The Eye of the Wolf

by Carl Strang

Isle Royale, known to some by its alternative name of "Minong," to me is the Eye of the Wolf. When I look at a map of Lake Superior, the lake appears to have a wolf's head shape with the Apostle Islands in its nostrils, the Keeweenau Peninsula as its mouth, and Isle Royale as its eye. The main island is long and narrow, with extreme dimensions of 45 x 8.5 statute miles and 210 square miles' surface area. There are lots of associated smaller islands. I had been wanting to visit that national park for a long time, and made the decision that my first trip would be a 2-week circumnavigation in my sea kayak. It was one of the best trips of any kind I've ever done.

Travel to and from the island via Ranger III, the National Park Service's ferry out of Houghton, Michigan, was the only significant cost in an otherwise dirt-cheap vacation. At $115 total, including transporting Water Strider, my Skerray RM, even that cost was low, in my view. The boat ride is a long one at 6-7 hours, but there are permits to fill out, interpretive programs to attend, and scenery to watch.

It was my good fortune that Rolf Peterson was on board. Rolf and I had pursued wildlife ecology Ph.D.'s together at Purdue in the early 70's, and since that time he has been in charge of a long-term study of wolf and moose populations on Isle Royale, a program begun by Durward Allen in the late 1950's. We renewed acquaintances and Rolf summarized what has been going on there. The wolf population crashed in the early 80's, thanks in large part to a virus, but in recent years has shown encouraging recovery. The low wolf numbers allowed the moose population to skyrocket until the moose depleted their food supply. This situation was adjusted significantly by the severe winter of 1995-6, especially the late spring, which according to Rolf's estimates cut the moose population in half, leaving still too many moose but setting up a situation in which the wolves can bring the moose numbers back in line more quickly. So, Rolf and his helpers had been busy all summer locating moose remains and making note of their gender, age, signs of arthritis and other indicators of vulnerability. When Rolf learned of my plans he asked if I would mind checking on four dead moose, three of which had been incompletely studied and one of which was practically unreachable except by sea kayak. This opened another dimension to the trip.

Rolf and a few others got off at the Mott Island park headquarters, while most of us rode a couple miles farther to the Rock Harbor landing. Rock Harbor is one of the park's two main junctions where backpackers start their treks and lodges are available for less strenuous sightseeing. I carefully loaded my boat according to the plan I'd tested on my kitchen floor (modified from shorter camping trips the previous year). The Skerray is just big enough to carry 15 days' worth of gear and food, but the initial packing took the greater part of an hour. I had hoped to spend the first night at the Tooker's Island campsite, only 1.5 miles away, but it was full when I got there. This was disappointing, because it meant at least another 4 miles' paddling into a late afternoon headwind. I continued SW along the islands of the Rock Harbor channel, passing a pair of loons with young and the Mott Island HQ before reaching Caribou Island campground, which had one tent site left.

Isle Royale is a great place for a first long sea kayak trip. There are lots of maintained campgrounds complete with pit toilets. Many of the campgrounds around the Lake Superior shore have shelters, wooden-floored structures with 3 walls, a roof, and a screened fourth wall, which save time in camp setup and allow for drying of wet clothing and tents. The latrines often are supplied with TP. I was happy to take advantage of shelters when I could get them, but was content to use my tent on the 9 of 15 nights that a shelter was unavailable. Tent sites are flat-surfaced and smooth but seldom level.

Caribou Island was a delightful place, in a relatively (for Rock Harbor) quiet location. It has a dock, and several motorboats were pulled up. There is a reputed hostility between non-powerboaters, particularly backpackers, and the powerboat operators, mostly fishermen. While I certainly would have preferred not to hear any motor noise during my trip, I found the people from those boats (with a few exceptions) to be very cordial, and sympathetic to the needs of self-powered explorers. I heard endless stories of backpackers and paddlers being offered food and fuel, and had a few such offers myself. We all paid to get there, and the island is a special place to everyone who visits. I had some good conversations around the dock area that first evening, there was a fine sunset and even a campfire (fires are prohibited at nearly all campgrounds; Caribou Island is an exception).

