Solitude, exhilaration and adventure combine for a memorable trip |
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Sea kayaking the
Apostles Islands
By Dick Anderson
 The Apostle Islands are the stuff of memories on the rare day when the water is glassy-calm. Maybe a little less adventure, but exhilarating. Leaving Devils Island at a few minutes after seven, both Don Lareau and I were thrilled with the possibilities for covering a lot of distance.
Conditions were almost too good to believe, and although we heard from the weather radio that the afternoon would bring thunderstorms, we knew we had several good hours ahead.
After some rolling in the shelter of the huge dock at the south end of the island, we left on our bearing of 93 degrees. The view was so serene, enhanced by being the only two people in sight; actually, the only two boats in sight. Only dregs of fog obscured the northern horizon,
making it ethereal in the early morning light. It felt as if we were at sea. There were swells, but their surface was a smooth as oil. No wind. The compass on Don's boat compared exactly with my g.p.s., and it was so easy to just cruise along. My boat, even unloaded, sat very low in the water. Its hull is pretty round, offering only medium stability but quite a bit of speed. We were holding steady at 5-5.5 mph, a comfortable cruising speed that we enjoyed as the sun rose higher.
We passed North Twin Island, going below it on the south side. I had never been here before, actually hardly anywhere else in the Apostles, either. It was simply spectacular to be alone out here. We stopped and pumped some lake water through the filter, filling our bottles, draining them, then filling them again. A few minutes later and we were underway again.
"It's worth considering going around the east side of Outer Island," Don said. "If we need to, we can stay
on the south end of Outer, or at Presque Isle."
He was persuasive, but I was already converted. The morning was turning out so glorious that any reasoning was severely impaired. We were both very curious about what the east side of the island would be like. I had talked to sailors who had described lots of cliffs. I felt a momentary anxiety, imagining that coast in a gale from the east. It passed.
Outer's clay banks were visible at a distance of at least three miles. Our plans were to eat a brief lunch at the dock at the north end, then hit the road and focus on getting to the south end of the island in less than two hours. After that, another 12 miles or so to the southwest end of Michigan Island. Don, sensibly, was eating a snack regularly, on the hour, at least. Foolishly, and knowing better, I blundered along, giddy with
the views and apparently good energy levels. The ominous cold, black water of late May, the sharp air and the glare of the sun added up to pure adventure. With blind enthusiasm and a flagging blood sugar level, I hammered away with Don. thank God for sunglasses, I thought, as I decided my bag with eight fig newtons was too hard to reach, inside the dry bag and all.
Outer loomed ahead, but it took a long while to reach the sheltered area inside the solid concrete
breakwater. Don commented on the monolithic construction. Tons and tons of solid concrete, meant to blunt the impact of swells and waves driven by northeasters from Canada. Wouldn't this be an adventure in November, we speculated. Or maybe even in May or June.
We ate lunch. Lured by a long stone stairway to the top of the hillside, we ran up the steps, intending to have a brief look at the lighthouse before departing. We found grounds trimmed like a golf course,
immaculate buildings, a trolley that hauled supplies up the steps on a set of railroad tracks, and the lighthouse itself. The caretaker strolled up and said we were the first people she had seen in two days. She asked if we wanted to go to the top of the lighthouse. I wanted to be back on the water, with all the miles ahead of us, but couldn't refuse. The staircase was of beautiful, black wrought iron, and were were
informed that, like the stairway up from the water, it had 96 steps. The view from the top was a panorama of blue water. The bay to the east looked as if it should have palm trees along it, the water was so blue and the sand was a gorgeous brown. Impossible to guess the water was in the 40s.
Finishing my can of chili, energy bar and a lot of water, I rolled my spray skirt over the inner skirt of the dry
top and overlaid the dry top. Back to work! We headed across the bay for the northeast point of Outer Island. We had noticed how hazy it had gotten in the west, and Don's weather radio report was for winds "15-25 mph, waves 2-4 feet; afternoon thunderstorms." Our holiday was probably about to end, I thought gloomily. The conditions had changed; an 18-inch chop as soon as we rounded the point, with big swells so characteristic of Superior.
