Kayak trip in Isle Royale National Park, August 2003
-John Pearson

Our group of ten Iowa kayakers (Steve Parrish, Bob Johansen, Dave Kraemer, Dave Foster, Matt Maxwell, Rick Dietz, Jerry Kemperman, Betsy Wallace, Brian Lange, and me) traveled to Isle Royale National Park for a 4-day paddling-and-hiking trip.  As a botanist, I also kept track of the plant species that I saw, aided by an annotated checklist (The Vascular Flora of Isle Royale National Park by Allison Slavick and Robert Janke, 1993).

I sighted the first plants for my botanical logbook long before we landed on the island.  The dominant trees of the boreal forest, white spruce and balsam fir, cloaked the island with a dark green hue visible from the forward deck of the 55-foot Voyageur II as soon as it cleared the harbor at Grand Portage shortly after 8AM and began its 22-mile journey across Lake Superior.  I dutifully recorded “Picea glauca, Abies balsamea” as we cruised into Washington Harbor at the southwest end of the island two hours later.  Several other trees were easily identified at that time as well: quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides) and paper birch (Betula papyrifera), both abundant as large patches of deciduous trees and mingling with spruce and fir; isolated, tall white pines (Pinus strobus) on a dry ridgetop, their windblown limbs ascending gracefully above the general forest canopy; and the dense, green, frond-like foliage (speckled with the immature, yellowish cones of late August) of eastern white cedars (Thuja occidentalis) crowding the cool, moist lakeshore.  However, other than a brief on-shore rest stop at the Windigo Visitor Center in Washington Harbor and a non-disembarking pause at McCargoe Cove, the Voyageur II stayed several hundred yards offshore on its clockwise course around the island, making identification of plants smaller than trees almost impossible until we landed at Rock Harbor in the late afternoon.

After leaving Washington Harbor, we cruised northeastward along rugged, black cliffs of basalt on the north shore and passed a vast acreage of aspen-birch forest.  Aspen and birch had quickly grown up in the spruce-fir forest that had burned down in an enormous fire that swept nearly a quarter of the island in 1936 (including right down to the Lake Superior shoreline here between Hugginin Cove and Little Todd Harbor).  After 67 years, the slow-growing conifers were only now beginning to poke their pointed crowns through the nearly continuous canopy of tall hardwoods.  Edges between the “young” hardwood forest and the “old” conifer-studded forest were clearly visible where fire had skipped over a steep bluff and where it had finally stopped near Todd Harbor, extinguished after burning for 3 months by wet weather and hundreds of firefighters.  “Old” is only a relative term because copper miners in the 1800s had burned virtually all of the forest in an effort to reveal the bedrock of the island during searches for mineral veins; thus much of the “old” forest itself is probably only a few decades older than the forest that regrew on the 1936 burn.  Most likely, the oldest upland forest of significant extent on Isle Royale is no older than 160 years, dating to the first wave of extensive burning by miners in the year 1843 when the island was officially acquired from the Ojibway Indian tribe.

En route to our starting point in Rock Harbor, we rounded the northeast end of the island.  This end of Isle Royale can be likened to the shape of a right human hand placed palm-down on a table, fingers and thumb clasped together, pointing northeast.  More realistically, imagine the hand of a skeleton, five bony fingers of land separated by narrow bays of water:

· The tip of the “thumb” is Hill Point, separated from the index finger by Five Finger Bay.  We bypassed an archipelago of long, narrow offshore islands between the “knuckles” of the thumb (Amygdaloid Island, Belle Isle, Green Island, Dean Island, and smaller islets) that would be an intriguing destination for a future kayak trip.

· Tipped by Locke Point, the index finger is separated from the middle finger by Duncan Bay.  Also bypassed on this trip, this peninsula is remote, rugged, and trailless.

