002, I joined Dan, John C., Greg and Dave for a windy weekend trip, organized and led by John D, along the northeast coast of the Bruce Peninsula. I had just checked the weathernetwork.com, so I could share the dire predictions with the group: winds in the order of 40 km/h. The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day, and nobody seemed too worried about the forecast, so away we went. As we would paddle from east to west, we dropped some cars off at Dunk’s Bay, near Tobermory, and left the others at Cabot Head, the far eastern starting point. We found access to the water a bit south of the lighthouse, on a cobble beach. Carrying the boats down the uneven boulders was tricky, as John C. would remember the rest of the trip from the wounds on his legs and the scratches on his boat’s gelcoat. Winds out of the south at 10 km/h produced some gentle swells for our 1.5-kilometre ride to the head, where we turned west. From here on the escarpment shielded us from the wind for the next 10 clicks, which we took at a leisurely pace, enjoying the scenery. In this section, the sheer cliffs rise some 70 metres, amplifying and echoing the calls of the loons. A pair of herons winged along majestically, and to top it off, a bald eagle flew by. I had not seen an eagle on the peninsula before, to my knowledge the nearest nesting place was on the Meaford tank range, so I was very excited about this sighting. There is no land access to this section of the Bruce National Park – even the Bruce Trail is far inland here – so we enjoyed the beauty and serenity of this magical place undisturbed.

      We stopped for lunch and a refreshing dip just east of High Dump. Back on the water, the wind had turned into a stiff westerly, so the next 8.5 kilometres gave us a complimentary workout at reduced speed. At Cave Point we briefly explored some nooks and crannies, visible and accessible from the water only. Stormhaven, our planned and registered campsite was just around the corner from here. John D. had left his registration information in his car, so we had to guess which of the tent platforms was ours, and since nobody challenged our choice of number 7, it must have been the right one. Maybe these platforms fit six people, but not in as many individual tents. Three tents were therefore pitched on the rocks, on a spot far more beautiful than the designated one. That rogue campsite was magical, reminiscent of a temple, with rock-formed steps leading to the inner sanctum, in this case the area where we cooked our six individual meals. As most of these appeared to be of the pasta variety, I remarked that we were all carbo-loading to get energy for the next day’s leg. Not much later, Dan shot back at me that he went for some carbo-unloading …

      The east-west alignment of this coast played tricks with my head. From our location, we could see a number of points far in the distance, in the direction from where we had come that day, and as is usual on the Georgian Bay side of the Peninsula, I foolishly decided that the farthest point had to be Cape Croker. I was eventually corrected by the others, and then I had to deal with the next trick: the setting sun was clearly visible here as well, a feature normally associated with the Lake Huron side of the peninsula. I obviously needed another swim in the now much colder Bay to get my head properly oriented. I am not sure how the wine and beer we shared further affected my judgement.

      It had rained that night, but stopped early in the morning when I went rummaging in my boat for some Tylenol in aid of my apparently still confused head. The sun was just coming up – another amazing feature of this location – but most of the sky was filled with a threatening pitch-black cloud; definitely time to press the snooze button.

      After breakfast, the radio reported that the west wind had now come up to 30 km/h, which helped a lot with drying the tents. We decided to head out, as we could only expect the wind to get stronger during the day’s progress, this was a questionable risk management strategy. Soon we had to face the full brunt of the wind, with waves between 4 and 5 feet. They came very close together as well, thus we would climb up one wave, then dive down over the top, with the next wave crashing on our front decks. John D. lagged behind to paddle with Dave, who had problems making any progress at all. During yesterday’s struggle against the west wind, I had carefully suggested to Dave that he should try to rotate his waist to let the bigger muscles do the work, but this advice had little effect. We landed 7.5 kilometres and two hours later at Driftwood Cove, for lunch and a bit of a rest, and to wait for John D. and Dave. While waiting, we discussed the idea that a group’s tempo should be determined by the slowest paddler, an axiom which did not make sense to everybody. Eventually we saw sun flashes reflecting off Dave and John’s paddles, as they entered the sheltered bay, at which point John D. broke off and came in quickly. When at last Dave made it to shore, he threw his paddle on the rocks, yelled at us, and proceeded to stay away from the rest of the group. This was too bad, as it did not give us the opportunity to talk it over – a frank and open discussion might have resulted in a more satisfactory ending.

      After making sure that Dave and John D. had rested as well, we evaded the flies (other than those that found their way under my skirt) and started off for the last 6.5-kilometre leg. We later learned that the wind had now come up to 45 km/h; the 3-foot waves were better behaved, but it was hard work. This stretch took 2.5 hours, with no opportunity for sightseeing, as all eyes were on the oncoming rollers. Pretty soon we started to drift apart by paddling strength, John C. and Dan ahead, John D, Greg and I in the centre, and Dave trailing farther behind with each stroke. The three of us needed all our attention to keep going. I know that there was one moment in which I considered turning around and waiting for him, but somehow it passed, and eventually we lost sight of Dave. Now, almost two years later, I still feel awful about this, but at the time, I simply had to keep going. Clearly Dave was not the only one in over his head, and I was just hoping that that would not take on a literal meaning.

