One Hundred Miles on the Isle

I grew up in Michigan. But not until I moved to Utah did I really begin backpacking. Consequently, though I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Michigander (who has funny ways of saying "vague" and "plague" and unironically shows people where I grew up on my hand), I've hardly backpacked at all within the state.

My sister Nichole is different. She lives in Michigan, and in her post-college years has done a fantastic job of getting to know her home state. She's visited every corner of it, seemingly camped at every State Forest Campground in existence, and has a mental map of the state that rivals my grasp of Utah and the Mountain West. Michigan doesn't have as many truly stunning landscapes as the West does, but she appreciates its beauty, its deep woods, and its untrammeled corners in a way that's truly admirable.

Photo: Nichole DeVries

But there is a corner of Michigan that is truly jaw-dropping. I suppose it qualifies as "Michigan" in only the most technical of senses, as it's closer to Minnesota than it is the rest of the state. Of course, we're referring to Isle Royale, a huge, remote, undeveloped island smack-dab in the middle of Lake Superior. Of late, Nichole's been dipping her toe in the world of backpacking. What better destination for her first 'big' trip than the most amazing landscape that her home state has to offer?

Getting to Isle Royale is an adventure in itself. It's surrounded by the treacherous waters of Lake Superior (see Fitzgerald, Edmund), and is the only National Park in the Lower 48 to completely close during the winter. The only access to the island is via seaplane charter or, more commonly, a multiple-hour ferry ride.

Of the three ferry options to the Island, we chose the Ranger III, which is operated by the National Park Service, rather than by a private concessionaire. I found the booking process somewhat sketchy and disconcerting, but in the end we were happy to support the NPS (e.g. the Park) with our dollars as opposed to a private company.

The trip began with a bit of a snafu. The night before our boat was set to leave, the zipper slider on Nichole's tent abruptly died. Normally, we would just buy a replacement slider and keep rolling, but this was 8pm on Labor Day evening in Houghton MI, and there was nothing open. We finally went to Walmart, bought a ridiculously heavy Ozark Trail "backpacking tent", and reinforced its stormworthiness with a scrap of Tyvek. Though we derisively dubbed it the 'Ozark Fail', it held up just fine over the course of the trip. Its design is appallingly poor, it ain't seam-sealed, and weighs about 47 pounds, but it held up alright in the one morning of light-moderate rain we faced on the trip. One and a half stars, I guess.

One of these tents costs 20x more than the other

Unexpected Beauty

As soon as the boat docked and we started hiking, immense beauty confronted us. We hiked right along the Lake Superior shoreline for nearly eight miles, picking our way down the rocky lakeside trail on the southern edge of the island. And boy oh boy, what a sight! Scores of tiny islands and outcroppings dotted the nearshore waters. Waves, knocked down considerably by the barrier islands, lapped gently on the shore. We dip-n-sipped water directly from the lake - no treatment needed! Seldom have I seen such a beautiful coastline. And that was just the beginning.

Up on the famous Greenstone Ridge the next day, we caught distant views of Michigan's Keeweenaw Peninsula to the south and the Ontario coastline to the north. Delightful weather and a series of gorgeous lakes only sweetened the pot. Unlike the tough miles along the Superior shoreline, the Greenstone was easy cruising on picturesque ridges.

Testing the Ozark Fail

Our only rain of the trip moved in on the morning of Day 3. I awoke at about 2am to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof of the Ozark Fail. It rained fairly steadily for hours, and aside from an annoying drip that landed right on my nose about once every five minutes, the tent held up alright. We broke camp a bit later than normal, and hiked through occasional rain showers for the first half of the day. By and by though, the clouds broke up and a bit of sun started to peak through. By Michigan rainy-day standards, it was tough to complain. 

Frogg Toggs raingear: equal parts functional and ridiculous

The weather over the next few days perplexed me. A cold, northerly wind was forecast to sweep down over Lake Superior, driving annoying lake-effect rain showers across most of Northern Michigan. But we were at the north end of the lake, so there wasn't much water between us and Canada to drive those showers. Would we stay dry after all?

Yes, it turns out. Aside from a momentary sprinkle one morning, blue skies and sunshine prevailed for the rest of the trip. What an amazing weather window!

The Belly of the Beast

Eight days of food is heavy. Very heavy. Both Nichole and I aggressively cut pack weight on this trip, in true ultralight fashion. And we did our best to minimize the amount of food we'd have to carry. And in my case, I went a bit overboard.

