Isle Royale 2017, Day 1: Rock Harbor and the Stoll Trail

Last time: The Saga Begins

Scoville Point

We woke up to find ourselves in the 1950's, then realized it was just the King Copper motel. After quick showers, we left our key in the room, thus ending another stay at the King Copper without every meeting an employee.

We arrived next door at the Isle Royale Queen IV dock a bit later than we had intended, and there was already a large crowd assembled. I ran inside the Queen's headquarters building to get our boarding passes. As I waited in line, I heard, in turn, each of the three people ahead of me ask astonishing questions. The first asked if there were campgrounds on the island. Another asked if they needed a map. The third asked the attendant which she recommended: map or guidebook? I can only assume that all three people were staying at the lodge -- but I can't even begin to imagine going somewhere as remote as Isle Royale without owning a map and reading a guidebook. As it turns out, my faith in humanity was a bit misplaced. (The headquarters was well equipped to sell both, and I can only assume they do a rollicking good business.)

Back at the dock, I double-checked the return date on our boarding pass and sealed the return pass in a plastic baggie which was then zipped in a secure pocket of my pack. It was our only guarantee of a way off the island in 7 days -- I had to handle it carefully!

We were greeted by Captain Ben Kilpela, one of the three Kilpela brothers who run the Queen. His brother Captain Don (who impressed us last year with feats of back strength) stood nearby, leaning on a walker and looking more than a little depressed. After the usual exhortations about holding on to something at all times and not doing stupid things in the middle of Lake Superior, we boarded. The crossing was fairly smooth but the breeze was brisk, so we stayed inside the boat.

One of the unexpectedly enjoyable parts of traveling on the Queen is meeting the other passengers. Seats on the Queen are in the style of 4-person restaurant booths, and with our full ship Sarah and I ended up crammed in with various strangers. We first met Bob from Ohio, a solo traveler visiting Isle Royale for the first time. Bob had tried to visit the island two years before, when the Queen ran aground during a sunset cruise -- putting it out of commission for two weeks, and ending Bob's vacation plans. Needless to say, he was both anxious and excited for his second attempt.

As we approached the island, the breeze died down enough for us to visit the bow of the boat. We sat in the sun and chatted with groups of fishermen, kayakers, backpackers, and lodge visitors. We watched the island grow larger and larger in front of us as the excitement level around us grew almost audible.

Wildflowers of Rock Harbor: Fireweed and Hawkweed

After we had docked and disembarked, we were divided into two groups for orientation: backpackers and lodge visitors. We stood in a large circle around Ranger Kelly, who stepped us through the 7 Leave No Trace principles (including #1, "Plan ahead and prepare", which it was a bit late for some of the audience to learn about). There are always some Isle Royale-specific surprises in this orientation, including the fact that the National Park recommends against hanging a bear bag. Not only are there no bears, but there are few trees with branches strong enough to support a bag. Instead, the park recommends that all food be double-bagged, stashed in your pack, and stored in the vestibule of your tent.

Having learned from last year, we sneakily stood at the outside edge of the circle on the side nearest to the visitor center. As soon as Ranger Kelly finished her orientation, I power-walked to the visitor center and managed to be only the second person in line to obtain our camping permits. Every backpacking party has to provide an itinerary to one of the rangers in the visitor center and receive a permit in return. Our position in this bottleneck could make the difference between getting moving promptly, and being stuck for an hour or more behind unprepared backpackers pondering the possibilities ("So how far away is 3 Mile Campground, again?"). I recited our itinerary promptly ("Rock Harbor, Chippewa Harbor, West Chickenbone, McCargoe, McCargoe, Rock Harbor") and received my permit with an admonition to keep it attached to my backpack, tent, or shelter at all times.

Our plan called for us to stay in Rock Harbor Campground tonight, and catch a ferry to our real starting point tomorrow, so there wasn't any actual rush to get out on the trail. Nonetheless, my itinerary shenanigans were for a good reason. As soon as I had the permit in my hands, I power-walked up the hill to the Rock Harbor campground and snapped the permit onto the first unoccupied shelter I could find: Shelter #4. Rock Harbor, like many campgrounds at Isle Royale, has Adirondack-style wooden shelters with slanted roofs and screened fronts, as well as picnic tables. Getting a shelter is well worth the effort. The payoff comes in protection from weather and ease of relaxation.

Shelter #4 faced a dense thicket of trees, thimbleberries, and rocks on a steep downhill slope. The thimbleberry thickets provided a nice privacy screen around the sides, and there was even a distant view of Rock Harbor itself below.

After setting up some basics in our shelter, we headed out to explore Rock Harbor. During last year's trip, we had very little time in Rock Harbor, much of which involved sitting in a tent during a rainstorm.

CCC/WPA monument

Our goal was the Stoll trail, which begins near the Rock Harbor Lodge. We immediately took a wrong turn and ended up on a short trail to the America dock, a rebuilt historical dock where the steamship America once docked. Along the way, hidden in the forest, I came across a shrine-like display about the three CCC/WPA camps that once called Isle Royale home (now that's an isolated job!).

We backtracked and found the right way to the Stoll trail. The trail is a lovely 4-ish mile day hike that loops out to the end of Scoville Point, a long, thin, rocky finger of land extending into Lake Superior east from Rock Harbor. The trail showcases the variety of the island's landscapes and ecosystems as it passes through a variety of forests, swamps, and rocky outcrops.

Our progress slowed dramatically as soon as I saw the first wild strawberry, hiding under its leaves in a swampy section. Then the blueberries showed up at the next sunny rock outcrop, surrounded by junipers. Delicious! We spent time at a bench overlooking Lake Superior, where we again ran into Bob. He was practically glowing and couldn't stop telling us about how astonishingly beautiful the island was. I smiled -- I know the feeling.

We passed a surprising variety of landscapes: A cobble beach; a hidden island that was nearly surrounded by a bay of high rocks, making a virtual moat; a grassy hillside. We took our time and explored them all, sitting on rocks or benches and soaking up the sun.

Island surrounded by a moat along the Stoll Trail

Soon, the trail sent us scrambling up a steep ridge. Halfway up, I saw a woman gesturing wildly but silently at me. It was easy enough to read the sign language: Shhhh! There's a Moose! We crept up slowly, trying to stay silent on the gravelly path. By the time my head was above the top of the ridge, I could see about a dozen people standing silently at the top of the ridge, staring down into the swamp below it. We made it up just in time to see a patch of brownish fur turn and disappear deeper into the trees. The woman I first saw showed us her photos: A bull moose had been hanging out in the swamp just minutes before. We decided to count our sighting as half of a moose.

After the moose detour, we soon arrived at the very end of Scoville point, which was mostly bare of large trees and offered a fantastic panorama of Lake Superior and Isle Royale's outlying islands. Across a small bay we could see the Artist in Residence cabin. The cabin is a former summer home from the island's resort days, also named the Dassler Cabin after its former owners. I immediately began daydreaming of living for two weeks at (what seemed like) the very end of the earth. Isle Royale may be isolated, but the island's system of dedicated campgrounds brings backpackers into contact with each other more than you would expect. The Artist in Residence cabin, however, would not suffer from that problem.

