Small graves near where the Edmund Fitzgerald went down.

I wrote this description of kayaking Lake Superior’s Shipwreck Coast for a magazine article:

Lake Superior’s Shipwreck Coast runs approximately 50 miles from Whitefish Point to Grand Marais, Michigan. Its unending flat sand beaches backed with a boreal forest so dense that you can’t see past the first row of trees extend for as far as the eye can see. Few roads reach the shore, and it has little development. It feels like the end of the world, and a newspaper article that I stumbled across at Crisp Point Lighthouse described it as the “Loneliest Stretch of Shoreline in America.” While the beaches provide great landing sites for kayaks in calm water, the exposed beaches, hidden sandbars and shallow shoreline turn into a sea of forth when the wind blows.

The prevailing northwest wind wails across Superior’s surface and builds waves that converge at Whitefish Point. Add in fog, crystal clear waters that rarely rise above 50 degrees Fahrenheit and the fact that all ship traffic must squeeze past Whitefish Point to pass into the lower Great Lakes and you have the ingredients for ship collisions, wrecks and deadly disasters. Over 300 of Lake Superior’s 550 plus shipwrecks occurred along the Shipwreck Coast. In 1975, the 729-foot Edmund Fitzgerald, Lake Superior’s most famous wreck, floundered here in 30-foot waves just before it reached the safety of Whitefish Bay.^[i] The coast is so deadly that in the late 1800s and early 1900s, the U.S. erected and manned a series of life-saving stations along the coast. Daily, men walked the beaches from station to station looking for wrecks and survivors. I hoped to pass through the Shipwreck Coast in two days in calm weather.

Looking down the Shipwreck Coast from Crisp Point Lighthouse

When researching this area, I found a great description from  Lieutenant James Allen. He kept a journal during the Schoolcraft Expedition of 1832 to find the source of the Mississippi River. To reach the Mississippi, the expedition paddled, rowed and sailed across Lake Superior in several Mackinaw boats and birch-bark canoes. At the time, few, perhaps 1,000 American Indians, lived on Lake Superior’s shoreline.

 The whole of the coast passed to-day, presented a very plain bank of fine sand from twenty to a hundred feet high, and a continued forest of pine, generally small, but sometimes large and beautiful. A picturesque grove of white pine (Pinus strobus) of more than a mile extent along the lake, occurs about ten miles from our encampment. The growth is all large, and unmixed with any other trees, the pines straight, tall, without limb, and thickly set together, on level ground, as far back as wee could see.

We passed Twin [Two Hearted] river, twenty-four miles from Whitefish point. It is a small stream, and its mouth is so much filled with sand that it can only be entered by very light craft, and in smooth water. We have traveled to day forty-five miles. ^[ii]

I don’t remember passing the stand of pines described by Allen, but I expect that they had been logged by barons of the late-1800s. Closer to Whitefish Point, I did camp within a small grove of white pines similar to Allen’s description. I stayed there two nights to wait out a cold, rainy and windy day. The limbless pines provided no protection from the wind and my tent shook constantly. When I looked out the door a fine, airborne sand twisted and swirled around the tree trunks. The sand was slowly burying the trees and anything else around it. Nearby where I camped I found an outhouse half-buried in the sand.

Outhouse buried in sand.

After I finished kayaking the Shipwreck Coast, I met a National Park Service Ranger, who told me the story of his grandfather who worked for the U.S. Lifesaving Service or maybe the U.S. Coast Guard. Every day, he walked a desolate section of the coast. He would leave from one station and another man would leave from another. They’d meet at a shack located between the two stations. There they’d write their name in a log book to prove that they had walked the complete distance, and then they’d turn around and go back to their respective lifesaving station.

The park ranger, a weather elder with a big grey beard, remembered visiting the shack with his late wife when they were young. He reminisced about a photo of her crawling in through the window. The picture showed sand building up around the old hut. He tried to find it after his wife passed away, but found that it wasn’t there anymore. The sands of the Shipwreck Coast had devoured it.

My friend, Tim Gallaway kayaked the Shipwreck Coast a couple of years ago. Here’s what he wrote:

Unluckily, a strong east wind cooled the air as the day progressed, and I was going straight into it. The wind grew stronger all day. If I stopped for even a few moments I was blown backwards. It was miserable paddling. The wind fought me all day and the shoreline was an uninterrupted ribbon of sand. If the weather didn’t wear me down then the boredom and toil of paddling along the empty shore would.

I passed the mouth of the two-hearted river and camped east of the Crisp Point Light on a beach where cobblestones floated on the windblown sand like islands in a tropical sea. Black sand ripples flowed between the stones and sparkled in the brilliant sunset light. Driftwood abounded, and the only footprints I could find were my own.

The day was draining. There isn’t much more disheartening for a paddler than a solid, unyielding head wind. A climber or skier knows that the up-hill exertion will end and they will have gravity on their side for the way down. A kayaker isn’t so lucky. I was drained, physically and mentally, but I was making good progress. I would be off of The Skeleton Coast with one more good day’s paddle. ^[iii]

This was one of my kayak campsites on the Shipwreck Coast. Tim Gallaway also stayed at the same place on his solo trip.

An experience that sounds surprisingly similar to mine, windy and stormy. The one feature that proved to prevent the mind numbing feel of the coast was the driftwood, dry and bleached grey from the sun, stacked up all along the shore, but most was pushed up against the dense forest where larger waves from the Gales of November deposited it in years past.

Between the sand and the evidence of waves, the disappearing buildings and the lack of humanity, the Shipwreck Coast feels like no other section of the Great Lakes. While roads reach it now in a few places, I’m sure that most kayakers experience a shore that is little changed since Allen’s trip in 1832. That could change. When I paddled it, I noticed newer summer and weekend cabins tucked back in the woods. I imagine that much like the rest of Michigan’s coast, that the Shipwreck Coast will be developed with condos, hotels, cabins and summer homes. If you want to experience it as Allen did, you should plan to take a kayaking trip there soon.

^[i] Stonehouse, Frederick, Lake Superior’s Shipwreck Coast, Marquette: Avery Color Studios, 1994

^[ii] Allen, James, Journal and Letters of Lieutenant James Allen, Expedition of 1832. U.S. House Executive Documents, No. 323, 23d Cong., 1 Sess.

^[iii] Gallaway, Tim, PaddlingLight: THE SKELETON COAST: Paddling Lake Superior’s Desolate Southeast Shore, September 5, 2011

This article originally appeared on PaddlingLight.com. Leave a comment and an opinion by clicking through here: Kayaking Lake Superior’s Shipwreck Coast (Skeleton Coast)

This fall I joined the Wilderness Classroom to photograph part of their three-year, 12,000-mile trip across North America by canoe, kayak and dog sled. I met them at Crane Lake on the western side of the BWCA and paddled the Boundary Waters Border Route with them. It took us 17 days and included a three-day visit to Ely, Minn. While we followed the border route for the most part, we did leave the route at Ely and at Rose Lake. See the map below for our exact route.

