Flint River Watershed Coalition

It was about 7:00 a.m. when I awoke at the Comfort Inn at St. Thomas. But I didn't roll out of bed. I rolled out of the bedroll from within my van in Comfort Inn's parking lot. Okay, it wasn't quite as comfortable as a bed inside the Comfort Inn, but I now had an extra $100 in my wallet which did feel comfortable against my butt.

The breakfast I ate on the drive back to Lake Erie was coffee and nutty donuts. No, I did not help myself the Comfort Inn continental breakfast. Although I did "borrow" hot water for my instant coffee. I'd bought the donuts at Meijers before crossing the border yesterday. The instant coffee was Starbuck's Via, which to me, taste better than what Days Inn could offer, or the nearest Tim Horton's.

My legs did not feel ready to run thirteen miles after twelve mile the evening before, so I decided to once again to kayak first. But, I did drive to where I wished to finish kayaking that afternoon, Port Burwell. On the way I looked for possible midway rest stops where I might break the day into two runyaking legs. Again bluffs made that idea risky.

When scouting the beach at Port Burwell I didn't like what I saw. A very shallow beach extended well out into the lake. If I beached there, I'd have to wade in the water before getting Swiftee to dry land. That would be fine during the summer, but it is November. I had to make another plan.

The port had a channel (Big Otter Creek). Up the channel, I found a marina with a paved landing. I liked it immediately for again it meant less running, albeit more paddling.
I made it back to Swiftee at Port Bruce at sunrise.



Once again I launched with the skirt attached. The waves when launching weren't that bad; I was leaving from the leeward side of a breakwater.



Once around the breakwater, waves were coming toward Swiftee and me from the east. They were wide bounding swells so the kayak could easily glide over them. There was no wind from the east so I didn't understand why there were waves coming at me. I'm very perplexed by waves, much about them are still a mystery to me.

It was probably three miles into the paddle that I remembered I hadn't called Hope, as I always do before launching. Not only had I forgot to call, but I'd left the phone in the van.

A phone is not all I'd forgotten. I did not go through my usual pre-launch checklist. Thinking Swiftee was ready for take-off when I arrived back at the Port Bruce, I figured going through a checklist wasn't necessary. Because of this, besides the phone, I also forgot Croakees for my eyeglasses, a billed cap to keep the sun out of my eyes, and drinking water. I'd made a bad, bad move not doing a checklist. While kayaking, no retainer for my spectacles, no hat, and no water I could deal with, but it would be late in the afternoon before I got my hands on the cell phone. The wife would be worrying for hours; which made me worry about her worrying. Keep paddling onward is all I could do, that and curse at myself.

Dealing with the waves took my mind off of my dilemma. I was encountering a mix of waves; there were the bounding ones from the east, plus waves from the north caused by winds that were forecasted at 15 mph. There was no doubt of the wind's direction for all along the shoreline wind turbines were in operation pointing it out.



When I paddled closer to the shore the choppier waves diminish and only the bounding waves from the east remained. The mix of waves today made for a much slower paddling, 21 min/mile as compared to yesterday's 18 min/mile pace. It was colder today, but on the other hand it was sunnier. I dressed properly so the cold was no problem. (photo 4 – me warm)



The ambiguous horizon of yesterday was replaced by three easily seen layers of contrast, the lake, a beautiful cloud bank at the horizon, and blue sky above it.



Ohio, fifty miles south, was under cloud cover so it seemed, but that is not the impression one would get when viewing the band of white clouds on the horizon.

Once the Port Burwell breakwater came into view I set my bearing to its end. It was a quarter mile long. I didn't mind the extra paddling distance but wondered how nasty the waves might be after rounding it. To be safe, I thought it best to land on the leeward side, walk onto the pier and have a peek at the windward side.

One thing deterred me from doing just that. This beach, like the one I'd scouted before sunrise was very shallow. I'd have to wade in the cold water once Swiftee bottomed out.

Swiftee was remaining dry on the inside, more than any kayak segment this year, thanks to Gorilla duct tape, I wanted to remain dry myself. But, safety prevailed over staying warm and dry. I made the landing and got wet.



Leaving the kayak, I walked to the breakwater and checked out the waves. What I saw was not good. The waves were bigger than most I'd seen yesterday; some with whitecaps. But the calm channel beyond the waves was calling me like a siren. When finding a quiet recess behind a breakwater abutment where I could put in, I decided to go for it. So, I returned to the beach and carried the kayak to the breakwater.

After the safe launch from the recess, I rounded the abutment and paddled straight into the waves, for to paddle directly toward the channel, I would certainly take direct hits by whitecaps. To avoid this, I had to paddle into the waves, do an about face; then aim for the channel entrance.



All went as planned, except when changing direction. I caught a wave, which I thought Swiftee and I could paddle through. Instead, it began pushing us. Yeah, Swiftee and I were surfing! Freaking out, I paddled strongly on the starboard side trying to turn Swiftee's bow into the direction of the wave. The only thing going though my mind was "Whaaaa-a-a-a WIPEOUT!"

Luckily, we lasted the wave and let the following waves coast us into the channel. Just a half-mile paddle up the Big Otter Creek and this year's kayaking season would be over. But, before the run, I felt I must get my hands on a cell phone. Along the channel was a crew of construction workers working on the pier. One spoke to me and asked, "How was it out there today?"

Without thinking I gave a positive response as I usually do to downplay the risks I take. I said, "Not bad," which was blatant lie. One minute earlier because of the elements I'd come close to capsizing.

In return I asked him, "Would you happen to have a cell phone I could use?"
He didn't but found a co-worker that did. I called home and explained to Hope my memory lapse from the morning. She didn't seem as worried as I figured she would be. I gave the hardhat a Canadian $10, thanked him and told him to by donuts for everyone tomorrow.

I enjoyed paddling up Big Otter Creek, just from the fact of knowing these were the last few strokes of the runyaking season. (photo 7 – big otter) I landed at the marina, which at this time of the year was deserted. I had my pick of any slip, for they were all empty. I opted for the paved boat ramp, which would scrape the duct tape from Swiftee's bottom, but I figured what the heck, I didn't have to worry about a leaky kayak until spring.

It was 1:00 in the afternoon. I was hungry and needed to eat before the thirteen mile run. I'd forgotten water by not going over the checklist… but I had plenty of beer. It had been left kayak from yesterday… it was 93% water. I was in a celebrative mood and could have drained the growler which was 2/3 full, but had to remember… there was a two and a half hour run ahead of me.



The thirteen mile run back to Port Bruce was a long sluggish one. Seems all runs are when they follow paddling. This one may have been more so, because of the Lost Sailor India pale ale I'd drank. About nine miles into the run I passed a farm and heard loud laughter. I couldn't help thinking they were laughing at how slow I was running. I wanted to yell back to them, "Oh yeah, well you try runyaking 48 miles in two days and see what you look like."

Ten miles into the run I was dehydrated and wanted to walk. On the map I was carrying with me, it said I was in the town of Copenhagen. I did not see much of a town. There were more houses than usual. In one yard a woman and young child were raking leaves.

I stopped running and asked, "Ma'am, I very thirsty, could I get a drink of water."

Now, the last time I asked a woman for water was on Day 25, near Lexington MI. That time the woman told me, "No." This time I was taken inside a house where the nice lady poured me a glass of water from her fridge. I glugged it down then held the glass back toward her like a beggar. Twice more she poured before my thirst was slaked. As an American I hate to say it, but it seems Canadians beat us when it comes to hospitality. Here in Ontario I've had so many positive encounters… and they don't even know I'm from Michigan.

Thanks to the lady, the last three miles were bearable. I made it to the van and drove back to Port Burwell to get Swiftee. The marina was not totally deserted this time for there was a transparent looking man standing next to Swiftee. It was my old Indian spirit friend Chief Pontiac.

He spoke, "Has been many, many moons since Horseshoe Lake, you have traveled far, far distance."

"I've traveled 553 miles by kayak alone," I told him.

"Where is water from Horseshoe Lake?" Pontiac asked.

"I have it. It's in the dry bag."

"Show me." Chief commanded.

So, I reached into the dry bag, which seemed wet inside, and pulled out the plastic bottle. It felt awfully light… in fact it felt empty. When handing it to the chief I thought he would start screaming at me.

"Bottle empty." He said softly.

"I guess it must have leaked out. The dry bag is wet inside. There has to be some water left in the bottle, isn't there?"

Pontiac shook the bottle, "Yes, few drops left. Put every water drop left in better bottle. You must pour water, if only one drop, from Horseshoe Lake into Horseshoe Falls. Or, all hard work you did mean nothing."

"It will happen. I wasn't sure two years ago that I could do it. Now, I see some light at the end of the tunnel. I can, and I will, finish what I started."

"Have good winter Wandering Beaver. I will see you back here when flowers again grow and leaves return to trees.

And as usual, the spirit vanished.

When back home the first thing I did after parking the van was find a small vial and capped the remaining drops of water from Horseshoe Lake into it. I tightened the cap as tight as I possibly could.

On Day 47 eleven miles was added to the total distance from the initial starting point. That point is 553 water miles away. The miles ran on Day 47 was 13. The total miles of running comes to 558.75.

When leaving Port Stanley a month ago I wondered if I'd just completed my last runyaking segment of the year. After all, it was October; in the previous two years of the Horseshoe to Horseshoe Expedition I'd never runyaked past September. I'd had such a great time that last day in October, that by November, I was yearning to get back to Lake Erie. I began watching the weather forecast, and found two days without rain or south winds. I began preparing for one last hurrah.

