Isle Royale: Quick Tips for Modern Ultralighters

When planning our Isle Royale trip, my sister Nichole and I found very few helpful resources. Sure, there are plenty of words on the internet, but many of them are written by either (a) travel bloggers/National Park bucket-listers who might not specialize in backpacking per se, or (b) Isle Royale lifers, who hike extensively on the Isle, but whose backpacking experience with other landscapes/environments/land managers is limited. 

In either case, most resources out there assume a more 'traditional' hiking style: 70-liter backpacks, leather boots, plenty of creature comforts in camp, and single-digit daily mileages. That's absolutely a valid way to enjoy the outdoors, but it's not for everyone. In particular, many thru-hikers and thru-hiker-adjacent backpackers prefer to spend many hours per day on their feet, covering long distances and seeing vast swaths of terrain. Their backpacks are relatively lightweight, and their camps are often spartan, rather than luxurious. In a word, they backpack in an ultralight style.

I've been to Isle Royale exactly once, and thus can't claim any sort of expertise. Nevertheless, I share this information because the Venn Diagram of 'Isle Royale hiker' and 'ultralight/thru-hiker' has such a minuscule overlap. I wish someone had written this article before I visited to dispel some of the misconceptions I had about the Isle, and to make explicit the unique features of the experience that Isle Royale lifers often leave unstated.

Scenery and Ecosystem

If you're looking for a useful analogue, I'd describe Isle Royale as a less-vertical and more-remote version of Vermont. Think extensive exposed bedrock, thin soils, and a mixture of coniferous and deciduous trees. There are tons of moose, a few wolves, and brilliant starry skies - probably the best I've experienced east of the Hundredth Meridian. 

While some of the actual forest walking can be kind of meh, we found fairly frequent vantage points on the ridge trails that run the length of the island. And the lakeside trails are spectacularly beautiful. Overall, the scenery exceeded the modest expectations I held for it.

Entry Fees

Entry fees are charged on a per-person, per-day basis. On say, a week-long trip, that can get pricey in a hurry (our trip - two people for nine days - would have cost $144). The mechanics of paying that fee is also a pain in the rear.

No matter what the regulations actually say, the truth is that everybody just buys an America the Beautiful pass beforehand - to the point that rangers aboard the Ranger III ferry just assume you have one and ask to see it. Don't mess around; just get an eighty dollar America the Beautiful before you even leave home so you don't have to worry about things. Senior/Access/Fourth Grade passes are also accepted.

Transportation

Speaking of a pain in the rear! The only way to get to Isle Royale is via ferry or seaplane. Seaplane is at least twice the price of the ferry options. I won't bother detailing all the intricacies of the ferry system, as the NPS website lays it out well, and the details probably change somewhat regularly. I'll just note the following:

• Access from Michigan seems more common than access from Minnesota
• All ferries are operated by private concessionaires except the Ranger III, which is operated by the NPS.
• Only the Voyageur II makes stops at multiple ports on the Isle. 

We opted to take the Ranger III, as we preferred that our money go to NPS rather than a private concessionaire. The Ranger III also involves the longest boat ride (6 hours), allowing us to to feel the size, grandeur, and isolation of Lake Superior and Isle Royale. We were very happy with our choice. YMMV.

The Ranger III is an old boat from the 50s. Act fast once you board; the free coffee runs out quickly!

Seasons

Isle Royale is outright closed from November 1 to April 15 each year. Even when it's technically open, ferries may not be running yet. The high season is June-early September. Per our conversations with rangers, September used to be a quieter time, however that has changed in the past few years. Only once the ferry schedule dwindles (mid-September) do the crowds thin out.

By all reports, the bugs are quite terrible during the summer months: mosquitoes, black flies, the works. Full body armor (long pants, long shirt, headnet) is recommended, along with DEET. For this reason, we waited until early September to visit, and blessedly had zero bug issues. Next time, I'll definitely choose September again. Bugs could have completely ruined our experience, had we visited during the summer months.

Backcountry Permits

Permits are required for overnight backpacking on the island. We got ours aboard the Ranger III ferry en route to the island, so we were free to start hiking the moment we disembarked. Very convenient!