Boundary Waters Border Route Description

Although the route is the longest that you can do in the BWCA without looping or turning back on your route, it isn’t the hardest. The beginning of the trip runs through large lakes, such as Loon Lake, Lac La Croix, Crooked Lake and Basswood. Portages at the start are few and short. We actually double portaged everything until we reached Gunflint Lake. The terrain is mostly flat, but you actual are traveling up river until you reach the Height of Land Portage between North and South Lake.

As you approach the eastern side at Sag and Gunflint, the portages become longer and the scenery more dramatic. Hundred-foot or taller hills parallel the lakes. By the time you reach Rose Lake, 200- to 300-foot cliffs appear, and you start the Long Portage, a two-mile long portage. In the western side, the lakes seem convoluted and twisted with many bays and islands. In the east, the lakes become arrow straight.

You’ll actually leave the BWCA to stay on the Boundary Waters Border Route at North Fowl. After paddling into South Fowl, you portage into the Pigeon River. During high water, it’s a swift journey to the top of the Grand Portage. During low water, expect to line, walk, carry and run shallow rapids. It will take you all day to do the river during low water, and a half day during high.

The Grand Portage connects the Pigeon River to the Grand Portage National Monument fort and it avoids waterfalls and rapids just down river. This was the traditional portage done by the fur-trading voyagers who carried eight packs weighing 90 lbs. each up and down the portage each year. The park service keeps the trail clear of downed trees, and it’s wide. Pace yourself for the trip down. By single portaging and taking a break every 30 minutes, you’ll get to the bottom in about five hours.

Once at Lake Superior, dip the nose of your canoe in the water and take a picture.

Boundary Waters Border Route Permits

To do this route, you need a permit. During the pay-for-permit season, you really need to stay on the Boundary Waters Border Route, because once your leader leaves the BWCA, you need a new permit. If you do it in October, you can self-issue a permit at every entry point. This makes it cheaper (free), and it allows you to vary the route without worrying about leaving the BWCA. For example, on our trip, we went into Ely for three days to meet with Pagami Creek Forest Fire fighters, do the Wilderness Classroom computer work, hang out with friends and check out the town. We also were able to stay at Gunflint Pines campground and eat a burger at the Gunflint Lodge, and we were able to detour into Trail Center for a burger without having to worry about meeting the quota system and getting a new permit. It also allowed us to go from Bearskin to Clearwater via a road portage, which let us visit Pine Lake and the scenic Johnson Falls.

Overall

The Boundary Waters Border Route is THE classic route in the BWCA, and I highly recommend that you put it on your paddling bucket list. It’s by far one of the best two-week trips in North America.

Maps and Logistics

If you’ve never been to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, check out my Boundary Waters Primer.

For the Boundary Waters Border Route, I highly recommend National Geographic’s BWCA maps (See my National Geographic BWCA Map Review). The one problem with the NG maps is that the border is shaded, which makes it less-than-ideal but adequate for navigation. If you use the NG maps, you only need two maps, which saves you up to 2.2 lbs. in maps! Plus, if you go off route, you have maps that cover the entire BWCA.

Get yours here:

• Trails Illustrated (National Geographic) Map Of The BWCA – Eastern Half
• Trails Illustrated (National Geographic) Map Of The BWCA – Western Half

If you want more detail in maps, get the excellent Voyageur Maps:

• Voyageur Maps

Note: More pictures from my trip are on Facebook.

View Oct 2011 BWCA in a larger map

This article originally appeared on PaddlingLight.com. Leave a comment and an opinion by clicking through here: Boundary Waters Border Route Trip Report

As my school year was drawing to a close I solidified a route. It would be a nearly 160 miles route down the St. Mary’s river followed by a series of island hops along the wilderness shores of Drummond and Cockburn (pronounced Co-burn) Island with a final cruise along the stunning rocky Huron shore of the eastern U.P. The original route included a number of border crossings that would have made the trip a bit more interesting but wouldn’t be a major inconvenience. Or so I thought. As it turns out you need a special permit to cross the border via water in a private vessel. I glossed right over that in my research and had to make a drastic route adjustment mere minute before departure. Instead of paddling down the St. Mary’s River in Canada I would follow the flow down the shipping lanes on the Michigan side of the river and forego Cockburn Island altogether.

Day 1:

It was a cool and foggy morning as I loaded my boat at Rotary Park in Sault Ste. Marie. I’d launched so many times there for short paddles on the river and for rolling sessions that it didn’t really feel like I was headed out on an extended trip. That changed though as I kissed my girlfriend goodbye and headed south. The stretch of water between Rotary Park and Lime Island, about 33 miles of water, was foreign to me. That coupled with the fact that my charts didn’t cover this stretch of water, since I wasn’t planning on paddling it, made the day a bit of an anxious one. Without charts I was just going on dead reckoning and the vague mental maps I’ve accrued over the years. But I pressed on with the slight current behind me and the sun in front of me. The air temperature actually got so warm that shortly before the Neebish Cut I had change out of my drysuit and into my swim trunks. Even a wetsuit, if I had had mine, would have been too much.

The Neebish cut is a man made channel dug over natural rapids to facilitate freighter traffic. Whereas upstream freighters navigate around the east side of Neebish Island the ships bound for downstream can blast down the limestone walled channel. As I approached the cut the only indication of the passage was the channel markers and the current. The limestone blocks lining the cut cruised past as I rode the fast current away toward the south. I left the cut behind and after a lunch break I entered Munuscong Bay. I had been paddling some 4 or 5 hours by this point and I still had no idea where I was going to camp or where exactly I was. But I got it in my mind that if I could just make it across Munuscong Bay I could make it to camp on Lime Island. I didn’t know that Lime Island was still another 5 hours paddle away. I headed out into the silty water of Munuscong and started island hopping. The current I had in the morning was now gone. A headwind took its place and made the trip south much less enjoyable. The sun was sinking lower and lower as I left Munuscong Bay and entered Raber Bay. Lime Island was only a few miles of open water away and I slogged my way into the shelter of the old freighter dock on Lime just before sunset. I was now in charted and familiar waters.