One step in the prep was to prevent Swiftee from leaking. I went to Lowe's and bought a roll of Gorilla duct tape. After applying a layer of regular duct tape, I then added a layer of the heavy duty stuff. The regular duct tape was blue in color like Swiftee. It was quite inconspicuous. When finishing with the black Gorilla tape he looked like crap, but now I'd worry less about sinking out in Lake Erie. But, just in case, I also bought a hand operated transfer pump from Lowe's automotive department. This, if needed would replace the shirt that was used last time as a sponge to evacuate water in the kayak's hull.

The drive back to Port Stanley was 165 miles; I arrived at the launch site in Port Stanley's harbor at about 8:00 am. The waves landing inside the harbor were bigger today than when I debarked 29 days ago, but they did not seem daunting. I prepared Swiftee for the launch, then drove to my next port-of-call, Port Bruce ten miles or so down the shoreline.

What I saw there caused me to take heed. On both sides of the breakwater I saw whitecap waves. Yikes, had I driven all the way from home for nothing? The plan was to leave the van at Port Bruce, run thirteen miles back to Port Stanley, then kayak the ten miles to Port Bruce. Whoa… no way was I going to try that after seeing those waves.

As I've done before in unknown paddling situations, its better to paddle first and run after. That way, if needed, I can abort and run back to the van. I began driving back toward Swiftee, looking for possible places along the bluffs where I could terminate paddling.

But there simply weren't any places in the ten miles where I could elevate Swiftee from below the bluffs to the van. Looking down from the bluffs at the checkpoints, the waves coming in still looked ominous.

The last overlook I checked was at the end of Hawk Cliff Road. There was a short path to the cliff from the end of the road. Seeing a path told me it was frequented by more than just hawks. There seemed to be something special about this overlook, but I couldn't put a finger on what it was. When driving away a saw another parked vehicle. Yards away from it, in an adjacent field, there was a man sitting in a lawn chair, and he waved to me. "How weird?" I thought. But, not enough to make me turn around and investigate. I thought… maybe he was a hunter, he was scoping out the area before deer season began. When deer season begins in Ontario I have no idea.

I arrived back at Port Stanley and was in no hurry, so decided to wait a few hours, and see if Erie would calm down. I went to the library where I could use the internet and check the marine weather report.

From internet searches I saw some improvement for the afternoon, plus tomorrow looked promising. If I stayed the night I might get in at least one runyaking segment. Leaving the library I walked around town and then followed the pier out to where I'd left Swiftee. There, I saw some improvement from the earlier conditions. But that was in the harbor, I needed to see what it was like in open water.



I walked the half-mile back into town then drove a few miles out of Port Stanley to Hawk Cliff, at the end of Hawk Cliff Road.

When I arrived there this time, I was hoping to find the guy I'd seen earlier sitting in a lawn chair. If so, I'd get to the bottom of why he was sitting there. This time there were four vehicles. I drove by them all and parked at the very end of the road. From there I followed the path to where I could look out over the bluff.



The waves I now viewed coming in were in my estimation, "kayakable."

"Yes! I thought. Then and there, I began making plans to kayak.

When walking back to the van I saw people with binoculars. "Ah," I now knew what the lawn chair dude was up to. This was a birding location, and with a name like Hawk Cliff I should have figured it out earlier.

I approached one birder and asked if there was a certain species that had been spotted that the birding community was congregating to see.

I asked the man, "Has something unusual been spotted?" My suspicions were off. He explained that birders just come here regularly to see what was available.

"I wish I had my bins." I said to the birder, who's name I learned was John French. He pointed up at what he thought was a broad-winged hawk, and said there was not enough light to tell for sure.

Then he said, "From the way it's soaring, it might be a golden eagle."

"Really!" I spoke with some skepticism, "I've never seen one of those before." I thought golden eagles were only found toward the Pacific Coast.

John French and I talked a bit more, I explained my quest and he offered me his provincial park pass that would expire at the end of November. Ahead of me were two provincial parks. Since he wasn't going to use it again, accepting his offer might somehow be to my advantage, and so I did.

I said "thanks," "goodbye," and "nice meeting you," got in my van and drove back to Port Stanley where Swiftee was waiting.

Today would definitely be a day I'd be installing the spray skirt on Swiftee. During the launch I figured some water might enter the kayak from waves before I got the skirt attached. Therefore, it would be safer, and I would remain dryer, if I launched in town at a marina on Kettle Creek. It was a half-mile from the harbor. It meant extra paddling, but there was a trade-off, I'd have a shorter run. At this stage of the game I'll gladly trade less running for extra paddling distance.

I'd burned off a few hours of the day waiting for better paddling conditions. It would be a 1:00 pm launch. I needed to eat lunch. The eatery that grabbed my attention more than others in Port Stanley went by the name of "Killer Desserts." I was a café, I could have sat down for a real meal, but my eyes never got past the butter tarts sitting on a counter. I bought one, ate it in the van. Oh man, was it delicious. The best butter tart I can ever remember. I was now all sugared up and ready to go runkayaking.



Out of Kettle Creek, up the harbor channel, to the open waters I went. I felt the calm half-mile of paddling was well worth it. On the open water I moved at a slightly slowly over average pace, under nineteen minutes a mile.

It was still a very hazy day. In the distance was a lost horizon. By that, I mean it was hard to distinguish where the sky stopped and water began.



In an hour I was once again at Hawk Cliff, but this time from below the bluffs. When gazing from above, it was impressive. From below, it looked like 90% of the shoreline I've seen since paddling away from Wheatley back in July.



From above, and below Hawk Cliff, a pumping station on the shoreline could be seen.



Water there is pumped from Lake Erie for use in Elgin County, and much of the City of London, Ontario, in Middlesex County. 14 million gallons of water a day is pumped out of Lake Erie from this station. When paddling by it, it would seem I'd get trapped in a whirlpool, but Swiftee and I did not even notice an eddy.

I've now been in Elgin County since departing Clearville, thirty miles back on Day 43. Elgin is only the third Ontario county (Essex, and Chatham-Kent being the previous) that I've been in since runyaking in Canada.

I was on the water over three hours and paddling a distance of over 10 miles, upon arriving at Port Bruce. During the trip I would occasionally pull the skirt up and look to see if Swiftee was leaking. He remained dry, thanks to Gorilla duct tape.

But, upon landing we both took a drenching. Whenever landing and exiting when the skirt is attached, the skirt must come off when I stand. I look as if I'm wearing a skirt. This time like many others, the first wave dumped water into the kayak. I could not avoid getting wet myself. Afterwards while draining the water from Swiftee I began to shiver. Water of the Great Lakes in November tends to have that effect on the human body.

A couple hundred feet away was a "closed for the season" beach snack bar. I took refuge there; it was out of the wind. It was after five in the afternoon. Daylight savings time had ended five days ago, so it was much darker than usual. The area looked devoid of humans, enough that I felt I could leave Swiftee at the concession stand until I returned in the morning. I called home and assured the wife all was well, then prepared for a twelve-mile run back to Port Stanley.

I arrived back at Port Stanley, on foot, well after dark. I cleaned up and headed to St. Thomas for some supper. I dined at the same St. Thomas sports bar I ate at a month ago, "Legends." I sat at the same bar stool. Also, next to me was the same barfly I'd sat by the last time. Only difference… hockey was on all TV screens this time, last time it was MLB playoffs. Like the last time I began chatting to the big guy next to me. "Bear," is what he replied when I asked his name. Bear has to weigh 135 kilo. That sounds better than saying 300 lbs, and after all this is Canada.

Bear, the same age as me, had retired from the R.C.M.P in 2009. I could not fathom a 135 kilo Mountie in uniform. He said he only wore the red uniform his rookie year. He, originally a Novy, or Nova Scotian, spent his career in the organized crime division in Toronto.

Bear seemed to be a very interesting man, and I would have liked to stayed and talked to him much longer. But, after getting up at 4:00 am, kayaking ten plus miles, and running twelve, I was beat. I headed for my sleeping quarters; that of course would be my van.

Day 46's runyaking total was 23 miles. The running equated for12 miles and kayaking 11 miles, although 0.5 miles will be subtracted for being upstream and away from the direct path to Niagara.

From inside my van I awoke in a St. Thomas parking lot sometime after three in the morning. I wondered if the Tigers had beaten the Yankees the night before. Listening to Canadian radio stations on the return to Lake Erie I hoped to find out. That did not happen.

I parked the van at what would be my debarking point that afternoon. It was an unpaved landing, within the Port Stanley harbor. From there I prepared for a long run into the darkness. Fortunately, I'd recently loaded all my cold running gear into the van. With it being chilly, I adorned myself with running pants, gloves and headband. Also in the box of winter gear was a reflective vest and a headlamp, which I would need.

Never in my life had I begun a run this early, 4:00 am. If I said I was looking forward to this day of 19 miles of running and 15 miles of kayaking I would be lying. When I began trotting away from the van, holding cell phone in one hand and bottle of water in the other, I was not feeling well. Twenty ounces of coffee and pumpkin bread I'd consumed on the drive to Port Stanley was not sitting soundly on my stomach.

I kept telling myself to go slow and not worry about time. The first mile seemed entirely uphill so my advice was easy to follow. I may have been running slower than I could have walked, but refused to amble. So far, I'd run every inch of the, over 500 miles getting here, I wasn't going to start walking today.

I had a map in my running pants pocket, and I referred to it often using the light on my forehead. I often panicked thinking I might miss a turn and end up running more than twenty miles.