· The middle finger, extending farther seaward to the northeast, is separated from the ring finger by Tobin Harbor and is named the “Greenstone Ridge”.  As the 50-mile long topographic spine of Isle Royale, this prominent basalt ridge contains the highest points of the island above Lake Superior (Mount Franklin (474 feet), Mount Ojibway (736 feet), Mount Siskiwit (605 feet), Ishpeming Point (777 feet), Mount Desor (794 feet), and Sugar Mountain (762 feet)), a backpacking trail (the “Greenstone Trail”), and two lookout towers (on Mount Ojibway and Ishpeming Point).  Tipped by Blake Point, this finger points directly at Passage Island 3 miles to the northeast across a frigid, wave-tossed strait.  Our day-hikes would take us to the basalt, barrens, and bogs of Greenstone Ridge on three occasions.

· Tipped by Scoville Point, the ring finger is separated from the little finger by Rock Harbor; the upper knuckle marks the approximate position of the marina, lodge, campground, visitor center, and ranger station in Snug Harbor, a tiny inlet of Rock Harbor.  An unexpected layover would allow us to experience Scoville Point during the height of a storm.

· Tipped by Gull Rock, a featureless, guano-stained fingernail of basalt, the little finger is bordered on its “right” or southeast side by the watery void of Lake Superior.  The upper segment of the finger is Raspberry Island; the park headquarters are located on the middle knuckle, on Mott Island; the bottom segment is Caribou Island, itself broken into “East” and “West” islets.  To be consistent with the analogy of a skeletal hand, the little finger must be severed at its base to form a gap named the “Middle Islands Passage”.  Our spectacular last day of kayaking would take us through the gap and along the outer edge of this outermost chain of islands.

Our trip was to be a loop around most of Rock Harbor, a long, narrow channel merging with Lake Superior at its open, northeastern end and terminating in the spoon-shaped bay of Moskey Basin on its landlocked, southwestern end.  Although 15 miles in length, Rock Harbor is only a half-mile wide, bracketed by parallel shorelines of hard, black basalt.   Our original 4-day itinerary would be extended to a fifth day by a storm on Lake Superior.

We arrived at the Rock Harbor resort complex in Snug Harbor about 4PM and off-loaded our kayaks and camping gear.  Our group campsite was located a quarter-mile from the dock (only a “hop, skip, and jump” according to the ranger, who evidently had never carried multiple armloads of unwieldy kayak gear) in a tiny man-made clearing in the woods.  During casual observations around camp that evening, I was able to add dozens of plants to my checklist, including the most ubiquitous species: thimbleberry (Rubus parviflorus), bunchberry (Cornus canadensis), bearberry (Arctostaphylos uva-ursi), bigleaf aster (Aster macrophyllus), bead lily (Clintonia borealis), pearly everlasting (Anaphalis margaritacea), shining clubmoss (Lycopodium lucidulum), twin-flower (Linnaea borealis), one-sided pyrola (Pyrola secunda), and cow-wheat (Melampyrum lineare).  These would prove to be common and abundant in nearly every forested area in the park, the standard by which to appreciate differences in newly encountered, less widespread habitats.
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Day 1- Snug Harbor to Daisy Farm.  After packing our kayaks and switching our watches to Eastern Time (Isle Royale is in Michigan), we set off at 10:30AM against a brisk headwind from the marina in Snug Harbor toward Daisy Farm, about 6 miles to the southwest.  First impressions of Rock Harbor: Lake Superior swelling through gaps in the outer reef, white surf breaking on black bluffs, dark boreal forest on tilted basalt bedrock, colorful kayaks advancing through choppy waves under a low gray sky.  Our group of ten kayaks split amoeba-like into two halves around a reef in the middle of the harbor.  I fell in with Brian, Steve, and Dave Foster along the north shore as we traced the shoreline to where the map indicated “Suzy’s Cave” on the adjacent upland.  Landing in mild surf on a rocky beach, we made our way uphill through a gently sloping glade or “barrens”, a grassy opening in the forest where the soil was too thin to support trees.  Oatgrass (Danthonia spicata), blueberry (Vaccinium myrtilloides), and common juniper (Juniperus communis) were the dominant grasses and shrubs, sparsely covering a large outcrop of lichen-encrusted basalt.  A small cave at the tree-covered top of the hill would have been nearly unremarkable had it not been a 5000-year old relict of Lake Minong, a predecessor of Lake Superior with a shoreline some 50 feet higher than present; its waves pounded out the sea-cave that must now be approached by hiking instead of floating.

