Crossing Lake Superior

Crossing Lake Superior
A story I am lucky to tell.

Having just solo paddled across Lake Michigan, many ask, “So what’s next?

To gauge their interest and level of support, I tell them half jokingly, “Lake Superior of course.” They couldn't have known that I have had my sights on Lake Superior before I took my maiden voyage on Prior Lake in March 2016.

After studying my options for crossing our largest and most unforgiving Great Lake, I decide on a route. I will begin at Grand Portage, MN near the Canadian border, then travel to Isle Royale National Park to camp overnight. The next day I will complete my journey by finishing on Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula near Houghton, MI.

The total distance is about 70 miles and should take around 21 hours to complete.

I begin to tell family and friends of my plan. Their response is very much the same as if they had practiced their response together. They shake their heads, roll their eyes, and let out a deep breath and in disbelief they say, “Are you kidding?” Some are less reserved with their opinions and choice of words, while others are quite expressive with their gestures.

Having been carefully studying our weather forecasting tools and searching for a window of at least three days of near perfect conditions, on Tuesday, July 11, 2017, I announce my plans to paddle across Lake Superior this coming weekend.

The strong winds surrounding Isle Royale aren’t weakening and news about a number of kayakers being rescued off Lake Superior near Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore is another sign that the time isn’t right for this grand adventure.

On Friday, I announce this weekend’s solo paddle across Lake Superior is canceled.

Growing up in West Michigan not too far from the shores of Lake Michigan and having a summer cottage on Lake Huron, I have a deep appreciation for our Great Lakes; their size, beauty, unpredictably, and the many lives lost.

I asked Michon, my girlfriend, what she thought when I first told her about my plan to cross Lake Superior.
“You’re crazy and I still think you are.”

I asked her how she felt when we began looking at our weather forecasting tools:
”Sick, I felt sick. I felt physically sick, nauseous for a week. I was all wound up and I lost seven pounds.

It wasn’t until after you didn’t go the first time, that I began feeling better. Knowing that you wouldn’t go unless conditions were just right helped a lot too. Also, probably our looking and studying all the weather forecasting tools and measures; winds, waves.”

Everyone telling me their thoughts didn’t help either. As in ‘all’ the others’ thoughts were weary and concerning and not at all supportive. It was wearing…“

Having paddled 1,240 miles since last season and having successfully crossed Lake Michigan, I am confident of my training, conditioning, and equipment. I am well prepared for my solo paddle across Lake Superior.

To help with my Go/No-Go decision, I have set firm parameters around acceptable wind strength. Michon and I monitor several weather forecasting sites and Lake Superior buoy readings. The conditions must be near perfect or I won’t go. The cost of failure is simply too great. On the northern parts of Lake Superior, where water temperatures are just above 40F, if I have to make an emergency call to our U.S. Coast Guard, I suspect they would be anticipating a recovery, not a rescue. This I do not share with Michon.

With the forecast for favorable weather looking certain for the next three days, the decision to go is made for Monday, July 17.

Before we leave Tuesday morning we pull up our weather forecasting sites one last time. It’s a Go!

Before we continue on Highway 61 along Minnesota’s North Shore, we stop in Duluth for Michon’s mandatory coffee break. It’s a welcomed break as we have another 145 miles of driving before reaching Grand Portage.

As we are about to leave Duluth I strike up a conversation with a gentlemen. Our small talk naturally leads into discussion about the kayak strapped on top my truck. After Michon tells him about my planned solo trip across Lake Superior later today, he shares his thoughts and opinions, which are neither encouraging or timely.

An hour later in our drive we see a sign for Split Rock Lighthouse on the right. We decide to stop and take in this iconic landmark.

Michon, how did you feel as we made our way up north toward Grand Portage?
”I was good. I was good. No, I wasn’t. You know, the week before was so, like, so stressful, and I mean it was awful

I think just, looking at all the tools we had, really helped.”

How did you feel when the stranger in Duluth gave his opinion about my plans to paddle across Lake Superior?
“He was a jerk. He was, really.

When I saw the look on your face, it was pretty comical because I knew what was going through your mind.”

