Isle Royale National Park July 2016 | Day Three

The Most Spectacular Nemesis
Continued from: Day 2

Tobin Harbor, at the dock near Hidden Lake

(This report is regarding day hiking out of Rock Harbor. For backpacking trip reports, go here for the eastern, Rock Harbor side and here for the western, Windigo side.)
Map at the end...

Nemesis: a long-standing rival; an archenemy.

Sometimes people make decisions they know they will regret.  They could opt to make different choices, but intead they forge ahead, knowing they’re going to hate themselves later on. Welcome to Day Three.

I woke up with a sinking feeling that today wasn’t going to be awesome. It had rained overnight, and I woke periodically to the sound of a mild storm roaming through Tobin Harbor. I hoped that it would stop by morning since I had planned an 8:00 am water taxi to Hidden Lake dock, followed by a 10 ½ mile hike, much of it on the Greenstone Ridge. This would check off Goal #2 of the trip: Hike to Lookout Louise to take in the views from its elevated vantage point. I was really looking forward to that, but when I got up and looked out the window, I found my nemesis smirking back at me: Fog.

The spellbinding view from my window this morning. Fog is capitalized throughout this post out of respect for a worthy adversary.

Fog and I have a complicated relationship. I love the bewitching bastard and the spell it can cast over the world.  Fog can turn a mundane scene into something magical, but its moodiness sometimes turns malicious. Fog has been known to show up when I’m spending time with other friends (you know...the sun, sky, and various other things that are more fun when visible) and specifically did not invite it. Fog sometimes meddles in my life, blocking trailside views of picturesque cliffs, and sadistically snatching away majestic vistas at the end of cold, wet, grueling hikes up mountains, leaving me soggy and disappointed. I was not expecting to see Fog today, but I suppose I should’ve been more vigilant on my way here...maybe doubled back a few times before crossing the Mackinac Bridge to make it look like I was going to Sleeping Bear Dunes. Maybe checked behind the seaplane a few times to make sure I wasn’t being followed by any suspicious-looking clouds. This was exactly the type of opportunity Fog would be waiting for.

I sat down and thought about the day. I had paid $58 for the water taxi, which runs rain or shine, unless the conditions on the water are unsafe. It had stopped raining, but it was very dreary outside, with a chance the rain might return. Regardless, the brush out on the trail was going to be soaking wet after being rained on all night. Hiking in the rain is a reality of backpacking; you have to get from one place to the next despite the weather, so you have to just suck it up. But did I really want to spend the day hiking in those conditions on purpose, when I didn’t have to? I was on vacation after all, and as a grown-up, I could do whatever I wanted.

I looked out at the harbor and the deceptively enchanting fog-ensconced trees on the other side, then at my semi-comfortable bed and fully-stocked kitchenette. Staying in for the morning, reading, and eating warm foods sounded really attractive, $58 loss be damned. But this hike is what I had planned to do today, and as much as I didn’t want to hike all day in miserable weather, I also didn’t want to regret not doing it later. I sighed, came to terms with the fact that I was probably making a stupid decision, and proceeded to get dressed and fill my backpack with everything I would need for a long, probably shitty, definitely wet, hike. Maybe I would get lucky and find that the taxi was cancelled due to distant lightning and then I would be off the hook and guilt-free.

The Sandy and a couple of water taxis wait in the Fog

Wearing rain gear to protect against the cold and wet conditions on the small boat, I walked to the Rock Harbor Lodge, and the people at the front desk confirmed that the taxi was running as-scheduled. I pretended that this was good news, and walked with dread toward the dock and my certain doom. I chatted with the driver of the ridiculously-named “Julie Leigh” as we careened around Scoville Point, bouncing and crashing on Lake Superior’s post-storm, slate-colored, choppy surface, and entered Tobin Harbor from the northeast. Luckily this was a short trip, or I would’ve had sea-sickness to add to the day’s indignities. Except for the occasional old cabin tucked on small islands in Tobin Harbor, everything was grey. There was no escaping it; I had to embrace the Fog.