I made an early start the next morning, launching at around 8 a.m. for a short paddle to Rolf and Candy Peterson's field station, a cabin in the Rock Harbor corridor. Rolf marked my topo map with the dead moose locations and showed me how to identify signs of arthritis. From there I headed out of Rock Harbor and into Lake Superior proper, passing along the belly of Isle Royale's southern shore. I soon found myself paddling into the wind, and meeting what were to be the largest waves of the entire trip, a few anticlimactic 2-footers. I had lunch at Chippewa Harbor and proceeded to Malone Bay. The southern shore of Isle Royale is a sloping red conglomerate with some low cliffs, a fair number of gravelly or rocky beaches, and few sheltering islands. It's forested, as is most of the island, very scenic, and with few people to be seen, at least in the last half of August. The wind wore me down, and I was very tired when I reached Malone Bay campground after 15 miles of paddling (my main reference was the excellent water- and tear-proof topo map of the island and its surrounding waters, so I measured distances in statute miles).

An advantage of using the campgrounds is that they usually offer access to the island's network of hiking trails. These allow quiet travel, increasing the chances of seeing animals and allowing longer distances to be covered without the need to waste a lot of time in navigation. I soon saw the fresh tracks of a yearling moose, and found wolf scats a week or two old. Purists may scoff, but I welcomed the boardwalks that conducted the trails over bogs and white cedar swamps, beautiful spots with unique plants and wildlife. It was a bizarre feeling to see wild irises and asters flowering on the same day.

When I got up in the pre-dawn hour the following day I met my first moose, the yearling, browsing in the campground. Like other yearlings I was to see, he ran as soon as I appeared, though not too far before resuming his feed. Full grown moose did not run; they went where they wanted.

I was grateful for the glassy calm that met my launch from Malone Bay. I wanted to build my conditioning and not risk injury, so I paddled very easily the 7 miles to the Hay Bay campground. That site appeals mainly to sea kayakers. Few canoeists get to that part of the south shore, there is no trail to the place, and the dock is mostly broken down. I had it all to myself for 2 days. I stayed the extra day because forecasts called for rough conditions, and it turned out to be the best wildlife viewing spot I've seen outside of Alaska. As I was setting up my tent I heard some deep grunts and groans nearby, and a bull moose appeared, swimming across the bay and then feeding on water plants on the far side. I was to see him and 2-3 cows (one of which had a calf) periodically during my stay. I was impressed by their ability to stand nearly submerged in that frigid water for more than an hour at a time, dipping their heads down to feed for 20-40 seconds per breath. Stable flies swarmed around them when they were out of the water, and I wonder if escaping such parasites might have been an early impetus to their aquatic feeding practice.

Hay Bay also provided an excellent opportunity to watch ospreys, cormorants and gulls as they hunted for the abundant lake herring. The ospreys plummeted from spectacular heights, and when it was calm I could hear their collisions with the water from most of a mile away. Often they rose with fish that were at least a third of the bird's own length. The cormorants and gulls provided a travelling circus, the cormorants diving for fish and then swallowing them fast as soon as they popped up. Any hesitation led to swarming by other cormorants and by gulls. The fish sometimes escaped during the melee. Many times I was torn over which of these various shows to watch, and I was very glad that I'd kept binoculars on the packing list.

Different people I spoke with had different warnings about places where things could be rough. The Petersons had had a hard time getting around Long Point when they circumnavigated Isle Royale in an open, wooden canoe. Blake Point has a mean reputation. Another fellow told me that Point Houghton would make or break a paddler. Point Houghton was at the far end of the longest crossing of the trip, 3 miles across Siskiwit Bay from its smaller Hay Bay indentation. As was the case for each of these spots, Point Houghton gave me no trouble. Luck may have been involved, but my conservative paddling strategy helped, too. By following the U.S. and Canadian marine forecasts on my VHF radio, staying ashore when rough conditions were forecast, paddling early in the day and quitting around mid-day on most days, I was able to avoid paddling in any severe weather or waves.

The southwest shore of Isle Royale was where I hoped to find 3 dead moose. Navigation was tricky, as that section of coast has few prominent features. I spent 2 hours looking for moose #1 without success, having determined from compass bearings that I was in the right spot. Soon after giving up and launching again I spotted it a quarter mile farther down the beach. Storms or wolves had moved it, or perhaps Rolf's location was off. As I made my notes I observed a single set of fresh wolf tracks in the coarse sand. A headwind was coming up, and I was glad to reach the beach Rolf had marked as a good camping location. This was my only overnight stop outside the established park campgrounds. I found the mineral lick Rolf had noted, the maze of heavily used moose trails giving it a barnyard appearance. There were wolf tracks, 2 days old at most, both on the beach and in the lick area.

