Lake Superior is often referred to as the Lady, but that must be "lady" in the medieval context of someone who holds the power of life or death, clemency or condemnation over her underlings, because she doesn’t always seem to behave in a very ladylike fashion. You have to take her in whatever mood she happens to be; sunny, solemn or stern. It’s just the luck of the draw and it’s wise to be ready for anything.

We sea kayak among Lake Superior’s Apostle Islands in August, when the Lady is usually at her sunniest and most benign. Sure, she’ll kick up a summer squall now and again. It’s usually only a brief tantrum. But this past year was different: then we were in for some very interesting weather.

After a deceptively placid beginning to our voyage, all languid paddling on glassy, blue water under clear, benevolent skies, the Lady’s mood abruptly changed. The wind rose before dawn, tugging at the tent to get our attention. We looked out on leaden skies and leaden seas and a sporting headwind to our Stockton Island destination. Low, dark clouds gathered themselves up under the paler grey of

the sky and swept down the Lake, trailing ragged skirts of rain behind them. Today’s crossing was not going to be another mild, summer dalliance.
It started well. The wind in our faces was brisk, but not intimidating. Rain showers were scattered and gentle. With an early start, we were soon paddling around the southwestern corner of Stockton with delusional thoughts of making camp in Quarry Bay in time for a late lunch.

That’s when the wind hit us. Our playful, little 10-15 knot wind doubled in velocity in what seemed like a heartbeat. With every paddlestroke we took, we watched those lapping, six to eighteen inch waves grow higher until we soon found ourselves bobbing in a frothy sea of confused, two to two and a half foot whitecaps, spray blowing off the tops of the taller of them. While they were not particularly big waves, neither were they particularly friendly. They rose at unpredictable intervals and from unpredictable directions. Bigger waves would rise, seemingly out of nowhere, and approach the boat from 45° off the port and then the starboard bow in quick succession. I felt like I was paddling into the corner of a box. But there was nowhere to land. The shores of Stockton dropped rather precipitously into the Lake here. We had to keep paddling, on into the wind or around to the lee of the island, out of our way.

Somewhere behind me, Dean was having difficulties of his own. He was not getting much paddling support from his six-year-old bow partner. Emma had long been on unfriendly terms with the wind and this sudden squall was not improving her dark opinion of it one bit. She was a pretty good sport about it until waves breaking over the bow started splashing her full in the face. Then she began to voice her displeasure in clear, concise, and very loud terms. Dean slowed his paddling to prevent plowing headlong into the waves and immediately got on the paddling treadmill, working like mad and going nowhere. We later realized they were actually being blown backward around the west end of the island.

I slowed down, waiting for them to catch up. But they didn’t. They were farther and farther behind every time I glanced astern, no matter how slowly I paddled. Eventually, I turned and ran with the wind back to rejoin them, retreating over that hard-won distance in dishearteningly few seconds.

My coming alongside the tandem did little to resolve the "what next?" question. Communication by anything short of telepathy was not possible amid the wailing of wind and waves. Even the imposing tones of a rescue whistle were not audible from just a few boat lengths away. Fortunately, we both saw the same lonely, little sweep of sand laid out like a welcome mat along the otherwise inhospitable shores. We each unilaterally resolved to land, hoping the other would take a broad hint and follow suit.

I landed first, easily beaching the boat but then finding myself uncomfortably situated between a new and too-tight spray skirt and a rapidly-pounding, three-foot surf. The third tug freed the sprayskirt just in time for the third wave to turn the boat broadside and bat me out of it far less gracefully than I had planned.
I then helped Dean beach the tandem and lifted out Emma, who was only too happy to disembark. She was quaking like a popple leaf. Looking up at me with eyes widened by fear and sincerity, she said, "Mom, this is the worst day of my life." Her appraisal of the day would improve dramatically over the next several hours. But it took a lot of hugging to get her through the moment.

