My North

The circle of the Ojibwe people encapsulates the essence of life and its meaning.  It takes a soul from its origins in the east, growing them in the summer of the south, allowing them to pass in the west, and finally reflect in the north.  Life is a journey—east, south, west, north—cultivating the fire in the center of every soul. 

My family’s journey began in the south, however, in the southern peninsula of Michigan, and we were going north to Canada, to Lake Superior Provincial Park on the eastern side of the big water, Gitchee Gumee.  It was going to be another great Duckworth vacation, packing the tent, four kayaks atop the Chevy minivan, sleeping bags and pads, ample amounts of gorp (a fancy name for trail mix) and beef jerky, and the trusty camping stove.  Rest was never a term equated with our vacations; kayaking in the Canadian wilderness would be enough to refresh and cultivate any spirit.

Our family vacations never consisted of more than just the five Duckworths; it was family.  It eventually came to be four of us as my brother got summer jobs that required him to stay home and miss the family adventures.  This year, the four became five again, as a non-Duckworth took a chance on our kind of family fun.  Instead of leaving my boyfriend, Eric, in the thumb of Michigan, I took him with me.  This was not an easy thing to do, but after much rigmarole with his parents and a mishap with his family’s van that involved a donut with sprinkles and a ditch, he packed his warm clothes for an adventure up north.

         My mom had told me about going canoe-camping with my dad’s family before they were married, giving me the idea and ambition to invite Eric, especially since he had never experienced anything like this before.  This was going to be Eric’s first camping trip, and I mean legit camping trip—the tent, the campfire, the gorp, and, of course, the kayaks; we Duckworths are not RV campers.  Eric had just received a bright blue kayak for Christmas; he called it his pretty blue boat, and it was sitting in my garage, waiting for its first real adventure.  But this vacation was going to be different; we had never taken another person along with us.  We would have two vehicles because of our five kayaks; we would have another tent to set up; we would have another mouth to feed.  I would have to show this newbie the ropes of camping.  I was nervous: I didn’t want Eric to embarrass himself in front of my family, and I didn’t want my family to embarrass themselves in front of Eric.  Thankfully, neither happened.  Though it would be a whole adventure in itself, the real trip began when we headed north out of Belmont, Michigan.

         The drive north through the Lower Peninsula is long and goes through fields and trees.  It doesn’t get really interesting until you get near the Straits of Mackinac and the Mackinac Bridge.  Billboards along I-75 advertise different types of transportation to Mackinac Island, and after every hill you expect to see the world’s third longest suspension bridge. 

         The idea of a bridge began in 1884, as the trip across the Straits by boat was inadequate.  Something else was needed, perhaps a bridge or a tunnel.  A tunnel?  Yes, a tunnel beneath the floor of the lakes.  There were also ideas of a floating tunnel as well as a series of bridges and causeways starting 17 miles south of the Straits, going over Bois Blanc Island and Round Islands in Lake Huron and even touching the unvehicled Mackinac Island until finally reaching St. Ignace in the Upper Peninsula.  Instead of using these ideas, the State established a ferry service in 1923; people would no longer have to use their own boats to cross the Straits.

         Ferry traffic became heavy within five years and a new idea was needed.  After years of planning and studying, along with starts and stops, a bridge authority was established; the only problem was where to get the money for this huge project.  The answer was found in the selling of bonds, and $99,800,000 worth of bonds was bought by investors by the end of the year 1953.  This was a big deal.

         Designed by engineer Dr. David B. Steinman, construction on the five-mile bridge was begun on May 8, 1954 at St. Ignace and Mackinaw City.  The bridge would come to be the world’s longest suspension bridge between cables and anchorages.  In my family, we always competed to see who would see the Mackinac Bridge first.  Of course, sitting in the front seat had a huge advantage, but my siblings and I would eagerly peer out the windshield awaiting the first sight of these cables and anchorages that joined Michigan’s two peninsulas. 

The Mackinac Bridge would come to stand over 200 feet above water level with two two-lane roadways going either direction.  It would be built to accommodate wind, temperature, and weight.  It would be able to amazingly move 35 feet east or west due to high winds, and once the winds subsided be able to move back into its original position due to the weight of the vehicles crossing it.  It would come to be a symbol of the state of Michigan, joining the two peninsulas, and making the state motto much more meaningful: “If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.”  It would be finished and opened on November 1, 1957, and would be the Duckworths’ passage to the north. 

