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A Day in the Waves: Part 2

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The second half of my big wave kayak adventure on Lake Superior:

The rising seas sent waves crashing into sea caves, mortar rounds of spray flying out from the cliffs.

A large stone archway guarded the entrance to a recess in the cliffs. I watched the waves slam against the sides, thought about what it would be like to rag-doll against the walls. I wouldn’t try to go through this one.

The Manitou River fell from the cliffs in a frothing yellow fury. The upper falls slammed into the side of the canyon, whereupon the onslaught redirected into a second, even more spectacular drop. There was a zone of smooth water in front of the falls, where the river flow was strong enough to beat back the lake, Further, the water boiled. Lake swells rose higher yet as they crashed and exploded into the face of the current. Birch leaves whirled in the agitation, flashing in and out of the darkness like strange fish.

It was an extremely tempting, if terrifying, place to try and surf a kayak.

The way to do it, was to aim for an eddy behind a sunken gravel bar. It was a spot that was slightly smaller than a modest kitchen, where the water was almost completely calm, a demilitarized zone between the warring lake and river.

I struggled to set up a good approach, wrestling with the river continually trying to push me back and the waves breaking at my stern. I half-surfed a couple waves, stopping to avoid getting thrown sideways or pushed down into the river. After a long struggle, I caught a wave that pushed me over the gravel bar and into the calm place.

It was one of the strangest places I have ever sat in a kayak.

Looking straight up, I could see 100-foot walls, curved amphitheater-like above my head. The falls couldn’t have been more than two kayak-lengths aways. And then there were the rollers coming in, crashing through the arch to the left.

I finally had the luxury of giving the view my complete attention, with no worries about the next breaking wave.

After I punched the kayak back through the breakers, Dave and I continued along the cliffs.

Mercifully, the profile of the North Shore has many projecting points, which create shelter zones where there will be calm water.

Fenstad’s Resort had one such protective point. We took a tranquil beach landing.

We were making great time down the shore with the waves pushing us, and even with the gathering seas, neither of us wanted to hurry.

“The point of a journey is not to arrive,” Dave said.

I nodded. The bigger waves? Let them come! Hopefully, they wouldn’t.

A guy with a mirrorless camera walked up to us to chat. There was some couple he’d heard about, who got swept out into the lake by an offshore wind and couldn’t get back. They died of hypothermia. We told him, we were experienced kayakers, guides actually, and that we’d paddled in these kind of conditions before. That seemed good enough for him, and we ended up talking about wildlife sightings in the area.

It turns out that there was a bear cub in a tree nearby, no mom. She had probably been shot by hunters. leaving the little guy to fend for itself this winter. The cub was probably a yearling, the guy thought, not a good prospect for survival.

The bear had been stuffing itself with apples from the resort’s trees, but the guy left it a fish he had caught so the growing youngster could experience some other sections on the food pyramid.

When the three of us went to see the bear, we found it looking down at us from a tall spruce. After more people went to look at him, he climbed higher and to the other side of the trunk. Then and again, he would peep out to look at us.

There were bright red apples hanging off of one tree, greens on another. They were delicious.

Trout swirled about in two streams nearby. The water levels had come down, leaving them trapped in pools.

Dave thought he might snatch one and leave it for the bear cub.. The guide and I watched skeptically as he waded in, but when he started throwing stones in strategic places, he managed to herd them into one place. Dave might have tried to swipe one out of the water, then thought better of it.

The waves kept building, but weren’t quite at the point where we wouldn’t fool around.

We deliberately took on a couple surf spots above the ledges, usually, opting to get near the downwind side of the ledge to make it easier to steer out of there if we encountered something too big to handle.

At one point, I’d thought I’d missed a wave, only to have the lake drop out from under me. Suddenly, I was surfing sideways, paddle jammed in the water. The stabilizing maneuver, known as the high brace, reminds me of 19th century whaling. I jab the paddle blade at the oncoming beast, lean the boat in and stick it. A Melville quote would have been appropriate here.

“From Hell’s heart, I stab at thee!”

This particular breaker took me on a 30-foot sleigh ride before I swung out of the break zone.

At another point, we were kayaking near shore, when a huge wave suddenly reared up next to me.

“I’d hate to be you right now,” Dave called.

But the wave ended up grabbing him too.

We stuck our paddles and rode, until the wave threw us up on a cobble beach. Dave might have been pissed because his fiberglass kayak had just taken a beating, but he laughed.

“That. Was. Awesome!”

The waves kept building.

After another hour on the water, we didn’t fool around much.

Every now and then, a 10-footer would rear up by our kayaks. I would try to angle my boat halfway into them, leaving room to brace and avoid getting flipped over backwards. Most terrifying of all were those monster waves, that broke at the top (but didn’t roll completely over, thank God.) These waves made their own break zones. I found that these half-breakers were technically easier to ride out than the breakers on shore or those that went over a shallow ledge. They just happened to be scarier than hell. If these massive waves started rolling over all the way, I couldn’t imagine how I could stay upright paddling through them.

The northeasterly swells kept me looking over my left shoulder constantly, with little time to appreciate some of the rock formations on shore.

This was a shame because we were going past Tettegouche State Park, home to a massive sea cave near Shovel Point.

I glanced at the formation with some regret. There was no way we would kayak into the cave now with this crazy surf.

Instead, we focused on getting around the cliffs at Shovel Point. Spectators at the rail got to see us taking on the swells and reflector waves.

The waves beyond the point were smaller, if still powerful, giving Dave and I some long-distance surfs.

Then we decided to take a shortcut through a small boulder garden. This turned out to be a mistake for me, when a wave crashed early and threw my boat against a rock. I steered away from the obstacle, only to get thrown up against yet another. I was almost out of danger when a third wave, hit me and flipped the front of my boat on top of a boulder.

Shit.

