I grew up in Michigan. But not until I moved to Utah did I really begin backpacking. Consequently, though I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Michigander (who has funny ways of saying "vague" and "plague" and unironically shows people where I grew up on my hand), I've hardly backpacked at all within the state.
My sister Nichole is different. She lives in Michigan, and in her post-college years has done a fantastic job of getting to know her home state. She's visited every corner of it, seemingly camped at every State Forest Campground in existence, and has a mental map of the state that rivals my grasp of Utah and the Mountain West. Michigan doesn't have as many truly stunning landscapes as the West does, but she appreciates its beauty, its deep woods, and its untrammeled corners in a way that's truly admirable.
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| Photo: Nichole DeVries |
But there is a corner of Michigan that is truly jaw-dropping. I suppose it qualifies as "Michigan" in only the most technical of senses, as it's closer to Minnesota than it is the rest of the state. Of course, we're referring to Isle Royale, a huge, remote, undeveloped island smack-dab in the middle of Lake Superior. Of late, Nichole's been dipping her toe in the world of backpacking. What better destination for her first 'big' trip than the most amazing landscape that her home state has to offer?
Getting to Isle Royale is an adventure in itself. It's surrounded by the treacherous waters of Lake Superior (see Fitzgerald, Edmund), and is the only National Park in the Lower 48 to completely close during the winter. The only access to the island is via seaplane charter or, more commonly, a multiple-hour ferry ride.
Of the three ferry options to the Island, we chose the Ranger III, which is operated by the National Park Service, rather than by a private concessionaire. I found the booking process somewhat sketchy and disconcerting, but in the end we were happy to support the NPS (e.g. the Park) with our dollars as opposed to a private company.
The trip began with a bit of a snafu. The night before our boat was set to leave, the zipper slider on Nichole's tent abruptly died. Normally, we would just buy a replacement slider and keep rolling, but this was 8pm on Labor Day evening in Houghton MI, and there was nothing open. We finally went to Walmart, bought a ridiculously heavy Ozark Trail "backpacking tent", and reinforced its stormworthiness with a scrap of Tyvek. Though we derisively dubbed it the 'Ozark Fail', it held up just fine over the course of the trip. Its design is appallingly poor, it ain't seam-sealed, and weighs about 47 pounds, but it held up alright in the one morning of light-moderate rain we faced on the trip. One and a half stars, I guess.
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| One of these tents costs 20x more than the other |
As soon as the boat docked and we started hiking, immense beauty confronted us. We hiked right along the Lake Superior shoreline for nearly eight miles, picking our way down the rocky lakeside trail on the southern edge of the island. And boy oh boy, what a sight! Scores of tiny islands and outcroppings dotted the nearshore waters. Waves, knocked down considerably by the barrier islands, lapped gently on the shore. We dip-n-sipped water directly from the lake - no treatment needed! Seldom have I seen such a beautiful coastline. And that was just the beginning.
Up on the famous Greenstone Ridge the next day, we caught distant views of Michigan's Keeweenaw Peninsula to the south and the Ontario coastline to the north. Delightful weather and a series of gorgeous lakes only sweetened the pot. Unlike the tough miles along the Superior shoreline, the Greenstone was easy cruising on picturesque ridges.
Testing the Ozark Fail
Our only rain of the trip moved in on the morning of Day 3. I awoke at about 2am to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof of the Ozark Fail. It rained fairly steadily for hours, and aside from an annoying drip that landed right on my nose about once every five minutes, the tent held up alright. We broke camp a bit later than normal, and hiked through occasional rain showers for the first half of the day. By and by though, the clouds broke up and a bit of sun started to peak through. By Michigan rainy-day standards, it was tough to complain.
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| Frogg Toggs raingear: equal parts functional and ridiculous |
The weather over the next few days perplexed me. A cold, northerly wind was forecast to sweep down over Lake Superior, driving annoying lake-effect rain showers across most of Northern Michigan. But we were at the north end of the lake, so there wasn't much water between us and Canada to drive those showers. Would we stay dry after all?
Yes, it turns out. Aside from a momentary sprinkle one morning, blue skies and sunshine prevailed for the rest of the trip. What an amazing weather window!