After we re-embarked in the kayaks, I paddled across the channel toward the other group and found them resting on a small, cobble beach between low bluffs of basalt.  The steep face of the nearest bluff was adorned with bright orange crustose lichen, the pale green, drooping threads of “old man’s beard” (Usnea , a fruticose lichen), and arching trunks of eastern white cedars rooted in crevices.  Watching the shorelines as we passed, we saw the Park Service headquarters on Mott Island, the forested spoil piles of long-abandoned Siskiwit Mine, the weathered remains of a (wolf-killed?) moose carcass, and bedrock glades with scattered jack pines (Pinus banksiana).  At Middle Islands Passage, the reunited group glimpsed Lake Superior across a wave-battered reef and admired a picturesque lighthouse that once warned of its danger.

Our landing on the sandy beach at Daisy Farm was followed by a brief drudgery of hauling gear to an inland group campsite.  An after-dinner trek to the Ojibway Tower, a former fire lookout on Greenstone Ridge, was spiced with a thunderstorm that approached as we climbed the final hill from a narrow, wet valley full of speckled alder (Alnus incana).  Thunder rumbled ominously as we reached the top of the tower stairs and peered through a gathering gloom at distant lakes, hills, and forest, all framed against the blue expanse of Lake Superior.  We quickly descended the steel tower, then lightning and showers chased us away on rain-slickened trails.  In the twilight as we approached the meadow near camp, we spotted a pair of moose- cow and calf- moving slowly along the forest edge; the cow grunted softly to its huge calf and then both disappeared into the dark woods.

 Our idyllic first day was capped with a triple astronomical encore that night: the rising of Mars to the southeast, its red light unusually bright because of its historically close passage to Earth; the Milky Way overhead, incredibly detailed in a moonless sky; and the ghostly streaks of the Northern Lights playing above a cloudless horizon.
 

Day 2- Daisy Farm to Moskey Basin.  Letting our rain- and dew-soaked tents dry in the morning sun, we set off again to Ojibway Tower, but followed a different trail.  On its way to Greenstone Ridge (the “middle finger”), this trail crossed the same “ring finger” ridge as yesterday, but crossed the intervening valley farther upstream, in the swampy lowlands below Lake Benson.  The water-logged hydrology of this segment of the valley had allowed peat to accumulate between the lake and the alder-choked stream that we had crossed the day before.  A small bog occupied the peaty valley here, crossed by our trail atop a single-planked boardwalk.  I stopped to examine a new suite of plants and was soon absorbed in identifying Sphagnum moss, bog buckbean (Menyanthes trifoliata), marsh marigold (Caltha palustris), pitcher plant (Sarracenia purpurea), Labrador tea (Ledum groenlandicum), bog laurel (Kalmia polifolia), cranberry (Vaccinium oxycoccos), tamarack (Larix laricina), and black spruce (Picea mariana).  I also found a few plants of the bog twayblade (Liparis loeselii) in flower.  After listening to my narrative about bog vegetation, the others eventually filed past me as I opted to linger on the boardwalk, crouching over specimens, flipping through field guides, and scribbling notes.

 

I caught up with Jerry, Betsy, and Dave Foster at an opening in a maple forest.  Jerry and I had noticed that the dominant tree in this forested area was sugar maple (Acer saccharum), a species familiar to us in Iowa but at the far northern edge of its natural range on Isle Royale.  Its abundance in a deciduous forest on the high slopes of the Greenstone Ridge was due to the warmer, drier habitat here compared to the cool, moist conditions that favored coniferous forests of spruce, fir, and white cedar closer to the lakeshore.  As I passed under the maples, I also noticed the bright red fruits of Jack-in-the-pulpit (Arisaema triphyllum), a common companion of sugar maple back in Iowa.