On this trip I brought something that I thought might revolutionize my camping experience. It was a simply bivy sack. Bought online from an accidental acquaintance on Facebook it’s about the size of a small bag of flour. It’s basically just a big waterproof bag your sleeping bag goes in. I still had my ultralight backpacking tent in case of really bad weather, but I wanted to sleep out under the stars. That first night on Lime was the first time I used it. I fell asleep fast and slept soundly except for one time when I rolled over in the night and I opened my eyes. The stars were absolutely brilliant. I made out Orion, and the Pliedes but before I knew it the weight of my eyelids became too much and I was out like a light.

Day 2:

It was already comfortably warm the next morning when I packed up my boat and continued to head south. Just as I was preparing to leave Lime Island a massive freighter steamed past heading north. Freighters had been a common sight all the previous day and for this morning they would be a common sight once again. I paddled south and snuck past the most southerly point of the Canadian St. Joseph Island and began island hopping across the northern stretches of Patogannissing Bay. I’ve guided many trips in Patogannissing Bay but I’d still never paddled the most northerly islands.

The water was glass calm and crystal clear now instead of the murky waters I was in for long periods the day before. The northern islands in the bay feel very remote. And they are. I didn’t see anybody the entire day except for a few people on the deck of the freighter that morning. As I looked south and saw the town of Detour Village I felt alone but free like only the distant places make you feel. I kept going east along the northern reaches of the bay and paddled past Burnt Island then Wilson Island and its noisy heron rookery. My last crossing of the day was between Cherry Island and the north end of Drummond. I landed on a lonely point I had camped on before and set up camp behind a big cedar tree near the shore for shelter from the cool breeze blowing off the water. And once again I bivied out and had another spectacular night of stars and clear sky.

The northern shore of Drummond Island is one of my favorite areas to explore. The shoreline varies from cobble stone beaches to limestone ledges with sharp slabs of limestone lining the shore. The point I camped on was covered with fossils. Nearly every rock showed the distinct pockmarks of ancient corals that used to live in a shallow primordial sea that once existed here. Some large rocks show the honeycomb looking patterns while in others you can find cone corals that look like curved T-Rex teeth. I wandered the beach looking for increasingly interesting fossils for a while that night as the sun set and bathed the beach in a magical glow.

Day 3:

I knew the weather was starting to shift the next morning right as I woke up. It was a lovely morning but everything was coated in a thick layer of dew as where my first morning out was relatively dry. As I headed east along Drummond the wind started to pick up and, as usual for my expeditions, I was paddling straight into it. Along the way that morning I saw lots of interesting things. There were a few large chunks of ice still on shore hidden against the sun by the thick cedar trees that line the shore. I also had an encounter with a lone beaver swimming in the shallow water near shore. I thought it was a muskrat at first but when it slapped its tail I knew it was a beaver. It paralleled me underwater for about 2 minutes, even swimming under my kayak a few times in the process. I’d never seen anything like it before and I was so enraptured by it that the thought of getting a picture of it completely escaped my mind.

The ledged shoreline of the north end of the island faded away as I headed down the eastern shoreline. They were replaced by large boulder beaches left behind by the last glacier to cruise through the area. At the furthest east point of Drummond Island is a perfect little natural harbor called Pilot’s Cove. It’s called Pilot’s Cove because you have to be an excellent pilot to get a boat into the small area of protected water. I’d stopped there dozens and dozens of times while leading hiking trips on the island and I had the thought of camping there but I had made such good time along the north shore that it was about 2 in the afternoon when I got there. So instead of stopping I kept working south.

As my compass swept pass 180 I went past the cliffs along Marble head and the deserted shorelines. I was now looking at Cockburn Island to the east a few miles away. If the border issue hadn’t been an issue I would have camped earlier and made the crossing to the other island in the morning. It sat looking like a mirror to Drummond. Empty shoreline with no development whatsoever. I stopped a while later a few miles north of the south-east corner of the island and watched as the clouds got darker and darker. The weather was changing. And it was for the worse. I figured it wouldn’t be a good night to bivy out and set up my tent instead.

Day 4:

The next morning I was glad I did. The rain came sometime early in the morning and let up just as I was getting ready to leave my tent. To stay a bit dryer I put my drysuit on in my tent. Putting on a drysuit in a tent roughly the same size as a coffin had to be one of the most technical tasks in the paddling experience.

A while later when I was crossing Bass Cove a man who looked like a quintessential UP fisherman on his day off came up in his boat. His clothes were ragged, his boat was heavily customized, his hair was wind blown and graying but he was smiling and friendly. He was the first person I had seen in a few days so I was more than happy to chat for a while. We talked about where I was coming from and the weather and small talk for almost 30 minutes before we parted ways and he sped off to the west and I followed slowly behind.

For the first time on any big trip I’ve done I had a tail wind all day. It was so nice to finally have the advantage of being pushed along. With the wind I covered the entire south shore of the island and was at the Detour Passage by afternoon. I sat on the south-west corner of the island watching the freighters and weighing my options. I could push on for a few more hours and make it to the state forest campground on St. Vitals Point on the mainland UP and have a relatively short day the next day as I cruised into the Les Cheneaux Islands, my ultimate destination. With the favorable winds I decided to go for it. I waited for the freighters to pass and crossed the passage with the swell growing around me. I was along the mainland and paddling hard for the point in no time at all. By the time I was approaching the point about 5 in the evening the swell had grown to about 2 feet and made the landing pretty tricky. The shoreline along the point is mainly sand but with tons of sharp limestone boulders in the water. So as I approached the shore I essentially had to surf my way through a rock garden. I’ve been saying for the last few years “It isn’t surfing on Lake Huron unless you’re dodging rocks” and I had to eat my own words. I dodged and tried to carve my heavy boat around rocks and edged hard to maneuver and at length came to shore with minimum scraping against rocks.

Day 5:

My last solo May trip ended prematurely in big water and wind on Lake Superior where I lost a water bottle in the surf. I ended the trip early due to the weather then. Since then I’ve always felt a bit of a curse set upon me. The last days of trips are always really rough. Later that same summer as the Lake Superior expedition when I was guiding a trip on Isle Royale we had big winds and a heck of a time getting back to the lodge. It seemed like a curse to me. I was hoping the last day of this trip might break the curse but I was mistaken.

I spent the night in the tent again fearing bad weather and when I woke I had a bad feeling. The clouds looked weird to me and the wind was just as strong at 6 in the morning as it was the day before. If I was going to make it to Hessel I needed to get moving. I hit the water as soon as I could, foregoing breakfast and only having a few snacks. I still had the tailwind and made the most of it. An hour into the trip I heard my first thunder. It was far off to the north-west so I kept pushing on. As I went west the weather began to engulf me. First it was rain then eventually the thunder-cell moved right over me and I had to wait out the weather on shore for 20 minutes. As soon as I thought it was safe I kept going.