In the afternoon I hiked down the shore in search of the other 2 carcasses. I found one, but the critical parts were missing. The other I could not locate, but it was a good excuse to explore some wild shoreline and hills. The area gave me a strange, unpleasant feeling of isolation and exposure, with its dense forest and no people around. Perhaps if I were seeing more animals it would have been different, but there was little other than a comic fair of cormorants and gulls that passed in the late afternoon. Some golden-crowned kinglets called at me while I set up my tent. I had some expectations of animal sounds in the night, but all I heard were Superior's waves.

Forecasts were calling for one good day followed by at least one bad one, so I rose well before dawn and launched as soon as there was adequate light for navigation. The air and water were calm, and I had no trouble maintaining a 4 mph (just under 3.5 kt) cruising speed for 17.5 miles. There were many beaches and interesting points along the way. Two fledged bald eagle youngsters hung together near Long Point. There were a few small sea caves here and there. The islands of Grace Harbor were scenic, and among them was the spooky hulk of a shipwreck (the America, a former passenger vessel like the Ranger III). My deck compass continued to give inconsistent readings as I'd first noted during the Siskiwit Bay crossing. Later I learned from the Ranger III's captain that iron deposits in the region cause magnetic deviations of up to 6 degrees, and this can change in the distance of a few paddle strokes. I skipped Washington Harbor, went around the southwestern end of Isle Royale, passed some high sea cliffs, and reached the Huginnin Cove campground.

Huginnin Cove is popular among backpackers. Probably few sea kayakers other than circumnavigators reach it. It's a beautiful spot, with trails connecting it to Windigo, the southeast backpacking terminus at the end of Washington Harbor. The trails gave me my first extended look at the interior of the island, its forests and beaver ponds, occasional steep climbs and descents that require care because of the many rocks and roots. Both thimbleberries and blueberries were ripe. Wolf scats less than 2 days old were on the trail within a quarter mile of the campground.

A thunderstorm my first night at Huginnin Cove was the only extended or heavy rain of the trip. Waves were up the next day, so I stayed over and explored on land. The next, long stretch of shoreline had a reputation for its lack of landings, though I'd heard conflicting reports from paddlers who had done it. Still, I wanted conditions to be good. Waves diminished the following morning, and I launched just before noon. The western half of the north shore was not the sheer, high cliffs I expected. The walls were mostly 10 feet tall or so, interspersed with jumbles of large, jagged rocks. There were occasional tiny beaches and coves, but they had a steep shore behind them and landing would be tricky at best in high waves. Staying alert so as to see a squall coming would give some time to get beached.

Rolf's dead moose #4 was in that stretch of shoreline. He had pointed to a little notch in an aerial photo, and I figured it would prove to be one of the small beaches, but when I got there I found it was just a tiny break in a 10-foot, vertical, sea-cliff-pocked wall. I could smell the carcass from the water, but I would have to climb up to see it. Fortunately the water was nearly calm, and there was a rough-edged boulder at the base of the notch. I was able to pull myself and Water Strider up, balancing the boat between cliff and boulder, use the towrope to tie my grab loop to a small tree root, and climb up. Finding the moose turned out to be tricky. It wasn't where the smell was strongest, apparently because wolves had pulled it apart and dragged it away from where it had fallen. The forest was fairly thick and dark on that north slope, with a deep mossy carpet. There were narrow level spots with steep rises between that required pulling oneself up by grabbing tree trunks. I was nervous because I was out of sight of my boat, but finally spotted the moose skull on the third little plateau. There was no pelvis in view for the arthritis check, but I noted that the moose had been a cow and collected both halves of the lower jaw, as Rolf had requested. When I returned to my kayak I found that the little wavelets gradually had tilted her on her balance point, and the cockpit had taken on a couple gallons of water. I wrapped Miss Moosie (as I came to call the moose jaw) in a garbage bag and stowed her under the deck lines.

A mile or so later I was surprised to see a young woman in a ranger uniform, standing on a large rock. In that desolate stretch there are no trails. She had been doing some cross-country scouting, finding a route to a certain inland lake as part of a biological study, and was waiting to be picked up by one of the park's boats. After that point, 8 miles past Huginnin Cove, beaches became larger and more frequent.

I had a late lunch at the empty Little Todd Harbor campground. It was a beautiful spot, but there was a possibility of a couple days' bad weather coming, and I wanted to go farther. The weirdest moment of the trip came as I crossed Little Todd on my way to Todd Harbor. Call it fatigue, or a trick of the eyes induced by waves and light, but when I was halfway across Little Todd Harbor I looked down and it appeared that a ridged, greenish, scaly-backed form perhaps 10 feet wide was passing beneath my boat. This vision lasted more than 4 seconds. Such experiences lead to images of sea monsters marked on rocks. It was so vague, and I was tired enough, that I felt no fear, but then I became distracted from it because the newly rising waves were quartering in on my stern and I had the only tricky paddling of the trip.