      At the entrance to Dunk’s Bay, the waves suddenly came from all directions, a real confused soup. The water became friendlier as we neared the beach, where the front runners were waiting for us. Their mouths fell open once they heard that we had lost Dave. Personally I found their surprised worry hypocritical: they were the stronger paddlers and would have been in a much better position to help, if that position had not been way out in front! Then, as John D. started to call the coast guard, we suddenly saw a ghost appearance: Dave sauntered up to us from the landside of the beach! He had wisely decided that he had no business being out there, so he pulled out at Little Cove, the bay halfway between our lunch spot and our landing beach. There he had found a friendly cottager who drove him and his kayak to Dunk’s Bay. Phew, what a relief!

      Finally, I would like to make it clear that I don’t blame anybody for the situation. John D. did a great job organizing the trip and letting us come with him. I revisited Stormhaven on a recent fall hike, and standing on the steps of my magical temple, I vowed to soon return to paddle this coast in the near future, as I still haven’t seen a thing of the last section of the escarpment!

Although this trip took place in 2002, it took some time for Rob to come to terms with what happened. This thoughtful and thought-provoking article appeared in the Spring 2004 issue of Qayaq, and hence is posted with the 2004 Trip Reports. (Ed.)

THE McRAE LAKE TRIP
(With apologies to Songs of the Great Lakes – "On the Schooner Hercules")

Hart Haessler

In the spring of O and four,
The first of May it’s true,
Seven kayaks set their blades.
We were a GLSKA crew.

No finer paddlers left these shores,
Nor better seasoned few.
From Honey Harbour up the bay,
Our course was north and true.

The waters were just free of ice,
Cold, grey and windless, too.
Cold rain could not dampen spirits
Of fresh and hardy crew.

The miles were swiftly numbered.
Into the rain we flew,
Up Main Channel, past the Dogs.
There was Big and Little, too.

Beausoleil Isle we spied
Off our portside rail.
All this time it rained so cold.
We hoped it wouldn’t hail.

Now east and to the channel
Where our hardest trial awaited.
McRae Lake was our goal,
The destination stated.

Our voyage could have ended here
For to our great dismay,
There raged a foaming rapid
Between the Lake and Bay.

The captain was a fine old salt
But he could not understand
That fully laden kayaks
Could not float on land.

This crew could not be thwarted;
They organized a team
To haul those heavy boats
Up the tumbling stream.

We soon found our campsite
And handed grog around
After setting out the tents
On cold and sodden ground.

The rain had stopped its pounding
And this was none too soon.
The northern wood did echo
With the calling of the loon.

Round a cheery fire stood
Us seven soaked right through.
Soon dry and feeling warmer,
We laughed and drank our brew.

We ate our ample rations
And talked of trips and lore,
And then with bellies full
We prepared to dine once more.

We retired to our berths
But peace was hard to gain.
We heard the dreaded drumming
Of wind and colder rain.

Noah would have wondered
"Will it ever cease?"
For in the soggy morning
It only did increase.

The captain was a prudent man
And ordered a delay.
Our homeward course would have to wait
‘Till later in the day.

We huddled in our tarps and tents
And filled our stoves with gasses.
The hot drinks then were passed around
To warm our freezing asses.

The wind slacked off at twelve o’clock
And brighter grew the day.
We loaded up our sodden gear
And were quickly on the way.

Again we tested our strength
On slippery rocks and mosses,
Hauling heavy boats midst shouts
From contradicting bosses.

Now this Herculean labour,
This drudgery and pain,
Truly was heroic
For all was done in rain.

The captain’s name was Hart
Who now does sing to you.
Our mate, a man named Sam,
A paddler strong and true.

The others in their kayaks
I’ll mention by their name:
Stef, Sarka and Johanna
And Brad of Five Winds fame.

The seventh member of our crew
And pluckiest of the lot
Was little Laura Matthew
Who will never be forgot.

And now our trip is over, mates,
We’ve safely gone ashore.
We paddlers all have packed our gear,
Warm in our cars once more.

May fortune rest on gallant crew
Who made it back alive.
We bid adieu to McRae Lake
‘Till spring of O and five.

OUR FIRST RENDEZVOUS

Beth and Simon Mielniczuk

      Spring 2004. Two semi-experienced paddlers become members of a group called GLSKA and join them at Rendezvous, their kick-off to another paddling season celebrated on Georgian Bay. Neither of us really knew what to expect – other than we’d be camping with a lot of people, most of them complete strangers to us. In all honesty, that made me a little bit nervous, but I have to say that GLSKA has a lot of wonderful, friendly and helpful members and that made for a fabulous weekend.

      We arrived at check-in on Friday just in time to set up our tent, get changed and join the "Beginner/Refresher" Class with Bill and Keith leading the way. We were taught efficient forward paddling, bracing, sculling, backwards paddling and more. Each time we’ve gone paddling since then we’ve both heard Keith’s voice in our heads telling us to "Rotate! Rotate!" and looked behind us when we stopped! After a great lesson, we pulled up to shore to cook dinner and enjoy a nice campfire in the evening, while others were still arriving and setting up camp. We went to bed early, with the hope that Saturday would provide a perfect day for paddling.

     Since we were rookies at Rendezvous, we both decided to take in the morning on-land clinics, thinking we’d save our energy for the Olympics and Orienteering Race in the afternoon. Having just bought my kayak a few months earlier, I took the classes on how to keep it looking new and functioning in tip-top shape. Simon learned about the history of navigation and that an antifreeze jug full of sand can help your paddle go smoothly. We both enjoyed Bill’s amusing presentation on trip planning, and we finally learned what the cow-milking stool is!