While the Park requires you to submit your planned itinerary as part of the permitting process, they expect and allow you to deviate from said itinerary in whatever way you want. Hooray! All campgrounds are first-come, first-served, and there are no quotas. It's up to backcountry users to share sites and double up as necessary. The Park asks that you drop your permit back off when you finish your trip, noting any changes you made. In practice, I don't really think that happens.

A couple of the campgrounds near Rock Harbor have maximum-stay restrictions to prevent people from chilling there for a week or something. So if you plan a zero day, double-check and make sure there's not a one-night-maximum at your chosen campground.

Camping

Most hikers will stay in a designated campground every night. These campgrounds contain 4-30+ sites, a pit toilet, and a water source. Some campgrounds also contain a few fully-enclosed lean-to shelters with bug protection. The campsites vary widely in size. Some can only accommodate 2-3 tents in close proximity, others have multiple 'lobes' that can host a pair of groups.

A typical privy.

All campsites are first-come, first-served. And they do fill up during the high season. Even in early-mid September, we shared a campsite with people most nights. If you're looking for solitude, Isle Royale's developed trail network is not the place for you. 

Dispersed camping is legal in most of the island (with a separate permit, which the ranger aboard our ferry just issued to everybody on the boat), however you must camp at least a quarter mile from any trail. But Isle Royale is so thick that this is usually impractical. It'd take you forever to bushwhack a quarter mile, and once you get there, it's unlikely that you'll find clear and level ground to set up a tent. There's one specific scenario where I can see the utility of dispersed camping (more on that later), but if you're sticking to the developed trail network, just plan to stay at the campgrounds.

Camped on top of each other, 15 feet from our neighbors (who generously agreed to share their site).

Daily Pace

Strong backpackers, hiking full days can cover 10-20+ miles per day - probably similar to your AT mileage in New England (minus trail legs, plus easier terrain). There's not a ton of elevation gain and loss, but trails can sometimes be rocky. In general, the closer to Lake Superior, the more difficult and rocky we found them. It's usually bedrock, rather than loose nasty stuff. But walking on bedrock all day will certainly take a toll on your feet.

One big caveat: if you are hiking full days (say, into the late afternoon or evening hours), it's likely that every campsite will be already be full when you arrive. Most Isle Royale hikers do single-digit miles per day and enjoy a long, leisurely camp. Even campgrounds deep in the backcountry oftentimes completely fill up by 2pm. If you're rolling in at 5:30, expect to have an awkward conversation with someone about sharing their campsite. And forget even imagining that you're gonna snag a shelter. Those get snapped up by late morning, often mere minutes after the previous occupants have left.

Water

The rangers will tell you that there's no water on Isle Royale except at the designated campsites. This is hogwash. There's water everywhere, depending on your standards. We encountered some form of water (even if it was a bit swampy or had some tannins) every few miles, even during a prolonged period of dry weather. It's still better than CDT cow water, after all! Use your map to find these sources. Two or three liters of capacity is probably sufficient for most folks. 

When possible, we drank Lake Superior unfiltered. I can't advise that of course, but if you're willing to live on the edge, dip-and-sip is a glorious experience :)

Bears

Isle Royale is not bear habitat. That said, wolves are intelligent critters, and have begun to raid campsites on the eastern part of the island (Rock Harbor vicinity). In 2024, the park instituted an emergency food storage order, requiring hikers to use the provided bear boxes at certain campsites. Honestly, the order's verbiage is really confusing, but it ended up not being very burdensome at all. Check the NPS website for the latest in future years, and give them a call if you're confused about the regulation.

Foxes are also common pests at some of the campgrounds. Secure your stuff; don't leave anything outside your tent.

Navigation

Basically everyone uses the Trails Illustrated map for Isle Royale. The trails are well-marked, and with few exceptions, almost impossible to lose. All junctions are signposted with mileages as well.