What looked like mysterious floating debris in the water turned out to be an enormous insect hatch! Probably flies, I thought, thinking about camping that evening. The first hour and a quarter of the east coast were continuous short cliffs, so typical of the Apostles. We kept comfortably clear, but even one-quarter mile away the waves were really confused. A landing here would be chancy, but doable. Minor boat
damage and a little loss of skin, probably. The skies got darker. The view to the northwest was blocked by the island. To the southeast it was obviously raining, the sky greenish-black right down to the water. We increased our tempo and began looking for shelter.
The sky was now so dark that the water was an ethereal greenish-blue. The quality of the light had changed and the wind seemed lower. Of course, we were about to get dumped on, and we scanned the coast
carefully. The cliffs were thankfully thinning out, replaced by fir trees and clay banks with rocky beaches. Rounding a point, we were given a gift: An idyllic pocket beach, sheltered from the wind and with white sand to pull our boats up onto. Even some short, overhanging cliffs to get under, out of the rain, which had begun in earnest. We saw lightning in the east, always an attention-getter, and ran our boats onto the sand,
dug out stoves, coffee, water and snacks, and ran for shelter. We crawled into a tiny nook. Don smacked his head against a sharp rock overhead as the rain increased dramatically. We brewed up and discussed our good fortune to find this beach at this time. The water was steely gray and the wind came up. I mentioned that if we had to stay here tonight it would be OK with me.
We waited under the rock overhang, drinking coffee and eating a few snacks. I had no appetite for some
reason and ate only a few fig bars. When the rain stopped, we waited a half hour, trying to guess if the thunderstorms had passed. Another one rolled in abruptly, and we explored the rocky beach for several hundred yards to the south, wading in the icy water, searching for a memento to bring home. I found a perfectly oval stone of pure white quartz, polished smooth.
It must have been 3:30 p.m. or later. With one eye on the clouds and the other on the chart, we lit out. Don
was confident that we'd make Michigan Island (the southern end) by six if we took no breaks and held our usual speed. We found a good groove and, with only light winds, we were again knocking off the miles. It was such a kick to be out there, again with no boats in sight. The clouds had lifted and we had fine weather again. We paddled hard for Presque Isle point, almost 10 miles away.
After an hour, Don put forth the idea that we could make for the east end of Michigan Island and not do the shorter crossing to Presque Isle. This was shorter and more direct, and that appealed to me at 4 o'clock. The few odd cans of beef we had in my boat were on my mind, and I wanted Michigan Island. We changed our bearing and, still keeping an eye on the sky, began the last leg.
It might have been the Keweenaw Peninsula to the far east, or the quality of the light on the water. Or just fatigue from a 40-mile day in a kayak. The water looked deep, ominous and black, and I felt a twinge of anxiety that I hadn't felt for a long time. We were so alone out here. Confidence based on fitness, real or imagined, and the integrity of the boat, with its modern construction and ancient design, was momentarily
shaken. What the hell, I thought, one way or the other, I am paddling to our campsite. Just felt a little tired, that's all. Don looked as solid and focused as always, and this didn't hurt one bit.
We decided we were running a little bit hot and stopped to cool off. A couple of rolls later we were once again in the comfort zone. Even in June, paddling steadily in a drysuit requires occasional sculling or rolling
to cool down. For these activities, I kept a neoprene hat under the deck cords of my boat. I had gotten it after a rolling session in early May left me with an "ice-cream headache."
Very slowly, we made our way toward the northeast tip of the island. A sea breeze had changed the surface to a foot of chop, and I could feel myself running out of gas. I had three fig newtons left in my daily allotment, and they were buried behind my seat in a dry bag with other essentials. Paying for my
inexperience, I decided I would hammer along with Don until we made the near shore, the lee side, now that the wind had come up. And then I would dig out the snacks and finish them off then and there. Angry at myself for the mistake I had made too many times for too many years, I concentrated on my very best paddling form and focused on the mile to the coast. A general achiness spread from the lower back to my
neck and shoulders, then intensified somewhat. I muttered to Don that I was taking a break as soon as we made the coast. His paddling form or energy hadn't varied a notch since this morning. Pride took refuge in anger, and I decided that under no circumstances was I going to falter over the next five minutes. Having planned out his food accurately and eating on the hour, Don's energy had been, at least apparently, high all
day. I, on the other hand, was reduced to near cramp by not eating enough over the last six hours … the amateur hour!