As we crossed the bridge, I snapped a picture of Eric as he was driving.  “Smile,” I said as I held the camera up to his face.  He rolled his eyes and smiled, keeping both eyes on the road at the same time.  Next, I took a picture of the great bridge and the road taking our plus one family north.

I looked to my left, passed those going south, to the shore of Lake Michigan where there stands the historic Fort Michilimackinac.  A highlight of past family vacations has always been the historic Fort Michilimackinac.  Sure, it's just an old replica of what once stood there and is now filled with people dressed for the 1700s, but it always fascinated me, giving me the desire to always go back.  I've been there twice, and it changes every time.  With live archaeological digs, they are uncovering new artifacts, new clues to how people really lived and what their lives were about. 

We dragged my cousins there once—they didn't understand.  They saw wooden beams and people dressed in red coats and dresses with bonnets on their heads; I saw history, an image of the past.  I wanted to go back to when it was alive; they wanted to go downtown Mackinaw City to see the shops and eat fudge.

I looked past Eric, down into the fort right along the blue shore of Lake Michigan.  If you listen closely, you can still hear the boom of the cannons ringing over the waters.  Large ships suddenly appear on the horizon with billowing sails carrying furs and people and life.  The Mackinac Bridge disappears and you float in a canoe on Lake Michigan, paddling through clean, blue waters next to sandy shores.  Oh, if I only had had a time machine!

Instead, we traveled north through the Upper Peninsula in two minivans with a total of five kayaks on top.  We crossed the border at Sault Ste. Marie and continued north till we reached Lake Superior Provincial Park.

Lake Superior Provincial Park was established in 1944, encompassing not only the rugged eastern shores of Lake Superior but also the wooded and rocky land known as the Canadian Shield.  Huge hills and boulders of granite make up the majority of the turf in the area, which is also heavily forested with spruce, maple, birch, and poplar trees.  Wildlife roams the area as well, the most popular animal being the moose.  The closest we got to seeing a moose was kayaking north of the park, where we found a moose track (no pun intended with the popular ice cream here) and what my dad said was a moose hair.  I’m not sure how we found the moose hair or distinguished it from the brown ground, but we did. 

Driving south on the Trans-Canada Highway that goes through the park, Eric, my sister, Anna, and I, spotted a canine creature on the side of the road, perfectly living and breathing, apparently watching cars go by.  At first glance, I thought, “Whoa, a coyote in daytime; that’s rare.” 

“Did you see that?” I asked Eric.

“The wolf?” he said.

“That wasn’t a wolf,” I retorted, “That was a coyote.”

“It was pretty big for a coyote,” Eric said.

My confusion, however, is understandable.  While wolves can be found all the way down to the southern boundary of the Canadian Shield, the eastern wolf has interbred with coyotes where their ranges overlap, which makes them difficult to distinguish. 

I still couldn’t believe it was a wolf—wolves are an endangered species, right?  The availability of prey along with the changing habitat and other factors contribute to the density of wolves within Ontario, the highest of which is three wolves per 100 km in Algonquin Provincial Park.  The number of wolves in Ontario is estimated to be around 8,000.  The habitat provided, the availability of prey, and the current conservation practices in Ontario make the long-term outlook for wolves rather positive in that area.  My mistake.

In Ontario, wolves are a big deal and have become a cultural symbol of the natural landscape that makes up the province.  For the Ojibwe people, wolves have great significance.  The wolf is a symbol of loyalty, family, cooperation, love, and care, taking part in Ojibwe festivals and celebrations.

Wolves live up to these values through the lives they lead and in the packs they live in, ranging from two to nine wolves per pack territory.  A wolf’s territory depends on the availability of prey within that area.  After a year, wolf pups leave their mother and the pack they were born into to form their own pack or join another.  Wolves have a secretive nature, avoiding human contact and living in low densities, making them a challenge to study.  We got a rare glimpse of one, perhaps searching for a new pack, though the occasion rarely presents itself. Just to be sure after the encounter with our canine friend, my dad later confirmed that it was indeed a wolf.  I was shocked and excited—I just a saw a wolf, IN THE WILD!  Pretty sweet. 