Let the good times roll

A couple of barely discernible old cabins on islets in Tobin Harbor. Taking photos from a moving boat in the fog is hard.

I was dropped off at the dock near Hidden Lake, and I watched the Julie Leigh disappear into the fog on her way to pick up a few campers in Duncan Bay to the north. Once the boat was out of earshot, complete silence enveloped me aside from the occasional birdcall. (For a short video of this scene, go here.) The scene of Tobin Harbor from this dock was wonderfully mystical because of the Fog. I had a hard time leaving that spot, especially given how much I wasn’t looking forward to hiking by this point. It was a slightly chilly morning, but I knew I was going to get too warm to keep my rain jacket on while hiking, so I stowed it in my backpack and reluctantly set out on the trail. It was 8:30.

The water taxi leaving me at the Hidden Lake dock

Lookout Louise is a viewpoint that sits just above the very eastern-most end of the Greenstone Ridge and provides an outstanding view of the ridges, bays, and islets of the Five Fingers area. The Greenstone Ridge Trail actually begins here, but because of its remote location, nearly all hikers who do the cross-island Greenstone Ridge hike from Rock Harbor to Windigo do not access the trail at its true starting point (or finish there if hiking in the opposite direction). The only reasonable way to incorporate this section (without hiking a ridiculous distance, then having to backtrack) is to access it by boat, which most hikers aren’t going to do because of logistical complications. Instead, the Greenstone is typically accessed at its junction with Mt. Franklin Trail, the earliest it can be reached on foot from Rock Harbor. This means that the eastern end of the Greenstone Ridge Trail—approximately 5 miles of it—between Mt. Franklin and Lookout Louise is hiked far less than the rest of the trail. (And I saw no one during my hike of this entire stretch.)

Of Lookout Louise, Jim DuFresne’s essential Isle Royale guidebook says, “the lookout spot provides the most spectacular view in the park, but most of the 1.0-mile trail is a straight, uphill climb.” (Isle Royale National Park: Foot Trails & Water Routes) The trail starts at the dock, follows along Tobin Harbor and crosses a wooden bridge over the outlet of Hidden Lake before curving around the western side of the small lake, then beginning its climb. I stopped around the middle of the bridge to apply insect repellant, as mosquitoes were an immediate issue in the wet environment. I was happy to find an outhouse near the curve of the trail, which I took advantage of. On a day like this, even the small wins deserve mentioning.

Hidden Lake

Lookout Louise Trail looked primordial, intensified after the rainfall. Enormous boulders rest along the trail and loom overhead; however, Fog obscured the view of Monument Rock—a towering 700-foot sea stack left over from an ancient, much higher lakeshore that predated Lake Superior. I saw no sign of this giant monolith that looms high above the trail around the halfway point. Fog had it completely concealed.

Scenes from Lookout Louise Trail

I had looked forward to seeing Lookout Louise for years, and had planned on lingering here to take photos and spend time just enjoying the view, which I would have all to myself since I was the only person for miles around. I passed the signpost marking the beginning of the Greenstone Ridge Trail and knew the lookout was only 1/10 mile ahead. I continued climbing until I reached the small rocky outcrop at the top. The area was fairly overgrown with trees, so it wasn’t obvious to me right away that I had reached the end, and I looked around to make sure I wasn’t missing a spur or side trail to confirm that I was as high up as I could get. I looked northwest, past the edge of the cliff, toward Duncan Bay and its surrounding long peninsulas, to Five Finger Bay beyond that, and further still across the northern expanse of Lake Superior to the distant Canadian shoreline. This is what I saw:

Well played, Fog.

I tried not to be bummed out. After all, I’d only been waiting for this since 2009. I stayed exactly the amount of time it took to snap the above photo, then turned away from this "most spectacular view in the park" and headed back down the trail.

Trip Goal #2: Attained, technically. Now to hike back.

