Wendy Killoran
What image does Shangri-La evoke? Is it a place, or a figment of one’s imagination? Can mortal beings truly find Shangri-La or Utopia?
We spent our summer visiting both remote islands and better travelled shorelines in northern Lake Huron by sea kayak. We wondered if indeed we would discover our own Shangri-La in this land of mystic power. The months of July and August were divided into several multi-day expeditions, each visiting a very different area around Manitoulin Island, each with the potential of being a beautiful place where life approaches perfection: our remote, idyllic hideaway.
The first expedition saw us launch from the town of Little Current into the North Channel to visit nearby limestone islands which had been recently converted to The North Channel Islands – La Cloche Provincial Park. Our mid-afternoon launch had us paddling into the typical afternoon westerly wind blowing down the length of the North Channel. Our kayaks bounced over the waves as the bright afternoon shimmering trail of sunshine scintillated blindingly off the water. As we stopped briefly at our cottage (on our own island, which we were waiting to close on), two large ravens sat peacefully on the Muskoka chairs, unaffected apparently by our arrival. To me, these majestic birds symbolized our welcome to this part of the world which has such a powerful grip on us, a place where we feel we belong, spiritually, emotionally and physically. Eventually, the ravens departed with a few raucous caws, and soon thereafter we did too, in search of a nearby campsite.
Doug and I are partners both in life and in kayaking. Our desire to be immersed in nature and to be out kayaking has deepened our relationship immensely. We both feel a magnetic pull to Manitoulin Island and surrounding areas.
The beach we’d visited on a previous trip on the south shore of Bedford Island had become quite swampy and reedy. We headed into the shallow, boulder-strewn channel towards West Rous Island and settled on a flat, limestone alvar rimmed by spruce forest and an unforgiving boulder shore. We watched a bald eagle land and feast on a fish at water’s edge nearby.
We spent several days camping here as we explored the environs; kayaking to nearby islands, encountering a gull and tern rookery, swimming and diving into the clear refreshing waters, and finding the area almost void of people other than the occasional recreational fisherman. We were well stocked with provisions and prepared meals brimming with fresh fruits and vegetables. We walked over the extensive alvars that travelled several kilometres into the heart of the island, noticing the wood lilies, purple hare bells, various coloured lichens, and randomly strewn glacial erratic boulders. Doug briefly glimpsed a black bear bound into the dense vegetation. The contorted, silver-bleached skeletons of dead cedar trees captured my interest. We found a large inuksuk, resembling a bald eagle, stacked by using the abundant available boulders. The body was made of various dark boulders including basalt boulders and the head was a white quartzite boulder. It was striking, visible from afar. How did it get here?
Wide open spaces resonate with me and this place exuded positive energy but in my mind, this was not Shangri-La. There was nothing that truly set it apart. Distant views of the La Cloche Mountains were somewhat obscured and the sun set over Bedford Island rather than over the open expanse of Lake Huron. The place held my curiosity but not my heart.
We returned to Little Current, restocked and launched from South Baymouth to circumnavigate Fitzwilliam Island which is situated southeast of Manitoulin Island. Fitzwilliam Island has remained an enigma in my mind over the years. I’d seen it in the distance many times from the Chi-Cheemaun ferry and also on my two previous kayak circumnavigations of Manitoulin Island. “What would we find there? Was Shangrila just beyond the next unseen horizon?”
Again we launched late, heading on a southeast compass bearing, paralleling the south shore of Wikwemikong First Nation Reserve. This shoreline, with the exception of the expansive native ceremonial lodge on the eastern edge of Thomas Bay, is completely natural and wild. The afternoon started calm, sunny and warm as we glided over crystal clear waters with off-white slabs of limestone strewn in the shallow depths, creating a scene from the tropics as turquoise and aqua water surrounded us under a vaulted cerulean sky. Flat alvars and gently curved whaleback features slid at low angles into Lake Huron. The water clarity allowed clear views of boulders many metres below the kayaks’ hulls. The warmth, aquatic colours, ubiquitous sunshine and hypnotic motion of the lake surrounded us. The solitude and lack of man-made structures agreed with us.