I tried to flip, back over, but the boulder got in the way of my paddle. Next, I tried pushing off the boulder itself, but I had to take my hand out from the pogies to do this. Just as I was ready to right the kayak, a mother of a wave came and blasted me, ejecting me out of the boat through the spray skirt.

Getting the boat emptied out on the rocks took at least 10 minutes. Submersion in the cold water brought up an urgent need to pee, which I did as discretely as possible (not very discretely) in front of the bystanders watching from the cliffs.

Dave came around and helped me get the last of the water out of the filled-up boat and get me back in. We were determined to get off the lake via the Baptism River, which meant that we would have to surf waves in against the current. The river shot out in an offset angle from between a cobble bar and a rock cliff.

The big-ass waves were crashing everywhere now. I let Dave go into the river first, slowly side-surfing one wave at a time in order to hit the sweet spot. When he got into the slack water, I brought my boat to bear.

The stern lifted on the crest of a huge breaker. As I plunged the paddle in, the wave shot the boat to a wild left and bounced its nose off the  cliff.  I back paddled on the right.

Here came the second breaker.

Again, I stabbed the paddle into my assailant. This time, the shaft snapped.

Of course, the wave pushed me back into the cliff, and I had to shove off with my left arm.

I held both ends of the busted paddle and paddled them like mad for the river mouth. Fighting the current this way gave me just enough momentum to stay ahead of the break zone, but it was like running top speed up a tilted treadmill. I wasn’t going any further forward and eventually, I knew the current would feed the boat back to the carnage.

Dave had already beached his kayak and jumped in the belly-deep current. He grabbed the loop on the nose of my kayak and got me the rest of the way home. Saved my ass.

We threw our kayaks up on the beach, where there was a corridor of rock piles and some inexplicably well-dressed people milling about. Some of them started asking to Dave about our journey. I stumbled into the shelter of some ledges where I could be out of the wind.

It was around this time that I realized that I was dumb to keep flailing at the water with two ends of the broken paddle. If I had just taken one end and paddled with it canoe-style I probably would have gotten enough momentum to go up current and get onto the beach on my own.

Some of the well dressed contingent came over to spread the cheer.

“We saw you almost die,”

“We didn’t almost die,” Dave said.

“Well, can you please move your boats, we’re going to have a ceremony here.”

A wedding!

And if we had come in ten minutes later, well, both of us would have absolutely surfed right into the marriage ceremony. What? You didn’t get the RSVP? Sorry guys, but these boats are coming in.

I can understand why many of those on shore, might have seen this all go down and thought, ‘Wow. What a couple of idiots to be out in that.’ Maybe some readers feel that way.

I do take issue with people who make rote judgements of how dangerous/safe, something I am doing is is based on a cursory, emotional assessment.

I’ve had people approach me after I get off the water with this automatically superior attitude. They don’t necessarily say, “You’re dumb.” Usually, they relate some passive-aggressive story about somebody who died. Not that it matters that the other guy had no life jacket, no wetsuit and several drinks in the tank. Never mind that I practice kayak rescues, practice rolling, practice bracing and practice in big waves. I constantly ask myself if I am allowing my enthusiasm to cloud judgement.

I’ve also been that guy on the beach. I’ve told a group in a canoe that the waves were going to be much bigger when they got around the point and tried to discourage them from going out on the 40-degree waters in jeans and cotton shirts.

Still, these others, just by knowing that someone has died on the lake, have gained this incredible perspective that I must lack. Thank you, Concerned Bystander, for your considered opinion.

While I don’t always make great decisions, I do resent others lumping me with the yahoos who have no idea what they are doing.

Dave and I used some judgement when we looked back out at the lake and saw mostly big breakers going out to Palisade Head. We had four miles of lake to cover to get back to my car. Could we make it? I thought we could do it if we had to.

But maybe we shouldn’t. Constant bracing had taken a toll on Dave’s back. I was feeling tightness as well. The lake showed every indication that the waves would continue to build.

Dave took out a cell phone and called a friend to pick us up. We hauled the boats up the long steps away from the lake.

The waves stayed rolling in my head for two nights in a row. I felt that I was moving with the swells, bracing into waves, surfing them. Some kind of unconscious learning was happening. Surely, the neurons were making new connections, preparing me for the next trip on the big water.

Here was the trip I will remember years from now: two kayaks, beneath the cliffs, through the waves, staying up.

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A Day In The Waves: Part 1

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Lake Superior’s waves crash against the rocks in a red sunrise at Black Beach, near Silver Bay, Minnesota

Here was the red sky that we’d been warned about: a hot band of mango orange coalescing above the dark waves.

It was just past 6 a.m. and Dave and I were at Black Beach loading kayaks onto his truck for the 23 mile drive up the Superior shore to Taconite Harbor. That would the launch spot. Black Beach was, hopefully, the end of our expedition. I walked down to where the waves rattled the cobbles. Amber beads of spray caught the wind, shone briefly in the evil light.

I ran back to the truck.

“Sorry, I just had to grab some pictures.”

“It’s a beautiful sunrise,” Dave said, “You got everything?”

I went back to my car and double checked. Most of the stuff I would take on the drive to Connecticut was already loaded in there. My kayak guiding season was over, and it was it was time to pay a visit back east.

“I think I’m ready,” I said.

I got in the passenger seat and we rolled out on the gravel.

When I called Dave the night before, I got his voicemail.

“Either I’m kayaking or I’m kayaking,” the message declared. That sounded about right.

Dave, who cuts a wiry figure with a stern face offset by a silver goatee, has been in his paddling drysuit most times I’ve seen him. He goes out on the lake almost every month of the year, stopping only for when the ice gets makes paddling physically impossible.

