We may earn commissions if you shop through the links below. Within a minute, the mirror-like surface of Lake Nipigon kicked up as northerly 30-knot winds descended on our island campsite. The calm, silent, evening turned into a rumble. It felt like the air above the entire arctic plains spilled down upon the Boreal forests. We shouted over the breaking waves and the rush of the wind through the trees. “Now!” I heaved the bear bags into the air as Tim ran with the rope. When the slack ran out on the weighty bags the rope stretched and stopped. Then the branch broke sending our supplies to the ground. Trying to race the wind, I threw the rope over the limb of another tree. It held and our four bags slowly twirled high over our heads. Back at our campsite, waves tumbled up the slope of our 5-foot-wide black-sand beach. The wind was deafening, and we had to yell to each other to be heard. The water from the newly formed waves lapped at the stern of our kayaks, so we pulled the boats from the beach into the dense cedar and birch woods and even then felt it necessary to tie the boats to trees. The mainland was over six miles away, and this late in the fall, we doubted anyone would be on the lake to help us if the wind took our boats. My tent was the next priority. The marine forecast predicted calm weather, so after we’d landed I’d set my tent up on the beach. Now it was fully exposed to the wind and the stakes were pulling from the sand. The guy lines pulled free, and the tent pole was bending. The rain fly flapped violently. Tim’s tent occupied a small clearing in the woods. We maneuvered mine into the woods, wedged up against Tim’s tent. I drove stakes deep into the sand and tied off guy lines to a few trees. Tim decided to get out of the wind and retreated to his tent. I stood on the beach, leaning into the wind, and I watched the full moon cast quivering shadows on the wind-whipped trees. I walked back to Tim’s tent. He seemed slightly unnerved from this sudden change in weather. “Imagine what it would have been like if we had been on the water,” he said. —– We were out on a week-long trip into the wilderness of one of the last big untouched lakes in the Great Lakes water system, Lake Nipigon. The lake, located north of Lake Superior in western Ontario, spans approximately 65 miles long and 45 miles wide. Its nearly 1,900 square miles of cold clear water is well-known for producing record-breaking Lake Trout. Over 500 islands, ranging from several square miles large to small pine covered bumps, dot its surface. Most kayakers in the Midwest dream of paddling in Lake Superior’s Apostle Islands, but for me, the islands of Lake Nipigon offer a true wilderness experience with more islands than I could explore in my lifetime. Tim had never taken a sea kayaking trip into true wilderness, let alone Lake Nipigon, a place that sees few kayakers. We set a goal, the motivating factor for me, to circumnavigate Shakespeare Island, an island ragged with coves and headlands and nearly split in two by a long bay over four miles long and scarcely a half mile wide. Several mile-long lakes dot the interior of Shakespeare, and if we had time, we planned to visit Rea Lake. We could kayak up an almost mile long river from Lake Nipigon into Rea Lake. From there, another river connected to Vanooyen Lake, which had its own island – an island on a lake on an island on a lake. Tim and I had known each other for a couple of years. He had visited a resort where I guided sea kayaking. He decided to take a half-day trip and after completing the trip, he wanted to learn more, so he signed up for a couple of full-day lessons. After the lessons, he was hooked, bought a kayak and started kayaking at destinations around the world. We had taken a kayaking trip together in Norway, but it was a disappointment in many ways so I wanted to make the Lake Nipigon trip great. Unfortunately it started with several logistical problems. A friend, who had agreed go with us bailed on us at the last minute, a hurricane forced Tim to flee Houston just before our trip and a mover backed out on bringing Tim’s kayak up to my place on Lake Superior’s north shore. We got Tim a kayak that he’d never paddled before. The hatches leaked and when loaded, no matter the trim, it proved uncontrollable, and it lacked a rudder. I felt grumpy and dreaded a repeat of Norway, and so far, our first three days had been thrown completely off plan by high winds. On our first day, I had instructed Tim to load his kayak slightly stern heavy to help with tracking in the crosswinds. As we paddled, it became apparent that my choice was the wrong one—once out of the bay and on the lake the waves pushed Tim around, and he couldn’t counteract the turning force. We turned back into the bay and landed at a sand bar. While Tim repacked his kayak, I walked along the 10-foot-wide, sand beach. Near its end, a dirt shelf separated it from a swampy area. I stepped into the swamp and jumped from one clump of alders to another trying to avoid the water in between. Looking at the dried-up plants on a kayak-sized clump of dirt, I found a batch of late-season blueberries. I filled my hands and brought them back to the beach to show Tim. Soon after, we filled our hats with berries and stuffed the berries into our mouths. They tasted sweet. My hands eventually turned a spotty blue from picking the ripe