There have been times in my life when I have felt myself to be woefully unprepared. Isle Royale was one such time. I was eighteen, my older sister Dora twenty-three, my younger sister Kathy sixteen, when we embarked.
“Explore a rugged, isolated island where wolves and moose abound, far from the sights and sounds of civilization,” says the website of Isle Royale National Park. “Surrounded by Lake Superior, Isle Royale offers unparalleled solitude and adventures…Here, amid stunning scenic beauty, you’ll find opportunities for reflection and discovery, and make memories that last a lifetime.”
Hmmm.
Isolated. If that means no nearby Wal-Mart at which to buy basic necessities such as food, check.
Unparalleled adventures. If that is referring to the adventure of shivering all night in a pop up tent on a hard wooden floor, with no pillows or blankets to speak of, check.
Memories that last a lifetime, definite check.
We wanted to see a moose. I won’t say that this desire decided us upon our Isle Royale destination, but it did cause a definite push in that direction. That and the ferry ride. There is nothing so beguiling as leaning over the edge of a boat, wind whipping your face, and watching the land recede in a white wash of water.
And our captain was picturesque, which added to our sense of adventure. He had a white beard and wore a cap, just like a sea captain should.
A man with a narrow face and straight brown hair that grew to his shoulders struck up a conversation with us. He asked us if we were Mennonites and if we knew some Mennonite that he knew.
We did not.
He asked if we were camping.
We said we were.
He looked at our small backpacks, the kind school children carry, and asked if we had enough blankets.
“Oh, yes,” we said. “We have them in our backpacks.”
He looked doubtful. “It gets pretty cold over there. I have an extra one I could loan you.”
“Oh, no, we’ll be fine. We’re only staying one night.”
We hadn’t wanted to lug a lot of extras. We would be hiking, after all, and carrying everything we brought. Packing, we each stuffed one of those scratchy thermal blankets, the kind you can buy cheap at Wal-Mart, into our backpack. We had chosen these blankets for their double qualities of warmth and thinness. Even so, we found we didn’t have room for much else. We added pajamas. An extra dress. Mini packs of raisins, cups of applesauce, peanuts, granola bars. A Bible and a book or two. A water bottle. A toothbrush. Dora strapped a pop up tent, tightly rolled, to her backpack. And that was about all our small backpacks could accommodate. Luxuries like pillows, sleeping bags, and extra clothing we could do without. It was summer–the end of May–and plenty warm. And who worries about comfort while adventuring?
Apparently everyone but us. The other hikers and campers aboard The Esmeralda had large, professional-looking backpacks with sleeping bags strapped to them. While we had worn dresses and thin jackets, they wore windbreakers, jeans, hiking shoes, heavy coats. They carried airs about them of fresh outdoor readiness, of good health and good sense and of knowing they had a backpack. We felt ourselves to be as awkward and unprotected as three pale tourists in a Sudanese civil war.
After the ferry had docked and a guide from the ranger station had given the usual introduction speech—no motor vehicles, no fires except in designated areas, and carry all your trash out with you—our thin-faced friend approached us again. “Are you sure you’ll be warm enough? Let me give you my extra blanket.”
“No, we’ll be fine, really. We have blankets.”
“All right then. Good-bye and good luck!”
After a consultation, we chose a trail that bordered the lake—we could just see the lake through the trees from where we walked. The trees were bright with early green. At intervals along the dirt path were outhouses and slant-roofed, three-sided shelters.
Our conversation, with no names named, went something like this:
“It’s cold here. A lot colder than I expected.”
“I think back in the trees like this makes it colder. And right next to the lake, too.”
“No wonder that man was so worried about us.”
“Wasn’t that funny, how worried he was?”
“He probably never met anyone like us before. Everyone else came dressed up warm, and with their big old backpacks. I guess it was pretty easy to tell we didn’t know what we were doing.”
“But did you guys notice his lips—the way he put his lips when he smiled? It reminded me of someone—who did it remind me of?”