Our situation on the west end of the island at least let us pick up the National Weather Service broadcast from Duluth. We were not surprised to hear a new forecast for 34 knot winds at midday. We were relieved to hear that they wouldn’t last long. Having an end in sight made the waiting easier. Having lunch didn’t hurt either. We had to pull the boats up the beach twice more to keep them out of reach of the rising waves. We hoped we wouldn’t run out of beach before the squall ran out of fury: our only retreat inland was up a dubious and very buggy-looking, intermittent watercourse. But we settled down in relative contentment, our backs literally to the wall of Stockton, to wait out the waves.

The Lake’s tantrum was soon over. The froth disappeared from the waves. The sun came out and sparkled on a lake of faceted sapphire. Before long, the waves still sliding obliquely onto our beach looked manageable for a launch and we packed up the boats and slid back into skirts and PFDs.

The rest of our day’s paddle was a breeze. And by the time we headed in to Quarry Bay, the breeze was even somewhat behind us. We were still paddling in two to three foot waves. But they were friendlier waves; long, regular, predictable. They were not a problem, not even for Emma.

Emma was soon back into her delighted-with-everything mode. She was willing to put the squall behind her once we arrived in Quarry Bay and she was happily at liberty to chuck rocks in the Lake, wade in the water, and excavate the beach. By the time she got her hot, camp-baked pizza for dinner, she clearly viewed the score as settled. She didn’t even mind that the pizza had to be eaten under the tarp while rain streamed down and pea-sized hail bounced like popping corn.

Towards twilight, I strolled along the beach to have a little chat with the Lake, feeling she hadn’t been terribly friendly that day. When she tumbled me out of my boat, she also tumbled out one of my water bottles (the full one) and rolled it down into the depths to keep. "Ten percent of the world’s fresh water," I said, "and you still had to go and take my water bottle. Was that necessary?" But the Lake’s only response was the remorseless rolling of waves on sand. It seemed the Lady had been out after her pound of flesh that day. I had to content myself with the fact that she had taken nothing more precious than a quart of Oak Island, artesian well water.

The day we crossed to Michigan Island, the Lady smiled sweetly once again and we were granted safe passage. The quartering headwind from Presque Isle to the Michigan sandspit was light, kicking up waves just big enough to sparkle in the pale sunlight. Paddling was quite easy.

But that pacific mood grew more fitful as the afternoon progressed and would evaporate entirely over night. Between passing threats of rain late in the day, we made good use of a couple of calm, sunny hours to walk up the beach to the lighthouse. At the time, it was unimaginable how soon the beach would cease to be an alternate route.

The Michigan light station, built to be a calm anchor amid the Lake’s furies, seemed far removed from them. The functioning light was a no-nonsense tower with only an unkempt and abandoned raptor’s nest marring the methodically engineered symmetry of its framework. The old lighthouse was utterly charming with its squat, white stucco walls, green shutters, and mossy shingles. The tidy, manicured peacefulness of the light station, awash in lazy, late afternoon sunshine was in sharp contrast to the eroded clay cliffs and cobble beach just below it. From the lighthouse, evidence of the Lake’s fierce power was out of sight behind the trees.
Our own piece of island real estate was equally snug and removed from the wild side of Lake Superior. The only campsite on Michigan was tucked into a little hollow in the woods, entirely out of sight or sound of the Lake. It didn’t suit me at all, initially. Ringed gloomily about with young firs and dark spruce, it was dark and stifling and very buggy. We didn’t spend much time in camp. The beach and the sandspit were more agreeable lounging venues. But that campsite did have one solid and endearing asset: it would prove a very snug and sheltered spot to sit out a storm.

This was no typical, summer temper tantrum of a storm, either. This was more like the winter storms that the Lake brews with slow malice to tell the tourists it’s time to go and serve notice to the sailors that the shipping season is soon to end. The wind swung around to the northeast over night, blowing at 30 knots across the uninterrupted, two hundred mile fetch from Marathon, Ontario. In our protected camp on the leeward end of the island we heard little of the rising wind that night, only a couple of passing rain showers. But that was just the beginning.

