December On The Lake

This past Saturday morning was so nice I couldn't help taking a canoe out on the Lake...

About 3 months ago at the turn-around point of a long all-day paddle I met a fellow at a beach in Avon Lake on Lake Erie. He took an interest in my canoe and we chatted for a while. Turns out he'd just returned from a one-month solo canoe adventure on the eastern shore of Lake Superior, along Pukaskwa National Park in Canada. There's no roads for 50 miles or more in that area. I'd sailed there 15 years ago and it's about as remote as it gets in this part of the country.

This was a serious canoeist. His Nova Craft canoe was still on his car and his gear still inside. He had to get home and I had to leave too, to make it back before dark. Not having pen or paper at hand, he wrote his name in the sand. I've got a good memory for things written. I told him I'd be in touch.

It was about 25 degrees out when I picked Gary up at his house Saturday morning. A beautiful December day: grey sky, grey waves, grey horizon. I'd called the day before taking it for granted that he'd be eager for a morning paddle. And he was. I had my partly decked sailing canoe (minus the sailing rig). Its special low seating made for slightly less efficient paddling, but gave it greater stability, a feature much prized on Lake Erie. We drove to Miller Park just west of the Avon Lake power plant.

I saw some glistening slime where the ramp met the water. My beloved Chota boots could handle that. But still I slipped and nearly fell. Covering the slime was a sheet of invisible ice. We both gripped the dock to keep our footing, as we launched the canoe. We looked like Michelin men all puffy in our layers of sweaters, jackets and pants.

Once past the breakwall we could see the waves rolling in from the northwest, long and easy. They were either the left overs from higher winds the night before, or the portent of higher winds to come. But right now the winds were 5 - 10 knots. We headed upwind towards Sheffield Lake.

The canoe took the waves nicely. It's a Bell Northwind and made for canoe tripping. The added decking deflects most of the spray. There wasn't much spray from these long, gentle waves, unlike last weekend when we'd gone to see the migrating ducks by the mouth of the Sandusky River. A rising wind in shallow waters produced a nasty steep chop that tossed a good bit of spray aboard. The little spray we got today was hardly noticeable. Until I looked at my gloves. 'Gary, do you have some ice on your gloves?' He did. Also on his paddle shaft, which explained why his grip was sloppy. Then we saw ice on the wooden decking of the canoe.

I'd remembered reading about old-time sea captains who would order their men forward on the slippery decks of the ship, to chop ice free with axes. Enough ice build up and it could capsize the ship. I'd have ordered Gary forward but he was already there in the bow seat. We lacked a windshield ice scraper, and anyhow, it would have wreaked havoc with the wood finish.

We were both happy to land at Comm Park in Sheffield Lake. The 3 mile paddle wasn't all that arduous and we were actually pretty warm. But there something about men and cold water that makes them need to take a break every so often. The library at the foot of Comm Park was open and we were two of its few customers. It was warm, dry and had a very nice bathroom.

Gary and I took up residence in a meeting room to chat and avoid disturbing the few other folks who wanted to read. A librarian came by asking if we wanted anything and I immediately ordered 2 hot chocolates and a plate of cookies. She chuckled and left. Gary told me some of his adventures.

When we'd pulled the boat up on the beach, Gary had watched carefully as I hauled it over a sand shelf and completely clear of the water. He was very conscious of this. One time up in Quetico he'd returned from a portage to find his canoe adrift, and he'd had to swim like mad, catching it only because it got caught up momentarily in some reeds. Another time on the shores of Lake Superior, despite being hauled high up and turned upside down, wind gusts had caught it and spun it down to the water. It was saved only because it partly filled with water and sank at the shore, where he was able to bail it out. From then on he made a vow to always tie his canoe regardless of how benign the weather.

After our fingers thawed out we strolled back to the beach to find the canoe where we'd left it and the conditions the same as before, but now we'd be going downwind. 'You'll be using that rudder a lot more on our way back' was Gary's comment. And he was right. The rudder was part of the canoe's sailing rig, but I found it very useful in strong winds or correcting for unequal paddler strength and always brought it, sailing or no. Going upwind Gary and I were pretty equally matched. But downwind, the waves coming from behind but also from our left, shoved the stern around and the rudder got a good workout, trying to keep the boat running straight. On some of the bigger waves it was momentarily rendered useless as it came out of the water, but we had no anxious moments.