I've come to realize that thru-hiking is bad for you. I mean that sincerely. After hundreds or thousands of days on trail, my metabolism has learned the gig. Even when I'm not thru-hiking, backpacking immediately triggers a deep, intense hunger that's impossible to satiate. And consequently, it turns out that I hadn't packed enough food. Thankfully, there was a tiny store at the far end of the island that offered a precious few staples. I picked up some tuna packets, random nasty crackers, and, as a matter of last resort, a bag of peanuts. I don't really like peanuts, but it's better than starving to death!

We also took the opportunity to tank up with town food - some mediocre reheated pizzas, depressingly-thin broccoli cheese soup, and remarkably-affordable beers, which were on end-of-season closeout. That feast, such as it was, didn't sit quite right with Nichole's stomach.

Make sure to greet your friendly neighborhood moose!

A Little More Wild

To date, we'd hiked exclusively on well-maintained NPS-grade trails. The Greenstone is the main thoroughfare on the island, and nearly all Isle Royale backpacking itineraries involve hiking at least a portion of the trail. It's not the only trail that crosses the island however.

A trail on the northern edge of the island offers a much more primitive hiking experience. It hasn't been maintained in years, and is only marked by a handful of tiny, easy-to-miss cairns. We spent an entire afternoon walking on rocky bedrock ridges, punctuated by occasional overgrown forest patches with abundant mud and deadfall. This, finally, felt like true Wilderness.

And the scenery! It was incredible. We relished nearly continuous views of the lake to our north, with the Ontario shoreline clearly visible in the distance. Though we could see hundreds of miles of coastline, we glimpsed not an iota of civilization, save for a lonely freighter rumbling its way up the lake to Duluth or Thunder Bay.

After walking over rocks all day long, our feet were pretty cooked. And Nichole's tempestuous tummy was still proving an annoyance. We collapsed into camp that evening, spent and exhausted.

Beware the Leeches

After a tough day on the rocks, we were ready for some easy miles. Mercifully, the trail complied. We took a delightful lunch on a dock the next day, and looked forward to swimming at the dock at McCargoe Cove at the end of the day.

We reached McCargoe in good time, set up our tents, and headed down to the water to take a dip. We were about to dive off the end of the dock when a fellow hiker flagged us down. He informed that he'd just pulled four leeches off his feet from this water. Blech! Sweaty and disappointed, we nonetheless spent a couple of relaxing hours on the dock, safely out of reach of the killer leeches. Bed soon beckoned. I snuggled into my quilt and was soon touring the Land of Nod.

I awoke in the middle of the night and heard... nothing. And everything. With not even the slightest tickle of a breeze, and a thick fog settling over the cove, the world went quiet. Every little bug creeping along the ground was clearly audible. I heard my own heartbeat. All was silent. All was still. All was serene. This was without a doubt my favorite moment of the trip.

Oh the Views

We hiked through that thick fog for a few hours the next morning before taking a late breakfast at a truly dismal campground on the shores of Chickenbone Lake. By time we finished chowing, the sun had begun to burn through the fog. And by time we reached an iconic firetower on Greenstone Ridge, my oh my! Lakes and coves dotted the horizon. We hauled out the map and spent a few minutes identifying all those lakes, many of which we'd hiked past over the preceding days. After a couple miles, the views somehow got even better at the top of a rocky outcrop. 

And then, after 2.5 miles on immaculately-maintained trails, we reached a shallow cove on the lake with a truly beautiful campsite nearby. We set up shop on our own private beach and waded out at least one hundred yards into the cove. Beautiful peninsulas and islands abounded. The water was perfectly clear. The sun was bright and intense. What a delightful reward after a hard week of hiking!

Back to the Mainland

The next morning, we did a couple quick miles back to our ferry pickup point at Rock Harbor. We there saw a few friends we'd made over the week, and spent a few hours eating and remaining stationary. The ferry ride back was a bit bittersweet. It'd been a long week, but oh-so-rewarding. There are a few things I'll do differently on my next visit to Isle Royale. But as an introduction to this unique and beautiful place, our trip couldn't be beat!

Lakes and Puddles

The Uintas are a backpacker's paradise. A half-million acre Wilderness area protects the majority of the high country. A well-developed network of trails spiderwebs the range. Outside of a couple Instagram-famous spots, solitude is assured, even on a beautiful summer weekend. Extensive alpine basins lend themselves to limitless wandering. It's easy to see why the Uintas have served as my 'home' mountain range for more than a decade.