Wood Lily along the Stoll Trail

We met Bob here again, still singing the praises of the island. As we chatted with him, the Voyageur II steamed past, rounding the end of the "Five Finger" region of the island and headed for Rock Harbor. We waved. The Voyageur is a ferry from Minnesota which also also acts like the island's bus: dropping off and picking up hikers from various points around the island. It would spend the night at Rock Harbor, and we would board it tomorrow to get to our real starting point.

I could have spent all day and all night sitting silently on the point, but my stomach wouldn't have been very happy about that. So, hungry and a bit tired, we started back. The trail followed along the Tobin Harbor side of Scoville Point, and was remarkably different from the way out -- flat and surrounded by conifers. Along the way, we met a teenage girl who had been traveling alone on the Queen. She had told us that she was meeting her parents, who were "already on the island". She was now accompanied by her father -- a park ranger! We spent much of the rest of the hike pondering what it would be like to grow up spending summers on Isle Royale.

A flat, easy return trip.

We cooked a freeze dried meal in our shelter. We had brought along some tried-and-true freeze dried meals, plus a few wildcards. Tonight, we tried a wildcard: AlpineAire Cheesy Enchilada Ranchero, a grand name for a pretty basic mix of veggies and "tortilla chips" (which did not survive the rehydration process in anything like tortilla form). It wasn't bad. It wasn't good. It was freeze dried dinner.

To make up for the meh dinner, we walked down to the camp store and bought ice cream drumsticks for $1 each. I never cease to be amazed at the store's prices: They could easily charge returning backpackers truly exorbitant rates, but for some reason they price their junk food like it's 1999.

Our last stop of the day was yet another new experience: A ranger presentation! Each evening in Rock Harbor, a ranger presents about some aspect of the island and life on it. Tonight's presentation was by Ranger Chris: "Isle Royale Basics". "Basics", it turns out, meant "Utilities". Ranger Chris turned out to be an engaging presenter who made the story of how the national park purifies its drinking water, disposes of its sewage, and generates its electricity into a funny and fascinating presentation. We learned that (as of very few years ago) the park is powered almost entirely by a field of solar panels -- which are essentially invisible to visitors.

The auditorium was well filled with visitors, mostly from the lodge, who kept Ranger Chris busy with questions. By far the most common were about the wolves: "How many wolves are there?" "Has the park decided what to do about the wolves yet?" "Can we still make comments about the wolf plan?" Ranger Chris replied with practiced but noncommittal ease -- over the next week, we would notice that all rangers had well-practiced replies to the wolf questions. As of 2017, there are only two wolves left on the island, and they are so heavily inbred that they can't breed -- meaning that there's almost nothing keeping the moose (and beaver) populations in check, and not much hope of that situation changing on its own. The National Park Service is still considering a final proposal to introduce new wolves to the island, in order to save vegetation and maintain some level of predator-prey relationships.

After the questions were over, we read in our shelter for a few minutes before heading to bed. The sun hadn't even set yet -- "early to bed, early to rise gives the Clarks chances to see moose eyes".

Next time: Chippewa Harbor and the Bother With Boaters

Miles hiked: 4.3 (dayhike)
Moose sighted: 0.5

Isle Royale 2017: The Saga Begins

To read the whole series, follow the link at the bottom of this post.
You can view all photos from this series in my Isle Royale 2017 flickr album.

Indian Portage trail from Chippewa Harbor to Lake Richie

"I'm sorry, I don't have any reservations under the name 'Clark' for tomorrow night."

Thus began the "adventure" part of our Isle Royale Adventure, 2017 edition. I was on the phone with the King Copper motel, our (supposed) lodging for the night before our departure on the Isle Royale Queen IV ferry. The King Copper is a pretty old-fashioned affair: No web site, no confirmation numbers, and apparently no records. I'd had an itch in the back of my mind that I should call to double-check our reservations. Gone was the lake view room I'd reserved back in January. "OK... do you have any rooms available?" "Yes, we have one room left... queen bed with a lake view. Would you like to reserve it?" OK, maybe I was just living in a weird time loop. I reserved the room and crossed my fingers that they wouldn't lose my name again.

At the end of our 2016 Isle Royale Adventure, Sarah and I were already planning next year's trip. Isle Royale got its claws into us, and we couldn't not go back. Isle Royale has a way of doing that: It is one of the least visited national parks (averaging around 20,000 visitors per year, "What Yellowstone gets before noon", as one ranger told us), but visitors stay much longer (3-4 days) and revisit more often than any other national park. The remote beauty of this rugged island in the middle of Lake Superior is hard to describe unless you've seen it for yourself. Even after 10 years of living and backpacking in Michigan's beautiful Upper Peninsula, surrounded by untamed natural beauty, I am completely smitten with Isle Royale.

Along the Stoll trail on Scoville Point

For this year's visit, we wanted to see new parts of the island, hike new trails, and climb new heights of laying-around-enjoying-it. I spent the winter designing itineraries, debating their relative merits with Sarah, and repeating until we had just the right plan. I re-read Jim Dufresne's guide book from front to back (worth every penny!), figuring out just the right balance of trails and rest, figuring out good day hikes, and generally daydreaming about our week on the island. I read a handful of books and web sites that helped me figure out off-the-beaten-path places to visit. In the end, we didn't set any records for speed or distance -- in fact, we ended up hiking fewer miles than last year but taking one day longer to do so. But that's not the point. We enjoyed ourselves, relaxed, met new people, and soaked up the beauty. By the end, we were once again hunched over the park map, planning out yet another trip for 2018.

One of my goals for the trip was to lighten our packs. To that end, I thought long and hard about each item we had taken last year. Some stayed in the pack, including my heavy camera setup -- being able to take the photos that you'll see in this series is a lot of fun for me. But we cut some other items that might surprise you: No GPS (the trails are well marked, and we had a paper map), no weather radio (it only worked from the high ridges anyhow), and fewer clothes (we could wash them in the lakes). As a result, we brought fewer batteries too -- in the end, we saved a pound or two each. But, it was well worth it, and we didn't miss any of the items that we left out.

We agreed on another goal as well: We wanted to see moose! Last year, we hadn't seen a single moose -- but people who left camp earlier than us saw more than their fair share. Moose like cool mornings and hide during hot days, so we planned to get up early every day and get on the trail promptly. We would not be out-moosed by our fellow hikers -- and as it turned out, we succeeded in some spectacular but unlikely ways.

Looking out from inside the Minong Mine

But, back to the beginning. The second mini-adventure started the very morning we were to leave for Copper Harbor. Having averted a lodging disaster the day before, Sarah instead woke up with a runny nose and a sore throat. A last-minute video visit with a doctor confirmed that it was not strep -- that would have killed the trip -- but most likely a virus. The doctor instructed Sarah to take it easy, get extra rest, drink lots of liquids, and not exert herself. "We're going backpacking for a week," Sarah informed the doctor. "Oh. Well... have fun."

Sarah refused to give in to the virus, so we forged boldly northward. I drove, Sarah napped, and the UP blurred past. After a 9 hour drive, we pulled in at the one absolutely required stop of the trip north: The Michigan House in Calumet. This is one of my absolute favorite restaurants of all time, and the Gipp Burger with a Cold Hearted Ale did not disappoint.