The temperature must have risen past freezing, as there was no longer any ice on my gloves or the paddle shaft, and it was rapidly disappearing from the deck of the canoe. In less than an hour we were back at Miller Park, having seen only one other craft out, a motorboat also heading for the launch ramp. At first, perhaps at the crest of a wave, he looked to be a big boat, Gary estimated 35 feet, far too large to use a ramp. What was he doing heading into shore? But once we got in behind the breakwall we saw just a 22 footer, out for some late season fishing. Despite the warming temperatures, we still got a surprise at the launch ramp. Gary slipped and fell as he was pulling the bow up the ramp. That ice had not melted. No damage done and we were back at Gary's house for the long awaited hot chocolate and cookies as he told me more about his adventures.

Not long after, we both departed; he for his house chores and I for home and mine. 'Keep an eye out for good weather' he said in parting. 'Maybe we'll get out again before the Lake freezes over'.

Marty Cooperman

Thanksgiving weekend paddle 11-29-09

Unflappable

Out in the wild marshes of western Sandusky Bay, more properly known as Muddy Bay for reasons dramatically exhibited by one footstep offshore, there lie the feeding grounds for ducks migrating from Canada, resting and refueling mid-way, en route to their wintering grounds in the south. The duck hunting clubs have preserved thousands of acres of this marshland in the hope of luring those migrants in range of their guns. But that takes place late in the day. At 10AM we gathered to do our own duck hunting, armed with binoculars, canoes and kayaks and the determination not to get all that bottom muck from our boots into our boats. In this latter effort we abysmally failed. But we did get to see the ducks.

10AM: In alphabetical order – Betsy, Brad, Colleen, Edie, Heike, Joni, Judy, Marty and Rick launched from the banks of Muddy Creek and struggled to get free of the bottom.


Winding our way around the thin fingers of marsh, views blocked by the high marsh grasses, we came out upon an open area and there they were! Several dozen ducks bobbing in the shallows, apparently unaware of our presence. Stealthily we crept up on them, paddles barely making a sound, breaths baited, hearts pounding...two hundred yards, one hundred yards, fifty yards, 20 yards, ten feet, not a one of them moved. Unflappable. GOTCHA! as I whapped the back of a plastic duck decoy with my paddle. Dinner denied. We paddled on.



In the open waters of Muddy Bay we held to the north shore. The south winds were predicted to rise in the afternoon and rain to fall by late afternoon. By sticking to the north shore early in the day, we’d cross over to the more protected south shore in the afternoon and keep out of the rough stuff.


A few ducks in the distance rose upon spotting us, and wheeled away to the south. Further on, as we came closer to Winous Point, housing the duck hunting club whose advice I sought as to the arrival of the ducks, a much larger flock took wing, hundreds and hundreds of them. Too far away to make identification even with binoculars, as we all stopped paddling and strained our eyes to see them. Then they too wheeled away to the south. We were heading that way anyhow and we’d trick them paddling up from behind to catch them again later in the day.

Click on the image for an enlarged view; the specks in the sky are the ducks


And then the winds rose, earlier than expected, catching us on the far side of the bay with several miles of fetch between us and the south shore; short choppy waves caught us exposed and broadside. After taking a few slops over the gunwales of the canoe, we turned south towards Squaw Island, a tiny bit of land housing a channel marker for the nearby Sandusky River, and then further to the protection of the south shore. It was a slow but steady slog. Betsy, Brad and Heike up ahead. Rick, Judy and Colleen behind. Joni sitting in the middle of our canoe in the middle of the group. Colleen told us afterwards she thought she was making almost no progress at times. We counted forward motion by the inch. The winds pushing against us at 20 knots. Some whitecaps, some slop and spray aboard. Looking back to check on some of our boats behind I got a full dollop of water square in my ear.
Nice bay.




We followed the south shore across to the entrance of the Sandusky River, upstream of which only Judy had been. On a lonely point of land with a prominent tree we made landfall and lunchfall. Pretzels from Rick, bagels from Heike and a marvelous vegetarian pate (‘pahtay’) from Joni. Colleen and Betsy modeled their fancy drysuits, exhibiting hard to reach zippers and monkey-butts (their term for the lower rear part). Judy had on her bright, colorful Jet-Ski wet suit pants, but Rick stole the day with his electric green plumage. Everyone had a bagel. This is a nice landing spot in an area that is mostly marsh. Enough room and logs for good seating, and enough privacy for a bathroom break off to the sides.


As the day waned we launched, or at least tried to. The increasing southerly winds were blowing the water out of shallow Muddy Bay and I had to walk the canoe with both princesses (Edie and Joni) relaxing aboard, polishing their nails and leaning back just far enough to receive grapes dropped from the skies.
I slogged onwards until the water covered my boots, then hopped aboard and paddled the bottom mud to freedom.