Once far from the city lights of Port Stanley I could not believe how dark it was. On my left Lake Erie was a half-mile away on average, and surrounding me was nothing but farmland and woods. It was a moonless night, at times the only light I had were the stars. And, oh my goodness, were there stars! I'd never seen so many stars. The only other moment I can compare it to was at sea on a cruise ship, but even then the lights of the liner blocked out much of the heavenly illuminations. With Lake Erie being 50 miles wide it kept most of humanity's lights from reaching me. Other than starlight the only light beams were from barnyards, and at this time of night the only radiance from them were flood lights on poles. When running through wooded areas that blocked out the stars, I literally could not see my hand I front of my face.



With the many curves in the roads I was running, only by locating the North Star, did I know direction I was heading. Constellation Orion could usually be seen on my left or in front of me. I've seen it a hundred of times, but tonight it was so jammed packed with surrounding stars, the only thing that gave it away was the belt. In the peculiar state of mind I was in, never had Orion looked so awesome.

I can't remember a time in my life that I felt this sort of solitude. I felt it was just me alone in the universe. Where I ran was so isolated I ran over two hours before a car passed me.

While transfixed and enjoying the seclusion in an odd sort of way, I was still feeling nauseous from breakfast. The bottle of water I was carrying was a hindrance, I wanted to dump it, but knew better than to run the later miles without some hydration.

After nine plus miles the sun began rising and the starlight dissipated. My mood changed, once again I was back on Earth with other humans. The second half of the run seemed normal. But those first two hours made for the most inspiring and memorable run of my life.

After sunrise I began sipping water from the bottle occasionally. I was not thirsty at all, still feeling queasy, but knew I had to drink. I was running without gps so had no idea how far I'd traveled except going by time.

It was 7:30 am, at a monumental roadside obelisk that I called home and talked to Hope. I was surprised I had service. I warned her she might not hear from me again until landing at Port Stanley in the afternoon.

I finally arrived at Duttona Beach just before 9:00 am, nearly five hours after leaving Port Stanley on foot. I found Swiftee still covered by rain parka and untouched.



The water looked calm enough that that I decided to paddle directly toward Plum Point, the next land's end sticking out into the water.



It would put me three-quarter mile away from shore but save a half-mile of paddling.



Before getting there I again noticed water pooling in the kayak's haul. The new application of duct tape was not working. I rounded the point and found a place to land. I avoided getting out and draining for it required unpacking and repacking the kayak. Instead I took a shirt out of storage and began sopping up the water and wringing it back into the lake.

Afterwards every quarter-mile I stopped paddling and expelled water with the shirt. Aside from that, it was a great day for kayaking. The sun broke through and warmed things up a bit; to the point I didn't need the long sleeves and pants I wore during the mornings run, but I did keep them on.

The paddling pace was under 19-minutes a mile, even with time out for expelling water. I could paddle the fifteen-mile journey in four hours. Adding time off-water for lunch, I could make Port Stanley sometime shortly after 2:00 p.m.

A mile after Plum Point I passed what on the map was labeled as Port Stanley. From the water I saw nothing that looked like a port. From Plum Point to Talbot Creek's mouth, at least threes miles of lake frontage was once the farm of the Thomas Talbot.

Ever since the first day of paddling the Canadian shoreline from Windsor, the name Talbot has been seen everywhere. Not until I paused during the mornings run to call Hope at the obelisk monument, did I begin to know the full story behind Colonel Thomas Talbot. The memorial was on the old Talbot Farm property, and told of the Talbot Settlement.



The Talbot Settlement, is certainly a major chapter of Upper Canada history. It began in 1803. (In those days Canada was divided into Upper and Lower parts. Where I've been traveling was considered Upper Canada with the Quebec region being Lower Canada. Somewhat confusing, for geographically the names should be reversed, only when speaking in terms of the St. Lawrence Seaway's direction of flow does it make sense.)

Thomas Talbot was a very powerful man, a despot many called him. From all I've read, there have not been many kind words about him. All land I've running on since leaving Windsor were doled out to settlers by Talbot. Starting the Talbot Settlement with 5,000 acres in 1803, Talbot, by 1826 had somehow schemed to control and regulate 600,000 acres of land. In securing lands for settlers he managed, in exchange, to hold and own title to 65,000 acres for himself! His power came to an end in 1837 when all control was transferred to the Crown Lands Commissioner.

Although historic words are not to kind about Thomas Talbot, the system of roads he left is his greatest legacy. The roads were built and maintained by Talbot's settlers. One of the land grant's stipulations was “property” in exchange for “road work.” Talbot Road, or Provincial Highway 3, which runs from Amherstburg (Boblo Island) to Port Erie (border town of Buffalo) was the major road. Well, it sure has been for me since Day 39 and for many future runyaking days.

All of the Talbot doings was headquartered where I am runyaking today, I even ran by St. Peters Anglican Church Cemetery, where he was buried in 1853.

Paddling not far beyond the mouth of Talbot Creek, I stopped along the bluffs and ate the beef sticks I'd bought the day before, along with crackers and beer from home. While on the beach I gave Swiftee a thorough draining.

Before leaving I made a close ground check to assure I was not leaving any trace (other than my tracks) that I had been there. There were no signs that other humans had ever been on the thin beach below the bluff, and I wanted to keep it that way. (photo 6 – swifty below bluff) The only objects seen along the shore were remains of eroding land, the trees that toppled, or large chunks of clay that had cleaved. So, it was funny when cleaning up after myself that I stumbled upon an old sneaker lying on the beach. It had to have washed ashore, but how long ago? Not many boats pass by this area.



I haven't seen any boats since leaving Port Glasgow yesterday morning. It’s a 23-mile boat trip between Glasgow's harbor and the harbor of Port Stanley. When talking to the manager of the Wharf restaurant yesterday, he said it was risky boating from Port Stanley to Port Glasgow, that you'd better know the forecast. Along the bluffs where I am, a paddling craft is the safer mode of transport. I doubt many folks have kayaked from one port to the other. The manager at the Wharf was quite surprised that I was attempting it.

With Swiftee dry on the inside I launched and aimed for the Port Stanley pier which I could see less than four miles away; again using the shirt as a sponge every quarter mile. The closer I got to the pier the rougher the water became. (photo 8 – choppy) This happens quite often when approaching piers. Waves recoiling off the pier make for choppy water.

Once around the pier and in safe harbor I could see the van waiting.


Upon landing I began reflecting about what an exhausting runyaking leg it was. The runyak cycle took ten hours. I estimate my heart was recovering or resting less than two hours of the ten. I rate it as one of the top physical accomplishments of my life.

I wasted no time in the reflection; I loaded the van and aimed for home. After today the closest and fastest way home will be via the Port Huron and not Detroit. To get there I must again go to St. Thomas.

Yesterday when at the Wharf restaurant, the manager served me a beer from a St. Thomas brewery. So, when passing through the town (actually named after Thomas Talbot, and not the saint) I visited and drank at the 307th brewery of the Riley McLincha World Brewery Tour.



Ontario bottling breweries cannot serve and sell their beer on premises. They let you taste samples. After tasting a few I decided to purchase a couple bottles of Dead Elephant IPA. Not very good, but the best tasting beer they had, according to my discriminating tongue.

It wasn't until crossing the border at Port Huron and listening to a Michigan radio station that I finally learned the result of the Tiger/Yankee game the night before. Detroit lost.

And, it wasn’t until drinking the Dead Elephant IPA at home that I realized the beer was named in honor of Jumbo the Elephant.



On Day 45 the distance ran was 19 miles. The distance paddled was 14.9. As of this day, the total running mileage for 45 segments is 533.75. The total running mileage, for the first time, has surpassed the total kayaking distance, 530.20 miles.

I arrived back at Port Glasgow marina just after the sun had risen. I had risen three hours earlier at 4:00 am for the 180 mile drive.



From Port Glasgow the next decent landing point was over 9 miles away at a place called Duttona Beach, and the run back was about four miles longer.

Even with getting up that early, after running, the launch was past 11:00 am. Immediately after parting the marina the banks began to rise again and once more bluffs were a constant view.



Again I saw bald eagles atop the bluffs in trees, one adult and one immature. Back on Talbot Trail near the sighting was a settlement named Eagle. Coincidence?



Also near where the eagles were seen was E.M. Warwick Conservation Area. When scoping out places to land earlier I didn't bother venturing the "100 chain" drive to the area, for it would be just a six mile paddle. I was looking for something longer, but did take it into consideration. As I paddled by Warwick I did see a road that descended the heights that could have been used. It would be nice if there were roads like this spaced about every four miles from each other along the bluffs.



I'd been paddling about three miles when my butt felt wet. Upon further investigation I found Swiftee was filling up with water. I headed straight to shore to drain, and figure out what was going on.

Swiftee is not in the category of kayaks to be paddling on the Great Lakes. Add to that, I've been duct taping him the past three years since my inadequate plastic weld job gave out from a couple years prior to that. Swiftee would be labeled "not seaworthy" by most standards.

On a beach beneath the bluffs I toweled off the old duct tape and added new strips. Three miles later I had to head to shore again to drain. This time I skipped adding more tape, for obviously it was not working.

I had been on Erie three hours, and performed three drainings before I found my landing point, Duttona Beach. When exiting the kayak a woman and man came into view from the wooded path and began walking the beach. I asked them, "How do you pronounce the name of this beach?"
The man's answer was "Dah-tone-ah," which would be how Daytona Beach would be pronounced without the "y." There is an Ontario town about six miles inland called Dutton; from which it somehow must take its name.
The van was parked a couple hundred yards away, beside the van was a sign explaining the beach easement of which I was using.



It stated the Duttona Beach subdivision, in the bluff's interlude, was developed in 1938. In the notice Lake Erie was referred to as "Crown water." I suppose I should feel privileged to be traveling on the Queen's lake, but I don't. I have an aversion to British royalty and all associated with it… the Irish blood in me I suppose.

