Washington Harbor at dusk

Good-byes are always difficult.

My rest day at Windigo is full of good-byes. Good-bye to the Minong Ridge, good-bye to the cohort I hiked with from McCargoe Cove, and good-bye to half of my opportunities to see a moose and/or wolf.

I think about these things while I wolf down my lunch back at my shelter along Washington Creek.

After lunch, I hustle back towards Windigo to see the Minong family off on their voyage back to Minnesota. Earlier, there was some talk about the ferry not running today due to rough waters on a rather angry Lake Superior. This obviously did not happen as I spot a dozen or so backpackers assemble under the pavilion near the dock.

Everyone is dressed in their brightly colored rain gear, as the skies are still dark and threatening. I say my good-byes to the family, and take a couple pictures as they depart down the dock toward the ferry. The sight of them rushing to the boat marks the beginning of the end of the Minong Ridge group that journeyed all the way from McCargoe Cove together. Tomorrow morning will conclude the process, as I take the Feldtmann Lake Trail, while the remaining group members head back to Rock Harbor via the Greenstone Ridge Trail.

Section Stats:
Date: September 4, 2011
Length: 2.0 miles (3.0 total daily miles; 50.8 total trip miles)
Difficulty: Very Easy

After the passengers border the ferry, I meander back to my shelter for an afternoon of writing up my meals from the past six days since being on the island. Grabbing some loose-leaf paper (yes, I carry old, thin typing paper – you do remember typwriters, do you not?) and start working on noting my meals in reverse chronological order.

When searching my mind and leafing through my notes proves inadequate, I start picking through my garbage bag in an attempt to recreate each meal. The food wrappers go in one of many different piles, with those things close to the top of the garbage bag belonging to meals that are more recent and those near the bottom later ones. I feel like an archeologist trying to recreate the far distant past, except in this case I am picking through used dental floss, wrappers, and wet paper towels. At least I know where these have been.

I go through all this effort just to provide content for this blog. Who said writing a blog is not sexy?

This activity takes much longer than anticipate. Frequently, I pause to warm my hands, or look for the source of the sound of water splashing or watch a duck swimming rapidly down the creek. And sometimes I just take a short break to appreciate the sights and sounds of the wilderness around me. Even a rest day in the more civilized area on the island is immensely more satisfying than a day at work in front of a computer at work.

Did man improve his situation by leaving behind the beauty of the outdoors? Are smart phones, DVRs, cars and televisions worth all the trouble of civilization? Have we lost more than we gained by turning our backs on nature? These questions intrude upon my consciousness after a week in the outdoors. Now, if only the outdoors could provide just a little more warmth.

Occasionally, I stare at my Foster’s beer whiling preparing my meal notes. The cooler weather is not what I envisioned when I placed the can in my resupply box. The thought of downing a cold beer after a long, arduous and hot day on the trail is long gone now, supplanted by a feeling of obligation to burden myself with an extra 25 ounces. Hopefully, the temperatures will climb later in today, and then all these thoughts will surely evaporate. Somehow, I do not think any temperature gain is in the cards today, which begs the questions: how long will I be obligated to carry it?

While returning from a break to the toilet, I stop in my tracks halfway along the little spur trail leading to the front of my shelter. A female mallard is leading her five little chicks up the steep slope from Washington Creek, right into my campsite. Standing motionless, I watch as the chicks fan out, eating just about everything they can find in my campsite, concentrating near and under the picnic table.

The vigilant mother joins them, occasionally thrusting her head up in the air, rotating it like the periscope of a submarine. Numerous times, she stares right at me, and just when I think she is going to herd her little charges away, she just returns to the task of searching for food.

Ferry departure at Windigo

I kick myself again for not carrying my camera at all times. Even though it is the lightest digital SLR available (or at least it was a few years ago), it is bigger and bulkier than my compact camera that I used to carry. It is impossible for me to get the camera now, as it is securely stowed away in the shelter. Instead, I must watch helplessly as the duck family scours my campsite for their lunch.