At the beginning of our self-guided tour we pause at the base of Split Rock Lighthouse 130 feet above and overlooking the open sea of Lake Superior. I glance over this magnificent Great Lake and am in awe of its size.

Knowing I will soon be paddling over a distance much greater than what I can see, it unnerves me and weakens my stomach. I look down and walk away. I am shaken and struggle to push all doubt aside.

I don’t dare tell Michon how I’m feeling. She does not need to know and I don’t want to talk about it. We continue on our tour where I divert my attention on other Split Rock buildings and views.

Before we leave Split Rock we stop in the Fog Signal Building.

I did not know this is where they give tribute to those shipwrecks and lives lost on Lake Superior. Prominently featured is the fate of the 729 foot S.S. Edmund Fitzgerald when she and her crew of 29 went lost November 10, 1975. At the time she was the largest ship on our Great Lakes and remains the largest to have ever gone down.

This is a place where I do not need to be. Not now. I tell Michon we need to leave. She understands and smiles back. I wonder what she may be thinking. I don't dare ask.

Back on Highway 61 we make our way to Grand Marais and mid-afternoon walk and lunch at Angry Trout Cafe on Grand Marias Harbor. Before we leave this lovely little lakeside town we stop at the local sporting goods store to purchase extra cold weather gear. I am full and have everything I need.

When at Split Rock overlooking Lake Superior, did you have any thoughts?
“Couldn’t go there. Reading the story about the Edmonton Fitzgerald was frightening. Thinking about how Lake Superior can take down a ship like that and you’re out there in a tiny kayak. I just couldn’t go there. Reading about it was more disturbing than looking at the lake, to me.

I think it was your confidence that it made me feel it was OK. That it was going to be OK.”

Just before reaching the Canadian border we stop at the last gas station where I top off the tank, check each tire’s air pressure, and make sure everything is in order for Michon’s return to Duluth, MN tonight and her drive to Houghton, MI tomorrow. I then walk inside to ask for final directions to the Pigeon River boat launch.

The inquisitive store manager noticed the kayak on top of my truck and asks where I will be paddling. When I tell him I will be solo paddling across Lake Superior to Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula he is quick to share his thoughts and opinion. The two older ladies at the end of the counter express their disappointment with the shaking of their heads and looking away. Not wanting to debate the wisdom of my plan, I thank him for the directions and say good bye.

A short distance up the highway and just before the border crossing, we find the remote dirt road we were looking for. We peel off to the right and head down the narrow bumpy road leading to the Pigeon River.

The weather is perfect. The sky is clear, sun is bright and there is no breeze. It’s so hot I break into a sweat ‘before’ I put on my two piece 1.5 ml neoprene wetsuit. It is a perfect day for a paddle. From here I’m guessing its about five miles before I reach Lake Superior’s open waters. This adds a little more distance to an already long journey.

Before I launch I give prayer, then offer a gift of tobacco and sage to Mother Earth asking for her blessing and safe passage.

When we were at the Pigeon River and I was packing my kayak, what was going through your mind?
“I was nervous. I mean, just obviously I was worried. How could I not be?

I wasn’t sick like the week before. But, I was nervous. I was concerned.”

I hug and kiss Michon good bye and jokingly tell her I will see her in a couple of days in Michigan.

I am excited and a little frightened. I take my time to pack my kayak, attempting to be deliberate in my actions while my thoughts are racing. This is the moment of truth. I am about to begin my solo paddle across Lake Superior. A trip which few have attempted and even fewer have succeeded.

Before I push off to begin my journey down the Pigeon River and make my way onto Lake Superior, I take one long look at Michon. She's absolutely beautiful. I can’t help but think how lucky I am and I worry about what she may be thinking.

As I turn to begin my journey, not knowing what’s ahead or how tomorrow will be, thoughts of doubt momentarily creep in. I am thinking, “What am I doing?” I just can’t go there and push out these thoughts of uncertainty by focusing on the beauty all around. Another prayer is made.

