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BATTLE ROYALE
Strong winds, high waves – even a late-night
wolf encounter – made for an interesting
trip around Lake Superior's Isle Royale
By Dick Anderson
At 7 a.m. Thursday on the decrepit dock of Voyageurs Marina at Grand Portage, the sky was an ugly gray. The forecast wasn't exactly bad. Then, hopes for reasonable conditions for our paddle to Isle Royale faded as I felt the wind stirring. The forecast from NOAA for within five miles from shore: winds 10 to 20 knots, waves one to three feet, chance of afternoon
thunderstorms. Don Lareau and I checked the distance on our planned route, found it was 22.7 miles, via Lucille Island and then direct to Huginnin Cove on Isle Royale. We gave the route plan to our contact at the marina, ate a mass of cold energy food (not exactly a breakfast), got suited up, checked the radios and GPSs, and lugged the heavily loaded boats down a short distance to the water.
Dry suits are very warm when the air temperature is in the high 50s, until
the underwear underneath is soaked with sweat and some cooling occurs. We rolled and did some deep braces to test the way we had loaded the boats, and to cool off, after paddling out into the harbor. I picked out the hazy profile of Isle Royale in the distance.
We got a groove fast. Don punched a "go to" command into his GPS, and we compared our bearings, heading for Lucille Island. Leaving the shelter of the harbor, we found a foot and a half of chop, and a 10– to 15–knot
breeze. The views were magnificent: the yellow and gold lichen–covered rocks of Lucille Island glowed in the ethereal flat light, and Pigeon Point looked gloomy and mysterious in the fog.
Just off Lucille Island we rafted up, compared bearings to Huginnin Cove, and immediately set out, holding close at 95 to 100 degrees. Our speed was not impressive in the building beam seas and wind, with our heavily laden boats. GPS averaging, after it settled down, gave us an average
speed of between 4.2 to 5 mph. The boats were handling well; exceptional stability (especially since they were so loaded) and effortless tracking. As the bow of my Sirius sliced the swells, efficiently plowing along, I tried to make a rough assessment. Our schedule was tight. To circumnavigate Isle Royale, we had to cross today – not tomorrow. The ferry had just left Grand Portage, the last one until tomorrow.
Conditions were obviously not ideal. We had two– to three–foot seas
now, and 15–20 knots of wind out of the northeast. On the other hand, it seemed so easy to cruise along like this. Two great boats and we were fit. A partner who never missed a detail, who always thought ahead two or three steps. I looked over my shoulder and my confidence evaporated. Dark clouds loomed low behind us in the west. Black water, black clouds; I didn't like the look of it at all. Don thought the weather would hold, citing
the four–hour window we believed we needed. We decided to go for it, and over the next hour talked very little, lost in our thoughts and efforts.
The wind was up to a steady 20 knots after an hour. Our speed seemed to be somewhat lower, but probably the same. Occasional corrective stroking was necessary with the waves now at three to four feet. We ground away like slaves in a galley. Our strokes were strong, crisp,
technically good. We had a lot of time to hone them, but hardly seemed to make a dent in the distance remaining. The GPS read out 12 miles to go, and the vector arrow kept rotating northward, indicating we were being blown downwind. Rock Of Ages light was closer now; it looked squat and solid, instead of the pencil–thin shape of two hours ago.
Our only safeguard against being run over by larger boats were our VHF radios (which we used for caution calls), flares and continuously looking all
around. A routine glance behind revealed the ferry about a mile away, pounding through the waves, sending up explosions of white spray against the black water. I felt the seriousness of our situation as they passed us so effortlessly, about a mile to the north.
Two more hours and we had each eaten over 1,000 calories of snacks and drank at least a quart of water. Still feeling good, and loving my lightweight paddle, I plowed through the waves. All the dark clouds had passed, then
reformed again. We were so far downwind, despite all our course correction, that we were nearly as far south as North Gap, a deviation of at least two miles! The Minong Ridge contour I had used to align my bow on the bearing had long since vanished, and we now simply aimed for a point on the shore. Don recognized it as McGinty Cove. The wind was a steady 20 mph, the waves a constant three to four feet. We were elated and confident, yet a little frustrated as the distance came down so slowly.
