Ontonagon VS McClain
Crossing the border to the UP, the landscape changed from the gorgeous sandstone of the Apostles to ugly great clay embankments strewn by trees tumbling to the lake. The shore was eroding from fluctuating water levels due to extreme weather. I wanted to do nothing but paddle long and hard. But the few times I paused, little details emerged of the world I’d entered.
The water here was so clear you could see 40 feet beneath you to great boulders lying in the depths. Old-timers I met talked of their parents drinking from the lake before mining and industry ruined the water with asbestos and other chemicals.
Not everything went well. The wind blew persistently in my face. I’d gouged a mean hole in my kayak. My hands were cracked from weeks of submersion. I had a nasty burn from boiling coffee. The blistering weeping skin made pulling on a dry-suit excruciating. I was fighting headaches as my back and shoulders seized up. My heals and ankles spiked with pain from being shoved into the boat all day. And I got angry struggling to control my boat against the playful nudges of Superior.
Nonetheless, nature inevitably pulled me out of whatever funk I’d settle into with arresting scenes of overwhelming beauty like the sunset over Chequamegon Bay.
I wanted to make a run at going around the Keweenaw Peninsula rather than cutting through the channel at Houghton. If I could make Ontonagon and then McLain state park just on the other side of the channel, then I’d go for it over the long 4th of July weekend.
I did about 20 miles a day for four days to reach Ontonagon before the start of my work week. While paddling, I compulsively studied the wind and waves, trying to understand how they pushed my boat around. I played in rock gardens: gauging gaps, edging around corners, looking for strange ripples that signaled boulders just under the surface.
I called the Ontonagon County campground from my boat asking after vacancies. The old park host asked in a slow midwestern monotone about my arrival time. He couldn’t understand how my eta depended on the wind and my waning strength. He said simply there were only a few walk-ins and I needed to get there before he left for the day. I pushed so hard that when I cleared the rusty water funneling out Ontonagon River I recoiled from the site of families playing blithely on the beach. I stumbled to the office with my first load of gear and the man took pity. He drove me in his go-cart to the finest lakeside campsite he had. Then he drove me back and loaded up the rest of my gear himself so I could paddle an empty boat the final half-mile.
This was a far cry from the Michigan Tech ranger cadet at McLain State Park. That conversation went something like this:
Me: The campground host said there were first-come-first-serve walk-in sites available. I’m on a kayak and would like a site next to the lake.
cadet: I’m sorry sir but all the reservable sites are all booked.
Me: Yes, that’s why I’d like a walk-in site.
cadet: Oh. Would you like a site for a tent or RV?
Me: Well, I tried towing the RV behind the kayak but it sank in the Apostles.
cadet: Okay? Here is your campground pass. Please have it clearly visible on your rearview mirror.
Me: My kayak doesn’t have a rearview mirror.
cadet: Put it in your car.
Me: I don’t have a car.
cadet: How did you get here?
Me: I KAYAKED.
cadet: I saw you walk up.
Me: Your office doesn’t have waterside service.
cadet: … Well the pass must be clearly visible for camp staff or you will be ticketed.
Me: I’ll do my best.
Despite that, I loved McLain state park, and Ontonagon before it. The weeks I spent working remotely at both were filled with beautiful weather and kind neighbors.
June 20-29, 2023
Route Map - Ontonagon to McLain