As normal, the TI maps aren't great. They smooth over a lot of switchbacks for unknown reasons, so they're basically only useful for getting the lay of the land and calculating mileages between campsites. If you're doing heavy-duty navigation stuff, you'll want a map that's (1) more zoomed in, and (2) actually shows trails accurately. The USGS quads are fine for this. I found the trails on Open Street Map (e.g. the Mapbuilder data in Caltopo) to be far more accurate than TI's impossibly-straight lines.

The Social Scene

While we both definitely enjoyed Isle Royale, we came in with the wrong expectations, and that put a damper on the trip. We'd heard that Isle Royale was so wild, and the ranger giving the orientation talk aboard the ferry only reinforced that impression. But we both felt it was complete bunk.

We expected solitude and quiet trails. Instead, we met a steady stream of people on most trails each day, and usually ended up doubling up on campsites, often mere feet from our neighbors. We had one blessed day where we saw nobody while hiking all day on an obscure trail with a burly reputation, but even then, the campground was mostly full in the evening, and there was a line to use the privy the next morning.

So - if you're a social hiker and love making connections with other like-minded people, Isle Royale is the place for you. Everyone you meet will have gone through significant effort just to get to the island. They'll ask where you're staying for the night. They might share their previous experiences on the Isle and the love for the place that keeps them coming back. You'll have the chance to swap beta, names, and stories. If that's your thing, you'll love Isle Royale.

If you're looking for solitude, you won't really find it here. Not even its isolated location in the middle of a Great Lake can counteract Isle Royale's National Park status. People flock to it. Unlike most National Parks, there aren't really any day users outside the immediate vicinity of Rock Harbor or Windigo, but the entire trail network, for the most part, sees a steady stream of backpacker traffic.

If you're hiking in thru-hiker style (long days on your feet), expect to get a lot of comments - both positive and negative - from fellow hikers about your itinerary. At one point, we started inventing campsites ("Foghorn Bay") to reference, because we were tired of everyone offering their opinions on our actual itinerary.

Packrafts and Hammocks

When I hike Isle Royale again, I'm going to do things very differently. Next time, I'm bringing my packraft. Getting on the water not only gets you away from most of the people, but also allows you to see arguably the island's most beautiful features - its gorgeous inland lakes. Many of them have trail access, and many others are connected by portage trails. Packrafting allows you to do the backpacking thing and the canoeing thing in a single trip, opening up nearly limitless route possibilities. You'd have to be certifiably insane to take a packraft on Lake Superior (though some of the coves and harbors can be pretty glassy on those rare calm days), but the inland lakes are perfectly suitable for a flatwater boat.

Getting on the water would also make it a snap to dispersed-camp, as you wouldn't be anywhere near a trail. The underbrush is thick enough that you'd probably want a hammock setup rather than a tent. Heavier, yes, but well-suited to the environment. A 'packraft and hammock' trip would be remote, beautiful, and unforgettable. 

Resupply

The stores at both Rock Harbor and Windigo are tiny. They've got a minuscule number of snacks (for example, they're missing potato chips) as well as a bunch of freeze-dried meals. More to the point though, the prices are outrageously, outlandishly expensive. Without exaggeration, a full resupply would probably cost you nearly $100/day. I supplemented my food bag with a few emergency peanuts at the Windigo store and that was fine, but I certainly wouldn't want to buy five days of food there. For reference, I have much experience with the art of the gas station resupply on long trails, so when I say it's impossible... it really is impossible.

The Windigo store will apparently hold a box for you, for a modest per-day fee. The process to get the box there (via the Voyageur II ferry) seems really rickety and I'm not sure I'd really trust it (because if your box doesn't show up, you're toast). As of this writing, the NPS site says to send it General Delivery to Grand Portage, MN. But it's unclear whether they just leave your box on the Windigo dock for the animals to ravage, or actually hand it to the store in Windigo for safekeeping. Nor is it clear how they decide which day's boat to send it on.

One other possibility, which worked well for one couple we talked to, was to entrust a box to the store at Rock Harbor upon your arrival to the island, and ask them send it on to the Windigo store on the Voyageur II when it makes its rounds.

Things also get goofy regarding verbiage. Do NOT supposed to label your package 'food', but instead use a euphemism like 'supplies' or 'provisions' or something. Perishable-package restrictions and all that nonsense, ya know.