      Onto the afternoon, and the famous (or is it infamous?) Qayaq Olympics. We were laughing so much that we might have missed some of the action, but we’ll do our best to sum up the events. We were divided into 6 teams. Rules and objectives were handed out and either misunderstood or simply ignored. Sam’s team was off to a strong start as many people expected. Sean’s kayak mysteriously tipped during the first leg of the relay and Simon was part of his first assisted re-entry on a relay course – the first of many assisted re-entries that day. I, on the other hand, didn’t help anyone else get back into a boat, but tipped myself in the last few metres of the "long and short(s) of it". (For anyone who has not attempted this event, I can say that removing the shorts is much easier than putting them back on!) There were some questionable tactics and a disqualification for some paddling during the towing race. In the end, after some close races, close calls, a lot of laughs and one stray balloon, it was Mike Daly who lead his team to victory with a hilarious round of the Pirate Game.

      After the Olympics wound down, the Orienteering Race was scheduled to take place, but was postponed due to high winds. This gave everyone a few hours of free time to go for a paddle, start preparations for the potluck, have a nap or just dry off if you were one of the lucky ones who took an unplanned swim during the Olympics. The potluck was a wonderful event in itself – so many great cooks and a wide variety of dishes from salads and pastas to a delicious assortment of desserts. This dinner gave Rendezvous a close-knit community feel, and was a great part of the weekend for both of us.

      After we all indulged in dessert, Dave Hadfield and his band put on a terrific show. They braved the cold temperatures and high winds to entertain us with such songs as Wilderness Waltz, Victor’s Cabin and Canadian Tire, one we can all relate to judging by the reaction of the audience that night. It was a great concert and a fabulous venue, overlooking Georgian Bay and the setting sun.

      Sunday morning we awoke to strong winds again, and we were relieved that we had signed up for the A-1 paddle, though it did seem quite challenging at certain points. Keith did a wonderful job making sure no one got left behind and Hart found a great lunch spot on the beach, around the corner from the carp that we intruded on after our picnic. This 4 hour trip was the perfect way to wind-down the weekend.

      While many of us were out paddling, Dave Hadfield and his band performed an intimate concert on the beach for those who stayed on land. We heard reports that this impromptu, unplugged performance was absolutely fabulous!

      We all had a safe paddle back to shore, said our goodbyes and we were on our way. The nervousness of camping with a bunch of strangers had disappeared. I now felt like I had been camping with friends.

      A big thank-you to the organizing committee for a wonderful event. We really enjoyed meeting new people, making new friends and we’re already looking forward to next year’s Rendezvous. Until then, see you on the water!

THE SLATES AND THEN SOME

Melissa Hachkowski

      Everyone who has kayaked, backpacked or tripped solo for any length of time has developed a list of top secret spots: places which bear personal significance, aura and importance. These are the places we return to many times and still have the ability to find something new that we didn’t recognize before. These are places of comfort, a home where other human visitors are rare and four legged and two winged visitors are more frequent. These are places we try to keep for ourselves, because if we ever landed at such a spot and discovered that someone else was already there, it would simply be devastating. We would have to share! We work hard to find these spots, exploring countless numbers of creeks, rivers, canyons and coastlines. Hopefully you can understand then that I will not give specific details of the "good spots" on this trip. These spots belong to the trip participants: Sarka, Jim and me. On very rare occasions, I am privileged to paddle with people who have similar curiosity, energy and enthusiasm as I in terms of outdoor explorations. This happened on this trip; and combined with Lake Superior’s display of sheer strength and power, made this an unforgettable trip.

      We departed from Superior Outfitters’ dock in Rossport and soon encountered one to one and half metre waves blowing in from Nipigon Bay. Expecting conditions to be just as strong on the open lake, I opted for a sheltered channel route behind Wilson Island to Copper Island for the first night. We found a beautiful cobble beach, complete with a large stack of wave-pounded ancient boom logs washed high into the ledges of a raised cobble beach. Our campsite was second to none. Our kitchen had a set of terraced ledges carved into a rock wall, which descended into an amphitheatre formation. Jim built his fire in the base of the theatre where he would cook. Sarka and I hiked over rocky outcroppings into bays and beaches farther down where we feasted on berries including the last of the season’s wild strawberries. We had our first glimpse of the presence of wildlife in the numerous tracks wandering down the beaches from one cove to the next. The water was cold, but I jumped in anyway and consequently carried a sinus cold for the duration of the trip. We had our first sighting of both the Slate Islands and the arguably more alluring cliffs of the legendary Pic Island in the far distance. All was good and we were on our way!

