Visualizing Siskiwit Bay

Dawn on Siskiwit Bay

My latest MRI read like a horror report: Multilevel degenerative disc and facet degeneration . . . severe central canal stenosis . . . advanced degrees of lateral recess stenosis . . . moderate dextroscoliosis of the lumber spine. Yet here I was at Isle Royale National Park, hiking the Feldtmann Loop with my friend Carole.

I’d been visualizing this trail for over a year as I recovered from my body’s rejection of an artificial hip and the impact on my spine that came with it.

Carole had been visiting the island with her parents ever since she was 4 years old, but her last trip there had been 50 years ago, when she was 15. Now she was ten months out from a knee replacement. I wanted to return to Siskiwit Bay, a place I used to visit, and Carole wanted to revisit memories of her childhood vacations.

The narrow trail, littered with rocks and roots, required that we pay attention and use our hiking poles for balance. As we set out that morning, our packs were first-day-out heavy. Because it was 8.8 miles to our first campsite at Feldtmann Lake, each of us carried two liters of water along with a titanium pan, a tiny camp stove, a full container of fuel, 3.7 pounds of food (plus our snack packs), and water filters; my pack also held a round of Gouda cheese and a summer sausage. Our rain gear, tents, sleeping bags, and pads were tucked in the bottom.

We hugged the shoreline of the big lake for over a mile, then rested on the rock outcrop overlooking Grace Creek. On the trail, we needed to climb over, around, and sometimes under downed trees. Some had been there since my last trip there four years ago, and some had fallen in a storm two days before we arrived. Once, after trudging through the thick brush around a tree too big to get over, we lost the trail and had to backtrack to find it.

I’d spent many sleepless nights going over this trail in my head from beginning to end. I knew that the dense thimbleberry thickets and various ferns along the trail would block from our sight anything other than the narrow dirt path. I also knew these thickets could feel suffocating and that stretches of them can drag out for two to three miles.

I had hiked this trail solo three years in a row, before my hip flaked apart, in order to enjoy the solitude at Siskiwit Bay. Campsite one is heavenly, but I’d always found my time was better spent on the shoreline, soaking in all the goodness from the healing waters of Lake Superior.

We reached our Feldtmann Lake campsite by 6 p.m., with plenty of daylight left to set up camp, but we chose not to cook. We’d polished off most of the sausage and cheese on the hike, along with plenty of nuts, bars, and dried fruits. We were pleasantly stuffed and exhausted.

We spent the next day finding agates on Rainbow Cove, and then it was time for my dreams to come true: Siskiwit Bay. But first 10 more miles on the trail.

Carole identified juniper, berry, and mountain ash trees. We both touched ancient birch trees too big around for us to hug. On the ridge near the fire tower we admired wild purple asters, orange hawkweed, and delicate rock harlequin. We persevered through the miles of ostrich ferns and thimbleberries that slapped our legs and made it impossible to focus on anything else.

That afternoon, it was exciting to see Siskiwit Bay for real and not while lying in bed doing hip and back therapy exercises. The look of relief and surprise on Carole's face told me she felt the same way. Our next two campsites—Island Mine and Washington Creek—would be easier to reach and our packs would be lighter.

We stayed an extra day on the bay. I rose early to watch the sun rise through the fog. An otter cruised the shoreline for snacks. We dined on fresh salmon, Kalamata olives, and Triscuits in a celebratory lunch on the dock of the bay.

We were delighted by inquisitive foxes, and entertained by a squirrel carrying a mushroom larger than its head. We saw a loon, spied on busy beavers working on their home, and stood still to watch eagles. Carole scolded pesky squirrels that kept leaving their calling card on the picnic table, and I almost stepped on a sunning garter snake. We encountered tiny toads crossing the path, and lay flat in the sand with our bare feet in the water, our faces in the sun.

Throughout the trip, there were snowshoe hares, cranes, pileated woodpeckers, a slug, hummingbirds, gulls, mallards, mergansers, and ravens to keep us company. A highlight was watching a bull moose in rut, grunting and bellowing loudly, trying to get the attention of a cow who wanted nothing to do with him. This went on into the night as they splashed in Washington Creek not more than 10 feet from our campsite. In the morning, the cow and her offspring were noisily ripping and munching leaves near our shelter, barring our way from a trip to the loo.

Fortunately, the rain we expected on Friday waited till we were sleeping, and our ponchos were sufficient to shield our packs and upper bodies from the dripping foliage and trees.

By the time we made it to Washington Creek, finishing the loop, our hearts were full, our bodies ready for a shower in Grand Marais. We had eaten like queens and hiked like warrioresses.

We would head home the following day, but I was already dreaming about next year’s trip. With any luck, Carole’s other knee will stay strong till then and so will my back and hips.