“If what a tree does is lost on you you are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you.” David Wagoner
I just returned to civilization after spending five days completely off the grid on Isle Royale, the most wild and least visited National Park in the lower 48. It marks the 52nd National park I’ve visited on my journey.
The 45-mile long island is many miles from anything in the middle of Lake Superior. It has no paved roads, no cell reception, and an official census population of ZERO. Even the rangers leave it in the winter. On any given day moose vastly outnumber the humans, of which only 14,000 step ashore each year. The island has a few buildings on both ends of the island, and a few campgrounds with primitive shelters along the coast, but beside that the permanent human imprint on the island is negligible.
In planning my trip, I decided to hike the Greenstone Ridge, which runs the length of the entire island. I figured that’d be the surest way to have the most solitude.
Though I’d never backpacked alone for 5 days before, the idea of hiking, eating, and camping alone over that length of time seemed like an important rite of passage — a way to prove to myself how much I’ve grown on this journey – both in terms of physical and mental self-sufficiency. (After all, when this journey began I’d never even slept in a tent before.)
Well… actually I should be honest, that’s not the only reason I wanted to get off the grid. The truth is after three years of legal back and forth, I signed my divorce papers the morning before I headed north to the park. To say it’s been an ordeal – (for both of us I’m sure) — would be an understatement.
I may have worked for years to get to the point of signing a settlement, but once it arrived, after the signing the documents, I had NO desire to celebrate, let alone even tell anyone about it. I didn’t feel waves of relief. I felt sad, empty, and numb in turn.
When something truly ends, when the fight is over, when all the noise of the arguments no longer matters, sometimes a space opens up that couldn’t before. For me, in that space, it was hard not to remember how it began. By which I don’t just mean how it fell apart. I mean what brought us together before it got hard. What sustained us for years before. In that void I could finally remember truly the contours of the love that was lost. I found that as difficult to face as any of the moments which tore us asunder.
All of which is to say, once that the papers were finally signed, I was in a bit of a state. I felt so ready for this painful chapter of my life to be over and to move on. It’s been too hard, for too long. Let me get to the peace and solitude of nature I thought.
The thing is – to quote the Rolling Stones – you can’t always get what you want — something the universe let me know loud and clear before I even stepped foot in the park.
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Getting to Isle Royale is a bit of an ordeal under normal circumstances. Given its location in the middle of Lake Superior, roughly 20 miles from Minnesota and 60 from Michigan, the only way to get to the island is by private boat, on a 5 hour one-way ferry ride, or sea plane. I don’t own a boat, and the ferry is closed in 2020. That meant I had to take a sea plane from Grand Marais, 4.5 hours north of Minneapolis.
I’d never been on a small plane before this adventure, but to get around Alaska you have to take them. Up there, I learned on a sunny, non-windy day they are treat. But I’ve also learned in the wind they are a terror. While crashes are rare (roughly 1 crash per 100,000 flight hours) that is 2,058x more likely than when you fly on on a major airline.
So, when I arrived at the airport I felt relieved that it was a beautiful sunny day and the flight was only 30 minutes.
My plane had 3 passengers plus the pilot. After taking off we were scheduled to drop one guy off at Windigo (on the far west side of the island where I’d end up), and then continue on to Rock Harbor (on the far east side of the island).
I sat immediately behind the pilot and next to a guy about my age. He had a mop of curly hair and wild eyes that betrayed no small degree of terror at realizing just how small the plane was once we were abroad. I made small talk with him and tried to reassure him based on my experience on tiny bush planes in Alaska last summer that these planes are great for comfort and views. In truth, those reassurances were for me as much as for him. Since it was a clear, sunny day it’d be a beautiful flight I told him. And sure enough, as we flew over the North Shore before heading out over Lake Superior, we all went slack-jawed seeing the maples and oaks in full peak from above.
Thirty minutes later we began our descent toward Windigo.
I saw the guy next to me tensed. I gave him a smile, a thumbs up, and yelled “we are about to land!”
