Bright Skies and Broad Horizons

7/30-31/2022

Green Bay to Egg Harbor, WI

I had started behind the barn on the Tomorrow River, where Endeavor was built (and a couple communities of people came together to learn and take on their own projects). Clear, cold, and pristine, it supports viable trout populations and healthy ecosystems. Near the headwaters, it was almost narrow enough to jump across in a few spots. From there I saw the river grow as tributaries joined and it wound through field and forest. Eventually it joined the Wolf River and shorelines expanded as I paddled through marshes and grasslands to Lakes Poygan, Winneconne, Butte de Mortes, and eventually Winnebago. Society was taking its toll with more developed shoreline, algae, turbid water, and invasive fish that are more tolerant of pollutants. The waters of Winnebago cleared a bit as I hit Menasha, but then industry happened. By the time I reached the mouth of the Fox River, I avoided contact with the water if I could help it. I had seen too much of what we do to the waters to turn a blind eye to the toll our progress has taken on them. Same old story, but a fresh reminder of it. And in this tale, we are not the protagonist.

This leg of the journey starts where the river leaves off. The night before plunging into the vast waters of Green Bay, I paddled round the mouth of the river. It felt prudent to linger at the threshold of the abyss, so to speak, drinking in the last of the riparian captivity in anticipation of the liberation into big water. I was drawn to explore the solitary natural inlet on the river that lead to a few acres of marsh that had escaped development into coal piles, paper mills, petroleum staging tanks, electric transfer stations, or a waste treatment plant. Egrets, cormorants, pelicans, herons, and waterfowl clung to their claim of this last sliver of amphibious greenery.

Then it was finally time to enter into the expansive waters of Green Bay. Simplistic views of the water, landscape, and distant horizons, yet secrets of time pausing, interactions with waves, wind, and sun are revealed from their remarkably effective hiding spot, on the open aquatic plane right in front of us. But you have to go there to have them revealed. All these lessons are aside from what it does to a person’s psyche to see the transformation of the headwaters into inland seas and all the influences along the way.

This segment started at the mouth of the Fox River, at dawn, on a picture perfect morning. Calm winds giving rise to a southerly breeze, cool temps gradually warming, and a whole new chapter of unexplored waterscape was on the day's menu. My mom pitched in to get me to the put in and was to meet me wherever the take-out might be, so no need to peddle my bike for a shuttle.

Just another reason to be thankful of this woman, so tolerant of all the worry I subject her to. We arrived at the put-in at 6:00 am After organizing my gear, I paddled out onto the flat surface of the bay, away from the town I grew up in. I set my course for the farthest point I could see, rather than hugging the shoreline. This grew to be habitual, as I’d hop from point to point on up the peninsula of Door County. I went on for twenty minutes or so, until the aches crept in of cold muscles being put to work. I grew restless and paused my efforts. My gaze to wandered from the flat horizon of trees on the west bank, to the picturesque hillside of the east- a ridge I had peddled up, down, and along either it’s top or its foot, so many times. It was amazing to take it in from this distal perspective.

I turned to see the water I had so far covered. There was Tower Drive Bridge, and the city. And there it was: a ribbon of black smoke, the signature of industry, cloaking the city in a veil of sin, invisible from within, obnoxious from without.

I had always known it was there, in one form or another, but sometimes I’d forget, taking all that concrete, steel, and disturbance as the rule of my existence rather than the exception. It's the signature of mankind upon this Earth, flash-in-the pan progress whose light is dimming this very generation. I’ve spent most of my life dwelling in sharp cynicsm over this paradigm, but am now coming to the conclusion that the only way to change it is to accept and embrace it--then improve upon it. So, this day was not for the usual feeding of the guilt for contributing to this cycle, paying my penance through self induced struggle so as not to fully engage in the system. That hasn’t been working for the last 35 years. I'd rather look ahead than behind, or best yet live in the moment. This day was for enjoying a long paddle into clear water.

