|
 June
2009: Tucked away in the north woods of the
Upper Peninsula of Michigan lies a hauntingly
beautiful backcountry gem, where multicolored
sandstone cliffs tower hundreds of feet over a
rugged and wild coast. Pictured Rocks National
Lakeshore is located along the south shore of Lake
Superior, the largest freshwater lake in the world
(by measure of surface area). In the native Ojibwe
language, the lake is called Gitchigumi,
meaning "big water"—as
anyone who has ventured to its vast shores can
attest.
I
spent three days kayaking, exploring, and
photographing the famous cliffs of Pictured Rocks,
which can reach a height of 200 feet above the lake.
Mineral stains give the ancient sandstone its color:
red and orange are iron, black is manganese, white
is limonite, and green is a trace of copper. The
awe-inspiring cliffs are constantly shaped and
re-shaped by wind, ice, water, and Superior's
pounding waves. They have been naturally sculptured
into shallow caves, arches, and other strange and
evocative formations.
Kayaking Lake Superior always makes me a bit
nervous. The water is deep and cold, even in summer,
and high wind and waves can quickly turn paddling
conditions deadly. Adding to the element of danger
are the cliffs themselves, which come right down to
the water, limiting the number of safe landing
places and amplifying the waves. When waves strike
the cliffs, they are bounced back into the lake,
creating confused and choppy seas known as
clapotis (a French word meaning "lapping of
water"). I always try to pick good conditions for
kayaking Superior, but even then the latent lethal
potential of Gitchigumi hangs in the air,
ready to be stirred by inclement weather into a
frenzy of waves and wind.
How
then can one mitigate these dangers? Consider
wearing a wetsuit, even during the summer heat, or a
dry suit in colder temperatures. Have good
self-rescue skills: know how to use a paddle float
to re-enter the cockpit in case of capsize, or
better yet, master the Eskimo roll. Know your paddle
strokes. And most important, avoid kayaking alone, a
luxury not always possible for full-time
professional nature photographers.
I
spent my first day exploring the coast west of
Miners Beach, my launching point, and then
back-tracking to begin my journey east. A brief
period of gentle winds stirred Superior's waters
slightly, enough to create some mild clapotis for a
few hours, certainly nothing that I couldn't handle.
In the late afternoon, the breeze stopped and the
lake's waters stilled. I scouted Bridal Veil Falls,
a seasonal waterfall cascading over a hundred feet
down sloping sandstone cliffs right into the lake,
as a possible sunset location. Unfortunately, the
falls were nearly dry, and I could find no safe
place to land beneath the cliffs, making photography
impossible. I could have made an image from the
kayak, but waterfall photography is best done using
a tripod and a slow shutter speed to blur the
flowing water, so I didn't even try.
 Instead
I pressed on, heading further east in search of an
interesting place to shoot. A mile past Bridal Veil
Falls, I came upon a grand curving amphitheatre of
rocks which had partially collapsed on its western
end. I landed amidst the ruins of the crumbled wall,
an area of destruction and chaos that is now a small
rookery for nesting seagulls. I made several images
at sunset beneath the arching stone, towering
overhead at what seemed to be a dangerous forward
lean. I continually and nervously eyed the inclining
rock above me, half expecting several thousand tons
of sandstone to suddenly come tumbling down. When
sunset was over, I quickly packed my gear and
launched my kayak, leaving the dangerously exposed
spot to the nesting gulls.
I
paddled in the gathering gloom until I reached a
beach, landing for the night. As I unpacked my gear
from my kayak, mosquitoes left the confines of the
forest and ventured in swarming packs onto the beach
to begin their nightly hunt. They soon found me, and
descended upon my exposed flesh. Although annoying
that first evening, they would only get
progressively worse, a buzzing harbinger of the
bug-slapping toil that awaited me in the days to
come.
The
next day I continued to press on, aiming for Chapel
Beach seven miles to the west. The mosquitoes, like
vampires, fled before the daylight sun to seek
refuge in the dark forests, awaiting with eager
anticipation their chance to return with redoubled
numbers. For the rest of the day, however, they were
quiescent, and troubled me no more. I slowly made my
way along the coast, passing under towering yellow
cliffs and through natural arches carved by water in
the soft sandstone. I didn't see a
 single
person on the water that day, and it felt like I had
the whole place to myself. My only companions were
the sounds of wind, waves crashing against the stone
walls, and the cries of gulls and cormorants. In the
distance, I heard loon call, a lonely, hauntingly
beautiful sound, and an unmistakable icon of the
great north woods.
