Wind – the cruel mistress. It’s a long way home.

Origin Date: 8/21/25

The power of the wind is an amazing thing. And equally as horrible, unless it’s at your back. A ten-plus-mile day, but only on the water for only five hours. The first two hours were glorious. The last three nearly killed me.

Well, I wouldn’t say I feared for my life. But I was afraid to stop paddling and let those whitecaps hit me broadside. That’s why from Hill’s cabin site to Silver Dollar Beach is a straight line on the map. No messing around.

The morning started off just as I wanted. The water was pretty flat, just enough cloud cover to create some nice texture. It’s moments like this that I remember how long St Mary is. I’ve only been exploring the upper half. One of these days ….

I could tell fall was in the air, even though it was just late August. The temps were chilly, and there was a smell. That scent you pick up when the leaves start to drop. When dampness brings forth the sickly, cloying sweet smell of decay. Always the precursor to the coming winter. The end of the season is just around the corner.

Wild Goose Island was looking especially dark and unapproachable. Almost forbidding. I’m not used to this. Maybe I’ve already had all of my good miles on the water, and it’s time to pay the piper.

Another sign of fall. The mountain ash berries are approaching a blood-red color, which means they are ripening. They are also the color of the Red Buses. The story goes that a bundle was sent back to White Motor Company in Cleveland, OH, with a note that said ‘match this color.’ They obviously got the message.

The little passage between Wild Goose Island proper and the tip is no longer passable. It’s much wider now, but the level of the lake has definitely gone down over the course of the summer. I never knew this lake dropped that much. But I’ve never spent this much time on it either.

The lake’s headwaters were calm, and I had a wonderful time exploring those estuaries. Making lots of noise. I do not want to surprise another moose. But the water was equally low here, too. I got the rudder stuck a couple of times in silt, and had to climb out of the kayak and drag it to deeper water.

When I started back, things were just great. Smooth water all the way home. But I could taste a change in the air, and when I came around Hill’s cabin site, there was an 8 knot wind right in my face with nasty whitecaps.

Every stroke of the paddle was a nudge forward. And it took a lot of nudges (and hours) to cover those four and a half miles. Pure misery. No pictures because I never want to think of it again. Yes, the piper came calling

GoatBoy out.

And Patrick sucks. He borrowed my kayak once. Not sure how he fit into my life vest. I wonder if he’d float? Or choke on those luxurious locks?