"Crossings are just plain boring," Don muttered. "I'd rather paddle a coast any time!" I had to agree, deciding that crossing back after circling the island might not be worth the effort. The sameness of the nonstop stroke, stroke, stroke was really wearing thin.
Another experience on the great paddling treadmill might be terminally boring but, I had to admit, the views were exceptional. A very rugged and featured coastline. We decided to stay offshore a half–mile or so as we
headed north to our campsite. I could feel at least a half–pint of sweat sloshing around each ankle, held in by the rubber gasket. Another of the many perks of cold–water crossings.
About 10 minutes from the bonk, feeling my abs fairly singing with the strain, I ripped open a pack of gel. Both too tired to act enthusiastic, we slugged away mostly into the wind, the last half–hour to Huginnin Cove. Paddling to the beautiful brown cliffs at the south end, then into the
sheltered water of the cove, I felt suddenly rejuvenated. We eased our boats onto the stony beach, then staggered out and onto the sand. It had been slightly over five hours, the wind and waves taking their toll on our average speed.
Our bivouac was a contrast of personal styles; Don's level of organization was wonderful and disturbing at the same time. He knew where everthing was, and could apparently find it within moments. I basically unloaded my
boat, then picked out the items I needed from the array of gear strewn on the beach. Don's premixed breakfasts of dried milk, oatmeal, dried cherries and brown sugar. My plain oatmeal. His titanium pots. My aluminum. His wide selection of dried meat, corn and vegetables. My macaroni and cheese. My homemade bivi sack, in need of modification and repair. His custom sack with its aluminum wands and bug net. Our single camping congruity; we both used our paddle floats (which have seen
little use on the water), as pillows. Before sliding down into sleep, I felt a twinge, a ripple of anxiety. Hearing the surf in the dark, I felt vulnerable. Paddling on Superior is part confidence game, part put up or shut up, and looking out into the dark lake with my defenses down, I felt afraid.
Sunday
The surf landing at Attwood Beach on the southeast shore was uneventful until the very end. I broached in and what I guessed was two or three feet
of water, ripped the spray skirt off, and clambered out of the boat as fast as I could. It could have been done a little faster, but I wanted to maintain a little style. A mistake. With one foot in the boat, and one out, the wave hit me broadside, driving the kayak into the leg I had planted in the sand. After the first impact I jumped into the air, clearing the boat, watching it as it was shoved laterally up the beach. I ran after it, and with a
near–maximum effort, lifted it into the air. Rather than let the waves drive it across the rocks in the sand, I carried it 20 feet up the beach and put it down out of harm's way.
We had just completed four hours of increasingly hard paddling, having just begun our third day around Isle Royale. Leaving Malone Bay just after 8 a.m., skies a gunmetal gray and raining steadily, we encountered two– to three–foot waves and expected a very hard day. We were prepared for
some very hard work and intended to go all the way to Grace Island. We intended to catch the ferry back on Monday, at 3 p.m., and were determined to be ahead of schedule, not behind. Forecasts were for 25– to 30–knot winds out of the south, and four– to six–foot seas. At this time of the year, winds most frequently are out of the south and, interestingly, they changed to this direction shortly after we rounded the northernmost tip
of the island, on the second day, which took us from Belle Isle to Malone Bay. This was becoming a trip of headwinds.
The coast of Wright Island looked severe in the gloom. I couldn't help but feel the wildness of the lake as the chop increased as we moved into Hopkins Harbor. We made for Butterfield Point, planning to cross Siskiwit Bay directly to Point Houghton. I heard a motor and looked over my shoulder. A park service cruiser, throttled way back for our benefit, eased
up alongside. We were informed very considerately that the Hay Bay area was full of power boats that had needed shelter. I explained our plans and we were on our way across Siskiwit Bay.
