I was told it would take three days to walk the shoreline of Manitoulin Island from South Baymouth to Providence Bay. It’s 50 kms. I told my family I'd be back in four; a) because I didn't want anyone worrying if I was a little late, and b) because I wanted the option of taking my time. To chill on a rock when it amused me. To contemplate life beside the open water. I packed food for four days. I hate to go hungry.
There have been a lot of bear sightings around Providence Bay this year. If I didn't show up by Thursday evening, my brother-in-law would cruise the shoreline by boat to look for me. Or my remains.
Mom and Dad dropped me and my 30 lb pack in South Baymouth at 8 a.m. Monday morning. I really had no idea what I was in for the first half of the trip. I knew that at least two others (men) have done it before me so it IS possible, but that's all I knew.
Day 1 was easy. The footing was rugged but there weren't any elevations to speak of. It was hot enough that I was soaked with sweat from head to toe within a half hour of starting out but so what? I planned to stay within a few metres of the shore at all times, and I carried my water filter, so that wasn't a worry. I got cocky. I figured the guy I'd contacted about the walk was obviously out for a leisurely stroll if it took him 3 days to finish the hike. At the rate I was going, I was obviously going to be done by midday Tuesday.
I started eying up potential places to pitch my tent. Bedrock? Sand? Wide open space where I could watch the night sky under my mesh tent? Should I push on for another hour or two and get around the next few bays? Why rush? I may as well stop at the first place with a nice rock to sit on while I pump water, and a bit of flat ground. I pitched my tent in a small grove of cedars. By then the wind was crashing the waves against the rocks and the protection of the trees felt necessary. I secured the fly. There would be no sky watching that night. Too windy. There was a single birch tree to hang my pack on, and a hewn log to sit on and watch the sunset.
At midnight the sky lit up and the thunder shook the ground. The rain pelted my tent and yet somehow I felt quite protected by my wee grove of trees and ultra thin nylon tent.
The next day it was as if it had rained oil rather than water. The rocks were that slippery.
I thought my new boots would give me extra grip but they didn't. Each step was precarious. It took me ages to get around the next point. Skidding my way along.
And then came the tricky part.
No one warned me about the rock faces in Michael's Bay. They aren't high but neither are they wide enough to walk on at the top. I have to make it up these rock faces, and then somehow along the top of them. I consider going back the way I came but if others had done it before me, so could I. The "cliffs" were framed by crashing waves on the bottom and tangled bush on the top. You'd think I could just walk through the bush but the bush was impenetrable. Mosquitos would have a hard time going through some of it. There were a couple spots though that I didn't have a choice. My boots wouldn't cling to the slick, almost vertical rock.
I entered the wall of scrub and pushed my way through on my hands and knees. I was enveloped in rotting hemlock, cedar shoots, and an uncertain moss floor. I couldn't go an inch without catching on something. I had hemlock in my hair, my ears and stuck to my arms and legs. Spider webs filled any empty space. When I put my foot - or knee- down I wasn't sure if it was going to keep going or find solid(ish) ground. My hair kept catching in the tangled brush. As did my pack. I couldn't tell how far I needed to go before it was safe to return to the shoreline but I knew I wanted to stay in there as little as possible. When I came out I really felt like I'd accomplished something. I made it! I found a small pool of water in the rocks and wash some of hemlock and webs from my arms and legs. I emptied the brush from my boots. And then I did the whole thing again. More impossible rocks. More impenetrable bush, more post-bush clean up.
There were definitely moments that day when I wondered what the hell I was doing out there. I noticed a pattern. When things got tough, I started looking for a boat - a miracle - to rescue me (I hadn't seen one boat in 2 days). After 3 hours, I'd covered less than half the bay I'd thought I could get through in an hour. And I hadn't come to the rivers yet.
Fortunately
they turned out to be no big deal. Maybe I would have seen them differently had I not been prepared for them. Or had I not just gone through what I saw a life threatening terrain. The water was copper coloured in the river. I wasn't excited about getting in, but it wasn't terribly daunting either. I dropped my pack, pulled off my boots and stepped in to check the depth. When it was past where the bottom of my pack sits, I walked back out.
It takes time to wrap up a pack in plastic bags and make sure that no water is going to get in ( I really didn't want soaked boots if nothing else). Someone else may have managed the crossing by popping the pack on their head but I was sure enough of my footing (it was rocky, and slimy, and uneven), and didn't want any mishaps. The first river came up only to my chest. My stuff stayed dry. I pulled the garbage bags off my pack, put my boots back on and pushed on. Half an hour later, I repeated the process. This time the river was a little deeper but not as deep as it was reported to be.
Other than the rain the night before, it hadn't rained up there in a month. The water levels were at historical lows. What my topographical map showed as marsh, were swampy smelling dust bowls. My assumption that I could get water anywhere was wrong. Some of the small, shallow bays were thick with foul, brown algae.
For lunch that day I scooped water straight from the lake - where it appeared to be clear - into my pot. I know better, but rather than boiling it 5 minutes I boiled it for about 30 seconds. That turned out to be a mistake I won't make again. The details don't need to be shared.
Choosing a campsite isn't as easy as just quitting when you're tired. Boulder beaches, of which there are many, don't work. Nor does jagged rock. Flat ground next to thick brown water seemed to attract a great deal of animal life (as noted by the considerable amount of what I took to be raccoon or skunk scat), but was unappealing, and potentially dangerous. Pushing on closer to Providence Bay where a least one bear is known to roam also didn't seem like a great idea. I looked for a place with clean(ish) water and place to hang my food out of reach of wildlife. One out of two isn't bad.
I camped in amongst the evergreens between two bays. Evergreens are lovely. They make great hedges and Christmas trees. What they aren't good for is hanging food out of reach of bear, raccoons, squirrels and chipmunks. I may as well have been singing Christmas Carols. I wondered if the Chippies would think my food bag was gift wrapped just for them. I couldn't get the rope high enough to be out of reach of any but the smallest bear opposed to rising up on his hind legs.
I hung it away from my tent so that even if I had to go a day without food, I wouldn't be as likely to be part of the meal myself.
Maybe my trail mix wasn't enticing, or my dehydrated cashew chicken was as uninspiring to the wildlife as it was to me but when I got up the next morning, my food hadn't been touched. I packed up early, unable to eat breakfast after my bad water incident, and pushed on.
Day 3: adrenal rushes, no one but myself to talk to. I tried to see the beauty in each moment, just to focus on the present like I tell my yoga students to do but when I did that I noticed that my back was aching with the weight of the pack, my intestines were angry, my left side - the side always next to the water - was sunburned, and I was ready to be done. Any thoughts I'd entertained earlier about hiking the rest of the Island's shoreline quickly faded. The shoreline seemed endless. I took a break every time I found a rock to rest my pack on -even if it was only 10 minutes between rocks. Finally I saw the lighthouse at that signaled the last hour. The one that marked familiar ground. I found a good place to stop (again), stripped off my boots, pack, and shorts and went for a dip. Swimming didn't make my sweat-soaked, moss-covered shirt any cleaner but it felt good. I could see the end of the hike. Tiny thoughts of continuing westward - another day- re-enter my head. 
