Sometimes an Extra Five Miles is Easier than Talking to Another Person
Or how to hike an impromptu 20 mile day
This post is part of my Type 2 Fun series, where I write about the less glamorous side of my outdoor adventures. Not familiar with the concept of Type 2 fun?
This is not a lesson in how to gracefully handle curveballs on a backpacking trip. This is a story about me careening through—rather than sailing over—a series of hurdles until a lovely couple from Kalamazoo interceded and helped me find a place to camp.
Picture me at Isle Royale National Park on day three of a solo backpacking trip (yes, that1 one). Only fifteen miles lay between me and the campground I’d been most looking forward to—Huginnin Cove! The weather was great, my muscles were feeling strong, and I had plenty of daylight to walk at a leisurely pace. However, Huginnin Cove did not end up being my final destination that day. In fact, I only spent twenty minutes there, including a trip to the pit toilet, and I never even made it down to the water.
My day began with picture perfect fog over Siskiwit Bay, loons calling out in haunting tones, and moose tracks imprinted on the red sand beach. The sweeping views distracted me, so I missed my turnoff into the woods and ended up following a game trail inland at the mouth of the Big Siskiwit River. Since Isle Royale is mostly a designated wilderness area, it’s perfectly normal to encounter overgrown single track trail—but not to find yourself standing in large patches of matted down grass where moose were, until quite recently, bedding down. I retreated faster than I had moved in years, the entire time hoping I wouldn’t come face to face with one of them returning for a mid-morning nap.2
I reached a much anticipated point of interest around lunchtime. Those familiar with my hobbies know that I love trains. Those familiar with Isle Royale know there’s abandoned mining equipment from the 1800s scattered around the island, including a steam engine near the Island Mine campground. I really wanted to see that engine.
While planning, I read many trip reports on the Isle Royale Forums3 where people sought it out—some successfully, others not. Then I stumbled across a post that included a screenshot of a topo map with a pin showing the location of the engine. You better believe that I compared those screenshotted contour lines with my own maps until I felt confident that I knew where to find it!
My research paid off and I clambered down a nondescript side trail and over a hump of earth to the metal rusting among the trees. Those mining companies definitely didn’t follow Leave No Trace principles, but it was cool all the same to see the juxtaposition of wilderness and industry.
After my side trip, there was a bit of a climb to get onto the Greenstone Ridge—the backbone of the island and what some refer to as the Greenstone Highway. Unlike the narrow, overgrown, muddy, and uneven trails elsewhere in the park, the Greenstone Ridge Trail is often wide and flat, giving hikers a chance to pick up the pace.
I felt like I was flying when I ran into an older couple who had stepped off the ferry that morning. Since my goal was to slow down and savor every moment, I stopped to chat. They were staying at Washington Creek, the closest campground to the dock, and were enjoying an out-and-back day hike on the Greenstone to kick off their wilderness adventure.
Conversation flowed easily until I mentioned that I was doing fifteen miles that day. My new acquaintances suddenly became very concerned for my well-being. Didn’t I know that was a lot of miles? Was I sure I could handle it? Wouldn’t it be better if I reduced my mileage and camped at Washington Creek that night instead?
What a blow to my confidence.
We parted ways and I continued on with my original plan. It was mid-afternoon when I reached the turn for the Huginnin Cove Trail. With single plank puncheons, patches of bunchberry4, and enormous grey rocks covered in moss, the trail offered a scenic change of pace from the Greenstone. I spent those final three miles getting excited to relax next to Lake Superior with a hot toddy5 at sunset.
When I rolled into the campground around 4pm, I wasn’t prepared for how many people would be there. The five campsites were already was full—and by that, I don’t mean there was a single backpacking tent pitched in each. Every site had multiple tents, often oversized ones designed for car camping, crammed into the small clearings. I thought there had been a lot of people the past few days while leapfrogging the same few groups on the Feldtmann Loop, but here, less than five miles from the ferry dock, I was getting a true taste of Isle Royale’s peak season.
I walked the length of the Huginnin Cove campground multiple times, scoping out whether there were any spots to squeeze my tent in. Maybe someone else could have found a place, but I ran up against three hurdles:
Nearly everyone was down by the water, soaking in the sun and views, so it wasn’t easy to strike up a conversation to ask to share a campsite. If there had been an obvious place to set up, I would have gathered my courage to ask around and find the campers from that site. But I didn’t want to waste precious daylight making a general request to people who were unlikely to want a neighbor in such close quarters.6
The flat spots were already claimed and I was nervous about setting up my (then still fairly new) trekking pole tent on a noticeable incline. I imagined myself slowly sliding in the night, until I bumped into my trekking pole and it fell over, collapsing the tent on top of me.