“I’m cold! I just feel like getting cozy in our tent, cuddling up and getting warm, don’t you?”
“Yes, me too. Should we set up our tent awhile?”
“I know. It reminded me of Myron—you know—that Myron that visited church one time.”
“Let’s do that, put up our tent and sit in it and get warm. Anyway, it’ll start getting dark pretty soon. We might as well do it now.”
“Guys! Are you listening to me? Didn’t his smile remind you of that Myron?”
“I don’t know what Myron you’re talking about.”
“You know, that Myron that visited one time with Delbert when he came. You know who I’m talking about, don’t you, Dora?
“I don’t think so.”
“Why can’t you remember? How can you guys be so forgetful?”
“Well, sorry! Anyway, I didn’t notice his smile but I noticed his hands. They were thin and white, like a surgeon’s hands or something.”
“He was kind of prissy, didn’t you think? He didn’t really look like a camper.”
“Maybe he’s from the city, and comes out here to experience nature.”
“Look, there’s a shelter. Should we set up our tent there?”
“That’s fine with me.”
Set up of our bright blue pop up tent, with its three flexible rods to stretch it into shape, was easy. Dora suggested we spread out our blankets and read. Kathy said she was hungry. We pulled out our peanuts, granola bars, and cups of applesauce, and set them on the wooden floor in front of the tent. We spread our extra dresses across the top of the tent, on the theory that they might give added insulation. Someone mentioned a warm fire, hot dogs, and marshmallows. We decided not to talk about it.
We got into our pajamas, and then, because it was so cold, put our dresses and jackets back on over top our pajamas. We sat inside the tent with our white thermal blankets wrapped tightly around ourselves, talking and eating snacks and reading. Finally it was dark, and we tried to go to sleep.
“I wish I had a pillow.”
“I’m going to try using my backpack for a pillow.”
“I can’t get comfortable.”
“There’s a choice involved here. You can stretch out and be cold but fairly comfortable; or you can curl up and be warm, but very uncomfortable. You can’t be both.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s five to ten.”
“I didn’t know it was so early. It seems more like midnight.”
“I’m so cold!”
A wooden floor, with nothing between it and a body but a thin fleece blanket, is not as comfortable as one imagines while packing. And May along Lake Superior is significantly colder than one would dream while walking barefoot through green grass in central Wisconsin.
A night, if you count the minutes from ten to six, is 480 minutes long. Shifting, shivering, stretching, huddling, waking now and again to ask what time it was–it was always earlier than we’d guessed–we felt every one of those minutes. When the morning was gray with light, I crawled over my sister’s legs, unzipped the tent flap, and looked out the open shelter towards the lake. Fog had drifted in, twisting through the trees and settling in the low places. Dora and Kathy sat up, eventually, and we huddled in our blankets, talking about how cold we were and how long the night had been.
“I’m tired of sitting here,” I said after a while. “I’m going to get up and go hiking and try to get warm.”
“It’s too cold!”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to just sit here until the ferry comes.
“I’ll guess I’ll come, too.”
“Fine. I guess I will, too. Maybe we’ll see a moose. I really want to see a moose.”
“We need to see a moose so we’ll have something to tell people.”
We stuffed our food and blankets back into our backpacks, re-rolled our tent. We left our pajamas on beneath our dresses for whatever warmth they might add, and started walking. It was warmer, we discovered, on the higher ground away from the lake. Blood pumping from exercise, we actually felt hot. And not too far from the ranger station, we saw what we had come to see: a moose.
Two of them, actually. A mother and a baby. They weren’t majestic with horns, as we had pictured, and (luckily for us chattering heavy-footers) they seemed rather tame, standing around for pictures. But they were moose.
On the ferry trip back, we decided our moose was worth our misery. And now, ten years later, our Isle Royale trip is the longest-remembered, and probably the favorite, of all the trips we’ve taken together. I would recommend it to anybody. For optimum enjoyment, go in May, take inadequate clothing and sleeping gear, and pack granola bars and cups of applesauce for meals. You will make memories that last a lifetime.