Paddling Pukaskwa

by

Okay, this is it. Day Ten and we need to be off the water tonight. Today is our designated departure from Ontario’s Pukaskwa National Park. Bill has a flight to catch, I have a photo assignment out West, Steve has a pile on his desk demanding attention in Minneapolis. After 10 days in the other-worldly atmosphere along the shores of Lake Superior, the real world creeps in. People, phones, gas stations, deadlines. It stinks.

But Lake Superior may keep us today. We’d thought an early start from our Shot Watch Cove camp assured time to make Hattie Cove by dusk, despite a forecast of increasing waves with dense fog a possibility. The fog didn’t wait long. On an afternoon break at Willow River, we see people for the first time in 10 days. They camped because of heavy fog and waves … in the direction that we’re heading. A sense of urgency penetrates us. To reach Hattie Cove, we must paddle a nasty, exposed 4 1/2 miles of shoreline. No wind buffers, no protective coves. Once committed, that’s it.

On our park permits we declared that we’d leave today. Miss sign-out by 24 hours and park headquarters sends out a reconnaissance. This, too, weighs on us. The park policy makes sense. The wildness of this coast, inaccessible by road, can make it lonely and harsh. Trouble here can be very real.

In the dense fog, only sounds of the shore and readings on the compass keep us on course. A desire to see shore overwhelms us, but as waves increase, so do reflection waves bouncing off the shore. The goosey water forces us to paddle out a little farther into the fog. The mouth of the White River will soon appear to confirm our bearings. It’s a major river. We can’t miss it, right?  

I and my two companions – displaced-Texan-turned-Minnesotan Steve Klopp and Bill Brent from Portland, Oregon – aren’t strangers to paddling tricky waters.

On Lake Superior, I’ve kayaked Apostle Islands in Wisconsin a dozen times, paddled around Michigan’s Grand Island and Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore and dipped a paddle numerous times along the lake’s Minnesota north shore. Once three friends and I paddled 10 miles to Slate Islands Provincial Park out of Terrace Bay, Ontario, to explore and photograph woodland caribou.

For a long time, this place called “Pukaskwa” intrigued us. Pukaskwa National Park (PUCK-a-saw) stretches down the far eastern side of the lake from Pic River near Hattie Cove to Pukaskwa River nearly 144 miles south. No interior roads lead to the coast. Highway 17 takes travelers from Marathon to Wawa in a long bow away from the lake and around the park, ensuring that its 1,164 square miles of wilderness remain extremely wild.

Greg Breining, a friend who wrote Wild Shore (University of Minnesota Press) about paddling Lake Superior, gave us the excuse for this journey. He declared Pukaskwa the most beautiful and wild stretch of the lake, all the bait needed to get a photographer to pack the Jeep, stuff the kayaks and fill the gas tank.

To kayak Pukaskwa’s coastline, I advise allowing at least 10 days. It can be done in three to four days in perfect conditions, but Lake Superior rarely provides that option. We hired Bruce McCuaig in Heron Bay to ferry us and our kayaks in his old fishing boat from Hattie Cove to Pukaskwa River. Cost was $550 (U.S.) for all of us and it let us return to our vehicles at our own pace.

On Day One, we made our way to Hattie Cove after securing the proper permits from park headquarters. Bruce McCuaig matched exactly how I’d imagined him after several phone conversations: Old enough to be my father, seasoned enough to be part of the Jaws cast. We slogged through rain and wind to find McCuaig sitting by a glowing woodstove reading the paper inside his boat’s dimly lit cabin. The warmth was intoxicating. “We ain’t going out today, boys,” he told us. “Weather is too rough with a front from the northwest expected tonight. It’ll be iffy tomorrow, too.”

On Day Two, we awoke to weather rainy but not horrible. McCuaig had spent the night on the boat as he often does, even though home is only 20 minutes away. If we hustle, he advised, we might make it out. Edmund Fitzgerald always comes to mind at such times. The fear of being “caught” in Lake Superior gnaws at you when the sun isn’t shining. I watched McCuaig carefully. I recalled when my wife gave birth to our three kids. If the nurses weren’t nervous, neither was I. McCuaig’s calm comforted me.

Heading out of Hattie Cove, McCuaig estimated seven hours to the mouth of the Pukaskwa River. He planned to spend the night there. Later in the summer, he might pick up other groups after the drop. But this early, we’re the first group this season.