Shortly after leaving the opening, we reached the crest of the Greenstone Ridge and turned northeast toward Ojibway Tower, still 1½ miles away.  A combination of thin, rocky soil, a dry, windswept location, and past forest fires had created a mosaic of grassy openings, shrubby thickets, and patches of tall aspen-birch forest along the crest of the ridge.  The grasslands and shrubfields afforded grand views of the island landscape.  The shrubby patches were composed primarily of hazelnut (Corylus cornuta) but included a diversity of shrub species including chokecherry (Prunus virginiana), ninebark (Physocarpus opulifolius), serviceberry (Amelanchier sanguinea), bush honeysuckle (Diervilla lonicera), dogwood (Cornus rugosa), wild rose (Rosa acicularis), common juniper (Juniperus communis), blueberries (Vaccinium myrtilloides and V. angustifolium), pussy-willow (Salix discolor), buffaloberry (Sheperdia canadensis), and snowberry (Symphoriocarpos albus) as well as small trees of mountain-ash (Sorbus decora) and  red maple (Acer rubrum).  We arrived at Ojibway Tower under a clear, sunny sky, quite a contrast from the dark, stormy conditions of yesterday afternoon.

Mt.Ojibway Tower

We landed on massive bedrock that had been rounded and polished by glaciers pushing down the valley thousands of years ago.  Crevices supported tiny gardens filled with rock spikemoss (Selaginella rupestris) and three-toothed cinquefoil (Potentilla tridentata).  After dinner at our new inland campsite, we all filtered individually and in small groups back to the smooth outcropping at the lakeshore and gazed down the length of Rock Harbor toward its confluence with Lake Superior over ten miles away.  Light refracting across the water surface made distant islets appear to be floating in air.  Rick and Matt paddled across the bay, their sleek kayaks leaving a gentle wake on glassy water.  A family of mergansers cruised past a rock ledge.  Otters cavorted offshore and a lone moose appeared at the head of the bay at twilight.  We stayed on the rock and talked until after dark.

Day 3- Moskey Basin sidetrips.  I took an easy, solo kayak trip into the Moskey Basin bays near the dock shortly after sunrise.  Morning mist lingered in the narrow, sedge-draped corridor of a small stream draining from distant Lake Richie.  The dark green foliage of the dominant tussock sedge (Carex stricta) was dotted with the creamy white flowers of turtlehead (Chelone glabra) and pink blossoms of closed gentian (Gentiana rubicaulis) , a harbinger of autumn.  A lighter shade of green along the water’s edge turned out to be a bed of scouring rush (Equisetum) when I paddled closer.  Long, narrow leaves of submerged wild celery (Vallisneria americana) waved gracefully downstream several feet under my hull.  Other nearby bays were shallow, sandy scallops in the shoreline and supported monotypic stands of spikerush (Eleocharis) and hardstem bulrush (Scirpus acutus).  As with the shoals seen yesterday, the sandy bottom was littered with mussel shells.

Back at camp, two main options for spending the day were being chosen.  Rick, Matt, Brian, and Dave Kraemer were suiting up in cold-water gear for a kayak outing beyond Middle Islands Passage (the “Gap”, as we called it) along the wild, surfy shore of Lake Superior.  Betsy (feeling ill) and Jerry remained in camp for the morning, but later paddled out to join the Superior group as they were returning to the Gap from far along the Superior shore.   Feeling that that challenge was out of my kayaking league, I opted to go “bog hunting” inland along the trail beyond Lake Richie leading to the Greenstone Ridge.  Remembering the topographic setting of the bog that we had found yesterday en route to Ojibway Tower from Daisy Farm, I hoped to find another bog- replete with orchids and other new species- where the trail crossed the valley beneath the big ridge near Lake LeSage.  Bob, Steve, and Dave Foster also chose Richie Lake as their day-hiking destination.

The 2-mile trail to Lake Richie started at the boardwalk over the small stream that I had paddled earlier in the morning.  From there, it crossed gently rolling to slightly hilly terrain through forest variously dominated by aspen, birch, spruce, and fir and occasional glades.  Having become widely separated along the trail, Steve, Dave, and I reconvened where the trail met the shoreline of Lake Richie.  We lunched in the shade of a white cedar grove, glad to be out of the bright, hot sunlight.  We encountered several backpackers hiking laboriously on the trail or lounging in their campground sites.  After lunch, Steve started back to Moskey Basin, Dave decided to stay at Lake Richie to fish awhile, and I pressed on toward Lake LeSage.  (No one in our group had seen Bob since he left camp ahead of us, although some backpackers reported seeing a hiker matching his description “way up the trail”.)