The Pigeon River is simply stunning and a great start to an amazing expedition. As I enter the open area of Pigeon Bay I begin to get a sample of what's ahead. I couldn't ask for more ideal conditions. The small Boundary islands and tall cliffs, which frame this final stretch, remind me of the Pacific Northwest.

Just ahead and to my right I spot Pigeon Point, the last piece of mainland before entering the open waters of Lake Superior. I am overwhelmed with emotion and think about everything and everyone. This is it, here we go. There is no turning back now.

I take a big breath, a deeper stroke, and make another prayer.

As I was paddling down the river and out of site, what were you thinking?
“Yeah. I was, I never, I never thought I would never see you again. I think your positivity rubbed off.

If you hadn’t been so positive, I wouldn’t have been so at ease. You never doubted yourself. That helped a lot.”

The first leg of the journey, the paddle across Lake Superior to Isle Royale is perfect.

I’m elated about the calm and peacefulness along this short stretch on the greatest of all our Great Lakes.

Our research indicated the winds between Grand Portage and Isle Royale are consistently much stronger than anywhere else along my crossing route. This evening is calm and quiet, so peaceful. I pause and turn my kayak around to take in the beautiful red and orange setting sun with the hint of shoreline still in the distance. So quiet, there isn’t any sound other than the drops of water falling from my paddle onto the resting Lake Superior.

I remember my grandmother saying, “Red at night, sailors delight. Red in morning, sailors take warning.” I can’t help but take solace in this saying, and thinking about her and the others watching over me.

Reaching Isle Royale around 11PM I pass through the North Gap, separating Grace Island and Isle Royale. I see the buoys that mark Washington Harbor and guide the visiting Grand Portage ferries. Because it’s so dark, all I can do is imagine the beauty of this island known world-wide for its moose and gray wolves.

Despite my being certain that I am well beyond the reach of my carrier’s cell tower, I pull out my phone and call Michon. To my surprise, the call goes through. I am excited to tell her about how calm and beautiful it is; that all is going perfectly well. It is nice to hear her voice and hard to say good night.

Protected by Lake Superior’s fabled strong winds and crashing waves, I decide to camp in the woods off Grace Harbor. With only the aid of my headlamp I search for an area to land. Not wanting to tear up the bottom of my kayak on the shoreline made of large round rocks I finally decide on an inviting area where three waterlogged trees allow me to safely pull my boat ashore.

After exiting my kayak while trying to not fall into the 40 degree water, I make my way into the dense forest searching for a place to set camp. About 15 yards deep I find an open spot under the cover of a mature pine.

Just after you left you returned to the last gas station to buy a bottle of water, what happened?
“That guy was like, Did he really do that? Like really, did he really go? He thought I was crazy too, another person said the same. Ha Ha Ha Ha.

That was actually kind of disturbing, because the reality was that you were gone. The reality really set in. Like, I know you were off and there is no turning back now.

When you paddled away, I don’t think it really settled in. It wasn’t until what they guys at the gas station said to me did the reality, the big picture settle in.

How. How… like wow, he is really gone. Like that guy living, there, this is his home and he is thinking that you were in harms way. It made me begin to think, Oh Oh, he is really doing this.

It rattled my cage Mike.”

When you hear from me, just before I reach Isle Royale that evening (11:30)… what did you think?
“I was surprised to hear from you. I didn’t expect to hear from you.

I was happy… I was very happy for you… That was supposed to be the most difficult part of the trip. So I thought it wouldn’t be as challenging as it turned out to be.”

After setting camp under the canopy of Isle Royale’s thick forest, I crash for the night. Before I get settled in I can feel my inflatable mattress losing air, but I’m too tired to figure out what I did wrong and re-inflate it. Not taking the two-to-three minutes to make my bed more comfortable is a decision I regret.

After a restless night I peek out from my tent and struggle to look through the dense woods shielding me from the lake’s cold. I see that the morning sun is shining bright. Eager to check out the view from shore, I hurry my way through the woods in only my shorts, pushing away low hanging branches, shuffling over the uneven leaf covered forest floor, and climbing over several well seasoned and nearly rotten fallen trees.