Trail marker at the beginning of the Greenstone Ridge Trail near Lookout Louise

DuFresne describes the first leg of my hike thusly: “The east end of the Greenstone rewards backpackers with some of the best views from the entire trail...[The trail] quickly becomes one of the most pleasant walks on the island. Most of the hike is level and easy and passes through extensive thimbleberry patches...” I had very much looked forward to this hike, but today’s conditions were less than ideal. As mentioned, the eastern 5 miles of the Greenstone Ridge Trail are not heavily traveled. This means that the footpath, while ambiguous at times across its entire length, is even less obvious in this section due to the lack of constant foot traffic that the rest of the trail sees all season long. I set out knowing this and was not bothered; however, the rain that had fallen overnight obscured the trail even further, weighing down the brush and causing much of the visible pathway to be hidden underneath.

Greenstone Ridge...looking for cairns

At first this wasn’t too much of an issue. Walking high on a ridge, it’s at least obvious where not to go—veer too far left or right, and you will eventually find yourself tumbling down a slope. The trail alternated between traveling through forest, then breaking out into open grassy areas that provide awesome views to the north and south of the island on clear days. There was no view whatsoever today, but some of these spots looked pretty magical in the Fog. Lookout Louise aside, I found that I wasn’t so disappointed by the lack of views on top of the ridge. What I didn’t like, however, was how soaking wet I was getting.

I had kept my rain pants on in order to keep my lower half dry while hiking in wet brush. In order to avoid overheating, I left my rain jacket in my pack, and the further along the trail I went, the denser and taller the wet brush became. I stopped early on because I thought it would be a good idea for future story-telling to take a photo looking down at my legs to show my rain pants and boots getting wet. Hey, look how wet I got, ha-ha! At least I was prepared! Later that day I would look back and realize that I hadn’t even understood the meaning of the word “wet” at that point in my life. If only I’d taken that photo a few hours later, but eventually I had to put my camera completely away in a ziplock in my pack because I could no longer keep it protected from water. Later, when I eventually emerged from this soggy hellscape and reached a point where I could rest and change shirts, I had lost interest in photographing anything, and had no desire to ever tell anyone about this hike.

Greenstone Ridge Trail

Before long, I was getting soaked well above the waist by various dense plants and trees as I struggled to stay on the path, which was becoming increasingly difficult to follow. Thankfully the terrain was mostly flat, but the “pleasant” and “easy” walk described by DuFresne was neither of those things on this day. I stopped often to take stock of my situation, looking around whenever I was no longer confident that I was following an actual path. This happened constantly for a few miles, significantly slowing my progress. Much of the time I did not see any sign of the trail, and I plodded forward on some kind of instinct I didn’t know I had. At one point I realized I had veered off-course, but as I looked around, I had no idea where the trail was. As I backtracked, I happened to look down at just the right moment and spotted a small cairn, maybe 6” tall, almost completely hidden in wet, drooping brush. I repeatedly told myself that I couldn’t get truly lost at the top of the ridge. If worse came to worst and I completely lost the trail, I could always turn around—I had managed to stumble blindly this far, I could find my way back the way I had come and return to the dock. Eventually another boat would show up there. Maybe not today, but surely the next? It would be uncomfortable and embarrassing, but I probably wouldn’t die waiting to be found there and begging a ride back to Rock Harbor.

Left: Now you see the trail.  Right: Now you don't.
Even in short grass, the trail tended to disappear.

Adding to the ambiance, mosquitoes gleefully reveled in my presence, coming from miles around for the chance to feast on the only warm-blooded creature in the vicinity. Insect repellant only works so well when it is continually wiped away by wet leaves. While I didn’t see any moose, all along the grassy parts of the trail I found obvious signs of their sleeping forms in large, round depressions in the wet grass. These depressions were everywhere, to an unnerving degree, making me feel surrounded though I surprisingly saw no animals other than a single snowshoe hare on Lookout Louise Trail. This again made me think about the rising number of moose on Isle Royale due to the decline of its wolves. If the NPS does not opt to bring new wolves here, the moose are going to decimate the island and start dying of starvation.

In a few spots on the bare rock of the Greenstone Ridge, I saw scat that at first glance looked like wolf, but was likely from a fox. I wanted to believe that there were a few secret, deep-cover wolves still out there, roaming nearby but unseen in the Fog, perhaps acting as my spirit guides and preventing me from going too far astray. But sometimes a turd is just a turd.

