by Wendy Killoran
It felt like my little piece of paradise. I was camped on a nameless island near the south western tip of Philip Edward Island, here on the north shore of the Georgian Bay, with expansive views of the La Cloche Mountains to the north and of the Killarney lighthouse to the west.
It was a raw place, open and exposed, just the way I love it. The paddle was short for me, having launched the previous day with two hours of day light remaining. It had been a late launch as I’d driven about 600 kilometres that day and had dealt with having to replace a part of my muffler while en route. All that was behind me now. I had paddled under thirty minutes from the Chikanishing River launch to find a flat rock to camp on before the sun set. The following morning, I’d slid the kayak effortlessly into the Georgian Bay from the smooth, gently sloped, metamorphic granite to continue paddling.
It felt unfamiliar to meander and poke into narrow clefts. I was gunkholing and for about an hour I did so with success, having passed through a narrow, one hundred metre-long passage between rocks that looked like bread loaves and where I pulled the kayak through using my hands as the passage was simply too tight for paddling with a paddle.
Also, I cut inside Le Hayes Island, a well-forested island and then along the north shoreline of Solomons Island. Here a curious black bear cub stood on a rounded mound of pink bedrock, just watching me paddle by about one hundred metres distant. And though I feel completely at home in my kayak and in the nature, I was the intruder entering the young bear’s home.
I gunkholed into all the nooks and crannies of Solomons Island. It had winding, narrow openings to the heart of the island along the southeast shoreline, which was completely sheltered from the building westerly wind. I didn’t find my dream campsite so I headed back out to open water. I was only vaguely familiar with the area, having paddled by here several times but never camping along this shoreline. A double kayak paddled by with a couple in a westward direction, bouncing over the waves.
A small archipelago of islands called The Foxes lay southeast only a kilometre distant. Having just completed my second circumnavigation of Manitoulin Island two weeks earlier in mid July, 2009, these distances were like baby steps as I’d reduced the more than 1000 kilometres of shoreline to about 350 kilometres of paddling by making sizable crossings of bays which deeply indent Manitoulin Island’s shoreline. Thus, even though the west wind was blowing at 20 kilometres per hour, it seemed like a hop, skip, and a jump to these inviting islands. The kayak danced over the 0.5-metre to 1-metre waves, passing an island with very limited vegetation and no desirable landing spot. The next island that I came upon which was unnamed, had a very small sandy beach in the lee of the wind and waves. Landing on this sliver of beach, I rock hopped about 80 metres to an expanse of relatively flat, polished, smooth metamorphic granite with dark diabase bands snaking across and also quartz-rich veins weaving across.
The island felt open, was panoramic, and was available so I established camp.
Unbelievably, my kayak is as fully packed for a week of lounging on a rock as it is for a full-fledged expedition, with a “place” for every article in my memory to fit this 3-D puzzle. I camp in relative luxury, with a two-person tent all for myself. I had upgraded my tent last summer, the summer of 2008 when paddling around the shoreline of Nova Scotia. I’d decided I’d like more space for those long stormbound delays. I discovered that I enjoyed sitting up in my tent and neatly lining up my different coloured dry bags.
I hopped across the rock excitedly, exploring my new, little world. Islands fascinate me. Each island is its own place and possesses its own identity, isolated from other places by expanses of water. I’m a self-professed “islomaniac”, or rather island lover. What I also like about islands is that I can circumnavigate them. And over the recent years, I’ve built a resume of islands I’ve circumnavigated, many within Canada, but also abroad. With the number of islands in the world, I’ll never run out of shoreline to paddle and places to visit. The world truly is my playground and when enjoyed from the perspective of a kayak, all the more unique, intimate and accessible.
The north shore of the Georgian Bay is where I first started paddling by sea kayak. That was in 1991 when I’d paddled with a tour group from Britt to the town of Killarney. Although the group was often faced with the prevailing westerly winds as headwinds, we finished with the piece de resistance, Ontario’s Crown jewel, the white quartzite mountains peaking above the pink, granite coast. Now, from my island, I could see the entire length of this very ancient mountain range, Precambrian rock as old as the Earth itself, eroded to a fraction of its towering heights from so long ago. It looked like a fur-clad horizon, with dense forests covering most of the rounded, low mountains, and only small patches of white, as white as snow, peaking through. That first trip in a plastic Looksha had me hungering for more time on the water in the seat of a kayak.
Now, 18 years later, I’d put a lot of kilometres in the wake of the various kayaks I’d paddled. On some journeys I’d repeatedly averaged 40 kilometres or 50 kilometres daily, a draining experience. But now, I found it a challenge to sit still on my little, nameless island. Yet I dared not leave since I did not wish to camp at an inferior, nondescript place. My campsite had superlative views, 360 degrees in fact when I made the two-minute hike to the summit of the low island. And also, I imagined that the rest of the shoreline was crammed full with kayak campers.
On the Friday afternoon following the long weekend in August, I’d kept a tally chart of kayaks that had passed the island with a final tally of 5 double kayaks and 24 single kayaks for a total of 34 kayakers. I found it astonishing and somewhat annoying. Throughout my Manitoulin Island circumnavigation I saw not one other kayaker and this shoreline appeared to be the 401 highway of the kayak water world. It disrupted my nude tanning session repeatedly as I covered up at the approach of kayaks for modesty’s sake.