The seas were building and were at three to four feet. We felt pretty confident, but I tightened up the neck closure of my anorak to reduce the leakage down the neck area from waves breaking on the foredeck. My boat is built for this sort of weather, and it is more a matter of fitness rather
than technical skill, especially with the wind straight on, as it was.
Winds were holding steady at about 20 knots. The waves were showing the surface texture that occurs just before the tops get blown off in foamy spray. It was getting hard to hear Don, and I was hoarse from shouting. We stayed in a closer formation now, so as to hear better. I was glad to be there, especially in a great boat and with a partner with whom I had complete confidence.
We were quickly moving out of any shelter the bay might have afforded. Don yelled out what I knew already – at Point Houghton we would be exposed to the full force of the wind. I imagined what we would find; to bracket a fear is to control it. I guessed six– to 10–foot seas. I shouted over the wind that we had better eat soon. There would be few opportunities after Fisherman's Home Cove, just around Point Houghton.
We exited into Fisherman's Home Cove. I was grateful for a break, and
couldn't shake the anxiety that had been with me all day. The cove was perfectly sheltered. We got out, ate, got back in, and headed right back out, with me cursing aloud over a spray skirt that didn't seal as well as I thought it should.
Grinning like a madman, I paddled out of the cove, spotting some big breakers close to shore, with their long foaming crests. I was afraid of those. They looked powerful and scary. We headed out, until we were
about 3/4 mile offshore. Here we had big swells and waves, but the wavelength was comfortably long. From trough to crest, though, they were pretty large and my bow would sometimes pierce the wave before the crest, going into the open air, with half the hull then falling down to slap the face of the wave beneath. I longed for a waterproof camera, to somehow document this amazing experience. The water was black, the spray white and the feeling was intense.
The wind was still building, howling in a varying pitch. The shallowness of the water along the coast from Point Houghton all the way to Grace Island was creating big seas. The waves were powerful, but pretty regular. With the headwind, we weren't making good time at all – maybe 3 1/2 mph. At any rate, it would take all day to get to Long Point or The Head. We had no choice, and knew that only severe conditions, injury or the bonk would put us on shore today.
Hammering away for the next two hours, I began to feel a deep, dull ache in both shoulders. Occasional numbness in the area of the thumb; aches in the wrists. We slugged away, soaked in sweat under our dry tops. My God, I thought, all this quality equipment, and I am still on the ropes, physically. Stories came to mind of feats of paddling endurance achieved by Eskimo hunters in fearsome conditions.
As the wind ratcheted up a couple of notches, that worried feeling
returned. We really needed lunch, and headed into Attwood Beach, fearing how much effort it was going to take to get to Long Point today. As we rode the waves into the beach, I wondered if we were a little over our heads, going back out. It was 12:25 p.m. and the winds were still building. We put these thoughts on hold and dragged our boats up the beach. Watching the waves charging in, I hardly tasted my food. We pumped, then drank a lot of water, being dehydrated for the last two days.
Two big, dumping waves, several hundred yards offshore, grabbed my attention.
"We've got to get out into deeper water and stay clear of those," Don said, though I had seen them, too, and felt the same. With some anxiety we loaded up and launched. I had trouble until I aimed my bow way upwind, almost parallel to the shoreline and got it right on my second try. My first attempt was a comedic performance that ended with the boat full of water,
and me chasing my paddle in the surf while wearing one shoe. I paddled out to where Don was waiting, about a quarter mile out, in big swells. Paddling like mad through the surf, the sight was surreal: brilliant sun, howling wind, and icy spray. I felt very committed.
We got oriented outside the surf zone in remarkably large seas. I was worried. Control wasn't a problem. I had simply never been in waves of this size and power before. The smallest sets looked to be six to eight feet.