When you’re lonely, you don’t want to sit on the periphery of other people’s togetherness. Based on the size and quantity of the tents, it seemed likely that these were groups who knew each other and I wasn’t interested in awkwardly skulking in the shadows of someone else’s vacation.
Before I made a final decision to keep hiking, I forced myself to spend a few minutes tending to my needs—drink water, eat a snack, visit the pit toilet. Often when I’m acting illogically on trail, it can be solved with a handful of peanut M&Ms or a few swigs of electrolyte-enhanced water. However, after my break I still wanted to hike on towards the much more spacious Washington Creek campground.
The reason I know that I was thinking somewhat clearly at this point is that I decided to continue hiking clockwise around the loop. If I had truly been in a froth about finding a campsite, I would have backtracked to take the shortest route from Huginnin Cove to Washington Creek—only four miles. But I didn’t know if I would have the opportunity to hike the loop again and I didn’t want to miss out on any of the views.
I was capable of hiking more miles. I had water and snacks. My legs still had some oomph in them. I even had a few hours before sunset, so I wouldn’t have to set my tent up in the dark. Plus, the longer side of the loop only added a mere 0.8 miles.7
My main concern as I headed towards Washington Creek was running into a moose. The sun was getting lower in the sky and my route took me past all sorts of lovely marshy areas. I recalled reading a trip report where someone got stuck, unable to cross a narrow boardwalk, because a moose and her calf were grazing on either side of it. I didn’t have the time to wait something like that out, so I talked aloud to myself and hoped that any creatures would scatter as they heard me coming.8
What I hadn’t worried about was Washington Creek being even busier than Huginnin Cove, so that took me by surprise. All of the shelters were filled. All of the individual tent sites were filled. The next option was to go to the group sites, which had been designated as overflow camping.
I admit that I had shed a couple tears on the last five miles of trail, but I really started to break down while filling my bottles at the water pump in the middle of the campground. Twenty miles of hiking and I hadn’t found a place to pitch my tent. What if I walked over to the group sites and there still wasn’t room? I regretted my decision to backpack solo, wishing I had a partner to bounce ideas off of so I wouldn’t be second guessing every decision that had led to this moment.
Luckily, a helpful man saw that I was still wearing my full pack at 6:30pm and struck up a conversation. Kevin and his wife, Libby, were staying in one of the overflow group sites and he was adamant that there was plenty of room for more tents. He told me the site number and I plodded off to set up camp while he continued in the opposite direction to meet up with Libby.
By the time I got there, I had forgotten the number. This was the most embarrassing part of my day—more so than losing the trail on the beach near Siskiwit Bay, more so than being told by strangers that I wasn’t capable of completing my planned itinerary, more so than hiking an additional five miles just so I didn’t have to ask to share a campsite. Like a malfunctioning robot, I stood at the trail junction, wobbling erratically.
Some minutes later—two, five, fifteen?—my new campsite companions turned the corner and found me, with my pack still on, in the middle of the spur trail that led to the group campsites. They gently shepherded me to their site as I kept repeating, “Sorry, it’s been a really long day.”
I pitched my tent, shoved a handful of candy into my mouth, and crawled into my sleeping bag without bothering to cook dinner. Writing in my journal not long after, I summed up the day like this:
Did an unplanned 20 mile day, got eaten alive by mosquitos, and cried a little on trail. Also, got to enjoy my favorite views of the trip and a very nice couple let me share their campsite at Washington Creek. Overall, both the best and worst parts of the trip happened in this single day.
I didn’t sleep well that night, partly due to a kerfuffle between nearby campers over quiet hours9 and partly because my heart hadn’t stopped racing since getting to Huginnin Cove and realizing there was no room there for me.10 I stared at the ceiling of my tent, alternately dozing and debating where I should hike the next day.
The morning brought clouds and lovely breakfast conversation. The latter cheered me up and the former gave me an excuse not to hike. I packed up my gear and lurked around the shelters11 until I found a vacancy. If I was going to spend a zero day12 at Washington Creek, I was going to do so in more luxurious accommodations!