      The next day, we crossed back to the mainland, six kilometres to Mount Gwynne. The glassy waters of Lake Superior on this crossing were eerie, but well appreciated. We continued on into Worthington Bay in search of native pictographs. Despite the three of us scouring the rock cliffs at a very leisurely pace, we found no pictographs. We were, however, captivated by the towering rock chambers, which dropped into the lake’s bluish green waters. We stopped for a break amongst Les Petit Ecrits. As Jim and Sarka finished eating, I wandered around. Wandering is good. You get lost when you wander. When you are lost you begin to look harder. I was not lost here; I was right at home especially when I found the trail marker sign and called for the others to join me in an uphill climb along a short section of the Voyageur trail system. We hiked through a cool and damp rock crevasse, covered thickly with a plethora of mosses and lichens. It was beautiful. It was a secret garden which only curious people who have the need to know what is around the next corner, are privileged to experience. We found vistas overlooking the lake and islands. It was a great day and the lake was still cooperating fully as we continued on our way to Victoria Bay. I chose to land at one location, which offered opportunities to pitch tents on sand, gravel or cobble. We set up camp, built a kitchen of driftwood and began to explore. This area reminded us of the need to be careful with fire. It was evident that there had been a forest fire here probably about ten years earlier. Dead trees still stood as skeletons against the sky. The blueberry plants thrived in this acidic ground and the berries were abundant. Sarka picked until the black flies drove her out and served us all blueberries with custard.

      We departed at six in the morning on the 14-kilometre crossing to the Slates. The forecast called for tail winds and one-metre waves building to two late in the morning. We began in calm seas, which soon built to two-metre, occasionally breaking, waves, but we could run quite comfortably with them. We landed in a cove, lined by two towering cliff walls. There were a few sets of caribou tracks on the beach, but no animals.

      We were excited to finally be in the Slates, ate a proper breakfast, ripped off our wetsuits, sunned and continued on our way to the inner channels. Not more than one kilometre into the channel, we looked in awe at the massive rock bluffs, past a small waterfall and onward to a bald eagle which was gliding down from a tree somehow rooted into the rock. We continued on into Cooper’s Bay for another short break, snack and exploring. Here we met a couple from the United States who were spending time sailing amongst the Slates. We continued on to an old mineshaft, which was interesting, although not very large.

      We had had a good first few days, a challenging crossing and we were due for some serious rest and relaxation. I had heard of the "Come and Rest" before, when I worked for Lake Superior Provincial Park. This little sanctuary on Superior was originally built by the Ministry of Natural Resources, serving as a base camp for those studying the Woodland Caribou. The buildings are now maintained by locals and anyone passing by who notices that attention is needed in a particular aspect. We were giddy with excitement as we landed just before noon, noticing that no one else had staked claims on the location for the upcoming night. It was ours! Our first view of the place was an antique wrought iron bathtub on the beach, somewhat tacky, but strategically placed over a fire pit! It was a hot tub! Next we sighted the main cabin, with a deck, followed by a second bunkhouse, which was soon established as the "girls club" cabin. We all voted to park it for the night and take it easy.

      It was good that we landed when we did to stake our claim; another three parties followed throughout the afternoon and were disappointed to see the place was taken. Don and Donna’s group pulled up to the dock for a late lunch. It was like a secret GLSKA Rendezvous. The afternoon was filled with other interesting visitors. It was a great day and I decided to finish it off by baking pizza for everyone. Jim retreated to the "boy’s club" cabin to read. Sarka and read the cabin log around our small campfire for as long as we could manage to keep our eyes open. I enjoyed reading entries from personal acquaintances such as fellow sea kayak guides, teaching counterparts and rangers from Lake Superior Provincial Park. It was home. One entry recounted a November crossing to the Slates, by sea kayak: "I never thought my handgrip was strong enough to shatter a paddle shaft. I was wrong… three-metre breaking waves on the crossing… I had to change my pants when I got here…" Skill and a humble attitude are required to paddle Lake Superior. The following morning I made an entry for our GLSKA group.

      For the next two days, we toured the Slate Islands exploring at a fairly leisurely pace. Our campsites were second to none. We had complete exposure to the open lake, which kept the bugs away. The swimming was frigid and secluded. When we tired of swimming, we hiked up the cliffs to a caribou highway, often having to duck down below blown down trees to continue on these well-worn paths. Sarka continued her harvesting everything and anything found growing on the ground; I continued my climbing of rock walls. The entertainment was endless, the seas perfectly cooperative and the temperatures in the 20s. On one particularly clear day, we climbed a rock island at lunch, and, looking out in a southerly direction, identified Michipicoten Island, Point Au Canadien, Pic Island and Tip Top Mountain on the clear horizon.

      While enjoying the Slate Islands, we paid close attention to a large cold front moving in from James Bay. Environment Canada was predicting that by Tuesday, the day we were scheduled to finish our trip, the front would be upon us, creating a big storm and a massive drop in temperatures. All was going well and not one of us was interested in paddling in the forecasted 11-degree temperature, thunderstorms and constant rain. This clearly spelled potential hypothermia in my books, and I did not want to deal with that at any cost. We decided to cross back to the mainland a half day earlier than planned, in half-metre following seas, wind not worth mentioning and 23-degree temperatures under clear skies. As we were departing, we experienced one of those magic moments. I was paddling silently alongside a rocky ledge of a small island near the Dealoute Islands when an adult bald eagle swooped down off the ledge so close that I could have easily touched it with my paddle; I could feel the wind from its wings. We departed content with all we had seen and done on the Slates.

      Dave Tamblyn, of Superior Outfitters, had suggested we stop at the ghost coal-mining town of Jack Fish, due north of the Slates. We pulled up on shore and examined chunks of coal amongst the white sand beach. This was our first sand beach of the trip and we eagerly lay there dumbfounded, absorbing the heat of the sand after our crossing. A short hike back across the rail tracks, we explored the miners’ former residences. Farther on, we explored concrete foundations, remains of houses and former pastures, all caught in a time warp. Wildflowers were abundant in the open fields and the scent in the air was wonderful. We left the beach and paddled about six kilometres to the most bouldery and difficult to walk on campsite of the trip. We had made excellent progress, but were exhausted and needed to land and rest.