The old schoolhouse at Chippewa Harbor

We arrived in Copper Harbor around 9 pm and "checked in" to the King Copper by following the directions on the sign taped to the office door: "Clark: Key in room #1." We have stayed in the King Copper twice, but have never actually interacted with an employee -- the rooms are always unlocked, we always arrive after the office is closed, and we always leave before it opens. Our card gets charged and everyone is happy. Such is life in Copper Harbor.

Once again, we found ourselves in a 50's era room that had never been updated -- not that its spectacular view of the harbor would ever need updating. I watched the Isle Royale Queen IV arrive in from a sunset cruise while trying unsuccessfully to do a last-minute weather check on the spotty wifi. Giving up on that, we fell asleep and dreamed of moose and thimbleberries.

Next time: Day 1: Strawberries, blueberries, and a tiny bit of moose

Pink: Our backpacking route. Blue: Dayhikes.

Coming Soon: Isle Royale 2017

We're just back from a full week of backpacking on Isle Royale. The photo says it all. Watch for detailed blog posts soon!

Update: It's here! Click to start reading the first part of my Isle Royale 2017 series.

Winter cabin camping at Wilderness State Park

In fall of 2016, I found myself with a few free days just after final exams -- the perfect time to relax after the busiest time of the semester. Sarah and some of her friends had planned a girls' weekend out, and I needed my own end-of-semester getaway: Getting away from everything, including running water, electricity, and people.

Shoreline of the Straits of Mackinac

So, I fired up the trusty old internet browser, headed to midnrreservations.com, and made my reservations for 3 nights in a rustic cabin at Wilderness State Park. When Friday December 16th came around, I threw my snowshoes and backpack in the car and headed north towards Mackinac City.

Wilderness is a large state park in the far, far northern reaches of Michigan's lower peninsula, just a few miles west of the Mackinac Bridge. At over 10,000 acres, it's nothing to sneeze at. Better yet, most of that space is undeveloped. Most of the park is wild Lake Michigan shoreline and woodlands. Best of all, Wilderness has my favorite amenity: rustic cabins, without any running water or electricity. They are available in winter, but only if you're willing to snowshoe or ski several miles on ungroomed trails. Why yes, yes I am willing to do that -- and I was willing to bet that almost nobody else would want to do such a thing.

Friday, December 16: Light snow followed me north until Gaylord -- a city that every Michigan Tech student traveling north dreads, as it inevitably marks the line where lake effect snow starts reaching inland far enough to affect the expressways. Sure enough, a dense band of lake effect was turning I-75 into a sheet of solid packed snow. I ended up in a caravan of cars going 35 mph with our blinkers on, occasionally looking up to see cars on the southbound lanes spin out and go off the road (but, strangely, nobody on the northbound lanes had this trouble). An hour later, I thankfully exited the expressway at Mackinac City and headed west for the park -- and the lake effect snow immediately stopped.

10 miles to the west, I pulled in to the park headquarters. The ranger handed me my keys and said "we started a fire in the wood stove for you this morning". This was the best thing I'd heard all day -- I wouldn't have to walk into a completely cold cabin and immediately have to start a fire from scratch.

One more mile down the road, I reached the small parking area where the plowed road ended and the adventure began. I parked, put on snowshoes, and strapped on my backpack. I am new to winter camping, so I probably overpacked a little -- the pack weighed 40 pounds, at least as much weight as I brought for 6 days on Isle Royale. My pack included an (empty) day pack strapped across the top, three different pairs of gloves (I used them all!), a full-sized Nalgene bottle (to act as a hot water bottle), and ski goggles.

Station Point cabin from the rear. In summer, cars could drive right up to the cabin and park in the corral.

My cabin for tonight was a little over 2 miles down a narrow and unplowed dirt road. The road was covered with a nice thick base of snow, and was surrounded by gorgeous northern Michigan beauty -- a solid wall of cedars, along with red pine, hemlock, and birch. I stopped frequently to take photos. OK, with a bit more honesty, I was also stopping to catch my breath -- snowshoeing with a 40 pound pack was kicking my butt! Luckily, a lone snowmobile (probably a park ranger) had followed the road earlier in the day, providing a somewhat packed trail to follow.

After 2 miles, I reached the metal gate blocking the quarter-mile long driveway to Station Point cabin. The driveway wound through an even closer, denser, and hillier forest of pines. The cabin itself soon swung into view, nestled among pines growing right along the Lake Michigan shoreline.

Station Point cabin was built by a CCC camp which worked in the park in the 1930's. It's a genuine log cabin, with a wood floor, a stone foundation, and no running water nor electricity. The furniture was exactly the same style of chunky rustic chairs and tables found in my favorite cabins in the Porcupine Mountains. Two double bunk beds were lined up against one wall. Strangely, the bunks together were longer than the wall of the cabin. To make room for them, the front wall of the cabin popped out slightly, making a small niche just large enough to hold the end of a bunk bed (and a lovely window above one lucky sleeper's head). The main feature of the cabin, however, was a surprisingly large wall of windows on the lake side. Those windows gave a gorgeous view of the snowy lake.

This is how close I stayed to the wood stove in order to stay warm.

The other main feature of the cabin was the essential wood stove, my only source of heat for the weekend. There was no fire left in the stove -- it had been burning much too long for that. But by poking around inside the firebox, I found enough embers left to start some kindling.  I quickly had a roaring fire going, thanks to instructions from the Porcupine Mountains Companion (and no thanks to the instructions left pinned to the cabin's door, which got some important details -- such as which way to adjust the oxygen control -- exactly backwards). There was a large pile of well-seasoned wood left inside the cabin and a truly enormous amount piled outside, so I felt confident of my ability to stay warm, even with single-digit lows predicted throughout the weekend.

I completed the one other important camp chore -- getting water from the nearby water pump -- just before sunset. That left me with just enough time to take some photos along the lakeshore. The wind had the lake whipped up into whitecaps which crashed against the pack ice near shore. There was a big storm moving in overnight.

Gray, stormy, and snowy Straits of Mackinac.

There was one oddity I noticed on the outside of the cabin: A bit of electrical conduit ran up a pole and directly into the cabin. I suspected that there used to be a weather station mounted on the pole, until I went back into the cabin and found this:

Huh?

Yep, a hotel safe, the only electrified item for miles in every direction. I couldn't figure out any way to open it, either.

After a quick freeze-dried dinner, I pulled a bunk bed closer to the wood stove and set up a sleeping pad beneath my sleeping bag for additional insulation. I made a lovely hot-water bottle from a Nalgene filled with boiling water and wrapped in spare clothes. It was still warm the next morning.

With those chores done, I settled in for the night. I read by headlamp-light for a while until I finally rolled over and went to sleep. As I slept, the fire slowly died out, and I woke up three hours later feeling a definite chill in the air. I stoked the fire, threw on a new log, and tried to sleep again. For the rest of the night, I tossed and turned, waking up every hour or two to add another log on to the fire.

Saturday, December 17: I woke up with the sun already well above the horizon. After a quick breakfast of oatmeal and hot tea, I dressed up, packed my daypack, made up a roaring good fire (in hopes that some coals would be left when I returned) and headed out for a day of adventuring in the snow.