He’ll be out there with a Greenland paddle in his hands, the traditional paddle of an arctic seal hunter. Such is his enthusiasm for the Greenland paddle that he has a “Rolling With Sticks” sticker on the side of his truck. which shows a stick figure executing an Eskimo roll with a Greenland paddle.

Dave told me he knows how to do 30 different rolls in his kayak, though I’ve never had the chance to watch this.

In fact, we hadn’t done a trip together yet. With me kayak guiding for a resort, and him at the nearby outfitters, most of our water time has been with customers.

Needless to say, neither of us get to take customers out for 20-plus miles in Small Craft Advisory conditions.

This was the kind of trip we hungered for as we wrapped up guided tours for the year. This was the Guide Tour.

We wanted to need our best technical skills, lake smarts and physical strength. We wanted to end the day beaten up — not from hauling boats or loading trailers — but from testing the actual, whoop-ass fury of the world’s largest lake.

Along the way, we were going to paddle a new section of lake for both of us, stretching past Sugarloaf Cove and out to the falls on the Manitou River. The Manitou is the only major North Shore waterfall that drops straight into the lake.  No convenient overlook and interpretive center parking lot here. Tall cliffs and private property keep this gem out of sight from the road. You have to paddle there.

Later, we planned to go past the sea caves at Tettegouche State Park, and then around the 200-foot cliffs of Palisade Head, which has its own tunnels.

I wondered how well I would handle playing in the big waves all day, also how I would stack up to Dave’s expertise. I hoped to show the kayak vet that I knew a few things too.

Orange light marched down the nearby trees and cliffs as the sun peaked above Gull Island at Taconite Harbor. Gull Island and its companion, Bear Island are linked by a long line of quarried stone, which creates a bulwark against the Superior’s waves. Further protection comes from a smaller ring of stones that creates an inner harbor around the small boat launch.

We put the boats down on the concrete and did a last gear check.

Crap! Where were my paddling gloves? Dave lent me some neoprene pogies — a type of glove that attaches to the paddle and you put your hands into.

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Dave in his drysuit, prepping for launch.

There were no ships in the harbor (there rarely are these days, now that most of the Taconite ore used to make iron goes out of Silver Bay.) Once upon a time, I stopped a tour near Gull Island to avoid crossing paths with the James R. Barker.  The Barker had just dropped off a coal shipment at the nearby power station.

The boat is over 800 feet long, and at least as tall as an eight-story building. It lurched, Leviathan-like out in front of our tiny kayak pod, trailing a brown line of haze from its enormous stacks.

Once upon another time, someone asked me just how much coal was onboard a moored barge. I paused in an attempt to calculate the size of the black mountains that pop up near the plant after every new delivery.

“That would be approximately one shit-ton,” I said.

Today’s wind gusts had whipped the outer harbor up with sharp little whitecaps.

The big swells came in from the northeast, cutting past Gull Island at an angle, and crashing into cliffs. Seen at a distance, these waves were slow, blue forms, squiggles on the pink horizon. Each paddle stroke brought us closer to them. Soon we began to feel the lake’s power.

Dave’s kayak appeared and disappeared beneath him between water ridges. As the waves built later in the day, Dave himself would flash in and out from sight as the walls of water crossed my vision.

We grinned wildly at each other. This was the ride we’d waited for all season.

Waves shattered up against 100-foot rock cliffs, broadcasting plumes of spray that dazzled in the orange light. The rhythm of the waves against the boats was offset by the counter-rhythm from the reflector waves bouncing back at us from the walls. Sometimes, one of the reflector waves would smack right up against one of the oncoming rollers and they would pop —their splashes flying into the air.

This dynamic environment required constant vigilance to keep the boat upright and going where it should. Body and mind had to mold to the movement of the water with fast micro-adjustments in the hips and with the paddle. I enjoy the trance-like concentration this demands. I would still feel myself bucking and rolling when I got off the water, would be going up and down the waves when I went to sleep that night.

A golden eagle (or was it an immature bald?) looked down at us from over the cliffs. We would see several eagles along the trip, more than I had seen throughout the summer.

A 20-foot rock nob jutted out from the shoreline in front of our kayaks. It was the point at Sugarloaf Cove, a beautiful piece of parkland where I had led hikes earlier in the year. I was finally able to get a look at a sea cave that I’d often wondered about, though I could never see it clearly from the land. I maneuvered through the reflector waves to beneath the lip of rock where I could see an alcove, maybe 10-feet deep beneath the overlook. I wonder how many hikers stand up there, with no idea of the enormous opening beneath their feet.

Near the alcove, there was a cool rock feature on the cliffs that sent up tall whirlwinds of mist as the waves crashed past. The water made a “shush!” like a mighty exhale.

A nearby mini cave in the rock would take a wave and fire off spray with the thud of a cannon, sending spray out 20 feet into the lake. It looked like a dragon fire.

In fact there was a kind of explosion happening. As an oncoming wave slammed into the air inside the rock hollow, it compressed it, causing the air  to blow out at high pressure, blasting shreds of wave with it.

Another natural phenomenon to look for was the surf spot. The Lake Superior North Shore is chock full of underwater ledges that create shallows. A big wave rises up and curl over, as it marches past. These make for fun/dangerous spots for kayakers depending on the size of the waves and the kayaker’s experience.

I look for these surf spots for fun on most days, seeking to ride a good-sized wave in my kayak. Now, these waves were massive, and curling in much deeper water. It didn’t seem like I was looking for surf spots. They were looking for me.

Whale-sized waves crashed on the ledges around Sugarloaf Cove. Dave and I gave them wide berth. The water on the other side of the point was less intense but there were smaller, breaking waves, that carried us long-distance over the shallows near shore.

This was the first place on the trip where I got rocked.

In the semi-shelter of the point, Dave and I had let our guard down enough to swap stories of our adventures kayaking the Temperance River, including Dave’s trip down an upper section I hadn’t tried yet.

“Is that really crazy?” I asked.

