Georgian Bay 1992

Owen Sound to Lion's Head

(And Return)


dedicated to my pup, Samuelowski, a fine sailor dog who has since passed away


Setting:

This trip took place in the western and southern portion of Georgian Bay (part of Lake Huron) starting at Owen Sound, a small city at the base of the Bruce Peninsula, and heading north to Lion's Head, a small village midway up the Peninsula. Sam, good morale booster and ballast that he was, helped me sail Thistle #2531, the Steadfast. Thistles are speedy open daysailors/racers. That particular summer was kind of chilly and rainy, making for some less-than-comfortable parts to the trip.

     When Sam and I rolled into Owen Sound late Friday evening, we weren't sure just where we wanted to go. It was going to get dark in another hour or so and our only guide was a travel brochure with an aerial photo of the town. We stayed on the main drag for about a mile, then branched off to the left in our search for water. There it was, right in front of us. We stopped to regroup and gain our bearings. The sun was sinking lower; the shadows growing longer. After scrutinizing the brochure and comparing it with what lay before us, I determined that we were exactly across the sound from where we wanted to be. Straight shot by Thistle; endless maze of uncertainty by truck.

     I shifted into first gear, and away we drove, boat in tow, into the maze of strange city streets. I turned right and hoped for the best. Our travel brochure explained that there was a launch ramp along the inner harbor, wherever that was.

     The road led us over a wide new concrete bridge that spanned a narrow stream. Ahead on our right was a marina. I pulled down the gravel drive that wound down past all the big old boats shored up with coarse timbers and rusty steel stands and covered with tarps even though it was late summer. These poor, forsaken vessels had long since lost the interest of their owners. I parked at the back of the lot and Sam and I got out and stretched our legs, tired from our long drive from Ohio, but excited at the prospect of adventure awaiting us here on Georgian Bay. We walked the length of the dusty lot and Sam waited outside while I went into the little building that looked to be the marina office. Behind the counter was a middle-aged man in an official-looking outfit. I learned that this was not the municipal facility I was looking for but since the fee was only $10, I decided this would do just fine.

     "The wash room is in that building over there, and there is a fish cleaning station along the back wall." the man in the uniform pointed through the window that was at the end of the counter towards a cinder block building at a far corner of the marina. I nodded, and then selected a couple of charts to supplement the chartbook I had bought in Ohio.

     "Is there a grocery store nearby? I'll be needing some more food for my trip, and I don't know my way around town yet." He pointed out the way for me, and Sam and I jogged back to the truck, unhitched the boat, and zipped off in the direction he indicated.

     The grocery store was pretty small and the selection was not very good, but I managed to rustle up a few provisions. Eating while on the boat would be pretty basic and I hoped to find more food at stops along the way. Sam would of course be having his usual fare which was divided up into zip-lock freezer bags.

     We returned to the marina to begin setting up Steadfast and packing our supplies away. Among the supplies I brought were my little folding grapnel with about 100' of line (no chain), a second, larger Danforth anchor with about 150' of line and 10' of heavy chain, a very cheap inflatable dinghy, a plastic tarp to serve as a boom tent, mosquito netting and repellant. A new broad brimmed canvas hat coated with water repellant, a couple of flashlights, a chart book with it's very own handy-dandy clear plastic zippered bag, a transistor weather receiver, a few flares, and my sleeping bag all found berths aboard. But that was not all. I had made three other changes and additions to the boat. First, I had packed the space under the mast and stern grating with several cubic feet of styrofoam blocks. Second, I had a fellow make up a little dodger that would cover the open bow, and third, I added a thin cable running from the masthead to the aft end of the boom to support the boom when the sail is lowered.

     By the time I got all this stuff stowed and the boat ready to launch, it was nearly eleven and most folks were hitting the hay. There was a pleasant light wind from the southwest at about five knots, and the radio was calling for fair weather. I felt wide awake and was anxious to get under way. What to do? So, the first thing I did on my trip was break my "no sailing after dark" rule. I had made that rule in the calm, well-reasoning atmosphere of my living room long before this trip, with the thinking being that if the weather should turn sour, I would at least have the light of day to see what sort of mess we faced.