I am greeted with an incredible view and I have it all to myself. How lucky am I?!

The enormity of Isle Royale surrounded by the vastness of Lake Superior, the world’s largest fresh water lake, puts everything into scale. Looking to my right at my kayak half buried in the woods, and considering the challenge ahead of me, puts everything into perspective.

The forecast for the day was for sun, mild winds and waves. It is all that. Encouraged by last night’s paddle and the morning’s calm winds, warmth, and mild waves, thoughts of a record pace cross my mind.

At about 10:30AM I launch from Isle Royale’s rocky shore and begin the second leg of my journey.

Before leaving the safety of this bay I try calling Michon to let her know that the conditions are ideal and I’m leaving early. My call doesn’t go through as there is no cell coverage on this side of Isle Royale. That’s alright. Michon thinks I will be touring the island and won’t be leaving until closer to 3PM. She isn’t expecting me to call until sometime early tomorrow morning.

So optimistic, I am thinking I will make it to Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula later tonight. Michon will be excited when I call her, telling her that I have arrived several hours early.

The thought of a record paddle pace is soon be put to rest.

Just off Cumberland Point the weather makes a turn for the worse. A breeze picks up, the sky turns gray, waves begin to churn and the temperature is rapidly dropping. I worry if Lake Superior hasn’t changed her mind and I am no longer welcomed.

I struggle to keep on course. While wanting to go E by SE at 144º the lake’s current is pushing me N by NE. I am surprised and confused. I never even considered that the lake’s current would be a factor. It is a battle between the two of us and the odds of my winning are slim. While I am making progress, the extra effort is taking its toll.

Remaining hopeful for the return of sunny skies and calm wind, I continue on. After hours of battling the lake’s powerful current and mild winds there is a pause and return to reasonable calm.

The welcomed break is brief. Without detecting a change in the breeze the waves begin to build into a small chop. These one-footers don't pose much of a threat, other than further taxing my arms and being hit by the stinging 42F spray off Lake Superior’s chilling waters.

After another pause, and facing a slight shift of the lake’s demanding current, she throws me her next test.

These one to two foot rollers, which want to push me to the side, remind me of a children’s roller coaster; the ups and downs are pleasant and predictable. Other than demanding my concentration they don’t pose much of a threat, unless I misplace my paddle on a wave’s downward motion, or too casually turn sideways and risk an unpleasant spill.

With no land in sight all I can see is monochromatic gray. I am no longer optimistic that there will be a return to the clear skies and warm weather that I enjoyed this morning.

When you arrive in Houghton, MI and find a hotel what are you thinking?
“After I checked in, I drove to the lighthouse so I knew where it was.

What the hell, I don’t know. “It was such a mix, so many different thoughts go through your head.”

When you were looking over Lake Superior from the park:
How did the lake look?
“The lake wasn’t calm, there were waves.”

What were you thinking?
“I couldn’t help but think about you, in the middle of it. I got out of the car and so many different thoughts go through your head.”

I turn on my handheld marine radio to get a weather update. I am surprised to hear about the large storm making its way through Minnesota to the lower parts of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I can’t help but wonder about how far reaching this storm is and why I didn’t notice this before. What else may have I missed?

This storm’s violent and damaging winds force 97 boats out of the 109th Chicago Club Yacht Race to Mackinac Island.
Sails were shredded, boats were overturned and sailors needed to be rescued.

I look down and take another compass reading and I’m again surprised by my misdirection. I’m puzzled as to why this mild wind is causing me so much trouble. I look around to study the lake and notice just below the surface the subtle rib-like pulsating movement of the lake.

It’s eerie. It’s unsettling.

While the wind is at my back, the top of Lake Superior is moving toward me with surprising speed and strength. I try taking a hard left turn to break from its hold and get back on course, but I can’t. The current is simply too great to overcome and I begin to wonder how long this too will last?

A friend who was following my journey and was in ongoing contact with two Duluth meteorologists told me later, “It was not the winds that I needed to worry about, but the N by NE currents which were estimated to be three to four times stronger than the lake’s winds that day.“ The two Duluth meteorologists agreed, get the coast guard ready.