I was out in the middle of Beaver Tail Bay when it all hit the fan. The wind, which had been steady for the morning, suddenly roared out of the south-east. The waves grew rapidly as the rain stung the back of my head and spray was being ripped from the surface. I fought my way toward Beavertail Point which I was hoping would offer some shelter from the onslaught of the wind and the quickly growing swell. It seemed like a good idea at the time but in hindsight I should have gone straight into Beavertail Bay and found shelter in a marsh and shallow water. But toward the point I fought on. I was aiming to go wide of the point to avoid the shallow rocky reef that extends off of all the points along the shore but the winds became too much. I got blown straight into a rock garden.

The waves had grown to about 3 or 4 feet on open water by the time I approached the point and they kicked up to be double that around the shallow rocks. I tried to fight my way away from the shallows but it didn’t take me too long to realize that it wasn’t realistic. I would only be delaying the inevitable. I maneuvered through the tall steep waves and half submerged boulders and saw an opening between a set of rocks. It was less than a boat-length wide and was covered by water most of the time but beyond it was the end of the rock garden and open water all the way into the protection of Prentiss Bay. I got my boat pointed down wind between the rocks and made a break for it. I didn’t even come close to making a clean escape from the tumultuous water. I felt my stern rise up behind me as a swell kicked up in the shallows. I did a quick rudder to the left so I would point out to open water if I got broached and surfed along the wave and not into the shore. I’m glad I did that. The wave picked me up and broached me almost immediately. I braced into the wave and looked down water. The limestone boulder that stood as the right side of the gap was directly in the path of the stern of my boat. I need to preface this by saying that I still had my skeg down to help keep my boat pointed down wind. As I watched the boulder get closer all I could think of was my skeg getting sheared off the bottom of my boat and then ending up upside down in the shallow rock garden without a helmet as the wave crashed on the rocks. I didn’t think it would have been much fun to scrape some scull on the sharp limestone. Before my fear manifested itself the wave didn’t break, it just rolled like a steam-roller right over the boulder and carried me, skeg still intact, out of the danger zone. But before the wave let me go it broke over me and washed my water bottle off my boat. So, yes, I lost another water bottle on a May expedition in surf. Luckily my camera and sunglasses were lashed to the deck and didn’t get washed away. I actually watched my bottle float away and I contemplated going to get it but the wind was so strong and unyielding that I just let it float away.

After the chaos around the point the downwind run into Prentiss Bay seemed pretty tame. The waves still obscured the horizon with each crest but out in the open they were even and predictable. I half surfed and half sailed my way behind Rover Island in Prentiss Bay and finally had time to take stock. The lake had tried to eat me but I made it out. I had survived fully intact, minus the water bottle, and besides my hands trembling from the adrenaline I felt pretty good. I even started laughing. A soft cackle that came and went for a few minutes. It’s the same type of laugh that comes from ripping big powder turns down a couloir while skiing and looking at your line from the bottom of the mountain, or running a big scary drop in a whitewater kayak. I felt invincible for a few minutes as I rested in the lee of the island.

As I rested I thought about making the crossing in the still massive seas across into the sheltered Les Cheneaux Island chain. But when I got to a point where I could see the water I would have to cross to get into the islands I quickly reconsidered. It looked like a conveyor belt of 5-foot tall whitecaps all going straight into the islands. I was only a few hours of paddling away from my destination but in that water I knew I wouldn’t make it that day. So I headed deeper into Prentiss Bay and came ashore at Cedar Campus. Woods and Water Ecotours has hosted the Hiawatha Paddling Festival there for several years and I knew most of the people that worked there. They wouldn’t mind a soggy kayaker coming in for safe harbor. I was mere miles from my final destination and that was fine with me. Surviving a windstorm and big water on Lake Huron seemed like the perfect way to end my trip. I didn’t need to go to the New Zealand to have the humility scared back into me. All I needed was a Great Lake. The curse of the last day struck me again. I guess I just have to keep trying until I can break it someday.

This is a guest post from ACA L4, Coastal Kayaking Instructor and Greenland kayaking expert Tim Gallaway. Read his other contributions: Head North to Old Woman: A Lake Superior Kayaking Adventure, The Skeleton Coast: Paddling Lake Superior’s Desolate Southeast Shore and Ninja Paddling – The Path of the Ninja Paddler. Check out his website Kayaking to the Sea.

This article originally appeared on PaddlingLight.com. Leave a comment and an opinion by clicking through here: Soo to Hessel: The Curse of the Last Day

• Distance: 29 miles (450 rods of portages) – This area has several variation, so you could do a shorter route and still see most of it.
• Entry Points: 55, 55A, 54, 54A
• Trip Rating: Intermediate. The portages are rough, but route finding is easy. Prepare for waves on windy days.
• Maps: BWCA East Trails Illustrated Map or Voyageur Map Number Six For the BWCA
• Hazards: Cold water in the spring and fall, rough portages, large waves.

Boundary Waters Routes – Sag & Sea Gull Overnight Loop

There are a number of variations on this route, but I like starting on Gull Lake (Entry Point 55). Put in on Gull and paddle north along the Gull River. Because Saganaga is one of the few motorized lakes in the BWCA be prepared to run into boat traffic. The shoreline along the Gull River is developed, so you’ll see some cabins, both small and monster-sized.

Once out on Sag, head west along it’s jagged shoreline, passing many small bays and islands. You’ll turn south into the bay that takes you to the portage for Roy Lake. This inlet to the bay is narrow and hidden, so keep an eye on your map, because it’s easy to miss and end up in Red Rock Bay. Once you find the portage hidden in the southest corner of the bay, portage 52 rods (1 rod = 16.5 ft) into Roy Lake.

Head south across Roy Lake to a 130-rod portage into Grandpa Lake, which has many small bays and the shoreline abruptly curves and juts. If you have the time, this lake is worth exploring. Once finished exploring, take the 185-rod portage to Sea Gull Lake. You’re now within a short distance from where you put-in.

Paddle along Sea Gull’s western shore until you arrive at granite cliffs topped with cedar, the rest of the shoreline on Sea Gull is burnt from a forest fire. Look for a faded pictograph or two on the cliff. I found red smears and one human figure when I looked.

After the cliff, you’re exposed to wind from the south and southeast. Strong winds can make 1 to 3 ft waves on this lake, so be careful and be prepared. Many islands hug the western shore, so keep an eye on the map as you work your way towards the portages into Alpine Lake. There are two portages. The 31-rod portage feels unmaintained. It cuts through an overgrown forest, over downed logs and up several steep hills. The 101-rod portage runs through a burnt tree trunks, but rises gradually from Sea Gull and drops gradually into Alpine. The longer portage feels easier.