I had planned on doing another leg of runyaking before nightfall, and I went looking for a landing spot about six miles further. I drove to what on the map was referred to as Port Talbot, but there was only a private road leading there from the main road. Two miles further I came to a bridge, and what looked like a river, but named Talbot Creek. I contemplated leaving the van at the bridge, running back to Duttona Beach, then kayaking to the river's mouth, from there I could paddling three-quarter mile upstream to the vehicle. The problem would be, eight miles of running, plus eight miles of kayaking, would get me to the bridge well after dark.

The other option was to quit runyaking for the day and runyak Duttona Beach all the way to Port Stanley as one segment (19 mile run and 15 mile kayak) the following day. I felt I needed some guidance, so called home and asked the wife her thoughts.

Her response, kayaking in the dark troubled her more than me getting up in the wee morning hours and running in the dark. I followed her advice and began making plans for the next day.

Wallacetown is a burg located on Talbot Trail between the big lake and the town of Dutton on Currie Road. I found a store there and bought sausage sticks and butter tarts for today and tomorrow's lunch. I then I drove back to prepare Swiftee for tomorrow's launch.

One thing I did to prepare Swiftee was take off all duct tape, and inspect him carefully then re-duct tape him. In the process I did not see anything that would be cause for more leaking than usual. I tucked him in for the night, covering him up with a black rain parka and drove to Port Stanley where I hope to finish the next day.

Port Stanley is a town of about 2,500 residents, the largest town I will be runyaking, to and from, since leaving Leamington eighty-some miles back.

After finding the best spot in Port Stanley to land the next day, I spotted a restaurant named the Wharf. It was across a drawbridge spanning Kettle Creek, which like Talbot Creek, looks more like a river.

In a couple hours the Detroit Tigers were playing the Yankees in game four of the ALDS. I went to the Wharf to see if the game could be watched there. From talking to a manager of the Wharf, it looked as if the best chances of catching the game would be at Legends, a sports bar in St. Thomas. It, is a sizable city of 36,000, 16 kilometers north of Port Stanley.

When driving into St. Thomas, one odd looking statue caught my eye. It was a statue of an elephant? Granted, it was a famous elephant, one many have heard of, Jumbo.



I learned that Jumbo, of the Greatest Show on Earth, Barnum and Bailey Circus, was killed in the St. Thomas rail yard when hit by a locomotive in 1885. P.T. "there's a sucker born every minute" Barnum reported that Jumbo died while pushing Tom Thumb, Barnum's other famous elephant, out of harms way; a story which non-sucker witnesses would not support.



Most people do not realize that before Jumbo the Elephant, the adjective "jumbo" did not exist. Jumbo, meaning "extraordinary large" was derived from the famous elephant. Even Disney's "Dumbo" is a derivation of Jumbo. The African sounding name was given to the elephant by London zookeepers many years before he was purchased by Barnum in 1882.

Once in St. Thomas and finding Legends I ordered wings and drank a couple lame Canadian beers. It was while watching a NLDS game between the Phillies and Cardinals I remembered I needed to get up in the wee hours of the morning to run 19 miles. Not to mention, I had gotten up this morning at 4:00 am and was pooped already. I left the sports bar found a place to park the van and nestle down for the night.

Before falling asleep I turned on the radio and listened to the Tigers. I began dozing in the first inning, so I pulled the keys out of the ignition. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

On the 44th day of the runyak expedition, 14.9 miles were kayaked and 12.75 miles were run.

I awoke early enough this morning that it was still dark. I stepped out of my sleeping quarters, which would be my van, took a few step, walked into Tim Horton's for coffee and a couple donuts. But, only one thing was on my mind. I had to find my passport, or I'd be in for the big hassle when arriving back at the border.

I drove back to the gated Kenisserie church campground; the sun was just beginning to turn night into day. I grabbed a flashlight, for I'd still need it in the shadows. I searched the campground following the exact path I'd taken at dusk the evening before. The closer I got to the bluffs and not finding it, the more concerned I became.

When reaching the ravine and the rope, I still had not found it. It was there the night before that I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to see if I had service. It made the most sense that the passport fell from the pocket then. I carefully searched the area atop the ravine, but came up empty handed. So, I grabbed the rope and began searching while climbing down, careful not to miss any possible place it may have tumbled.

When reaching end of the rope I was, as far as finding the passport, pretty much at the end of the proverbial rope. All that lay ahead was the short bridge and the little woodsy trail to the beach. The worst case scenario: it fell out of my pocket when crossing the bridge, and if there was enough rain during the night, it got washed into the Great Lake.

Once across the bridge I looked back and there below the bridge at the waters edge something blue caught my eye. Eureka! It was wet from hours of rain, thank goodness it was laminated. Although, it was not in the best condition; it had a very used look about it, as if I'd traveled to every country in the world.



Before climbing the rope again I checked out Swiftee and made sure everything was "all systems go" for when I returned on foot. The idea entered my mind to try running along the narrow beach below the bluffs after positioning the van to save some miles. But, from where the kayak rested I looked down shore and saw brush hanging over the shore. Seeing it and the possibility more unseen obstacles, I climbed the rope knowing I'd have to descend it one more time, plus run an extra 2.5 miles.



I parked the van four to five miles down shore at Clearville Park at the end of Clearville Road and ran back. Then, for the fifth and final time, I carefully made use the rope.



With all the rain since I last exited Lake Erie, it still looked as if I might be seeing more when paddling. The weather report said there may be scattered showers. When launching I looked in the direction of Clearville… it did not look clear.



But, as I progressed in that direction the stormy clouds headed south in the direction of Ohio.

When only a few minutes into the day's paddle, up ahead near the shore, I saw a splash of gargantuan scale. Before figuring out what made the splash, I was thinking only a whale could make such a splatter. After gaining my senses I realize I'd just witnessed a section of the bluff cleaving and falling into Erie.

Coincidentally, three years ago, this very same week, I witnessed a glacier do the same in Alaska. When glaciers cleave it is called calving. I'm not sure it is called the same when hard clay cleaves. When paddling past the point where the chunk of earth had plunged into Erie, I expected to see a larger gash in the bluff than I did. It looked as though much of the debris from the cleavage was still on the beach.



I arrived at a small boat ramp at Clearville Park about a half hour before noon.



Stepping off the ramp I walked onto ground covered entirely of zebra mussels shells.



It's only been twenty-three years since the native mussel species of the Caspian Sea were first found in Lake St. Clair. It's seems from this pile of shells that they are now the dominant mollusk of Lake Erie.

As I lifted and drained the water from the bowels of Swiftee, I saw the park's manager pulling up on a four-wheeler. I positioned the kayak back in a prone position and walked toward him.

I spoke first and said, "Morning."

The portly man with a big moustache asked, "Did you paddle across the lake?"

Saying this, although indirectly, made him the first to acknowledge my American flag.

I answered by saying, "No, I'm paddling the shoreline from Michigan."

It wasn't until running later that it dawned on me; he must have thought I was entering Canada illegally from Ohio. He was interrogating me as a concerned Canadian citizen. Did he seriously think that I paddled 50 mile across open water in a 9.5-foot kayak? I'm not that brave but I wondered has that ever been done?

At the time I wondered why he was relieved to learn it was my van parked nearby. He said, "Oh, that's your van, you're the guy I saw running from here earlier?"

I confirmed it was me and asked him, "How did Clearville get its name?"

He said, "I heard it was originally called Clearview because of the view."

"Oh, I see. That makes sense; because of the break in the bluffs the water could be seen." I said, and he nodded.

He left me to go on with his business, and I did too. I left Swiftee drove away to replant my van.

I drove six miles down shore; make that eight and a half for distance to and from Talbot Trail from Lake Erie. I parked this time at Port Glasgow Marina, at the end of Furnival Road. Maps show the port 1.25 miles from New Glasgow on Talbot Trail. Again, no towns were seen, just a restaurant at New Glasgow, and the normal marina businesses at the port.

Before my run back, I ordered some lunch from a snack bar at the marina, a foot-long hot dog and a couple butter tarts. I slammed it all down with a Bell's Hop Slam Double IPA, and then began jogging back toward the invisible town of Clearville.

When commencing paddling and between Clearville and Port Glasgow, bluffs once again were the portside scenery. There was some added scenery that was not pleasing in the later miles, but during the first few I was entertained by bald eagles; two adults, and several immatures. They were the first bald eagles I'd seen on the expedition since Day Ten, back when paddling the Shiawassee Flats. I figured it had to be because of the American flag... They'd probably been hiding among the bluffs all along, but today they saw the American flag and felt the urge to begin soaring.



One unpleasant view along the bluffs was human refuse dumped over the cliffs. With roads being scarce near the bluffs I haven't seen any of mankind's waste while paddling Lake Erie. Somehow, though not oblivious from my point of reference, somebody found a way to the bluff and tossed their rubbish.



Further down the shore I came upon three railroad cars extending from the beach into the water. I'm not sure why they were there. Maybe… there was a derailment above the bluffs and railroad cars went tumbling down?



Before landing at the port, I viewed several pleasing formations in the bluff. One, an oil drum sitting half buried on the beach, except it wasn't an oil drum at all, but a cylinder shaped piece of cleavage that had fallen from above. Then, there was a tree sitting atop a clay pillar. All amusing but when reaching Port Glasgow, I'd had seen enough, or truthfully, had enough paddling for two days.



It was about 4:30 in the afternoon when I started driving home. Instead of heading back to the Ambassador Bridge I aimed the van for the Blue Water Bridge, and Port Huron. I figured the distance could be a bit further, but without Detroit area traffic, it had to be faster.