Lounging on my island, I had the choices of what to do; read Long Way Round by Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman, update my journal, go for short walks, attempt to bathe in the frigid water, search for photographic opportunities, sunbathe or cook. It made these idle days quite basic and on the third day, when it rained a good part of the day had been spent napping. It’s not what I’m used to and I demand hard mileage from my body and these leisurely days were a challenge to my psyche. And yet being idle, sitting still, surrounded by this grandeur; this expanse of blue water, sweeping sky, ancient ridge of quartzite and sensuously carved pink granite, was therapeutic following a year of divorce. I breathed deep breaths of pure air. I listened to the murmur of calm water and splashing waves against the rock. I felt the chill of the breeze come off the Georgian Bay; I smelled the freshness in the air and watched the clouds parade, mares’ tails, cumulus postcard clouds, and high, streaky cirrus clouds. I watched a serpent of mist float amongst islands at the crack of dawn and slither over the La Cloche Range. I noticed the nuances in the play of shadows on the rock, and at the crack of dawn, the full moon suspended in an indigo sky before the sun had peaked over the horizon. I felt in tune with this natural world.
Three times I met a garter snake, unabashed by my presence, tongue flickering as it snaked across the warm, polished, lichen-encrusted granite. I watched its sinuous movement over the rock. I’d also watched the local mink go about its hunting, scurrying with purpose over the rock, curious but unaffected by my silent presence. It would slide into the water and swim between tiny islets, leaving a formidable wake for such a thin, elegant, small creature. One time, while I was stretched out over the flat top of an enormous, glacial erratic boulder, the mink hurried past into a dense thicket of lush cedars with a fish one third the size of its body clinging from its mouth. It all seemed so basic, hunting food for survival while I’d visited the Bulk Barn for various delectables; candied ginger, dried vegetable flakes, quick-cook oats, and rice and pastas. In so many ways we are so far removed from living simplistically and naturally foraging for food from the natural world. But it is a true will to survive for these animals and plants. Without a catch, the mink’s belly would have stayed empty.
I’d seen a curious bear cub on neighbouring Solomons Island. It too had been foraging through vegetation, hunting for edibles. I’d sampled a few of the early, ripe blueberries, but the bear needed to fatten up for the long, harsh winter ahead, a fact of survival.
I appreciated the fact that Crown Land exists where we as Canadians can roam freely and camp without reservations and fees. It’s how I am, spontaneous without needing to stick to a rigid, pre-planned itinerary. My days as a teacher are rigid enough and thus I truly value this sense of liberation I achieve while traveling by kayak.
I took the time to notice the minute details surrounding me, the smooth, sexy lines of the polished rock, curves as sinuous as waves themselves. I observed even closer noticing the art on the rock created by lichens of different hues from light grey, soft green, brilliant burnt orange, neon yellow, steel grey, and soft baby yellow. They randomly dappled and speckled the rock and twice I found lichen groupings resembling faces in the rock, a pensive bear cub face and a clownish smiley face. I let my imagination see the possibilities of design as I curiously stared at this natural art gallery of rock and lichen.
The rhythm of my day was dictated by the sun, rising before the sunrise to observe the sun ascend above the horizon, appearing as a burst of light as the first rays appeared following the absence of light throughout the night. It elated me as I watched it climb, bringing warmth and colour with its appearance. In the evening, sitting on the rock, I watched the sun slip behind the town of Killarney about ten kilometres due west of my tiny island. And as the days transmuted to night, I watched the parade of clouds blaze in hues of neon orange and hot pink before darkness overtook the light yet again. It’s a natural rhythm, and I adjusted to it easily, retiring by 9:30 in the evening.
On my first evening on Philip Edward Island, I’d watched a rose-coloured full moon ascend the grey sky, reflecting a scintillating line of sparkles on the agitated water’s surface, but two mornings later, I saw the near full moon hover high over the western horizon and reflected in the paisley-shaped pool of water indented in the bedrock near my tent. It felt magical – the stillness of a new day being born, surrounded by the spectacles of nature without any human intrusion except that of myself and the lighthouse and communication towers blinking far in the distance by Killarney.
But my paradise had its flaws too. I was appalled as I made brief walks along the shore to find human feces not disposed of but sitting visible like a glacial erratic with blobs of toilet paper wreathing it. It was offensive and disgusting and I wonder why someone would leave his or her turd so plainly visible for other visitors to this paradise to find. The mentality eludes me. I leave no trace of my presence: no turds, no litter and no charcoal from fires, as it should be. I take only photographs and leave only footprints. I recognize that this destination experiences high usage and I hope that visitors will respect the environment they visit. Our natural world is not limitless as some may believe.
Severe weather was forecasted for my fourth day on my nameless island. I was restless and I didn’t want to be caught in a violent thunderstorm, the likes of which I’d experienced at the commencement of my Manitoulin Island circumnavigation one month earlier. I decided to leave at dawn, knowing that I would get to experience the cottage-country madness, the Sunday rush to Toronto. I peeked out of my tent to see what the weather was like. To my dismay, a suffocating fog blanketed my island world and the environs. I launched anyway, very early in the morning. It started to pour and then distant rumbles sent an adrenaline rush through me as the sky flickered like a strobe light with lightning flashes. I knew that it wasn’t wise to paddle near lightning but it wasn’t wise to be perched on an exposed island either. The paddle to my parked car was less than an hour. I felt the rain beat on me and bounce off the flat water like popcorn kernels popping. The sky flickered in flashes of white light and rumbles followed almost ten seconds later. I stared at my compass, ensconced in a blind world of fog and water. Soon, I reached land and followed a northwest bearing, my wing blade paddle stroking the water like a possessed whirly-gig as my heart raced.
It was exhilarating and risky but I loved every moment of it. With relief, less than an hour later, I pulled ashore at the car park at Chikanishing Creek. My sojourn was over.
Great story! Camped there myself, gorgeous.