Alpine Lake’s shore is open and burnt from a forest fire, so weave your way through it convoluted shoreline until you reach the portage into Red Rock Lake to the north. You can choose from several great campsites or continue on to Red Rock Bay and hope to get the southern most campsite.

In the morning, start in Red Rock Bay, paddle east to the Gull River and trace your way back to the entry point.

Boundary Waters Fishing

On Sag, you have a chance to catch walleye, northern pike, small mouth bass, and some lake trout. Sea Gull has the same, but is known for larger than average small mouth. Red Rock Lake has the same, but it also sports lots of northerns. Both Roy Lake and Grandpa Lake have average-sized northerns. Grandpa seems to have a large stock of northerns.

Boundary Waters Routes – Sag & Sea Gull Loop Map

View BWCA Overnight Sag Loop in a larger map

Video Trip Report

This article originally appeared on PaddlingLight.com. Leave a comment and an opinion by clicking through here: Boundary Waters Routes: Sag and Sea Gull Loop

For a spring expedition I decided on paddling from Munising to Sault Ste. Marie, about 150 miles of lakeshore. Included on this route would be the famous Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, Whitefish Bay and miles and miles of deserted shoreline. I was hoping to see how my skills stacked up against the mighty and fickle Lake Superior along a stretch of shoreline that I’ve heard referenced as The Skeleton Coast because of the large number of shipwrecks and empty, desolate shoreline. Apparently the name denotes the shore between Grand Marais and Whitefish Point. The name is a bit silly, but I like it and it still imparts a sense of the area. There are very few roads that come anywhere near the water and only a few houses are clustered around Grand Marais and Whitefish Point. Cell phone coverage is non-existent so if something goes wrong you have to fend for yourself. One way or another I was going to have the big adventure like those written about in kayak magazines. After a few weeks of pouring over charts, weather maps, and reading everything I could find on my route (which is surprisingly little), I started packing.

My living room was covered with equipment. My drysuit hung over the back of a chair. My paddles were leaned against a corner. My tall neoprene boots sat flopped over against my PFD. To anyone else it looked like a mess, but to me it was perfectly arranged. And there I was, in the middle of the gear explosion, packing away layers, equipment and my anxieties. Before a trip is always the worst for me; my brain runs frantically thinking about things I might need right up until I leave. But when I get on the water I am in my element, it’s just me and the Lake.

The plan changed before I even started due to huge waves rolling in at Pictured Rocks. Eight-foot waves and Force 6 winds (25 to 30 mph) on a cliff lined shore wasn’t what I had in mind nor was it safe. So I changed the plan, and I would head onto The Skeleton Coast out of Grand Marais the next morning once the weather calmed.

Heading out of Grand Marais I was met with 3 to 4 foot swells and a bit of a tail wind. That first day went by quick. I was still in the honeymoon phase of the trip where I was indestructible and unstoppable. The nagging fatigue of solo marathon paddling was as foreign to me as the social lives of the sturgeon at the bottom of the Lake. But I had to stop eventually. About 4 o’clock hunger got the best of me. I headed toward shore and landed through a short steep dumping wave and dragged my heavy boat out of the water with legs that refused to bend after sitting for 6 hours. When I had time to look around I found I was on an empty, sandy beach. There was a small river flowing into the lake at the back of the beach and a trail vanishing into the woods on the other side of it. I was alone in the wilderness. It was picture perfect.

I was on the water before seven the next morning and heading east. I like getting out early when I paddle. The cooler air means you can paddle harder without getting sweaty in your drysuit, which turns into an oven bag when it gets warm and bakes you in your own juices. Unluckily, a strong east wind cooled the air as the day progressed, and I was going straight into it. The wind grew stronger all day. If I stopped for even a few moments I was blown backwards. It was miserable paddling. The wind fought me all day and the shoreline was an uninterrupted ribbon of sand. If the weather didn’t wear me down then the boredom and toil of paddling along the empty shore would.

I passed the mouth of the two-hearted river and camped east of the Crisp Point Light on a beach where cobblestones floated on the windblown sand like islands in a tropical sea. Black sand ripples flowed between the stones and sparkled in the brilliant sunset light. Driftwood abounded, and the only footprints I could find were my own.

The day was draining. There isn’t much more disheartening for a paddler than a solid, unyielding head wind. A climber or skier knows that the up-hill exertion will end and they will have gravity on their side for the way down. A kayaker isn’t so lucky. I was drained, physically and mentally, but I was making good progress. I would be off of The Skeleton Coast with one more good day’s paddle.

All the while my third day I watched Canada grow closer and closer on the horizon. It started out as a mere smudge and had been growing with every stroke. Even with winds on the bow the sight of Canada kept me going strong. I saw lots of eagles that day, sitting on the shore all handsome and regal, but no people, no footprints, no tire tracks, no telephone poles. It was refreshing to be so alone on the water. But, wearisome too. I had no one to push me, or talk me out of being bored by the endless sand shoreline. No one to see me struggling against the wind, which became blustery and colder and straight out of the east. The Skeleton Coast was taking its toll.

My heart nearly lept out of my chest when I saw the lighthouse at Whitefish Point, the biggest landmark of my trip. I pulled my boat up on the cobble stone shore by the ruins of the old dock and headed into the Lake Superior Shipwreck Museum to use a phone. I got a few odd looks from the few people wandering around the shipwreck museum. I was in my dry-suit after all. I guess it isn’t often a kayaker wanders in.

I pushed off an hour later and headed around the point. I was now in familiar waters I had paddled before but the wind made it a whole new place. The wind was now stronger than it had been the whole trip. The point was a confused mess of waves coming from all directions at the same time. I made it through the point break at length and headed south now into Whitefish Bay. The waves were now big. Five to seven feet on open water and pushing up taller in the surf near the beach. With the beam-sea and winds it was all I could do to stay out of the surf zone. Surfing kayaks is one of my great passions in life but this was different. My boat was heavy, sitting low in the water, and sluggish. I had to brace through spills every few minutes and then paddle out from shore again so I wouldn’t get caught in the surf. I was feeling the same desperation that thousands of other travelers from the first natives and voyageurs to those who work the ore freighters had felt as the lake swelled around me. After fighting my way south for four hours, only covering 6 miles, struggling constantly to stay out of the surf I came to a conclusion. This trip was done.