Station Point cabin after a fresh snow. The small "pop out" for the bunk beds is on the right.

Nearly a foot of fluffy fresh snow had fallen overnight. It was a snowshoer's dream (and, I suppose, a cross-country skier's nightmare). The wind was extremely brisk and blowing from the east, but the air had warmed up into the high teens. My goal for the day was to explore the west end of the park. This consists mainly of Waugoshance Point, a long sandy point of land that sticks out into Lake Michigan. The point ends in a series of almost-connected islands. My hope was to find a short ice bridge across to those islands. Tomorrow, I would explore the east end, with more traditional trails winding through the woods.

I began my trek along the shore, admiring the puffy clouds, snow-covered pines, and giant piles of pack ice. The shore was usually a long, grassy, and somewhat sandy beach that was favored by endangered Piping Plovers. Now, it was a giant pile of fluffy snow.

I soon came to an unplowed parking area and found my way onto Waugoshance Road, the same road that I had followed in to the cabin yesterday. The road had been untouched by humans for days, and it was like walking into a true wonderland: Snow draped cedars and red pines above a sparkling and completely untouched layer of snow.

Undisturbed snow leading out to Waugoshance Point

The road quickly led out of the trees and onto Waugoshance Point proper, which was much more exposed to the cold wind. Only scattered clusters of cedars broke the vast stretches of beach grass and low scrub. I vaguely followed the ruts of a two-track trail, but, hoping to follow the shoreline, I quickly headed off-trail towards an interesting-looking cluster of trees which were growing on a slight rise in the sand.

As soon as I headed beyond the rise, my snowshoed foot broke through ice hiding beneath the snow, and plunged straight into icy cold water. I jumped back, thankful that the water hadn't overtopped my boot. With some careful probing, I discovered ice beneath much of the snow. It quickly became clear that the shoreline was almost fractally twisted, with ponds and pools hiding between grassy points of sand. You can see what I mean on an aerial:

My cabin was located a little to the right of this view.

I carefully picked my way back to the trail. Along the way, I found this interesting relic of the park's past: The steel skeleton of a glider, apparently left by the Army Air Corp. During World War II, the Corps used Waugoshance Point as a testing range, including aerial bombing runs. Some of the gnarly coastline was undoubtedly a result of that target practice.

Wreck of a glider.

The trail passed through more clusters of cedars before veering off towards the coast again. As I walked farther and farther, I began panting as I broke trail in the knee-deep snow. And then, suddenly, my feet broke through ice again -- the trail had water beneath it too! After a few more breaks, I finally decided to give up and turn around. There was no way to tell what was going on beneath the thick layer of snow, but the answer was clearly: ice, and none too thick. I looked wistfully towards the end of the point, which I couldn't even see: I had made it perhaps 1.5 miles out onto the point, nowhere near the end. Oh well, maybe in summer!

I was the only person to pass this way all day.

I backtracked through the beautiful tunnel of trees and paused when I reached the driveway to the Waugoshance Cabin, the westernmost of the line of rustic cabins at the state park. There were no tracks visible in the driveway, so I felt safe waltzing into the cabin's front yard to check it out. The cabin was much larger -- 8 bunks! -- but had a big sand dune blocking its view of the lake. I sat at a picnic table and ate a lunch of meat sticks, plus my favorite hiking food of all time: peanut butter on rice cakes. The rest felt good, and I was soon refreshed enough to push on to a longer hike.

My next goal was to follow the Sturgeon Bay trail south until it intersected the bay of the same name. This trail was completely undisturbed, except for the tracks of a fox and some occasional rabbits. The trail was fully surrounded by dense cedar swamps and overhung with tall trees, making for a gorgeous slog through the snow. It was my own personal fluffy trail through beautiful northern Michigan woods. This entire day had been a true snowshoer's dream.

Red Pine and Snow

After what seemed like a ridiculously long distance (but was really only a little over 1 mile), I reached the trailhead for the Sturgeon Bay Trail -- I'd only been hiking on the access road to the trail! Shortly beyond the trailhead was the Sturgeon Bay Cabin, also unoccupied. I spent nearly half an hour at this cabin, resting, exploring the area around it, and attempting to investigate the lake shore (which was just as gnarly and hard to reach as it was farther north).

My original plan for today had been to make a loop, using the Sturgeon Bay trail and continuing on the North Country Trail east into the heart of the park. Then I would turn north, find the access road past my cabin, and hike 2 miles west back to the cabin.

Sturgeon Bay Cabin wins the award for most picturesque (and coldest) walk to an outhouse.

As I sat at the Sturgeon Bay Cabin, I wasn't even sure that I would be able to drag myself directly back to my cabin. There was no way I could have continued on the 8+ remaining miles of the loop. Oh well, I could leave the east end of the park for tomorrow. I also had the idea of popping down to this area to watch the sun set over Sturgeon Bay. But with the coastline all but impossible to find, a long hike through powder to reach it, and my legs almost ready to fall off, that was another too-optimistic idea. I eventually hauled myself up, put the daypack back on, and headed back the way I'd come. At least I had my own tracks to follow this time.

After a very slow hike back, I arrived at Station Point cabin just a few minutes before sunset. I plopped down in front of the wood stove and stirred up the coals of the fire. A brisk north wind had started up, and I wanted to make sure the cabin was good and toasty before night fell.

The big, beautiful, and drafty front windows.

I soon began to feel a distinct draft. Some investigation revealed that almost none of the windows were locked, which left small cracks for cold air to enter in. Then I found the huge gaps in the frames of the big, beautiful windows on the north wall of the cabin -- and the north wind was taking advantage of every crack and crevice. One window in particular let a strong breeze in that blew directly on my chair in front of the fire. I found evidence of previous visitors' attempts to stop the breeze -- napkins stuffed into the biggest cracks, duct tape laid over them (and peeling away), and other jerry-rigged attempts at breeze-blocking. I eventually stretched my coat and a towel across the worst parts of the window, holding them up with tacks and a clothespin. I added two more logs to the roaring fire and pulled my chair closer.

Later that night, I stepped outside for a moment and looked up to see an unexpected sight: Stars peeking through the quickly moving clouds. The stars in the deep black sky were a breathtaking sight. Back inside the cabin, another beautiful and unexpected sight awaited me through the large front windows: Freighters, with lights blazing along their entire length, heading through the Straits of Mackinac. The Straits are so narrow that the freighters were at most 2 miles away from me. They looked like a parade as they slowly made their way under the Mackinaw Bridge.

I read for many hours (Naked in the Stream: Isle Royale Stories by Vic Foerster -- which I highly recommend). I finally turned over and curled up with another hot water bottle. I slept in 2 hour shifts, waking up like clockwork to put another log on the fire.

Sunday, December 18: I woke up groggy and stiff, with a huge headache threatening to split my skull open. Sleeping in 2 hour shifts hadn't helped. Snowshoeing 6 miles in powder had helped even less.

There had been a change in the weather, heralded by last night's strong winds: I could see bright blue sky out the window with puffy white clouds skittering across it. What a perfect day for a snowshoe hike!