A metaphor for this hike

At some point I began singing songs to myself to pass the time and keep myself sane, as counter-intuitive as that may sound. As time wore on, the reassuring idea of backtracking to the dock became less comforting as the distance behind me grew and grew. Just when I completely lost confidence that I was still on the trail, a path suddenly cut across the grass, and a signpost appeared that simply said, “P.” Yes! I was at a junction with a canoe portage trail. This could only mean that I was going the right way and was somehow still on the trail. I had never been so happy to see a trail marker. My spirits lifted a bit, but before long the path disappeared once again, and I found myself in the same predicament.

Left: The photo I took earlier on. Notice the mosquito photo bomb.  Right: The portage trail sign that temporarily saved my sanity.

On I trudged. To add insult to injury, some of the “extensive thimbleberry patches” mentioned above had grown to over 6 feet tall and towered over my head. At other times, this can be a fun experience. Thimbleberry leaves can grow to the size of dinner plates, and the berries themselves are delicious. Knowing how expensive anything made with thimbleberries is, being in a position to pick and eat as many of them as you want along the trail is a wonderful thing. Today, however, the plants dripped water on my head and stuck wetly to my arms and torso as I pushed my way through them, much of the time not even knowing if I was going the right way. And the shittiest part? The berries weren’t ripe yet. Later, at some high point on the ridge, I noticed a few berries that were juuuuust starting to show the slightest hint of color, maybe due to their extra-sunny (under better circumstances) vantage point. Purely out of spite, I ate one of them. It was awful. As expected.

All of a sudden I found myself on terrain that looked a bit more familiar and far less wet. I looked to my left and realized that I could see some of the landscape off to the south. No sooner had I thought, “I know this place,” then I found myself looking at the signpost at the junction of The Greenstone Ridge, Mt. Franklin, and Lane Cove Trails. I had made it out! Just up ahead a short distance would be Mount Franklin—a rocky outcrop 1,080 feet high that provides a wonderful view north of a huge expanse of forest, followed by bays, peninsulas, Lake Superior, and Canada. Even if Fog ruined the view, it would still be a good spot to stop for a break. I hoped that it wasn’t overrun with people so that I could take some time to rest, change into a dry shirt, and eat lunch. It was around 12:15—it had taken me almost 4 hours to hike 5.8 miles.

Mount Franklin

I arrived at Mount Franklin to find only 2 hikers there, who were hoisting their packs after having finished up a break. Aside from the boat driver, these were the first people I had seen today. They were 2 young, college-aged men, and one of them was so excited to be on Isle Royale that he could barely contain himself. It was adorable. We exchanged greetings, and the excited kid said it was his first time here, and he asked me if I’d been here before. When I told him it was my third time, he gushed with questions. Did I take the Ranger III? (The plane?! What’s that like?) Had I seen any moose? Where was I hiking from? I was very aware that I looked like I had just washed ashore after fighting for my life at sea for 8 or 9 days. I told him about my morning, explaining the water taxi, Lookout Louise, the trail conditions, and the menacing thimbleberries. When I mentioned the mosquitoes being especially bad, he asked me if I needed insect repellant—as if this was my first rodeo.

He told me about their trip so far and that they had just come from Lane Cove. (His friend clearly wanted to get going, but looked to be waiting as patiently as he could.) I enjoyed his story and could relate; on my first trip, we did the same thing—hiked from Rock Harbor to Lane Cove on our first day, and I remember exactly how I felt. The decent off the Greenstone on Lane Cove Trail is extremely steep and challenging, but camping at Lane Cove is wonderful. Of course, then there’s the climb back up that trail. The kid said that after they experienced the descent on Lane Cove Trail, they found the idea of climbing back up it to be so daunting that they decided to stay there for two nights to put off doing it. I found this hilarious and his pure honesty retelling the experience was endearing. They had just climbed back up Lane Cove Trail and recuperated at Mount Franklin. He told me where they planned to go over the next few days, and he kept referring to Chickenbone Lake as “Chicken Wing” and his friend kept correcting him. They planned to camp at East Chickenbone Lake campground, which is known to be a dud (or absolute dunghole, some would argue), and I advised switching to the West Chickenbone campground if at all possible with their route. He thanked me as they headed down the trail, and I felt like a wise old sage. I wonder how the rest of their trip went.