As the afternoon progressed into evening, a sombre sky with brooding clouds encroached upon our reverie, and we made a sprint across Owen Channel to Phoebe Point on the southwestern tip of Fitzwilliam Island. Our landing was on a classic, smoothly scoured alvar with lengthy glacial striations scratched into the limestone. The spot was exposed to the potential fury of prevailing westerly storms but it also provided us with a stellar sunset. Sunsets stir me as though an emotionally gripping theatrical performance is unfolding. If Shangri-La’s perfection includes an unimpeded sunset, there was little to rival this evening’s drama of the setting sun, visible in all its glory as it dipped below the curvature of the distant lake’s horizon. Unfortunately, the persistent presence of blood-thirsty mosquitoes reminded me that perhaps Shangri-La comes with a price.
We launched onto growing waves and changed the direction of our circumnavigation of Fitzwilliam Island to go with the flow. Rather than slogging into a building wind we benefited from the forceful push of waves funnelling into Owen Channel. The raised cobble beaches, endless limestone shelves, and clear aqua-hued water dominated the first half of the day. With minimal effort, we found ourselves near the northern tip of Fitzwilliam Island, first stopping at Little Island in search of a historical settlement. After some searching, we found evidence of cedar shake cabins, stone chimneys and cultivated floral species. Had the fishermen from days gone by found their own slice of paradise on this small island deep in the wilderness away from civilization, or had they endured hardship, succumbing to the onslaught of challenges, migrating to a less severe existence?
We stopped at Rattlesnake Point, across from Little Island. Other than a small community here in this very sheltered deep-water harbour, no other buildings are found on Fitzwilliam Island. The island, owned by an American family for many years, is used for logging and potentially for mining in the future. On this day, nobody was around, although several vehicles were parked on the gravel roads; yet no boats were visible in the harbour other than a large, rusting barge.
With a building tailwind we raced towards Northeast Point where we stopped for lunch on a sandy beach. It was a miserable spot, with a wicked onslaught of biting flies. We moved on, falsely believing that our tailwind would be sheltered by the escarpment edge of the east shore of Fitzwilliam Island; what we found was that the island split the wind to funnel it up both the western and the eastern shores. Now, as we headed south, we faced a persistent and formidable headwind.
Waves pounded the nearby steeply-pitched boulder beach on our starboard. Our heavily laden kayaks would be pummelled on the rough landing. Soon, the boulder beach gave way to limestone shelves but the landing here seemed dubious and risky. And as we dug in to round the next point, a white-capping lake confronted us. We retreated and with finesse landed on the limestone shelves. What a glorious spot!
We enjoy camping on sand-free flat rocks. These limestone shelves were fairly smooth and quite expansive. Robust daisies dappled the rocks, growing from long crevices, bobbing back and forth in the wind. We basked in the sunshine and luckily, the wind kept the bugs away. We were able to walk barefoot and the aqua hues of Georgian Bay bedazzled me. Although the colour suggested tropical waters, the tingling sting when I dipped my purification water bottle reminded me of the deceiving frigid temperatures.
We hiked over the limestone shelves to the nearby boulder beach where we found massive portions of the escarpment had tumbled from the cliff, eroded long ago at its base from wave action when water levels were much higher following the last glacial retreat about ten thousand years ago.
Here we found an ancient white cedar tree clinging with its roots extended over several metres of fallen limestone. Its will to survive was apparent. Its strength and ability to endure were admirable. We both stroked its long gnarled roots, connecting with this ancient tree by touch.
We awoke to placid waters and a red ball of fire peaking from foreboding storm clouds hovering on the eastern horizon, but as we paddled this fairytale shoreline of steep limestone cliffs, calmness prevailed as we were bathed in a soft, diffused, amber-hued light. The geology was dramatic, with angular cuts in the rock. I found a flat shelf of limestone at water’s level and landed to wander about a raised flowerpot which now stood a few metres above water level, safe from further erosion.
I was starting to believe that Shangri-La is found on the water in my kayak where peace, harmony, contentment, and fulfillment are easy to find. Trying to replicate the sense of awe that I experience the first time I visit a place is very difficult. Experiencing a new place with a sense of wonder fills me with a sense of discovery, curiosity and a sense of living fully engaged in that moment. Perhaps Shangri-La is experienced in momentary glimpses of euphoria?