Clearing skies heralding my departure.

My overly ambitious hiking plan for the day began with a 2 mile snowshoe back to the parking area, followed by a longer loop (6 or 8 miles, depending on what I felt like) in the east end of the park. That included investigating the Nebo cabin, the one cabin nestled deep in the woods at the east end of the park. Then, I would hike 2 more miles back. Sitting in my cabin, groaning as I bent over to put another log in the wood stove, even the 2 miles to the parking lot sounded nearly impossible. There was no way I could do a real hike today.

To avoid the reality of that situation, I laid back on the bed and pulled out my weather radio. The weather service reported good weather today, but more snow falling tomorrow. Darn. The more I thought about it, the clearer my course: I had to leave today.

The choice was made, but I could at least take my time packing up. I savored the solitude, the beautiful view, the smell of the wood fire. I wrote in the cabin's log book and read stories that others had left. I got limbered up enough to go outside and split some firewood, feeling badass and sore at the same time. I took a few photos and wandered around the lake shore, enjoying the beautiful sky.

Eventually, I couldn't put off my departure any longer. I strapped on my snowshoes, loaded the slightly-lighter-than-40-pound pack onto my back, and headed down the cabin's driveway. All trace of my tracks from the day before had been obliterated by snow and wind.

The snowshoe hike back out was long, slow, and painful. There was no way I could have hiked for more than those two miles that day. I stopped frequently to take photos of my gorgeous surroundings... and to catch my breath. The only signs I saw of fellow humans were some snowshoe tracks through the fresh snow -- both coming and going. Whoever it was must have been out for a nice hike and already returned.

When I finally made it to the end of the road, I was already bushed. Then I got to dig out the car.

As if snowshoeing wasn't enough...

The drive home was long but generally uneventful, except for a small lake-effect squall around (where else?) Gaylord. Once again, several people had managed to spin off the road heading southbound -- and the sensible people on the northbound side were having no problems at all.

Even though I cut the trip short, it was still worth every ache and pain. Just like the Porcupine Mountains, I've found another place that I want to keep coming back to over and over. Next year, I'll return -- and stay in a cabin closer to the east end of the park. Watch for it next year!

Map of Wilderness State Park: Notice all of the trails I didn't even get near.

Total miles snowshoed: 10

Isle Royale 2016, Day 6: Homeward Bound

Last Time: A long haul from Moskey Basin to Rock Harbor

News flash! Just before I published this post, the National Park Service announced that it is planning to introduce new wolves to the park in an attempt to save the disappearing wolf population.

The Ranger III in Rock Harbor

I woke up well after sunrise and found a grey day waiting for me outside the tent. Sarah was still asleep, so I wandered down the trail to the docks, eating a breakfast of thimbleberries and raspberries from the bushes growing along the way. I lounged around the waterfront and watched the Ranger III use a crane to load large objects onto its dock, including dumpsters and an entire speed boat. Needless to say, the Ranger is a large vessel -- much larger than the Queen.

Sarah eventually joined me, and together we sat on a bench and watched a motley assortment of backpackers shuffle tiredly aboard the Ranger. The ship loudly blew its horn (surely waking up anyone still asleep in the lodge) and motored slowly out of the harbor.

We spent some time wandering around the "welcome center". I read the visitor log book, but was quickly disheartened by all of the wildlife sightings and had to put it down. ("Log books: the Facebook feed of yore" claims my fellow explorer Nailhed, and in this case the two certainly served similar purposes.) I turned to the books and posters for sale, and found a particularly fetching poster -- but I realized that I could never keep it clean while carting it around the dirty campground.

We overheard a ranger talking about the scattered showers that were predicted for this morning. With the day already looking grey and breezy, we decided we should pack up camp before the weather changed. As we walked back to the campsite, light sprinkles followed us -- and soon after we started shoving camp gear into our backpacks, the sprinkles turned into a torrential downpour. We dove into the empty tent and stared at each other. This wasn't good.

We sat miserably listening to the rain, and watching water slowly creep under the rain flies. We hadn't even eaten breakfast -- and I was not about to fire up our camp stove inside the tent. Instead, we sweltered in the humid atmosphere and moped. Much like Moskey, the main topic of conversation was whether the rain had let up: "I think it's brightening up a little bit... never mind." However, being stuck in an opaque dome without even being able to see outside (at least without pulling aside a rain fly and getting massively wet) was somehow even worse. Worse for me, I had hoped to go for a quick hike along the Stoll trail this morning. That trail is a loop that goes out on Scoville Point, past ancient mining pits, and through 360 degree views. It was going to be a lovely goodbye hike -- but, that was out of the question now.

Sarah hoofing it along the Tobin Harbor trail

To add to that: If things didn't let up soon enough, we would have to bite the bullet and pack up in the pouring rain, so that we would be on time for our ride home on the Queen.

After an hour of sheer boredom mixed with anxiety, the rain quit as suddenly as it had started. We quickly folded up the tent, barely even stopping to try to shake the water off of the rain fly. We wanted nothing more than to be under a roof down at the dockside.

Down at the dock, we stashed our packs under an overhang and booked it across the harbor to the Greenstone Grill -- the lodge's less formal dining room. We had missed breakfast today and dinner last night. Food had never ever sounded so good. The dining room was packed with grimy backpackers who were hungrily eyeing their menus -- the "less formal" dining room is, in other words, the one that is willing to serve those of us who had just walked out of the woods after a week without showers. The waitstaff -- entirely college kids -- were swamped. We ordered Polish sausage and a huge pizza and waited. And waited -- watching carefully to see if the Queen had yet arrived to summon us back home (it hadn't). At long last, we dug in. It was fantastic.

As we ate, rain storms rain storms blew through quickly and unpredictably, pushed on by a strong wind. Back at the dock, the Queen's arrival had been delayed by weather, and we heard many rumors that seaplane service (the fastest way to get to Isle Royale from any direction) had been canceled for today. Seaplane passengers were running around like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to buy tickets for the Queen (and, since the Queen arrives at Copper Harbor while their vehicles were waiting at the Hancock airport, they also had to figure out how they would be traveling 50 miles without a car).

In the midst of the chaos, I realized something even more important: The only other place that I could buy that fetching poster that I had seen in the welcome center was the National Park headquarters in Houghton -- which would be closed by the time we arrived. I whipped up a solution: I purchased the (unwrapped) poster, rolled it into a tube, and covered the tube with a large waterproof bag. To keep that closed, I wrapped it thoroughly with bright orange cord from my backpack, creating a safe, secure, and waterproof sheath for my poster which for all the world looked like a kid's toy light saber.

As we sat near the dock waiting for the Queen (with me making lightsaber noises as I waved my poster around), who should march into town but our trail twins, John and Shelly. They were astonished that we had arrived anywhere before them -- they had stayed in Three Mile campground and hiked to Rock Harbor this morning. We proudly shared the story of our epic hike and the glory of the hot showers. They reported that they had seen a moose along the Tobin Harbor trail this morning -- another moose miss for us! Someone nearby chipped in that they had seen a moose on the Stoll Trail -- two moose misses in one day!