Honestly, the whole process just didn't seem dependable enough for my taste. Even though we were walking right past the Windigo store at about our halfway point, we opted to just tote eight days of food from the get-go and forgo a resupply. Nothing we saw on the island really changes my mind. Next time, I'm probably just gonna carry a heavy food load again.

Trail Conditions

For the most part, the trail network on Isle Royale is in good shape. It's not all classic NPS-grade frontcountry trail, but things are rarely gnarly. Except for on one little-used trail, we stepped over nary a blowdown the entire time. We found a few trails to be a bit overgrown, but generally not horrendously so.

Isle Royale loves its bog bridges. For those with fear of heights, these can occasionally cause some discomfort, particularly when the bog bridges are elevated above the surface of the swamp by a couple feet. They're generally in good shape, but are only a foot wide, so you end up doing the supermodel walk.

Suggested Itineraries

I don't have any, and I think it's a gross violation of LNT to put that kind of thing on the internet. A few considerations, however:

• Almost every itinerary will use at least some part of the Greenstone Ridge Trail. For the most part, the Greenstone is easy cruising. It's easy to assume that something called "Greenstone Ridge" will be rockier and tougher than the lakeside trails you've been following to date, however, the opposite is true.
• The Ishpeming Point fire tower is completely treed in and closed to the public - not worth it at all! By contrast, the Mt. Ojibway fire tower is unforgettable and worthy of a visit. The Feldtmann Ridge tower is also reputed to be cool, though we did not visit it.
• While all parts of the island we visited were fairly busy, the worst of the chaos was found at the string of campsites between Rock Harbor and Moskey Bay. Once we got into the interior, the dudes carrying multiple gallon jugs of water and Bluetooth speakers disappeared. 
  

Final Thoughts

Isle Royale is an amazing place, and it's a pity that the community of Isle Royale backpackers tends to be so insular. Hopefully this guide will help provide some useful context for backpackers from other backgrounds to enjoy the most unique National Park in the Lower 48.

One Hundred Miles on the Isle

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.

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.

One of these tents costs 20x more than the other

Unexpected Beauty

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. 

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.

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!

Lakes and Puddles

The Uintas are a backpacker's paradise. A half-million acre Wilderness area protects the majority of the high country. A well-developed network of trails spiderwebs the range. Outside of a couple Instagram-famous spots, solitude is assured, even on a beautiful summer weekend. Extensive alpine basins lend themselves to limitless wandering. It's easy to see why the Uintas have served as my 'home' mountain range for more than a decade.

This summer, I've been spending much of my usual Uintas time elsewhere, namely on the Western Slope of Colorado. My girlfriend Steph (trail name: Calzone) lives at the foot of the San Juan Mountains, a truly outstanding range in its own right. We've spent many a weekend exploring the San Juans together, and I've taken a couple solo trips in the area as well. Aside from the Continental Divide Trail's narrow corridor, the state of Colorado is largely new to me. What a treat to explore a new place!

But the Uintas will always hold a special place in my heart. Accordingly, Steph and I invested an August weekend in a quick loop in the eastern part of the range. We glimpsed more lakes (at least a dozen) than other backpackers (eight, all Uinta Highline Trail hikers).

Exposed to the Elements

After a utilitarian Friday night camp at the trailhead, we began our trek with a few miles on the famous Uinta Highline Trail. I hadn't hiked this stretch of the UHT since before the pandemic, and it was a delight to revisit it. We meandered our way through a few lovely meadows and past a series of lakes before we began the long climb up to North Pole Pass.

By 12,000-foot pass standards, North Pole is pretty kind. Although the climb seemed to last forever, the grade remained gentle. The wind, however, was not so cooperative. Once we emerged above treeline, a frigid gale smacked us in the face. The stronger gusts occasionally staggered us as we worked our way over the broad plateau that comprises North Pole Pass. We had to scream to be heard over the roar of the wind and the flapping of my windshirt, which Steph likens to a bag of Doritos in both sound and appearance :)

Photo: Stephanie Seitz

But my oh my, what a view from the pass! North Pole looks west toward the highest axis of the Uintas - the Kings-Emmons ridge, home to about half of Utah's 13,000-foot peaks. A fleet of cumulus raced across the sky at highway speeds, sideswiping those high peaks along the way. Delightful lakes glittered below. A few moments of sunshine made the scene surreal.