Besides wolves and moose, geese are another form of wildlife in the park and in Canada in general.  The land of the big goose is north of the park and is the Canadian town of Wawa, which means “land of the big goose” in Ojibwe.  The great goose of Wawa, Ontario.  It's the first thing you see when you exit off the Trans-Canada Highway, which is also the King's Highway 17.  The statue stands tall and proud with its wings outstretched protecting the Canadian small-town, where the people revere the goose and respect their Indian namesake. 

Built to commemorate the opening of the final Ontario-Lake Superior section of Canada’s national highway in 1960, the goose also marks the first true civilization since heading north from Sault Ste. Marie along Highway 17.  Along this highway, there are a few shacks, gasoline stations that measure fuel in liters instead of gallons, and small grocery stores carrying a few necessary camping and hiking supplies for those looking for adventure in Lake Superior Provincial Park.  It is a winding highway, taking cars around and above rocky cliffs, allowing amazing views of the great Gitchee Gumee to be awed over.

The main attraction I saw in Wawa, which has a population of 3,000, was a gas station/general store.  It was the biggest store I had seen since Sault Ste. Marie, with a log cabin look to it and totem poles with bear and goose heads manning the front.  Inside, there was plenty of maple syrup to go round as well as edible moose "poop" and deer "droppings" to satisfy any southern tourist.  We just wanted ice cream—moose tracks, of course.  Outside, young boys worked their summer jobs, operating the gas pumps and fueling cars.  They were ready to help and stand at the pump; they were also ready for a tip after they began the fueling process.  My dad avoided them and managed to fuel the car himself.  So much for their summer jobs. 

In order to leave Wawa and get back on Highway 17, we had to drive past the goose one more time.  We wondered how a large goose could be one of the most photographed landmarks in North America, and we left Wawa, not even realizing that this goose was so popular that it was immortalized in a song by Stompin’ Tom Connors called “Little Wawa.”  Its lyrics and rhythm are catchy, as it follows the flight of a lovesick goose.  In the last verse, Stompin’ Tom sings:

A goose that died of heartbreak—

A legend she became,

But now she’ll live forever

In a town that bears her name,

A town that bears her name.



If you should see her statue

On Highway Seventeen,

You’ll know that you’re in Wawa

And her love song you will sing,

Her love song you will sing.



“Honk, honk,” said little Wawa,

“Honk, honk, my Gander-Goo.”

In goose talk that means “I love you,

And I always will be true;

I always will be true.”

Though it was a great tourist location, we Americans only saw a big goose and a gas station.

*          *          *

         It was once said of Lake Superior, “those who have never seen Superior get an inadequate, even inaccurate idea by hearing it spoken of as a lake. Superior is a sea; it breeds storms and rain and fogs, like a sea; it is cold, wild, masterful and dreaded.”  The lake is a treacherous place, causing shipwrecks, such as the Edmund Fitzgerald off the shores of Whitefish Point, to take the lives of many.  Superior’s waters are so cold; they inhibit bacteria to work on a decaying body.  This bacteria normally causes gas to develop within the body causing it to float on the surface a few days after death; without this bacteria, the body tends to sink and never come back up to the surface, living up to the phrase: “Lake Superior never gives up her dead,” literally.  They are lost forever.

However, the beauty of the largest fresh water lake in the world cannot be ignored or shoved aside; perhaps its beauty is intensified by the terrors that Superior holds.  On a clear day, a kayaker can see 60 feet down to Superior’s cold, rocky floor.  Lake Superior Provincial Park holds a 75 mile section of rugged shoreline that can be a kayaker’s paradise, depending on the weather and the moody waves of the Lake. 

Before we shoved off the rocky shores, we had a quick bite to eat—gorp and beef jerky, life foods for any kayaker.  We loaded our colorful kayaks with extra emergency clothing and blankets, towels, snacks, cameras, and spray skirts.  The sky was overcast and gray, but the cool waters of Lake Superior still reflected a bluish-green hue.  Waves rushed the rocky shores, softly brushing against our boats.

I carefully pushed my bright fiery red and yellow kayak into the water, her bright colors standing out amidst the bleak landscape.  I sat down and swung my legs over into the boat's cockpit.  With my legs snug inside, I latched the spray skirt over the cockpit; no water would get in my boat.