As I choose that positive mindset, inspired ideas and opportunities arise. The fates enjoy a happy tale, and provide chance occurrences to encourage such a story line. Thoughts crept in of different ways of sharing this story and encouraging others to connect more intimately with the landscapes in which we recreate. It struck me again that there is value in seeking out non-traditional landscapes to explore in order to enlighten ourselves to what happens in the industrial complexes that support our standard of living. Perhaps more on that in some other forum.

As I paddled on, the city ever so slowly receding and that far point approaching, the treetops of another point farther north formed as specs on the horizon, separate at first and slowly combining to a thin line as they came out from behind Earth’s curved surface. Features emerged ahead and dissipated behind. Time slows down in this environment, and that is something I need in the most dire way. It is out here that I can finally chill out and be present in the moment.

Eventually, I made that first point, figuring it was about five miles and an hour from my start. Checking my time and distance, it was over 9 miles and almost two hours. Time was warped in this new environment. I love it. I went ashore for a brief pause, grabbed a bite, and jotted a few notes.

I picked my way along the dune of zebra mussel shells and eased Endeavor back onto the cushion of their watery pillow. My feet were relieved to be rid of the sharp substrate made by so many thousands of these corpses washed up on shore. This exotic species hitch-hiked its way here on the hulls of ships and feeds on algae and plankton. It altered the ecosystem of the Bay so that the population of yellow perch plummeted in the 90's. It is now recovering, but in my youth the cities of ice fishermen driving out onto the bay in the wintertime disappeared and are now only recently re-emerging as part of local folklore. Ironically, clearer waters resulted from the mussels' feeding as a symptom of this progression.

I leap frogged past the Village of Dykesville to the opposite side of the broad, shallow bay that protects it. Choudoir's Dock a public marina near this point and I had arranged with an old high school friend, Chad, to meet there. He arrived shortly after me in his pontoon boat, prepped for a day of fishing. We caught up a bit, and he invited me to stop over at his place on Riley’s Point, just a few miles up the shoreline. We set the meeting time at his place and parted ways for a few more hours so I could make the journey.

I paddled along the shore for a longer stretch, and it was nice to have the closer company of trees and shoreline. The later had begun rising from the watery surface as limestone cliffs, a telltale sign of my advance along the bay and up the Door County Peninsula. Finally, small waves encouraged my crossing of Little Sturgeon Bay to Riley’s Point, where Chad's family cabin sat among a few dozen others with a beautiful westerly view.

Having never approached by water before, I wasn’t sure I’d pick the place out from his neighbors. He said it was the one with the leaning willow tree, but I was pretty skeptical that I’d be able to locate it. After rounding the point I paddled toward the middle of Little Sturgeon Bay. I aimed for where I thought his place might sit, from my memory of at least 15 year previous-the last time I’d been there. I kept a close eye on the houses and vegetation. Then, sure enough, there was a lopsided tree-a perfect landmark to shoot for.

I pulled in just before he arrived, followed his instructions to grab a beer,

and met up with him and his parents whom I hadn’t seen in way too long. Man, ya gotta love people who stay awesome through different ages. We fried fish and retold some stories, but I felt the need to keep moving. Before I left, we talked about places I might bivouac for the night.

Chad recommended a place just north of Sturgeon Bay, a closed down tavern. I

thought it would be better to make more headway with whatever light I had left in the day and get further up the peninsula. I’d certainly consider this old tavern, though.

First, I had to get back on the water in order to realize that the wind had shifted to the east and kicked up some waves as I crossed Sand Bay. These cross waves sweep my stern downwind, pushing my bow upwind in a phenomenon called weather helm. It's designed into boats so that it's easier to keep the bow into the waves as the watery mounds become substantial. In sailing, you adjust your rudder a few degrees to overcome this. In my rudderless kayak, my upwind shoulder gets sore from doing the bulk of the paddling. After a long shallow crossing of Sand Bay, I made the point at the entrance to Sturgeon Bay. The narrow strip of land at this tip holds the comunity of Idlewild. Small cottages on either side of the road here all get water access, the point is so narrow. Sturgeon Bay, beyond, cuts almost all the way through the Door County peninsula, and a canal at the southeastern end finishes this job. Ships and all sorts of boats can cut through from Lake Michigan, obviating the need to round the northern point of the Peninsula, ominously called Death's Door. The point I was passing at IIdlewild still sports a reminiscent light house that guided these ships and other vessels, although it is now mostly hidden in the cedars.