After hiking over a ridge and descending to a boardwalk over a swampy stream, I cooled off in the shade of a dense riparian woods (lots of black ash, Fraxinus nigra, here) and passed some time tabulating the checklist of plants that I had developed to this point.  The total stood at 134 species (out of an island total of 700), including the water parsnip (Sium suave), water arum (Calla palustris), water hemlock (Cicuta bulbifera), skunk cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidum), and purple meadow-rue (Thalictrum dasycarpum) growing in the wet, shaded ground next to the boardwalk.  So that I would not have to recount the entire list later, I began numbering the new species that I encountered after leaving this rest stop.

Approaching the last valley before the Greenstone Ridge, I finally spied a wetland through the trees and hurried down, hoping that my prediction of a bog in this location would be proven right.  However, upon arriving at the boardwalk, I saw that the wetland was just a beaver pond at the head of Lake LeSage.  Although somewhat disappointed that my bog-hunting was unsuccessful, I was still able to add a few species to my list, including cattails (Typha latifolia, #135) and arrowhead (Sagittaria latifolia, #136).  Moving on, I met Bob on the trail just as he began his return from Lake LeSage; he reported seeing a turtle in the lake, an animal that we had not yet seen on the trip.    I continued onward a short distance to the lake, then hiked up to the Greenstone Ridge after another break.  Having expected another protracted climb up a long, steep hill, I was surprised to find that the ridge crest was less than 100 feet above the lake; there is evidently a low saddle in the otherwise high Greenstone Ridge in this part of the island.

The hot sun was becoming less oppressive as I started on the return leg of my hike in the late afternoon.  My tabulated species total began to creep steadily upward as I explored habitats at a more leisurely “botanizing” pace.  I soon encountered #137 (creeping-snowberry, Gaultheria hispidula) on a shaded, trailside bank above the beaver pond; its namesake white berries, low-growing habit, and resemblance to other members of the heath family (an “ericaceous” trait) helped me identify it.  Later, at a complex of sunny and shaded hillside seeps near Lake Richie, I found northern rein orchid (Habenaria hyperborea), soft rush (Juncus effusus), woodland horsetail (Equisetum sylvaticum), and three-way sedge (Dulichium arundinaceum).  I especially enjoyed my trip back through the grassy barrens between Lake Richie and Moskey Basin, where an ambiance of evening sunlight, the pleasant fatigue of a day-long hike, and a sense of growing familiarity with the ecology and geography of the island combined in a satisfying blend.  When I finally reached the shore of Rock Harbor at Moskey Basin , I paused only to remove my boots and sweat-soaked shirt before striding into the cold, clear water for a refreshing full-body dip.

Back in camp, we all traded stories of our outings.  The Lake Superior trip beyond the “Gap” had gone well, exploring the coast past Conglomerate Bay all the all to Saginaw Point.  One anecdote featured Dave rolling his kayak on purpose, but failing to come up in wavy conditions and ultimately signaling for assistance upon discovering (while underwater) that he could not release his tight, neoprene spray skirt from the cockpit combing (the grab loop had been tucked unreachably under the seal, which he could not pry open with his fingers); Rick promptly maneuvered his kayak into a right angle with Dave’s cockpit to let him use his arm for a bow-supported rollup.  That’s what friends are for.

Day 4- Moskey Basin to Snug Harbor.  Today was scheduled as the last day of the trip and required a long paddle down nearly the full length of Rock Harbor.  We had discussed the options of returning the 10 miles to Snug Harbor via the “inside passage” within the protected channel of Rock Harbor (as we had come three days ago) or via the “outer passage” that led along the Lake Superior side of the “little finger” ridge of narrow Caribou, Mott, Shaw, and Smithwick islands.  I hoped we could choose the latter, but we needed to assess the wind and waves at Middle Islands Passage before deciding.  Although it promised new and exciting scenery, the outer passage could also be dangerously exposed to the unmitigated power of Lake Superior, which stretched unbrokenly over the horizon all the way to the unseen shores of the upper peninsula of Michigan over 50 miles away; the marine navigation chart also indicated that the water just offshore was over 300 feet deep.  However, that decision still lay a hour ahead of us.