The pilot had a gentle touch as he eased the plane from on high, down to equal height with the ridge line, then to eyeline with the treetops on the shore, and finally just feet above the water.
Then suddenly – VROOM – he hit some lever sharply, the engines purred, and we were climbing rapidly up again.
Meanwhile, our pilot said nothing. No sign of alarm or explanation whatsoever. Looking out the cockpit window I could see another plane right before us had also aborted its landing. As we climbed again we followed that other plane around the whole west end of the island in a big loop. 10 minutes later we took the same angle toward the bay and began our descent again.
Are we in danger? Is this safe? Should I be bracing myself?
I gave the guy next to me a forced smile. No thumbs up this time.
As we descended again a second time it was just as smooth as the first. Out the front cockpit window I saw the first plane ahead of us land. We eased down toward the water behind them, and then before I knew it we too touched down on the water and began our glide toward the dock.
It was only at this point that the pilot took off his headset, turned back to us, and calmly let us know, “Engine problems. This might be a while.” Then put his headset back on.
Wait, what? Excuse me. Can I ask some questions, sir? What problems? Whose engines? Will we be able to take off again? Do I want to be on the plane when it does?
When we got to shore the guy next to me was out of that plane as soon as the door opened, and once he had his bag, he was off into the woods without so much as a goodbye.
The pilot, now also on the dock, leaned back to the window: “I’m sorry. There’s a problem with the other plane’s engine. You’ll stay warmest if you stay in the plane. I don’t know how long this will take.” He went to the other plane, joined a ranger and the other pilot who were looking under the hood of the other plane, and all three gave up and both disappeared ashore to somewhere unseen.
My first thought was - thank god! At least it wasn’t our plane’s engine that’s broken. But then, in looking at the other plane and realizing it was IDENTICAL to the one I was sitting in I realized I had a lot of important questions. Like, how often do these planes have unexpected engine problems that are only discovered mid-flight?
For almost two hours, Brian and I waited in the tiny plane compartment. So much for solitude, I thought. But soon, I didn’t mind. We had a fascinating conversation about his family’s history, his war service, and the island – which he’d been coming out to his entire life. In fact, I was enjoying it so much I actually felt a little sad when I saw the pilot return.
The pilot was joined by a very smiley middle-aged solo backpacker and also the pilot of the other plane. They checked the knots tying the other plane to dock, and then boarded our plane. I guess they were just going to leave it there broken all night…
As they got in, the backpacker told us: “I drew the lucky straw!”
He went on: “I feel a little bad for those other three guys though. They warn you over and over to bring a few days of extra food in case you get stuck on the island, but those guys were so mad. I don’t think they brought extra provisions.”
Wait, what? How often do people get “stuck” for extra time on the island, I wondered.
Our pilot added, “It’s like people forget we are miles off shore in the wilderness here. Earlier this summer there was a whole week of fog that wouldn’t lift. So, we couldn’t do any flights.” Um… I thought about everything in my pack. I know packed some extra granola bars but definitely not DAYS of extra food.
“How long will they have to wait?” I asked timidly.
The pilot of the other plane, who was now pressed elbow to elbow with me shrugged. “Who knows.”
And without any further explanation, our pilot put his headset back on, started the propeller, pushed us back into the bay, and then up into the air.
---
When we finally landed in Rock Harbor, this time without incident, it was already 630pm.
People had been waiting on the dock to go home for hours. Without cell reception they’d probably had no idea why the plane wasn’t showing up. Once he gave me my bag, our pilot immediately turned his attention to them. I assume he was supposed to give me some sort of orientation or confirmation when he’d pick me up, but he was overwhelmed with the new passengers. So, I just left.
Moreover, when you land on the island you are supposed to go over your itinerary and get a lengthy safety briefing with a ranger. But since it was so late, there were no rangers to be found. They must have all gone home for the day.
To cross the island in just five nights, I knew I would have to start hiking then. I couldn’t wait for the morning to find a ranger. So, I threw on my pack and headed west trying to get as many miles in as possible before it got dark.