As we descended the pass, bowl-like topography funneled all the wind into one narrow jet. At times, it threatened to knock us off our feet. Once we reached the shelter of the trees surrounding Fox Lake, we breathed a sigh of relief. A reprieve from the howling wind was in order.

New Terrain

After a leisurely lakeside lunch, we left the Highline Trail behind, aiming for a different pass I'd never visited. We took the opportunity to visit a wind-rippled lake before ascending the pass. Shortly thereafter, we stumbled across an eerie sight - a truly enormous sleeping bag plopped underneath a tree. Supposedly rated to -50F and larger than both of our backpacks, we could only surmise that a horsepacker had stashed it in anticipation of the upcoming hunting season. 

Photo: Stephanie Seitz

As we climbed above treeline again, the wind re-intensified, this time carrying occasional spittle from the darkening clouds. Just before we reached the pass, the heavens opened and wind-driven hail stung us like a million icy daggers. Yelping, we hustled down the other side of the pass.

While intense, the hailstorm was short-lived. We picked our way through a tedious boulder fields, made all the tricker by the rain and hail. Soon, the rocks gave way to gloppy mud, and our spirits began to fray just a tad after a long day of rocks, wind, and aching joints. We found nice sheltered campsites, though, and ate a hearty dinner. After a few hands of cards, it was time to turn in. Rain pitter-pattered on our tents through the night.

Alpine Wandering

Wham! A bolt of lightning struck at first light, no more than a few hundred yards away. The crack of thunder literally shook the forest floor, putting an abrupt end to my night of sleep. We were grateful for a campsite nestled deep in the woods. That one was close!

By and by, the thunderstorm passed, and we broke camp while ribbing each other for our disgusting on-trail food habits (oatmeal for her, Spam for me). A long night of rain had turned the trail into soup, and we slogged our way down a path that was 10% rocks, 50% mud, and 40% horse poop. Delectable! At some point, the trail more or less disappeared under a flowing stream, and we bushwhacked across a wet, willowy meadow to find a different trail on the other side of the drainage.

That trail led to a gorgeous lake - perhaps my favorite of the entire weekend - and then promptly disappeared. We moseyed up the valley, following scraps of trail where they existed. After passing a small tarn, the trail steepened slightly before tying back into the Highline Trail.

We drifted downhill on the Highline back to our cars as dark clouds gathered once again. A few annoying drops aside, we managed to get back to the parking lot before the afternoon's deluge began.

This trip had it all - big views, a dash of adventure, and spicy mountain weather. And to share it with someone special? All the better.

 

Sand and Snow

June can be tough. The desert is a furnace, while the mountains are still snowed in. Backcountry trips are possible, but perhaps a little uncomfortable. 

Notwithstanding, I took a delightful pair of June backpacking trips. In brief!

The Maze

I mentioned off-hand earlier this year that I'd never been to the Maze district of Canyonlands, even though I'd lived in Utah for more than a decade. My buddy Paul lives in the area, and has taken many a Maze trip before. He offered to put together a route and coordinate our permits.

Ordinarily, the Maze is a total pain to get to - and the primary reason I'd never been there before. It involves multiple hours of bumping and clunking your way down 4WD roads, miles from anything even remotely resembling civilization. You definitely don't want car trouble out there!

We took a different approach. Rather than spending our time in the car, we opted to make the shorter drive to the Needles district, on the opposite bank of the Colorado, and packraft our way into the Maze. We ended up floating the river for several miles, including through the Confluence of the Green and Grand (e.g. upper Colorado). The Confluence is, in my mind, the beating heart of the American West. The two rivers join as equals. Their collective might carved Cataract Canyon, Glen Canyon, and of course the Grand Canyon. Everyone from Denver to Los Angeles depends on this thin ribbon of silty water to sustain civilization in this arid climate. The only sound audible as we cruised through the confluence was the occasional splish-splash of our paddles.