I later found out it was not faster. Lines at U.S. Customs were much longer. Traffic was backed up about a third of the bridges span. Not once in all the times I'd crossed the Ambassador Bridge had traffic ever been this bad.

I've now negotiated with border patrol sixteen times during my runyaking travels, and every time I've been waved through. Border patrol officers always seem quite amused when seeing the kayak inside the van. Sometimes they ask, "Why in Canada." When I explain they are even more amused.

A big milestone was past today. During today's last combined leg of running and kayaking, the Horseshoe to Horseshoe Expedition surpassed 1,000 miles. The miles of kayaking have always been more than that ran, but after today they stand quite close. With more bluffs in the future, I foresee the leg's mode surpassing the arm's mode. I've gone 506 miles in the boat forward, and 502 miles by foot, backward.

Day 43's runyaking total was 26.3 miles. Separated into parts, 10.3 kayaking, and 16 miles running. The total 43 days of runyaking stands at 1,008 miles. That averages out to 23.4 miles per day.

It's been over a month since I exited Lake Erie at Erieau, Ontario. It didn't seem that long. There were several reasons for the interlude, most had to do with the Crim Festival of Races, of which I'm very involved.

I left home today at about 4:30 am. On my way I listened to Detroit radio station WWJ's weather report; it included some scattered showers for the day. I would be launching nearly sixty miles due east of Detroit. I was hoping those showers wouldn't be in that area.

Fall doesn't officially get here for another ten days but an early cold front had brought down the summer temperatures considerably. This would be great for the running part of runyaking, but not necessarily for the kayaking part.

The place I'd finished a month ago was on a beach near the Erieau village limit sign on Erieau Road leading into the peninsular town. Across from my landing point, on Erieau Road, sat St. Anne of the Lakes Catholic church, and next to it, Bayview Bliss Cabins. It is from the dock belonging to Bayview Bliss on Rondeau Bay, just 500 feet across a land stretch from Lake Erie that I'll begin paddling today.




I asked permission to launch there a month ago from the proprietor. On that day I walked from church property onto Bayview Bliss property and a lady came out of the office and asked, "Can I help you?" I explain how I was looking for a launch point on Rondeau Bay. She said if I wanted to launch from her dock it would be no problem. Arriving there today as soon as I exited the van, she was again out the door with, another "can I help you?"

It had been a month; we did not recognize each other. Once again she agreed with my request. I learned her name is Marg Bliss. Her business's name seemed appropriate enough before knowing her name, now in a blissful way it made perfect sense.

http://www.bayviewblisscabins.com/

I left Swiftee near the dock and traveled by van to a point that by kayak was ten miles away. The problem was the run would be thirteen miles. The extra miles, were because I had run west around Rondeau Bay, which I could kayak directly across. Rondeau Bay's inlet from Lake Erie is only about 500 feet wide. I'd thought about swimming the distance as part of the run and saving one mile running east around the bay through Rondeau Provincial Park. Saving one mile was not worth it, when considering the autumn like temperature and other logistics, like what to do with my running shoes while swimming. I certainly couldn't throw them across the channel.

The run turned out be almost a mile longer than the expected thirteen miles. When moving up shore to plant the van, I stopped and asked a woman about a possible short cut, and it would have been, if she had told me which side of a drainage ditch to run on. When I got to the wide ditch, I ran to the end and there was no way to get across to the other side. I thought about taking off my shoes and wading, or swimming if too deep. The ditch water was covered with algae. I decided it best if I didn't. Besides the algae, one of two nasty smells I'd come across before arriving at the drainage ditch help make the decision not to go into it, that being manure. The other smell was H2S, rotten egg smell from natural gas wells of the area.

That bad turn on the wrong side of the ditch caused extra 0.90 mileage. I made another wrong turn after that, but it actually saved about the same distance. Making the -good wrong turn - I ended up on what looked to been a railroad at one time, for old rails occasionally popped above the soil when running.

When finally back to Swiftee, at Bayview Bliss Cabins, I looked out at the expansive Rondeau Bay. The bay is approximately 2.5 miles wide and 6.5 long. In the middle all I could see was aquatic vegetation.



Of course, the longer of the two distances was the one I'd be paddling. I wasn't sure which direction to start in order to avoid getting snarled in weeds, or if there was a way around it.

If no way around, I would have to go back into Lake Erie and paddle three extra miles easterly around Rondeau Provincial Park. Dare I paddle east and around the weeds or to the west? I decided to go ask Marg Bliss her advice.

But, after repeatedly knocking on the office door nobody answered. Huh, the two previous times she was out door and wanting to know my business in a split second. Where was she now that I needed her?

Next door, at the church, cars were parked. I went there hoping to find someone with knowledge of Rondeau Bay. In the church's basement were a half dozen people dolling the place up for some sort of reception.

To nobody in particular I asked, "Can any of you give me information about the bay?"

The eldest of the crew answered, "What do you need to know?"

"I'm a kayaker from Michigan and want to cross to the north end then portage back over to Lake Erie. I was wondering which is the best way around the seaweed, east or west?"

"You must go east, but this time of year it could be blocked that way too."

"So, should I just stay on Lake Erie?" I asked the man in his seventies.

"Not sure, but I know a friend that would know. He's five minutes away. Come with me."

I was not really given an option, but felt it would be worth my time, so together we left the church and drove away in his Nissan.

"What is your name?" he asked.

I sensed something Irish about him, and it was a Catholic church, so I told him, "Riley McClinchey," the true pronunciation of McLincha.
It worked. He began speaking some Blarney, of which I couldn't understand.

"What is your name?" I asked him.

"Gerald Dalton, or Jerry. Lately I've been going by Jeremiah, like the old testament book."

"Where are we going?" I asked Jeremiah.

"To my friend RK Campbell's,"

Jeremiah was very hyper for a man several years older than me. He just kept on jabbering. He said, "My great-grandparents were born in County Kerry, lived just miles from each other, but did not meet until living in New York City. They were Daltons and Bresnahans, or Brosnan, which is the same name."

"My great-grandfather also was born in Ireland." I managed to get in a couple words.

"From where?"

"McClinchey, is a County Donegal name." I replied.

"Oh, that's beautiful county." Jeremiah stated.

"So is County Kerry." I said. Actually, County Kerry compared to County Donegal is like comparing the beauty of Michigan to that of Ohio.

Dalton told me, "The small town my great-grandparents came from is Cahirciveen"

I got excited, when hearing the name of the town of about a thousand inhabitants, "Hey, I've been there, spent a night there at a B&B!" I told him.

All this talk had gone on within five minute, and then we drove to RK Campbell's Erieau residence. He soon was introducing me to his friend. The friend wasn't 100% sure either that I could get to the north end of Rondeau Bay by kayaking either, but he did seem more confident that Jeremiah.

"Well, if you can't," Jeremiah said, "you'll just have to turn around and come back, and follow Lake Erie." (Easy for him to say, as if I had the forearms of Popeye and could paddle endlessly.)

We left RK's house, and Jeremiah drove me back to Swiftee. His parting words to me were, "May St. Christopher (patron saint of mariners and travelers) be with you."



The last thing I did before launching was stand an American flag, that I'd recently purchased at a dollar store, on Swiftee's stern. I don't know why I never thought of it before, especially now being in a foreign country. The ten year anniversary of 9/11 had been three days earlier; it may have stirred up the idea. I also thought it might be a good conversation starter among the Canadians that I'd be seeing the rest of my journey. On the negative side it could send up a red flag, and not the kind with a maple leaf on it,
to the Canadian Coast Guard.

In the 6.5 miles of paddling across Rondeau Bay I encountered some weeds, but besides the possibly extra quarter mile around them, they hindered me very little. A few times the paddle come out of the water tangles with weeds, but that was nothing compared to the three paddling miles I saved.

At the north end of the lake, I landed at a private residence that had a paved launch. When scouting for a landing spot that morning noticed the residence was for sale. It looked like no one was living there, so I didn't bother knocking and asking permission. It was on the main road going south into the provincial park, and directly across from Fourth St. Following Fourth Street would be the shortest portage distance back to Lake Erie.

After landing I dragged the kayak three tenths of a mile down the street and soon came to a public Lake Erie easement. From there I paused a moment to take in the beautiful Erie shoreline.



The wave conditions for paddling looked better than on the bay. That's because moderate winds were coming from the northwest. So, this northeast Erie shoreline saw little waves. When paddling the bay I was in the middle of the lake where waves had a mile of open water to push and make waves.

After explaining all that, I have no explanation why the paddling pace decreased by a couple minutes per mile on the Great Lake. But, it was a mere 2.5 miles paddling; I soon saw the van ahead and landed. By then it was then 1:30 pm, and I was ready for lunch.

The closest place I thought there would be food was back at the provincial park entrance. I'd paddled past Joe's Dock & Dine on the bay just before the portage; thought I'd try that first, but found it closed, probably since Labor Day.

Yes, Canada doe have a Labor Day. Canada and U.S. celebrate Labor Day on the exact same day. That makes it unique amongst the eleven U.S. federal holidays. Christmas, and New Year's Day are shared dates but the countries did not pick those days to be holidays. I suppose you could count Veteran's Day, 11/11, but Canadians call it Remembrance Day, as all British Commonwealth nations do.

Across the street from Joe's was the Bayview Market. They were open but did not have much to pick from. I settled for a half-dozen package of small butter tarts, which turned out to be the worst I'd ever eaten. But that was okay, for I washed them down with a delicious Michigan beer I'd brought across the border.