The morning was sullen and it was evident that the Lady was angry. We sat out at the end of the sandspit and watched the three to four foot waves, jade green and capped with froth, go sailing past our vantage point to fling themselves in spumes of furious spray against the northeast shore of Madeline Island, some three and a half miles distant. Even on the northwest shore of Michigan, large waves were curling and crashing on the beach, carrying it out into the Lake in a broad, brown blanket of roiled up sand. Low-flying ranks of grey, rain-fat clouds shoved each other out of the way in their hurry to get across the Lake. In the grand sweep of lake we had in view, only one boat showed itself, sail stiff and white between turbulent water and turbulent sky. We were glad we hadn’t been planning on going anywhere today anyway.

Rain began about midday. Misty and flying at first, it gradually built itself up into a workmanlike downpour, accompanied by a tympanic crescendo of thunder. We sat under the tarp and watched rainwater gush off its edges . . . and had a sudden inspiration for an alternative water source. There was no well on Michigan: water had to be taken from the Lake. And right then, the Lake was pounding even our leeward beach with three foot waves, thick and brown with suspended sand. Our rain tarp had long since been washed clean. So we set a pot under a low corner of the tarp and soon collected a couple of gallons of water.

Later, I walked out to the edge of the sandspit above the inundated beach for a look out over the Lake in the failing light of a dark day. The scene was one of wild desolation. Seething, dark clouds hung low enough to seem to hold the tossing, dark water in a taut and angry embrace. Beach grasses waved wildly in the wind. Driftwood, thrown high on the sandspit by countless winter storms and spring break-ups, took on a forlorn and abandoned look. Adding to the wild loneliness of the place was the knowledge that we three and the vol

unteer lighthouse keeper were the only people on the island. And we had all gone to ground in our respective lairs to wait out the Lady’s wrath.
The storm grew only wilder over night. Stronger wind gusts shrieked through the trees even in our protected haven, snapping off branches and occasionally sending whole trees to the forest floor with a dull, shuddering thud. Thunder rumbled overhead, rain periodically shook the tent, and we had the surroundsound of surf growling incessantly from the far side of the island and booming rhythmically from close at hand. It was not a peaceful night.

Dean got up in the middle of the night to drag the kayaks farther inland. The waves were much higher. From one perspective, it seemed that their foamy crests were rolling in even with the top of the six-foot high sandbank where the boats had been tied. They hit the beach with a resounding boom that shuddered through the sand underfoot. Their impact could be felt as clearly as heard.

The black night was filled with the fury of the storm; wailing wind, the deep-throated roaring of surf, and the feeling that the storm was forever. Navigation lights behind Madeline blinked fast and furious, lighting the underside of the boiling clouds with stroboscopic effect and lending a sense of urgency to the scene. On a blind night like this, it was easy to see why the Apostles boasted so many lighthouses.

It wasn’t until the next morning that the Lady began to relent. Sunlight dappled the side of the tent. But the wind was still loud in the trees, the waves still loud on the beaches. The weather radio reported the wind north at 30 knots. And the five to seven foot waves and small craft advisory in the near-shore marine forecast were upstaged by much bigger waves and gale warnings for the open waters of the Lake. If we were going anywhere today, it wouldn’t be this morning. We could take our time.

We strolled the beach, noticing how much it had been changed, sculpted and rehung with fresh flotsam. The waves had receded but were still hitting the beach with a prolonged, resonant slap from three feet up. They curled in diagonally, sometimes breaking off shore in a halo of spray which caught the morning light and broke it into rainbows. Emma made a game of running up the beach away from the incoming waves. It hardly seemed possible that this was the same beach where we had peacefully gone swimming after our hot walk back from the lighthouse. Tall, green whitecaps still sailed majestically past both ends of the island. But they now moved in long, orderly ranks, like soldiers in dress uniform on parade. It was clear that the wild fit had passed and the Lake was ready to be friendly again.
It was late afternoon before we left Michigan. By then the wind had dropped by half and the waves were becoming long and lazy and had lost their froth. We paddled back to Presque Isle across four-foot swell. The going was so peaceful and easy that the waves seemed inconsequential. It was surprising how far up we had to look from the trough of one wave to the crest of another. Waves still boomed up under the rocks on Presque Isle Point. But the paddle back to Quarry Bay in the sheltering arms of Stockton Island seemed almost dull by comparison, though even in the lee of the big island, the Lake was still gently undulating with the dissipating energy of the storm.

