Pictured Rocks, Day 2: Chapel Beach

I gratefully emerge from my claustrophobic crypt to an eerie silence pervading the cool morning air. I hurry to the ledge overlooking the beach to find glass-calm conditions on Superior. The water laps gently at the sand, and undulates in barely perceptible swells out to the horizon with a liquid calmness I have never seen on this lake before. It is with a barely-contained sense of anticipation that we make a quick breakfast, break camp, and launch onto the placid, blue-green water.

We swing west today, and although we are backtracking, it is like exploring an entirely different stretch of shore. Without the waves of yesterday threatening to drive us onto the rocks, we are free to poke our kayaks into every sea cave and beneath each rocky overhanging arch. We glide along the namesake 'pictured rocks', the towering two-hundred-foot cliffs 'painted' by the weathered and oxidized minerals leaching from the layered stone. Despite the calm conditions—or perhaps because of them—it seems to take us twice as long to cover the same mere six miles as yesterday, as we pause here and there to take photos or to simply gaze in wonder at the sculpted cliffs.

We stop for lunch at Mosquito Beach (fortunately a misnomer today), then continue past Miner's Beach and cruise below the picturesque Miner's Castle. Almost exactly five months ago to the day, one of the distinctive stone turrets of Miner's Castle broke apart and fell into Lake Superior, forever altering a local landmark and reminding all that nature is a forever-changing force. And warning paddlers to steer clear of potential rockfalls.

We head southwest along the tall cliffs and as we come around a point we hear the unique cry of an eagle high atop the stone wall, followed by another from straight ahead. Glancing forward, we see another eagle headed directly toward us, winging low above the water. As the great bird looms closer and closer, her sheer majesty paralyzing my camera hand, we see that she has a large lake trout clutched in her talons, still wriggling to break free.

Only twenty feet above the water, she flies just abeam of us and banks to turn behind our sterns. Struggling with her heavy prey, she climbs and finally lands on a rock ledge halfway up the cliff. The first eagle now becomes even more excited, watching her from high atop the cliff, crying and pumping his wings. Judging by his lack of white markings, he appears to be a hungry juvenile and is eager to be served, but his mother evidently feels he is old enough to come down to get his dinner. She decides to start without him and begins ripping the fish apart, and his demanding cries seem to take on a slightly forlorn quality before he finally flaps down to join her.

Just off the next bulge in the shoreline, we check our compasses, swing out, and head west-northwest. Our charts show a few campsites on the eastern shore of Grand Island, only about a mile and a half distant, and we buckle down for the crossing.

Near the middle of the passage we can make out indistinct human forms moving on the shoreline, suggesting the campsites are occupied. So we alter our course northward and land at a small sheltered cobblestone beach. There is no campsite here, approved or otherwise, so we paddle up along the thumb of Trout Point for another mile or so and find a lovely secluded site nestled into a rocky cove on the northwest tip of the point.

Making camp, we eat dinner and then hang our bear bags on the provided pole. That night we stretch out on the broad flat rocks, still warm from the day's sun, to watch a brilliant Milky Way churn around the dark sky overhead, and listen to the gentle lapping of the water at our feet. We tip back a couple of lukewarm Newcastle Brown Ales and enjoy the kind of conversation that can only be shared by two brothers far from home.

Daily Distance: 12 miles

For additional photos from this kayak trip, please visit the COMPANION PHOTO GALLERY >>