     We launched her, parked the truck, and returned to the boat. The wind was off the dock, so getting under way was as easy as pie, and we glided down the aisle between rows of boats. A man reclining in the cockpit of what was likely a semi-permanently moored powerboat spoke up "Where's your lights, buddy?" In answer, I showed him my new six volt Duracell. "Oh, okay", he dimly replied (sorry, I couldn't resist), shielding his eyes from the bright light. Sam sat quietly in the dark listening, watching, and sniffing. We glided on past 'til we were even with the opening in the breakwater, then jibed and headed east towards the channel.

     After we cleared the marina and entered into the main body of water, I headed up to a course of 25°, right down the middle of Owen Sound. I settled back, cushion under me, another behind, feet propped against the centerboard trunk, and a carton of cool fruit juice in hand.

     Sam had taken his favorite spot under the tiller and curled up to snooze.

     The further we sailed, the wider the sound grew and the more distant the lights became, and they were now turning out one by one as folks retired for the evening. The moon, when visible at all, was only a pale sliver through the light overcasting of clouds. It grew darker as the glow over the city faded in the distance. I decided I had better be on the safe side and shorten sail just in case the wind should pick up. I dropped the jib altogether and put a reef in the main. Shortly afterwards, the wind died altogether and the water was glassy calm, as best I could tell by flashlight, although there were leftover swells that made it impossible to keep the sail full.

     Nearly all my sailing experience has been on pretty opaque lakes...Lake Erie [which, by the way is now getting quite clear, thanks to the zebra mussel], and the inland Ohio lakes which usually are very muddy. I found that my flashlight was next to useless for looking at the state of the waves in Georgian Bay because the water is so clear that the beam goes off and is not reflected back. Even in just looking over the side next to the boat, I could hardly even tell where the surface was...it was hard to focus on . This is a very different and eerie feeling when you're used to looking at the water much the same as if it were solid ground.

     Something happened then to add to the strange air of things. By now it was pretty nearly pitch dark out (only about a half-dozen lights were visible, including the lighted 1020' television tower to port on Pyette Hill. Over to starboard, an immensely large yellow light arose vertically to about the same height as the TV tower. The conical beam shown downward, much like a parking lot light. Then, poof, it was extinguished. At some point I began hearing a rumble that was similar to distant thunder. Soon the light reappeared and once more began its ascent, only to again disappear. I was thoroughly mystified. What in the world was this all about? This all repeated itself every few minutes for a while, and then abruptly ceased. Then I recalled seeing on the chart that there is a tank range east of Coffin Hill and concluded that the "thunder" may have been artillery, but I never did quite figure out the role of the strange rising lights.

     After about an hour of calm, the wind began to fill in, this time from slightly south of east, and a little stronger than before. I believed I had done the right thing to shorten sail when I did, even though the Wiarton Coast Guard station was forecasting fair weather with light winds from the northwest. The wind very gradually built up and the waves to match, although I was not to learn just how much until daylight.

     The time passed slowly now and lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with me. We were on a close reach on starboard, and I maintained my original course of 25°. I had no concept of our speed and was afraid to get too close to the shore since I couldn't see it. We sailed on, taking each wave as it came, sailing by feel. I was growing drowsy, but there was no stopping now.

     My original destination was to be the lee of White Cloud Island in Colpoy's Bay, but I figured I would be past that before long and with the wind out of the east, it seemed better to keep moving on to perhaps MacGregor Harbor. And so on we sailed, Sam asleep under the tiller and I on the starboard seat. Whole segments of time passed where I have no recollection of what I was doing. I would look at my watch only occasionally because it meant turning on the light, which was more blinding than not being able to see (figure that one out!).

     Morning never came in the usual sense. Never before in my life have I seen a more gradual transition from black to gray. Eventually I was able to make out the waves, but it was some time before I could judge how high they were. Through the night the wind and waves had both been building and I was really glad that I was sailing under only reefed main. By five-thirty, I could see well enough that I no longer feared running ashore (there was none in sight.), so I altered course to 345° to look for it. This meant that whereas before we were quartering into the waves, now we were running with them on our aft starboard quarter.

     As each wave came upon us, I bore off to catch it and avoid broaching. Then it would grab hold of old Steadfast and away we went, spray flying from both sides, planing down the face, all squirrelly and quick. Then the wave would roll on by, foaming nearly at rail height as the crest swept past, giving us a brief moment to prepare for the next wave. Time after time we repeated this and as exhilarating as it was, I was becoming concerned about a possible gear failure. Since we were sailing under reefed main only, the pressure on the helm was pretty intense, even with the board mostly up. Pressure on the helm translates to pressure on the rudder, and I had visions of a snapped, splintered rudder projecting up from the overturned hull of a once fast, beautiful Thistle. At six o'clock I saw my chance and headed up, dropped the main, raised the jib, and bore off again. The spray flew as before. We hardly slowed down a bit, for which I was glad. The pressure on the helm was eased.

