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< May June 2006
	Destinations
Superior Sea Kayaking Paddling North America’s inland sea

The train is a lifeline. Two passenger carriages and one nearly empty boxcar are the only connection that cottage dwellers in Ontario’s Algoma region have to the outside world. On this glorious October day, the six of us who have come here to kayak gather in the boxcar amid crates of eggs, bags of mail and cases of Labatts. Every few minutes the train squeaks to a stop, and the conductor passes down supplies and news to waiting cottagers. The southbound train has broken down again, so those planning a trip to Sault Ste. Marie will have to wait a day or two. Nobody seems to mind.

We’re less than 50 miles north of the Michigan border, but this country feels as vast and remote as the Alaskan frontier. The Canadian Shield stretches before us, clothed in fall foliage and laced with freshwater streams carving a path toward Lake Superior’s rugged Northeast shore. Soon the train will stop again, and we’ll join outfitters Mike and Colleen Petzold, place our sea kayaks into the broad Montreal River and begin a singular paddling adventure.

We’ve joined the Petzolds’ Caribou Expeditions for a three-day trip on Lake Superior and the rivers that feed it. This area is a paradise for paddlers of every stripe. “In May there’s fantastic whitewater runs of every class you can imagine,” Mike says. “You can take the train up and paddle the rivers down to Superior. They’ll stop anywhere, and you just launch into the wilderness.” But we’re here to sea kayak North America’s inland sea—an adventure that can be as challenging as the most difficult whitewater for those caught out when Superior’s famously fickle weather takes a bad turn. That’s where the Petzolds come in. They have this stretch of coast dialed. No matter from which direction the wind blows, they can guide us to protected water within a short drive of our base. In 12 years of guiding in these inclement latitudes, the Petzolds have missed only two days of paddling.

We make our base camp at the rustic Voyageurs Lodge in Batchawana Bay. It’s not exactly what I’m used to in a wilderness kayak trip, but it has its advantages. Mornings we stroll next door to the Cookhouse for a hearty breakfast drenched in pure Canadian maple syrup. The dining room walls are painted with scenes from voyageur days, and a 40-foot replica freight canoe sits out front on sawhorses. Bannock, a fur traders’ staple, is on the menu.

Our diverse group includes a former world-class ski racer and a southern California grandmother, and as we practice sea kayak skills on the Montreal River, Mike has the right advice for each of us. I’ve logged thousands of touring miles and hundreds of days on whitewater, but Mike immediately identifies subtle flaws in my bow rudder and stern draw. As outfitters, the Petzolds are as versatile as the country in which they guide. Our trip is on the softer side of the scale, but they also lead wilderness camping trips in Superior’s Slate islands, canoe expeditions in Northern Ontario and seasonal whale-watching tours in Quebec’s Saguenay-St. Lawrence Marine Park. When the guiding season is over, the Petzolds surf Superior’s infamous November gales.

After our warm-up on the Montreal River and the Friday fish-fry at the Cookhouse, we’re ready to tackle the Great Lake. Powerful winds rattled the lodge through the night, but we wake to dead calm; a moderate Southwest swell is the only reminder of the previous night’s storm. No matter. We clamber into the Petzold’s van—their black Lab squirming forward and nuzzling the front-seat passenger—and drive 20 minutes to protected water. The sun blazes through the October morning chill, the fog lifts and soon we’re exploring Superior’s rocky shore with a gentle breeze at our backs. We peer deep into the lake. Like the shoreline, the bottom alternates between smooth pebbles, sheer boulders and exposed basalt—all left by advancing and retreating glaciers. The ice scoured out the world’s largest freshwater lake, 350 miles long and 160 miles wide with an average depth of nearly 500 feet. “The water is so clean that I drink straight from it,” Mike says. The rest of us drink the bottled stuff, feeling as if we’re the only people on the great lake. Powerboats are nowhere to be seen, and the next kayak outfitter, David Wells’ Naturarally Superior Adventures, is 100 miles north..

As we paddle, Mike tells us about the natural and cultural history of this region. The lake is sacred to the Ojibwe, who call it Gichegami, meaning big water. Native Americans and French Voyageurs alike paddled this tempestuous inland sea in delicate birch canoes, and the lore of both cultures is full of heroic canoe journeys. Among the greatest exploits is the four-day crossing that an Ojibwe raiding party made in the late seventeenth century. The historic voyage is recorded in rock art in Agawa Bay, about 60 miles north. Mike tells us that these are the best-preserved examples of Native American rock art in Ontario, and that some of the petroglyphs can only be seen from the lake. That sells us. The next morning we drive North to Agawa.

In addition to the petroglyphs, Agawa Bay provides some of the most exciting paddling of the trip. Sheer rock walls rise straight out of the lake, and chaotic three-foot swells are the norm whenever we paddle out of the sheltering lee of the bay’s islands. Even so, the bolder paddlers among us are able to close to within a paddle-length of the shore, with the rebounding action of the waves holding us in a stable, bouncy equilibrium. It’s as if Mishi Peshu, the Ojibwe lake spirit depicted in the ancient stone art, is looking out for us. Info: www.caribou-expeditions.com, www.naturallysuperior.com. —jm