Friday September 9^th 2011

I have set up camp on the northernmost of the Ing Islands, a collection of jade beads dropped in the middle of Amisk Lake.  This is the third time I have camped here.   I named this Otter Island because signs of otters are all around: freshwater mussel shells, crayfish claws and calciferous scat, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen one here.  She is swimming in the channel between this and the next island, and the only identification clue from this distance is her graceful glistening roll as she submerges.  She swims back and forth as night comes on, a gibbous moon materializing out of the deepening orange of humidity masking the eastern horizon.  A loon is calling and water laps gently on barely exposed rocks.

This day has been as hot as midsummer. I came through the portage at the south end of our bay shortly after noon, and sweat dripped into my eyes as I hauled the laden kayak across.  The corduroy logs laid for the voyageur canoes last year have all gone and with them the kayak’s easy glide.  What a relief reaching the final downhill and slipping the boat into the water.

I anticipated a cool swim at Silo beach, but somehow missed the split between islands leading there.  Island shapes are changed after the great wind of July 18.  The lake is up four feet or more, so islands have a very different shape and demeanor.  I found myself in unfamiliar territory and had the bizarre feeling I was dream travelling.  I came across the number 68  painted on a board on the land to my left, and checking the map, found I had transported myself far south.

At this stage I was still undecided where I would go. I had thought I might camp one night close to the east shore and go to the Ings the next day. I would have loved to go back to the area I  found last year, but realized those islands were so low in the water they might easily be flooded.  They were still some distance away with nowhere else to camp near them, so I could be in trouble.   Up ahead was an island that looked promising. A dark shape on the shore seemed odd for a rock shadow, and as I came closer it materialized into a black bear.  Though the bear looked sweet cavorting in the shallows, I took a wide birth.  Black bears become mean at this time of year when they have voracious appetites for fats and meat.  They can become predatory in the fall.

My mind made up, I headed west, across a wide expanse of water that no bear with any sense would bother to go.  The long paddle became a meditation, breathing as I made each stroke.

This island lost one tree to the storm.  A tall Balsam lies at the back of my tent, looking for all the world like a hedge. I hear what sounds like conversation.  On guano covered gull island pelicans, cormorants and gulls keep up a murmuring.  A white pelican flies close to the water in a graceful arc towards them.

I hear geese honking.  A skein is flying along the eastern horizon, lowering to the water toward Newfoundland Island where I wonder if  they will roost for the night. Perhaps the marsh grasses of the southern bays have more attraction. The moon is brightening as shadows lengthen.  A grebe is fishing just south of where I sit.  I can hear a plane flying high but see no trail.

Here in the middle of the lake I am about as far from human contact as I can be but still I hear a motorboat en route to the Sturgeon Weir River, buzzing into oblivion.  How long will I be able to experience this quality of solitude?  How long before the DNR forbids camping outside of designated sites?  I am so grateful.  Nothing compares to this peace as night comes on and another skein of geese flies close to the water.

Saturday September 10^th, 2011

Watching sunrise is spiritual.  Desert dwellers and fishermen are the first who come to mind as people who regularly see the sunrise. Three great religions came out of the desert, and every fishing port has its saint.  There is primeval gratitude for the sun’s appearance.  At home I am surrounded by trees and busyness, all I do is become aware of the sun and notice rather the lateness of its appearance.  Here I cannot help but join the people before me who sent up their hymns of praise as the gold tip of the sun sends its glittering path toward our hearts.

A bald eagle is looking for food to break the night’s fast.  Its flight pattern stutters with each possible sighting.  The water is so ruffled with tiny waves I wonder how he can see through them.  We must have food to sustain our flight.

A mouse has nibbled into my cookie bag.  I left it out, reasoning bears with easy pickings are less likely to destroy my property.  I never thought of smaller mammals.  Under a saucepan to keep it dry, a crumple of fire-starting paper has provided a perfect nest for the mouse.  We startle each other and it dashes off, disabused of its belief that a benign goddess had bestowed shelter for winter, and food!

How easily I fall into the pattern of thinking that says possessions are bad.  All the stuff I have here is for survival and yes, comfort.  The mouse illustrates.  We can do with less, but when fortune provides, we take what we can get.  Two pairs of shoes? Yes.  One pair which grips slimy underwater rocks, and a dry pair to walk easily over rocky slopes.  A chair.  I could sit on rocks, but my chair with its back and arm rest is so much more comfortable.

It is no accident that all my stuff fits in the kayak.  Human nature is to fill every space we have.  And more!  The problem is cleaning our nests of the debris of past selves, the selves we have outgrown. Clothes, kitchen utensils, saved containers, boxes of memorabilia I sift through each spring and fall, paring it down as more comes in.

The sun will soon rise over top of the tree that’s shading me.  It is already hot so I must take off into the islands to find a cool place to spend the part of the day my camp is in full sun.