Relief came when I entered the sheltered waters of Todd Harbor and found an available tent site in the campground after 18.5 miles of paddling. There were some impressive storm clouds that night, but they pounced on the more prolific feeding grounds of Thunder Bay, Ontario, and left my part of Isle Royale untouched. On the advice of a former Ranger III crewman who was giving his grandson a fishing excursion and had his powerboat parked at the Todd Harbor dock, I made the 9-mile jump to McCargoe Cove the following morning. This turned out to be excellent advice. Strong winds held me at the McCargoe Cove campground for 2 days, and it was second only to Hay Bay as the best stop of the trip. I explored parts of the Minong Ridge Trail, reputed to be the toughest and most scenic long trail on the island (from the parts I saw, I would agree with both assessments), and the Greenstone Ridge Trail, the island's main backpacking highway. Moose fed morning and evening in the bay near the campground, and a highlight of my trip came when a bull passed within 25 feet of me on his way to that feeding ground.

At this point I was 3/4 of the way around the island, and had made good time. I had a more relaxed attitude as I entered the 5 Fingers area, an array of linear peninsulas and islands with more Kodak moments per mile than any other stretch of Isle Royale coastline. I had reasonably calm waters, and took a winding route that revealed many beautiful scenes of rock formations, strangely shaped islands, broken down cabins and sea cliffs. During my overnight stay at Lane Cove campground there were no overbearing sounds of surf, and loons were close by, so I finally got the all-night loon concert I had been longing to hear. Among the many islands of the 5 Fingers, which I paddled in the clear, cool, stable air of a high-pressure zone, I experienced a minor navigation problem because my depth perception was thrown off. I noticed none of the color change nor sharpness diminution with distance that are important cues for me, and so from the low perspective of a kayak, overlapping islands and points tended to merge with one another even though they may have been as much as half a mile apart. This required much more care in map reading than usual.

A series of cliffs called The Palisades provided a neck-craning section of coast in contrast to the scenic but low promontories that had dominated to that point. They led to Blake Point, the extreme northeast end of Isle Royale. Blake Point is the most exposed spot on the island, but I rounded it in calm waters and made my way to Merritt Lane campground. There I met a fisherman who had done his own circumnavigation in an open boat powered by a small outboard motor. His trip was flavored by a need to watch the fuel gauge carefully. That evening, after he had done some sightseeing in Rock Harbor and I had explored the strange, diverse islands of the Merrit Lane area, we had a delightful conversation that kept returning to our shared interest in home brewing. After he went back to his camp I heard a rustling of leaves, and a short-tailed weasel made a brief appearance before vanishing into the uplifted root tangle of a fallen tree.

The next morning a magnificent sunrise preceded the final 4 miles of my circumnavigation. I explored the Raspberry Island nature trail, showered at the Rock Harbor complex, and proceeded to Rolf and Candy's cabin. I found them in a flurry of packing and cleaning. Their field season was at an end. Rolf was happy to take Miss Moosie off my hands. With her, they had data on all but one of the dead moose which had been located in the previous winter's aerial surveys. Some of my observations of osprey, bald eagles and wolf sign also were of use.

I moved on to the Moskey Basin campground and took a hike to Lake Richie. That night the moon was full, and its brightness was comparable to the sun's on a heavily overcast day. When I started my trip it had been the thinnest of crescents, and it seemed fitting that it filled as my vacation was ending.

From Moskey Basin I proceeded to Daisy Farm and there took my favorite Isle Royale day hike, a triangular route that included a former fire tower on Mount Ojibway that provided vistas in every direction. On the way back down I was led by the sound of a snapping twig to a bull moose, the last I was to see, browsing in a patch of sugar maple forest. Then came some sightseeing from the kayak seat. Conglomerate Bay and the southern shores of the Caribou Islands provided some great scenery. I visited the Edison Fishery, a living-history site maintained by the park at the entrance to Moskey Basin, and talked with the resident fisherman as he cleaned his gill-netted whitefish.

The only remaining paddle was the 6-mile stretch back to the Rock Harbor complex. Everything after that point seemed anticlimactic. As the Ranger III pulled away from Isle Royale the following morning I felt some strong emotions. But already I was putting together my list of things I had missed, things to include on the itinerary of my next trip to Isle Royale in a couple of years... (Pending publication of an abbreviated version in the CASKA newsletter)

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