I didn’t want to go any further. My mind was set in this conclusion when I drifted into the surf zone and a breaker crashed over my head and put me into a spectral green room of freezing cold lake water. My water bottle got ripped off my deck while my hat somehow managed to stay on my head through the break. I let myself get washed into shore and started looking for a cottage with people in it. I spotted a woman in the window and walked up after beaching the boat. I knocked on the door and asked to use the telephone. They were real water-angels. They let me use their phone, helped me haul my equipment to the road, fed me dinner, and they even got me interviewed by the local paper for an article about un-motorized transients. I told the reporter to spread the word about my lost water bottle in case it washed up on shore. No one has called to say they’ve found it.

It was a bittersweet conclusion to the trip. I fell asleep that night in my own bed instead of on a beach, listening to the sounds of civilization instead of lake waves. I only paddled about half the distance I had planned on before the lake told me to go home and I was wise enough to listen. I realized I could be content in knowing I had made it that far and had the sense to bail while I could. I did paddle the length of The Skeleton Coast and that was good enough. Trips don’t need to be like those in the magazines to still be an amazing experience. Even if you have to bail you’ll still end up with a great story. I proved to myself that I had nothing to prove by taking chances and pushing myself along. I don’t fear the Lake, I respect it and its changing moods more than ever. What I learned most from this trip though is that before you try to face something as powerful as the Lake you must first respect its strength and understand your own weaknesses.

This is a guest post from ACA L4, Coastal Kayaking Instructor and Greenland kayaking expert Tim Gallaway. Read his other contributions: Head North to Old Woman: A Lake Superior Kayaking Adventure and Ninja Paddling – The Path of the Ninja Paddler. Check out his website Kayaking to the Sea.

This article originally appeared on PaddlingLight.com. Leave a comment and an opinion by clicking through here: THE SKELETON COAST: Paddling Lake Superior’s Desolate Southeast Shore

Once a month at Woods & Water Ecotours we guide a moonlight kayak trip where we take clients out to watch the sunset and then to watch the full moon and we get off the water at about midnight roughly. Paddling at night is a magical experience. Tiny noises travel miles across still water and tiny pinpricks of light become all you need to navigate by. The recreational boat traffic all but vanishes, and you become the only vessel on the water. It may be intimidating but night really is a great time to be out paddling.

The Origins of Ninja Paddling

The name ‘Ninja Paddling’ came about as a bit of a joke. My buddy Jay and I would occasionally take a late night kayak trip around the waters of the Les Cheneaux Islands both to practice our navigation skills and also just for the hell of it. We would bring lights and all the necessary safety equipment along but would try our hardest to not use our lights unless we absolutely had to. To add to the stealth quotient we also used our Greenland paddles so that we could paddle absolutely silently if we so pleased. Moving absolutely silently on the water without any light it was a pretty easy jump to make to ninjas. I said to Jay on one of our maiden trips that “We’re like ninjas on the water.”After that the name stuck. After that a ninja-paddling trip came to have the simple following criteria:

1. Must be done between sunset and sunrise.
2. Lights may be carried but are to only to be used if absolutely necessary.
3. Every attempt must be made to be unnoticed on the water while not compromising personal or group safety.

Ninja Paddling on Summer’s Shortest Night

So with the groundwork set, let me share my longest ninja paddle yet. The day of June 21^st 2011 was an ordinary day. I showed up to work and set about my tasks of organizing logistics for trips and talking to clients and preparing for guiding a trip to Isle Royale that was fast approaching. Around 2 PM, I realized that it was the summer solstice. This meant that it was the longest day of the year and accordingly the shortest night of the year. By about 2:10 PM I had conjured up the idea of ninja paddling that night since it was a special night. By about 2:11 I remembered that I had the next day off and then the gears really got turning. The idea that ensnared me was “Why not paddle all night?”

I departed a few minutes after sunset with threatening weather on the horizon, but I was undaunted. I was hoping for a clear and warm summer night but that never materialized. I was greeted by a ceiling of low, rain-filled clouds. I headed east out of Hessel, MI, and took the first few hours of paddling easy since I was bundled up in my dry suit and didn’t want to overheat. But I had to pick up my pace when I was making a short island hop in the middle of the island chain and wicked heat lightning began to flash to the west. I paddled through a narrow passage between two islands and made it out to the outside of the islands. Lake Huron was agitated. The wind was fluky and gusty and the clouds were dark and menacing. I took a break to stand on the shore for a while and watch the weather. Heat lightning flashed regularly over the Straits of Mackinac and occasionally a big flash would light up the whole of my view and for that snapshot of time every tiny detail of the shoreline was illuminated. The eerie part of watching the weather was that there was no thunder.

Seeing the approaching storm I decided to make a break for it. I was at a relatively remote part of the islands, and if I tarried about and didn’t get back to the mainland I may have had to spend part of the night huddled in the trees for shelter. I had my sleeping bag and bivy just in case I did get stranded but I thought I had enough time to make it to civilization. I left the outer shore and headed into the islands again. I made it into Cedarville at about 1 AM in a gusty wind and spitting rain. I pulled up at the municipal boat launch and had a short wander through Cedarville. A stormy Tuesday night in a remote town in the UP of Michigan isn’t exactly an exciting place to be, so I returned to the boat launch and had a snack instead of wandering.

I was prepping to head back out when the thunder cell that had given me the light show over the straits came rumbling overhead. I was landlocked for the foreseeable future. Luckily, there is a little gazebo at the launch that gave me a bit of protection from the rain but not the wind. So when the storm finally passed to the east I left Cedarville a bit past 2 AM in a heavy rain with temperatures dropping.

The water around Cedarville is a shallow vegetated bay with a narrow boat channel that links the east and west areas of the island chain. I had thought about camping near the east entrance of the islands and watching the sunrise from my bivy but as I pointed my bow into the inky darkness of several miles of water with a strong headwind I reconsidered my plan. So I headed back west skirting the edge of a marshy patch of thick reeds with a strong beam wind trying to blow me into the marsh. I navigated lightless for a while using only the direction of the wind and the sound of the tall water plants brushing against my boat for bearing, but after a few minutes I decided I needed to break my rule and turn on my lights. As my headlamp flashed on I saw, to my horror, a massive swan only a boat length away. Since mute swans are about as vicious as velociraptors I nearly wet myself at the sight and frantically back paddled as the sleepy swan snuck into the marshy grasses. I sped past the swan and eventually left the marshy shores of Cedarville.

