The bell above the door jingles cheerily as my paddling partner, Jeff Noltner, and I enter the tiny bait shop in Kakabeka Falls, Ontario.

"Hi, we'd like a few backcountry permits for camping on Crown Land."
"OK," says the pleasant woman tending to the bubbling minnow tanks, "you'll need fishing licenses too, eh?"
"No, just the permits. We'll be camping on some islands."
She is taken aback. "Well, if you're not fishing, what're you doing in the backcountry?"
Jeff and I look at each other and shrug. "Just camping, I guess. Hanging out ...?"
She blinks, clearly perplexed. "Well, if you say so," she says doubtfully.

She finally opens her permit book and gets down to business. While huge speeding trucks roar past outside on the Trans-Canada Highway, I browse her bounteous selection of medieval torture devices for earthworms and baitfish. All involve impalement on barbed hooks, drowning, and often end in consumption by ravenous Canadian walleye.

"Here you go," the minnow lady says, tearing off our slips and handing them to us. We pay and thank her, then head for the door.
"Have fun!" she calls after us. Then, almost under her breath, "But I don't know how you're gonna have fun without fishing ..."
Though her voice trails off, her words hang in the crisp morning air like a challenge.
"You know," says Jeff as we climb into the truck and point the bows of our sea kayaks down toward Thunder Bay, "it's like a whole other country up here!"

We drive through the Fort William First Nation reservation and arrive at the put-in on Squaw Bay. At the small public dock there, we load our boats, snap on the hatch covers, and set out onto Lake Superior. Our goal is Pie Island, six miles distant and rising from the sparkling bay like its namesake tall French pastry. We paddle along below the high ramparts of Mount McKay for a mile or so, then swing onto a more direct heading for the southwest corner of Pie Island. Before long we can see the fifteen-mile-long form of Nanabijou—the Sleeping Giant—slumbering on his back and forming the far shore of Thunder Bay.

Nanabijou, son of the Great Manitou, was a giant demigod, protector and teacher of the native Ojibwa. He knew that there was a rich vein of precious silver on a tiny island near here, but told the Ojibwa people to tell no one, for he knew the White Man would come and steal the land. The secret was safe for a long time, but eventually word got out, and some dishonorable Ojibwa led whites out to the island in canoes to steal the silver. Furious, Nanabijou stirred up a great storm on the lake, and all the thieves were drowned.

To punish him for this evil deed, Manitou cast his son down and turned him to stone. Nanabijou still lies where he fell, and can be seen for miles around. No one knows if or when the Sleeping Giant will ever awaken ...

There is a fifteen-knot south wind today, and we take the two-foot waves on the bow for nearly two hours before easing up alongside Pie Island. We briefly put ashore for a lunch break near the dilapidated navigation light tucked way in the dense forest, then round Keefer Point and thread our way through some submerged shoals, which throw squirrely waves at us seemingly from all sides.

We find a lovely little harbor on the southwest shore of Pie, called Dawson Bay on our charts, punctuated in the middle by a short, rocky peninsula. From a distance we can make out human forms on the nearest beach, so we continue on to the second, where we cruise in to land on the calm and sandy beach.

The high cliffs of Greenstone Point tower over us to the east, with even greater heights rising behind us in the interior of the island. Our topo maps depict rough and rugged terrain all over the island, with bluffs jutting 850 feet above the lake surface, and deep canyons in between. There is only a narrow strip of sand and cobble beach between the water's edge and the dense brush of the forest, but Jeff soon finds a level and sandy spot for his tent. I find a similar campsite nearby but soon realize it is literally crawling with thousands of ants. I briefly consider just exactly how tightly my tent zippers can be closed, then instead decide to pitch it on a level patch of wave-rounded, flat stones on the beach.

While Jeff strolls away and up the shoreline, I strip down and dive into the cold waters of Lake Superior to wash away the sweat of the day. I cannot contain a reflexive whoop of elation and cold-shock as I surface for another breath, and my shouts echo loudly off the highest bluffs overlooking our bay. Far down the beach, Jeff turns to see me floundering around in the frigid water like an injured loon, and simply shakes his head and keeps walking.

Later, as the setting sun turns the ruddy overhead cliffs to a crimson orange, we enjoy a shoreside dinner and consult our maps. We debate exploring other nearby islands tomorrow morning, but finally agree to continue circling Pie before returning to the mainland. There are other parts of the north shore we'd like to paddle in the next few days, including Sleeping Giant, so we must keep on the move.

As darkness falls, we retire to our tents and sleep.

Daily Distance: 10 miles

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