Along the way we spotted a large bird that was identified as a juvenile bald eagle, sitting high in a tree.

Click on the image for an enlarged version; the eagle is in the tree behind the lead kayak.


But no ducks. They were crafty fellows, obviously used to the ways of man, and we were hardly a match for the clever machinations of critters who’d eluded the gunfire year after year. We never saw them again.
We did run through the flotilla of decoy ducks just to annoy them and then approached a large flock of gulls who let us get very close before taking flight, their white wings in stark contrast to the grey skies.


And then it was mud again, all the way to the shore, lots more than when we started because of those south winds blowing the water out. There have been times when the entire bay was a sea of mud and absolutely unapproachable. It might be that way this evening, but we’d made our escape while there still was time. One wonders what might have happened had we delayed our return until nightfall. An evening on the bay? Another day or two on the bay? Waiting there stuck in the boats until the winds dropped and the Lake Erie seiche allowed the water piled high on the Canadian shore to slosh back and free us?

Just as we loaded our boats and started our cars, the first drops of rain appeared. We smiled smugly, ignoring the mess in the back where boots, paddles and clothing smeared with mud left a sticky reminder of what might have happened. There would be a reckoning with a sponge and a vacuum cleaner shortly.


Marty Cooperman

Photos by Edie and Joni, princesses

Photo Album

Above are the ducks.
If you click on the image, you will see an enlarged image.
The black specks filling the sky are the ducks.

Here are some more ducks. They were not shy.

They were "unflappable."

They were plastic.


We also encountered the ubiquitous flock of seagulls.

The gulls flashed silvery-white as they took wing.

The quintessential late autumn sky and lake.


Native kayakers sport outrageously colored plumage.

Here is Rick, modeling his plumage, er, neon neoprene to great effect. Sleek and chic!

Betsy and Colleen strut their iridescent blue stuff, shaking their tailfeathers
and boasting about their envied monkey butt profiles.

Marty sports a rainbow effect and Heike is radiant in her hi-vis crown tuft.

I believe the entire color wheel is represented here!

Marty is high on bagels!

What a bright splash of psychedelic color we are!

Brad practically glows in marigold.

These folks know that a little bit of black makes the hot colors pop!

Bright sky blue and tangerine are two complementary colors Joni chose
for a sophisticated yet adventurous look.

The black trousers snap up Joni's color while she snaps away!

Heike strikes a pose.

Lunch spot below.

Safety In Numbers

Late October. Not many paddling days remaining. I left work at 4, had the boat already tied to the car and the gear inside. A quick change into my light neoprene clothes and off to the 72nd St launch ramp on Lake Erie by 5:15.

It looked cloudy, a bit gray, but the anticipated rain and small craft advisory were for later in the evening. Right now I’d get a few hours practice in my new outrigger canoe and be home before dark, maybe 7PM this time of year.

‘How’s it out there’ I asked a returning fisherman.
‘Nice’ he replied ‘nothing big out there’.

Did he mean fish or waves? There were lots of cars in the parking lot. Fishermen also taking advantage of the warm weather. Indian summer weather.

As I cleared the bulkheads I could see a gentle 1 foot swell coming in from the NW. The outer breakwall light was less than a mile off, and beyond that, 2 sets of fishing boats, the first another mile beyond the breakwall and a second group a mile beyond them to the north. Each group stretched out about a mile east-west. That would make a good destination, to head north and go out east of the furthest group, turn west and go beyond the far end of them, then head SE, clear the breakwall light and head back in. Maybe 6 miles in all.

It was fun taking the gentle 1 foot swells from the north, on the nose. The canoe rose nicely and settled back down. Occasionally an off-beat little wave would catch us and the outrigger would slap down on it, but the main hull is too long for that and remained steady.

Out past the first group of fishermen, and then out beyond the second. Not a bad strategy, I thought. If anything kicked up and caused me difficulty I’d be among some 25 – 30 fishing boats several of whom would be sure to see me and offer assistance. In an emergency, there’s safety in numbers. Especially when those numbers include a lot of bigger boats than mine, with much bigger engines.

Passing the last group of fishermen I was now north of everyone, so I turned west with the waves now broadside, but with the outrigger on the downwind side in its stable position. Less stable is with the outrigger upwind, getting lifted with each wave and no support downwind. Passing the far end of the western-most fishing boats I noticed a little puff of air, then another, then a bit of a gust and then a steady increase in wind. Hmmmm, time to start heading back. I was at the furthest point from home.

As I turned SE for home, the outrigger on my left, was now partly upwind and the first part of the boat exposed to the waves. As a wave would pass it would lift and I would have to balance as there was no supporting outrigger to my right.