This summer, I've been spending much of my usual Uintas time elsewhere, namely on the Western Slope of Colorado. My girlfriend Steph (trail name: Calzone) lives at the foot of the San Juan Mountains, a truly outstanding range in its own right. We've spent many a weekend exploring the San Juans together, and I've taken a couple solo trips in the area as well. Aside from the Continental Divide Trail's narrow corridor, the state of Colorado is largely new to me. What a treat to explore a new place!

But the Uintas will always hold a special place in my heart. Accordingly, Steph and I invested an August weekend in a quick loop in the eastern part of the range. We glimpsed more lakes (at least a dozen) than other backpackers (eight, all Uinta Highline Trail hikers).

Exposed to the Elements

After a utilitarian Friday night camp at the trailhead, we began our trek with a few miles on the famous Uinta Highline Trail. I hadn't hiked this stretch of the UHT since before the pandemic, and it was a delight to revisit it. We meandered our way through a few lovely meadows and past a series of lakes before we began the long climb up to North Pole Pass.

By 12,000-foot pass standards, North Pole is pretty kind. Although the climb seemed to last forever, the grade remained gentle. The wind, however, was not so cooperative. Once we emerged above treeline, a frigid gale smacked us in the face. The stronger gusts occasionally staggered us as we worked our way over the broad plateau that comprises North Pole Pass. We had to scream to be heard over the roar of the wind and the flapping of my windshirt, which Steph likens to a bag of Doritos in both sound and appearance :)

Photo: Stephanie Seitz

But my oh my, what a view from the pass! North Pole looks west toward the highest axis of the Uintas - the Kings-Emmons ridge, home to about half of Utah's 13,000-foot peaks. A fleet of cumulus raced across the sky at highway speeds, sideswiping those high peaks along the way. Delightful lakes glittered below. A few moments of sunshine made the scene surreal.

As we descended the pass, bowl-like topography funneled all the wind into one narrow jet. At times, it threatened to knock us off our feet. Once we reached the shelter of the trees surrounding Fox Lake, we breathed a sigh of relief. A reprieve from the howling wind was in order.

New Terrain

After a leisurely lakeside lunch, we left the Highline Trail behind, aiming for a different pass I'd never visited. We took the opportunity to visit a wind-rippled lake before ascending the pass. Shortly thereafter, we stumbled across an eerie sight - a truly enormous sleeping bag plopped underneath a tree. Supposedly rated to -50F and larger than both of our backpacks, we could only surmise that a horsepacker had stashed it in anticipation of the upcoming hunting season. 

Photo: Stephanie Seitz

As we climbed above treeline again, the wind re-intensified, this time carrying occasional spittle from the darkening clouds. Just before we reached the pass, the heavens opened and wind-driven hail stung us like a million icy daggers. Yelping, we hustled down the other side of the pass.

While intense, the hailstorm was short-lived. We picked our way through a tedious boulder fields, made all the tricker by the rain and hail. Soon, the rocks gave way to gloppy mud, and our spirits began to fray just a tad after a long day of rocks, wind, and aching joints. We found nice sheltered campsites, though, and ate a hearty dinner. After a few hands of cards, it was time to turn in. Rain pitter-pattered on our tents through the night.

Alpine Wandering

Wham! A bolt of lightning struck at first light, no more than a few hundred yards away. The crack of thunder literally shook the forest floor, putting an abrupt end to my night of sleep. We were grateful for a campsite nestled deep in the woods. That one was close!

By and by, the thunderstorm passed, and we broke camp while ribbing each other for our disgusting on-trail food habits (oatmeal for her, Spam for me). A long night of rain had turned the trail into soup, and we slogged our way down a path that was 10% rocks, 50% mud, and 40% horse poop. Delectable! At some point, the trail more or less disappeared under a flowing stream, and we bushwhacked across a wet, willowy meadow to find a different trail on the other side of the drainage.

That trail led to a gorgeous lake - perhaps my favorite of the entire weekend - and then promptly disappeared. We moseyed up the valley, following scraps of trail where they existed. After passing a small tarn, the trail steepened slightly before tying back into the Highline Trail.

We drifted downhill on the Highline back to our cars as dark clouds gathered once again. A few annoying drops aside, we managed to get back to the parking lot before the afternoon's deluge began.

This trip had it all - big views, a dash of adventure, and spicy mountain weather. And to share it with someone special? All the better.

 

Sand and Snow

June can be tough. The desert is a furnace, while the mountains are still snowed in. Backcountry trips are possible, but perhaps a little uncomfortable. 

Notwithstanding, I took a delightful pair of June backpacking trips. In brief!