      Our campsite looked west with an excellent view of the Slate Islands, Copper Island and the wide-open Lake Superior. I pitched my tent on a level section of the rocky beach while Sarka and Jim pitched theirs on the lichen covered raised cobble beach. Early that morning, Sarka had the privilege of seeing "the second best northern lights show of her life." She also had pitched her tent less than twenty metres from a pair of ancient Pukaskwa Pits, which I found in the morning while attending to the call of nature. Sarka remarked, "We really do get everything on this trip!" We had seen Pic Island and it seemed, although no one stated it, that a goal of the trip was to experience this idyllic silhouette on the horizon. Today we would arrive at the destination and see if it captivated our minds as much as we anticipated.

      The waters were again as calm as we could have asked for, hardly that expected on a Lake Superior trip. We paddled beneath a long three-kilometre section of the Steel Mountain, where there is no opportunity for a landing. It can be very rough at times and the tiny coves just beyond the mountain are a good rest stop. Upon passing by these coves, we were interrupted by three loons on the lake who appeared to be going absolutely loony! Honestly, the two larger ones constantly called to each other while doing odd jumps into the air and then hilarious nosedives. This continued constantly for nearly ten minutes and then Jim and Sarka figured the scenario out; mom and dad loon were encouraging and teaching baby loon to fly – somewhat unsuccessfully it seemed. It was comedy at its best though.

      We arrived at a beautiful white sand beach dotted with drift wood trees at the Prairie River Mouth Provincial Nature Reserve. There are often numerous species of waterfowl in this river, but none were present today. Sad to say, the end of the trip was now in sight. Departing from the river we decided to take advantage of the glassy smooth waters and cross directly to Barclay Island. Part way across, Sarka and I noticed a rather square object floating not more than twenty feet from our kayaks. It was the head of an otter, a sight that we do not often have the privilege to see. It slipped beneath the surface of the water silently and resurfaced for a short time, but too far off to show up in a photo. I found it rather ironic that an otter should surface in the middle of the lake on our trip; the otter is a symbol in native culture as a guide to a safe crossing across large fjords.

      We continued on from Barclay Island with the final crossing to our now monumentalized and cherished Pic Island. We met a solo kayaker from Minnesota sunning on the beach in Windy Bay. He paddled on soon after we landed. After setting up camp and pitching the tarp to scare the rain away, Jim retreated to his tent. I went looking for the old trail which used to be used by the park rangers for wildlife studies. The trail was identifiable in 1998 when I was here last but now was hardly distinguishable. Instead, Sarka and I decided to climb as high as we could up a rock face. We made it to the highest point and had views of the lake like nowhere else. Looking around, Sarka saw the first pines of the trip, a few dwarfed clusters of jack pines atop this great mountain of bare rock and immediately remarked, "This is a special place."

      After dinner, Sarka and I sat on the beach and watched the setting sun. Caribou are abundant on the Slates, but sightings are rare on the mainland. However, not more than ten minutes passed and a male caribou with a respectable rack wandered from the bush, along the slick rock shore and out to the point of the island. This was a picture-perfect moment.

      The next morning, we circumnavigated the huge Pic Island with its rock cliffs, lush forests and giant sea caves. I had often passed by a set of smaller islands just south of Pic Island and we took this opportunity to explore them briefly. We noticed an odd object on a rocky shoal. It looked like a small walrus with tusks, but couldn’t be in this area. Sarka realized it was a second otter sighting and the tusks were fish that the otter was dining on. This one was far more friendly and playful than the last, but with breakfast in his jaws, he kept a very safe distance from us and eluded any decent photograph opportunity. We referred to this area and much of the paddle to the next campsite as "The Little Georgian Bay." The rocks were so smooth, doubtless as a result of the powerful storms that Superior breeds in the fall time. We had lunch with one last clear view of Pic Island. There was a storm brewing ahead, and Pic Island would soon be lost in the storm clouds.

      We camped on geological rock formations, similar to those of Georgian Bay, except all very red in colour. It was very barren, desolate and inspiring. I sat up and watched the pulp operations in the town of Marathon from my vestibule for some time that night. It was like a child’s perfectly set up model train set. I couldn’t smell any of the pollution, as my sinuses were as thick as glue by this point with the cold from the first night. I couldn’t help but compare this town to the former one of Jack Fish.

      The next morning was humid – far too humid for six o’clock. Clouds had covered the formerly sunny, blue sky. Nothing was said, but we all knew we had to be quick about our activities. Environment Canada had issued a severe thunderstorm, waterspout and small craft warning, with waves of one metre building to two early in the morning. Wind and waves do not bother me. They become predictable to some degree and in my very distorted frame of mind, they are the comfortable norm for travelling. Electricity is another issue and I could smell it that morning. We were on the water by seven. The first rumble occurred and I pulled back up to shore. Sarka assured me the storm was still far off. My gut disagreed but I went along with her suggestion, "We’ll paddle then. The next available landing is about six kilometres away."

