A caribou sniffed my tent

No, no, no. I am terrified to take a sea kayak trip to the Slate Islands off the north central coastline of Lake Superior. For years my husband Lee has tried to convince me this is the next segment in our annual exploration of the world's largest freshwater lake, but I steadfastly refuse. I am afraid to paddle the six-mile open-water crossing between the Slates and Terrace Bay in Ontario, Canada, because this lake is notorious for wild and unexpected weather changes.

When our next-door neighbors Jim and Cathie Hatch volunteer to shuttle us one-way on their 41-foot Bristol sailboat, however, I nervously acquiesce and finally agree to explore this unique ecosystem.

Before I can change my mind, Lee arranges a driver to drop us off at Terrace Bay Marina and keep our van parked 22 miles back in Rossport, Ontario, for a week. The night before our pre-arranged rendezvous with the Hatches, Lee and I easily paddle two miles westward to Lyda Bay for an overnight stay on a quintessential sandy beach campsite.

In the morning a scan of the horizon reveals a solitary sailboat mast moving side to side like a metronome. It is Nokomis keeping time to the beat of the sea. She is magnificent in her sleek design and polished finish.

Via VHF radio, Jim Hatch informs us the swells are too dangerous for an open approach. So Nokomis ducks behind the leeward side of an island before attempting to hoist our 140-pound vessel onto her deck. Climbing aboard requires the up and down moves of a gymnast on a trampoline. Timed with the next big wave and a hearty heave-ho by the boys, our plastic yellow kayak is wedged into the side of Nokomis.

Sailing into a moderate headwind for six miles to the mouth of the Slates is effortless for Nokomis, and I appreciate the comfort and safety of the lift. The challenge for the sailboat comes during the five-mile dodging of rocks and shoals within the channel en route to the protection of a secure anchorage.

Over one billion years ago, a 19-mile asteroid impacted the earth with such force, the archipelago now known as the Slate Islands was formed well before Superior became a lake. Shaped somewhat like a ball split apart into two main sections, the grouping contains six other islands scattered about like electrons within a nucleus. Distinctive vegetation also found in the arctic regions makes this a haven for a dense population of caribou.

One "ker-sploosh" and our kayak is back in the water ready to be paddled to Lambton Harbour where the Hatches pinpoint on our map another splendid sandy beach three miles to the north. Waving goodbye, Jim and Cathie invite us back at 6 p.m. for a steak dinner with two other sailing couples from Mirage and Finistera.

Once we establish our camp, we actually enjoy swimming in this year's record-setting high water temperatures. I try not to feel guilty that for the first time ever I manage to stay in the usually frigid lake for more than a few seconds.

While Lee explores the island's interior, I do a crossword puzzle. As I look up to contemplate an answer, I see a caribou silently drinking from the water's edge 20 feet from me. Reaching for my camera, I click a few pictures before she moseys to my tent and begins sniffing everything. Although she is larger than a deer, the definitive lines in her rib cage make her appear scrawny. I watch her amble down the beach before disappearing behind a boulder.

As suppertime nears, we rejoin the Hatches and their friends for a delightful evening. The six vacationing sailors are planning a return route to their homeport of Madeline Island, 200 miles away at the southwest end of Lake Superior within the Apostle Islands.

The setting sun and subsequent nightfall is the signal for us to bid the sailors farewell and return to our campsite. The change from dusk to dark in our three-mile return paddle is magnified in the shadows and silhouettes of the contrasting land and water. I navigate our kayak by the North Star, shimmering in the night sky. The annual Perseid meteor shower displays an occasional shooting star. Except for the splash and drips our paddles make, there is total silence. The night is filled with magic.

At dawn, the water's glassy surface allows for a tranquil ride to the actual impact site of the meteor that slammed into Earth a billion years ago. Visible from McGreevy Harbor, the 30-feet high Slates are the world's largest shatter cones. A close inspection of these shatter cones reveals distinct fan-like features in the rock created from the shock waves. Trying to imagine that moment in time, I can't help but feel very insignificant.

Circumnavigating Patterson, the Slate's largest island, we zigzag along the exposed southern seaboard past cliffs, arches and colorful bedrock. Gliding past the lighthouse sitting majestically atop Sunday Harbour, we wave to a woman hanging clothes on a line and a man tending to a garden. They respond with friendly gestures, but the barking dog defending his territory discourages us from docking.

After a full day of paddling two-thirds of the way around Patterson, we stop at another incredible sand beach for the evening. Abundant driftwood makes grilling brats and cooking potatoes and corn on the campfire a cinch. Subconsciously I will probably sleep fitfully, knowing we will attempt the dreaded six-mile crossing back to the mainland in the morning.

At daybreak, the marine forecast sounds promising. However, we have taken previous adventures where the weather report says one thing, but minutes later broadcast advisories for small craft. There is a two-hour paddle to the north end of Mortimer Island before we actually commit to the open water passage.

Luckily Mother Nature seems co-operative. Under rare but ideal conditions, our crossing is trouble-free. Once I set foot back on mainland, I stretch my taut muscles and sprawl across a smooth boulder before checking the back of my eyelids for a minute of relaxation. Surprisingly I stir after an hour-long nap, when my sun-baked, black wetsuit cooks me like a soft-boiled egg. I awake refreshed and pleased that I have overcome this hurtle.

The following day I climb out of the tent on a mist-laden morning. I am relieved to be on this side of the shore. I mention to Lee that if we had a cabin cruiser like the Hatches, we could venture into any weather.

Lee proceeds to set our tent on top of the kayak and proclaims, "There you go. Let's see a caribou sniff this!"

The fog doesn't burn off until noon, so we hug the shoreline of a nearby island, fishing for lake trout and catching glimpses of the Slates as they lay on a bed of fluffy clouds beyond our curtain of grayness.

The unusual Caribbean-like weather holds for two more days. We trade our paddles in for tennis shoes to hike a stretch of the Casque Isles Trail as it follows the lakeshore between Rossport and Terrace Bay, exercising something other than our upper extremities. Atypical temperatures hovering near 90 degrees adds to the challenge of the trek. A welcome breeze at the summit makes the vista even more satisfying.

Back in the kayak, we hunt for pictographs in Worthington Bay, check out the islands in Schreiber and Wilson Channels before heading back into Rossport. This 72-nautical-mile excursion is perfect for five continuous days. I'm glad my husband talked me into this adventure. Yes, yes, yes!