With an ominous sky in the distant north, and smooth waters in front of me.
I took a shorter path directly
across to Eagle Island. I followed it's perimeter around and crossed to Frechette
Island. I made it to the Hagarty Islands in good time.
Up until this point, the water was calm.
I stopped to evaluate my options.
I had a decision to make.
Continuing west through the shelter of an island chain would eventually force a crossing of nearly two
kilometres of open water.
Or...
I could turn north immediately toward the mainland, just over a kilometer away.
The crossing would be shorter.
The weather would decide whether that was a good decision.
The wind was returning.
Small whitecaps began appearing farther offshore.
With grey clouds approaching in the distance, I took the less risky decision and paddled due north.
Halfway across, the waves intensified significantly. They arrived diagonally across the kayak,
constantly challanging my strength and my balance.
I lengthened my crossing, deliberately paddling at roughly forty-five degrees to the waves,
sacrificing distance for stability.
Every correction demanded another paddle stroke. Every paddle stroke demanded more from muscles to
propel my loaded boat through the sea.
My shoulders burned.
My lower back tightened.
Then I felt something pinch.
Anyone who has experienced a trapped nerve knows the feeling.
It begins as a tiny warning...and can become complete immobility only moments later.
I had experienced it before.
The possibility of that happening alone, far from shore,
in rough water was genuinely frightening.
I eased my stroke just enough to avoid aggravating it, found a rhythm that my body could tolerate, and
kept moving.
There was only one direction left to paddle.
Forward.
When the mainland finally came within reach, relief quickly gave way to another problem.
I desperately needed to get out of the kayak and stretch, but there were almost no places to land.
The waves continued pushing me sideways while the approaching storm slowly darkened the northern
horizon.
Eventually I spotted a small pocket of relative shelter among the Houghton Rocks in Dreamers Bay.
It wasn't an ideal landing. There was just enough shelter and exposed rock to make this work
if I executed everything flawlessly.
It was simply the first opportunity I had.
I climbed on top of the unfamilliar stone, with my PFD, laid across the rock like an improvised
foam roller, and finally stretched my exhausted back.
Vertebrae cracked.
Muscles relaxed.
For the first time since leaving the islands, I could breathe and think normally again.
As I looked around, I realized this unexpected stop had become another reward disguised
as a problem.
The Houghton Rocks looked nothing like the Benjamin Islands, or anything else I has seen;
Instead of smooth pink granite and brilliant quartzite, these rocks seemed to flow in
sweeping ribbons.
Distinct layers curved from one boulder into the next as though an enormous painter had
dragged a brush
across the landscape before the stone had fully hardened.
Standing there, surrounded by those remarkable patterns, I remember thinking this felt like exactly the
sort of place a bald eagle would choose to nest.
Almost on cue...
...a bald eagle silently crossed overhead.
It never acknowledged me.
It simply continued toward the shoreline, disappearing into the approaching sky while I stood there
smiling, wondering how many more unbelievable moments this trip still had left to offer.
I slid back into the cockpit, tightened my spray skirt one last time, and pushed away from the
shoreline.
The final crossing stretched out ahead across Dreamer's Bay.
Unlike the earlier crossings, the waves were now coming almost directly toward me. It was slower work,
but strangely comforting. Meeting each wave head-on felt predictable. Honest. There were no sudden
surprises, no awkward side impacts trying to spin the kayak around. Just a steady rhythm of climbing,
descending, and moving forward.
One paddle stroke.
Then another.
The wind, however, had other ideas.
It poured straight out of the Spanish River, turning the return into an exhausting grind. Every stroke
felt as though I were paddling against a moving conveyor belt, gaining distance only a few feet at a
time before the wind tried to reclaim it.
Somewhere behind me, another thunderstorm was building.
I knew that if lightning reached the North Channel before I reached shelter, there would be nowhere left
to hide.
The only option was to keep paddling.
Eventually the familiar shoreline began to take shape.
Just before reaching Little Detroit Cut, a powerboat emerged from around the bend. The skipper slowed
long enough to warn me that the water inside the Spanish River had become rough and choppy.
I thanked him and smiled.
I knew I had already crossed the hardest water of the entire trip.
As I rounded the corner, and continued down the river,
the marina slowly appeared ahead, exactly where I had left it three days
earlier.
The expedition was over.
Rain began falling softly as I slid onto the dock.
There was no dramatic finish. No cheering crowd. No sense of triumph.
Just quiet satisfaction.
I unloaded the kayak one item at a time, paid for a shower, and let several days of sweat,
sunscreen, and exhaustion disappear down the drain.
The facilities felt almost luxurious after living out of a kayak: hot showers, clean washrooms, a sauna,
a small fitness room, laundry facilities, and walls covered with maps, fishing photos, and decades of
stories from people who had fallen in love with this part of Ontario long before I had.
By evening I was back in Sudbury.
Like I often do after wilderness trips, I wandered into Walmart and rewarded myself with one of their
fresh salad kits before checking into a modest motel for the night.
Hanging above the bed was a framed photograph of a lone canoe drifting across a foggy lake.
It felt strangely appropriate.
Three days earlier I had arrived hoping to discover the Benjamin Islands.
Somewhere along the way, I discovered far more than that.
Some journeys end when you reach the shore.
The important ones stay with you long after.