      Those next six kilometres contained constant rumbling, getting louder and closer – fast. Pic Island was now completely hidden by the steel blue pouring rain and approaching storm. There was an odd peach hue to the sky and the wind picked up slightly, but the waves more than doubled in size. As we passed between the mainland and an island, the now two-metre waves were crashing up the bare rocks. Riding the waves was fine and would have been considered fun if it weren’t for the thunder that was now occurring more frequently. On previous trips through this area, I had stopped below the leaching ponds of the paper mill for an emergency washroom break. This area, that I had formerly found to be a disgusting reflection of civilization, now became the tiny bit of comfort I was aiming to land on and set up shelter to wait for the storm to pass. Sarka was a good distance behind me, and Jim farther behind. A sandbar had formed roughly one hundred metres offshore from the sand beach we planned to land on. This effectively created a double surf zone for the landing. Fun on a sunny day, turned challenging today. I made it through the first zone and then the second and pulled my boat up fast. I turned to see where Sarka was and to help her. She was approaching the first zone and I turned away to tie my boat to a driftwood tree as the waves were pounding the stern with increasing strength and size. In the few seconds it took to turn away from Sarka and tie my boat, Sarka had capsized in the first zone and was now floating next to her swamped kayak, drifting towards a rocky outcrop. I waded out to help and redirect her boat. It took the two of us to pull it up onto shore and she immediately set to work pitching her tent. Jim’s turn was next, some hundred metres down the beach. I ran down to assist him. He jumped out of his boat fast, grabbed the bow and I grabbed the stern, pulling it up out of the reach of the lake. Quickly informing him of what had happened, we ran back to Sarka to help empty the water from her completely swamped kayak.

      Jim and I pitched the tarp as quickly as possible and sat under it as we watched the storm pass. We had landed in the nick of time; lightning started not more than fifteen minutes after we landed and the rain lasted, intermittently, all day long. Sarka was fine; a little annoyed I’m sure with me checking on her in her tent every twenty minutes, but I didn’t want to see her suffer hypothermia and this was the perfect day for it. Eventually she emerged and joined us under the tarp. The rain and thunder stopped by eleven in the morning, but the waves crashing on shore were still a daunting two metres. Relaunching today was simply not an option. We had paddled well for the entire trip, been gifted with stellar weather, become overconfident in our decision to try to beat the storm and were simply frustrated that we could make little more than six kilometres today. But that is how Lake Superior works. You go when you can and sit in awe and amazement when you can’t. I can name at least a dozen friends who were stuck in southern Ontario offices that day, and would have given anything to see the show we had front row seats to beneath the tarp. We had had enough water for one day.

      I heard the waves stop about four the next morning. It was raining but we could launch and push on to Hattie’s Cove. According to Environment Canada, the temperature was the dreaded 11 degrees predicted. We departed at seven in the rain, with fifteen-knot tail winds and one-metre waves. Sarka and Jim elected to wear wetsuits; I chose not to, as the water was warmer than the air. We kept a steady pace, and with the tail winds arrived in Pukaskwa at about nine in the morning. We loaded our gear into the cars in near silence as quickly as possible, ran for the hot showers and put on the last of our dry clothes. The temperature had dropped to seven degrees, according to the local radio station, and we were glad to be done the trip.

      As the organizer of the trip, I’m glad that we experienced a Superior storm. We now have a real understanding of what can happen on the lake, which we would never have gained if we’d had sunny skies and 24-degree weather the whole time. Thanks for a great time: 215 kilometres, four bald eagle sightings, two river otter sightings, four caribou sightings, two Pukaskwa Pits and countless walls to climb. Now it’s time to plan next summer’s Superior trips.

SLATE ISLANDS SOJOURN

Donna Griffin-Smith

      Monday, August 2, 6 a.m.: Our group of eight kayakers stood on the beach staring into a dense pea soup fog. Contrary to its reputation, Lake Superior was flat calm. Not a whisper of wind and no waves. Somewhere before us, were the Slate Islands. We knew they were out there somewhere, but where?

      The Slate Islands are located about 13 kilometres off shore from Terrace Bay on the north shore of Lake Superior and are a popular destination for local residents as well as canoeists, kayakers and pleasure boaters. This group of islands (17 in all) is an undeveloped Provincial Park (no fees). The two largest islands – Mortimer to the north and Patterson to the south – form a protected "lake within a lake" with many smaller islands in the centre. This inner body of water is always sheltered, regardless of the conditions out on the big lake. The islands are believed to be the site of an ancient meteorite impact crater and the resulting rebound effect produced the circular island group. As a result it is geologically significant for those who know what to look for. (I must admit never did see shatter cones as I had no idea what to look for). They are also home to a herd of woodland caribou which were much easier to recognize and were in fact quite abundant. The scenery was superb. The high rocky islands are covered with dense spruce forest and every shoreline we paddled was picture perfect with sheer rock faces, sandy beaches and sparkling blue water. The topo map shows the highest point of land on Mortimer Island at 950 metres, and Patterson Island has numerous small lakes and high contours as well.

      Our group of GLSKA members, Don and I, Elke, Bill, Joe, David, Rick and Cindy, had rendezvoused at the campground in Terrace Bay the previous day so that we could get an early start in the morning. Weather on Lake Superior is always a serious consideration. On Sunday we had an afternoon rainstorm followed by a beautiful sunny evening and the weather radio promised good conditions for the next few days. Although a shuttle service to the Slates was locally available, our group of experienced paddlers was eager to paddle out to the islands. We had expected some wind and waves, but not fog and dead calm!