Sinclair Cove was somewhat forlorn, with one sailboat resting in the middle of it.  To my right, a large rock face protected the cove from the brunt of Superior.  Its granite sides rose straight out of the water several feet above me.  My adventurous sister looked it up and down, hoping to find a fun place to swim and jump into the cold water—there was none, thank goodness.  Atop the cliff, green trees stood tall, clinging to the rocky ground that came down and around, surrounding the cove, causing there to be a stony beach to the left of our boat launch.

I dropped the rudder, and, with easy, effortless strokes, I paddled through the clear water along the cliff and into Lake Superior.

The eastern shores of Lake Superior are partly made up of huge rock faces—cliffs of sheer rock.  Kayaking along these shores, you feel the ebb and fall of the lake as waves reflect off the stone giants that surround it.  Below the surface of the water, you can see huge boulders, icy through the lake’s blue hue; above, you see the cliffs whose reflection the deep waters bear.  These rocky shores stand amongst green evergreen trees, beneath which is the wild untamed ground of old.  Standing tall above the cool crystal clear water, these cliffs have a history of their own.  Centuries ago, Ojibwe people stood against the cliffs recording their histories through pictures and symbols.  Huge granite rocks that everyday bear against the pounding waves of the lake were once the artist’s canvas, marking the stories of his time.  Now, the pictures are practically washed away as tourists’ fingers touch them and the cold waters of Superior bear upon its history.     

The Ojibwe’s rock symbols are commonly known as the Agawa pictographs; in the language of the Ojibwe people, however, they are known as Mazinaubikiniguning, meaning “the adorned rock on Agawa Lake.”  The Ojibwe people apparently had a knack for giving things ridiculous, almost unpronounceable names.  Take Lake Mijinemungshing, for example.  I don’t know what Mijinemungshing means, but it reminds me of a mosquito.  Then there is the simple name of Old Woman Bay because a giant rock face to the south of the bay was shaped like the face of an old woman.  Perhaps as European traders began to make an appearance in the early 1600s, led by Etienne Brule in 1622, lakes took names such as Mother Lake, Father Lake, and Orphan Lake.  Things got a lot simpler.  Or did they?

The French also took their turn naming places in the park, naming Gargantua River after a satire by Francois Rabelais’ satire “Gargantua and Pantagruel.”  Pantagruel, naming another bay in the park, is the giant son of his giant father, Gargantua, whose crude humor makes fun of education, religion, and life of a Medieval Renaissance man.  I don’t know what this says about their namesakes along Lake Superior except for the fact that they are large and giant-like.

To get to the large Agawa rock, you either have to hike a short trail, crawl down some rocks to a platform, and carefully cross over a slick and wet rock-bridge with a rope stretched across for balance; or you can paddle to it over the ever uneasy, moody waters of Lake Superior.  I’ve done both, and both offer a new perspective to this historical, artistic piece of nature.  Stepping out onto the small rock ledge that is at the bottom of the huge rock face, you stand where 400 years ago an Ojibwe man stood painting the trials and joys of his people.  You crawl out carefully feeling the rock.  I followed my dad, watching exactly where he put his feet so that I could safely follow him.  I passed red images of a strange creature that looked like a lizard crossed with a bull crossed with a bear.  It is Mishipeshu, the great lynx. 

The Ojibwe people believe Mishipeshu lives in the depths of Lake Superior.  He is feared by all, as he is the cause of waves and wind and rapids, even breaking the deathly ice in winter.  He is dragon-like, yet looks like a feline with powerful horns, which are said to be made of pure copper, making him the guardian of that metal.  Though he is powerful and destructive, he also bears healing powers.  He is a protector and a healer as well as a destroyer of life. 

The other red ochre images were of canoes and animals.  I carefully brushed my fingers against the red rock, connecting myself to the history of the rock, to the man who used this huge rock face as his canvas and supposedly gained spiritual powers from it.  After I left the rock, I saw a sign that forbade anyone to touch the images because they were fading and wearing away.  I rubbed my fingers together—the history was still there. 