We set off from Moskey Basin on a cool, bright, beautiful morning.  Dave pointed out a pair of otters trailing Jerry’s and Betsy’s kayaks.  Without a rudder or skeg, I soon discovered that I had to correct the course of my kayak against a strong quartering wind from the north with a broad left sweep at each paddle stroke.  Laboring against the wind, I began to fall behind the others and fell still farther behind when I deviated into bays searching the shoreline for small sandy beaches with beach pea (Lathyrus maritima).  Brian had expressed interest in seeing this herb after learning that bears relished it (he had raised a bear cub and still maintained his interest in their natural history); I had seen this species by our landing at Suzy’s Cave several days earlier and hoped to spot another occurrence for him.  After unsuccessfully scanning several bays for beach pea, however, I glanced ahead and could see Dave, Jerry, and Betsy only as small dark dots against a sparkling background of sunlit waves.  Squinting into the greater distance, I could not see the others at all except for pinpricks of sunlight flashing rhythmically from their wet, windmilling paddle blades.  I decided to suspend my search and close the widening gap.

I caught up to everyone when they stopped at the Bangrund Cabin (across the bay from Daisy Farm), the summer research quarters of the Isle Royale wolf research team led by Dr. Rolf Peterson.  Although no researchers were present when we arrived, the station was open to visitors.  In addition to quaint cabins once used to house fishermen associated with the historic Edisen Fishery, the grounds contained a large outdoor exhibit of moose skulls resting abundantly on low wooden bleachers.  Each skull, meticulously numbered and recorded, had been retrieved from carcasses throughout the island over the decades since research on the wolves- and moose, their primary prey on Isle Royale- had begun in the 1950s.  I wondered if the skull missing from the moose carcass that we had seen on the shore near Siskiwit Mine was among those on the bench labeled “The Class of 2003”.

We paddled a short distance farther to Middle Islands Passage, where we would make our decision for the final route.  Bobbing in the wavy gap, we gathered for a council and observed that the strong north wind was churning the normally quiet water of Rock Harbor into rolling waves.  On the southern, lee side of the Caribou Island chain, the water was calm despite being exposed to the full aspect of Lake Superior.  Everyone agreed to choosing the outer passage.  I was delighted that this wild and scenic route would also be the safer and easier one under the circumstances.  Nonetheless, out of respect for the dangers of the open lake, we instinctively paddled together in a compact group in case someone should flip unexpectedly and need assistance.  I noticed that Rick, one of the most adept kayakers in our group, quietly took up station at the rear of the group when we reached the open coast to be in a favorable position for providing a rescue.

Our individualistic rising and falling on swells as we paddled aggressively forward on interweaving paths reminded me of Brian’s analogy (that I once heard him coin during a slide presentation about Red Rock Lake) likening a group of kayakers to a pod of orcas swimming along the surface of the sea.  To my left, the shoreline we were hugging was a line of black basalt bluffs splashed brightly with orange lichens and capped with verdant conifers.  We passed a cleft in the black rock wall containing a sea arch standing strangely several meters above the lakeshore, another relict of a higher ancient shoreline.  To my right,  every glance into the blue vastness of Lake Superior reminded me of William Clark’s exclamatory entry to his journal when the Lewis and Clark expedition first spied the western sea: “Ocean in view! Oh the joy!”.

Stopping for lunch on Mott Island behind the Park Service headquarters, we discovered a large block of conglomerate rock that had been lifted beyond the erosive reach of Superior waves on the back of the geologically rising basalt bedrock.  Although hard to human hands, this layer of compacted silt, sand, gravel, and cobbles is lithologically soft, yielding to erosion to form valleys bounded by parallel ridges of durable basalt.  The rugged ridge-and-valley topography of Isle Royale owes it existence to tilted, alternating beds of hard basalt and soft conglomerate, but this was the first time that we had seen an aboveground example of a conglomerate member of the bedrock complex.  In most places on the island, it lies cryptically at the bottom of bays, bogs, bayous, and beaver ponds.  Just as we were leaving Mott Island, Jerry found a patch of beach pea for Brian and me.

