Return to Isle Royale: Two Brothers Relive a 1963 Hiking Trip

Our father was a guy who, even late in life, woke up in the morning asking "what are we going to do today?" His need for activity led to a love of travel and camping for weeks each summer. In the winter, he would sometimes go to the basement to sit on our big canvas tent just to take in the aromas of tent, pine, summer and woodsmoke that it contained.

So, it shouldn't have been a surprise when, in the summer of 1963, he and a friend from our small Iowa town decided to take their middle school aged sons (two each) all the way to Grand Portage, Minnesota — a seven-hour drive — and then a boat to Isle Royale National Park and hike its forty miles from west to east.

Isle Royale is a rugged and isolated island in Lake Superior, roughly 50 miles long and 10 miles wide, and is the least visited national park in the U.S. Dad was in his early 40s, and my brother and I were 15 and 12, respectively.

In 2022, Tom and I had both recently retired — he after a 40-year career as a correspondent for National Public Radio covering everything from labor and education to wars in Central America and Eastern Europe, the reunification of Germany and in his final years, the intersection of faith and public life in the U.S. 

I'd spent my life working in libraries, mostly in the university. I always envied my brother's exciting life but also realized that he may have envied the domesticity of mine. I recall a conversation decades ago in which I told him that I dreamed of doing the things he did 'while I'm mowing the lawn yet again' and his reply was 'I wish I had a lawn to mow.'  Since childhood, we'd never lived close to each other, Tom in other countries or in the DC area, while I lived most of my life in St. Paul, Minnesota.

While our family had done a lot of camping when Tom and I were young, we had not backpacked and the lightweight fabrics and technologies we have now didn't exist. The five photos that we still have from our trip show our friends wearing Army surplus fatigues (Dad's friend, the town doctor, ended up cutting off the legs of his pants with a knife a day or so into the trip to cool off) and Tom and I wearing the clothes we'd have worn to school — beige Levi's and polo shirts with a penguin on the breast. 

We boys carried Boy Scout backpacks and big cotton sleeping bags, and Tom had a canvas-covered aluminum Boy Scout canteen — our gear was, basically, toys. The dads both carried fishing rods, but we do not remember eating any fish; in fact, my most enduring memory of the trip is being very hungry by the time we arrived at Rock Harbor Lodge after a week on the trail.

In 2021, one of us (I can't remember who) proposed a return trip to Isle Royale. It took a year to find a week that would work for both of us (even as retired guys, our schedules were busy.) We finally decided on a six day trip — over the long Labor Day weekend of 2022, when the bug population would be minimal and the temperatures comfortable.

We started to review the map and lay out a plan — we wanted to hike the same route as we did in 1963 — following the Greenstone Ridge Trail from Windigo Inn on the west end of the island to Rock Harbor Lodge at the east, a 45-mile wilderness hike with no potable water or services (including cellular) of any kind. 

In the months and weeks prior to the trip, we shopped for lightweight packs, good hiking boots, a water filtration system, and even a Garmin InReach Mini 2 satellite communicator so we could let our wives know how we were doing. My wife, Lisa, planned our meals and we had more than one debate about how much of this heavy food we needed. In the end, we ate most of what we brought along.

I was 71 at the time of the hike and Tom, 74. We've been physically active all our lives as runners and bikers, but knees and other joints are starting to show signs of wear. We each worried that one of us would get injured and put the other in a bind. We read as much as we could about other people's experiences and talked to each other more than we had in years.

I began to see the trip as a way for us to reconnect after a lifetime of being apart and observing each other's lives from a distance. Nearly every time we talked, we mentioned Dad and his audacious idea to do the trip with his young sons.

Our 1963 trip was bookended by two thrills for Iowa boys: the boat ride from Grand Portage to Windigo and the seaplane ride back to the mainland on a Grumman Goose, a fat bodied Navy plane that found commercial use after World War II. We were among fewer than 8,000 visitors to the park that year (compared to over 25,000 in 2022). To save time, we decided in 2022 to fly to and from the island out of Grand Marais, Minnesota, and it was still a thrill. 