Okay, I said to reset myself, nothing bad happened. You are fine. Finally, your feet are on the ground. Now is the time for peace, solitude, and freedom!
Or not…
Literally the moment I left the inhabited part of island, 5 minutes into my walk, I turned a corner, and MOOSE.
Most national park visitors are scared of bears – that’s appropriate – but, moose actually kill more people than bears. If you’ve never been beside one, you probably don’t realize just how big and mean they can be, especially males in the fall when they are literally crazed as they ooze testosterone and prepare for the rut. That said, typically upon hearing a human they run away.
But, after waiting for some time, my antlered moose friend didn’t move. I was less than 100 feet away, now shielded behind a birch trunk. Maybe he doesn’t know I’m here, I wondered. So, still behind my trees, I tried speaking to him.
“Hi Mr. Moose. I’m a human. I’m no danger. Can I cross your path?” In retrospect, I know this wasn’t exactly assertive, but I did want to respect his size. Not surprisingly, he did nothing.
Next, I tried clapping and talking a little more directly, still from behind my tree. “Okay Mr. Moose! Time to move Mr. Moose! Come on now!” Equally ineffective.
So, I gave up, and put my pack down, and just watched.
It was as if the universe was laughing at me thinking I was in charge, that I could rush things at the pace I wanted, “How many times do I need to teach you this? Remember the plane ride? Or how about that divorce?”
When the moose eventually did move several minutes later, it was only half way off the trail, giving me an excellent additional multi-minute view of his just giant rear side before he finally scampered off.
I made it to camp well after dark. After getting settled I decided not to eat. Maybe I’ll need the food later? I reasoned.
---
The next morning I got up before dawn. I had a long way to go, and I felt like I needed to get an early start.
As a consequence, I was pretty groggy. So, it wasn’t until after I’d already fully packed my bag that I realized I was still wearing my long underwear. Even though it was only 40 degrees then, I knew I needed to change or I’d boil while I was hiking later.
So, I put down my bag, took off my pants and long underwear, and went to grab for my regular underwear. Of course, it wasn’t at the top of my bag. So, butt-naked from the waist down, I rummaged through my already packed pack to find something to change into.
At that moment, I heard a rustle in the woods. Oh crap. Another moose? I wondered.
I stood up straight, dropping my pack, my nakedness fully faced at whatever danger might be approaching.
And what do you think it was? It was something much more terrifying than a moose - a tiny, hunched over, white-haired woman lugging her pack.
I yelped for her to leave while I grasped for something to cover myself.
She kept walking toward me. Did she not hear me? I yelled for her to go away again.
Then she scolded me: “Oh, it’s fine. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before!”
---
This wasn’t the last unexpected (or uncomfortable) conversation I had on the island, but it was the only one that happened while I was naked.
That said, most of my time on the island was spent alone.
Unlike the crowded trails of most National Parks, I rarely saw (or heard) any other hikers. When I did see other people, it was usually hours between sightings.
In those vast swaths of time, I saw so much, did so much, thought about so much. I was getting exactly what I hoped for in terms of solitude. But after the third day, as I was taking stock of my trip, I also realized felt surprisingly exhausted and irritable most of the time. I was “enjoying” it, but I was also counting down the miles and time until I could go home.
Why? What was I so mad about? My divorce? Even though I was alone with no phone to distract me, I felt like I’d been so busy, I hadn’t even had time to be bothered by it.
So what was consuming my attention?
Well, for one thing, I was upset to find so many scars to the natural environment from human activity all over the island. I thought its remoteness would mean “pristine wilderness” with no sign of human destruction. Instead, even though it’s been a protected sanctuary since 1940, I discovered polluted pools of water, mining pits from the 1800s, and signs of prior deforestations which appeared to have burnt down ten of thousands of ancient large trees. It was a visual metaphor for me about how much we humans can hurt things, and just how long those scars remain.
It also reminded me how hopeless I feel about our country’s current environmental policies. While congress just passed a bipartisan bill to fund deferred maintenance in the National Parks, the Trump administration has also rolled back over 100 environmental protections and opened up millions of acres of pristine wilderness to mining and logging in the last four years, including in the Tongass National Forest, ANWR, Gates of the Arctic, the Grand Staircase, and parts of northern Minnesota.