Afterwards, I went looking for my next landing, again knowing the run would be longer than the paddle. My legs had already put in about fourteen miles, so I wanted the afternoon run to be about half that. The extra miles in the morning were to get around the bay, but now it's because of my other nemesis, bluffs. Yep, there back. For the next twenty miles the nearest road to the bluffs, Talbot Trail, is 1.25 miles away. So, for any distance I paddle there will always at least an extra 2.50 miles of leg work.

Talbot Trail, or Talbot Line, as it's called in some places is the same road I've been running, off and on, since leaving Leamington/Point Pelee, forty some miles back.

Most of the crossroads to Talbot are 1.25 miles apart also. Why not 1 mile, like our Michigan roads? The colonial government of Canada, in the nineteenth century surveyed using "chains" as a measuring unit. A chain is 66-ft. Most "side roads" and "concessions" are 100 chains apart. Doing the math, that comes out to exactly 1.25 miles, or approximately 2 kilometers. I don't know how accurate the measuring instruments were back then, for I repeatedly measured closer to 1.3 miles with the gps. That's off quite a bit compared to Michigan, who used the mile when surveying, and all are dead on the money; and if not there was a reason.

Driving about 373 chains from where I left Swiftee I came to Kenesserie Rd. Then driving the "100 chains" to the bluff I came to a church camp, named Kenesserie.

It was gated so I parked the van, skirted the gate, and walked to the office and knocked. There was a van parked there, so I figured somebody would answer. When nobody did, I wandered to the bluff's edge looking for some sort of stairs to the beach below.

There were no stairs, what I did find was a tethered rope that descended down a steep ravine to a drain leading toward the Lake Erie shore. I could not see the bottom but felt I had to check it out.

I went into supersafe high-precaution security mode and began descending. When reaching the ropes end, I found a small bridge over the drain that created the ravine. I crossed it, and then followed a woodsy path to the beach. Not an ideal final landing place for Day 42, but it would have to do. But for sure, I could safely leave Swiftee overnight, not a soul would see him.

I hustled back to van, that would be after safely climbing out of the ravine with the rope's help. I wanted to make sure I paddled back to the beach and arrive before dark. Heaven help me if I had to climb up the ravine pulling that rope in the gloom of night.

I ran the eight miles back to the kayak and arrived in time for 5:30 launch; which is the latest launch time of the expedition. I did about five miles of paddling and arrived at the rope about 7:00 pm. I still had plenty of light. Before ascending the ravine/bluff I covered Swiftee with my rain parka, for rain looked imminent.

I left everything needed to start paddling when arriving back in the morning on foot. The only things I took with me up the rope was my running shoes in a garbage bag, cell phone, and my passport, both of which I stuck in a running short's pocket.

Since paddling in Canada I've been carrying the passport in case ever stopped by the coast guard. Tonight, I'd again be sleeping in my van, and I wanted it in case authorities awoke me with flashlight in the middle of the night.

As soon as I crested the ravine it began to sprinkle. The van was out of sight and hundreds of yards away beyond the camp's gate. I arrived and got into the van before getting very wet. As daylight disappeared I called home and assured my wife I was still alive.

It was after talking to her I reached into my running shorts pocket for my passport… it was not there. It must have fallen out somewhere between the van and the kayak. The rain was now coming down quite heavily, and it seemed too dark to go looking for it, even with a flashlight. I was quite disturbed to say the least. The deciding factor not to look until morning… that rope! No way did I want to descend it while shining a flashlight in the rain. And so, I left Kenesserie and drove to the nearest sizable town, Blenheim.

I dined that night at Fat Jimmy's Bar and Grill in downtown "Blinem" as it was pronounced by my young female server. I even drank a few beers that back home I would never consider, Stella Artois for one… lame! Same as the last time I'd tried it nine years ago. They also had a loser IPA from Nova Scotia which tasted like a lager and not an ale.

The Canadian accents seem thicker in this region than any other Ontario area I've been to. I really expected to hear the young lady behind the bar say, "A hoser, how goes it, how aboot anudder beer A?"

I spent the night sleeping in the van across the street from Fat Jimmy's, at a Tim Horton's, figuring I would not get harassed in an "Open 24-hour" parking lot. It also meant I could wake up grab quick coffee and donut then get back to Kenesserie at daybreak in a quest for the missing passport.

On this, the 42nd day of the H2H Expedition, I did 35.5 miles of runyaking. 14.5 miles in the kayak and 21 miles running.

On this, the 41st exploration day, this cheap runyaker woke up on Thursday morning only about thirteen miles from his launching point. Not since Day Seven, back in Flint, had I traveled so few miles to my starting point.

After grabbing a fast breakfast at a McDonalds I drove to Swiftee's drop-off spot and unloaded him. I hid him well in the overgrowth of vegetation, for I couldn't find anywhere to cable and lock him.

Down shore further I found a perfect landing spot less than six-miles away in the lakefront community of Erie Beach. It was an easement type park barely two-hundred feet wide, similar to ones I'd used before. When running back I kept thinking, what a beautiful day it was.

Arriving back at Burns Beach, the launch was into calm waters.



Fifty miles to the south, across Lake Erie from where Swiftee and I now are, lies Cleveland. In that direction I saw a bank of clouds on the horizon, but above me only blue skies.



Once moving the bluffs on my portside soon began to diminish. The separation anxiety from easy access to land began to fade away. All I could think about was what a magnificent day it was to be paddling on the waters of Lake Erie. Even my paddling pace of seventeen minutes/mile matched my contentment.

Within a mile from my van and landing point, visible on my left I saw what looked like aircraft bombing targets.



On my run that morning I past signs in the same area for a Canadian Air Force facility. What I was truly seeing from the water, I wasn't certain, but I kept a lookout in the sky just in case. You can never trust the pesky Canadian Air Force.

I soon saw my van, and the nearest object to it, a railroad crossing sign. Not something one would think to find near a beach, but it was a welcoming landmark. I landed and further investigated the easementlike park where I'd parked the van earlier. Besides the RR crossing sign, there was historical signage about the railroad, not to mention a park bench, to which I cabled and locked Swiftee.



The signage spoke of the Wallaceburg, Chatham, and Lake Erie RR, and the Fifth Street Depot terminus. (The park is at the end of 4th St.) With inbound depots with such English sounding names as, Chatham, Pain Court, Dover Centre, and Charing Cross, it sounded like I was on the Island of Sodor. I wondered… would I soon be hearing Thomas the Tank Engine arriving and blowing his whistle?

The arrival time at Erie Beach Station was 11:30; too early for lunch, or so my stomach stated; I went and planted the van at the next down shore municipality, Erieau, and ran back.

The running leg back, plus the kayaking leg forward, that I'd soon be doing, totaled considerably less than eight miles. The run was mostly characterized by the passing wetlands of, McGeachy Pond Conservation Area, on one side of the road, and tobacco fields on the dryer side.

There are three major tobacco companies of Canada. About 90% of all Canadian tobacco is grown in Ontario. Many of those tobacco crops are in the areas that Swiftee and I have, or will be passing. Other crops have been growing all along the bluffs for the past twenty-five miles, but these are the first crops of tobacco I'd seen.

I enjoyed the short paddle to the van. I lasted only an hour. I found the beach I was looking for and landed. It was easily spotted for the welcoming road sign of Erieau, a "Municipality of Chatham-Kent" County could be seen from the water.



On the reverse side of the sign was a farewell salutation for those leaving Erieau, "May You Have Fair Winds and Following Seas." That is what I was having upon my arrival. So fair was this day… I know that when I return, sometime in September, it can't possibly be as delightful.

I found the entire community of Erieau quite enchanting in a maritime way. The van was parked directly across the road from the beach. It was in a parking lot of an ancient looking brick Catholic church, St. Anne of the Lakes. I was drawn further into town by a portable ad sign for a hot dog stand, Hot Diggity Dog. It featured deep-fried Oreos.



Having never tried that rendition of the cookie, my taste buds were telling me, "go for it."

It was now close to three in the afternoon, so I was quite hungry. I found the hot dog very tasty; it went well with the bottle of Bell's Hopslam that was in my cooler. As far as the deep-fried Oreos; they were quite eatable, but certainly no improvement to Oreos right out of the bag.



Erieau is situated on a nipplelike point that sticks out about six miles into Lake Erie. It's nearly half the size of Point Pelee and less acute, angularly. Within the nipple is Rondeau Bay. The landmass east of the bay and west of Lake Erie is Rondeau Provincial Park, slightly smaller than Point Pelee National Park.

I'm not sure when in September I will make it back to Erieau, but I am looking forward to my return. I will likely paddle across Rondeau Bay, rather than the Lake Erie shoreline of Rondeau Provencial Park. If so, I can cut off over three miles of paddling.

On day 41 there was a total of 9.1 miles of kayaking and 10.75 miles running. The runyaking total for the day was 10.85 miles.

Below is a map of my progress so far

Four weeks had gone by before finding a day to get back to Lake Erie's north shore. Weather, obligations, and family priorities were the reason for the interlude, certainly not my enthusiasm. I will say, I am very concerned for my safety along the bluffs, especially after taking a fall at the end of the last runyaking leg.

The weather was glorious upon my arrival back at Doug Melmer's Erie shoreline property. That was a little surprising, for driving there in the early morning hours, long before sunrise, I could see lightning in the direction of southwestern Ontario.

At my runyaking starting point the odometer reading on the van was 136 miles. I had packed bedding and planned to sleep overnight. This would be my first two-day runyaking experience.

Without a hitch, because I was extra careful, I managed to guide Swiftee down the 55-ft stairway to the beach below the bluffs. Once back to the van I searched every shoreline possibility beyond four miles of where I might land Swiftee.