The Maze

I mentioned off-hand earlier this year that I'd never been to the Maze district of Canyonlands, even though I'd lived in Utah for more than a decade. My buddy Paul lives in the area, and has taken many a Maze trip before. He offered to put together a route and coordinate our permits.

Ordinarily, the Maze is a total pain to get to - and the primary reason I'd never been there before. It involves multiple hours of bumping and clunking your way down 4WD roads, miles from anything even remotely resembling civilization. You definitely don't want car trouble out there!

We took a different approach. Rather than spending our time in the car, we opted to make the shorter drive to the Needles district, on the opposite bank of the Colorado, and packraft our way into the Maze. We ended up floating the river for several miles, including through the Confluence of the Green and Grand (e.g. upper Colorado). The Confluence is, in my mind, the beating heart of the American West. The two rivers join as equals. Their collective might carved Cataract Canyon, Glen Canyon, and of course the Grand Canyon. Everyone from Denver to Los Angeles depends on this thin ribbon of silty water to sustain civilization in this arid climate. The only sound audible as we cruised through the confluence was the occasional splish-splash of our paddles.

Before the river enters the truly wild rapids of Cataract Canyon, it forms a nice beach at Spanish Bottom. There, we packed up our boats, and climbed into the Maze itself.

I'd of course heard great things about the Maze, but those words apparently never sunk in, because I was blown away by the scenery. Arches, rock art, fun scrambles, and a few truly magical water sources made for an excellent couple days of wandering. The afternoons were blazing hot, but nothing that a few shady lunch spots couldn't handle. All too quickly, we completed our Maze loop, and crossed back over the Colorado to the Needles. Clouds helpfully lingered overhead as we made the long climb up from the river back to my car.

Overall - a great trip. It won't be my last Maze experience. There is so much more to see!

 

The San Juans

Then it was time to visit the source of the river. I spied some relatively clear, south-facing terrain along the Colorado Trail that looked appealing. Much of it was still a patchy snow slog, but there was still plenty of bare ground. I crossed an unnamed pass at 12,500' in perfect snow conditions. Many of the lakes still held ice. I found a tiny patch of bare ground to camp on, at about 12,000'. I slept surprisingly well despite the altitude, and woke up to a delightful sunrise the next morning.

As I descended, the snow thinned out to a decorative, patchy sparkle. Wildflowers appeared. Pure bliss. This will definitely not be my last San Juans experience!

By Boot and by Boat: The Lower Escalante

I've realized something: Lake Powell is my frenemy. 

In 1999, my uncle spearheaded a family reunion trip on Lake Powell. Through no fault of our own, we were somehow assigned a pair of truly ancient, decrepit houseboats. The air conditioning failed on both boats. Then the toilets stopped working, and an entire extended family ended up using the 'woods' for the better part of a week.

I put a fishhook through my cousin's eyelid. My dad tore a layer of skin off the bottom of his foot. A storm whipped up one night, and my uncle spent a frantic few minutes re-anchoring the houseboat, which was doing its best to escape its moorings. My sister and several cousins got badly sunburned on one side of their faces, a la Harvey Dent, from early morning sunshine while sleeping on the roof of the boat. 

In short, it was a terrific trip, total gong show, and a decades-long object of family lore and nostalgia. And it was my first exposure to the red rocks of southern Utah. I was transfixed. It arguably set the stage for my eventual move to the Beehive State.

Yet there's a darker side to Lake Powell. Glen Canyon Dam generates only a negligible amount of power. It loses boatloads of water to evaporation and sandstone leakage. It drowned some truly incredible landscapes - Glen Canyon, along with the lower reaches of the Escalante and San Juan rivers. And the lake is a pathetic vestige of its former self. Back in '99, the reservoir was nearly full, but it's been steadily dropping ever since. An ugly bathtub ring, some forty feet above the current water level, mars the slickrock that surrounds the reservoir. Unsightly silt benches clog the mouth of canyons. In short, Powell is a pathetic, stinking mess. Lake Foul, indeed.

Not all is lost though. As the water levels have dropped, the lower reaches of side canyons have begun to restore themselves. Flash floods clear out the silt and debris. Maidenhair ferns have begun to re-grow on shady canyon walls. Special spots, buried under the floodwaters for decades, have emerged afresh. The river will win eventually, and Glen Canyon Dam - a classic monolith to twentieth-century hubris - will lose. The only question is how long it will take.