The Lake’s moodiness had discomfited any number of travelers over the past two days, kayakers, sailors, motorboaters, NPS work crews. Everyone was awaiting the Lady’s mercy. Then, suddenly, she smiled most beatifically and showed us her sweetest side again. It was sunny and warm and almost dead calm. Given the generous weather, we ventured a side trip up to Manitou Island to step briefly back in time at the restored 1920’s fish camp there. It nearly doubled our paddling distance to Oak Island. But gliding across the calm, glossy water was almost effortless.

We paddled idly past sculpted sandstone, staying close to shore to avoid the weekend boat traffic. Emma was delighted to be able to see to the bottom of the Lake through the calm, clear waters near the islands. In the cool, green depths, she was entranced watching the refracted sunlight gild thin, wavering lines on the mysterious rocks who-knows-how-many feet beneath us.

The gorgeous day blended slowly and seamlessly into a gorgeous night. A light breeze kept the bugs at bay and waves lapping gently at the shore made a pleasant music. Crickets chirped lazily. We watched the sunset linger behind the aspen copse and watched a thin sliver of moon follow it into the rosy, western sky. To the west, we could see the pulse of the Raspberry Island lighthouse; to the east, the steadfast blink of the Michigan Island light. A shooting star blazed across the sky. It was a beautiful end to a beautiful day.

But one day of peace was all the Lady was going to grant at a time. Next morning, we again woke to somber skies, a rising wind, and waves beating a faster rhythm on the sand. Thunderstorms were forecast for that night, 15-25 knot headwinds and four to six-foot waves for the next day. The weather was already changing. We could at least paddle in the lee of the mainland on our way out. Still, it was a race between us and the approaching thunderstorms.

Just getting off the beach proved interesting. The short, choppy, rapid-fire waves wanted to bat us around. I helped Dean and Emma launch, then had to back my own boat off the beach to keep from being spun and washed back up on the sand. It seemed the Lake didn’t like to see us go.

Once off the beach, we found the paddling pleasant. But tall, white thunderheads billowing up over the mainland reminded us to keep up the speed. As we rounded Raspberry Point, long growls of distant thunder warned us to keep moving. Coming across Raspberry Bay, sinuous streaks of cloud-to-cloud lightning snaked across the sky and we ratcheted up the pace another notch. As we neared Point Detour, we felt the chill air off the leading edge of the storm cell. Rain began to hiss into the water as we sprinted for the beach at Eagle Bay. We hit the beach about the same time as the thunderstorm hit the Lake.

A hastily rigged tarp sheltered us as we settled back to enjoy the show. Grey curtains of rain were drawn out over the Lake. Lightning stabbed down repeatedly over York Island. Thunder boomed right overhead. Gradually, the storm receded across the Lake. Then, just as things were quieting down and we were thinking of packing up and moving on, a bolt of lightning and simultaneous clap of thunder changed our minds. It was a nice beach. We could wait here a while longer while the next storm cell passed.

Eventually, there was a long enough lull in the weather for us to complete our journey.

Paddling the last leg across Little Sand Bay, we had an unimpeded view of the next installment of weather approaching from the southwest; a black wall of cloud sparkling with silent lightning. We didn’t linger to admire the view. Even so, we ended up packing up the van in a driving rain and struggling to keep the kayaks from blowing off the racks before we could strap them down.

Well, the Lady seemed to be working herself up into another powerful snit for that night. We were content to be off the water and not too disappointed with the prospect of weathering this blow under a roof.

That’s how it is when dealing with a temperamental lady. She smiles. She frowns. She gives. She takes. It’s all in how you count your luck. Our luck had been fairly good this time and the Lady had been reasonably kind to us. We had weathered her tempers with nothing worse than the loss of a quart water bottle. Even there, the Lady eventually relented. The day after that squall I was walking along the beach at Quarry Bay when the Lake yielded up a gift on the sand at my feet, a pint bottle of Ice Mountain spring water, bottle and bottler’s seal still intact. It wasn’t exactly a fair exchange for my pilfered water bottle, but I accepted it as restitution for my loss. Because you do have to take this capricious Lady on her own terms or not at all.