Headwinds became more persistent as the morning progressed until the kayaks were bouncing over lively waves to Indian Harbour Point. We saw bald eagles and deer at water’s edge. Here a very old, towering, lichen-encrusted stone marker stood sentinel to the long, narrow harbour, a place where aboriginals historically had received gifts from the government for having signed land treaties. People had come from far and wide in their large birch bark canoes to receive firearms, alcohol and trinkets. This exposed point felt wide open to the expanses of Lake Huron and the Georgian Bay, a meeting place for both freshwater bodies. Such raw and expansive places appeal to me; I feel humble and insignificant, breathing in the air that has blown over water from a far, unseen western shoreline. In places where I feel vulnerable to natural forces, I ironically also feel more alive and energized. I weigh the risk of paddling exposed shorelines with the rewards I experience by visiting these seldom visited places.
We set up camp nearby, on a place we called Otter Island. It had a sheltered landing and launching site, a flat meadow for the tent, and expansive, flat rocks for our kitchen. The mint-like scent of the natural limestone basil wafted deliciously on the warm humid air. By now, Doug had become a chef extraordinaire of the north, as each meal was better than the last and his kayak amazingly continued to supply endless provisions, kept fresh by the cold temperatures of the waters we were paddling.
Wandering near our campsite, I found coral fossils as well as a full length rattlesnake skin. As we enjoyed the last moments of daylight, a pair of otters swam directly in front of us, swimming round and round in circles, peering at us frequently before moving on.
The next morning, as we paddled back towards Manitoulin Island, westerly waves were building. Soon enough, we were kayaking with strength and resolve into 1.5-metre waves. It was exhilarating but tiring. I feel a childish sense of glee when I’m surrounded by wind and waves which demand my full attention. We paddled far from the south shore’s shoals and water bombs, as we liked to call the sunken erratic boulders which clawed the water’s surface. Tired but satisfied, we landed in a sheltered bay near Thomas Point where we refuelled for the final dash to our campsite which we dubbed “Alvar Harbour.” We were both spent from the slog, yet felt invigorated from the primal feeling one gets from being immersed with such commitment and intensity on the water. It brings me to a level of being fully removed from all of society’s expectations and indoctrinations, a true sense of liberation from civilized domestication. A clearer idea of Shangri-La was emerging, but Alvar Harbour was not it. The pock marks in the alvar were rough and abrasive and unsuitable for barefoot strolls.
Returning the following morning to South Baymouth, we prepared, after a day of rest in our favourite cabin, for our launch to the Duck Islands, a place we’d visited before but which beckoned our return. The island archipelago lies completely exposed to the full fetch of Lake Huron and thus requires prudence in monitoring prevailing paddling conditions. I won’t deny however, that big water fills me with a sense of pure joy and euphoria.
On this crossing we briefly stopped at Western Duck Island before heading to Great Duck Island in easy paddling conditions. Great Duck Island is mostly privately owned; we’d received permission to camp from the owner who was astonished to learn that our mode of transportation was by sea kayak, something which seemed quite remarkable to a non-kayaker. Although our preferred campsites are on pebble beaches and flat bedrock, the wide sand beach here is pristine and seldom visited. We established camp on the sand, not disturbing the dune vegetation due to the rare species found here such as the endangered pitcher thistle. The dunes on Great Duck Island are so expansive that they are visible on space satellite images. They feel untouched since the dawn of time and remarkably, we were alone on this long curving sand beach, one that rivals any deserted beach in the world.
The beach’s grandeur shouts “Shangri-La!” Only our footprints marred the damp sand. After setting up camp, we watched the progression of the sunset as the sky’s vibrant colours and the flat bay’s reflections transmuted to an artist’s palette of orange, pink, crimson, periwinkle and violet. We sat still and silent, watching gulls dip at water’s edge as they ate mayflies as the darkness of night slowly descended. When we stood up to retreat to our tent, we saw a full moon rise over the dunes as the hushed silence of a still, inviting summer’s night enveloped us.