As we loaded our gear into the small plane, the pilot told us that the day before they had to chase wolves off the runway before taking off. The day was perfect, as were the views from the plane – of the shore and the Rock of Ages Lighthouse and Canada to the north.

We were dropped off in Washington Harbor and after registering at the Windigo Visitors' Center and filling our water bottles (at the last source of water we'd see for six days), we set out on the Greenstone Ridge Trail. 

Our first day's hike was seven miles to the Island Mine campground, mostly uphill, as the Greenstone runs the length of the island on the spine and over the highest elevations. We met a few other hikers who were enjoying the park in the final days of the season. They were almost all younger than us (who isn't?) and fresh and strong. But mostly, we were alone on the trail, eyes peeled for moose. (At last count, there are about 30 wolves and 1300 moose coexisting on Isle Royale.)

On our first day, we became familiar with the fit and weight of our packs, and I realized that I could make some adjustments as I noticed various pain points – hips, back, knees. We established the pattern for the remainder of the week – hike, find a campsite, treat the water, cook and clean up, then have some lemon and ginger tea, and, before bed, a wee nightcap of Jameson's – my luxury item for the trip, which lasted about four days.

On day two, our goal was the Lake Desor South campground at which we arrived by 11 a.m., unexpectedly early. After a brief discussion, we decided to continue to the next day's site, Hatchet Lake. The day's mileage ended up being 14 miles, during which we ran out of water (we'd not planned on being out so long) and learned that we'd missed an afternoon on the best inland lake beach on the island. We were, however, one day ahead of schedule. That evening, as we ate, a beautiful fox walked through our campsite, slowly taking in our setup (perhaps comparing us to others it had seen) before wandering off into the woods.

The people we met this year (I don't remember seeing anyone else in 1963) included Kathy, who had grown up in Duluth with ancestors who were sea captains and lighthouse keepers. She told us that more than once, as a teen, her parents had boated out to the island, dropped her off with her friends at Windigo and then met up with the kids at Rock Harbor days later.

Our campsites were all beautiful, especially the one at East Chickenbone Lake, higher and closer to the trail than the others which were generally down a steep hill by a lake. It was while lying in the tent after dark at Chickenbone that I realized that we'd been turning in so early, I'd not really seen the night sky in this very dark place. I climbed out of bed around midnight to look at the stars, startlingly bright and close. The next morning, we heard wolves howling as we packed our bags.

Our last day on the hike began with a spectacular sunrise at Daisy Farm and the morning was late summer chilly. We remember the final day's hike in 1963 well — running into Rock Harbor, anxious for real food (then, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.) The trail into Rock Harbor, we now realized, is surprisingly difficult even with the high spirits that come along with completing a hard trip — narrow and right next to the lake or clambering over bare rocks.

Ahead of schedule, we had two nights at Rock Harbor, the first, sleeping on the floor of our shelter and the second in a room at the Rock Harbor Lodge. And we had showers!

Our dreams of lovely meals and wine were somewhat cracked when we arrived at the lodge's restaurant to find out that since it was the end of the season, the kitchen was running low on supplies and our menu choices were limited to burgers or pizza (and beer.)

But the food was good (better than PB&J) and our last night, in real beds at the lodge, was lovely. We ran into Kathy again a few times, including the night that we went down to the seaplane dock in hopes of seeing northern lights.

In rocking chairs (!) on the lodge porch, we toasted our Dad, and later, looked at the stars one last time, hoping for northern lights. The next morning we boarded the seaplane and flew back to Grand Marais. It had been an outstanding week, with perfect weather, no injuries and lots of conversation between brothers.

As I talked with Tom a couple days ago, he asked me if I wanted to do it again this year.

Editor’s note: A longer version of this story was originally published on the National Parks of Lake Superior Foundation website.

Dan Gjelten is a retired academic librarian living, writing, biking, playing guitar, listening to music and enjoying nature in St. Paul, Minnesota. He writes a blog (Confluence.blog) with his wife, Lisa, documenting their long distance bike trips and other adventures and is also a contributor at Streets.mn. Read More