“No it’s not too bad, but you definitely need to stay on your toes.”

“Hey, speaking of which…”

The wave was stacked up about six feet high, approaching from our left and getting ready to break. As it curled over, we jammed our paddles into its side so that we could lean into it and brace against.

We were immediately sideways surfing a frothy stampede of water. Though my kayak wobbled in the melee, it stayed upright. And I got a massive charge.

Unfortunately, the wave had also pushed us closer to the rocks, and in a bad place for the next wave. Dave, who was slightly further out, managed to paddle out through it while it crashed over. Not an option for me. I tried to set a decent brace, but  before I got there, the wave knocked my boat over like a bath toy. Submerged in the cold water, my immediate thought was, ‘Don’t let Dave see you screw up this roll.”

I fought my blade to the surface and swept it over the water. I got high enough out of the waves to take a breath, but the roll was sloppy and I went back under.

On my second attempt, I took my time getting things right under water (even as I started to feel pressure building in my head) and swept the blade again, flicking my hips and rolling my body to the surface.

I pointed the nose of my boat into the waves and paddled hard, slicing through the next wave of breakers.

Dave congratulated me. Sure, flipping the boat over was a bit of a noob move, but the roll redeemed it. If only everything in life were that simple.

Our course took us past the canyon of the Caribou River and to a sheltered cobble beach where we took a break to eat and go agate hunting. A rough day on Lake Superior is always good for searching out these little geological wonders because it brings a fresh crop onto shore. You know the other rock hounds haven’t been over it. I’m not much of an agate picker. My best find, was a pea-sized pebble, which did have some cool alternating red and white mineral stripes. Dave, who sells agates for a side income, snapped up several, beauties the size of golf-balls.

We were making great progress down the lake, and neither of us wanted to rush the day. Nonetheless, even in the half hour that we spent out of our boats, the number of whitecaps on the lake were building.

Dave turned on his weather radio, which announced that there were 4 to 6-foot waves (Wait, I thought they were supposed to be 3 to 5-footers!) which would build to 5 to 7 footers by evening. Of course, all bets were off when it came to underwater ledges and random mutant waves that rose much higher than their brethren. The Weather Service had issued a Small Craft Advisory for the North Shore, which we already knew about.

“The Small Craft Advisory advises me to go kayaking,” Dave said.

Not far off the beach, we could see an indentation in the cliffs up ahead. This, we guessed, was where the Manitou River dropped into Lake Superior. Soon we could see brown river water that swirled with yellow leaves and flowed out into the blue swells. Could we get up to the falls without getting thrashed?

 

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Getting Rocked

I’m back out on the steely gray waves, looking to do some surfing in my whitewater kayak.

Dark clouds roll over Lake Superior, threatening more storm winds, or that the light drizzle falling now could become a downpour. The Weather Service has issued a small craft advisory.

I slop my way over four-foot rollers, staying well away from the rocky coast where the swells release their energy in detonations of foam and spray.

The buildings near my launch beach get smaller as I paddle away and become a part of the undulating waterscape.

My goal is a certain submerged ledge, about a third of a mile away. Even at a distance, I can see how the waves build on top of it, changing from round to angular, gaining height and breaking over themselves. The waves above the ledge behave similarly to the way that they would if they were coming into a beach, but because the ledge drops back into deeper water nearby, I will theoretically be able to cruise out of the break zone before the waves finish their kamikaze-run onto a nearby rock shelf.

I approach the feature with caution, observing from a distance where the waves start to break, looking from a couple of different angles. One of my favorite views of surf is from out on the water looking toward shore. The water climbs, loses its balance, falls over itself. Taut lines crease the water’s surface like cables trying to hold up the behemoth, but to no avail. It gives up its ghost in a beautiful spray of bubbles shooting upward through the water as the wave collapses.

It’s all to easy to be mesmerized and drift too close, inadvertently taking  a part in the drama, when the next act starts building up from behind.

My precautions include the whitewater helmet on my head. There is also a bilge pump and paddle float inside the boat, which would be my best hope of getting back in the kayak should I flop over far off land.

When I am finally confident in my survey, I get in front of the underwater ledge and look behind me for a good wave.

The key is to match the momentum of  the oncoming swell at the moment that it starts to lift the rear of the kayak. I paddle hard for one wave, but it’s moving faster than me, lifts my boat and trucks on past. That’s OK, because I got a momentum boost, which sets me up perfectly to catch the next wave.

The rear of the boat rises up; I ride down its slope like I’m a kid on a sled. The wave is curling over behind me, dropping the kayak nose toward the abyss. I lean back to counteract, paddle like hell to get out of there before everything breaks on top of me.

KAH-WHAM!

The wave explodes and the kayak flies forward on a carpet of churning foam. The rock outcrop looms in front of me, but I’m already oriented well to the right of it.

I lean on the right side and let the edges of the kayak help me carve away from danger. As soon as I’m spun around, I’m climbing on top of swells. I’m away from the ledge now and the waves aren’t breaking, thank God. It was a nice run. I wonder if I can do better.

I get back in front of the ledge, scan the waters for a new monster.

Big waves often come in successions. If there is one big wave, chances are another one is right behind it. I start paddling to catch the first wave in one of these chains, almost nab it, but not quite. I see the bubbly streamers go up beneath the kayak’s nose as the kayak tilt’s back in the wave’s trough. Better luck next time, old chum.

 I look behind me to see who’s next. It’s the first wave’s big brother, riding high and already pitching forward at a steep angle. It is not good that I have lost speed.

“Shit.”

I paddle forward hard as the rear of the boat tilts upward. There is immediate, awesome acceleration. If I can get in front of this, it could be my best ride yet. The boat is plunging down, 70 degrees, 80 degrees, 90 degrees — the Uh Oh Moment.