I’ve been to nearly all of these places on this journey. They are absolutely stunning and risk being forever destroyed in our lifetimes by these short-term decisions. Of course, I know a vibrant economy and good jobs are important to the health of a nation. I am not a radical. I am a capitalist at my core. Moreover, much of my family legacy is in both timber and paper milling. So, I get the nuance. But if this adventure has taught me anything it’s that a tree doesn’t only have value once you cut it down.
But I couldn’t really blame my entire mood on those political thoughts. I was more bothered by immediate anxieties and discomforts. I felt disappointed about the lack of sunshine the first few days. I was worried about contaminated water. I felt like I wasn’t getting any good pictures. I worried whether the plane would be fixed, and whether that’d create a cascade of delays that’d leave me stuck on the island for days on end. I worried whether my return flight would even be safe. More immediately, every day I feared if I didn’t wake up early enough or walk fast enough, there’d be nowhere “good” for me to sleep at night. It’s hard enough carrying a 45 pound pack so far every day, doing so while speed walking is even more exhausting.
Of course, I see now that I was obsessing on those mental battles for other reasons too. Even though I was alone for days on end, and in one of the wildest places in America, getting locked into those thought loops allowed me (with seeming integrity to myself) to NOT have any space to face the feelings I really didn’t want to face about my divorce — namely, my hurt, regret, shame, and anger. There was no time for it! I was too busy fighting and beating back myriad immediate threats. But I hadn’t realized that yet.
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So, there I was on that third night, feeling so grumpy, after eating dinner alone, when I went back down to a lake’s edge to fill up my water bottles for the next morning.
There, standing by the shore was another solo backpacker. He was probably in his early 40s, totally bald on top and with a great unkempt beard hanging many inches below his chin. He was the first solo backpacker I’d seen all trip. Everyone else had been with friends or a partner. (Believe me, I noticed).
Immediately, I could feel his nervous energy in the sharp movements of his hands trying to attach his water filter to his CamelBak. Before I could say anything, rather than say hello, he turned to me and asked, “How bad do you think the parasites are in this lake?”
I mean… I wanted to say it’s a barely moving body of water with beaver ponds at both ends, but opted for the simpler: “Probably terrible…”
“Right, right. I’m filtering. But if it was that bad, would they really allow us here? … I mean my hands get wet. Will they get in through my fingers? And the ranger was very clear, very clear -- Purell doesn’t kill parasites.” He went on, “I can deal with a gut parasite, but I don’t want to get a tapeworm in my lungs. It’d be there laying eggs, feeding off me years, and I wouldn’t even know! Can they even get those out?”
I thought: oh ******** do I have a lung parasite already?
Then I remembered, wait, I’ve been super careful. I bought an extra strength filter before the trip, and I even have been adding iodine to my water after I filter as a second layer of defense. If I have a parasite then everyone that comes to island must have one too. That seems unlikely. I’ve done what I can do. Calm down. There’s nothing more to do.
Seeing that gave me compassion for him, and so I tried to calm him down: “Yes, definitely scary. I’m sure we are fine.” (I wasn’t sure we were fine, but what more could we do?"). “I’m Tim by the way.” We bumped elbows (my covid era handshake equivalent of choice), and he seemed to relax a bit..
“And, maybe,” I went on, a bit of mischievousness now kicking in, “we’ll both make other friends out here too, ones we’ll always carry inside us... forever” He groaned.
We talked for a while about what brought us to the island (he’d had a hard year with his family), what we’d hoped to find (solitude and no cell phone access), and what we actually were finding (a lot of beauty AND unexpected stress).
He told me his pack was super heavy from the 3 days of extra food he was carrying. (Did I miss the memo on this?) I told him I didn’t have that much. “Look for me Windigo,” he said, I’m sure I’ll have some to spare. I thanked him in advance. We were both feeling better.