I about gave up on finding a decent landing spot with access to the high ground. The best I'd seen was a steep ravine in the bluff. It would be tough climbing out without Swiftee, let alone with him. Fortunately, that was not the plan. The plan was to leave the kayak below the bluff on the shore, and continue later.



I found a much better landing place just down the road at a place named Port Alma, and old abandoned shipping port. It had a gravel trail that led down to where boats once loaded. But, there was no beach, only boulders. I had all but decided to head back to the steep ravine previously seen, but then noticed a path that went around the port's point. It led to a fine looking beach.



Seeing the beach changed my whole attitude. During the nine-mile run back to Melmer's I was anxiously looking forward to kayaking back to the Port Alma beach.

My launch was about a 10:30 a.m. That was after visiting with my best Canadian friend, Doug Melmer. Actually, I can't think of any other Canadians that I do know personally. Yep, Doug Melmer is easily my BCF.



The launch was easy and the temperature was somewhere in the seventies. Any waves I had were in my favor as I cruised to my destination at a pace under 17 minutes a mile. Just before landing at Port Alma, I passed the ravine, carved into the bluff, that I had earlier scouted out as a possible exiting point. Yikes, it looked steeper from below than what I'd viewed earlier above.




From the ravine, with only a few hundred paddling strokes, I was passing the old abandoned port where the stacked boulders hindered what would have been an ideal landing spot. Years ago the port could have been a shipping point for natural gas. I've read that in the 1920s the Union Gas Co. built a sweetening plant at Port Alma. It was there that crude gas went through a process to rid the unwanted rotten egg smell. Is the dilapidated port I'm passing a shipping site for the once sweetened gas? This I never learned.




I rounded the port and there was the excellent beach I'd found in my morning's search. I landed, left Swiftee at the hard to access beach. I had no fear that he'd ever be seen from sea in the next few hours, let alone from anyone hiking down from above. I then went looking for the next landing and some lunch.

The bluffs on the Erie's north shore continued, but eight to nine miles up shore I did find a road that descended the bluff, down to a beach named Burns. It was located at the end of Dillon Road, just a kilometer before reaching Dealtown. It was there that I found a small restaurant and had a bite to eat. There might have been a town called Dealtown at one time, but a restaurant is the only business there today. But, I could picture half a century ago a wheeler-dealer car salesman having a lot here named Dealtown. Anyway, it is still on the maps like many named places I've found in the area with nothing to show for it.

The run back to Swiftee at Port Alma was physically draining. It was mid-afternoon, not too hot, but by the time I finished, my day's running miles totaled seventeen. To refresh myself I could have taken a swim at the beach, but opted to lie on a boulder and relax my muscles a bit before paddling.

The afternoon paddle of eight miles did not finish until after 7:00 pm. The water was much calmer than in the morning. The morning's paddle pace of less than 17 minutes per mile, was long gone. Now it was over 20! I suppose fatigue from miles of running and morning's paddling may have slowed my pace.

In the miles of paddling the bluffs continued, but noticeably they looked more eroded. Almost to the point it looked like I was in the Dakota Badlands.



I saw one place where erosion had cleaved and exposed new bluffs behind it.



And, there was one home that I passed where the porch was hanging over the bluff. Whether it was built there, or the bluff had eroded back that far, I was not sure.



There was a man near the abode grilling his supper and he waved to me. I wanted to ask him how long he thought he had before his house falls into the sea, but from my distant location, and with noise from the landing waves, an audible conversation was not possible.

After once again putting in over eight miles of paddling, in the same day, I arrived at Burns Beach. I had planned on leaving Swiftee hidden at the beach until a came back the next morning. But, there were two fishermen near the beach and I didn't feel safe leaving him. Then, when two more fishermen arrived, and I decided to load Swiftee in the van and take him with me to wherever I'd be spending the night.

I asked one fishermen how far it was the city of Chatham. He responded by saying about twenty minutes. I drove there and found a Comfort Inn. I had no plans on getting a room. I just wanted a safe location where I could place the kayak on the top of the van and not draw much attention. Since the expedition's first day I've not yet paid for park entrance fees, launching fees, or paid for parking. So, I'm not going to start paying for a place to sleep. The comfort inside the Comfort Inn is not worth the money to me. Not when I have bedding in the van. I'm one cheap runyaking bastard.

Today's paddling totaled 16.5 miles. Today's running totaled 17.25 miles.
That makes for a total of 33.75 miles worth of runyaking.

I picked this day to paddle because north winds were forecasted for the Point Pelee area. I would be heading in a northeast direction;
even with wind speeds up to 15 mph it seemed the land mass would protect and not create waves near the shoreline.








So, when I arrived at my Lake Erie debarking point of five days earlier, and seeing waves I was somewhat
taken aback.


I'd planned on ending the first leg today at Wheatley Harbor, less than three miles by kayak. But seeing the waves I planted the Pontiac van only a mile away. I figured I'd paddle a mile and see just how rough the waves were going to be; if too rough, head straight to the van. The run back from where I parked the van was much further than the one mile that separated the van and kayak; it was 4.5 miles. Hillman Marsh, was inland from Erie; with no road between them, I had no choice but to run around it.              

After the extended run, the launch into the incoming waves made for one of the nastiest ones of the expedition. When I finally got out to sea the waves weren't that bad, but Swiftee had a few gallons of water in his bowels. Also, during the onslaught of waves my printed maps had gotten wet. The seal on the map holder wasn't closed tightly. Worse yet, the waterproof digital camera wasn't sealed properly either. The USB connection cover was open and water entered and ruined the camera.            

As mentioned the waves weren't bad once away from the beach. The beach did have a sign warning of a drop-off. I'm assuming that the drop-off is what was creating large waves. I saw the van but skipped on by it and paddled onward to Wheatley Harbour. In this area I'm seeing both, English and American spellings of Harbor, but most Canucks think harbour is correct. The run back to retrieve the van was less than two miles.            

I learned that Wheatley is quite the fishing town, whether commercial or recreational.  Oops can't say "town," it's a "community," that's within
the municipality of Chatham-Kent. The harbor straddles two counties, Essex, where I'd been runyaking all this season, and Kent. The Chatham-Kent municipality was created in 1998 by the merging of Kent County and all its communities,
Chatham being the largest. 

         
I began driving and looking for my next landing point. As I did I began passing several commercial fish companies. (Wheatley purports to be the home of the largest freshwater commercial fishing port on earth.) I drove several miles down shore and did not see any parks, boat launches, or beaches. The reason being, a fifty-foot bluff runs for many miles outside of Wheatley. Talbot Trail is the main road that follows the shoreline but not necessarily that closely. I did find a couple gravel roads off of Talbot Trail that stretched the shoreline. On one, Ocean Line, posted as private drive, I got lucky and saw a local resident near his property. I drove up beside him and spoke.             

"Hi there, I'm a kayaker from Michigan and I'm looking for a place to land a kayak. Is there a beach below the bluff here where I might land?"            

The man's name was Doug Melmer, and I was afraid he would tell me to "get out," that I was on private property. Was I ever wrong. He was very gracious, even seemed enthused about what I was doing. He told me where to park my van then walked me out to his lakefront bluff.           

The view down from the 55-foot cliff was very intimidating.            

"Is there a way I can get a kayak up from down there?" I asked Doug.            

"I have a stairs." He said, pointing up shore fifty yards.

           
"Yeah, that'll work." I told him.           

Melmer said, "You'll need a landmark to know which stairway is mine, there is a huge rock in the water, you can use that."            

I looked around myself for a landmark and noticed a non-Canadian flag flying. I said, "That flag would be a good landmark too; what is it a Norwegian flag?"            

Melmer told me, "That's the cross of St George, the British open starts tomorrow."            

The open is being played at the Royal St. Georges Golf Club in Sandwich Kent, England. I, a non-golfer, had not an inkling when the British Open was, but this Kent County Ontarian must be a loyal Brit and a golfer to raise such a flag for the occasion.            

It was not yet eleven in the morning but it was getting hot; I had over a seven mile run to get back to Swiftee. I asked Doug Melmer for the shortest way to get back to the main road. He advised me to run around a cornfield until coming to his neighbor's yard, and then follow their road to the highway.            

Melmer added, "Tell them Doug said it was all right to cut through their property."            

I ran nearly a half-mile, cornfield on one side of me, a wooded ravine on the other, before coming to a farm. I was hoping I'd see nobody and buzz on through the yard, when from out a four-door brick garage I heard, "Hey, over here."            

Dang, I'd gotten caught, or so I thought. I looked to see once again Doug Melmer, along with his neighbors.            

Melmer said, "I thought I'd better drive over and warn them."            

He had already explained to them about the crazy Michigander, so they began asking me questions. When their curiosity was satisfied, they let me resume my run to Wheatley Harbour.            

Rising temperatures made for an uncomfortable run.                        

The launch from a beach, inside the harbor was, tenfold better than the earlier launch. It was barely afternoon so the second leg was earlier than usual. That's because I woke up that morning a 4:00 a.m. and was on the road to Canada much earlier than the other times.                 

Once out of Wheatley Harbour I was soon passing by Holiday Harbour, Wheatley's non-commercial docks. After that the high bluffs were a constant view on Swiftee's portside, amidst them was Wheatley Provincial Park. 








The mile and a half provincial park shoreline was sprinkled with swimmers and sunbathers. Surely, there would have been many more near the water if the bluffs didn't form such a daunting barrier between the beach and campgrounds.            

Knowing the cliffs would protect the water's edge from the north winds I hugged the shoreline. It worked well, every mile paddled from the harbor got faster. But, the average mile pace was still twenty-three minutes, meaning I still was bucking waves.            

After six mile of steady paddling I saw a flag with a red cross on a white field flying high above Melmer's 55-ft cliff. The first thing I did after landing… I jumped in the lake, swam around a bit and cooled off. How gloriously refreshing it was.            

