October 19-22, 2017
I’ve been backpacking in the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore area twice before, both times in February. But I’d never been there in more temperate weather. My wife and I had to cancel a planned traverse a couple years ago, when I tore my meniscus fighting a fire just the day before we were supposed to leave. After some surgery, physical therapy, and much squatting and hiking, I was back in shape and ready to head out for another try. This time I would go alone, though. With the conditions I found out on the lake, that would end up being a good decision.
The plan was to travel from Munising Falls, the most southwestern trailhead in the park, to the Grand Sable Visitor Center, which is the most northeastern trailhead in the park. Then I would turn around and go back. I would use my Alpacka Yak out on Lake Superior as much as I felt safe to do, and cover the rest on foot. I would loosely follow the North Country Trail through the area.
Thursday morning I woke up before sunrise and started out in the dark from the Munising Falls Visitor Center. I had planned to cut cross country toward the lake as soon as I saw the clearing in the distance that signaled I was near Lake Superior. I was going to size up the lake and see how I felt about rafting on it. After hiking for what seemed like an hour too long, I realized that I had missed it in the darkness. As the sun rose through the trees, I was happy just to be out here, finally. I hiked through the Miner’s Castle area without stopping, knowing that I’d be back for pictures later. Miner’s River, with it’s clear/copper water and interesting sand banks, looked like a good place to blow up the raft and head out to sea. I got cold transitioning, but quickly warmed up as I paddled the quarter mile to the Lake.
I knew that packrafting this shoreline would be a challenge for me, and I wasn’t sure I could do it. The shoreline of Pictured Rocks is primarily cliffs, with large breaking waves below them, and offers few places to land or launch a boat without being destroyed against the rocks. I had never paddled my raft on a large open body of water before, so I knew I would need to be cautious and smart. High wind can blow a packraft more powerfully than its occupant can paddle, and if that wind turned toward the cliffs I could be in quite a bit of trouble. Luckily the wind also causes large waves, which hide the paddler from the wind’s power, allowing for some control. But then you’ve got high swells to contend with, so, yeah. The plan was to paddle across Miner’s Beach, which would offer a place to land and bail if I thought conditions weren’t right. I paddled straight out of the mouth of Miner’s River, making my way through the small breakers, and then turned to paddle parallel to the beach. There was only a small amount of wind out of the west, and the swells were under two feet in height, so although I was still scared, I knew logically that I should be fine. The wind would be mostly at my back, not pushing me toward the cliffs. After twenty minutes of paddling, the end of the beach slipped away, and the cliffs started. I had committed myself to paddling to the next beach, which was about two miles away.
A few minutes later, the wind started picking up, a steady 10 – 15 mph, with gusts to 25 or 30. It wasn’t too bad, but then the swells also started to grow. They grew up to six feet in height, which I’ve never experienced before. As I paddled, they came in from all directions, apparently rebounding off the cliffs to my right. My head was on a swivel, trying not to get caught by surprise by one of them, which could flip my raft. As long as I noticed them before they hit me, it wasn’t bad at all. Just a balancing game. But I couldn’t relax. After a while, my mouth was dry and I was hungry, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to put the paddle down and take a drink or eat anything. I forced myself to continue paddling, telling myself that everything was fine. Which, really, it was. I was just scared for no particular reason. My boat was floating, my PFD was on, I could paddle, I was warm enough, the wind was at my back. But I just couldn’t shake my nervousness. I started singing, which didn’t help. So I started a chant of, “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.” Timed to my paddle strokes, pushing me toward the beach. I would land there, eat and drink, and then paddle some more. Because I’m fine.
The landing on Mosquito Beach did not go so well. The wind had kicked up breakers near shore, but I found a sweet spot between the biggest ones and paddled in between a set. I stupidly allowed the boat to get sideways near the shore, however, and a small wave flipped me over, soaking me to the bone. I sheepishly pulled my boat across the beach into a small indentation in the cliffs after I had regained my footing. Despite being soaked, my raingear, PowerStretch tights and Patagonia Nano Air Light hoody kept me warm in the fifty degree sunlight, after I had dragged myself out of the wind. I sat and ate, and built up the courage to go back out. I could have bailed to the trail here, but I could not find a single logical reason why conditions weren’t favorable to go back out. I really don’t like to be driven by unreasonable fear. I also wanted to experience paddling in the open water, and come out of it with real data that I could use in the future. If I bailed now, I knew I would have to go back out again some other time, or be defeated by it. I’m not the type to admit defeat without a good reason, so back out to the water it was.
I paddled on to the next landing spot, Chapel Beach, where after another ungainly landing I decided I’d proven my point, and packed up the boat. All in all, it had been an efficient way to cover ground, and I was never in any real danger. It was all in my mind. As I hiked northeast, my clothing quickly dried and my legs started to hurt. I camped at Sevenmile Campground, having rafted about 8 miles and hiked 18. It was a good first day.