For my final day and a half at Isle Royale, I actually accomplished my goal of slowing down. I read voraciously.13 I drank beer on the patio outside the camp store. I perused the interpretive displays and gift shop in the Visitor Center. I took a stroll along the Windigo Nature Trail and explored the Moose Exclosure. I watched seaplanes take off in the harbor. I ran into familiar faces in the fancy bathroom where we oohed over the running water and flush toilets.
I never would have planned that much downtime into a backpacking itinerary, but it turned out to be exactly what I needed. I wish I could have experienced a night at Huginnin Cove and I simultaneously don’t regret my choice to keep hiking. That campground, with its postcard sunsets over Lake Superior, will still be there on a future visit. However, next time, I’ll be planning my trip for a quieter time of year.
The note I jotted down in my journal that morning was a bit more to the point:
Got turned around trying to cross the Siskiwit River. Ended up on a moose path and freaked a bit.
If you are planning a trip to Isle Royale National Park, Isle Royale Forums is the resource you need. Skip the Facebook groups and the Isle Royale subreddit and go straight to the jackpot. IR Forums offers nearly two DECADES of information, all organized by topic and easily searchable. Start by reading through the Trip Reports section for over 300 threads recounting people’s itineraries and experiences. Then if you have a specific question about the park, use the search bar because chances are someone answered it five years ago and that thread is still being updated with new information.
Bunchberry holds the record for the world’s fastest blooming flower and that discovery was made at Isle Royale National Park! The berries are also high in pectin, in case you’re in the mood for making jam! (Special shout out to the ranger at the Rock Harbor campground in June 2021 who identified bunchberry from a photo for us and then shared these fun facts.)
Hot toddies are my go-to backpacking cocktail because the ingredients are lightweight and compact. You just need a teabag of your favorite lemon tea, a honey packet, and bourbon to make a passable drink.
The camping rules at Isle Royale specifically say to share sites when campgrounds become crowded, but I had run into several groups of people earlier in my trip who apparently had not done any prior research and had ignored the ranger orientation upon arriving on the island, so I wasn’t sure if those rules were actually common knowledge.
For those of you looking at the trail mileage map or the NatGeo topo map, your fingers may be poised over your keyboard to comment that I didn’t actually hike a full twenty miles. My itinerary was supposed to be 14.4 miles from Siskiwit Bay to Huginnin Cove. Then I hiked an unplanned 4.8 miles via the longer side of the Huginnin Cove Trail to get to the Washington Creek campground. That leaves me 0.8 miles short. But don’t forget I added to that number with my detours for missing a turn on the beach and for checking out the steam engine. And I walked the length of both the Huginnin Cove and Washington Creek campgrounds multiple times looking for a campsite, all with my pack still on. Plus, it is generally accepted that at Isle Royale your actual mileage is always longer than the map mileage (often thanks to industrious beavers who regularly flood the trail). If I sound defensive, it is because I ran into that couple from the Greenstone in the Washington Creek campground the next morning and they didn’t believe me when I told them that not only had I successfully hiked my planned mileage, but I had added on an extra five.
On my first trip to Isle Royale in 2021, my friend and I were descending the Lane Cove Trail to the campground in near silence—we were wrapping up a tough 14 mile day—when I heard splashing in the water below us. I commented aloud, “I wonder if that is a moose,” and there was a pause in the splashing, before a hasty retreat. We only saw the rear legs of the moose as it ran down the trail ahead of us. Since I had already successfully scared a moose off with just my voice, I felt (somewhat) confident in my ability to do so again.
From the contemporaneous notes I wrote in my journal:
The group site next door was quite loud and someone camped in between us kept yelling “be quiet” out of her tent, which was totally pointless because they couldn’t hear her and didn’t know she was talking to them.
She finally got out of her tent to talk to them and they told her it wasn’t quiet hours yet and sent her off with “peace be with you” and “god bless” in super sarcastic voices.
I amused myself on my final five miles of hiking by saying there was no room at the inn…the Huginn-INN.
Many of the waterfront campgrounds at Isle Royale offer Adirondack-style shelters with a screened front, but you have to get to the campground early in the day to snag one.
In thru-hiker parlance, a zero day is a day where you don’t hike any trail miles. Often it is spent in a town to resupply food, do laundry, and take a shower.
Stinks, walking up to campsite after a pristine hike, only to find it full. Glad you found a place to pitch down.
Love reading your stuff, thank you. Substack is such a wonderful place to read nature writing from all over, places that I’ve never been.