The Queen arrived and unloaded a batch of green-around-the-gills passengers. We overheard snippets of conversation about the weather conditions on the lake and the, uh, difficulties the passengers had encountered while crossing. We warily lined up and slowly made our way onboard. The whole boarding process was much simpler than when we left from Copper Harbor -- clearly the Queen crew knew that they were the only thing standing between their clientele and hot showers and soft beds back on the mainland. Captain Don again performed Herculean tasks of lifting our packs over his head and up to the top deck, and we were on our way.

The ride was great for about 5 minutes, which was exactly how long it took us to exit Rock Harbor. The open lake was choppy and our ride was correspondingly bumpy. I had never before sailed on the open waters of a great lake, and Sarah told me that I should probably expect to get seasick -- that's how landlubbers like myself always were on their first choppy trip. Instead, it was Sarah who quickly became queasy and started popping ginger candies (given to us by an extremely kind coworker). When that didn't help, she moved to the open air of the stern, hoping for some relief. My landlubber self was feeling fine, so I stayed in the comparatively warm cabin and chatted with John and Shelly.

A dead tree on the Greenstone. We didn't take many photos today -- you're getting the back stock!

After a while, I decided to check on Sarah. As I exited the rear door of the main cabin, I discovered that somewhere around half of the passengers were out on the stern of the boat in an attempt to avoid seasickness -- standing, sitting, or crouching on every available surface. I looked around and found Sarah, holding on to the railing for dear life. She was focused on the horizon with a determined stare and a clenched jaw. I checked in with her and gave her the rest of the ginger candies, but I quickly decided I needed to leave -- the diesel fumes from the Queen's engines were making me feel sick!

After what felt like a very long time, we entered the sheltered waters of Copper Harbor. I suddenly had a much greater appreciation for just how important harbors like Copper Harbor were 100 years ago. As we cruised past the Harbor Haus (likely the fanciest restaurant within 50 miles of Copper Harbor), their entire waitstaff raced out onto their patio, joined their arms together, and did a kick-line for us. Did I mention that they were all dressed in pseudo-German dresses? We waved and cheered; the Queen honked.

We said goodbye to our trail doppelgängers, acquired our backpacks (also unloaded by Captain Don),  found our car and headed south.

Rather than staying in Copper Harbor, we planned to stay closer to our old college haunts in Hancock. Sarah was still recovering from the boat ride, and neither of us were very hungry, so we checked in and took our second fantastic showers of the last 36 hours.

Dinner ended up being another old college haunt: beer at the Keweenaw Brewing Company with Studio Pizza. We ate on the deck. We moved in and ate on the couches. We moved to a table. We watched the olympics. We ate peanuts. It was glorious.

And with that, we went back to the hotel and slept in real beds. Well, actually, we tossed and turned. The mattresses were too soft, the pillows were too fluffy -- we had become used to sleeping on wooden floors and inflatable pads.

Our trip home the next day began with breakfast at Suomi, where it is a moral imperative to have breakfast when visiting Houghton. Try the Pannukakku -- you won't find better in a restaurant. (You will likely find better in an old Finnish homestead hidden in the Copper Country woods, heated by a wood stove, where not a word of english is spoken to this very day. But good luck getting in there.)

The rest was the same old 9 hour drive we've done hundreds of times. It was as hard to leave as ever.

If you know anything about us, you know this: We'll be back!

See you for the next adventure!

Grand total miles: 30
Moose sighted: 0
Moose just barely missed: Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

Isle Royale 2016, Day 5: Moskey Basin to Rock Harbor

Last Time: Moskey Basin and a rest day in the rain

Moskey Basin sunrise

I sat up in near darkness and saw the faintest hint of a sunrise at the far end of Moskey Basin. My sleepy brain said: Sunrise? Then... That means it's not raining! followed quickly by Holy crap, I can watch the sunrise from my bed!

The sunrise was faint and partly obscured by clouds, so I convinced myself to get up in the cold morning air and head out to our private rocky peninsula leading out into the Basin. It was small, distant, and eventually obscured by clouds, but the sunrise was indeed good, as so many other backpackers had promised us. It was the only sunrise we saw all trip -- I was happy.

After our usual breakfast -- oatmeal and tea while looking out over the most beautiful place in the world -- we packed up, ready for a big day. After 4 days, our packs were getting lighter, so I decided to try packing my pack differently by placing our tent right down the center (rather than strapped crosswise under the brain case as I'd done previously). It took only a few yards on the trail to realize that I should have been doing that the whole time. The belt stopped cutting into my hips -- I felt fantastic!

In addition to my better-packed pack, it was amazing what a day of 100% enforced rest had done for us. We were fully recharged and ready to go. The trails were muddy, the rocks were slippery, and the underbrush was soaking wet (forcing us to put on our rain paints), but the day was sunny and cool. It was perfect hiking weather, and we trucked along at a good pace. Obstacles that had made our knees (and voices) groan two days ago felt like nothing. The constantly-sloping trail back to Rock Harbor felt downright easy and a even bit more beautiful than I had realized. We made great time, but still saw no moose.

When we arrived at Daisy Farm around 10:30 am, we were fully ready for lunch. We sat on the dock, ate peanut butter rice cakes, and enjoyed the quietness. It was late enough that almost everyone had left the campground (because, remember, nobody stays at Daisy Farm -- they're all heading somewhere else), but early enough that few newcomers had yet arrived. We took our time and soaked up the sun.

Then we discussed our plan: Today was our last full day on the island. Our goal was to reach Three Mile campground, which (brilliantly named) is 3 miles from Rock Harbor. That would let us get up early tomorrow and make it to Rock Harbor well before the Queen left in the early afternoon. This had felt like an ambitious plan: It's an 8 mile hike from Moskey to Three Mile -- and our previous 7 mile days had wrecked us. As a contingency, we had considered staying at Daisy Farm and getting up reaaaaalllyy early to hike the 7 miles in to Rock Harbor tomorrow. But we were both feeling fresh, and the 4 remaining miles to Three Mile seemed doable -- in fact, we thought that we might make it to Three Mile early enough to snag a shelter, before the hoards of newcomers arriving on the Queen and Ranger could get there.

With that, we started out on the next leg of our trip. The Rock Harbor trail continues east from Daisy Farm, following extremely close along the harbor that gives the trail its name. We had heard wildly varying accounts of this trail, ranging from "easy and beautiful" to "horrible and rocky". The trail turned out to be lovely. It was by far the most level, flat, and even trail we had seen on the island. There were occasional roots and small rocks, but the flatness of the trail felt downright luxurious. There were nearly constant views of the harbor and equally constant opportunities to pick thimbleberries.

I think everyone who's hiked Isle Royale has a photo like this.

The woods inland from the trail were dense, and the trees were hung thick with old man's beard. But those thick woods sometimes gave way to huge rock outcrops that angled uphill. At one of these, we stopped for a rest break and chatted with a solo hiker also heading towards Three Mile. He had hiked this trail before and warned us that it wasn't all butterflies and rainbows.

Back on the trail, my spidey senses started tingling -- there was a mine around! I mentioned this to Sarah, who looked turned her head and said "Well, sure." I looked left and sure enough, there was a fenced-in mine shaft immediately next to the trail, with an interpretive sign attached to it. In my defense, I sensed the mine first.