The narrow stairway leading up to the flag had a rope and railing to guide the way.








Holding Swiftee with my left hand, the rope with the right, I began tugging my way up. Nearly a third of the way up I realized water inside
the kayak was taking a toll on me. I decided to drain it out; made a move in that direction, and Swiftee began sliding down the steep embankment. I lost my balance and also tumbled downward. My forehead took the brunt of the fall to the ground. That wasn't the only place I felt pain, seems my entire upper body had crashed hard into the ground. I lay stunned for a minute, thought for sure my head was cracked open. I felt my forehead, no blood. I got up, drained the kayak, and again tried inching myself slowly but safely to the top of the bluff.            

Making the final step, there at the top, Doug Melmer walked over to greet me. I was so exhausted and out of oxygen from scaling the steps I couldn't talk.            

"Would you like some water?" he asked.            

Out of my mouth I managed to blurt, "That sounds delicious."              

After nearly a quart of water and catching my breath I was ready to load the kayak and leave. The van was two hundred yards a way. My benefactor, showing his Canadian hospitality, told me I could drive on his freshly mowed lawn to load Swiftee. So, so, glad; I don't know if I could have pulled the kayak that far.            

When heading home the first road I came to after Talbot Trail was named 3rd Concession. For many years I have traveled through Canada and wondered why roads are called concessions. It leads one to think the roads were ceded and turned over by governing bodies. After today I'd had seen enough; had to learn why.            

What I learned was that "concession" is a Lower Canadian French term that means "row of lots." Ye olde surveyors always measured parallel away from shorelines and named the first row of lots from the shore "1st concession," then continued sequential naming of parallel lots inward from the shoreline. The names actually apply to the lots, but the road took on the name of the lots. If there is a change in direction of the shoreline, also seen are changes in the angle of parallel roads. It's quite different from Michigan where the entire state is laid out in a grid.            

And so, know I know.  

             

Today's three legs of running totaling 13.75 miles, and two legs of kayaking totaling 8.9 miles, made for a grand total on 22.65 miles of runyaking.

The beach where I left off the last time and launched at today is called Mersea Park Beach. There was a breakwater that protects the beach, and on it a sign. It stated that diving from the stone groynes was prohibited. I'd never seen the word groyne before, but I wasn't planning on diving anyway, so ignored it, just went ahead and launched. I found out later through an internet search that groynes are what we Americans call breakwaters. The definition began by saying:

            "A groyne (groin in the United States) is a rigid hydraulic structure built from an ocean    shore (in coastal engineering) or from a bank (in rivers) that interrupts water flow and limits the movement of sediment."

            American's, "breakwater" is a much better word, it's self descriptive. Especially since we spell "groyne," "groin." We Americans were smart to use a different word and avoid the body part confusion.

            Earlier, before running and launching, and on the east side of Point Pelee I was looking for a place to park the van. When checking out a landing spot I fell from a groyne and battered and bloodied my shin. I lay where I'd fallen waiting for the initial pain to alleviate, wondering if I was going to be able to get up. In time I was able to hobble away to find a different landing location. When running the six miles back to Mersea Park Beach, I didn't feel the pain at all; then when I arrived and prepared to launch, the pain came back. The pain of running has a way of blocking out other pains.

            Today, because I'd be paddling in a marsh, to be on the safe side, to avoid getting lost, I took a hand held gps and had waypoints programmed into it. I also wanted to know exactly where to exit Lake Erie to portage to the marsh, so I also marked that location with a waypoint.

            After launching I had a clear view of the entire Point Pelee National Park shoreline; the tip of the point was 7.5 miles away.



The gps stated my waypoint was less than half that, 3.3 miles down the shoreline.

            Getting there was an easy paddle, Lake Erie was calm on Pelee's west side. The wind was coming from NNE, so the shoreline was protected. Paddling the east side of Pelee might be another story.

            The waypoint landing location was right on. It provided me with the shortest portage distance to the marsh. I only had to drag Swiftee a quarter mile. 

            I began paddling again from a dock behind a concession stand, the Cattail Café, located next to the marsh boardwalk and observation tower. Besides hiking the boardwalk, park visitors can also rent canoes at the café and paddle the marsh. As I was launching, canoes were landing. Each had four young paddlers. The paddlers were high school students from a Catholic school in Windsor, which I assumed had some sort of summer program going on. When paddling along a channel to the marsh pond, I continued seeing more canoes filled with students. They were having too much fun. You could hear them coming from some distance. Needless to say I never did see any marsh wildlife in the channel.

            I had some concerns about the marsh pond I would be coming to soon. Google Earth imagery showed it as an olive drab color, not at all the same color as Erie. I wasn't sure if it was the water's color, or if was full of vegetation to the extent that it was not navigable by kayak.

            Once at the pond I found water lilies in many areas but it was not a problem to paddle.



Across the pond to the east I was aiming for another gps waypoint.

            Arriving at that waypoint put me only a hundred feet from Point Pelee's east Lake Erie shoreline. I had to blaze a trail with Swiftee in tow through bushes to find the beach but was happy with the end results. I had turned what would have been over eight miles of paddling around the point, down to less than two miles. I had a few concerns about doing this but it paid off in the end.

            Looking a sea from Pellee's eastern shore, the 180º of Lake Erie looked so vast. In one direction, northeast, there was nothing but 200 miles of water, stretching all the way to the state of New York. The two points mark the greatest expanse of water between two shorelines that Swiftee and I'd ever been.   

            Once paddling Erie again it was not as easy as before. The NNE winds were pushing waves at me. Fortunately the wind speed was only about 10 mph. The waves it created made skirting Swiftee necessary, but they were easy waves compared to those in previous weeks.

            But still, they were waves, so I began looking for an easier route if available. From maps knew that inland a short distance ahead there was a lagoonlike body of water that stretched more than a mile. So, after paddling less than a mile I came ashore and began looking for it. Not finding it I dragged the kayak along the beach rather than setting off into the waves again.

            After dragging Swiftee well over a half-mile, the beach disappeared and we were on rocks. Just when I was thinking about going back out to sea I saw a still body of water over a mound and to the west. I gladly put the boat in the flat surfaced body of water. The paddling there was so much easier than into the waves of Erie. The water itself did not look very clean. There was no visible current to keep the water fresh.

            I was now out of the national park and a road divided the lagoon from the lake. Private homes lined the lagoon's shore and there were docks in the water but few boats were seen. The map called the community, Marentette Beach. Near one of the docks I saw a resident of the community and asked if the body of water was indeed a lagoon. We seemed in disagreement, told me it was called Marentette Drain. 

            While paddling the flat and calm drain I passed under utility lines. On a wire I'd never seen so many birds perched. There was much coloration of different species. I wished I'd had my birding binoculars. A smart Pelee birder could make a day's worth of sightings just sitting in a boat beneath the wires. Apparently these birds had never heard that birds of a feather are supposed to flock together.

            The area north of Pelee and outside of Leamington, is what was Mersea Township. That would be before the 1999 municipality restructuring. Mersea Township is now part of the Town of Leamington. But, most roads in the area are named Mersea _____. (Fill in the blank with an alphanumeric tag.) When running earlier I was trotting on Mersea Road 19, Mersea Road C, and Mersea Road B. Along side the roads are deep ditches/drains that had turned what was marshland into viable farmland.

            Since mer is French for sea, the name Mersea seems repetitive, tantamount to Sea-sea. Once Mersea got changed to Sea-sea, in my head I couldn't stop singing C.C. Rider. Funny how the mind works… mine anyways.

            On the Marentette Drain, and singing C.C. Rider, I was not glad to see the north end of it. I had to exit and look for a place to launch on Lake Erie. Portaging away from the drain I gave it a silent, "merci beaucoup," for giving me an easy 1.5 mile paddle away from Mer Erie.

            A wall of boulders kept me from seeing Lake Erie. Because of my shin spanking fall earlier, it was with extreme care I climbed up the groyne. Atop the rocks and perched above the shoreline, as far as I could there was no beach, and waves were pounding the groyne below.

            It looked to be a precarious place to launch, but it was either from the groyne or, portage - I don't know how far - to a beach. I climbed back down off the breakwater, grabbed Swiftee, and managed to haul him up to the top of the boulders then carefully down the other side.

            As soon as the kayak was placed in the water waves began bouncing it against the groyne. Yes, this was going to be one tricky launch; one like I'd never executed before. I went into super safe high-precaution security mode. I was close to calling off what looked like a dangerous launch, when there seemed to be a pause in the waves. Taking advantage of the lull, I leaped into the kayak, grabbed the paddle and began thrashing away from the groyne.

            I never stopped paddling until I found my van, which I almost missed. I'd been paddling nearly two miles and wondering how much further it was when I saw a couple walking along a small beach. The waves hitting the beach made much noise, but I yelled loud enough for them to hear, "Do you see a red van anywhere?" I couldn't hear their answer but when seeing the woman pointing south, I realized I'd already passed it by two hundred feet.

            It was a rough landing; I took in much water before hauling Swiftee ashore. It was only 2:00 p.m.; plenty of time for a second leg. I even went looking for another landing, but ended up calling it a day. I'd picked a day when wind and waves were good for paddling south on Point Pelee's west side. It would make more sense now to wait for a day when wind and waves would be sympathetic to a paddler heading in a northeastern direction.

            Driving the 130-mile distance back home, one subject kept coming back to me, how much longer I can do one-day trips. 

The day's runyaking distance was quite inadequate by normal standards. A 5.75 mile run, and a kayak distance of 9.9 miles, totaled only 15.65 miles.