We pointed our bows toward Long Point and set out, grimly determined. This felt more serious than any kayaking I had done before – more like rock climbing without protection. I couldn't hear Don's shouts beyond 20 feet, over the howl of the wind. We decided to stay in a close formation, in case of a capsize, although I couldn't quite imagine it happening. Fascinated, I paddled up a wall of green water, in intense sunlight, then
steeply down the other side. As usual, I could completely rely on my boat. Someone really knew what they were doing when they designed this hull, I thought gratefully.
Then I knew we weren't going to Long Point that day. Waves were much larger now. As we rounded the point off Attwood Beach, we got the full force of the wind. We stopped making any forward progress, despite our best efforts. I paddled hard over to Don, as we rode over the crest, and
fell into the valley below. We both knew that we were windbound, and after paddling hard for another 10 minutes to be sure, we made a U–turn on the crest of a wave and headed back.
This was incredible; I felt like an actor in an action film. I had never felt such acceleration while in a kayak. Feeling the initial surge of power as a big swell began to build under my hull, I knew that I was in for a wild ride! Feeling no need to accelerate the boat, I just paddled straight ahead, with
only a little edging to stay square. A broach at this time would be a bad thing, I thought, as I hurtled down the face of a very large wave. Fleeting thoughts that a photograph of this would be magnificent.
We surfed our way back to the beach, enjoying the delicious acceleration, one wave at a time. I concentrated on keeping the boat tracking down the face of the waves, with some side surfing or low bracing. It was alarming
to feel so much force on the paddle as I used a stern rudder to trim while rocketing down a wave. I heard Don yelling, something about putting the skeg down, but I got into the beach without any problem, this landing going smoother than the last. The wind was a good 30 knots, shrieking in our ears. We put down our plastic ground sheet and dozed in the sun. I couldn't care any longer that we were off our schedule, content knowing
we had done our best, and fell off to sleep with the wind moaning in the background.
Sundown came and went. We were reconciled to spending the night. Hopes of the wind abating failed to materialize. We spent the afternoon dozing, filtering water, drinking, drinking, drinking, then snacking lots, taking photos and hiking in the woods and on the beach.
At sundown the wind that had been at a good 30 knots had barely eased,
and we formulated a plan for the morning. Studying the map, Don noticed that we had been over McCormick reef when we had encountered the huge waves, where we had turned back. Between five and 14 feet deep. We knew we hadn't been strong enough to make headway against the wind, but it was disturbing that we hadn't noticed the reef when we studied the chart before heading out in the early afternoon. Believing what we wanted to believe, we agreed that once a mile or so offshore, we would
have very manageable swells, rather than the steep–sided waves that had slowed us down. A simple plan: skirt the reef, heading straight out and paddle like hell well offshore. If the wind didn't stay down a bit, it would be a real slugfest in the morning. We drank some beers and fell into a pleasant sleep on the soft sand.
I awoke from a deep sleep to a sharp, stinging blow on the cheekbone, followed by a sharp pain. Automatically, I wormed down into my bivouac
sack and curled up, wondering frantically what next. Fully alert and awake now, I felt the sick feeling of adrenaline in the stomach. I listened, wired now, then stuck my head out of the sack, looking around frantically. It was a cloudy night and completely dark. Whatever creature it was, it was gone now. I touched my face and my fingers came away sticky and wet. Too dark to see clearly, even up close. I woke up Don, telling him that
something just bit me in the face, although noting seemed at all clear. In 10 seconds he had his headlamp on and took a look. He described two punctures about five millimeters wide and about four centimeters apart, a precise observation by a periodontist. There was a superficial scrape between the punctures, extending two or so inches down the cheek. The area was bright red, he said, over an area three to four inches, bleeding, but not profusely.
