Film director Werner Herzog gives the dictum: “The world reveals itself to those who travel on foot.” Herzog means to travel without a house on one’s back. But, traveling with such a house is part of this journey. Not doing so would burden everyone who came prepared for being on an island, really a group of over 400, in Lake Superior as winter approaches and humans—whether there for work and or adventure—leave. Nomads and wanderers made it to the Island in the centuries and millennia before written records. They traveled lightly and sustained themselves with skill and knowledge in often bountiful nature, much as Herzog would prefer, though it, undoubtedly, sometimes overwhelmed them. The native Ojibway called it Minong.

Time on the Island affords moments to know the absence of ubiquitous electronic connections, reasonable certainty of safety, and firm shelter. It affords moments of wonder; nighttime storms of wind, lightning, and sound that leave twenty-foot waves breaking over harbor entrance rocks; that certain knowledge of hidden eyes watching one’s every move; a night sky lit only by stars, nebulae, galaxies, and the moon; and loons calling across misted-over water. There are also the problems of like…what do you do with a new camera, just out of the box, with a manual freshly downloaded to an iPhone, and an infrequent group at a campsite playing cards under solar recharged lanterns as one lingers on the memory of other nights of solitude with the closest evidence of humans being satellites passing in the sky. Time becomes less linear.

The ferry dock and loading area slowly begin to fill in the early morning dark. The passengers and gear are a mix with most carrying backpacks, but then there are a few with coolers and gear lashed to wheeled totes who are not spending any nights away from the campground near the dock on the Island, and then a smaller number with kayaks, canoes, and packable watercraft. A few stepped out of outdoor industry advertisements, while most have worn gear from decades ago and general inattention to tailoring, logos, and color. Most stop for coffee and carbohydrates at Copper Harbor’s Jamsen’s and then turn to watch and photograph sunrise in the East facing harbor entrance.

Gear accumulates. The sky above the harbor entrance reddens and, then later, the rising sun shows white waves on the Lake waiting for the ferry’s bow. A voice calls to form a line to pass gear one to the other and then raise it to surer hands on the ferry and its upper deck. The final ritual before stepping on board is cleaning boots to brush off invasive seeds.

The captain says to walk slowly and to hold onto something making for a three-point stance. Engines hum and a low wake moves the ferry from the dock towards the new sun. The kayakers that had paddled out in dark return with no wake towards the moving ferry. The supply of plastic bags is visible and one of the captains is at ready. 

Conversations break out while some sleep after driving through the night to make the best of available vacation. Wearing denim, recently retired, and from near the State line coming to the Island for the first time, one notes: “I have 75 pounds with my camera gear and I want to get pictures of moose.” The mountain bike racer, showing a certain unflappability when a conversation turns to crossing the Mackinaw Bridge and the singing tire noise on the gridded steel roadway deck, being a Bridge worker and often below the deck, adds: “You quickly learn not to reach up and put fingers through the grate.” A couple on a honeymoon, with an irregular rental car tire rim left behind in Copper Harbor, watches the waves and the graying horizon. Riding on the open bow, muscles ache from a few days of short hikes with a backpack followed by sedentary hours pressing brake and accelerator pedals and now watching for land. 

Rangers stand on the dock with holstered weapons against crisp uniforms as passengers disembark. A line forms behind the rangers with those waiting to board the second-to-last departure for the year. Order and attention happen and the welcome covers leaving no trash behind, human waste, camping, keeping a permit visible on a pack or campsite, staying away from moose, wolves probably not being a problem, not leaving food unattended for squirrels, and more. Those familiar with the Island are intent on getting a permit and breaking away before those unfamiliar slow the line and get ambitious routes tempered.

A woman in sandals, who had bouts of sea sickness on the ferry crossing, stands off to the side. Park Service staff approach her and try to pierce through a language barrier. Body motions and faces say she will take the ferry back.

Two cedar strip canoes come off the ferry’s roof with fitted cedar storage boxes crafted for each. Their paddlers will cover most of Rock Harbor communicating with each other through duck and bird calls or just entertaining those on land. They will not be portaging across the Island, having often done that in trips between 10 and 30 years ago, and have what is needed for catching and preparing lake trout. 

The hike into the island begins on a damp path with a mix of decaying flora, soft earth and rocks along narrow and long inner harbor with an abundance of mushrooms that look and smell like those eaten and picked by wise elders. Two relatively easy miles belie the trails after turning away from the harbor; this time turning to cross Greenstone Ridge to a campsite on the far side for more than one night. 

Terrain and trails of rocks and roots force the same slow-walking as on the ferry and using trekking poles for surer footing and as third and fourth points of contact. The almost invisible wear line running through most of the higher elevation trails does enough to ease the way through, though the line often becomes invisible on continuous and smooth basalt faces. Cairns sometimes help. The trails are mostly clear in low ground, where they channel water runoff, and planks sometimes help over wetlands, creeks, and beaver ponds. The planks stand out except for where beaver ponds have risen over them or they have sunk. Others have sagged, snapped, or picked up that certain bounce awaiting replacement by a trail crew. Fighting gravity and fear of plunging on a plank crossing one has to stop, balance, and rest in the middle to look, really look, and wonder what is looking back unseen. 

The north facing campsite is cooling and in shadows. The site has a level graveled place for a tent. Chatter above in trees announces interest in food. Others hike in later. Loons call through the night and fish occasionally feed on the surface making expanding concentric rings. Lake water, hand pumped through a ceramic filter into flasks, refreshes. The others leave in the morning before drying their gear and no one else hikes in. A solo camper is left and unseen eyes watch from the forest as loons call. A freighter passes in sight through the cove entrance. 