Onward along the rocky coast past more and still more stunning scenery with an atmosphere of secure, yet challenging exploration, mile after mile....We soon encountered “Loralei Lane”, a narrow water passage within Shaw Island, itself a slender segment of the “little finger” row of islands forming the outer boundary of Rock Harbor.  Brian and I opted to remain on the Superior side of the lane while the others disappeared into the channel through the flooded canyon.  Our sudden sense of isolation as two small specks alone on the edge of giant Lake Superior was exhilarating.  We caught occasional glimpses of the others through reef-studded gaps in the canyon as we paddled along on parallel courses.  At a large gap in the wall about a mile later, many of us traded places between the inner and outer routes.  Successive views of colorful fellow kayakers through rocky windows between increasingly jagged islets were dramatic and made me ache to use my camera, which had run out of film.  I spotted the bright yellow flowers of a low woody plant growing impossibly on the bare rock of an austere islet and knew immediately it had to be shrubby cinquefoil (Potentilla fruticosa), a species that I first met in the Pryor Mountains of Wyoming over 25 years ago.

Late in the afternoon, we emerged into Smithwick Channel, a broad opening in the chain of outer islands directly across from the marina at Snug Harbor, but as previously planned, we continued northeastward on to Raspberry Island to see the bog mentioned in the park brochure.  This bog was smaller than the one we had encountered along the trail to Ojibway Tower, but contained several interesting plant species.  In addition to the Labrador tea, buckbean, pitcher plant, cranberry, and Sphagnum mosses that we had seen before, I also pointed out leatherleaf (Chamaedaphne calyculata) and the carnivorous sundew (one of four species of Drosera in the park).

As we walked into the adjacent forest, I was impressed by how different the vegetation looked from what we had commonly seen to date in forests on the main island.  The virtual absence of moose on Raspberry Island (due to its small size and isolation from the main island) has allowed browsing-sensitive plants like Canada yew (Taxus canadensis, an evergreen shrub) to flourish and remain abundant here long after moose invaded the main island (probably by swimming 15 miles from the mainland first around 1904, plus several times since then); conversely, it has nearly been extirpated on the main island by a century of heavy browsing by moose.  Thimbleberry (Rubus parviflorus), a deciduous shrub avoided by browsing moose (almost certainly due to its poor taste or low palatability because this species of raspberry lacks thorns to repel browsers), is super-abundant on the main island, where it has increased to fill the voids left by plants preferentially “browsed out” by moose; on Raspberry Island, this shrub is present but not particularly abundant.  Although wolves have preyed upon moose almost exclusively for over fifty years (since coming to Isle Royale across an ice bridge in 1949), they have obviously not reduced the moose population to a level that would allow the vegetation of the main island to recover its pre-moose, Raspberry Island-like condition.

After leaving Raspberry Island, half of the group proceeded to the marina and campground, but Rick, Matt, Betsy, Jerry, and I extended our kayak tour of the outer islands another mile.  The north wind that had been blowing all day had disappeared and the water was now still.  Even Lake Superior was calm.  Long, low, oceanic swells gently lifted our kayaks as we cleared the tip of Raspberry Island, where Betsy and I spied a flock of cedar waxwings flitting among the cedars.  We paddled easily along the last few rocky islets.  We circled barren Gull Rock, its black rocks stained white with guano from countless generations of gulls and cormorants.  The wind began to blow again as we left Gull Rock and had risen strongly by the time we entered Snug Harbor a mile later, sending new waves crashing onto the rocky shore.  Signs of civilization increased: the Voyageur II cruising ahead of us in Rock Harbor, tourists waving to us from the veranda of the lodge,  and a paved sidewalk (next to a marina, post office, and hotel) at the head of Snug Harbor where we finally stepped out of our kayaks.

Day 5- Scoville Point.  To finalize our preparations for the 8AM loading of the Voyageur II, we all got up early and broke camp while Dave Kraemer prepared a delicious breakfast of pancakes for everyone.  After two gear-lugging trips between camp and the dock and a last-minute bout of sorting and packing on the dock, we were ready.  However, the pilot informed us shortly after 8AM that the boat would not run today because of high seas on Lake Superior.  During the night, the wind had risen sharply and was now blowing fiercely from the southeast.  From a knoll by the ranger station, we looked out through Smithwick Channel and could see hordes of white-capped waves on the open lake.  A Park Service ranger relayed a marine weather report to us that the storm-driven waves on Lake Superior were 11 feet tall.