The next day, I got underway again before sunrise. As I came to Hurricane River and saw the lake, to my surprise there was absolutely no wind or waves on the water of any kind. Having reconciled my mind to its normal state after yesterday, I immediately decided to raft again. I knew that because of the primary wind direction from the west, I wouldn’t be able to raft on the return leg of the trip, so today would likely be my last day to raft on Lake Superior for awhile. I quickly inflated the boat and got going. This time it was fun! It was like a different lake. I paddled past the Au Sable Lighthouse, with the morning sun behind it, and had a quick conversation with some people standing on the shore there as I moved by. Around the corner, I saw the Grand Sable Dunes. There were several hikers out below them on the beach. I took lunch on a tiny slab of rock under some small cliffs, in the shade with the lake water lapping at my feet. A Snickers bar and a Luna bar. Paddling past the dunes was a long, slow slog without any wind. I finally reached the northern terminus of my route at Sable Creek, where I took out, expecting to bushwhack all the way up the creek to the visitors center. Fortunately, there is a trail that leads to the top, which was a big relief for me. I took a while to clean sand from my shoes, rinse my clothes, and generally get everything ready for hiking the rest of the trip. Just past the visitors center, there was a beautiful meadow that made me wish I could spend an hour there.
The area above the dunes was gently rolling and forested. As the sun sank in the sky, I passed through the Au Sable Lighthouse area, this time walking on the trail above the cliffs. I took photos and video almost without stopping, and then pressed on, trying to cover as much distance as I could today. When I got back to Hurricane River, where I had put in my boat this morning, the sunset was too beautiful not to stop. There were several other people there as well, enjoying it and taking photographs. After about 10 minutes I continued on, finally stopping for the night a few miles later at Twelvemile Beach campsite. 15 or so miles of paddling, and 18 miles on foot. I set up the mid just in case, and then proceeded to not sleep under it. Cowboy camping is the way to go on clear nights, and I try to do so whenever I have the opportunity. I fell asleep under the stars in a small clearing.
Saturday, the third day, would be my last full day here. I left the campground before anyone else was awake, attempting to position myself for an early exit tomorrow morning. My body hadn’t complained much, with only the usual ball-of-the-foot pain that always seems to accompany high mileage hiking, and a small hot spot on my big toe, easily stopped with some Leukotape. I enjoyed the fall colors, which were just beginning to make an entrance. This is an amazing time to hike in this area, as the colors combine with mild temperatures to make the perfect combination of natural beauty.
7 miles into my hike, I decided to try my hand at some packrafting on a smaller lake, in preparation for my trip to Isle Royale next year. I exited the NCT at Pine Bluff camp and headed south to Beaver Lake, where there was a very stiff, steady wind of at least 20mph coming from the south-southeast. Interested to find out if I could do it, I inflated the raft and began paddling south out into the middle of the lake, to get some distance from shore. In this lake, the winds didn’t make any waves of consequence, but they caught the front of my boat and slowed me to something under a half-mile an hour, even with constant, strenuous paddling. Eventually I had gotten far enough from shore, and I turned and paddled southwest across the lake, taking over two hours to go the two miles to Little Beaver Lake. As I paddled through the passage between the lakes, the wind died down immediately upon entering the lee of the trees. The paddle across Little Beaver was pleasant and easy, and I saw backpackers in the woods and a beaver dam. At the west end of the lake I packed up and headed cross country to find the trail, which was luckily only a hundred feet through the trees. I quickly regained the North Country Trail.
The section that I would hike for the rest of the day would be the scenic highlight of the trip. Perfectly lit by the afternoon sun, massive cliffs rose above translucent green waters, with shadowy shapes sitting and flitting below. Yellow, red, and orange trees lent their eye-catching beauty to the conifers and deciduous trees that had yet to change. The trail flirted with the edge of the cliffs, repeatedly wandering out to impossible vistas, then retreating to the shade of the woods, with the sun shining shyly through their branches. I stopped to watch the waves crash unceasingly against the base of the cliffs, which were streaked with black and orange. I listened to the wind and the birds, and the drone. The fucking drone. I wanted to down it with a rock. They sure do get amazing video, but damn. So annoying.
At some point I was able to make a phone call to my wife. T-Mobile’s network is getting better, and I got a signal for a few minutes as I hiked. It was nice to talk to her and tell her how the trip was going, and hear how her last few days had been. After the phone call I checked my map, and realized it wasn’t in the side pocket of my pack anymore. Crap. It must have fallen out somewhere in the last two miles, when I remember checking it last. I dropped my pack, and, feeling good, proceeded to run back up the trail, asking everyone I passed if they had seen it. A couple girls had picked it up, and I thanked them and ran back. That mistake added maybe two miles to my overall distance, but I was pleasantly surprised that I felt good enough to run.
With the map mishap, it would be difficult to get to my planned campsite at the Cliffs tonight, so I decided to go off-plan and camp at Miner’s Beach a little after dark, rather than push on slowly through the night. I could make up the time tomorrow morning. I blew up my pad on top of a small dune, overlooking Lake Superior, and fell asleep listening to the sound of the waves crashing on the beach, satisfied.
The remaining seven and a half miles were just an afterthought, and were completed with great haste. Mostly before sunrise the next morning, but not before the rain started. The first rain of the trip, it wasn’t really cold enough for me to bother with my rain gear. I just put my head down and plowed through it. I wanted to get back home. The trip had been long in a way only solo trips can be, but enjoyable and very much a learning experience for me. I know I’ll be back here again. But first, some fast food. Mmmm.