      The previous evening we had stood on the same beach, and we had seen the islands in the distance. They really did exist. We had taken a line-of-sight bearing with the compass (Just in case of fog, Don predicted.) and those with a GPS had marked the way points, so we felt confident about the 13 kilometre, two-and-a-half-hour crossing required to reach our destination.

      It seemed the greatest danger this day would be getting separated from the guys with the GPS, so we all stayed close together. It was an eerie feeling to paddle in the fog with no sense of speed or direction. After a few minutes the land behind us disappeared and silence wrapped around us like a blanket. After about an hour and a half we were finally able to make out the first signs of a distant shoreline and eventually the high tree line of the Slates emerged out of the mist.

      Right on the two-and-a-half-hour mark we landed on a rocky point at the eastern end of Mortimer Island and took a much needed break for leg stretching, which we accomplished by running across the beach and into the bushes, guys to the right, girls to the left. Then we continued on, following the shoreline of Mortimer Island, past an awesome lichen covered rock face and into McGreevy Harbour where we began to look for a campsite. Our plan was to set up a base camp from which we could travel each day to different parts of the islands without packing up. This was to be a leisurely trip!

      In McGreevy Harbour we checked out a couple of well used campsites at the north end of Patterson Island, and decided on one that had lots of room for six tents, was centrally located and provided shelter in case of bad weather. Plus it had a great sand beach to pamper the bottoms of our boats.

      Its other features could be rated as pluses or minuses depending on your point of view. There was a large fire pit with benches for sitting around, some built-in tables and counters, and a structure of poles ready for putting up a windbreak (which we appreciated later in the week). Now some would reject a campsite with these "comforts" as being too civilized, but the redeeming feature was a huge picnic table, large enough for eight to sit comfortably and so high off the ground that I felt like a child as I sat and swung my feet back and forth. That table certainly did not arrive by kayak! Our thunder box, however, left a lot to be desired. What it lacked in privacy (a few boards nailed to two trees to block the view) was made up for in airiness (no bad smells here). After use, you had to kick in a boot-full of sand to cover up, as the "box" lacked all four sides and the "seat" was a few strategically placed boards between two trees. But the view of the bay was excellent!

      After our camp was set up we explored our neighbourhood. Several group members hiked along the shoreline, and I followed a well-travelled path through the forest, which led to another beach on the eastern side of our peninsula. I was surprised at the large number of well-beaten paths I found, and soon realized these were caribou trails. Not long after the tents were set up Joe called us to come and look at something out in the water. It was an animal swimming across the bay in front of our camp. As it reached a small island, it waded ashore and disappeared into the trees. A few moments later it reentered the water and continued on to the next island. Its huge antlers identified it as a large adult male caribou. We were so excited – our first caribou sighting! By evening several other caribou had been spotted near the campsite and swimming in the harbour.

      Did you know that caribou do not sleep at night? No, they wander through campsites and bump into tents. Just ask Bill about his caribou friend. After the first night we realized that anything that went thump in the dark was probably just another caribou and every morning there were fresh tracks on the beach. At night we turned our boats sideways on the beach so the caribou would not trip over them or step in the cockpits. One evening Elke and I were sitting by the water’s edge watching the sunset when a caribou came along the beach behind us. We were so busy talking we didn’t hear it, but the others told us it turned and went the other way. We soon learned that the caribou on the Slates were not the least bit afraid of people. There was a young one (Cindy called him a dumb teenager) that frequently visited our camp site and liked to lick at the ashes in the fire pit. They seemed to eat lots of twigs and branches, and we were told they depend on blown down spruce trees for survival in winter. It was common to see them walking along the shorelines when we were paddling and we soon lost count of the number seen.

      The second day was warm, sunny and calm when we set out to circumnavigate Patterson Island, the largest of the group. The morning was magical as we paddled along the eastern side of the island, close to the rocky shoreline of steep cliffs and small bays. The water was so clear and calm, we could see the bottom far below and in the shallow areas I delighted in the colourful patterns of underwater rock art. We stopped for lunch about half way around, near the southeast point of the island, in a pretty cove with a wonderful sand beach loaded with driftwood. In the distance we could see land which we thought might be Pukaskwa and Michipicotin Island. To the north, Pic Island and the north shore were clearly visible.

      After lunch, the wind picked up as we started to head westward along the south shore towards the lighthouse at Sunday Point. Back in Terrace Bay, David had met some people who were staying at the lighthouse (apparently they can be rented for vacations) and wanted to stop and say hello. We were consequently invited to come ashore for a tour, but it was not possible to land the kayaks at the high concrete pier on the outer shore. It was necessary to paddle around the headland and into Sunday Harbour where it was easier to land, and then climb a huge hill to reach the lighthouse. At this point four of the group opted for the lighthouse tour, and the rest (my half of the group) decided to return to the campsite as the wind was getting stronger (and the body weaker) and it was already late afternoon. In all, the distance around Patterson Island was about 22 kilometres and when we finally reached the western entrance, I was glad to let the wind blow me back to the campsite.