View from Mount Franklin. On a clear day, Canada is seen in the distance.

Now that no one was around, I dug my towel out of my backpack, stashed my soaked t-shirt in a mesh compartment, and dried off as much as I could before changing into a dry shirt. Thankfully the fog was lifting and I was able to enjoy the view from Mount Franklin while sitting on a rock and eating tuna wrapped in a tortilla for lunch. I hung out there for about 45 minutes. No other hikers showed up until I was getting ready to leave.

The Greenstone leg of the hike was over. Now to head south on Mt. Franklin Trail to Tobin Harbor Trail, then east to return to Rock Harbor. From here I knew the terrain was going to be less brushy, so I removed my rain pants. The weather had warmed up significantly, and I was glad not to have to wear the extra layer anymore. It’s 1.8 miles from Mount Franklin to Tobin Harbor, and heading south Mt. Franklin Trail is a steady walk downhill with very few uphill jaunts. I reached Tobin Harbor Trail in about an hour. Just before reaching the water, the trail breaks out onto a flat, downward-sloping expanse of exposed bedrock that made a good resting spot. I sat on the rock here and rested my feet for a little while. Something about that spot, which is not spectacular in any way, made me feel curiously content. I wasn’t out of the woods yet—figuratively—but I was close! A cairn placed off to the side where the rock disappeared in the grass guided me to the right, and I soon found the trail again.

View along Tobin Harbor Trail

I reached the junction with Tobin Harbor Trail and turned east to finish the final 3 miles. By now the sky had cleared up, and it was turning into a nice day. Small islets reflected in the quiet harbor, and I heard the occasional common loon call, but I never caught sight of one. I met a park ranger heading the opposite direction. He asked me where I had come from, and was surprised when I said Lookout Louise. We chatted for a minute about my day’s hike before continuing on our separate ways. I returned to my cottage around 3:45, covered in mosquito bites and exhausted. I immediately got into the shower, and after a few minutes of standing in a stupor under the hot water, I found myself moving to sit down. Suddenly it was just happening; there was no conscious decision to do it, but there I was—sitting down under under the spray. I just went with it. Clearly the legs just aren't what they used to be.

Well, well.  Look how nice it became.

After that I relaxed in the cottage for a little while, then went for a walk around 5:30. It was now—of course—a bright sunny day, and I spent some time at the old America dock, just watching the waves in Rock Harbor, taking in the views of the various outer islands, and enjoying the sun. After an hour or so I returned to my cottage, made Mountain House spaghetti, and opened a fine box of red wine. I sat at the window enjoying my dinner, reading, and watching the sky change color above the harbor during sunset.
 

To be continued in Day Four: Lazy Day at Rock Harbor

Isle Royale National Park 2013 | Day Four

Siskiwit Bay to Washington Creek

(Map at bottom of post)

A rocky section of beach along Siskiwit Bay

We awoke on day four to a grey sky and fog encroaching on the bay and obscuring the trees across the water. If we were lucky, it would just remain foggy. If not, we were in for a rainy day. Our plan was to hike to South Lake Desor today. Just under ten miles away, Lake Desor is rumored to be a nice place to camp, with tent sites above the shore of the lake. Because it is tent-only, we thought about this likely scenario: hiking in the rain, arriving in the rain, setting up camp in the rain, and being unable to dry out. Dealing with rain is part of the experience, but we had left ourselves open to itinerary changes and we considered all of our options. 