I glided past the point and the cover of the land. Wind whipped up from the base of Sturgeon Bay, churning the waters as it came. The choppiness produced significant weather helm that worked my right shoulder, but Endeavor rolled with the waves and seemed to even relish being tickled and washed by them. Progress was slow, and my body was feeling the efforts of the day, but the big crossing at Sturgeon Bay was pleasantly uneventful. Boat traffic had diminished for the evening and the larger waves were more novel than nuisance.

I had made the transition from Southern to Northern Door County. This transition was more cultural than geographical. South of here the cottages and homes are largely of working class folk who make it up from Green Bay and the Fox Cities for their weekend getaways. There isn't a ton of distinction between the weekenders and the locals from the farming communities of the area. The back roads and establishments all reflect this working class character. To the north, the shoreline is largely dotted with vacation homes and rentals. Tourism is more the norm, with restaurants, shopping outlets, and art galleries. The farming community is still there, and some make a good income marketing the authenticity of their goods made in-house. The tourist industry still largely shuts down in the fall, allowing business owners to spend the winter in a more comfortable latitude. I think this may take its toll on the working class who are here year round, however.

I made the landmark Quarry Dock at the top of Sturgeon Bay just as the sun hit the horizon. I took advantage of protected waters and the gorgeous lighting to get some more pics of the trip. Then I pulled into the stone breakwaters of the old saloon recommended by my old friend.

Once again, I had been skeptical early on, but Chad's advice proved better than my optimism in my day’s progress. I’d definitely crash here, closing my day out at 43 miles. I laid my wet clothes out to dry, spread out a therma-rest, and slept under the stars. A truly gorgeous evening.

I awoke to calm waters in my little bay the next morning, but I could already see waves out on the bigger water. I was learning to be wary of such ascending

seas. I donned my life jacket and spray skirt as I got back on the water, and rode waves another 12 miles north, all the way in to Egg Harbor. As I approached my destination, a series of small islands a couple miles offshore disrupted waves, and I was able to relax just a bit more. These following seas were a pleasure to paddle and a blessing to have pushing me along. The water was now of the clarity that I associate with Door County, whereas I couldn’t see the end of my paddle back in Green Bay. Now I could see down about 10 feet, and my conscience was assuaged that we hadn’t destroyed all the waters just yet. I knew the clarity didn’t tell the whole story of the purity of the water, but it just plain felt good to me.

I rounded southern rim of Egg Harbor where an estate sat with its own lagoon and private marina. The big money. As I paddled around this compound, I saw a couple surveying their grounds from the golf cart they were driving. We paused and chatted, and I detected a hint of something through the southern drawl from the lord of this campus. Maybe I had something that he didn’t. I made a vessel with my hands and was engaging with it to experience a part of the world in a way that an all inclusive ticket cannot afford. Perhaps some day there could be a service of sorts that empowers anyone to have such authentic experiences.

As promised, my mom met me in Egg Harbor with the truck to ferry my return to the city of my origin.

I bid her thank you and good-bye after a lingering visit and headed back to Nelsonville. I was richer for having broadened my own horizons with this new experience in familiar territory, on the big water instead of from a bicycle seat. Driving back over the Tower Drive Bridge as I left town, I looked out over the Bay of Green Bay and some of what I had freshly paddled. It felt amazing to know that I pulled my own way, even farther than I could even see, beyond the horizon of water that was so far off from the lofty vista of this bridge. It felt like I could reach my arm over that horizon and grab the Earthscape beyond it, as a child might a cookie from a jar perched high upon a countertop. I certainly relished the concept as much as a youngster might their tasty treat. I couldn’t wait to get back for the next leg. Again, my aquatic impulse was teased more than tamed by this jaunt of almost 50 miles over big water and broad horizons.