LAKE SUPERIOR MAGAZINE
Jim Marshall at the helm of Skipper Sam II, left, and piloting the boat up Merritt’s Lane, right, at the northeast end of Isle Royale.
Many considered the late James R. Marshall, former owner of this magazine, to be the consummate Lake Superior authority. He had done it all – prospector, scuba diver, shipwreck salvager, boat captain, airplane pilot, explorer, researcher. On his trips on Skipper Sam and Skipper Sam II, he encountered thousands of people, all of whom contributed to his knowledge of the Lake. In his multi-award-winning Lake Superior Magazine column, “Lake Superior Journal,” he brought it all to life. I have a bit of first-hand knowledge of JR, as he was known to his friends, and his stories; he was my father-in-law, so I was privy to years of stories too numerous to count.When JR passed on in 2006, we decided to keep “Lake Superior Journal” alive with others telling their stories of the Big Lake. In this start of our 40th year, we are honoring Jim and his contributions to the magazine and to the region by republishing this column, which also is in his book Lake Superior Journal: Jim Marshall’s Views from the Bridge. – Paul L. Hayden, publisher
COURTESY DAVE POIRIER
Jim Marshall piloting the boat up Merritt’s Lane, right, at the northeast end of Isle Royale.
He was a little fellow – cold, wet and extremely tired. His somewhat bedraggled scout kerchief had obviously seen duty wiping sweat and probably an errant nose. His slumping shoulders gamely bore the dripping frame and pack; the bedroll lashed atop the pack reached above his head. He collapsed on the dock in sort of a spiral fashion, emerging from this odd performance with a bounce – sans pack frame.
The rest of his troop stood part way up the hill at Isle Royale’s McCargoe Cove campsite, silently watching his diplomatic effort at establishing contact with the boat lying alongside the dock.
The cold rain continued to fall, dripping off his hat unnoticed. With a trace of a smile he mustered up his courage, looking me squarely in the eye.
“Nice boat, mister,” he observed. “Is it dry in there?”
I assured him that all boats leak, but we did have a few rainfree areas. “Why not come aboard and look it over?” I suggested, stepping back quickly as he leaped into the cabin.
His tiredness evaporated. He was torn between greeting us and making sure the gang on the hill fully realized his accomplishment.
“I’m Billy,” he announced, “and I’m from Fort Wayne, Indiana, and I’m hiking Isle Royale with my scout troop, and we’re wet and cold and tired, but we’re DOING IT!”
His eyes grew even bigger when I handed him a plate of cookies, which began disappearing like ice cubes on a summer sidewalk.
“Better go get your friends,” I advised him, “or your life won’t be worth a plugged nickel when they find out what you’ve been doing to those cookies.”
He nodded, leaped back on the dock and ran up the hill.
LAKE SUPERIOR MAGAZINE
Skipper Sam II often anchored in remote spots along the Ontario shore.
I dug out our big kettle, filled it and began heating some water. A gift from Bob Lang, one of our regular boating companions, we carry it on Skipper Sam II for two reasons: boiling spaghetti for seemingly starved Canadians encountered on the Ontario north shore or for heating gallons of bouillon soup for Michigan’s Isle Royale hikers. It’s done plenty of both.
In no time the whole group was aboard, greetings being exchanged between the consumption of packages of cookies. Scoutmaster Jack turned out to be an automotive service manager in real life. In no way, he admitted, did his work prepare him for the rigors of hiking Isle Royale. The whole idea of the adventure had been born in the winter comfort of a troop meeting, and the reality of the undertaking had now firmly set in.
As steaming cups of hot soup were passed around, I asked Jack about the decision to hike the island.
“We got this map,” he said, burrowing in his pocket. “It shows the trails, the campsites, everything …”
With a chuckle, one of the older scouts spoke up, “Everything, except the ravines.” The whole group assented with weary laughs.
“Except the ravines,” they chorused.
I dug out another large chart (on a boat a map is a chart) and spread it out. The gold, green and brown hues of the geologic relief map of the island brought gasps of amazement. This obviously was new information to the group, and several kneeled down to study the details so clearly displayed.
“Here is the swamp-before-last,” one said. “Here is Do-or-Die Hill,” said another.
Yet another hit the nail on the head. “Hiking Isle Royale,” he observed, “is a whole lot more up and down than horizontal travel.”
Scoutmaster Jack pursed his lips and glanced around at the serious faces regarding the map. “What in the world did Mother Nature have in mind,” he wondered aloud, “when she made this obstacle course?”
“Jack,” I said, “you can take your choice. The Ojibwe people and the geologists both have an explanation. The book, Geology of Isle Royale, blames it all on the glaciers, the last of which left here about 10,000 years ago. It was just as tough for some folks who preceded you – by about 9,000 years. Their ghosts are still here, guarding their ancient mines, all around us.”
The old formula still works, I thought. Mix scouts and ghosts, and you suddenly have an attentive audience.
“We really don’t know who they were,” I continued, “but the late Dr. Roy Drier of Michigan Technological University spent a lifetime trying to solve the mystery.”
It is estimated the “mining” work is that of 10,000 men for a thousand years, according to Drier. Thousands of shallow pits or horizontal adits, following elusive veins or masses of copper, dot the island.
Several of these pits have been excavated over the years. In one, a mass of copper weighing several tons was found. It had been freed from the native rock and raised on log cribbing. Another yielded the skeleton of a prehistoric “giant” beaver.
Host rock was cracked and chipped away with egg-shaped boulders, called hammerstones. An additional mystery surrounds these mining tools. Thousands of them were found on the Keweenaw Peninsula of Upper Michigan, almost all having a groove around them, probably to aid in affixing a handle of some form. The hammerstones of Isle Royale, though used for the same purpose, lack the grooves.
“Ghosts or no ghosts” said little Billy, “I’ll hike, but mining copper with a stone – no thanks.”
“The Ojibwe people have a much more interesting tale, as I’ve heard it,” I said.
Jack Strickland, an old prospector who lived on the Canadian north shore of Lake Superior, passed the story on years ago. It seems that Thunder Cape, whose high cliffs and rocky shores form the east side of Thunder Bay, was once home to a giant eagle. Early men came to the cape and the islands nearby to steal gold, silver and copper. This infuriated the eagle, since it felt these treasures belonged to the Ojibwe who lived in the area.
While flying high above Isle Royale one day, the eagle saw many men laboring on the island, tearing bits of copper from the rocky hills. Swooping down, it raked the island with its giant talons, seeking to destroy this force of men who would defile the eagle’s territory. They fled in terror, leaving only the pits and broken rock to mark their efforts. The eagle scratched the hills and cliffs until it was sure not a single person remained on the island.
Gitchi Manitou, the Great Spirit, was pleased. When the eagle finally died, Gitchi Manitou reformed Thunder Cape into the shape of an eagle’s head as an eternal memorial. It remains so today.
The scouts quickly agreed that the tale made far more sense. We discussed the nearby Minong Copper Mine they would have the chance to explore the next day. Scoutmaster Jack noted that some of the prehistoric mining areas would also be visible during their ascent to the Minong Ridge trail.
“Okay, boys,” he said, “let’s get set up in the shelters.”
We parted friends, with astrong bond between us: Isle Royale.
A version of this column originally appeared in Lake Superior Magazine’s September/October 1988 issue.