      The weather each day was perfect – clear skies, warm temperatures, light breezes in the morning, strong winds by afternoon, great sunsets every evening. For the next three days we paddled in small groups of twos or threes, as we explored the inner islands. At McGreevy Harbour there are three cabins which are maintained by locals and left open for visitors to use. One called "Devil’s Roost" is located on a high promontory with a great view of the harbour and islands to the west. It is near the site of a former logging operation and the wreckage of an old barge remains where it burned in a small bay behind the cabin. Apparently lumber from the mainland was boomed in the shelter of the islands before being loaded onto ships for transport. On McColl Island another cabin, known as "Come ’n Rest," was built by the MNR for use as a caribou research station and is the most luxurious, complete with a woodstove, bunkhouse, bathtub and a real outhouse!

      During our visit to the Come ’n Rest we met up with the other GLSKA group of Melissa, Sarka and Jim who were "camping" at the cabin. (See the Autumn 2004 issue of Qayaq.) Our two groups enjoyed lunch together and shared our trip experiences thus far. In the cabin I read in the log book about a young caribou that came to the cabin and the writer had referred to it as "Ralph". It seemed that whenever this caribou heard humans at the cabin, he came to investigate, because soon after our arrival, Ralph came to visit. He was very tame, allowing us to approach and touch him. He nibbled at carrots, licked jam from Cindy’s fingers, and patiently posed for pictures.

      It was interesting to see wild animals at such close range. Ralph’s velvety antlers, big eyes and "high-heeled" hoofs were neat. The caribou that frequented our campsite (Ralph’s cousin) was just as casual about our human presence. We also had a red fox that came right into our campsite as we sat at the table one afternoon. Every day it checked the spot where we dumped the dishwater and then continued on its way, as if it routinely came across humans on its daily search for food. Due to the isolation of the islands we did not fear that the fox was rabid. It just seemed like the animals of the Slates had no reason to fear people. Bird life was well represented too. We often saw flocks of merganser chicks, herded along by a mother duck, and near our campsite there was a family of young hawks, which frequently could be heard squawking when the parents brought food. A variety of warblers, woodpeckers and chickadees would flit through the camp from time to time, and several loons and eagles were spotted.

      At Copper Harbour on Mortimer Island, we explored an abandoned mineshaft located in a cliff face beside a narrow rocky beach. A small opening a few metres from the water’s edge led to a horizontal passage that went back into the rock for about 10 metres. Our flashlights revealed a tunnel about 4 feet wide and high enough to stand up in and, at the end, a pool of water. We had no idea if this was a flooded mine shaft or just a puddle, but no one volunteered to test it. There were no other signs of mining activity nearby and certainly no room on the small beach for any buildings, so we assumed that the ore would have been taken away by boat.

      Another interesting feature was the caribou corrals built by the MNR researchers to capture caribou for their studies. On our last day I discovered one not far from our campsite and examined its structure. Built across a frequently used caribou trail which led to the beach, fences made of branches funneled the caribou into a palisade-like enclosure, where they could be held for study. The corral seemed to have a trap door type of entrance that would close behind the animal after it entered and another gate on the opposite side, probably to release the animal. Although the research is no longer being done, several of these old corrals remained hidden in the trees along the shorelines.

     One day while the others were out paddling, Don and I decided to try hiking. We followed one of the caribou trails from our campsite through to the other side of island, and then followed a well-worn pathway along the water’s edge. At the end of the beach we found a caribou trail connecting it to the next beach and so we continued along the shoreline from one beach to the next. Along the way we collected interesting rocks and driftwood, saw tracks of caribou and foxes in the sand, and found three caribou legs. These, the remnants of a carcass, posed the question of cause of death – was it from winter starvation or predators? Eventually we ran out of beaches, and decided to try to follow a caribou trail inland. We soon realized it was impossible to follow the maze of trails that meandered around deadfall or disappeared completely in the thick spruce forest, and that it would be easy to get lost, so we bushwhacked our way back to the beach. A refreshing swim and a leisurely afternoon of reading on the beach seemed much more appealing.

      Each day we would listen to the weather radio, wondering when our streak of perfect weather would end. After five days they began to forecast a change and we decided it was time for us to return to the mainland while the going was good. On Saturday we were up early and ready to paddle by 7 a.m. As our group paddled out from the harbour the morning sun sparkled like diamonds on the water and reflected off the paddles and I was able to take some of the most amazing photos.

      After a pit stop at the tip of Mortimer, we started out. The lake was calm and the weather perfect for the long crossing. We could see the mainland in the distance and soon made out the smokestacks of the pulp mill at Terrace Bay, which I used as a landmark to keep me on course. For a while I was fascinated by the reflections of the other paddlers in the glassy water but soon I began to feel nauseous and had to paddle in the ripple of another boat to break up the mirror effect. It seemed forever, but two and a half hours later we paddled into the river mouth at Terrace Bay. Boats unloaded, cars packed, and off we went to the restaurant for the ritual of a final group meal together. Unfortunately we were too late for breakfast, but just in time for lunch.

      Later that afternoon I looked out at the Slates from the car window as we sped along the highway, and I thought how my impressions had changed since the first glimpse of those mysterious islands exactly a week ago. At first the Slate Islands were just a speck on the map, and seemed somewhat formidable, they were so far out in the lake! Then when I first saw them in the distance I was surprised at how large they were. Now I could bring to mind hundreds of familiar images of this little paradise in the big lake. The Slates are definitely a Superior destination! (Sorry, I just couldn’t resist.)

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