The world goes turquoise as the back of my kayak flips over like a falling domino. Water and bubbles are rushing past my ears. I’m still shooting forward, still surfing the wave, but upside down now.

I make a desperate attempt to set up an Eskimo roll, realize that a paddle blade is missing. I flip the paddle around and try again, but am too disoriented and uncoordinated to roll worth a damn. The spray skirt is already coming off the cockpit.

Finally, I give up and pop out from the boat. I curse the paddle, a take-apart, which I’d dropped  $130 on last month. While it has been convenient being able to separate the paddle in two pieces for transportation, the paddle has not been so hot at staying together — a rather important task.

Bobbing in the freezing water, I take stock of where I am in relation to the breakers. Fortunately, I am slightly outside the break-zone so I can bob up and down on the waves rather than getting thrashed inside them. I scan the water for the other half of my paddle, then I realize that the paddle didn’t come apart, it broke. The paddle end was snapped right off.

Once I get the kayak flipped over, it is completely filled with water, above the waterline only thanks to the air bladders within it. I reach to undo the bilge pump from its tether, decide it would be faster to kick the boat into shore and empty it there. My limbs are already getting cold. I kick hard with my legs to move myself and the hundreds of pounds of boat through the water, while I use my free hand to work the paddle. The confusion of waves makes it hard to gauge what, if any progress I’m making. I find myself dipping my head below the water for one wave that threatens to curl over, then I go back to thrashing and kicking.

At last, I feel the stony lake bottom beneath my feet so I can walk the boat the rest of the way toward shore, tilting water out of it as I go.

I had really gotten rocked, I think, laughing at how thoroughly the wave had overcome my feeble attempts to stay upright. Oopsy-daisy!, And there goes the tiny boat with me inside, ass over teakettle.

I empty the rest of the water out, scanning the water for the missing paddle blade. No sign. I walk out onto the overhang where the waves are breaking and look upon at the frothing carnage breaking against shore.

I smile, thinking of how I was completely owned, dominated, wrecked, rocked, by that wave. I don’t know why it should be so amusing, but it is. This could partly be a perversion of the fear response.

Then again, there is always something funny about the little guy making a stand and getting crushed. It reaffirms the cynic in us who never really believed the David and Goliath story, who got tired of everyone telling us to take risks — as if they weren’t speaking from inside protective bubbles of security and wealth.

Why were those “Messin’ With Sasquatch,” ads that came out a couple years back so satisfying? Because it’s fun to see some cocky little twerp try to strut and then get shut down, by Big Foot, no less.. One of my favorite scenes from Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life” shows a group of gangly schoolboys pitted in a rugby match against full-sized men. The bigger team crushes the little guys mercilessly and with obvious pleasure. Then one of the boys escapes the scrum and almost makes the end zone, only to be tripped by one of his sadistic teachers from the sideline. The student looks up from the mud with understanding on his face: Now I see how the world works.

We get such a vicarious thrill for watching larger forces take down resistance that our language is rich with words that communicate dominance. I’ve already used several of them. Now think of how many ways I can say my team won the game.

“We owned them!”

“Smashed them.”

“Stomped them down.”

“Kicked their asses.”

“Slammed them.”

“We made them our bitch.”

“Dominated them.”

… and etc.

Such words are infectious because they affirm a sense of invincibility. People use them in mundane situations, sometimes for the laugh, sometimes because histrionics can be a more or less reflexive way of speaking, especially when you want attention.

“I seriously owned those dishes in the sink.”

“This veggie casserole curb stomps all other casseroles.”

Casual violence adds panache to otherwise dull language. Overused, it risks boorishness or arrogance, the equivalent of having a conversation scripted for WWE.

That said, there is still something pretty funny about hearing it from the guy who got hit (I mean, provided it isn’t your best friend  who just landed in a wheelchair.)

Knowing the story’s inevitable outcome by the time you’ve told us about your ski getting caught on a lump of snow only builds the anticipation. We’ve been there ourselves and we’re getting owned right with you.

Can a graphic account of someone being taken down by existential despair, weight-gain, aging, and an all-conquering cynicism about life be funny? Just listen a comedian like Louis C.K.. I laugh so hard that sometimes I can’t breathe.

Can I laugh at myself after the Sasquatch of waves flips my boat over like some cheap toy? Yes. And I’d laugh if it happened to you.

I get back in the boat and shove it off, using a pry stroke so that I can paddle on one side but keep the boat on a straight course. Having only one end of the paddle makes me more vulnerable out there because I can only play defense on one side at a time. I still make it back to the launch beach, OK, where I surf a medium-sized wave back onto the gravel.

Having come out of the ringer more or less unscathed but  down a paddle, I can think about ways I can be better prepared next time. My next paddle will be more expensive and more durable. I’ll have a paddle float clipped to my life vest so that I can use it to quickly get myself back inside the boat and the bilge pump will be in a place where I can grab it instantly. I will add a tow line to my gear so I can swim to shore first without having to tow the kayak with me. I will practice my roll more, so that I can right myself even in trying circumstances and I’ll be extra vigilant in break zones.

When the next killer wave comes, things might go differently. I might ride it expertly, effortlessly, flying down the carnage like an epic, avenging angel. But even then, the universe will own the facts, the enduring truth that I can never change:

That wave made me its bitch.

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Walking on Ice

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Waves carved this small cave into the ice alongside Lake Superior.

 

It’s important to stand in the right place, get the angle right.

Come over here and look this way, out over the miles of ice that stretch clear to the horizon. If you’re patient, you might see one of the snow devils, 15-feet high whirlwinds, silent and barely discernable against the clouds. It’s the closest thing to life that you’ll see out there — at least through squinting, sun-tormented eyes.

In the foreground, see how the wind has smashed the ice into itself, forming curious piles that flash iridescent blue from within. It’s beautiful, but reminds us of the treacherous nature of our location. Even now, we hear the occasional grinding of ice against ice and the loud “chunk” sound beneath our feet. Perhaps we shouldn’t stand here.