We passed Campbell Point and conditions turned worse. South winds can play havoc on watercraft here; nothing buffers winds for hundreds of miles. We rarely saw the shore, only thick fog and black waves with icy tops. I kept my eyes on McCuaig. Not nervous yet; we were still in the game. We kayakers were anxious, even if McCuaig was not. Looking at my companions, I noted the abnormal quiet among three guys who usually talk too much.

After 7 1/2 hours, McCuaig pulled into Bonamie Cove for shelter three miles from Pukaskwa River. We shuttled gear to a sandy shore in a small motorboat, leaving McCuaig to spend the night, again, on his boat.

I enjoy the trips that you love to hate and by Day Three, this was fast becoming one. Weather remained annoying, windy and cold. No kayaking, we were windbound. We knew intimately our little stretch of beach, exploring it over and over to relieve boredom. We set up tarps to keep out of the wind and out of the tents. Hot cocoa again, some soup. A nap, more cocoa. Bedtime.

On Day Four … still windbound. A compass-directed bushwhack initiated by Steve through the spruce forest and bogs to the peak of Pointe la Canadienne gave a peek at the distant Pukaskwa River. Michipicoten Island loomed huge in the distance.

Labrador bloomed in full and new spring growth emerged from trees like gifts of nature. Evidence of moose littered the forest floor. The light green of freshly grown tamarack needles captivated me. Hours later Steve’s compass directed us back to within 15 feet of our camp. A fine diversion to landlocked boredom.

Day Five. Again, windbound. Frustrated. We could see Richardson Island less than a mile away. Incoming waves proved too big, the risks too great, to chance a few hundred yards of open water to get there. A rocky shelf between these points, normally several feet underwater, exposed itself then disappeared beneath a wash of 38-degree-Fahrenheit water. Miscalculation would shatter a kayak. We waited.

Day Six brought gentler seas. We scrambled to load the kayaks and bolted for Richardson Island. It took five days of waiting for our first paddling; it took 10 minutes to reach the island.

This day we also found some of the 183 ancient Pukaskwa Pits identified along the coast. The pits, actually large piles of rocks that form a bowl large enough to hold several men, were often located within 25 yards of the lake. Their true use remains a mystery. Some believe them focal points for spirit quests by the local Anishinabe (called Ojibwe) people. Others imagine them as storm shelters. But with the forest just yards away, this doesn’t make sense. Perhaps they served as food caches, though provision-stealing critters could easily squeeze between the large rocks. The pits fascinated us and locating them became a game. It’s like looking for agates. Once you get a feel for what to look for, they’re everywhere. The sites, considered sacred by the Anishinabe people, should be respected and left untouched by visitors.

Day Seven started with our spirits raised by the wonder of the Pukaskwa Pits. But such wonders created a Catch 22. After six days, we still had nearly 90 miles left to paddle in less than five days. So many things to see and photograph, so many bays to explore, historic sites and cobblestone beaches to study, fish to catch. We got paddling.

On Day Eight, the waves stayed small enough for us to make up time. We planned to visit Otter Island Lighthouse then to camp a few miles from there at Cascade Falls. From Richardson Harbour to Deep Harbour near the southern tip of Otter Island is about five miles. Averaging three-quarters of a mile every 15 to 20 minutes in fairly calm seas, we figured two hours to reach Deep Harbour. If nasty weather kicked up, there was no place to retreat along this rocky and steep stretch, no protective pockets – common terrain along Pukaskwa. Careful planning and updated weather reports can keep you alive here; studying maps and listening to marineband weather radio is critical each day.

We rounded Otter Head peninsula and paddled the flat backwaters deep in Otter Cove, searching for the Warden Cabin. For the first time in days, I loved being in my kayak. The shore whizzed by. The big lake was out of sight and it was nice not to deal with it. We entered a different world. As we paddled by Weidman’s Island, two moose spent the afternoon in a cabin’s front yard unaware of us.

We visited Otter Island Lighthouse before setting camp. The lighthouse perches on a hill overlooking the lake. Painted bright red and white, you felt yourself for once in Canadian territory and not simply in an unclaimed wilderness.