The following day on a mirror calm bay, we started our circumnavigation of Great Duck Island. I watched the glistening, fleeting shimmers of sun patterns dance like electrical pulses across the sandy bottom of the bay and the boulder-strewn lake bed beyond. The water clarity was astonishing; I could peer unhindered into the depths and see the patterns and textures of rocks and boulders far beneath the kayak’s hull.
We explored the abandoned lighthouse, situated at the southwestern tip of the island, where we harvested a few robust stalks of rhubarb found in an overgrown, untended garden from days gone by. I picked a small bouquet of scarlet Sweet Williams and wild daisies. Did the former lighthouse keepers find this isolated location, a location truly at the mercy of the raw, unabated powers of Nature, to be their Shangri-La? I tried to envision life here on a deserted island. Every lifestyle has its price. Was hardship and desolation better than luxury and proximity to civilization? Could one person’s Shangri-La be another person’s hell on Earth?
The eastern shore of Great Duck Island was more sheltered and in my opinion less impressive. Occasionally the boulder-strewn shoreline was interspersed with sandy beaches. We paddled over two large shipwrecks in the sheltered channel separating Great Duck Island from Outer Duck Island. Upon our return to our campsite, I cooked the rhubarb and allowed the tranquility of the place to soak into me. I breathed in deep breaths, aware that this place was close to being Shangri-La, but in my mind Shangri-La would have me walking the beach in only a cotton sarong, not a bug net!
Our next day’s paddle was to Outer Duck Island. As we broke camp, we came up with the name “Manitoulin tarantula” for the large, sand-coloured, multi-eyed, furry spider we saw scurrying over the sand as its safe haven was being rolled up into its stuff sack.
Outer Duck Island, considerably smaller than Great Duck Island, had its own charms. We landed on a sheltered pebble beach and set up camp in the nearby flower-strewn meadow. Sunshine prevailed and the warm, windless afternoon sun baked the milkweed plants, sending a sweet, intoxicating fragrance to permeate our campsite. Although less grand than Great Duck Island, Outer Duck Island resonated with us. Doug fished for lake trout. As he stood thigh deep where the pebbles dropped steeply and dramatically, two large lake trout swam close enough to peer straight into his eyes and then swiftly disappear into the depths. We settled for vegetarian spaghetti that evening and watched another vibrant sunset. The softness of the meadow was comforting as a few crickets chirped and numerous monarch butterflies fluttered and flitted amongst the pink milkweed blossoms. In days long gone by, this very spot had been a bustling fishing village, complete with a school, according to George Purvis, a descendent whom we spoke with a few days later. Now all was quiet with few relics to suggest a small out port community from the bygone fishing era on the Great Lakes had existed here.
On our return to Manitoulin Island, we spent an afternoon and evening on Rickley Point, part of The Queen Elizabeth / Queen M’Nidoo M’Nissing Provincial Park on the south shore of Manitoulin Island. Here we had commanding views of Lake Huron and the archipelago of islands we had just explored. It was oppressively hot and stifling and I spent the afternoon bathing in the cool lake and reading quietly on the flat limestone bedrock. Is Shangri-La an emotional state, regardless of the geographical place one finds oneself in?
That evening we went for a walk on the open rocky alvars which resemble Nature’s art gallery and are a palaeontologist’s Utopia. I gazed at the abundant fossils slightly extruding from the grey limestone, lit softly in the evening light, their shadows emphasizing their shapes and textures, evidence of an ancient sea bed. In the middle of the night I bolted awake as a thunderstorm rumbled ominously for over an hour on the western horizon before unleashing a furious torrent of rain which pelted deafeningly on the well-anchored tent fly, while lightning flashed and thunder reverberated explosively all around us. I felt unnerved, exposed on this open point at the edge of Lake Huron, but then a wave of relief washed over me, and I felt safe and protected in my soothing sleeping bag. I pondered, “Can Guardian Angels respond to my silent thoughts in this land of mystic powers?” I had silently prayed for protection from the storm as I had felt a sense of impending doom lurking menacingly. Does finding perfection mean grappling with and overcoming one’s fears to become a stronger person? Could Shangrila be a place in our thoughts? Despite the tempestuous storm that had raged in such an exposed location, I awoke with a sense of gratitude, knowing that there is a divine connection. Our stay at Rickley Point will not be soon forgotten.
