Thunder Bay, Day 5: Rossport Islands

Launching from the public beach in Rossport soon after breakfast, Jeff and I paddle between Healey and Quarry Islands. On the southwest point of Quarry, we discover the submerged remains of a rock-weir dock, presumably vestiges of the namesake stonequarry operation which once thrived here. Large stone blocks and timbers are clearly visible in the crystalline waters.

We cross the main channel to Salter Island, where we pull ashore and take a short break. Near the water's edge, Jeff builds a small stone inukshuk figure, "as a sign of intelligent life."

"Hmm," I reply, recalling our repeated wrong turns of the day before, "we weren't so smart yesterday ..."

We hit the water and continue south along Salter, past Minnie Island, and finally cross to the east end of Battle Island, from where we can gaze out on the open lake. Lake Superior is a singular place, and anyone venturing out on her must be prepared for the unexpected. Old-time sailors will tell you, "If you make a mistake out on the lake, you'll have to pay for it."

On the morning of August 10, 1899, the steam propellor ship Ontario was upbound for Nipigon, towing a pair of wooden three-masted schooners, the Wawanosh and the Eureka. She had been struggling in a building snowstorm—in August, no less—and as she turned here into the shelter of Wilson Channel she was pushed by quartering seas into the rocky shore of Battle Island. The Wawanosh threw off her tow lines, set her sheets, and made her way in to Rossport, while the Eureka had to be towed by another vessel. The Ontario, meanwhile, began breaking apart on the rocks. Her crew abandoned the ship and were rescued, but she soon went down and sank below the waves in the small bay here. Only her steam boiler remains ashore, a century-old reminder of yet another victim of Superior's capricious temperament.

As we leave the shelter of the Wilson Channel and turn westward, we are exposed to the conditions of the open lake. It's fairly calm today, with only a one-to-two-foot chop, but there are numerous rocks and submerged shoals close to shore along here, and we angle out to steer clear of the waves breaking on them. Shortly before reaching the southwest point of Battle, we thread our way through the shallow, rocky entrance to a placid cove, towered over by the Battle Island Light.

After a quick lunch, we hike up through a dense cedar grove on a tight and narrow path evidently crafted by the gnomes of Narnia. Emerging on an old cart road, we follow it to the well-kept and impeccably tidy grounds of the lighthouse, with several maintenance sheds and a cheery keeper's house, an empty rocking chair sitting on the open porch. There appears to be no one around, and we are greeted only by a large white dog, who seems friendly enough and whose name we later learn is Kota.

Jeff and I wander to the base of the tower to gape upwards at the lighthouse, and when I casually glance back to the house I am surprised to see an old fellow resting in the porch chair, gently rocking as though he's been sitting there for years. Which he apparently has.

Bert, it turns out, has been living here at the remote Battle Island light station since retiring as a Canadian Coast Guard lightkeeper several years ago. Though he goes home to Thunder Bay every winter, he returns here each spring to keep an eye on the light, keep the grounds ship-shape, and greet the few visitors who venture out here to the northernmost lighthouse on all the Great Lakes.

"I suppose you wanna go up in the tower?" he offers, jingling his large ring of keys.

Up in the tiny light chamber, it seems we can see forever. Simpson Island sprawls away to the west, Nipigon Bay and the mainland to the north, and to the south, only open water as far as the eye can see. Bert tells us of the time, over thirty years ago, when a hard winter storm struck Superior, with gale-force southwest winds driving up off the lake.

"There's two hundred and fifty miles of fetch between here and Duluth. So when the waves got here ... well, they were pretty big ..."

Ice and frigid water leaped upward and broke the glass from the tower windows up here, a hundred and twenty feet above the lake, and swept large fuel-oil tanks from their concrete mounts. For those of us who often venture out in little boats, the image is almost incomprehensibly terrifying. I am not sure if it's the smell of machine oil, the altitude, or the thought of two- and three-story greenwater waves coming ashore here, but I feel a bit woozy.

But I stay, gripping the railing, entranced by the sweeping vista and the eye-searing beauty of this vast inland sea.

"Yup," murmurs Jeff, equally spellbound, "it's like a whole other country up here ..."

Daily Distance: 14 miles
Total Trip Distance: 61

Jeffrey Lee paddles and writes in the Upper Great Lakes region. For additional photos from this kayak trip, please visit the COMPANION PHOTO GALLERY >>

Enjoy this article? Please consider a small contribution to help support AquaDynology's continuing efforts to bring practical and inspiring advice to the paddling world.