"Hey, let's stop for some food. You look green!" Don shouted, laughing as he paddled over. We rafted up and, to my delight, he handed over a packet of Gu and half a PowerBar. Speechless, I finished off the Gu in two seconds and followed it with some water, then wolfed down the bar, savoring each chew. The wind
was building again, but it didn't look like it would amount to much. Don had filtered enough water before we left Outer Island that we each had a bottle, plus a liter bag. I finished my bottle then and there.
"You know, it's not any farther to go around the east side, then down to our campsite. In fact, I think it's closer," Don explained. This was consistent with his goal, and my dream, of going around the periphery of
the Apostles this weekend. At this time, finally feeling some zip from the food, I nixed the idea, pleading the case for being prudent, a long day, unsettled weather, blah-blah-blah. After my first long day in a kayak, I'd had enough for now. Knowing I would regret it later, I argued for a straight-south run to the end of the island.
The gel and the PowerBar had done their job, and I felt great again – amazing what a couple hundred of the
right calories can do. For the next hour we paddled down the west side of Michigan Island, then around the south end to our second reserved campsite. We didn't find it at first. The southwest point looked far more appealing, exposed to the breezes. We decided to split up – Don searched in the area we expected it to be, while I reconnoitered the southwest point for campsite possibilities. We made camp on the point after Don
dismissed the actual campsite he found as unbelievably buggy. The mosquitos were vicious, and if not for his high-tech tent, at least one of us would have succumbed.
We left just before 7 a.m., the laborious packing of the boats taking almost an hour. It really was about as tedious and exacting as pulling apart a bivouac on a big wall climb – everything in its special sack, rations
laid out for the day, water bottles filled, sacks stuffed into sacks. I was overjoyed to get into my boat and paddle out, away from the mosquitos. The morning was simply gorgeous, very clear and sunny, and already windy. The forecast was for winds 15-25 mph, two- to four-foot waves. Madeline Island looked far away.
Experiencing the onset of carpal tunnel, I paddled open-handed. This helped some. Don and I agreed that
the last two days had been pretty long. Paddling straight into the wind, we had no trouble staying on our bearing that would bring us to Eagles Nest, on the south end of Big Bay on Madeline Island. It took a while to find that groove, that fluid feeling. We decided that we weren't stiff or sore, but weren't too strong either. I wondered how today's excursion of 32-34 miles would feel and calculated that my food would be
enough, but barely. Once again in exquisite surroundings: alone, miles from land, winds building, boats feeling so seaworthy. With one break to cool off and drink, we made it to Eagles Nest in a little under two hours. Winds were up now, and the relative shallowness of the point made the waves very confused as they pounded into the cliffs and caves. Don was in his favorite element and, tossed like corks, we made our way west.
I tried not to think about how far we had to go before we made the southwest end of Madeline Island, not to mention our campsite on the northwest end of Oak Island. We plowed on into the wind, loving the sights of Long Island way off in the distance and the red clay-eroded banks on our right. My boat, with its extremely low wind resistance and medium-stability hull, was apparently as fast into the wind as with it. Or
almost. The wind was surely a steady 15 mph now, gusting to at least 20. The trees on Madeline were swaying, the leaves and smaller branches in constant motion. The bow of my boat sliced the oncoming waves so cleanly that there was not much impact, and speed was easily maintained. There was the odd jolt when a big wave broke over the bow, submerging the front of the boat. Winds were clearly building, and so
was the wave height. We were about a half mile off shore, and the waves a mile or more out, especially in the direction of Long Island, were obviously greater. Now there were whitecaps everywhere, and the wind was high enough that we had to shout to be heard.
