Isle Royale National Park can only
be reached by boat or seaplane. This journey makes the destination more
magical. For Tom and me, it first meant a long drive from Mankato, but it
allowed us to stretch our legs with some trail miles on the Superior Hiking
Trail. Since we are both used to running the Superior races, I wanted to show Tom the trail
north out of Lutsen for some variety. We ran along the Poplar River but we
didn’t make it as far as Lake Agnes, one of my favorite SHT spots. After the
run we met up with Jason and Amy Husveth and their french bulldog Luna.
The
next day (early May) we took the Voyageur II’s second crossing of the season from
Grand Portage, Minnesota. It’s a two hour boat ride to Windigo, the ranger
station on the west end of the island. These early crossings are festive, with
research scientists and volunteers, park staff and rangers and return visitors.
It’s a reunion of sorts. Someone brought a cake with the Voyageur II drawn in
icing and we all ate it. Once the boat entered the calmer water (and warmer air) of the harbor,
we stepped out of the cabin to watch the shoreline. We were wondering if we
would see much snow, and we only spotted a few patches near the water. After
dropping us at Windigo, the boat circles the island, delivering mail and goods
and passengers on its two-day circumnavigation.
I
was traveling with Tom Weigt and Jason Husveth. Tom’s recently retired and a
trail running mentor. Jason’s a long-time runner and botanist. We unloaded our
gear from the boat and, after the dockside Leave No Trace talk from Ranger Val,
we carried our stuff the full half-mile to our base camp on Washington Creek.
In normal tourist season, the three-sided and screened shelters on Washington
Creek have a two-night stay limit. But there’s no limit during the early and late
shoulder seasons, so this would be our base camp for the week. It’s a lovely
spot beside the creek, where moose often appear. It’s also the place where all
trails on the west side of the island converge, a perfect spot to spend our
runcation.
I’ve
hiked and paddled this island many times, but our goal for this trip was to run
as much as we could or wanted to. Or maybe we didn’t have a goal. Still, lots
of people talk of running the island end to end, about fastest known times, say
along the Greenstone Ridge, and how to coordinate with the Voyageur to move
their gear around the island while they run (it’s early spring on Lake Superior—you
need gear to keep warm, especially at night). By base camping here we dropped
all those worries. It allowed us the freedom to run without pressure or
destination or coordination. We wanted to run simple, carrying nothing more
than a small amount of snacks and fluids and maybe a camera. And if we didn’t
feel like running, if we woke and preferred to sit and stare at the movements
of water or to lay in the grass and watch clouds and birds hover over us, we
wanted that freedom too.
That
first afternoon we loosened our legs around the Huginnin Cove loop, a nine-mile
run around the northwest corner of the island. We ran through snowbanks. Jason
pointed out plants with fascinating names, although he spit out the latin name
first. Along the north shore the trail turns mossy and rootsy with dramatic
overlooks. Our return trip had great views of Washington Harbor through fir and
spruce and leafless trees. We had the campground to ourselves that night.
On our first full day Jason and I ran the Feldtmann Loop. Tom ran with us to Rainbow Cove.
We stumbled through a lovely fog along the shore and up to Grace Overlook. We
found moose antlers beside the trail. When we got to Feldtmann Lake the fog
still whispered across the water. We took the spur trail to Rainbow Cove and
the rocky beach opened up to us like a milky cathedral. Jason walked along the
beach finding agates and Tom and I soaked in the eerie atmosphere, the fog, the
sound of waves rolling rocks, the cold breeze, the overwhelming solitude. We
hadn’t seen anyone all morning. It felt like we had the island to ourselves.
