7 minute read
A GREAT LAKES SAGA
A GREAT LAKES SAGA TRAVELLING THOSE SCARY WATERS AS FIRST MATE FOR A FRIEND
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By Lloyd Walton
Lloyd Walton is an award-winning director/ cinematographer, painter and writer. His adventure historiography, Chasing the Muse: Canada is available through Chapters Indigo, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kindle and bookstores everywhere.
’T’was an emotional departure in Penetanguishene for my old friend, Jim, as friends and family came down to the dock to bid farewell, toast, and salute him for bravely following his dream. As we loaded our gear onto his boat, Tim Horton’s coffee was served, topped off with Bailey’s Irish Cream. At nine o’clock sharp, we slowly pulled away from a long line of waving hands. Ship whistles from around the harbour sounded off. For the fi rst hour or so Jim took the helm and could not speak. I was choked up a bit myself.
We met in Grade 4 in the Soo, went through public and high school together, played hockey, football, and basketball, canoed wild rivers, got our pilot’s licenses together, then went our separate ways with careers and family.
CRUISING TO THE BAHAMAS
All those years later, with both of us retired, here I was joining him on the fi rst leg of his cruise from southern Georgian Bay up across the North Channel, then down through Lake Michigan to Chicago. From there I would fl y home while a couple would join him for the next leg. He’d travel down the Mississippi, canal over to Tennessee, go down through Alabama to the Gulf of Mexico at Mobile, curve around the tip of Florida, then sprint over to the Bahamas to spend the winter.
It was not a large boat: a 31-foot trawler that cruised at seven knots. As we approached Giant’s Tomb Island, the wind was whipping waves up onto the windshield. It was a brilliantly sunny day, as I took control at the helm, but the wipers were busy clearing my view for the myriad of channel markers in these shoal-infested waters. To remain steady in my seat, both feet had to be locked ahead against the lower part of the dashboard, one hand tight on the wheel and the other gripping a rail. We opted for the Whaleback Channel, winding through the 30,000 islands, to stay out of the wind. Seven hours later we pulled into a quiet cove to anchor for the night. This would prove to be our last anchorage in pure wilderness. A problem with the pump resulted in us losing all potable water. No matter – we locals drink the fresh Upper Great Lakes water regardless.
A DAY OF ROCKING AND ROLLING
Day 2 found us crossing the Northern part of Georgian Bay in low grey skies, hefty seas, and steady wind. It was 9 ½ hours of rocking and rolling. We saw no other boats, but the fi sh fi nder marked thousands of fi sh, in waters where few venture to search for them. Large fl ocks of loons fl oated out in the middle of the lake. Were they there for the fi sh, or was winter coming early? Time at the helm, one hour on, one hour off, would go quickly. I was still brushing up on my navigational skills, matching the numbers (always moving) between course over water and true bearing. I felt comfortable on the big water, having spent much time at work and play on the Great Lakes.
When we docked at Little Current on Manitoulin Island, the fuel needle had still not moved past the full mark. It cost $9.20 per hour to run this boat called Bluenoser. Jim fi xed the water pump.
It was off-season for marinas. Docking was free. It was off-season for these northern tourist towns as well. Hungry for a hotel meal, we found the only place in town was closed for a private gathering. Back on the street, we heard that another hotel some distance away might be open, so we set out on foot
for it. Jim looked at me and said, “It would be nice to call a cab, but likely there isn’t one in this place.” A taxi immediately appeared and delivered us to the hotel and the driver, going off shift, said, “No charge.”
BIG SKY MEETS BIG WATER
Day 3 was a glorious ride across the top of the beautiful Manitoulin Island. The sky and sea were cerulean and ultramarine blue respectively. The wispy clouds were forming in the shapes of hearts, and ancient pictographs. I found myself dancing on the back of the boat with headphones singing at the top of my lungs. Big sky, big water, and a verdant green land lay way off on the horizon. A taste of what’s to come, we hoped.
Jim’s actions of the last few weeks and months were starting to settle in. He sold his tools, his truck and left his wife at home. She’d be joining him for a stint in November. He had a lot to contemplate.
I understood why Manitoulin is the largest freshwater island in the world, arriving at dusk in the hamlet of Meldrum Bay at the western end of the island. Setting off on the morning of Day 4, a shaft of light shot out of the clouds right onto the 100-yearold hotel where we dined on elegant whitefish.
A CONFUSED SEA
Waiting for us outside the harbour was a confused sea. The current was running in one direction and the wind was from another. Another grey day heading West watching those numbers, one hour on, one hour off, always whipping the wheel back and forth, trying not to overcorrect. Drummond Island, U.S.A., appeared off in the distance. We stopped at an old haunt, Hilton Beach on St Joseph Island, before crossing the border.
We pulled out of Hilton Beach in a low-hanging morning fog. As the rising sun began to penetrate the mist, we sailed on glassy water for three hours through a yellow haze, zig-zagging small islands, and shoals. At Drummond Island, our port of entry into the United States, the customs agent mostly wanted to talk hockey. Bluenoser took on 81 US gallons of diesel fuel.
NO MORE WHACKING AND BANGING
From there it would be a five-hour run to Mackinac Island through yet another type of sea. We were facing a steady headwind for the first time. No more whacking, banging and sliding sideways. It was easy to hold the course. Big waves lifted and pounded the nose deep into the narrow troughs.
Through the busy windshield wipers, Mackinac Island rose low on the horizon two hours away like the giant turtle from which it received its original Ojibway name, M’kinnock. There are no cars on Mackinac Island except for a fire truck and ambulance. People move by horse and carriage or bicycle.
THE MAGISTRATE, HIS CLERK AND MEN WITH GUNS
A day of relaxation and biking eight miles around the island netted us some interesting new friends from down Michigan way. One, a magistrate, was interested in sampling any Canadian beer we had on board. He was also treating his beautiful court clerk
to a conference on legal issues at a luxury resort. I imagined that there might be more personal legal issues coming for him soon. I became suspicious about a number of men with short hair lurking around with guns hidden underneath their loosefitting casual shirts. Something was going down. I volunteered to shoot their group photograph when they boarded the State Police boat back to the mainland.
Mackinac Island on September 11 had the feeling of the last summer’s day of the year. A solemn ceremony of fireboats escorted a barge carrying a replica of the Statue of Liberty to be paraded through the streets in a horse-drawn carriage.
THE FEAR OF WHAT COMES NEXT
Jim was brooding about the next leg of the trip. Local boaters call the upper northeast corner of Lake Michigan “spooky.” There are many shoals that require deft observation and seamanship skills. Then there are the winds. Lake Michigan is known for its September winds. For the seven-hour trip from Mackinac to Charlevoix, there are no ports to pull into for protection. Lake Michigan is a vast inland sea.
Lurking even further down the coast was the Lake Michigan Triangle.
To be continued.