The winds quickly increased and the sky got noticeably darker. Was this the leading edge of the coming front? The wind was now around 15 knots and short, steep waves were starting to form. The boat would be very stable heading directly downwind to the south, but to the south was the outer breakwall. I had to angle east to clear it and that meant exposing that outrigger to the waves.

I was beginning to get anxious. I paddled hard, mostly on the left side where the outrigger was so I could lean on its buoyancy. Maybe I could paddle all the way back that way? Nope, I’d be exhausted trying to make that distance paddling on one side of the boat. Switching paddling sides to the less stable right side I cringed as passing waves sharply lifted and then dropped the boat. Gulp. I looked around for my friends, the 30 fishing boats. And to my surprise, they were nearly all gone. I’d been dimly aware that a few had motored in behind the breakwall, but when I took a good look there were only 3 or 4 remaining and they were underway as well. I’d be the last guy in.

As the waves grew I tried to plot a strategy of paddling on the safe left side while angling more to the east away from the breakwall, and then when paddling on the right, heading in a more stable direction south. But I had to paddle east more and more as the waves were pushing me south to that breakwall. I had to clear that eastern tip. I didn’t want to come too close to the breakwall as the rebounding waves would make things even worse. Whitecaps were in abundance. Streaks of foam were appearing on the surface. The water temperature was 56 degrees.

I barely cleared the breakwall end, too close, and got sloshed around by ricocheting waves, nearly thrown from the boat one time as it flipped up the crest of one sharp wave and down its backside. Now I had a mile to go to the protection of the bulkheads of the launch area and faced the same problem as before: the waves pushing me south towards the shoreline rocks, me having to paddled east and broadside to the waves to make it to the launch area.

It was then I saw what I took to be a coast guard boat. It was actually from the Division of Watercraft, but I couldn’t tell from that distance. They were some considerable distance from me, had probably come out when the winds picked up to make sure all the fishing boats made it back and then spotted me. Well, that was some comfort, although I would have hated to be rescued. I’d practiced capsize recovery each time I’d gone out in the canoe, usually 3 times in a row. First this took place in warmish September waters, but more recently in 59 degree water with my new thin wetsuit. Chilly but do-able. Outrigger canoes are very rescuable. Once capsized, you flip the outrigger back over the boat, and with it righted, swim to the other side where you can get a foot hold on the outrigger and boost yourself back on board. No real skill here, just grunt work. The outrigger’s got a huge amount of buoyancy. It’s why I bought this kind of boat.

I was paddling harder, about as hard as I could without an all out sprint. Just a mile to go. The winds were still pushing me south to the rocks. I was furiously paddling east to clear them. I didn’t care which side of the boat I paddled on now. The quick stroke even on the right side acted as a brace. Hundreds of braces, one for each wave. The waters looked pretty ugly, grey with long streaks of foam, whitecaps, dusk. Several off-sequence waves caught me by surprise and just swept over the boat filling the little footwells with water, which the venturi drains quickly emptied. And then I saw the Watercraft boat in the distance, surge forward with full engine power and disappear into the launch ramp area. Were they out there to keep an eye on me, or to watch the fishing boats at the launch ramp? Well, no need to worry about an embarrassing rescue now.

I pretty much became numb to the wind and waves. I just kept up a steady dependable stroke, a dozen to a side before switching. I kept eyeing the shoreline rocks getting closer and judging how far it was to the launch area. Suddenly I heard the hissing sound of a breaking wave. I looked to the north and saw a series of steeper, bigger waves, crests starting to tumble, about 80 – 100 feet away. 3 footers moving quickly towards me. I couldn’t risk taking these broadside where the outrigger would lift first. I pressed hard on the rudder and paddled sweep strokes on the left and turned the boat to a safer dead downwind position as the first of the waves hit. The stern would lift, then the rest of the boat, and then we’d plunge down, the bow underwater for a moment before it lifted and the next wave hit. 5...6..7 waves, if these kept up I’d never get to turn back east and I’d go surfing right into the shoreline rocks. And then, that was the last of them. Jeepers.