Later, with tents hugging the forest edges and the roar of Cascade Falls never far, we stayed at my favorite campsite on the trip. Thousands of prime driftwood pieces dotted the cobblestone beach. The perfect coals of a warm fire slowly cooked our lake trout, fresh caught. I fell in love all over again with Lake Superior’s wildness.

We liked it so much, it was difficult to leave on Day Nine. A hot sun burned off the morning fog. Our drying wet suits steamed in the sun. We vowed to return. Shoving off, we made great time in the now approachable lake. We paddled hard and steady, hitting that rhythm of long travel days. We rarely spoke, putting miles behind us. A brief fishing stop at Grandma Stevens Pond north of Trapper Harbour proved fruitless and we snacked on the “gorp” that we’d brought. Later we stopped at English Fishery, a lovely, protected cobblestone spot. At Hideaway Lake close by, I hooked a fish that I swear was a nuclear submarine. After a 15-minute fight it bolted with such speed and strength that it broke my line. I wanted to cry. We hiked to the nearby ridges for a spectacular preview of the next day’s travel route. Numerous islands could provide cover from waves.

The view confirmed the allure of this place. No planes, no roads, no people. We set our sights on Oiseau Bay. I’d heard about giant quartz veins in the bedrock with wild shapes and designs. This large bay wrapped by the Coastal Hiking Trail can be enjoyed by boaters and backpackers. It offers sandy beaches, tiny islands and artful rock formations. Paddling into Oiseau Bay, we spotted a moose and her two calves romping in the sand. We got within 50 feet of them before they scampered off. A red fox ran over to peek in our kayaks during our snack stop. We felt cheated by our short time here, but we had to forge ahead to our Shot Watch Cove camp a short distance north.

Even in early summer it doesn’t get dark until 10:30 p.m. Dusk lingers another hour. On the open lake, plenty of light remains to navigate. We found Shot Watch Cove in the dark, made camp at midnight, got a fire going and cooked four packages of MSR Mountain Gourmet’s Organic Creamy Garlic Mashed Potatoes, four of Organic Pasta Primivera. We piled plates five inches high. Embarrassingly, we ate it all. A long day on the trail brings on a good appetite. We’d need the fuel.…

Now where is White River? On our Day Ten homestretch, waiting for signs of it in the fog is like watching a pot boil. Did we pass it? We must find it to confirm compass coordinates before our final push to Campbell Point and a turn into Hattie Cove.

The fog floats so thickly only a kayak length keeps us in view of each other. Already it’s after 7 p.m. Off the right side of the kayaks, the water changes to dark brown. Finally, White River! Within minutes the current picks up. What’s happening? Then it dawns on us. We’re going up the river instead of past it. We can’t see so we couldn’t tell.

Back out, we get our bearings and head across open water, trying to shave time by not being sucked into Playter Harbour. To leave the security of the shore this late in the day in thick fog and increasing waves must be a group choice. Bearing N-NW, we will run smack into Campbell Point. In these rough seas, we should again hear waves crashing on shore within 45 minutes to an hour.

For now, this open-water silence is deafening. We know the consequences: Miss Campbell Point, next stop Isle Royale.

Seventy-five minutes later, trusting the compass more than ourselves, we feel reflection waves – the shore at Campbell Point. We hear waves and glimpse a faint silhouette of land. We follow the peninsula to its tip, turn northeast. Hattie Cove exposes its smile. It looks like it did when we left 10 days ago – dark, cold, foggy. The draining of adrenaline shows on our faces. What a trip.

At the dock, we unload gear from the kayaks and load it into the Jeep all the while reminiscing about the journey and jamming to Jimmy Buffet on the Jeep’s CD player. Yes, paying attention to details and planning ahead gave us the edge on this trip and made it a safe one, despite conditions.

Forty-five minutes later we deft planners climb into the Jeep, finally ready to re-enter civilization. I turn the key; the Jeep won’t start. Dead battery from using the CD player.

Welcome back to the real world.

Layne Kennedy’s images appear regularly in Smithsonian, LIFE, Islands, Sports Illustrated, Business Week, Newsweek, Outside, Forbes, National Geographic Traveler and other magazines. Layne has contributed to books for the National Geographic Society, Knopf Greystone, McMillan and others. He photographed a Great Lakes states book for National Geographic Society. His work is represented by his Minneapolis office and CORBIS in Bellevue, Washington.