This was the Siskiwit mine, one of the larger copper mines on Isle Royale. It was also quite old. There were only a few poor rock building foundations remaining, and several fenced shafts -- plus some scary looking places where solid bedrock was slowly sinking into the long-lost mine tunnels. I frightened Sarah by going off-trail to look down one of these sunken spots. Having scratched that itch, I returned to the trail safe and sound, and we continued on.

As we walked, the park's headquarters on Mott Island -- across the harbor -- became visible, and we were able to track our progress by our position relative to it. The next attraction was a beautiful, flat, grassy, and shady point of land sticking out into Rock Harbor directly across from the headquarters' dock. The point was something we hadn't seen much of: Non-rocky, actual dirt. It was also covered in blueberry bushes. We seriously considered stopping for a rest break or even a nap, but decided to push on to reach Three Mile campground instead.

So far, the trail had been incredibly flat with only a few roots and rocks. But after shortly after the "blueberry point" -- and about 1 mile away from Three Mile campground -- that changed in a big way. We suddenly started to encounter 1 or 2 foot boulders with only a narrow path of dirt running between them. Occasionally massive bedrock outcrops cut across the trail, sloping into the water, and we had to follow cairns across them. One section was even more amazing -- a steep and impassable swath of bedrock cut right down almost to the water level, leaving only a 2 foot wide ledge of rock at the very bottom, almost in the lake. We had to wait as others came through the opposite way, and then walk carefully with waves almost lapping at our feet.

The tougher path and the longer mileage started to wear on us, and we trudged onward.

Blueberries, so many blueberries!

After another enormous bedrock outcrop, we finally saw the trail sign for Three Mile campground. Three Mile was squeezed between the steep bedrock ridges and the water, so it was stretched out into a long line of campsites and shelters. The very first shelter was occupied by none other than our Trail Twins, John and Shelly. They greeted us warmly but warned us that we were a bit late, and the big crowd that had arrived in Rock Harbor on the Queen had already made it to Three Mile -- but that we could share their shelter if we needed.

I raced ahead to check the remaining sites. Nothing was available -- even the tent sites were overflowing with two or three tents per site. One shelter briefly faked me out -- it had no itinerary attached to the door handle, but I soon saw that backpacks were stashed inside. We later learned that some of our fellow backpackers had accidentally left their itinerary attached to their shelter back in Moskey, but didn't discover it until 4 miles into their trek.

We sat on the dock for a while, discussing our options and trying to rest, but bugs chased us away (the only time in the entire trip that bugs were a problem). We decided to check out the group sites, just in case they were still open and reasonable for camping. The group sites were both located far uphill and away from the water. They were wide open, sunny, hot and buggy. Sarah was tired and upset and proclaimed Three Mile an "ugly campground". We sat down at a picnic table in Group Site #1, swatted bugs, and grumped it up.

But, after a bit of rest, things started to look up. We agreed that we felt good enough to push onwards, all the way back to Rock Harbor. We were this close to Rock Harbor already, and there was a huge campground there. It couldn't be more full than Three Mile! We decided to take some advice that we had heard from several other backpackers: Avoid the Rock Harbor trail between Three Mile and Rock Harbor. It was the most direct way "home", but it was supposed to be especially rocky and difficult, much like the last mile of trail that we had been on. Instead, we would cut across the peninsula to the Tobin Harbor trail, which we knew from experience was flat and easy (despite adding an extra mile of length).

We backtracked a short way and, at the enormous bedrock outcrop, discovered that the Mt. Franklin Trail that would lead us across the peninsula went directly up that outcrop. The climb was short but intense, and then the trail became truly beautiful. It wound through deep and dark woods, up and down small ridges, and across wetlands. It was cool and pleasant. We loved it. Soon we found the trail intersection and turned onto our old friend, the Tobin Harbor trail.

Maybe it was just the 8+ miles we'd already done, but the Tobin Harbor trail didn't seem quite as friendly as it did 5 days ago, when were were totally fresh on the first leg of our trip. It had many more ups and downs than either of us remembered, lots more roots and rocks, and it sure seemed long. It did, however, still have gorgeous views of the deep blue waters of Tobin Harbor. We took it slow, trying to enjoy the views and not just stare at the trail in front of our feet.

Tobin Harbor Islet

After what felt like hours we suddenly came upon three backpackers stopped dead in the middle of the trail, staring uphill into the woods. One of them whispered, "there's a moose up there!". We froze and stared into the woods, trying to see its moosey form. They stared. We stared harder. Nothing happened. We didn't even hear anything. Eventually we all started walking again, with the other people talking about how it had been "right there!" Once again, we were late to the moose party. At this point, I was starting to suspect that we actually has special powers to make moose disappear.

At long, long last we saw the trail sign for Rock Harbor, and turned onto the paved trail leading down towards the harbor itself. We turned again onto a wide dirt path leading to the Rock Harbor campground, which was a ways uphill from the main harbor complex.

The trail led past a long line of shelters, all of which were filled. We were trudging wearily toward the campsites when a man walking the other way saw our backpacks and stopped us. "Are you looking for a site?" he asked us. We nodded wearily. "Everything is full here. I've got a site up the hill that you're welcome to share." We were too tired to be surprised that the campground was also full, but we were certainly amazed at generosity. We thanked him and headed the way he had pointed. Sure enough, we found a large campsite with only one hammock and a clothesline strung up around the edges.

We were so tired that we didn't even bother to check out the rest of the campground, but we could still tell that it was filled. There were people everywhere. They were a combination of campers who had arrived today -- both the Queen and Ranger had arrived, an event that only happens a few days per week even in the height of summer -- and campers like us who were planning to leave tomorrow. In particular, the Ranger docks at Rock Harbor overnight and would be leaving at 9 am sharp the next day. Any backpacker who wanted to be on the ship would be in Rock Harbor tonight.

We couldn't believe it -- we had just hiked 12 miles, all the way from Moskey Basin to Rock Harbor, after having our butts totally kicked by mere 4 and 7 mile hikes on the previous days. It was our single longest day of backpacking ever -- and we did it on the butt-kicking Isle Royale! It felt great: We had really accomplished something. It also felt exhausting. But even more important, our early arrival in Rock Harbor opened up some bonus opportunities that we hadn't expected to have.

We quickly set up our tent and then headed back down the hill for the first and most glorious of the unexpected bonuses: hot showers! There is a shower building with hot running water just behind the main ranger station, and we were about to take full advantage of it. The showers are operated by tokens, so we went to the "camp store" to purchase tokens. For $6 each, we got a token for a 5 minute shower. For an additional $2.50 each, we got towels, soap, and shampoo. It was the best $17 I've ever spent.

Well, almost. Sarah started first and literally sang the praises of the hot shower. I stepped into the next stall and got ready (including strategically pre-placing soap, washcloth, etc. so as to waste not a second of hot water time). I put my token in the machine and... nothing happened. I fiddled with the token machine, the water knobs, the shower head... nothing! Resigned, I got re-dressed and went back to the camp store, where the clerk (a very young college kid) gave me another token for free. I tried a different shower, which worked as expected. It was everything I could have hoped for and more. There is nothing better than a hot shower after 5 days in the backcountry -- it was glorious.