Turning back east I realized I was being tracked by a big motor cruiser. Maybe the Watercraft boat had been in contact with him and left only when he showed up to keep an eye on me. I quickly raised my hand in a friendly wave meant to reassure the motor cruiser that I was just fine. I’m not sure I fooled him anymore than myself. He stuck with me, maybe 100 feet back as I came closer and closer to the launch area and finally got out of the waves into relatively calm waters. I turned, waved my paddle to him and saw him depart. That was very nice of the fellow. And then I saw the Watercraft boat appear from the bulkhead of the launch area. A fellow in a red drysuit hailed me with a megaphone from the bow and asked it I thought I could make it in to the launch. I was momentarily taken aback. NOW he asks me if I can make it in? I’m in flat, calm completely protected waters. I paddled over so he could hear me and told him I was fine, and thanked him for looking out for me. He waved goodbye, turned his boat away and roared off, leaving me slopping in his wake. And then it dawned on me what had spawned those 3 foot steep waves a half hour before. Jeepers.

The launch ramps were a mess of motorboats. There are, I think, 8 ramps and not only were all taken, there was a lineup one and two rows deep waiting to get out. There were all 30 of my fishing boat buddies scrambling for their pickup trucks. I’d have to wait. I’d paddle a few laps by the bulkheads to keep warm.

I only tried a single capsize practice this time, inside the bulkheads. The water was chilly but with the wet suit on, only briefly chilly. I flipped the boat upright, swam to the other side, stepped on the outrigger, hoisted myself aboard and paddled back to the ramps, now clear of boats. I hoisted the boat on my shoulder and carried it to the car, where I had a warm fleece jacket, a windshell and thick wool hat waiting. As I walked to the car, a fellow came past and asked if it was rough out there. All I could think to do was nod.

Quetico 2009: The Mood Is Set

This is a story about a canoe voyage.
The voyage took place in a Provincial Park, Quetico. Quetico is a wilderness park and is located in a particularly beautiful area of the Canadian Shield in western Ontario. It borders the U.S.'s Boundary Waters. There are no roads, no trails, no electricity, no cabins, no motorboats, no cell phone reception, no rangers, no signage, no logging, few people and plenty of open space, wildlife, lakes and various connecting waterways.
Marty and I first visited in 2004 and knew immediately that we would be back again someday.
That someday came in August 2009.
The mood was set indeed on our drive in on the last leg of a two-day drive. The clouds overhead were quite 'moody,' dramatic and changing rapidly.
This was to set the tone of our visit. Rapidly changing weather, moody skies and dramatic portages.
Read on.
For those interested, here is our route:

Dawson Campground (night 1,)

French Lake, Pickerel Creek, The Pines Pickerel Lake (wind-bound Night 2,)

Pickerel Lake balance, Bisk Lake, Beg Lake, Bud Lake, Fern Lake, Olifaunt Lake, Sturgeon Lake (night 3,)

Sturgeon Lake (wind- and rain-bound Night 4,)

Sturgeon Lake balance, Sturgeon Narrows, big Sturgeon Lake (wind-bound night 5,)

big Sturgeon Lake, Maligne River, Tanner Lake, Maligne River, Maligne Creek, Minn Lake (night 6,)

McAree Lake, Namakan River, Crooked Lake, Little Roland Lake, Middle Roland Lake, Roland Lake, Roland River, Argo Lake (night 7,)

Cone Lake, Brent Lake (wind-bound night 8,)

Unnamed Lake, Conmee Lake, Poobah Lake (night 9,)

Poobah Lake balance, Berniece Lake, Allen Lake, Allen Creek (about face!), Allen Lake (night 10,)

Berniece Lake, Poobah Lake, Poobah Creek, Maligne River, Sturgeon Lake sand point (night 11,)

Sturgeon Lake sand point (wind- and rain-bound all day,) then to Sturgeon Narrows in the evening (night 12,)

Sturgeon Narrows balance, Sturgeon Lake, Olifaunt Lake, Fern Lake, Bud Lake, Beg Lake, Bisk lake, Pickerel lake (windbound night 13,)

Pickerel Lake balance, Pickerel Creek, French Lake, home.

This route included approximately 56 portages. That is 4.5 portages per day, but we made up to 10 portages on some days. Yikes.

Quetico: All Natural, All The Time

Never mind the mood for now; here are some pictures to set the scene. Quetico is rich with textures and wildlife.
And wild blueberries!
Ahhhh, wild blueberries, tiny, but packed with sweetness. The grocery store blueberries are no comparison. We specifically timed our trip to coincide with wild blueberry season.
The ground beneath our feet was solid Canadian shield rock but luxuriously cushioned in many spots with a richly patterned carpet of moss and lichen.

There were many different species of pines, each with its own distinct scent in the summer sunshine.
Mushroom aficionados would have been very busy thumbing through their guidebooks. There were more than I could hope to photograph.
And nearly every time you looked over your shoulder you would see this silhouette in the tallest dead tree skeleton.
A bald eagle.
And while you were busy looking for mushrooms, you might see this silent sun dweller.