This ice has only been around for a few days. Before that, it was open water. Before it was open water, it was a field of ice much like the one we are standing on. The winds came out from the north and blew that ice over the horizon in one night. The open water looked deep blue and innocent, as if it had always been that way.

Turning back toward the mainland, a very different world comes into view. Now we see the rental units at the resort, where guests can take the in the drama of the Lake Superior ice from a cozy armchair, maybe a Jacuzzi.

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LeAnn explores another ice cave

OK, so were not in Greenland. We won’t be sleeping in an igloo tonight. I’m thinking about renting a movie before we go back to my apartment with its hot running water and heated floor. I’m grateful for the conveniences at my back, but also glad that I can make them disappear if I look in the right direction.

The biggest ice walls are at least 12 feet high. They were born several weeks back when six-foot waves crashed up against a thin ice layer along the shore. The bay looked like a churning field of broken glass. When all those shattered pieces smashed up against the beach, the waves bulldozed them into massive piles. The freezing spray welded it all together and added more height to the already impressive heaps.

If we climb over those heaps to the other side, we can really make the shoreline disappear. Plus, there might be some cool caves and alcoves worth exploring. We should take these ice axes, firstly because ice axes are badass, but also because we can use them to tap the ice in front of us and see if anything is suspect. If one of us did fall through, an axe could be a useful self-rescue tool. Hopefully, this will not be necessary. I hope I’m not being an idiot.

I do want us to use the axes, but mainly to see if we can climb up a formation I call “The Blowhole.” When the waves were crashing in a couple weeks ago, spray had erupted through this opening in the ice like a miniature Old Faithful geyser. Now that the waves are gone, I’d like a shot at going up myself.

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The frozen Lake Superior as seen from another ice cave. A few days later, all of the flat ice would be open water again.

Before we get to the climb, however, there’s plenty of other cool stuff to check out, including all these caves. Right next to the dock I’d kayaked under in the summer (it’s completely caked in ice now) there is a small cavern barely tall enough to crawl through and even then I don’t go far because I don’t want to bring all the icicles on top of my head. What is really striking is the sapphire glow from within the ice. It reminds me of photographs of containment pools for depleted nuclear rods.

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In the ice cathedral

You whoop at the wild isolation of our locale. I’m glad you’re so adventurous and that you take so much joy in this simple outing. You climb up into alcoves for me to take pictures, taste the murderous-looking icicles above our heads.

Climbing up the blowhole won’t be so difficult, I realize, when I see it from the bottom. It starts as a gentle slope, and the fact that I will be ascending in a cylinder offers numerous holds for both axe tips and the crampon points. Nonetheless, I strap my crampons on and take both ice axes. It only takes me a few seconds to wriggle up and flop out onto the bright ice.

I come back around so that you can try it yourself. You elect to skip the crampons, and clamber up, no problem. Fine. I’ll skip the axes and climb out of there with crampons alone. I manage, though it takes some awkward footwork.

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Climbing the blowhole

We spend another twenty minutes exploring the network of caves and alcoves. I try another climb above an overhang. It gets tough when I have no ice to sink my crampons into, and eventually I reach out and grab a knob of ice to pull myself up the last stretch. Eventually, we leave to drive to another point along the shore, which supposedly has some other impressive formations.

Indeed, when we arrive, there are several piles that look like shattered plate glass. Most are about six-inches thick and anywhere from a foot to seven feet long. It is possible to pick one up and look right through it like a window — or marvel at the tiny trails of bubbles in suspended animation.

You talk about building a fantastic see-through igloo. I’d be tempted to try if my feet weren’t so cold. There’s so much more to explore and do, but right now I’m getting cold as all hell.

We walk out to the far point, which is a defiant stone bulwark jutting out against the lake. The waves have absolutely pummeled this rock. It is about 25-teet tall and utterly draped with ice. 19th century traders traveling along the shore called this the “Sugarloaf” because the rock resembled one of the old sacks of sugar that they would have shipped up the coast. The white ice glaze certainly goes well with this name. Of course we have to climb it.

I’m too cold to put crampons on, so we go around to the easier sloping side. My jaw and other muscles are clenched tight against the cold. You seem to be doing just fine. It figures. You were raised near this latitude.

The wind howls from the other side of the stone. I make the first ascent, semi-clumsy with cold and eager to get back to the car before that tingling in my feet becomes frostbite. The wind smacks me head-on at the top, rips away at what little warmth I have left.

I beat a fast retreat, allowing myself to butt-slide on some of the gentler sections of ice. I hop from foot to foot as you make your own climb.

Perspective is everything again. From down here, the barren stone outcrop looks like it could be some oxygen-starved peak above the Tibetan highlands. It is easy to imagine the month-long trek, the thousands of feet of elevation gain, lost toes and fluid in the lungs — all for the chance to stand on some godforsaken rock. I say that as someone who loves to climb thousands of feet to stand on godforsaken rocks. It was one of the things that I worried about when I moved to Minnesota, with its shrimpy mountains. But latitude has a way of making up for altitude. Here, we can have our rock within a 25-foot climb. The miles of tortured ice are a bonus. Also, I have someone to enjoy it with.

You reach the summit; raise the axes in a war whoop. It might as well be the top of the world.

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LeAnn takes on the Sugarloaf
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Last Ice

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Portrait of the author from his alcove

The kayak bobbed up and down on rolling three-foot swells as I paddled along the basalt cliffs of Lake Superior.

It was almost 9 p.m. but at the end of June on the North Shore, that still left me at least a good hour of decent light before the darkness. The ostentatious lake homes to my right gave way to depopulated state forest, where raggedy birch and aspen flashed the underside of their leaves in the offshore wind.