The meteorologists also shared, if I didn’t maintain my pace there were two foot waves and a thunderstorm chasing me from behind. I had no time to relax or I would be blown off course into the much larger open part of Lake Superior beyond Eagle Harbor if I were so lucky.

I pull up a GPS reading, thinking I must be at least half way through the second leg of my journey. To my dismay, I’m not even a quarter of the way. Like a fighter’s punch, I take the blow to my stomach. It hurts, it nearly takes the wind out of me. But, I must continue on, push through, as I have no other choice.

I recalculate my ETA and am now thinking of an early AM landing. The chill from Lake Superior’s spray is overtaking my body and doubt begins to creep in. I realize I’m not in a good spot, literally and figuratively. Again, I refocus on the beauty around me and the challenge ahead.

With the day’s blanket of gray there will be no stunning sunset tonight. The evening steadily darkens and turns to a solid heavy black.

In the distance, many miles away, I see the white light outline of a Great Lake freighter. Its framing lights remind me of home at Christmas. This ship is heading west to the ports of Duluth where it will depart fully loaded with coal, iron ore, grain or another valuable commodity.

I enjoy a long stretch of calm and the sky begins to clear showing me the splendor of the Milky Way above. But, being so far behind schedule and having so much further to go, I take little time to pause and enjoy. I push forward to avoid any further delay and uncertainty.

Without notice Lake Superior throws me another challenge. It seems as if this Great Lake is moody and an unpleasant host tonight.

The wind picks up once again. Just beyond my bow I see the ominous signs of white caps. This is not good. I prepare for what must be at least two foot waves, possibly greater, battering my boat. Unable to see the next onslaught, I shorten my strokes and quicken my pace to maintain my balance and remain upright. It’s a bumpy ride. At times I feel my entire boat slamming to the water and jarring my back.

I begin to wonder; am I caught up at the edge of a Great Lakes storm? Is this a storm similar to the unexpected one that made its away across Minnesota and Michigan yesterday? How long will this last?

I cannot worry about what I cannot see or what I cannot control. All I can do is continue to battle through and wait for this to pass.

Having dressed for a much warmer and shorter trip, the stinging spray from Lake Superior’s cold water begins to worry me. I can no longer just shrug it off. It is taking its toll and beginning to hurt.

I worry about becoming hypothermic and think how foolish it was to not wear my heavier 3.0 ml one-piece wetsuit now packed away with my other cold and wet weather gear. While they’re packed in my rear hatch only a foot away, it’s impossible to reach.

To avoid getting any colder I pick up my pace for another 10-15 minute sprint. During this time I stretch and kick my legs, rotate my neck, shrug my shoulders, shout as loud as I can, and initiate other life saving precautions. This I repeat several times.

After one of my attempts to warm-up I feel noticeably warmer. It is almost as if I’m benefiting from a warm breeze. I wonder.

Finally, I see the first sign of Michigan’s shore! A solitary white light breaks through. I can’t help but let out several loud shouts of joy as my heartbeat races and pace quickens.

Additional signs of shore begin to pop up. The stacked lights of red identify communication towers and the large patches of soft white are the halos of two distant towns. I pull up my GPS settings to see where I am and determine (perhaps wishfully thinking) that the brighter patch of light to the right is Houghton, my final destination.

Vertical Divider

I know I am still several hours away. I think about yesterday morning when I tried calling Michon to tell her I was leaving early, while feeling optimistic about a quick pace and arriving later that evening. I am so glad my call didn’t go through as I am thinking I may not make it to shore before 5AM or even 6AM. I can only imagine what she would have been thinking, or what she would have done if she thought I was 1, 2 or 3 hours late. Never considering 5, 6, 7 or possibly longer.

While I am doubtful, I check my phone to see if any bars are on display. YES, I HAVE COVERAGE! Not to wake Michon I send her a text message at 3:47AM just saying, “I’m ok…”

What did you think when you received my early morning text?
“I was sleeping when I got your text, I was out. When I read it I thought you were in and had landed. We had talked about it, you were going to put up your tent.