Morning of Day 4 - fog crawls over distant ridges to the north across Siskiwit Bay

We had an extra day worked into our schedule, so we could stay one more day at Siskiwit Bay and wait out the weather, or we could also hike to Washington Creek. Washington Creek is the campground at Windigo, and it has several shelters. Siskiwit Bay is great, but I didn't feel like spending a third day there. We wanted to see Lake Desor, but it wouldn't be the worst thing to skip it in favor of a shelter at Washington Creek given the weather outlook. It was a difficult decision to make, but we decided to pass on Lake Desor. This meant we would be completing the Feldtmann Loop a day early.

Bridge over Big Siskiwit River

Washington Creek is 11 miles from Siskiwit Bay. We had spent so much time thinking about what we were going to do that we didn't leave until 11:45 am. This is a very late start, and we had a long hike in front of us. It was cold, so we put our rain jackets on for warmth and also as a weather precaution before heading out. Backtracking to the spot where the Feldtmann Ridge Trail ends, we set off on Island Mine Trail, which begins at Siskiwit Bay and runs north to the Greenstone Ridge. Island Mine Trail follows the edge of Siskiwit Bay for about 1 ½ miles and crosses the Big Siskiwit River by footbridge. The trail is technically inside the brush just off the beach, but it is possible to hike on the beach itself for much of the way. We walked on the beach as far as we could, but eventually had to return to the trail. The underbrush was so wet from the fog that we were quickly soaked from the waist down. We should have known better and worn our rain pants from the start.

Big Siskiwit River

We detoured onto a rocky stretch of beach in order to put our gear down and put on rain pants. During this time, a small National Park Service boat emerged from the fog out in the bay. As we balanced on the rocks, trying to get our rain pants on while refusing to take our boots off, we watched two park rangers put a canoe into the water from the boat. One person paddled to shore, where another walked out to meet him and got in the canoe. At first, we thought that they might be in the process of performing a rescue. Maybe a hiker slipped in the wet conditions and had been injured, and the park service had been notified. After a few minutes, this didn't appear to be the case, but given that it was not great weather to be on the water, they must have been up to official business of some kind as they paddled across the bay. It is unlikely they were out there for fun. (Do park ranges have time to do things for fun? Probably not.) They saw us watching them and waved, which made me feel bad for gawking. 

National Park Service Boat in Siskiwit Bay

The rocks along this section of shore are amazing. I picked up stone after stone and examined them while Craig finished getting his gear in order. Mostly red and all approximately the same size, some rocks were filled with fossils and crystals, while others were conglomerates containing pieces of other rocks that had been fused together over time. 

It began raining while we were on the beach, and it didn't stop for the rest of the day. Hiking in the rain can be fun at times, but the novelty wears off after a while. By the end of the first hour, we had enough of it. Island Mine Trail leaves the beach and turns inland where it follows the path of what had been a wagon road in the 1870s leading to Island Mine, where copper was sought after. There are no views during this two-mile stretch, and there is more of the tall vegetation to contend with. Most of the hiking on IMT was easy, and we were able to maintain a good pace without taking too many breaks. Unfortunately, because it was raining so much, I had to keep my camera tucked away, and we didn't do any exploring in the area of the mine. We saw an old well, but we didn't see the old steam engine that remains in the woods, or any other parts of the mine itself. It was wet and muddy, and we had a long way to go after getting such a late start.

This had been a well when Island Mine was functioning

We ate lunch in a cedar swamp, which had enough of a canopy overhead that it kept us from getting rained on too much. Aside from the section that follows the old wagon road, IMT is an interesting trail. It is unfortunate that it was raining so heavily; we were more focussed on getting through it without slipping in the mud or on wet rocks and tree roots than looking at the environment around us. Parts of the trail are somewhat rugged, with one steep climb and a few switchbacks, and it crosses a stream just before reaching Island Mine Campground. We reached the Greenstone Ridge shortly after passing through the campground, where a group of three hikers huddled under a tarp out of the rain. We couldn't tell if they were camping there, or if they had just stopped for a break and wanted to get out of the rain for a little while. From the trail intersection, we turned west; we had gone about five miles and had six more to go. This stretch of the Greenstone heading toward Windigo is all downhill and very easy hiking. Again, the rain prevented much looking around or picture-taking, and we basically hiked full-blast all the way to Washington Creek Campground. We arrived at 6 pm. 