Three Days of Wandering

I'd never been to the lowest canyons of the Escalante River, below where Lake Powell's floodwaters begin to back up. After all, a side-canyon that dead-ends into a lake is a one-way street... unless you have a packraft, of course! I looped three canyons into one loop-type substance over a three-day period in May. I was a bit worried about the heat (temperatures were forecast to hit 90 each day), but the canyons offered ample shade, and I was wet virtually the entire time - either splashing through canyons, or paddling on the lake itself. 

The hike begin with a an easy jaunt down a well-worn trail, past a spectacular arch. Evidently, the arch is everyone's turnaround point, because downstream became a mild bushwhack at points. I spent all morning heading downstream, encountering at one point a brief section of narrows with a mandatory swimmer. I suppose I could have blown up my packraft and paddled the fifty feet, but I opted to just swim it. Ninety degree heat for the win!

I passed a waterfall, well below Powell's high-water mark. I even found a few cottonwoods that have started to grow in the years since the lake dropped. Finally, I reached the lake and transitioned to packraft mode.

Thankfully, the afternoon was almost dead-calm, a welcome anomaly in a land of much slickrock and sparse vegetation. I paddled downstream, past my target canyon, to check out Cathedral in the Desert a few hours south. Inundated by floodwaters for almost all of the past fifty years, Cathedral in the Desert has re-emerged in the last couple years, due to falling lake levels. In the 50s, it was a magical place. Owing to its recent rebirth, it's still on the mend. To be honest, it smells like decaying gunk. Ferns are growing, but it'll take some time before it recaptures its former glory. Hopefully lake levels stay low enough to keep it from being re-drowned.

After fighting a bit of later-afternoon speedboat chop, I finally made it back to my target canyon, a seldom-visited gulch most notable for being the last confirmed location of disappeared 1930's vagabond Everett Ruess. The bottom of the canyon contained the single deepest alcove I've ever seen. Words cannot do it justice. It was enormous, and even partially flooded, still majestic.

Near where reservoir gave way to solid ground, I made camp for the night, after fourteen hours of hiking and paddling. It took me about five minutes to fall asleep.

The next morning started out auspiciously, with an easy hike up to a not-particularly-spectacular arch. That's where things got interesting. Two miles of thick brush lay between me and my exit from the canyon. The canyon is seldom-visited, but in reports I've collected over the years, I've noticed a trend of increasing complaints over the years. The brush is getting thicker.

Yeah, it wasn't fun. Not every step was a thrash, but much of it was, and occasionally it was horrific. The entire stretch is a continuous series of beaver dams. Combine deep water, stinking mud, and sometimes-impenetrable riparian vegetation, and you've got a recipe for a frustrating couple of miles.

By and by, I finally reached my exit, an old cattle trail near where Ruess had left his burros corralled before disappearing without a trace. The exit itself was surprisingly straightforward, a gem of a route in an otherwise-hostile environment. I followed my compass for a couple miles overland, through Navajo sandstone domes, before dropping into my third and final canyon via an enormous sand dune. I was certainly glad to be descending, rather than ascending it! 

This canyon doesn't even have a proper name - just a number, as if it were a Swiss account. And like a Swiss account, its secrets are deep indeed. Incredibly, the entire thing was passable, and its amazing narrows stretched on for miles. Deep-red sandstone walls soared hundreds of feet above me, blotting out the searing midday sun. I followed the canyon downstream, underneath incredible alcoves, to where it flows into Lake Powell. 

I won't even try and describe what I found down there, only that physics seems to be broken, and Euclidean geometry ceases to apply in canyon country. An abandoned meander has divided a vestigial arm from the main body of Lake Powell, and it took me hours of pondering to reconstruct how this happened. Ask me about this, if you're really curious about a deeply weird and difficult-to-describe phenomenon. 

I ventured back upstream, the way I came, past the sand dune, and made camp near an amazing alcove underneath a stately cottonwood. The water ceased flowing around here, so I tanked up with four liters, the better to quench my intense thirst. Despite the presence of continuous flowing water for the past two days, the heat left me a bit dehydrated.

The day's heat lingered well into the evening. I played peekaboo with the moon as it flirted with the canyon lip above me. Sleep came easy once again, after another thirteen hours of almost continuous motion.

I hiked the last few miles to my car the next morning, the canyon having transitioned to a dry slot at this point. I bumped into one impassible dryfall, easily bypassed by a faint climber's trail. A couple miles later I hit the dirt road, where I walked a couple miles back to my car.

While the reservoir has certainly marred the character of the lower Escalante, there were still plenty of amazing things to see. Many of them are nameless, poorly-documented, or enigmatic. A little planning, a lot of adaptability, and dropping lake levels made this an unforgettable trip. A weekend well-spent!