We had no choice but to return to our just-abandoned campsite and re-establish camp for another night’s stay, so once more trudged up the trail with our unwieldy loads.  (Steve checked into a rental cabin, having become suddenly ill last night, and spent the day recuperating there.)  Afterwards, we hiked to Scoville Point (the rocky tip of the “ring-finger” peninsula), a 6-mile round trip made challenging by a thunderstorm that broke upon us as we reached an open, rocky coastline exposed to the full force of the wind and its pelting rain.  Waves crashed spectacularly into massive boulders and sheer cliffs, sending spray high into the air.  As we advanced toward the point, the vegetation changed from tall boreal forest to clumps of stunted conifers to low, shrubby barrens dominated by creeping juniper (Juniperus horizontalis) and finally to stark expanses of bare, windswept rock above wave-battered bluffs.  We picked our way carefully along the crest of smooth, wet bedrock to the final overlook on the outermost tip.  I crept out to the final precipice and lay flat to peer over the edge.  Huge gray waves rolled unabated from Lake Superior through the open strait between Gull Island and Flag Island to my right and struck the bluff beneath my perch with a terrific blast of white surf.  Veering wildly along the base of the bluff after rounding the point, each wave smeared surf along the entire inner shoreline to my left.

Bolts of lightning flashed between low, dark clouds and the agitated waters of Lake Superior, soon followed by booming of thunder.  Despite my raingear, I was soaked from spray and wind-driven rain.  With wet clothes in a whipping wind, my mind whispered “windchill ”.  Although I was reluctant to depart this battle of the elements, my better judgment warned of lightning strikes and hypothermia if I remained.  It was time to leave.  I got up and trailed after the others, who were now profiled against the gray sky as they hiked away from the point over a nearby hilltop.  As I walked, I scanned the rolling, pavement-like rock surface for wisps of vegetation that might consist of unique plants adapted to this unusual habitat and was rewarded with the discovery of a low, heather-like mat of black crowberry (Empetrum nigrum).  My floristic guidebook informed me that this was an arctic species known on Isle Royale only from Scoville Point and Passage Island.  I knelt on one knee and lightly held a sprig of crowberry between thumb and finger, in awe that I was grasping a tiny biogeographic relict of the tundra that once covered Isle Royale before a warming climate allowed boreal forest to usurp its realm...except on a few sterile, windswept shorelines like this one.

Knowing that I was falling behind the group again, I got up and hurried on, making only mental notes of other new plants that I passed.  In the first copse of stunted, wind-pruned trees, I found Jerry waiting for me.  Together we progressed along the runoff-flooded trail and caught up to Dave, Brian, and Matt where the trail skirted Tobin Harbor.  We stopped to examine an old copper mine, then returned to the Snug Harbor marina, where I retrieved dry clothes from a drybag in my kayak and changed out of my wet trappings in a restroom.  Like several of the others, I spent much of the remaining afternoon in the guesthouse in the resort complex, writing in my journal and watching the storm through a lakeside window.  Later, as I walked back to the campsite for our last night on the island, I recorded my final plant observation of the trip: common peppergrass (Lepidium virginicum, #199), a weedy mustard growing in the crack of a concrete sidewalk, a harbinger of our return to civilization.
*****
The Voyageur II was able to resume operation the following morning and carried us through subsiding waves, the remnants of yesterday’s storm, back to Grand Portage.  An hour of unloading the boat and stowing gear in our fleet of automobiles was capped with a round of group photos and goodbyes.  Brian and I drove his truck, topped with our kayaks, down the North Shore toward cell phone coverage, Interstate-35, and home.  It was 2:30AM when we pulled into my driveway in rural Indianola (Brian still had another 25 miles to drive to reach his Knoxville home!), having pushed through without an overnight stop.  It felt strange to recall that we had started the day by breaking camp in a spruce-fir forest on Isle Royale.

(C)Copyright 2003