Before the river enters the truly wild rapids of Cataract Canyon, it forms a nice beach at Spanish Bottom. There, we packed up our boats, and climbed into the Maze itself.

I'd of course heard great things about the Maze, but those words apparently never sunk in, because I was blown away by the scenery. Arches, rock art, fun scrambles, and a few truly magical water sources made for an excellent couple days of wandering. The afternoons were blazing hot, but nothing that a few shady lunch spots couldn't handle. All too quickly, we completed our Maze loop, and crossed back over the Colorado to the Needles. Clouds helpfully lingered overhead as we made the long climb up from the river back to my car.

Overall - a great trip. It won't be my last Maze experience. There is so much more to see!

 

The San Juans

Then it was time to visit the source of the river. I spied some relatively clear, south-facing terrain along the Colorado Trail that looked appealing. Much of it was still a patchy snow slog, but there was still plenty of bare ground. I crossed an unnamed pass at 12,500' in perfect snow conditions. Many of the lakes still held ice. I found a tiny patch of bare ground to camp on, at about 12,000'. I slept surprisingly well despite the altitude, and woke up to a delightful sunrise the next morning.

As I descended, the snow thinned out to a decorative, patchy sparkle. Wildflowers appeared. Pure bliss. This will definitely not be my last San Juans experience!

By Boot and by Boat: The Lower Escalante

I've realized something: Lake Powell is my frenemy. 

In 1999, my uncle spearheaded a family reunion trip on Lake Powell. Through no fault of our own, we were somehow assigned a pair of truly ancient, decrepit houseboats. The air conditioning failed on both boats. Then the toilets stopped working, and an entire extended family ended up using the 'woods' for the better part of a week.

I put a fishhook through my cousin's eyelid. My dad tore a layer of skin off the bottom of his foot. A storm whipped up one night, and my uncle spent a frantic few minutes re-anchoring the houseboat, which was doing its best to escape its moorings. My sister and several cousins got badly sunburned on one side of their faces, a la Harvey Dent, from early morning sunshine while sleeping on the roof of the boat. 

In short, it was a terrific trip, total gong show, and a decades-long object of family lore and nostalgia. And it was my first exposure to the red rocks of southern Utah. I was transfixed. It arguably set the stage for my eventual move to the Beehive State.

Yet there's a darker side to Lake Powell. Glen Canyon Dam generates only a negligible amount of power. It loses boatloads of water to evaporation and sandstone leakage. It drowned some truly incredible landscapes - Glen Canyon, along with the lower reaches of the Escalante and San Juan rivers. And the lake is a pathetic vestige of its former self. Back in '99, the reservoir was nearly full, but it's been steadily dropping ever since. An ugly bathtub ring, some forty feet above the current water level, mars the slickrock that surrounds the reservoir. Unsightly silt benches clog the mouth of canyons. In short, Powell is a pathetic, stinking mess. Lake Foul, indeed.

Not all is lost though. As the water levels have dropped, the lower reaches of side canyons have begun to restore themselves. Flash floods clear out the silt and debris. Maidenhair ferns have begun to re-grow on shady canyon walls. Special spots, buried under the floodwaters for decades, have emerged afresh. The river will win eventually, and Glen Canyon Dam - a classic monolith to twentieth-century hubris - will lose. The only question is how long it will take.

Three Days of Wandering

I'd never been to the lowest canyons of the Escalante River, below where Lake Powell's floodwaters begin to back up. After all, a side-canyon that dead-ends into a lake is a one-way street... unless you have a packraft, of course! I looped three canyons into one loop-type substance over a three-day period in May. I was a bit worried about the heat (temperatures were forecast to hit 90 each day), but the canyons offered ample shade, and I was wet virtually the entire time - either splashing through canyons, or paddling on the lake itself. 