The Belly of the Beast
Eight days of food is heavy. Very heavy. Both Nichole and I aggressively cut pack weight on this trip, in true ultralight fashion. And we did our best to minimize the amount of food we'd have to carry. And in my case, I went a bit overboard.
I've come to realize that thru-hiking is bad for you. I mean that sincerely. After hundreds or thousands of days on trail, my metabolism has learned the gig. Even when I'm not thru-hiking, backpacking immediately triggers a deep, intense hunger that's impossible to satiate. And consequently, it turns out that I hadn't packed enough food. Thankfully, there was a tiny store at the far end of the island that offered a precious few staples. I picked up some tuna packets, random nasty crackers, and, as a matter of last resort, a bag of peanuts. I don't really like peanuts, but it's better than starving to death!
We also took the opportunity to tank up with town food - some mediocre reheated pizzas, depressingly-thin broccoli cheese soup, and remarkably-affordable beers, which were on end-of-season closeout. That feast, such as it was, didn't sit quite right with Nichole's stomach.
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| Make sure to greet your friendly neighborhood moose! |
A Little More Wild
To date, we'd hiked exclusively on well-maintained NPS-grade trails. The Greenstone is the main thoroughfare on the island, and nearly all Isle Royale backpacking itineraries involve hiking at least a portion of the trail. It's not the only trail that crosses the island however.
A trail on the northern edge of the island offers a much more primitive hiking experience. It hasn't been maintained in years, and is only marked by a handful of tiny, easy-to-miss cairns. We spent an entire afternoon walking on rocky bedrock ridges, punctuated by occasional overgrown forest patches with abundant mud and deadfall. This, finally, felt like true Wilderness.
And the scenery! It was incredible. We relished nearly continuous views of the lake to our north, with the Ontario shoreline clearly visible in the distance. Though we could see hundreds of miles of coastline, we glimpsed not an iota of civilization, save for a lonely freighter rumbling its way up the lake to Duluth or Thunder Bay.
After walking over rocks all day long, our feet were pretty cooked. And Nichole's tempestuous tummy was still proving an annoyance. We collapsed into camp that evening, spent and exhausted.
Beware the Leeches
After a tough day on the rocks, we were ready for some easy miles. Mercifully, the trail complied. We took a delightful lunch on a dock the next day, and looked forward to swimming at the dock at McCargoe Cove at the end of the day.
We reached McCargoe in good time, set up our tents, and headed down to the water to take a dip. We were about to dive off the end of the dock when a fellow hiker flagged us down. He informed that he'd just pulled four leeches off his feet from this water. Blech! Sweaty and disappointed, we nonetheless spent a couple of relaxing hours on the dock, safely out of reach of the killer leeches. Bed soon beckoned. I snuggled into my quilt and was soon touring the Land of Nod.
I awoke in the middle of the night and heard... nothing. And everything.
With not even the slightest tickle of a breeze, and a thick fog
settling over the cove, the world went quiet. Every little bug creeping
along the ground was clearly audible. I heard my own heartbeat. All was
silent. All was still. All was serene. This was without a doubt my
favorite moment of the trip.
Oh the Views
We hiked through that thick fog for a few hours the next morning before taking a late breakfast at a truly dismal campground on the shores of Chickenbone Lake. By time we finished chowing, the sun had begun to burn through the fog. And by time we reached an iconic firetower on Greenstone Ridge, my oh my! Lakes and coves dotted the horizon. We hauled out the map and spent a few minutes identifying all those lakes, many of which we'd hiked past over the preceding days. After a couple miles, the views somehow got even better at the top of a rocky outcrop.
And then, after 2.5 miles on immaculately-maintained trails, we reached a shallow cove on the lake with a truly beautiful campsite nearby. We set up shop on our own private beach and waded out at least one hundred yards into the cove. Beautiful peninsulas and islands abounded. The water was perfectly clear. The sun was bright and intense. What a delightful reward after a hard week of hiking!
Back to the Mainland
The next morning, we did a couple quick miles back to our ferry pickup point at Rock Harbor. We there saw a few friends we'd made over the week, and spent a few hours eating and remaining stationary. The ferry ride back was a bit bittersweet. It'd been a long week, but oh-so-rewarding. There are a few things I'll do differently on my next visit to Isle Royale. But as an introduction to this unique and beautiful place, our trip couldn't be beat!
