NOAA Ad Nauseum

I aspired to make Copper Harbor about 42 miles up the coast. I’d been advised not to focus on making hard plans lest the lake have other ideas. But as days of good weather turned into weeks and my body responded well to paddling, the only limiting factor was daylight (and my bladder). That meant a 5am start with a breakfast and coffee. Breaking camp took just long enough for the coffee to do its job (bowel movement). I was usually in the boat for 10-12 hours, only stopping when I had to piss.

As I kayaked, I did calculus on how far and how long was ahead. The lake was so large that NOAA stations standing sentinel at its edges had to give two forecasts: one for its shore and another for its mysterious center. Waves built over a hundred miles. Bays and points caused surprising swirls and surges. There was fog. Any change in weather meant the difference between ending the day at a nice campground or an impenetrable boreal forest on private property in the dark.

During the hours paddling I hummed songs along to my strokes. The lake loved dancing to The Blue Danube.

The start to Copper Harbor was in a dark fog that matched my mood. I thought I’d be clear of people. But the playful chatter of the lake was interrupted by the whoosh of SUVs passing by on their way to a mansion. Folks looking to “rough it in the Northwoods” brought all the comforts of home. Maybe I was bitter because I was listening to a book about climate change that seemed more concerned with quippy and condescending “Did you knows” than a real plan of action.

Only the waves behind me just off Great Sand Bay forced me out of my mood. I found myself getting pushed along by white-caps that grabbed at my stern. I surged ahead as I held onto the front face of a wave lifting my boat forward and then paddling hard down the backside readying for the next. I pulled into Copper Harbor exhausted but feeling accomplished. My Garmin showed I doubled my pace where I’d maintained a surf.

I went around the Keweenaw hoping to find solitude next to the heart of the great lake. Failing to find it on shore, I had an idea to venture out to Manitou Island. Manitou is the Algonquin word for great spirit. I hoped there I would find communion with the lake. Kayakers warned the island was difficult to reach. The passage was mercurial; eastern and western waters of Lake Superior wrestled in the depths.

Setting out, there was a fog so thick that when I practiced orienteering in the bay, I paddled 800 yards into the open lake before figuring out I’d missed the clanging buoy marking the harbor entrance. The fog did not clear when I arrived at the crossing to the island. Manitou was so close on my map. Looking up, there was nothing. The deep moan of a laker passing by warned of danger. I went anyway.

Hubris had overtaken me. I’d taken bigger and bigger risks and been rewarded by a gentle lake. The fog was heavy and the water eerily calm. The depths felt great and unknowable. The tanker’s moan was constant. I only felt the thrill of danger, not the fear of it.

Gull Rock Lighthouse was invisible until I was only 100 yards away. I followed the ridge of rock just under the surface to Manitou and continued along the north side to the very easternmost point. I camped in Square Bay looking out to the unfathomable distances of Lake Superior. The Pukaskwa Coast on Superior’s eastern shoreline was 120 miles away with only the deepest depths of Gitchee Gumee in between.

I spent a morning collecting rocks and enjoying that I was a whisper away from the lake’s beating heart. I had a thought the lake wanted me there. Despite the warnings that Superior was a cold, fickle inland sea inclined to conjure northern gales against the poor Edmund Fitzgerald’s traveling its surface, the lake I knew had welcomed me calmly, danced with me, and shrouded an entire island with fog so I could enjoy a moment alone. I began calling it Mother Superior because it spoke to my soul.

After breaking camp, I came upon a sailboat in Fisherman’s Bay. It looked expensive. The fin keel took up a third of the hull, meaning the boat had great stability in a storm. The name harkened violent glory. Whoever had named it knew the lake as an adversary. They must’ve been confident in their ability to conduct mortal combat against a horrific foe. But the name was chipped and worn. The boat was on its side and pushed up the beach, wrecked. Its mast was tangled in the trees, stripped of its sails and rigging. Only its skeleton remained.

If the lake had indeed been speaking to me, it’s message now was unmistakable.

Humbled and chastened, I paddled west to make the crossing back to the Keweenaw, this time in fear of the awesome force beneath me. The fog had cleared and the crossing’s distance was revealed. The wind coming out of the northwest caused waves clawing at my hull and pushing me into open water. I clung tightly to my paddle, bracing unsteadily every few strokes against the blow of another wave. By the time I reached shore, my nerves were frayed.