In the middle of the Les Cheneaux Islands is Snow’s Channel. The channel is a historic area of old houses, cottages, and boat houses full of antique mahogany Chris Craft speed boats. I had passed through on my way toward Cedarville a few hours before and now I had the cool wind at my back. I paddled along but for the most part just coasted and let the wind blow me down the channel. It was at this point that I used my lights again. It wasn’t for navigation at this point since many boathouses had lights on that I could see easily through the rain. It was to see if there were boats in the boat houses. With the tail wind and constant rain I was starting to get chilled. Every now and then I would float into an empty boat house and just sit in my boat in the darkness — ninja camping so to speak. My weary brain ran through the scenarios of how some homeowner would walk into their boat house in the night to stumble upon a kayaker taking a rest and the awkward conversation that would follow. This never happened though. All that happened is my day started to catch up with me as the novelty of a summer solstice ninja paddle faded. I yawned profusely as I warmed up in the shelter of the boathouses, and I dreaded heading back into the rain. I thought about the stories of how people, including one of my instructor trainers Greg, had outfitted their boat so they could sleep in them. I wished I had been paying more attention to the details because I was starting to consider it. But now that I think of it, a homeowner finding a kayaker sleeping in their kayak in their boathouse would probably be a really awkward conversation by comparison.

The rain stopped about an hour and a half before sunrise and a while later the cloudy sky started to brighten. I paddled back into Hessel after my leisurely but cold paddle from Cedarville and dragged my boat out of the water at the public beach. It was about 5:15 AM when I had loaded my boat and gear into my car and headed home. I didn’t watch the sunrise like I had planned but seeing that I wouldn’t be able to see it I was okay with that. I was more excited about seeing a dry bed than a soggy sunrise.

I had completed my goal of ninja paddling from sunset to sunrise on the shortest night of the year, mostly. The rain, wind and thunderstorm had made it a very unique experience. It’s what ninja paddling is all about really. It’s about taking a normal route and turning it on its head by going out when the earth is turned on its head. It’s cathartic and meditative yet exciting and tense all at the same time. This is the path of the Ninja Paddler.

This article originally appeared on PaddlingLight.com. Leave a comment and an opinion by clicking through here: Ninja Paddling – The Path of the Ninja Paddler

• Distance: 1 to 10 miles – This is an out and back, so you decide when to turn around.
• Trip Rating: Intermediate. The portages are rough, but route finding is easy.
• Maps: BWCA East Trails Illustrated Map, Voyageur Map Number Nine For the BWCA, or McKenzie BWCA/Quetico Canoe Map Number 3
• Hazards: Cold water in the spring and fall, rough portages, bog, moose.

Bower Trout Lake BWCA Put-in

The Bower Trout Lake BWCA parking lot is a little obscure. Find it by taking the Gunflint Trail out of Grand Marais, Minnesota to the South Brule River Road. Follow the South Brule to its end and then turn left until you see the sign. The parking lot is big enough for four or five cars, and you can fill out your free day use permit at the trailhead. Optionally, after you get your permit, you can begin by paddling up the South Brule River from the Lima Grade.

Route Description

The one downside of this route is that you start with a 66-rod portage over bog logs to the put-in that is mucky and on a floating bog. On one trip, one of our group got sucked up to her hips in the bog when she stepped on the wrong place. After entering your canoe, paddle west along the north shore of the lake. To the south, the mountainous hills rise almost 600 feet above the lake. These forest-covered hills make up the southern shore of the entire route. For anglers, you’ll find bass, pike, a good amount of walleye and many perch in Bower Trout.

Find the rough, muddy, 91-rod portage from Bower Trout Lake into Marshall Lake at the west end of Bower Trout. Look for a small stream entering the lake on the south side. The portage is west of that. Marshall Lake is weedy and shallow, but it harbors walleye, northern and smallmouth bass. Paddle west to the end of the lake until you find the 30-rod portage into Dugout Lake.

Once on Dugout Lake follow the north shore looking for carnivorous pitcher plants. They flower during late June and early July. The blood-red flowers top a long stem that leads down to a pitcher that traps and dissolves bugs. Continue along the north shore until you find a small opening in the swamp that one canoe can paddle down to see the overgrown Iota Lake. Unless you have a 14-foot or less canoe, you’ll need to back paddle out of this stream. Dugout holds all sizes of walleye, northern and perch.

Next follow a twisty path of a slow moving and shallow river to Skidway Lake. This area is burned, but it is growing back. You still can get out of your canoe and easily walk around. If you have free time, hike to a nearby mound of granite and get an overview of the area.

The route continues along narrow lakes with short portages between them until you reach Swan Lake, which has several nice campsites for taking a lunch break. For anglers, Swan is a great destination. It holds northern, walleye, whitefish and maybe lake trout, which have been stocked there. Last time, I stopped at a campsite, I found lots of moose scat and other moose sign.

Bower Trout Day Trip Map

View Bower Trout Day Trip in a larger map

This article originally appeared on PaddlingLight.com. Leave a comment and an opinion by clicking through here: Boundary Waters Day Trip: Bower Trout Lake BWCA

The Old Presque Isle Lighthouse tower is built from brick and stone. The rock steps are hand-hewn and make a wonderful echo throughout the structure when stepped on. A short climb takes you up to the old light area, although the light is gone, you get a view of the surrounding woods which seem to envelop the mowed yard and light. The 2,080-pound Lansing City Hall clock tower bell, which is bigger than the Liberty Bell, now finds it home on the property. Visitors can ring the bell. The lighthouse is reputed to be haunted by the former museum caretaker George Parris. People claim to see him lighting the light or visiting with strangers. I didn’t see him if he’s around.

I really enjoyed this stop on my trip. It was the first museum that I was able to stop at, so I spent an hour or so there checking out the old fog horns and other artifacts and visiting with the friendly volunteer.

Old Presque Isle Lighthouse Video

This article originally appeared on PaddlingLight.com. Leave a comment and an opinion by clicking through here: For Whom The Old Presque Isle Bell Tolls

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Expedition Tweets

Tim Gallaway bought a 6-pack of Third Coast beer to celebrate the 4-day section of the trip that we paddled together. The label shows a small portion of that section.

Expedition day 44: Off of Isle Royale and back in MN. One day left till Grand Marais!

Expedition Day 39: On the Ranger and heading to Isle Royale. The ship is 53 yrs old today on the 1st day of summer.

@NobleIdeas On this trip, I’ve done a 16 mile, a couple of 10 miles, an 8 mile, a few 6 miles, and a bunch of shorter crossings.