Resting and cooling as moisture evaporates from clothing on Greenstone Ridge and looking over to Thunder Bay, freighters are moving east in the blue to white hues of water and sky. The cove with the last two night’s camp appears as an easy walk through gently undulating hills below. The ascents and descents are invisible. The absolute elevation change between the Lake and peak is 400 feet but, from one side of the Island to the other with the undulations of lessor ridges and an ancient shoreline, the total change is strenuously higher. 

A mile further on the billion-year-old volcanic flow that is the Ridge, the photographer overtakes at a clip. A day later he passes on a trail heading back to Rock Harbor early and never seeing a moose. The solitude of walking the trail returns.

The boiling water works on the dried gumbo except its fibrous okra. Anything is good after miles on foot with gear and not resting or eating enough. The spices and salt were notable followed by filtered water and a tea tinged with bergamot. 

The crescendoing trekking pole tips on a rain slick boardwalk and rocks announce someone coming. We finally meet on a non-elevated section and the mountain biker’s partner, a runner, passes with pleasantries. He follows later with a less percussive tapping and longer stride.

The trail seemed endless on a still day and then some banging, like an outhouse door loose in the wind, but a campground could not be this close yet. The trail leads on and then, to the side, there is a stand of higher trees and with the frontal profile of a bull moose thrashing at the branches. There is nowhere to hide or to move to for protection. The trail goes on and the camera manual will be evening reading after another moose crosses the trail and the camera’s animal-eye autofocus feature cannot be found. Protection is not necessary.

Another morning arrives. At sunrise light rays streak though the fog from the cold night by the Lake. The woman with whom there was a conversation yesterday on the trail, also a portage, is on the dock edge in a yoga pose. The camera’s night-cold lens fogs. I give up and we have another pleasant conversation. 

The night is unlike others with lights and clear self-assured chatter at the campsite 100 yards away. It is too late to go anywhere else; they stop, though, before 11:00 pm with darkness having come on earlier. The two brothers and nephews are still up near first light. The brothers had been here before when the same age as their nephews. One, an East coast law firm name partner, left staff befuddled at being unable to contact him. The other keeps up on knees without cartilage. All is well in morning light and unexpected warmth.

A meadow with black-eyed Susans is in a flat area that had once been farmed; the black-eyed Susans and grasses grow better in the rocks interlaced with soil than vegetables could. The septuagenarian couple resting midday at a shelter, gear still packed, give a welcome. They have been hiking the Island for two weeks; respective spouses at home preferring other than the outdoors at 48 degrees north latitude. The pair demonstrate the effectiveness of their trekking poles and their packs with tightened compression straps from the diminishing consumables. The taller said he started with 70 pounds on his back.

The ranger comes through in the calm of the afternoon and walks the campground. She passes on word about an expected night storm with high winds and hard rain. The storm is as promised and then the night is full of stars through the screened opening of what was the last available shelter. In the morning, three parties are out of their tents having pitched at sites on flat ground near the Lake and below a hill. The sky is clouded again and water boils for excellent instant coffee.

The bull moose comes out of the woods left of the trail and in range of a short zoom lens. Its right eye is in the clear to focus on as the camera slips out of its case. The viewfinder comes on showing the moose, the antlers, the trail, and light filtered by colored leaves. Then the search for the automatic animal eye focusing function rather than a quicker option. The moment for a photograph with a sharp eye passes. 

Near a campground with small roofed bulletin board and lost items left around it, a lone fisherman wet wades in front of the creek outlet blind casting a fly line. The rod is short, light, and easy to hike with but it could not put out a long cast. No fish take. Otters from the lodge at the creek mouth keep a distance. 

Rolf and Candy Peterson cross in an open canoe on the last night for visitors to be on the Island. Several note their talks in prior years on wolves, moose, humans and life on the Island. This visit would be close to their 50th wedding anniversary with all of them here researching wolves and moose.

They give a talk: “It is the way of it. The old and sick ones (moose) know it is time and don’t resist.” They pass antlers and bones from which they relay what can be known of the animals’ stories. The a cappella rounds of Music Alone Shall Live go into the twilight. “All things shall perish from under the sky. Music alone shall live . . . never to die.” Everyone gets the round and some children are later quick with questions. I remember the photographs on the memory card of a few last and wet remaining aster flowers to go with a setting of a Robert Frost poem about late autumn, A Late Walk. 

Dusk descends and they paddle towards a basin under a small moon. The light is soft, the harbor still, their red canoe diminishes into the night and thin suspended mist to listen for wolves and moose over the regular lapping of waves and the song of leaves, needles and branches vibrating. The pair of red foxes that wander the campground, colored as male and female with long groomed fur, bark under an emptying apple tree. Sleep comes easy.

Camps break earlier in the morning with some miles to cover to meet the ferry. The hike is refreshing and savory. The ten-year old girl again handles the hike well with her parents. Rangers perform a cursory permit check. One is doing it for the final time and soon retiring to plant a home vegetable garden for the first time. The Lake is smooth crossing back to Copper Harbor after days of choppy waves visible through harbor entrances. Cell phone service comes in on the Lake nearer to the Keweenaw before fading again. 

I attempt a return in another year for another chance at revelation. Breakfast is in Copper Harbor; there is no rush and the older couple, the only other customers, ask serial questions of the waitress and now: “No more questions, well, just one more …” A gale and rain come off the Lake and the ferry is canceled, ending the season early. The harbor itself appears relatively calm. I leave, cash lying on the table, and go to cover different trails on foot. 

Northwest Michigan has been Michael Sipkoski’s home for a decade. His interests run through literature, photography, classical guitar, conservation, fooling wild trout, hiking and otherwise finding beauty and surprise in Michigan’s waters, woods, and terrain.