The Tao of Walking Ridge

Departure 8/29/92 @ 6:15 am Arrival 9/14/92 @ 6:00 pm. Trip Duration 16 days, 11 hrs, 45 min. Total Distance 625 NM, Singlehanded Distance 391 NM. Fuel Used 147 gallons (gasoline)

This trip was rather eventful.  The log reads:

9/12/92 - Harrisville to Harbor Beach - 56 NM (9:18 - 22:45) Winds 22 NE, met Canadian boaters aboard a Nonsuch 30,

After a long hard day motor sailing to ensure that I arrived by nightfall, I knew that I might be getting low on fuel.  Twenty minutes from the harbor, my engine stops.  Fortunately, it was a gas engine and would restart once I added fuel from my gas cans kept aft in the cockpit.  But in choppy water, with no sails, the boat drifting and rocking, slowly drifting nearer to shore, I was trying to pour gasoline into the tank.  I received a call from a passing sailor to ensure I was OK.

Upon arriving into the harbor, I discovered it was full of fisherman in small skiffs.  I nearly went aground trying to avoid fishing lines, and finally did what I needed to do to safely put into a well.  All the while being yelled at by angry fisherman.  I was shocked, their lines blocked the entrance to a safe harbor, crossed the only areas of the harbor where I could safely pass with 5 feet or so of draft, and could easily foul my prop.  But they were angry!

Upon arrival I met a wonderful couple sailing a Nonsuch 30.  A spacious boat, it would typically outsail my Tartan 34, as it was a far easier boat to singlehand, and there were two of them.  But directly into hard waves I eeked out an advantage with my shear size and displacement.

They invited me over for a sandwich, commiserated with me on the fisherman, and asked about my trouble as I drifted just outside the opening when I was out of fuel.  While eating, we heard calls from a large ketch that served as a youth sailing experience vessel making rather angry calls over the radio regarding the fisherman that were obstructing traffic.  It wasn’t just me.  I’m glad I did not go aground trying to avoid their lines.  I finally just tried to avoid their boats, not an altogether easy task.  And after nightfall, not all of them even had lights on.

This is a point that amazes me.  Boater at night not running lights.  If the boat is small and running at speed, then I can see the logic of “I’ll avoid them”.  Of course, this means “them” had better have their lights on!  But I find absolutely nothing but laziness and selfishness to explain fishing, anchored, in a channel, with no lights.  I fortunately have good night vision, and have always been able to find them at the last minute by moonlight or by sillouhette from a back light.  But the events always cause for mroe adrenaline than I’m comfortable with.  (note:  I write this in 2008 recalling the events of 1992.  In 2006, I sailed aboard the America as a passenger from Key West.  The America was a schooner of greater than 100 feet in length.  Returning to the harbor after dark, the captain suddenly changed coarse to avoid a motorized skiff with no lights.  Apparently it happens frequently enough, that the captain was looking specifically for such boats.  As if the captain of such a vessel has nothing better to do!)

While having sandwiches, I discovered that the storm we had survived on my way north had broken rivets in the mast of their yacht Christie’s Cat when the rig gybed.  We had indeed been lucky to survive the storm with no damage and no injuries.

After exploring Gore bay for a while, we stopped in Beardrop and returned to Blind River to drop off my sailing parters.  Other than waking to light snow fall, and frost!  it was uneventful and enjoyable sailing.  I got underway from blind River on the morning of September 11, looking forward to the challenge of returning home singlehanded.  the St. Clair would be a challenge, but far less of a challenge southbound with the current.  The log entries read:

9/9/92 - Return Beardrop Harbor, winds 30 SE

9/10/92 - Return Blind River, Winds 15 NW

9/11/92 - Blind River to Harrisville single handed again - 44 NM, (7:50 - 19:30), Winds 25 S

For me, a departure of 7:50 am is pretty early, given I set no alarm.  I found I quickly fell into a great circadian rhythm saling.  Naturallly sleeping well after a day on the water and rising around sunrise.