Then I found my cool place. It’s a break in the cliffs where the millennia of pounding surf have blasted out an alcove. There’s a rock shelf, leading up to a living room-sized space, where a visitor can stand underneath an overhang, protected from any rainfall, wrapped up in the shadow of the stone.

I paddled closer.

Waves flew in at the rock and exploded up like fireworks. Water piled up on the shelf and then flowed backwards, creating a small outward current above the waves’ up-down motion.

Even bobbing in the surf, I could still make out the telltale patch of white in the alcove’s gloom. There was ice here.

Ice! And it was almost Independence Day.

The frigid legacy of the 2013-14 winter still lingered where the ledges protected it from the sun. Maybe 20 pounds of the stuff was left now, and it was vanishing drip by drip into the lake, which had pushed it up here.

Only a few months before, Superior had been completely frozen, all 32,000 thousand square miles of it. It was the first time this had happened since 1979.

I had to get out for a closer look.

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I approached the rocks with the caution of someone coming up on a dangerous animal. I would need to get up on shore right behind a wave and get out quickly before the next one crashed over me.

I popped my spray skirt off at 10 feet away; then got my feet out of the cock pit, while my butt was still in the seat, ready to swing out of the boat with acrobatic ease. Of course, nothing works as prettily as it’s supposed to.

I landed in waist deep water on an algae-slick stone slope. I almost fell over right there, but managed to steady myself against the boat — just in time for the next wave to slam it against my hips. Using a set of ballerina steps, I managed to mince my way up the rock while keeping the boat perpendicular to the waves. I finally heaved it onto the rock in front of me and dragged myself up after it.

The waves were still grabbing up the boat several feet up the ledge, so I ended up pulling it even further, before I decided it was safe to let go.

 

The alcove is hardly the grandest place around, not even on Lake Superior, which boasts massive sea-caves around the Apostle Islands and Tettegouche State Park. Still I was pleased to walk past the curtain of drips from above into the darker recesses. There, I could look back over the miles of water to the horizon line. The silhouetted rock framed this beautifully.

The waves had wrought a pillar out of one section of the wall, which was a nice architectural flourish. Then there was the ice. It was mostly white, though there were some transparent parts along the edges. I photographed it next to a kayak paddle to remember it. Soon it would be gone, and this made me sad.

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Some of the last ice left on Lake Superior, June 30

 

I was proud too. No one I’d talked to about the lakeshore had mentioned this little alcove. I’m sure I was the only one who knew that there was still ice here. The place was easy enough to overlook from a motorboat skipping along the waves at high speed.

As for accessing it from land, it would be difficult, dangerous work to try to descend the walls.

I found it. Maybe this could be my place.

No, I hadn’t carved the rock, or kept the ice sequestered there, but I still felt a strange sense of ownership. The feeling is familiar to anyone who “discovers” a dive bar, a band or maybe a continent and feels like he deserves some credit for appreciating it before his friends do.

Of course, I needed to bring said friends along so that they could appreciate it too. The problem is that then, the place is no longer undiscovered, it is no longer has the quality of being unique and unknown. Imagine John Wesley Powell revisiting the Grand Canyon to find tour buses and T-shirt vendors lining the south rim.

 

I wish I could say I was strong enough to be an exception to this trend. I’ve been guiding customers on kayak trips along the shoreline. Could I really keep this under my hat? Already, I thought about how cool it would be to show the people in my group the last ice on Lake Superior.

Sure enough, as soon as I got back to my apartment, one of my housemates asked what I’d been up to and I told him about the ice I’d found. I couldn’t resist showing photos of the alcove to the other guides, who — unlike me — had not discovered it yet.

I wondered if I’d keep my mouth shut for the next guided tour. When I found that I was with a stronger group and we still had plenty of time left at the turn-around point, I asked if anyone was interested in going to an interesting formation a bit further down the shoreline.

I pointed to the remaining ice in the alcove and got murmurs of appreciation mixed with wonder from the visitors. It was July 1 now and the ice wasn’t going to last much longer.

Satisfying as it was to see others enjoy the ice, I knew that it was just another part of the package for them. Rambling across it myself made me feel like I’d owned a part of it, though now the guests had a claim on it as well.

Well, sharing can be a virtue also, I suppose.

In any case, not many more got to say they saw the ice. The last of it melted off during the first hot days that rolled in ahead of the Fourth of July.

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Looking out at the kayak from the back of the alcove
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A Marathon in Fog

Other people who have run Grandma’s Marathon told me that the worst part about the race is that you can basically see where the race ends from 10 miles out.

The finish line is right next to Duluth, Minnesota’s classic lift bridge, a hulking steel behemoth that is easy to spot approaching town from the northeast on Lake Superior. Many runners see the bridge and it’s like the horse smelling the barn, so I’m told. They pick up the pace; it’s way too soon; and they pay for it over the last miles.

Other runners see the enormous bridge as a tiny blip in the distance and realize that they still have a loooong waaaaaay to go. This brutal fact seeps like poison into their brains, as sure as lactic acid will seep into their struggling muscles.

There would be a reprieve today however. The lakeshore was swallowed up in a soggy blanket of 45-degree fog. I wouldn’t see the bridge until I was downtown, chugging through the last example.

The lift bridge may sound like a silly thing to worry about, but the runners’ stories made sense to me. I know that the mind can go on weird loops when it’s under severe stress in a repetitive activity like marathon running. For me, this often takes the form of a question: “what if I dropped out now?” which I ask myself every quarter-mile or so. Doubt amplifies this.

What doubts would I have?

For starters, I knew there would be virtually no chance that I would set a personal record on the course. I simply hadn’t done the 80+-mile weeks and the speed work that had set me up for my 2:38:19 finish in Boston back in April. My longest run had been 18 miles, and I had felt pretty dead-legged at the end. I had deliberately avoided the marathon book and logging my miles because I figured that if I compared my last effort with this one, I would have lost all motivation. I hoped that I would finish in the 2:40s, that I wouldn’t bonk mid-race, or realize that I should have ditched running for the last couple of months and done something better with my time.