Expedition Day 39: Waiting for the ferry to Isle Royale. Sounds like bad weather is ahead. I’ll b out of cell range for 5 to 7 days.
21 Jun

Got my ticket for Isle Royale for the morning. Spending five days on the island and then heading to Minnesota.
20 Jun

Expedition Day 38: I swear that Houghton is cursed. This is the second time I riped a drytop gasket here.
20 Jun

Expedition Day 38: Just linked up with my 2009 trip. Now I’ve kayaked the US border from Res. River, MN to Port Huron!
20 Jun

Kayak Trip Day 38: just finished a 10,5-mile solo crossing into the Portage River. I’m in the Keweenaw now.
20 Jun

Expedition Day 37: Lots 15-foot cliffs & few places to land today. One of the hardest sections. Glad it wasn’t bigger than 1 to 3.
19 Jun

Expedition Day 37: Cold (45F), wet, non-stop rain, soaked my drysuit through, 1 to 3. Most brutal day yet. Drying out under a porch.
19 Jun

Expedition Day 36: recharging the fuel cells with pub food at the Thunder Bay Inn in Big Bay. Nice not to eat camp food.
18 Jun

@jasondailey I counted wrong for today. It was 27 miles! Nice push from an east wind this afternoon.
18 Jun

Expedition Day 36: Made it to Big Bay two days early. I did Grand Marais, MI to Big Bay in 4 days. Looks like my weather window may close.
18 Jun

A little sore after yesterday’s 30+ miles of kayaking. Today only 24 miles.
18 Jun

Expedition Day 35: Camped on Partridge Island after a 30+ mile day from Au Train Island. Today had it all!
17 Jun

Day 35: Camped on Au Train Island last night. It’s about to be sacrificed 2 the gods of vacation homes. Carvings from 1800s in the sandstone.
17 Jun

Experiencing a seiche on Lake Superior right now. Very cool. Lake up a couple of inches in the last few minutes.
17 Jun

Expedition Day 35: watched a deer walk off Laughing Fish Point, take to water and swim towards Canada. Feels like a crazy sign to me.
17 Jun

Kayaking Trip Day 34: Paddled past 150-foot sandstone cliffs in Pictured Rocks this morning. That should be on everyone’s hit list.
16 Jun

Expedition Day 33: long day ahead. Paddling into Picture Rocks. Wow, 33 days. I’m starting to feel it.
15 Jun

I’m cutting my timeframe for the rest of this trip close. I need to make Houghton/Hanncock in about 10 days.
14 Jun

Expedition Day 32: had 2 borrow a bike to bike 4 miles today to get a kayaking backcountry permit for Pictured Rocks. That’s a 1st.
14 Jun

I’m wasting time in town and wasting a good tailwind. Should have pushed on instead of resupplied.
14 Jun

Day 32: in Grand Marais, MI. Resupply day for the next 10 day leg of the trip. Good tailwind day. Sucks not paddling.
14 Jun

Expedition Day 31: almost finished with Lake Superior’s skeleton coast. Relentless headwinds, brutal cold weather have slowed progress.
13 Jun

Heading around Whitefish Point and onto Lake Superior proper this afternoon. Whitefish Bay is bigger than it looks on chart.
10 Jun

Expedition Day 28: With all the sand, I’m surprised any water fits in Whitefish Bay. Hit an uncharted sand bar on a crossing. Had to drag.
10 Jun

Day 27: After rounding Menekanee Point, I spotted a nice beach to get a break from the sea of white & spray. Napped all afternoon.
9 Jun

Expedition Day 27: 2′ to overhead waves, surf launch, confused peaks and valleys to 5 feet at the points. Good fun but slow going.
9 Jun

The cold front just blew in. Went from short sleeves to fleece in about 30 seconds. Feels so much better than the 80s.
8 Jun

Expedition day 26: Strong winds this afternoon & an impressive thunderstorm slowed things to a crawl. Paddled 4 miles in 2 hours cause wind.
8 Jun

Expedition Day 26: Enough of taking a long lunch. Heading back out to kayak another 16 miles (hopefully).
8 Jun

Day 26: the weather feels like it wants to rip apart the sky. Not feeling right for sure. Kayaking further & hoping for no thunderstorms.
8 Jun

Day 25: On Whitefish Bay after a long day. The Canadian Soo locks shut down cause a city wide power outage. Got hit by thunderstorm & more.
7 Jun

Day 25: eating lunch on an island I named ‘love,’ because there aren’t 1,000 hungry blood sucking bugs acting as an alarm clock.
7 Jun

Day 24: even with a tailwind today seems to crawl along. Big ship passing my lunch spot. Must b lazy river life.

Day 24: long day. Camping in someone’s backyard. Lots happened. Breakfast in DeTour salty cap’n on Lime Island. Frieghters passing me.
6 Jun

This article originally appeared on PaddlingLight.com. Leave a comment and an opinion by clicking through here: Port Huron to Home Expedition: Twitter Posts Day 24 to 45

I did the trip in three legs. At each leg, I had an easy way out if I wanted to call it good. The first leg ran from Port Huron to St. Ignas. The second leg went for St. Ignas to Houghton. The third leg was Isle Royale and two days on the Minnesota shore. The final leg was the highlight of the trip. Isle Royale National Park should be on the dream-locations-to-paddle list of every kayaker. It was my first visit, and I will go back.

A self-portrait on Isle Royale.

For all the people that helped me along the way, provided food, advice, took my picture for me, gave conversation and kindness, supplied a beer or two — and there were lots of you — Thank you! You helped make this expedition a success. And I want to thank my partner, Ilena, for allowing me to take off for extended periods of time to satisfy the constantly burning desire to challenge myself on long solo trips.

Here’s the stats for those interested in such things (BTW, I didn’t calculate any of these stats until today. I pretty much winged the rest of the trip, which is the best way to do a long-distance kayaking expedition such as this.)

Total Days: 45
Total Distance: 800 miles or so
Days Spent on Shore During Gales: 4
Days Spent on Shore For Rest: 2
Days Spent on Shore Due to 45F Rain and Brutal Wind: 1
Days Spent on a Ferry with No Paddling (except 1 mile): 1
Average Miles Paddled in a Day: 17.78
Average Miles Paddled in a Day When Non-Paddling Days Removed: 21.62
Small Craft Advisories Paddled: 2
Largest Waves Paddled: 5 to 6 foot wind waves
Number of People I Met: I’d guess well over 100
Meals of Fresh Lake Trout or Whitefish Cooked by Other Campers: 2
Numbers of Pizzas Ordered in to My Tent: 1
Number of Backyards Slept in When Homeowner Wasn’t Home: 3 (1 on a porch)
Number of Twitter Users that Stopped at My Campsite: 2
Days of Rations Carried at Resupply: 10
Number of Tent Poles Broken (first time ever): 1
Number of Repairs on Equipment: Too many to count!
Official Beer of the Trip: Bell’s Oberon Ale

This maps is sort of right, but probably not exact. I didn’t track this trip via GPS.

View Port Huron to Home in a larger map

This article originally appeared on PaddlingLight.com. Leave a comment and an opinion by clicking through here: Port Huron to Home Solo Kayaking Expedition