We launched soon after dawn to return to our car only a few kilometres away. We re-supplied and drove to our next launch site at the western extremity of Manitoulin Island. The purpose of this mini-expedition was to explore the south shore of Cockburn Island and beyond. As we were ready to launch, we surprisingly saw our friend Jamie arrive in his yellow Chinook kayak. This was our third unplanned encounter with this long-distance kayaker over the course of two summers. There are literally hundreds of islands in this area with unlimited options for paddling routes and we made this unlikely encounter yet again.
Most of Wagosh Bay’s shoreline, a lengthy swathe of sand beach and dunes, has been purchased by the Nature Conservancy of Canada and in turn leased to the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources for ninety-nine years for a dollar. Will this Shangrila, a place of outstanding natural beauty where one can dig one’s toes into the powdery sand amidst the tracks of wolves and deer, become a provincial park accessible to all, or will it be available only to a few intrepid adventurers and elites?
At our meadow campsite, we listened to song sparrows and tiny colourful warblers sing with unabashed zeal. Sprawling junipers surrounding the tent, and the noticeable scent of pines and cedars, tantalized our olfactory senses.
The next day when we launched for a day paddle, a dragonfly floated listlessly on the placid bay, unable to fly. I carefully scooped the creature from its watery death trap and gently placed it on the bungee cords of my deck bag. It went along for the kayak ride, rounding Station Point, drying its wings as I paddled. We landed on a pebble-cobble beach which we named “Treasure Beach.” A wide variety of colourful stones, now smoothly eroded from thousands of years of wave action, had long ago been moved from their places of origin on the Canadian Shield and deposited by melting, retreating glaciers here on this terraced beach. We searched for jasper conglomerates, a white quartzite rock speckled with brilliant chunks of red jasper whose origin is Joseph Island to the northwest.
Next day, we decided to camp at Kitchener Island. The distant murmur we’d heard while eating breakfast along the shore of Wagosh Bay became a more audible, steady breaking of waves smashing onto boulders at water’s edge as we approached. The waves were sizeable, at least two metres in height. Our destination on Kitchener Island was sheltered, but a three-kilometre paddle on these mighty waves was necessary before achieving a safe harbour. My sense of aliveness heightened. The kayaks plunged into troughs, then perched momentarily on the crests of the waves as we paddled. I remained focused and felt my confidence grow. Our kayaks perform well in rough conditions and we both have developed a good sense of balance. We shot through a shallow gap to the lee side of Kitchener Island and came across a small black bear, completely unaware of our presence. We sat several minutes in silence, watching it forage at water’s edge. It disappeared swiftly as soon as Doug called a verbally greeting.
The day became stiflingly hot. I wilted from the heat with any terrestrial activity and went for numerous swims, but the cooling effect waned almost instantly as soon as I set foot on land. I am convinced that mosquitoes and flies seem to prefer my blood over Doug’s; it seems that the most commonly worn garment of the summer was my highly coveted, protective bug net.
We felt quite remote and off the beaten path. But that evening, as we watched a sunset explode the sky into florescent swathes of neon orange, pink and purple, we counted numerous sailboats pass by in the Mac-Man Sailboat Race from Mackinac, Michigan to Little Current, Manitoulin Island. It appeared that our newfound Shangri-La was not the remote hideaway we’d thought.
As we returned the following day to Manitoulin Island, gentle swells from the previous day’s waves created a surreal satin texture on the lake as a white fog bank lay as a fuzzy smudge on the southern horizon. Surprisingly, we encountered a northern ring neck snake swimming sinuously at least one kilometre from shore. We could only wonder why.
Back on Manitoulin Island, personal commitments saw us return to our city lives. It would appear that although we’d found innumerable, remote, idyllic hideaways, that Shangrila is not a place; but rather, we decided, a state of mind. Kayaking put us in that state of mind as one perfect paddling day followed another, and another …