berries. We pushed off again to paddle south to Grant Point Harbor and our night’s campsite. Fifteen to twenty-foot cliffs and rocky rubble alternately made up the shoreline. A Boreal forest of birch, white cedar, spruce and pine topped the cliffs. Between cliffs, the forest came down to the shore – the trees seemed to grow straight out of the water. The shoulder-high waves hit the rocks, splashed into the air and turned some of the tree trunks dark with water. Near the cliffs, the waves rebounded and created a jumble of pyramidal waves. Tim’s reloading worked, and he had no problem controlling his kayak. As we neared Grant Point, a rocky outcropping just before where the map showed the campsite, Tim started stroking harder, and he pulled away from me. It was starting to get dark. The sun was low in the sky and obscured by dense stratocumulus clouds, which made it feel later than it was. Our map showed a campsite in the bay about a tenth of a mile from Grant Point, but we couldn’t find it, so after paddling another 10 minutes, we landed on a 16-foot wide beach at the bay’s back. A forest fire had burnt through this area. Green white cedar remained along the shore, but the forest behind consisted of white tree trunks with bases blackened and cracked from the fire. It looked like someone had burnt a box of matchsticks and stuck the each stick in the ground top down. A tangled underbrush of alders, birch saplings and a few pines saplings filled the space between the dead trunks. “I think we should set up on the beach,” I said. Tim was already ahead of me. He had picked a flat area of sand behind a half-buried log. The log was only a few feet away from where the one-foot swell was washing up the beach. I followed his example and set up my tent behind another log about 50 yards from his. Shortly after setting up our tents, the sun set and changed the sky between the lake and the clouds orange. On the horizon, I watched the Macoun Islands turn into silhouettes. The tops of tall pines stuck out above the dark mass of trees. A mirage made the most distant islands appear as half water and half land. After dinner, I got into my tent and zipped up my sleeping bag. I listen to the swell roll in; its highest point was four feet away, I hoped the wind wouldn’t blow higher waves or we’d end up wet. —- In the morning, I awoke to the clap of waves hitting the log a foot away from my tent. A stiff wind was throwing spray onto my rainfly, which shook with the gusts. During breakfast, we sat in the burnt forest with our backs to the wind. I didn’t talk much, but just thought about the plan for today. We wanted to cross 6 miles to Cedar Island, one of the Macoun Islands, head northwest through the chain to Shakespeare and then paddle to a campsite in the Dockrey Islands near the southwestern corner of Shakespeare. We paddled out into a sea of whitecaps. As waves passed under, my kayak’s bow broke free and then slammed down into the trough behind. Spray splashed my eyes. When the set waves hit, my bow speared deep into the waves and the foam hit me in the chest. The waves, only three feet high, were shaped like squares. Steep sides, flat top, flat trough. After 15 minutes, I looked behind us. We were only 100 yards away from Eight Mile Island, an island protecting the bay we camped in. I shouted, “I think we should turn around.” Tim cupped his ear and yelled something. I only heard the roaring wind. I pointed back at the island. Rafted up in the calm water behind the island, Tim said, “I think we should try it again.” “With that wind, it’ll take all day,” I said. I pointed at the map and drew a new route from our position south along the eastern shoreline to the southern reach of the lake. From there I traced to the west. “We can paddle to entrance to Pijitawabik Bay, cross through The Devil’s Elbow and find a campsite near Pipestone Point.” We abandon the crossing and started down the shore. The broadside waves washed over my deck, and the wind pushed us towards the shore, so we weaved a zig-zag path south; paddling out as we neared shore and being blown back towards shore. Mid-morning, we landed on a 20-foot wide beach in Lion Bay near a creek that flowed into the southeast corner. A beaver had dammed the creek mouth and created a pond. Barkless, sun bleached and burnt logs floated in the pond. The waves surged up most of the beach. As the day wore on, the wind calmed and the waves changed from white caps to one-foot swell, so instead of heading south, we crossed into the Virgin Islands, a group of 20 islands in the southeastern corner of the lake. From there, Pipestone Point, a 100-foot cliff with a rubble pile of soft red and white stone at the bottom, rose above the surrounding shoreline. As Tim paddled past, his kayak was dwarfed by the cliff. After eight hours of paddling,, we made camped on a Canadian Shield granite ledge rock. The granite rose three feet above the water and stretched over 100 yards. While the rock sloped gently into the water, near the forest were several flat areas for tents. Between the two tent sites, a flat area with a pile of rocks would serve as a kitchen. Unlike our last campsite, the forest was green with life. White cedar lined the forest’s edge and 100-foot tall white pines rose above the canopy. The wet, sweet scent of a Boreal forest in fall permeated the air. The sky had cleared to a pale afternoon...