Washington Creek - viewed from Shelter #1

We passed the group campground, which was shockingly loud. Kids were screaming, and we could hear people jumping into water, splashing and yelling. We would discover later that a school group was spending a week there. We followed the path down into the campground itself, and wound through the woods past all of the campsites, finally stopping at the very last one: Shelter #1. We had a nice view of the creek, but we were mostly concerned with getting out of our wet clothes and checking the contents of our backpacks to make sure nothing had been soaked. The covers that were made for our backpacks had done nothing to prevent water from getting inside, but we had also used garbage bags on the insides of our packs as extra protection, and all of the important things were safe. 

 

Wet stuff hanging in our shelter at Washington Creek

After 5 ½ hours of hiking in the rain, our rain gear had not proven very effective. We were both soaking wet. Our boots performed well considering the length of time we were in the rain, but they were still a bit wet inside. We hung our wet clothes inside the shelter, dried off, changed into warm clothes, and made dinner. We obviously weren't going to find dry wood for the twig-burning stove, and in order to conserve the small amount of fuel we had, we ate one of our cold-prep meals: Kickin' Chicken Hot Wings Wraps by Pack-it Gourmet. It rehydrated in 15 minutes with cold water and was a perfect, filling dinner.

It stopped raining shortly after we arrived at Washington Creek, but the thick fog remained. Although the creek was right there, the water wasn't very easy to access, so we walked to Windigo, which is about 10 minutes away, to get potable water from the spigot near the dock. We felt bad about skipping Lake Desor, but we were glad to be in a shelter and in a position to air out all of our wet clothing and gear after a full day of hiking in the rain. 

Washington Harbor - fogged in

It got dark early that night due to the lack of sunshine and persistent fog. We turned in at 9 pm and decided to play the following day by ear depending on what the weather chose to do. I could not fall asleep; my legs felt crazy. They tingled and were very restless, jerking around from time to time of their own accord. Though I had felt really good physically throughout the day, I think the long day of hiking much faster than I normally do in determination to get through the rain and arrive at our destination as quickly as possible had caught up with me. Something big got into the creek outside our shelter just after we went to bed, and we listened to it swimming around in the dark. We were both too tired to get up and try shining our headlamps outside to see for sure, but it was obviously a moose. It is common to see them along Washington Creek, and we hoped more would be around the following morning. 

To be continued in Day 5: ...?

Isle Royale National Park | Day Six

McCargoe Cove to Daisy Farm

We had declined an invitation the night before from friendly camp neighbors to join them at the fire ring (one of only a handful on Isle Royale) in favor of retiring early. We wanted to get an early start for our 8.2 mile hike to Daisy Farm since we knew that half of it would be along the Greenstone Ridge. Our goal was to get up to the ridge as early as possible to avoid having the midday sun beating on our heads. Plus, we had now become a bit spoiled by the shelters and wanted to get to Daisy Farm as early as possible in the hopes of securing one.

Regarding the shelters, we were very impressed with their condition. From reading tales of other hikers trekking in areas such as the Appalachian Trail, we were not expecting the cleanliness that we encountered. The shelters were heavily graffitied, and based on some of the handwritten messages (side note: Apparently lots of people count a black sharpie among essential gear to be taken on a trip where the goal is to pack as few items as possible!), the structures have been in place since at least the early 1970s. Despite this, the 3-sided structures were in great shape. Isle Royale's shelters have a screen front to keep bugs and other visitors out, and I was amazed at how successfully they did their job. I didn't see a single spider or even a cob web in any of the 4 we used.

A broom hangs from a nail by the door of each one with the understanding that visitors sweep dirt and debris from the floor before leaving camp. Designed to sleep six, it's considered good etiquette to share a shelter with other parties should the campground fill up and the weather turn bad; however, due to the perfect weather and lateness of the season, we had one to ourselves each time we elected not to sleep in our tent.