I knew he was going to try it and was ready. Don began listing all the reasons why we should head for Long Island, go around it on the south end, then head north up the west channel. I listened, curious to see if he'd
come up with a way to make it sound attractive. It seemed like a long slog going to the northwest end of Oak, even on our intended route, so I again opted out. Knowing I would regret it later, I said we should leave it for a later trip.
An hour beyond Eagles Nest, we began looking for a place to eat, but there was nothing but beautiful houses with private docks below high clay banks. Seeing that the only decent sandy beaches were private,
we made for one that was neatly in the lee of a large L-shaped dock. Hoping not to be rousted by an angry owner, we sat down on some driftwood in the bright sun, thankfully out of the wind. I stripped off my dry top and let the sweat dry. It felt glorious to feel the clean air against the skin. It was a lovely place that I didn't feel like leaving. We discussed our incredible good fortune to be healthy and fit enough to tour these
islands, and about the wonderful, wavy conditions. The remaining paddling today would be interesting and exciting, since we expected a strong tail wind when we turned north after reaching the southwest end of the island. Surfing those swells would be the high point of the day. We talked of the equipment failures that had occurred over the last two days. I had a paddle blade loosen and rotate on its shaft, and then the neck seal
on my dry top had blown out. A spare paddle solved the first problem and duct tape took care of the dry top, sort of.
We pounded away again, endlessly, as the coastline grew less interesting, the banks lower. The winds stepped up another notch and the skies darkened. I was enjoying my boat more than ever as I drove it into the wind. I recognized a home on the shore and knew we were very near the point.
The water was shallow and the swells were 4-6 feet at the point. We turned to the north, and as we expected, the winds were channeled in the same direction. We enjoyed surfing the swells all the way to Point Froid on Madeline Island, opposite Bayfield. We would sprint for 10 or 15 strokes, then enjoy the ride as the swell accelerated our boats. Speed for free!
By the time we got to Basswood Island our surfing safari was over, but it had been a great, playful
counterpoint to the slugging into the wind all morning. Now we had only light winds and gentle waves – an afternoon calm. We had seen many boats since we turned north, all within a 6- or 7-mile radius of Bayfield. We saw only one or two all the way to our Michigan Island camp; now, dozens. One headed straight for us, about a half mile away. We held our course, paddling abreast with a vertical style. On this flat water we had
to be visible, if they were paying attention. They didn't turn and neither did we; 400 yards and no change. I said we should go to starboard, the textbook move, and we did, at a tight 90 degrees. We punched it hard while watching them closely. Remarkably, the sailboat went to port, in our direction. I realized my error in not having the flare pistol on the deck where I could get at it. We were about to change direction when the
sailboat did, at about a hundred yards off. I wondered if I had taken it all a bit too seriously. The odds of actually being run down should be slim, I thought. A miss is as good as a mile, right? We discussed it and decided that the powerboats, with their bows planing high and visibility to front obscured, were our main concern, especially at the speed some of them were going. Most of the sailboats appeared to be motoring, with sails down, in a light breeze.
Finally we spotted some kayaks near the south end of Basswood Island, a group of four or five, probably from the kayak symposium in Bayfield. Another hour up the channel we spotted more. We had seen none until today. Only four or five miles from our campsite on the northwest side of Oak Island, we slowed to a very laid-back pace. Don said he was in no hurry to set up camp, since it wasn't even late afternoon yet.
We stopped paddling and snacked at Frog Bay, enjoying the solitude. The sense of freedom and self-reliance was incredible for me on this first trip.
We stared at the clouds in the west, a little threatening now. We both knew it would pass. We rolled a few times to cool down, then another hour of paddling and another lovely beach. Not a soul in sight. Skies had cleared and a sea breeze kept the air cool and fresh. The views of Bear and Raspberry Island were entirely
new to me, and it felt so right to just sit on a log of driftwood and stare. No worries. No need to hurry to break or make camp. Tomorrow our return to Little Sand would be no more than an hour or so. Time now to savor this special place.
Our boats: Romany Explorer and Necky Arluk 2
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