The passage to Harrisville was greater than 11 hours, a bit longer than I’d hoped, but as luck would have it I had a headwind again, and a strong headwind at that.  This passage could easily have been three or four hours quicker with a tail wind.  But with an autopilot I was able to go below and read.  I began to read General James Doolittle’s “I Could Never Be So Lucky Again”.  Every 20 minutes or so I would rise to check for freighter traffic.  Motoring is a bit boring, but safe and uneventful.

With 25 knot winds howling overhead and my friend’s wife among us (she was a real sport about things, but was sensitive to sea sickness) my call was to spend the day anchored.  But my partner had less time to spend and wanted to explore, so we set out for Gore Bay.

I learned that diesels were better for battling directly into very rough chop with a sailboat.  At the most power I wanted to maintain, I could not go directly into the wind.  I had to go a bit starboard then port.  Slowly, another sailboat eased passed us, directly into the wind.  Diesel.

Finally, we were able to turn and run for Gore Bay.  As I recall, we surfed briefly at speeds of 10 knows, the fastest I ever went in the boat, if only for brief periods.  I’m sure we maintained 6 plus knots for long periods.  The tiller was very heavy, and we had to trade off.  My partner’s wife went below ill.  The log reads:

9/7/92 - Gore Bay. Battled 7 foot waves, winds 25 SE, 4 hours, 14 NM

This was pretty much two hours at a crawl, and two hours flying in rough chop on the rear quarter.

After than trip, we spent an extra day at port in Gore Bay.  We had access to shops, saw a couple of other boaters and invited them for a meal, and enjoyed the beauty of Gore Bay.

After waking up to discovering islands that appeared to materialize while we slept, we headed to Beardrop Harbor to explore.  The log reads:

9/6/92 - Beardrop Harbor - 6 NM

This left most of the day to relax, cook, and explore the harbor.  I also spent time listening to local radio.  There were call in radio shows that featured tips on gardening and other more humble, honest, direct, and less over-produced programming.

My partner and his wife arrived late in the day.  I realized quickly that they were still in US industrial gear, and I was in more of a local take it easy gear.  They wanted get sailing so we headed off.  The log reads:

9/5/92 - Picked up company, traveled to Turnbull Island, dropped anchor in fog, visibility 50 feet.

We slowed to a crawl as we approached Turnbull Island.  I’d never been there before, so I did not quite no what to expect.  We had Loran, but no radar.  Visibility was maybe 40 feet.  You could just see the bow from the stern.  We finally decided to just drop anchor, as if we made the anchorage proper it was likely we would run into other boats at anchor.

In the morning, I was shocked to see rocky islands at 9:00, 11:00, 12:00, 3:00.  Pretty much all around us and less than a hundred feet away.  Like they appeared out of nowhere.  The thickest fog I was ever trying to navigate in.  But with fog is calm, so all was well.

Underway a bit before I expected, I proceeded to look for a place to put in and pick up my boat co-owner and his wife so they could enjoy the North Channel for a couple of days.  My first stop was the North Channel Yacht Club.

The North Channel Yacht Club was another reminder of just how remote the area where I was.  The boats that belonged to the yacht club were primarily 22 to 25 feet long.  No wonder they stared so astonished when I would arrive, solo, in a 34 footer with a dingy on the back making a total overal length of about 40 feet.

Rather than a crane common to yacht clubs in Michigan, they pulled their boats from the water with a little rail system.  It was pretty cool really, very humble.  About the sailing.

There was a keeper who I think lived there, and I asked if he had fuel.  He explained that the gas tanks had just been dug up to update them to current environmental standards.  But he asked if I had gas cans.  I said yes.  I was carrying three 6 gallon gas cans as auxilliary fuel.  The tank on the Tartan only held 20 gallons or so, but depending on conditions I used less than a gallon per hour.  He said “Well, take my car….”  He handed me the keys to a Pontiac with over 100,00 km on it.  No shocks.  Worn shocks would be an insult to shocks, this car had no shocks.  I thought as I tried to get up to the highway speed to get to the gas station that I was taking my life in my hands.  It didn’t help that the speedometer read a number like 85 (km/hr).  But I survived, filled my has cans, and filled his tank as well before returning.

