Getting Out to Go Inward

24 Sept 2022

Eagle Harbor, WI – Northport, WI

I took care to set up my writing station before this entry, so it may come off a little differently than some others. This whole writing thing is undergoing a process of refinement! But I’m now set, with my daily toil complete, dinner made, a fire, my journal, a pot of tea on the woodstove beside me, and my electronic documentation handy to help refresh the sentiments of this stretch.

It had been working out that about every month I make another advance on chasing the waters of the Tomorrow River as they make their way downstream. It was now late

September, with the first glints of autumn in the tree canopies. The winds would become restless with their southerly tendencies and start changing things up. Good paddling weather would be more and more sparse.

I watched the extended forecast, and it looked like southerly winds would hold as the next opportunity to paddle approached. As the day drew near, the wind forecast got better and better. Finally, they called for winds out of the south at 5 mph. Perfect. Rain may or may not be on the menu for the day, but I didn’t care. I had a paddling jacket that would keep me comfortable.

Bridget booked a campsite at Peninsula State Park and we set camp, once again, in the dark on Friday night. I was up with dawn’s first light the next morning and was hauling gear to my launching point on the beach under misty, cloudy skies at 7:00. No wind to speak of and the glassy surface of Eagle Harbor was a perfect reflection of this fact. The water was deliciously clear, revealing the mackerel texture of the sand bottom. The

shoreline bent around to form Nicolet Bay, and bluffs rose to expose the limestone faces of greater Eagle Harbor. The far side of this bay was backed by successive points in the distance. These fading profiles encroached on the watery horizon, terminating somewhere behind Horseshoe Island.

I put in and set a bearing for that island. I barely rounded its eastern shore when the far point of Ellison Bluff was revealed. I locked in on it and just started paddling. The grey sky grew darker, and shrouds of mist blurred parts of the shoreline as these micro squalls wandered downwind. A few of them caught up to me from the south, passed on, and once again left me alone with my thoughts. A slight southerly breeze popped up, and I largely kept apace with it, paddling in relative calm.

The grey shroud of clouds and mist subdued some of the splendor of the day. I passed the town of Sister Bay, wondering if I shouldn’t paddle c

loser to society to better soak in the culture and the landscape. Nope. I was out on the big water, but my journey was inward. Three hours of peace, calm, repetitive motion, even meditation. As I allowed myself to get farther offshore, I dove deeper within my thoughts and emotions, closer to the root of my current disposition. This was as solitary as I’d get, without even any wind-prompted waves to serve as a distraction. And things were in a good state. It had already been a banner year, after several of increasingly trying times. My deliberate practices, mental preparation, physical work, and emotional connection had culminated in this moment-and I was living the dream, paddling a vessel of my creation on the biggest waters yet. Life was good. Even the wate

r, in ever-increasing clarity, seemed to be rejoicing that it was, at least to a greater extent, free of the sins man had committed upon it back on the Fox River and lower Green Bay.

I did make it to Ellison Bay, and then Gill’s Rock, where I turned the corner from Green Bay, around the north end of this Wisconsin Peninsula, toward Lake Michigan. The bluffs were ever more glorious, with larger cliffs and cleaner cleaves in the limestone. I still kept away from society and was now just a hop skip and jump from Northport-the place From Whence the Ferry Departs for Washington Island, and the rendezvous point with Bridget. Bridget and I had a notion to paddle the crossing to the Island, called Death’s Door, and see if it were possible to venture farther from there.

As I rounded Gill’s Rock, the southerly wind backed from the east, where it had come off the lake and curled around the Peninsula. Waves picked up to

about a foot, and I texted Bridget to let her know that Death’s Door might not be the best idea for her kayak today. It was still calm enough for a snapshot of pillars of rock that support the final bayside point of the Door County Mainland, and I leisurely bobbed on the surface. One more bend to round, then a straight shot to Northport and the ferry dock.

As I crossed the last shallow bay and approached one last bend in the shoreline, I gazed out over what I have come to forebodingly term ascending seas. Remnants of larger swells off the lake were becoming increasingly evident. I rounded the bend against wind that was making its presence more and more evident, and with about ½ mile to go was pounded by waves of a size I had never before experienced. Endeavor pitched aft and forward as we rode together up, over, and down the back side of waves big enough that my 19’ of waterline wouldn’t ride through on the level. The bow submerged and water washed over the deck, curling around my cockpit in an antagonizing embrace of my vessel and my person. I absolutely loved it.

I was meeting the waves head on, rhythmically, with no notion of being pushed to either side, much less capsizing. Endeavor repeatedly plunged into the base of oncoming waves and alternately thrust their bow off each peak. Now, I don’t know how to gauge the size of these waves. I hadn’t the presence of mind to see if their crests were over the horizon while I was in the troughs. I’d expect they were 4-5 feet, encouraged to grow still more by the wind that must have been a steady 20 mph. Welcome to Porte des Mortes. I had reached the threshold of Death’s Door. My time in this squall was limited. My progress slowed, but I still made good headway to the breakwaters at Northport. I was cautious not to let my bow get washed beam to the seas as I eased my way across the path of the waves and wind upon my entry to the harbor. The wind was unrelenting behind the breakwaters, but the waves were tamed. The green of their obscured shoals was of a pristine fluorescence I was not accustomed to. I cleared the car ferry that was docked, awaiting its cargo, and paddled toward the protected beach and familiar figure of Bridget there, waiting form me. She had taken the morning to check out a coffee shop or two as she drove up to meet me.

I was in my own world as I climbed from my cockpit and cleared my gear from the boat. I had sampled the savage waters and my blood was up and senses heighted in an incredible natural high. It felt incredible to be immersing myself in the raw nature of these elements. I was truly alive. A woman who directed traffic for the ferry came down to the beach.

“You’re not thinking of going out in these conditions, are you?!?”

“Nope. Just coming in.”

…indignant look.

We loaded my gear, knowing it to be a fool’s errand to attempt a passage to Washington island with such seas abeam. We walked out on the battered boulders of the breakwater and took in the storm. A ferry was coming in now from Washington Island, with waves crashing on its bow that splashed over halfway up its three-story cabin. We couldn’t wait to experience that boat ride!

So, we boarded the ferry to explore Washington Island in the standard way, by vehicle. I was a bit remiss to not make my first venture to this place by water, but there’s something people say about best laid plans… We had several of what I have termed (there’ll be a glossary when I write a book on this) miracles that day that indicated the significance of the moment: familiar boat building tunes by Jimmy Buffet at the Point Café (scrolled in the same font as the beer of the same name brewed in the town where Bridget and I both played Rugby in college over 20 years previously); the last cheese curds on the island as the café was closing down for the season; The tune that marked my near end to the Big River Trip in New Orleans 15 years previous came over the speaker; and we were the very last vehicle to barely squeeze onto the last ferry of the day at the very last minute as we departed the island. We wrenched every bit of living we could out of that limited time, including history, scenery, running stairs, and a nap on the stones at Schoolhouse Beach that was simply divine.

With weather cooling and winds shifting, this may well be the last jaunt of this sort of the season. We’d certainly made the most of it, and Bridget offered amazing support while getting in some hiking and quality time of her own while I paddled. It was fulfilling for us both, in our own ways. Still, I’m indebted to her.

Thanks Biege.