"That must have been some big mosquito!" he joked as he magically produced a clean capilene undershirt and his water bottle and began cleaning. Too bizarre, I thought; the last thing I would have expected. With the waves pounding into the beach in the near–total darkness, our camp seemed a wilder place than when I fell asleep hours ago. My watch read 1:15 a.m. I ranted a little about being so rudely awoken. Don joked wryly that we were here for paddling adventure, not camping adventure. I
burrowed down into my sack, expecting the unexpected now. Possibly a bear attack or an earthquake. Just one more day, I though, so suck it up. As I was falling off again into sleep, Don got up decisively and said he was going to get the tent. I went with him and we trudged along to the boats, noting that the wind was still pretty high. In a few minutes we had the tent up and it felt good. With the doors zipped shut.
Monday
I was too warm and comfortable, but left the warmth of my sleeping bag and put my wet shoes on anyway to step into the cold air. Stop complaining I thought; soon enough you'll be home to work and to the mundane tasks of lawn mowing, etc., so be a little more appreciative. My attention was riveted by the sight of literally dozens of tracks all around our campsite. I yelled to Don to have a look. Some we noted were the width
of the length of my index finger. We hurried over to the kayaks where we had stashed our food. Many more tracks, all similar. We had been visited by the famous wolves of Isle Royale. I grimly imagined, as I pulled on my dry top and pfd, the series of rabies shots that awaited me when I got home. We were off at six, into a "rosy–fingered dawn," after forcing down a vile breakfast – if you can call it that – of Pop Tarts, energy bars and
water. No time for coffee. Only a breeze now, but we both knew it would build quickly.
No warming up, no easing into the paddling rhythm. Don set out with a vengeance. We were determined to leave this beach behind; we knew we had to get back to Windigo today. We were aware it was shallow all the way back to Grace Island, and planned to head straight out a mile, then contour the coast all the way to Washington Harbor. Once offshore, we
found we had our work cut out for us. The same six– to eight–foot swells, with the odd ones larger. It took me a while to find a rhythm, but we were making adequate speed.
The wind, of course, increased. There was not much to communicate, though. We were bound for Grace Island, period. We had plenty of time – the ferry left at 3 p.m. It would be a real slog, into the wind, but after a night's sleep, I felt pretty strong, at least after the first rough half–hour.
Looking down into the trough of a wave while on its crest was an awesome sight – so powerful, and indifferent to us in our little boats. Big breaking waves with long foaming crests decorated the shoreline by Long and Rainbow points. Watching them race toward shore, I knew we made the right decision to be out a mile.
Thoroughly warmed up and working hard, we made Long Point, then rotated squarely into the wind. We made for the Head. Wind still
increasing and harder going now. I yelled to Don that we were probably down to 3 mph now, then realizing it didn't matter. We were committed to getting to Windigo. Paddling was very straightforward, if strenuous. I spotted the same Park Service cruiser, about 3/4 mile off our beam. I imagined the sound as it slammed into the waves, seeing clouds of spray from each impact.
We hammered away to Rainbow Point, then Cumberland Point, where the
winds were on our beam. We still rode the elevator up one side of the wave, then down the other. We made better time now, but the beam seas required more attention. We aimed for the buoy at the mouth of Grace Harbor, to avoid the breaking waves closer to shore. Finally, there was a reprieve from the wind that we had waited for. We turned north, and with a luxurious tail wind, surfed the big waves with a fraction of the effort. I sat
back and savored this gift, knowing that the hard work was now over. In the glassy calm of the Grace Island camp bay, we stopped, got out of the boats and sat on the stony beach. I had no appetite, but drank a lot of water. The sun was hot, beautifully hot, and we lounged on the beach for a while, thankfully out of the wind. Only an hour's easy surfing remained. We had it made and laughed all the way to Windigo.
Three weeks later, hurrying off to work, Isle Royale is still on my mind.
Did the big lake ignore us and allow us to pass, seeing we were respectful of its raw power? Were we lucky, fooling ourselves that we knew what we were doing? Zipping up my jacket, I headed out the door into the dark of the city to the safe, cautious world of work. Lake Superior felt a long way off.
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