The hike begin with a an easy jaunt down a well-worn trail, past a spectacular arch. Evidently, the arch is everyone's turnaround point, because downstream became a mild bushwhack at points. I spent all morning heading downstream, encountering at one point a brief section of narrows with a mandatory swimmer. I suppose I could have blown up my packraft and paddled the fifty feet, but I opted to just swim it. Ninety degree heat for the win!

I passed a waterfall, well below Powell's high-water mark. I even found a few cottonwoods that have started to grow in the years since the lake dropped. Finally, I reached the lake and transitioned to packraft mode.

Thankfully, the afternoon was almost dead-calm, a welcome anomaly in a land of much slickrock and sparse vegetation. I paddled downstream, past my target canyon, to check out Cathedral in the Desert a few hours south. Inundated by floodwaters for almost all of the past fifty years, Cathedral in the Desert has re-emerged in the last couple years, due to falling lake levels. In the 50s, it was a magical place. Owing to its recent rebirth, it's still on the mend. To be honest, it smells like decaying gunk. Ferns are growing, but it'll take some time before it recaptures its former glory. Hopefully lake levels stay low enough to keep it from being re-drowned.

After fighting a bit of later-afternoon speedboat chop, I finally made it back to my target canyon, a seldom-visited gulch most notable for being the last confirmed location of disappeared 1930's vagabond Everett Ruess. The bottom of the canyon contained the single deepest alcove I've ever seen. Words cannot do it justice. It was enormous, and even partially flooded, still majestic.

Near where reservoir gave way to solid ground, I made camp for the night, after fourteen hours of hiking and paddling. It took me about five minutes to fall asleep.

The next morning started out auspiciously, with an easy hike up to a not-particularly-spectacular arch. That's where things got interesting. Two miles of thick brush lay between me and my exit from the canyon. The canyon is seldom-visited, but in reports I've collected over the years, I've noticed a trend of increasing complaints over the years. The brush is getting thicker.

Yeah, it wasn't fun. Not every step was a thrash, but much of it was, and occasionally it was horrific. The entire stretch is a continuous series of beaver dams. Combine deep water, stinking mud, and sometimes-impenetrable riparian vegetation, and you've got a recipe for a frustrating couple of miles.

By and by, I finally reached my exit, an old cattle trail near where Ruess had left his burros corralled before disappearing without a trace. The exit itself was surprisingly straightforward, a gem of a route in an otherwise-hostile environment. I followed my compass for a couple miles overland, through Navajo sandstone domes, before dropping into my third and final canyon via an enormous sand dune. I was certainly glad to be descending, rather than ascending it! 

This canyon doesn't even have a proper name - just a number, as if it were a Swiss account. And like a Swiss account, its secrets are deep indeed. Incredibly, the entire thing was passable, and its amazing narrows stretched on for miles. Deep-red sandstone walls soared hundreds of feet above me, blotting out the searing midday sun. I followed the canyon downstream, underneath incredible alcoves, to where it flows into Lake Powell. 

I won't even try and describe what I found down there, only that physics seems to be broken, and Euclidean geometry ceases to apply in canyon country. An abandoned meander has divided a vestigial arm from the main body of Lake Powell, and it took me hours of pondering to reconstruct how this happened. Ask me about this, if you're really curious about a deeply weird and difficult-to-describe phenomenon. 

I ventured back upstream, the way I came, past the sand dune, and made camp near an amazing alcove underneath a stately cottonwood. The water ceased flowing around here, so I tanked up with four liters, the better to quench my intense thirst. Despite the presence of continuous flowing water for the past two days, the heat left me a bit dehydrated.

The day's heat lingered well into the evening. I played peekaboo with the moon as it flirted with the canyon lip above me. Sleep came easy once again, after another thirteen hours of almost continuous motion.

I hiked the last few miles to my car the next morning, the canyon having transitioned to a dry slot at this point. I bumped into one impassible dryfall, easily bypassed by a faint climber's trail. A couple miles later I hit the dirt road, where I walked a couple miles back to my car.

While the reservoir has certainly marred the character of the lower Escalante, there were still plenty of amazing things to see. Many of them are nameless, poorly-documented, or enigmatic. A little planning, a lot of adaptability, and dropping lake levels made this an unforgettable trip. A weekend well-spent!