After drying and changing into "clean" clothes (at least, clothes we hadn't yet worn that day), we once again went to the camp store and looked at the amazing variety of items for sale. You could almost arrive on the island with a backpack and a sleeping bag, and buy the rest of your supplies at the store. They had freeze-dried food, sleeping pads, stove fuel, rope, water filters, cook sets, and a huge variety of other backcountry essentials.

More important for us, they had ice cream bars and Cherry Pepsi. We bought one of each (for a mere $1 each -- it felt like we were back in 1990!) and sat on a bench enjoying them. They too were glorious.

With our most pressing needs satisfied, we could focus on another of the unexpected benefits of arriving at Rock Harbor a day earlier than we had planned. The Rock Harbor Lodge runs sightseeing cruises on the MV Sandy, a passenger boat operated by the Rock Harbor Lodge. We walked around the harbor to the Lodge's office and found out that there were still spaces on tonight's "Sunset Cruise". We bought two tickets immediately. The cruise left in about 30 minutes, so we didn't have time to make dinner. To tide us over, we bought a few more snacks (cheese crackers and Pringles) and ate them while sitting at Sandy's dock.

Bedrock on Raspberry Island

Only a few minutes before departure time, the captain and his first mate (a young college kid) arrived and helped us onboard. It turned out that there was no urgency in buying the tickets -- there were maybe 10 people on the entire boat. Almost all of us crammed ourselves into two rows of seats in the open-air back of the boat. Most of the passengers were staying at the Rock Harbor lodge, and some of them were strangely grumpy. They complained about the seats, the breeze, the distance they had to walk from their hotel rooms... This made no sense to us, what with the soft beds and running water they enjoyed here on Isle Royale. Whatever its cause, the grumpiness couldn't dampen our euphoria over clean skin and junk food. Other passengers were quite friendly, and we had a fun time chatting with the other passengers.

After motoring out of dock, our first stop was just across Rock Harbor at Raspberry Island, one of the barrier islands standing between Rock Harbor and the open water of Lake Superior. Raspberry Island is relatively small and has a very short loop trail with interpretive signs. The grumpy tourists became extra grumpy when the captain unceremoniously announced that this part of the tour was self-guided, and that we should make sure to be back in 30 minutes or else. A few didn't even bother to look at the trail, instead spending their time trying to get a cell phone signal from the dock.

Sarah and I started on the interpretive trail but quickly took a less-traveled spur that lead off to a rocky cliff. The island is really just the top of one of the unending series of ridges that make up Isle Royale -- but most of this one is under water. The steep basalt cliff gave us simultaneous panoramic views both of Lake Superior and back towards Rock Harbor, and we spent almost all of our time just taking in the views. Well, that, and picking tons of wild blueberries that grew on the island. Due to the lack of constant foot traffic, they hadn't been picked over yet. No raspberries actually grow on Raspberry Island -- but apparently they did 150 years ago, when the island had been completely clear-cut by miners searching for copper veins in the rock. The first plants to grow in the burned-over soil were raspberries brought by birds, but they were eventually out-competed by other plants.

We returned to the dock on time to catch our ride. The Sandy headed northeast around Scoville Point, one of the long, narrow, rocky points that make up the "five fingers" at the eastern end of Isle Royale. Scoville Point separates Rock Harbor from Tobin Harbor, which we now got to see from the water side of things. At this point, the young-looking second mate picked up a microphone and started narrating some of the sights along the way. The main sights were old cabins and other buildings left from Isle Royale's heyday as popular resort destination. Our narrator described the island's history as a resort paradise -- a place for wealthy people to escape from dirty cities and enjoy the pure, crisp Lake Superior air. A large number of resorts existed on the "fingers" and islands at the eastern end of Isle Royale.

The "easy" side of the ridge that forms Raspberry Island. This is what the entire trail from Moskey to Daisy Farm looks like.

When the island became a National Park in 1940, existing resorts and private cottages were purchased by the US government, but the private owners were allowed to keep using them -- for as long as the owner was still alive. Our guide pointed out a few of these leases that were still active, and some which had recently reverted to the park -- and others which had been forcibly returned to the park after shenanigans such as not notifying the park when the owner finally passed away. One of the most intriguing was the Artist in Residence cabin, located right at the end of Scoville Point at an incredibly exposed location. Our guide told us about various Artists in Residence, the requirements for the program, and how great the location was. It got me (and many others!) thinking about how I could possibly apply.

We got a fair bit of gossip from our young guide, whose willingness to talk about anything and everything related to island life quickly endeared him to us. His parents both worked for the park service, while he was a college student back in the UP somewhere. He excitedly interrupted his own string of gossip about leases and lessees to point out a (very distant) bald eagle sitting perched high on a tree, and then turned right around and had us wave at a cabin whose owners were in "town". We also saw quite a few decrepit buildings from long-abandoned resorts -- some wooden shacks, some piles of rubble, and the occasional converted cabin still being used by its old owners.

We turned around and traveled out around Blake Point, the extreme point of land on this end of Isle Royale. We could see Passage Island (the northernmost point of land in Michigan) and its lighthouse in the distance as we learned about Great Lakes shipping paths, lighthouses, buoys, and shipwrecks. The sun began to set as we made our way out into the open lake, hearing about the "Sleeping Giant" and "Sleeping Baby" visible on the Canadian shore. But, there was no sunset to be seen -- it was hidden behind a thick bank of clouds that was blowing in. Nonetheless, our trusty captain had us tread water for at least 10 minutes out in the brisk wind so that we could enjoy the "sunset". Apparently he kept to the schedule no matter what.

It was a long trip back in the dark -- really, incredibly dark. The islands were just dim bulks against the darkening sky, made even darker by the thick clouds. Being out on this small craft on the big lake in that dark evening was a spooky and humbling experience. Thankfully, our young narrator kept us entertained with tales of growing up on the island. I had to admit that I was a bit envious.

The Ranger III at dock in Rock Harbor

When we made it back to Rock Harbor, I stayed put on the dock until everyone had left. The Ranger III was in port and all lit up. It was quite beautiful in the dark.

After that, there was nothing to do but walk the dark paths up to the Rock Harbor campground, crawl into our tent, and go to sleep. We were so exhausted that we didn't even have dinner.

Miles hiked: 12
Total miles: 30

Next time: Riding the Barf Barge

Trail Reviews (based on our one trip as experienced UP backpackers with 40 pound packs):

Rock Harbor Trail (Moskey Basin -- Daisy Farm): Medium. The angled ridges keep your feet (and body) constantly tilted.

Rock Harbor Trail (Daisy Farm -- 3 Mile): Easy! The last mile (into 3 mile) is tough with bigger rocks, but the first 3 miles are flat and have only roots and small rocks. Great views.

Mt. Franklin Trail (3 Mile -- Tobin Harbor intersection): Easy. Twisty and turny with one big uphill at 3 Mile, but the rest is beautiful.

Tobin Harbor Trail (heading east): Easy. As much as I complained about it in here, this is still about as easy as Isle Royale gets. Roots and some rocks, but wide with and rolling hills.