We
left Tom at Feldtmann Lake. He would run back to camp, while we continued the
loop. Climbing, we turned to see the smaller lake below us, the big lake in the
distance, and a juvenile eagle on a perch near us. We were hot from the ascent
but the breezes were cold and wet. By the time we reached the Feldtmann fire
tower I needed food and I was happy to dig through my pack for some. I took my
shoes and socks off and aired my feet. The temperature was so different in the inland forests and ridges than the shoreline areas. The descent toward Siskiwit Bay was cool
and gradual but somehow I was shirtless when we reached the shore. We must have
looked like fools to the campers pumping water by the campground and dressed in
layers of down. They seemed worried about us. They kept a safe distance. We
were fools. It was cold. We had been running over 20 miles. We filled our water
bottles straight from the lake without filtering it. We ate more food. We moved
along the beach. I reminded Jason that we were committed to the loop now, that
turning around would take much longer than moving forward. I wondered why we were
doing this. I was giddy and drunk with happiness. I questioned my place in the
universe, asked if I was doing life right. We startled ducks. Loons wailed in
the distance.
The
climb to the Greenstone Ridge rises 800 feet in 3 miles. We took our time with
it. We explored old mines. We discussed heavy existential matters that I’ll
never remember the details of. We ran through muddy highways of moose tracks. Eventually,
we ran through the Island Mine campground and thick and open forests of ash and
maple. Once we reached the Greenstone Ridge, our final six miles was a gradual
descent. It felt liberating to surrender to gravity and open the legs, a long slide
on the soft spring ground.
The
next day we went up the Minong, the primitive and rocky and achingly scenic
trail on the northern part of the island. We lay down on ancient volcanic ridges.
We pointed out Thunder Bay and Sleeping Giant Provincial Park across the lake.
We bushwhacked through thick cedar swamps to the Greenstone Ridge. Fiddleheads
grew beside a creek. We scared up a moose. It was a blur of brown and a
drumbeat of breaking branches. Back at camp, Jason made tea from leaves and
moss he gathered. Tom read a mystery novel and identified birdcalls. I sat
beside the creek and watched the water flow in and out with the seiche. We may
have napped. It was that kind of afternoon.
The following day Jason returned to Rainbow Cove. Tom and I explored the Greenstone
Ridge, the spine that cuts across the middle of the island. We ran through
birch forests carpeted by uncurling ferns and spring flowers. Once we topped
out on the ridge, a lovely blowing snow softly pelted us. We ran boardwalks
through swamps smoky with snow. The flakes seemed to sizzle as they hit their reflections
on black water. At some point, Tom turned around and I continued east. The
trail opened up on rocky ridges to views of inland lakes and Lake Superior on
both sides and Canada in the distance. Everything was below me. The running
felt smooth and effortless. Twenty miles in, I took the spur trail down to Hatchet
Lake and from a campsite watched snow blow sideways across the water. I figured
I would eventually get tired and slow down, so I decided to turn around. I
hadn’t brought a headlight on this run and I wanted to beat the darkness back
to camp.
The
climb back up to the Greenstone was steep but short. Yet I couldn’t believe how
good my legs felt. I was in no hurry. I was enjoying the movement, running, one
of the simplest things a human can do, and I felt lucky to be doing it,
blessed. My gps watch died. I didn’t need it any longer. The handcuffs were
off. I had been running over six hours and time didn’t matter anymore. Perhaps
it was bent, accordioning in and out with my breathing, just as the island
breathed in and out with me, my oxygen running through it as its blood ran
through me. I was physically tired and I was in total bliss. All my masks were
falling away. I was doing this thing I was made to do. In this moment, on this
run, I was completely free and weightless.
I
was floating down a gradual descent toward a boggy swamp when a sandhill crane
took flight ahead of me. I heard its unique call before I saw it. I stopped
running to watch it circle. A steady wind whispered through the treetops, a
wind you hear in layers, the kind of wind you only hear on an island. Just off
the trail to my left, a bull moose stood from a wallow. He turned his head to
look back at me. His antlers’ spring blooms were velvet knobs. When he seemed
to decide I didn’t matter to his world, he bent his neck to eat, still watching
me while he chewed the vegetation. I clicked a couple pictures. Then I moved
on, quietly, allowing him his space, in his home.