We ventured down to the dock for a quick sunrise photo, then stepped onto the trail just after 7:00 am. After backtracking past the beaver dam and along the stream that connects McCargoe Cove to Chickenbone Lake, we began to climb back up the Greenstone Ridge. The East Chickenbone Lake Trail (unnamed on the map, but everyone calls it by this name) is a beautiful 1.6 mile stretch which winds past the eastern side of Chickenbone Lake, creeping over rocky ridges and dipping down into cool, foggy valleys.

Crossing a footbridge over an unnamed stream

Our early start ensured nice cool temperatures, and once again our pants were quickly soaked through from the dew-covered brush. Just before the end of the trail, it abruptly ascends via a couple of steep switchbacks to the top of the Greenstone Ridge. We reached the top around 8:30 am and stopped for a 15-minute breather. Like the lookout at Mt. Franklin, this unnamed spot offers an expansive view of the north side of the island from a height of around 900 feet. From here, the 4.2 mile stretch of the Greenstone Ridge heading east is a tiring, yet pleasant hike. The path weaves alternately in and out of forest and onto bare rocky crests, and hints of fall color were just starting to peek through the trees. We were happy to discover that it was alternately shady and sunny, and therefore not nearly as hot as the section we had hiked between Mt. Franklin and Mt. Ojibway on day two.

Taking a break to enjoy the view atop the Greenstone Ridge

During a snack break, we met a woman solo hiking the length of the island via the Greenstone. This was her fourth consecutive year hiking Isle Royale and she had yet to see a moose. I actually felt guilty that we'd had the good fortune of seeing some exciting wildlife during the first five days of our first visit. This lone hiker had flown on the sea plane to Windigo and was heading east to Rock Harbor where she would fly out at the end of her trip. I take the occasional solo vacation which usually incorporates day hikes, but I don't know if I have the guts to do an overnight by myself. Yet.

We descended the Greenstone Ridge around 11:00 am heading southeast along Daisy Farm Trail. Foot bridges guide hikers over a few small streams, swamps, and marshy areas before the 1.7 mile trail ends at Rock Harbor Trail.

We arrived at Daisy Farm Campground at noon and were able to claim a good shelter very close to the water. I can't say what, exactly, made this day so tiring, but I have never been so exhausted as when we dropped our packs at Daisy Farm. Every muscle felt devastated, and I could not have cared less about filtering water, changing clothes (aside from removing my boots), or preparing food. I don't think I moved for nearly an hour once my sleeping pad was inflated and I could lie down. Each one of my limbs weighed at least 1000 pounds, and once horizontal, all well-meaning thoughts such as, “I should really do some stretches,” were squashed in favor of slowly sinking into a coma.

Early morning fog lurks in a valley along East Chickenbone Lake Trail

Once I managed to regain consciousness, I hobbled unsteadily down the short path to the water. The shore along this part of Rock Harbor consists of small volcanic rocks and is a nice spot to cool off and lay clothes out to dry in the sun. The water was freezing and my washcloth-sized MSR pack towel came in handy as I could not bring myself to fully submerge. I limped back to the shelter where Craig and I drank hot peppermint tea and shared a bar of dark chocolate that we had been saving.

The rocky shore in front of our shelter at Daisy Farm

After more resting, we visited the dock to filter water and absorb some sun. Truthfully, I don't remember much else about the rest of our day at Daisy Farm. We spent most of our time lying in the shelter, eating snacks, talking about how great the trip had been thus far, and marveling at how completely destroyed we felt. The sky turned overcast and the wind picked up when we went to bed. From what we could remember of the forecast, there was a chance of rain the next day and we wondered if a storm was blowing in. Part of me would have liked to witness a Lake Superior storm from the relative safety of our shelter in the harbor, but the rest of me was hoping for dry conditions during our hike along the potentially slippery Rock Harbor Trail the following day. We felt that we had been so fortunate with the weather that it had to change at some point. We would just have to wait and see what the morning would bring.

Looking out at Rock Harbor from inside our shelter at Daisy Farm

To be continued in:
Day Seven: Daisy Farm to Rock Harbor More photos from this trip can be seen here.