In Ojibwe teaching, it is said, “Life is a gift.  To honor that gift we have been given tobacco.”  Tobacco was a symbol of the spirit that fills life.  In offering tobacco to Mother Nature, the Ojibwe were giving thanks for having another breath and humbling themselves to the nature and creator they worshipped.  Nature is a gift, so is experiencing and interacting with it. 

         Leaving Lake Superior, we went into the interior of the park to Lake Mijinemungshing, a rather large lake with several islands scattered on its surface.  Kayaking around its edge and passing through some narrows, we reached a cascading waterfall, falling about 25 feet from the lake to a river.  Water from Lake Mijinemungshing flows over large grey and black rocks with slight traces of green algae on their surface.  At the top of the waterfalls, huge logs were placed there by beavers, separating it from the rest of the lake.  The waterfall is not merely one rushing current, but as it hits the rocks, it expands and rumbles down into several smaller falls, forming three cascading surfaces, perfect locations for one to sit and enjoy the water rushing and pounding against them.  Tall green trees stand on the edge of the river and hang over the waterfall, listening to the water play against the rocks.

         I stood at the top of the waterfall by Lake Mijinemungshing and looked down the river and at the black rocks over which flowed swift waters.  I stood in my blue water shoes on top of the algae on top of the rocks which so characterized every part of Lake Superior Provincial Park.  I looked down with excitement; Anna was already climbing down the rocks to reach the bottom of the falls.  Eric followed close at her heals.

         My moment of excitement quickly passed and was filled with a feeling of nervousness and anxiety.  I felt something moving at the tip of my left foot in my shoe.  I moved my foot slightly, trying to shake it off and convince myself it was nothing.  But that was not enough.  I moved fast.  Kneeling down, I ripped the shoe off my foot.  I couldn’t see anything, not yet at least.  I shook the shoe, and there it was: the small, wet, sneaking leech.  My mind swirled—there was no way I was touching that thing.  I grabbed a stick, trying to dislodge my assailant, but nothing worked. 

         I looked up as my sister and boyfriend played in the falls.  I desperately wanted to join them, but every nerve in my body refused to put my foot back into my shoe knowing that a leech resided there.  My mom yelled at me to forget about it and just put the shoe back on.  She stood on the other side of the waterfall with a look that said, “Don’t make me come over there and shove that shoe on your foot for you.”  In my 21-year old rebellion, I responded with a look that said, “There is no way on earth I am putting that shoe back on my foot.”  Our eyes locked for at least ten seconds before she called my dad to take care of it for me. 

         I was free; the leech was gone and I could enjoy the waterfalls like I wanted.  Anxiety left me as I sat against the pounding water that hit my back, changing its current as it flowed around me down into the river, out of sight, out of mind.

         Though not all nature is pleasant, it still fascinates me because of the hand that created it out of nothing.  The wild nature of Canada and the waters of Lakes Superior touch back to the history that makes them rich, to the great power of the One who created the world.  Perhaps this bit of life and nature cultivated the fire within, storing up memories and moments of passing days. 

The Canadian sun was setting in the west in a bright pink, orange, and red; we would probably be too late to see the actual sunset, but Eric drove Anna and I north to Old Woman Bay to see what we could see.  I tried taking a picture of the sunset through the van but all I caught were dead bugs and dirt.

         We pulled into the drive that led to the bay on Lake Superior.  Eric quickly parked the van and the three of us piled out, running to the water to watch the last bit of the sunset.  It set over an out-cropping of wooded, rocky land to our right; to our left, however, the last of the sun’s rays reflected off of a huge rock face, the outline of which slightly resembled the profile of an old woman.

         “Let’s spell something with the rocks,” Anna said suddenly.  Lake Superior’s shores are known for their rockiness, so we had an ample supply.  During the vacation, Eric and Anna had starting mimicking how “eh” was always part of everyday Canadian conversation.  Smiling, she added, “Eh?” to the end of her sentence.

         We smiled and began to pile the rocks.  The shore was our canvas.  We ran from rock pile to our piece of art and back again, carrying handfuls of rocks in the process.  Eventually our piles formed the shapes of letters: C-A-N-A-D-A.  We looked at our masterpiece with pleasure and satisfaction, but we weren’t done yet.  Beneath the country we put two more letters: E-H.  On the shores of Lake Superior lay the phrase, “Canada eh”—the essence of our vacation.