At the end of our conversation Elijah asked where I was headed the next day. I told him. He said, anxiety returning to his voice again like at the start, “Me too, I’ve heard from people it’s very busy. Much busier than here. I should probably get up and get on the path before sunrise so I make sure I get a spot.”
I thought, again, ****** - am I going to have to get up in the darkness to get a spot? Will everyone be rushing in the morning?
Then, I thought, oh my gosh – stop. Seriously, stop. Settle down. If the campsite is full, pitch your tent in the woods 10 feet away. There’s tons of flat ground.
Then, oh **** … this guy, with his consuming fears about danger and not enough is visual representation of what it must look like in my own head. No wonder I’m so grumpy.
And, then, the big blow, oh **** this isn’t just an island problem, is it?
Could I have found a better mirror for my own anxieties than Elijah? Here was the universe saying: “Dude, seriously? Can you not hear me? Remember the plane? The moose? Your divorce? This is what your brain sounds like, about everything, all the time. Do you think this is serving you? Do you want to live like this forever?”
There was no real scarcity issue about tent spots. There’s never been a scarcity issue about good photos, clean water, or enough food. Not here, not back in my life before this journey began.
Before I knew what I was saying, I calmly responded: “I don’t know. I don’t want to sacrifice my hike out of fear anymore.” He nodded, as if I’d said something that touched him.
Despite that, I never saw him again. When I got up in the morning, a bit after sunrise, his campsite was long since cleared out. I made a leisurely breakfast and enjoyed a slow walk. I found a campsite, no problem.
We all have our own paths, even when we follow the same road.
---
For the remainder of the trip my mantra became: “Am I sacrificing my walk?” And if the answer was yes, I stopped, literally, until my mind quieted and I could hear nothing but the wild.
I was just as alone as ever, but for the first time the entire trip I was finally hearing the subtler sounds of the forest: the plunking of acorns tossed to the ground from the treetops by squirrels; the gulping way moose let you know they don’t like you are around (even before you can see them); leaves falling from the branches, catching other leaves, and making pattering sounds like rain on a roof. At night, my body still, my eyes unseeing, I heard owls hooting calls and responses, wolves howling far away, and even what sounded like moose mating one night.
The last day I walked more slowly than ever before, basking in the shade of the hardwood forest -- tall sugar maples and oaks all around. The trees formed a thick canopy above me. Below me the forest floor was colored with fallen leaves and saplings only knee high. Above me the leaves on outstretched branches were still green, but when I looked higher up, way up, sometimes I could see their crowns – shimmering crimson and gold in the sunlight. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen this entire journey.
Despite that, a few times I felt that fears or anger boiling up again. Its causes varied. But this time, when it happened I just stopped, and said to myself: “Yes.”
Yes, that’s it. Yes, I am angry. Yes, that happened. Yes, I am here. Yes, I have many more miles to walk. Yes, these trees are a miracle. Yes, I have a lot of anger. Yes, I am angry at many other people. Yes, I am even angrier at myself. Yes, it’s time to stop pretending and face what’s real in my emotional world. Yes, I have enough. Yes, I am safe. Yes, stop moving. Yes, be still. Yes, listen.
The next day the plane arrived just when it was supposed to. I didn’t have to eat any of my emergency food after all. As we flew back to the mainland, I pressed my forehead against the window, staring down at the waters and trees all afire with autumn splendor far below. We landed safely right on time.
In a certain sense, nothing significant happened during my five days on Isle Royale. My plane didn’t have engine problems. I never got hurt. I had enough food. I didn’t get sick. I got to admire a moose’s butt for many minutes from up close. I flashed an old lady. I met a bearded man who perfectly mirrored my inner anxieties. I heard (A LOT) of animals having sex. I saw beautiful trees.
Yet in a deeper sense, those days were some of the most consequential of my entire 18-month journey – tearing down so many richly adorned veils I’d hung to prevent myself from facing my undesirable feelings.
For the rest of my life I know I will carry so much of what I experienced on Isle Royale… fingers crossed it doesn’t include tapeworms.