I flew out of bed to get there to only not see you. Like, where is he? Am I at the wrong place? I actually thought I would pull up and see a tent.”

After hours of paddling and constantly looking down at my compass to maintain direction, my neck is aching. To get relief, I search for the brightest light in the distance for a fixed point to focus on. I choose a single blinking white light and verify its heading. It is on target S by SE. I’m locked in. I am thinking this may be the light at the end of the Houghton channel marking my final destination.

A while later I become curious about this single blinking white light as I study others around it. Something isn't right. This seems all too familiar and reminds me of last year when I was crossing Lake Michigan and I had fixed my sight on a similar white light only to learn I was errantly following a commercial fisherman off of Ludington.

Sure enough. This isn’t a fixed light at the end of a channel, but the white light off what must be a commercial fishing boat. I look down for another compass reading and it tells me I’m heading S by SW. I am off course again!

Embarrassed and upset, I wonder how much distance and time I have lost, and how much more energy I have unnecessarily spent?

Well before sunrise I see the cast of the rising sun over the horizon behind me. I see the hills in the distance and with every passing minute they’re taking greater shape. Although I’ve lost time and distance foolishly chasing what must be a commercial fisherman, I am now feeling good about my heading in the right direction

I’m not that far off shore, but the effort to make any real progress is proving increasingly difficult. Maybe it’s because I’m just really tired

With the sun about to peak above the horizon, I turn my kayak around to take a few pictures of its brilliant color. The current seems particularly strong here. When I turn around again to get back on course I notice it’s taking more and more powerful strokes just to recover the short distance just lost.

I take a momentary break to check the quality of my pictures. Not pleased and wanting to have a nice photo of this monumental achievement, I try again and again. Each time I notice how much more difficult it’s becoming to regain my lost distance. The morning wind is picking up and the waves are getting larger. I give up on the idea of capturing the perfect Kodak moment. It's just not working and not worth the added effort and risk.

I can now see what must be the Houghton channel in front of me and slightly to my left, with McLain State park to its north, and North Canal Township Park to its south. The end of this incredible journey, with its varied beauty and weather, and the lakes’ progressively greater challenges, is about over.

As I scan the park I notice a truck entering and I am sure it’s mine. I am excited knowing it’s Michon. She will be there to watch me come in and we can celebrate together. How cool is this?

Over my shoulder I can see the rising sun. Despite my promise to not take another photo, I must.

Just before 6:30AM I turn my kayak around to take another set of photos, this of the rising sun. I hurry as the wind and waves are gaining strength. When I’m not paddling I am being pushed back, rapidly losing greater distance and the effort to recover is taxing my already spent arms.

The wind is strengthening and the current is stronger than ever. It seems as if Lake Superior has one more challenge for me before she lets me go and this happens to be her strongest so far. The wind is gusting and churning up white caps. The waves are building in height and speed.

I think about making a sharp turn to my left and racing to shore. After a single attempt I rethink my plans. Turning sideways against these aggressive waves will certainly result in a bone chilling spill.

I have no other choice but to push straight through. I dig deep and with every paddle I make sure to spear the heart of the next three foot white capped wave. Any misplaced stroke will certainly prove disastrous.

I am being tossed around like a child’s toy. As I plow through the next set of waves I’m being swamped by others crashing over my starboard (right) side. I feel like I am white-water rafting on Lake Superior. Spray from the onslaught of waves soaks my entire body and face, yet I no longer feel the chill.

“Whoo Hoo!!!” I shout. This rodeo is a thrill and I can’t help but embrace it and let out screams of joy. With each stroke I dig a little deeper and let out another loud grunt to sustain positive momentum while I work to remain upright. How lucky am I to experience this moment and this incredible journey?!

At 6:06AM my phone rings. I know it’s Michon, but I can’t take the call as the water is way too rough and I need to keep both hands on my paddle. I hope she won’t worry about why I don’t answer.

“Then I called you, wondering where you are, how am I going to find you? I was worried, Like what what was going on? Why aren’t you picking up?

I didn’t think you were on the water. I just misread the text and thought you were done.”