Not
all is perfect, however, and a few things disturb my
repose. On occasion, I hear the crash of a rock that
has fallen from the crumbling cliffs, landing with
an unnerving thunk in the waters below. Twice
I witness rock fall in areas that I had considered
scouting as potential photo places, a sobering
reminder of the dangers this wild coast can muster.
During one rest landing, I discover that my kayak
has a three-inch crack in its hull. The crack is
above the waterline in the cockpit, so I determine
it is safe to continue, but nonetheless I grow
increasingly wary. In the afternoon, gathering cloud
cover forebodes oncoming storms-and worse, increases
my risk of uninteresting light at sunset. Despite
these setbacks, I pressed on, finally reaching
Chapel Beach, my camping destination for the
evening, in the late afternoon.
While
setting up my tent in the forested bluffs above the
beach, the mosquitoes attacked in a withering swarm,
offering no quarter, and expecting none in return. I
set up camp as quickly as I could between bouts of
feverish swatting and smashing, and then hurried
back down to the relative sanctuary of the beach. I
quickly launched my kayak, heading to nearby Spray
Falls, hoping to find a suitable place to land for
sunset photography. Unfortunately, Spray Falls,
which plunges seventy feet into Lake Superior, does
not have any landing places close enough to
photograph the falls. As the sun dropped, the clouds
began to break up, holding out the promise of a
beautiful sunset. I paddled quickly along the coast,
looking for a good place to land, but to no avail.
 As
the remainder of the day quickly waned, I found
myself back at Chapel Beach and my fallback shot for
the evening. Chapel Creek tumbles over a series of
small but scenic sandstone ledges before emptying
into Lake Superior. It would make a good shot, but
it is a scene that has been photographed many times
before. I had been searching for areas that were
less accessible, in an effort to get truly unique
images, but even the best laid plans oft go astray.
A few high clouds above the creek fired with the
rosy light of sunset, so I was content that I at
least had some interesting light, if not a truly
unique photograph.
The
sun dropped behind the distant horizon, and the
colors in the clouds above faded to purple and then
blue. The mosquitoes, emboldened by the retreat of
their anathema the sun, emerged from the surrounding
forests. I quickly ducked into my tent, sealed it up
tight, and began the nightly ritual of assassinating
the dozens of mosquitoes that had entered with me
and became trapped inside. As soon as this
unpleasant task was done, I drifted off to sleep,
lulled to slumber by the sounds of tumbling Chapel
Creek, and the dull whir of mosquitoes outside—a
sound which, when safely ensconced in nylon and
netting, can seem almost beautiful to human ears.
 I
awoke the next morning an hour before dawn, and
hastily disassembled my camp while the mosquitoes
feasted upon my blood in the twilight. I quickly
packed my kayak and launched, with a cloud of biting
insects trailing behind me until I reached deep
water. I crossed the small bay at Chapel Beach to
reach the natural arch at Grand Portal Point, which
has partially collapsed. Instead of open water
beneath the arch, a pile of boulders and rubble now
rests below. I landed amidst the rubble and set up
my camera and tripod for sunrise. Even there,
surrounded by nothing but rock, the mosquitoes were
ferocious, but not nearly as bad as in the forest. I
awaited the rising sun in eager anticipation, as
much for the photographic opportunities as the
abatement of bug activity.
After
completion of the morning shoot, I aimed my kayak
east and began the long paddle back to Miners Beach,
where I first launched several days before. In the
early morning hours, I saw no people, only a
merganser family swimming on the water; I silently
lamented the fact that I had left my telephoto
lenses behind. Within a few hours of steady
paddling, I returned to Miners Beach, unpacked my
kayak, and began the arduous process of hauling all
of my gear up the steep bluffs to my car.
Gitchigumi, the big water, had provided me with
a lot of adventure in just a few days, and I was
surprisingly exhausted. Short trips rarely yield
great photographs—it
takes a lot of time to scout a location, find the
most appealing compositions, and to wait for great
light—and
this trip was no exception. I made some images that
I am happy with, but I will need to return, sometime
soon, to continue my big water adventures.
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