Finally, the chicks start moving toward me on the spur trail. Their mother joins them, but the closer they get to me, the more agitated she becomes. And the closer they get, the more motionless I try to remain. The mother’s caution gets the best of her and she hurries ahead of the chicks and moves them back toward the shelter, away from a potential threat, me.

After what seems like hours, the duck family disappears behind the opposite side of the shelter. Finally, I get to move once again, returning to the picnic table to finish recording the rest of my meals during the first half of my Isle Royale trip.

Upon finishing the meal notes, the resupply box screams out for my attention. Not wanting to wait until the last minute, I set about packing it up so it can be sent back home tomorrow morning before hitting the trail to Feldtmann Lake.

My empty resealable plastic food bags from the first half of the trip, my souvenirs (not including the check lists), the playing cards from Little Todd, some empty bottles accumulated at Windigo (to be used as water or fuel bottles in the future) and some other assorted stuff goes into the box. Some of the stuff I originally sent to Isle Royale goes back (e.g. the extra bug repellant, since I have not used any yet) returning never used and unnecessary. Even with all this stuff, the box looks relatively empty compared to the way it arrived many days before.

Washington Creek

I keep the beer, even though I never opened it. It is going into my backpack to be drunk on a warmer day in the future. Hopefully, there will be one soon, as I do not look forward slogging it all the way back to Rock Harbor.

Opening the envelope with the return postage leaves me aghast. The return postage appears five dollars short, at least in comparison to the postage amount the Syracuse postal employee wrote on the included slip of paper.

Now, I wish I could say I did not throw a minor tantrum over this wrinkle in my intricate plans for this trip. Alas, I cannot. I curse myself, the postal employee and then me again for not checking the postage before placing it into the resupply box.

When I finally calm down, I wrack my brain for ways to keep the weight of the box down. Given what little I am putting in it, I am not sure it is possible to get it much lighter. I decide to not put anything precious in it, cross my fingers and hope for the best. If it fails to make it to Syracuse, then c’est la vie.

After dinner, I back toward the Windigo Ranger Station to attend a talk on moose on Isle Royale. Since I am a little early, I take my time, stopping to watch an occasional bird or look for a moose out in Washington Harbor. Of course, there are no moose to speak off, which is quickly becoming par for the course.

It is a full house when I finally make my way to the Ranger Station. Tim and Shelly, the young couple from the Minong attend, but I recognize no one else. Grace Fryzel, a National Park Service volunteer gives the talk and it lasts about an hour, with many visual aids thanks to modern computer technology.

Although there is a plethora of facts packed into the hour, my take home message is that the moose (and consequentially, wolf) population on Isle Royale is at their lowest levels in recorded history. The low numbers may just explain why I have yet to see one. Today there are only about 500 moose on the island, while in 1995 there were over 2000. I had plans to visit back in 1996, but had to cancel due to a nasty case of blisters. Perhaps I missed my opportunity to experience the joy of seeing an Isle Royale moose then.

Dusk at Washington Harbor

The talk wraps up with a game of hang-moose, a modified version of hangman. The presentation audience breaks up into two teams, with some team members receiving a written based on information covered over the previous hour. My team ends up winning, although it was close. Obviously, my vast knowledge and experience plays a critical role in tipping the balance in the contest for my team. Or, at least so I like to believe. It is a nice way to end my rest day.

It is dusk on the way back to my shelter at Washington Creek Campground. I linger at the dock for a while before making my way back to the campground, savoring my dwindling hours at Windigo. I spend the whole time imagining seeing a moose hanging around, but that does not happen.

At the shelter, I pack up as much of my stuff as possible, preparing for returning to the trail in the morning. Although the resupply box is ready to go, I refrain from taping it up until the morning. I decide to do the same for my poor blistered feet.

I settle into my sleeping bag, wrapping myself in all but my clean hiking clothes, which are still damp from laundry earlier in the morning. Tomorrow starts the second half of my Isle Royale trip, the return to Rock Harbor, first via the Feldtmann Ridge Trail for a couple days, followed by the Greenstone Ridge Trail.

Hopefully somewhere along the way, there is a moose sighting before the trips ends.

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