A great pine clinging to the rocks seemed the only rebuttal to the fear that had gripped me. The best response to overwhelming power isn’t violent strength, but resilience.

The next morning I’d planned on two days to get 43 miles back down into Keweenaw Bay. But as I flew past Point Isabelle and down the coast an audacious idea formed.

The cabins had returned and were festooned with speedboats, water trampolines, above-ground pools. Early afternoon I reached the long sandy beach of Traverse Bay. As usual, I panicked to find a restroom but was surrounded by vacationers. Luckily, there was an outhouse next to a half-constructed cabin.

As I readied to be away from all the noise a middle-aged couple approached asking about my kayak. Instead of gawking, they offered up an extra room to stay for the night. I probably should have said yes. But it was only 3pm. I had 5 hours before sunset and had made up my mind. I wouldn’t continue down into Keweenaw Bay only to have to double-back in a week. I’d cross over to Point Abbaye 14 miles away.

I had an idea of the risk and did due diligence. Even at a crawl of 3 miles an hour, I’d make landfall with an hour of sun left. I scoured weather forecasts. I listened religiously to NOAA through my radio. It reported matter-of-factly: wind out of the east 5-10 knots. Waves 0-2ft.

So, I set off.

The waves next to shore were rough. I looked behind me to the cliffs of Louis Point as the culprit. As I pushed a few miles into open water, the waves didn’t subside. I listened harder to NOAA. Wind out of the east 5-10 knots. Waves 0-2ft.

Two hours into the crossing and the waves were chaos. I took them at angles to keep my boat from slapping after the crest. But the crests were at my eyeballs. I could guess out and avoid the nasty ones by the site of their white crowns. But sometimes they combined or came at angles I wasn’t expecting. They curled and foamed at the top, dousing me just before giving my boat a great shove and then pulling the buoyancy from under my hull in a churn of bubbles.

Unable to take my hands off my paddle for a second, I strained to hear NOAA over the chop – wind out of the east 5-10 knots. Waves 0-2ft. I second guessed myself. Maybe I heard the shore’s forecast? Would the coastguard find me if I activated my beacon? How much further did I have to go?

At almost the fifth hour, I was 10 miles into the 14 mile crossing. The water felt like wet concrete on my paddle. I had to piss so bad that every twist caused needles in my gut. A light twinkled on distant Point Abbaye. The sun was getting dangerously close to the horizon behind me.

I pushed. This is what I’d wanted. The lake was giving me no favors. One lapse in awareness with an errant wave and I would be in the icy water. The light on Point Abbaye stayed stubbornly small. Behind me the sun dimmed. This is what I’d wanted, to show my mettle. I dug deeper and kept moving.

When I was a mile off Point Abbaye the waves still pushed but no longer frothed. The sun was almost set behind me. The light on shore revealed several buildings. I rehearsed what I would say if someone was home, but the houselights were off and I didn’t see any cars. I started to hope I would have a quiet night when headlights appeared bouncing through the woods. My heart sank as sound skipped across the water of tires breaking on gravel and several doors slammed. 5 people marched to the rock ledge directly in front of me and stood for the full 10 minutes I struggled to shore. The sun gave its last gasp over the Keweenaw behind me.

As I came nearer, it looked to be a Upper family. Dad and sons wore plaid and jeans. Mom and daughter wore dresses. Two dogs bound along the shore, trying to get closer to me. I asked “Evening. What can I do for yah?” I tried to sound nonchalant as if I hadn’t just white-knuckled an angry lake for hours. “Where’d you come from?” the dad asked, unsmiling. “I was at Montreal Falls this morning.” “Montreal Falls? On the Keweenaw?” he asked as if it was impossible. “Yes. You know a place to camp nearby? The crossing was rough and I’m not going to make my site.”

There was no site. I hadn’t found campgrounds on the peninsula. “There isn’t anything up here. We’ve got a house just on the other side. We came over to see the sunset.” He continued, “Yahknow, you could stay here if you want. This is the Keweenaw Land Trust. They rent the house.” Relief washed over me. They wanted to talk more but the children dragged them away complaining about mosquitoes and I paddled around the corner in a panic. God I had to piss.

June 30-July 4, 2023

Route Map - McClain to Big Bay