 

I think back to the oft-quoted line from 5K wunderkind/tragic figure Steve Prefontaine: “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift” — no doubt, inspiring words to the five-year old sewing them onto a T-shirt in a Bangladeshi sweatshop. Cynicism aside, I’m sure Pre was sincere about what he said. The sonofabitch showed it when he hit the track.

Pre’s immortal quote didn’t sit well with my actual Grandma’s Marathon training plan, which was to do what I wanted after Boston and then work out semi-diligently in the weeks leading up to the race without trampling over other life-commitments.

For starters, I had my adventures in Utah to take care of. After that, I drove north to Minnesota where I started work as a kayak guide on Lake Superior’s north shore. The job certainly doesn’t make it impossible to run, but sometimes, after a day of hauling boats and giving instructions, it can be nice to save some time for cooking a good dinner or catching up with reading – not lacing up for another 12-mile run with a 6-mile pick-up.

 

When I did run, I felt a stiffness and sluggishness no doubt left over from Boston training. The soles of my feet ached when I went downhill. Some days still felt strong, but there were fewer of these days than there had been earlier in the year when I was hungry for a Boston PR.

If I wasn’t going to put the same time and effort in that I had reserved for earlier races, maybe I would have been better served spending more time kayaking, hiking or writing. And yet, I still believe that running doesn’t have to be the center of one’s life in order for it to have value. I was interested to see how I incorporated a less demanding running regimen into my daily schedule.

I found myself taking time to enjoy some trails and to stop once or twice to admire views of waterfalls around Lake Superior, or the lake itself. I wondered if I should let Boston be my fastest marathon and move on to other life goals.

 

 

The start line was the usual horde of people in bright synthetic clothes, cloaked in garbage bags for warmth. The chill gray sky and drifting fog reminded me of so many autumn cross-country meets, so did the mud. Enormous speakers blatted out “Eye of The Tiger” and the “Rocky” theme, while runners spread plastic bags out on the sodden grass so there would be somewhere dry to sit.

At least half of the racers were lined up at the portable toilets at a given time. I went through one line, but relegated myself to the woods for subsequent trips. Yeah, it wasn’t what the race planners wanted. Maybe they should have rented some more fuckin’ toilets.

The race started with an airhorn. I took a shuffling start amidst the other runners. Since the race start was self-seeding, people were supposed to follow the honor system and line themselves up at the start according to what they thought they would run. Me, I put myself just in front of the 2:50 mark. Not everyone had been so honest, I thought as I weaved through the shufflers.

My first mile was 6:40. Conservative. I was pretty sure I could hold a faster pace on the way to the finish and started turning my feet over faster.

Over the next miles, I started drifting up through the ranks. I felt the first edge of fatigue come on around eight miles in. No doubt, that would hurt plenty by the time I got to 20 miles.

At least I didn’t have any hills to worry about. Grandma’s is mostly flat, with the only the gentlest of undulations as the course follows the shoreline. Race veterans (the same ones who warned about the lift-bridge) told me to look out for Lemon Drop Hill at around Mile 20. I drove over it the day before, and barely noticed the rise.

A slight tailwind nudged me along the course.

I waited for the death twinge in my muscles or a massive bonk to come down on my shoulders and crash my good times, but felt pretty with it. A few groups of runners passed me, but by the time I was 15 miles in, I was gaining more places than I was losing. I chugged a couple cups of Powerade so I’d be able to dodge the wall.

By 19 miles, I had to make a stop to void my holdings at a porta john.

I dropped a couple dozen places while I was busy, but got most of them back in the next miles.

Somewhere along the sidelines I heard a burst of radio and heard the words “course record,” but couldn’t put them into context.

I took on the much-feared Lemon Drop Hill without much pain and agony. The course wound into downtown Duluth, packed with screaming spectators.

I got a lot of “You can do it man!” and “Stick with it!” cheers, a sure sign that I looked like hell.

Well that was fine. I had more in the tank. I turned my legs over faster, letting myself scowl and grunt. At a certain point, I was sure my stride would buckle if I picked it up any more. That was probably the point where some real marathon training would have made the difference.

A sudden stitch poked into my side. I scowled as I fought to draw wind through the abdominal pain.

The course veered off Main Street around Mile 25 right next to a heavy metal band rocking into a brutal “Eye of The Tiger” riff. I gave them the metal sign and the beastliest scowl I could muster.

The last mile took me up an overpass, along the Lake Superior piers and down a final stretch past a phalanx of spectators. I threw down the best sprint I had left and finished in 2:45:10 for 130th place out of 6211 racers.

It was my sixth marathon, and third best time.

The winner? Dominic Ondoro of Kenya.

He not only won the race, but also set a new course record, beating out Dick Beardsly’s 1981 record by 31 seconds with a 2:09:06 finish.

I got in front of the top master’s female finisher, Valentyna Poltavska, 42, from NYC, on the final stretch. Right behind her, the top grandmaster, 64-year-old Tim Freeman of Port Angeles Washington brought it in for a time of 2:45:57. I only managed to catch up to him in the last mile. 18-year-old Jacob Young took the top of the minors’ division in 2:46:05.

I’d name the people who finished in front of me but memory escapes me now.

I got the ribbon around my neck, the space blanket and anesthetizing pint of beer.

Yeah, no P.R. but I still look back on the last miles with a kind of relish. I don’t often push myself that hard.

I’m not going to do another marathon any time soon. I’m going to spend some time messing around with other stuff. But I know damn well that after a couple of months of not training for anything, I’m going to get the itch again, and find myself right back on the start line somewhere.