Exploring the islands I was not aware of the wind picking up until round noon when white caps began crashing against the rocks nearby.  I have been storm stranded in the Ing Islands before and knew I didn’t want to be caught for yet another round.  Where would I camp next, I thought as I packed.  The wind was from the south west so I needed somewhere sheltered on an eastern shoreline.  Nowhere came to mind, except Sandy island way to the north with miles of open water inbetween.   The wind  buffeted the kayak around and waves were breaking into it as I tried again and again to get in.  Success at last, I paddled quickly into a spot sheltered by willows, tightened the kayak skirt, and set off towards the nearest land to the north, Stovepipe Island. 

I  paddled diagonal to the waves.  Concentration was essential as at any time a big wave could swing me and break broadside.   I don’t like the skirt but I was grateful this time.  Without it I would have shipped a lot of water.  On the lee of Stovepipe island I caught my breath then headed for the chain of islands west of Chamley.  The wind was swinging to north west, but the waves hadn’t all caught up.   I faced some from the north and some from the west, sometimes having waves coming at me from front and side.  It was heavy going and all I could do was keep paddling, looking ahead at the landmass and calculating how far I could swim. Though the wind was blowing harder than ever, my balance and the kayak’s buoyancy were my trump cards and I was confident.   

 I headed for a break in the tree line. Between two islands sat a smaller one, nicely sheltered.   I know how when I’m in unfamiliar territory, I can look and pass up potential spots. Today  I had to make a decision before 5 pm.  Getting my camp set up and a hot meal inside me before nightfall was essential.  The weather was changing.  How far the temperature may drop was the scare factor.

As luck or misfortune would have it, the decision was made for me.  I prepared to land in a cleft with a shallow rock ledge leading up to it.  Rarely do I find such an ideal place to get out of my boat.  I placed my right foot on the ledge, not realizing there was a fissure in the rock under the kayak. This was limestone, not the Precambrian rock I was used to.  It also had a totally different flora, fine and slimy. My foot slipped into the crack, under I went and over went the kayak.  Getting to a sitting position, I prevented the kayak from turtling, and began throwing off the stuff packed on top, and started bailing with my plastic sandal.  When the kayak was light enough I eased it on to land and unpacked some more.  Finding a saucepan made the bailing quicker.  Soon the kayak was up on the rocks and I was hanging stuff out to dry in the sun.

Everything was sodden, except my clothes which we packed the old fashioned way – a garbage bag inside a back pack.  The dry packs had all let in water. My soaked fanny pac contained my camera.

There was just enough level space for the tent and I set it up to dry, then made myself a hot meal.  By the time I went to bed my night clothes, sleeping bag, mattress and pillows were dry so I had a really good night’s sleep. I woke once, smelling smoke, so had to get out to quiet  irrational anxiety nagging that the island was aflame. Smoke from fires far to the north was being carried by the wind which was whipping trees to and fro on the far side of the adjacent island. In this sheltered channel all was calm.   The moon, nearly full, poured its silver over the water towards me.

Getting out of my tent for the sunrise was a disappointment. The well-treed island to the east and low cloud, obscured it.  As the hidden sun rose, the clouds flashed coral pink then turned charcoal grey when it disappeared behind them.  There is a chill in the air and I am glad of my layers of sweaters.  Gone are the shorts of yesterday, replaced by polar fleece.  I sip my tea and my mind goes back to this historic date – September 11. 

Finally the sun appears, filling the water with its glistening trail of light.  This brilliant path to the sun, to the moon last night, is dependent on me.  Without me, it would not point here.  Somehow this realization missed me when as a child I learned about my shadow.  Until now I never thought the same physics applied: whoever looks toward the sun or moon over water, where ever they are, the path leads to them.  Our own personal path to light.

I set off to explore first the island to the west and then those north of it.  They are limestone and with their blockish shapes and reindeer moss they are enchanting.   Russell told me years ago that there was a  group of limestone islands  he explored as a kid. He didn’t know any names, neither could he explain exactly where they were.  These have to be Russell’s islands.  They are just south west of Isquasoo Island, where I saw the deer last summer.

 I found a pebble beach, exquisite painting spots and several areas to camp.  This is right off the beaten track and it is obviously not a fishing spot, so it is just my kind of place. I think I can get home whatever the weather, which certainly beats the Ing Islands.  I’m getting too old for being holed up for days because of bad weather!

It is still.  The sky is a uniform grey. Something is changing in the weather. We are on the cusp of summer and fall.   Loons are calling their long mournful cry and a group of cormorants make a dark line in the water.  Perhaps they are ready to migrate. My bags are packed.   I start to make my leisurely way home, exploring more islands as I go.   A light rain begins to fall.  Each drop hitting the water creates an exclamation point then a bubble.    Three bald eagles, sheltering in trees watch my yellow umbrella and red kayak move across a mirror covered with shining bubbles and exclamations.