I then called my partner to tell him where I’d be.  I had a calling card (US) but it needed a touch tone phone to put in the code and the payphone I was at had only a rotary dial.  So I called the operator and explained my problem.  She asked if I had a Canada calling card, no US.  I explained I needed a touch tone entry of numbers.  I’ll never forget she said “But sir, all I have is a rotary dial.”  Now that is remote.  I placed the call collect.

I then went to blind river for the night.  A great facility, built with the help of the Provincial government.  I was able to walk to a grocery store and also hang out in the second story of the building and take in the scenery.

My log for the day reads:

9/4/92 - Blind River Marina - 12 NM (12:05 - 14:40), Winds 5 SE

Each day of my singlehanded journey was decided by the weather and whim.  After a day at Beardrop, I decided to check out a little cove around the corner.  Only big enough for perhaps 2 or 3 boats, at this time of the off season I had Long Point Cove to myself.  The log reads:

9/3/92 - Long Pt Cove - 11 NM, (10:40 - 17:20), Winds 25 SW

It wasn’t far, but I spent some time sailing about before finding it. I anchored in the cove for the evening and awoke to the luckiest event I’ve ever had while sailing.

I woke up and looked out the side window to notice a large rocky outcropping drift by.  Startled, I went topsides and discovered my anchor was dragging.  I’d rested easily all evening, but the wind had picked up in the morning and I had drifted directly out the opening of the cove.  What are the odds?  I lifted the dragging anchor and faced with the decision of waiting the appropriate time to vent gas fumes before starting the engine and crashing into some rocks, decided to hit the ignition.  It started, and I was underway perhaps 20 seconds before going aground.

Now I was there.  I had arrived.  I was in the North Channel.  Now I could live according to whim and the rhythm of life.  One destination I definitely wanted to see was Beardrop Harbor.  Beardrop is about a quarter mile wide and a mile or two long.  It has a very narrow opening, making it a great place to sit out a storm.

I was actually able to sail to Beardrop in strong winds of 25 plus knots.  I kept the sails very short, sailing jib only so I could control it better.  The Tartan 34 is not rigged with roller furling and is not ideal for single handing.  But with an autopilot, I’m able to be captain and crew and, by sailing it conservatively, sail safe.

The log reads:

9/2/92 - Beardrop Harbor - 26 NM, (9:05 - 14:29), Winds 25 - 30 knots E

After sailing such long legs to get here, the 5 1/2 hour passage went by quickly.  Sailing short sailed I made over 4.5 knots!  The wind was loud in my ears.  The waves were short and choppy as the North Channel is relatively protected compared to Lake Huron.  Upon arrival at the opening to Beardrop, I found the markers to line up with the entrance.  A book that describes the local navigation marks is pretty much a necessity in the north channel.  It isn’t uncommon to line a rock up with a white mark on a cliff face.  For Beardrop, I lined up the marks, took the heading, and thought I was going straight into the cliff.  But an opening appeared and I motored through.

As I entered Beardrop the wind dropped and the waves fell to calm in a matter of seconds.  Once again, the contrast with the hours during the passage was dramatic.  The calm was intoxicating.  The Tartan had a dingy on davits off the stern, and I lowered it into the water and explored the harbor.  It was a great place to explore with a dingy.  Very protected, with lots of rocky outcroppings to climb on and explore.  A great mix of big boating and small boating.

While there, I continued to bask in how remote the area was.  I could go hours without hearing or seeing another boat or airplane.  It did occur to me that if anything happened, it was likely that no one would even respond to a marine radio call.  Perhaps the Canadian Coast Guard was monitoring channels, but I certainly saw few signs of life.  Self preservation was definetly a priority.

As I settled in for the night, I had my most unsettling encounter of the trip.  A small outboard skiff circled my boat and I heard someone call “Hey, Captain!” a few times.  I saw no spot light, heard to official identification, and assumed it was likely to be one of the locals that are known from time to time to become a bit intoxicated.  Frankly, I was scared.  I stayed below and they left after a few minutes.