My battle against this lake continues.

I measure my progress by referencing points on shore. I am not gaining, but neither am I losing ground, or at least not that much. I look to the sky for any signs of the weather improving or worsening.

I sense this is the worst of it, but wonder how much longer this too will last?

The strong winds along shore, together with the lake's pounding waves and strong current, are all working against me. The battle with the lake continues and the odds remain stacked against me. I know this largest and most unpredictable Great Lake can take me with ease if she wanted to. At the moment I am just thankful that I’m able to remain upright.

I am confident about my skills and oddly certain about the lake’s intent. All along she has thrown me varied and progressively more difficult challenges, not to end my fate, but to test my mettle and make sure that I give her the respect she deserves.

I begin planning my approach to shore just on the other side of the south channel wall. I will paddle well outside the channel, then with the aid of the wind and waves, come in wide to avoid being thrown against the jagged rocks protecting the same wall.

How long it will take me to get to that desired point? I don’t know.

Vertical Divider

The wind suddenly weakens. The waves are now only about two feet in height. While they’re still breaking over my kayak I can tell I’m now making positive progress. I can’t help but say a few prayers and give thanks for what will soon be a paddling adventure completed and certainly never forgotten.

My phone rings again. It’s now 6:32AM and this time I am able to answer and say hello, but I must quickly put it back in the left pocket of my PFD so I can keep both hands on my paddle, remain upright, and focused on what’s ahead. I am glad to hear Michon’s voice and l let her know I am alright. She need not worry.

With the phone muffled by the unzipped pocket of my PFD I can hear her speaking, but I can’t understand what she is saying. Although, before I had put my phone away I heard her say that she was at the park looking for me. I am so glad.

As I paddle through the chop and enjoy this last half mile, I let her hear my shouts of joy as I take her along with me on the final stretch of this grand adventure. “Whooo Hooo!!!” I shout as loud as I can.

What did you think the second time you called?
“It sounded like you were having fun in the water, like Whooo Hooo!!! I was just happy that you were OK. I was relieved.

I didn’t think you were being challenged. I didn’t realize how rough it was.”

As I begin to make my pass outside the entrance of the Houghton channel I see three 30 foot charter boats racing to their favorite fishing holes. I am all too familiar with the size of wake a single large boat can make. I prepare myself for not one, but two headed straight toward me with a third not too far behind.

The closest charter boat sees me and I watch the captain calling his clients over to check out the lone kayaker on their starboard side. They race over to check me out. They must be wondering, why is he out on the lake this morning in these conditions and where could he possibly have come from? If they only knew.

I am certain the last charter hasn’t seen me as he is still heading right at me. I raise and wave my paddle well above my head. I don’t know if he sees me or if the captain of the other boat called him. Either way, at the last minute he veers off to the north and avoids hitting me. Now that would have been a tragic ending and made for quite the story.

As I pass by the south wall of the channel I can see Michon on shore. After all the hours and miles paddled, and misdirections, I precisely hit my original mark and final destination. And just as I am about to finish, Lake Superior gifts me with calm winds and small waves, all the while Michon is there to watch me make my way in to shore. How cool is this?!

As I head toward shore I can't help but keep my eyes on Michon. Searching for a safe place to land I see that the beach is made of pebble sized stone. I pick up my speed and crash head on, not worried about possible damage to the bottom of my boat.

After long hours of paddling my abs often tighten up. After 21 hours of paddling I fully expect epic pain when I attempt to stand. I do not disappoint. As I fight through the piercing mid-section pain, while trying to straighten my stiff back, and regain a sense of balance, I must have been entertaining to watch.

As I walk to Michon for the congratulatory hug,
we look at each other and say:

“WOW! CAN YOU BELIEVE YOU DID IT?"
“WOW. I DID IT! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?”

A short while later Michon says,
“There were a 1,000 angels looking over you.”

My solo crossing of Lake Superior in my 17’2” kayak ends Thursday morning, July 20, 2017, at 7:30AM.
The entire journey spanned 72.5 miles over three days and two nights; one overnight and one all nighter.
Total hours paddled was 27.5.