     I was very tired and had absolutely no idea where we were. Sam was awake now but remained curled up at my feet patiently waiting out the whole affair. I was not thinking very clearly and imagined some rather irrational things. The night had passed very slowly and yet I could see that we were moving at a good clip. I wondered if during the night we hadn't sailed past the tip of the Bruce Peninsula that separates Georgian Bay from the rest of Lake Huron and if we weren't actually in the main part of Lake Huron. I decided that I should head more towards shore. I debated jibing versus heading up and tacking, but concluded that with only the jib up it was unlikely I could tack, even if I timed it with the waves, and besides, jibing with only the jib shouldn't pose a problem. It was six-thirty when we jibed.

     Ten minutes into the new tack, I noticed that the clouds behind were darkening. Five minutes later, thunder. "Oh boy," I thought, "what a great time to be out here!" Within a few more minutes, the rain came and man alive did it pour! The onslaught lasted a full hour before letting up to a steady drizzle that lasted until I reached shore. The rain transformed the surface of the waves to a pock-marked texture and a fine mist rose from the water. The first wave in front of us stood out clearly. The second wave beyond it (when visible) was kind of foggy, and the third even more so. It reminded me of pictures I'd seen of the Smoky Mountains. I could not see past the surrounding waves while in the trough even though I was standing, which I did through most of the rain. When on the crest, I had a pretty good view considering the mist rising from the water. There was no other boat in sight.

     Early on in the night I had donned my rain gear to ward off the night chill, and that was clearly yet another lucky decision. The broad-brimmed canvas hat was a tremendous help since I wear glasses. The temperature was about sixty, so I was not exactly comfortably warm, but at least I was mostly dry. Sam sat up, there being too much rainwater in the boat to comfortably lay down, but the rain didn't bother him at all.

     The rain was still pouring down when I spied a triangular shaped object directly ahead on the horizon. "Wonderful! Another sailboat." I thought. The prospect of the company of another boat cheered my spirits, but as we drew nearer to it, I could see that it was instead a navigation bouy. I inspected my soggy chart. It could only be Surprise Shoal. Well, at least I now knew where we were and what course to take. We rolled past the green bouy at eight o'clock sharp, leaving it to bob alone in the waves. It soon disappeared from sight.

     I altered course about 10° to make Lion's Head. By now the rain had let up to a steady drizzle. We arrived at Lion's Head at nine o'clock, which meant that the 10.5 mile run from Surprise Shoal to Lion's Head took us precisely one hour under jib only. Extrapolating using that speed and the course that I had kept, I figure that at the time I jibed, (six-thirty), we were very nearly in the center of Georgian Bay.

     Once behind the high, sheer cliffs, the wind and waves dropped off to nearly nothing, and it was another full hour before we anchored in the harbor. I pulled out the sleeping bag, climbed in and draped the tarp over us. Sam wanted in too, so I managed to find room for him beside me by laying paddles from the seat to the centerboard trunk and padding them with a life vest. He was nice and warm. We dozed off for about an hour and a half before reawakening. I pumped up the dinghy to row ashore. Sam's toenails could easily puncture it, so I left him aboard Steadfast, rowed a few yards away, then called him. He was kind of hesitant about jumping from the boat, but he worked up the courage. Splash! He came up paddling straight for me. I rowed frantically away in an attempt to keep some distance between us, but he was trying to catch me. I cracked a plastic oar in my effort to escape his claws. I never realized he could swim so fast. Fortunately, he quickly slowed and I was able to keep out of reach.

     We moved from our anchorage in the middle of the basin to one of the public docks (which were really nice as were the rest of the facilities). The weather was blustery and cool for the next few days and I wasn't relishing a repeat trip, so Sam and I stayed to explore the area. We set off each morning after breakfast for a long walk and again after lunch. (Sam is always ready for a walk and thought this was just fabulous). I ate at the Lion's Head Restaurant a few times and I can vouch especially for their broiled whitefish.

     Tuesday we walked through town and up a road that led past neat cottages towards the cliffs that give the town its name. The pavement gave way to gravel as the road wound up the hill. At the last cottage it was reduced to a narrow lane which in turn became a footpath. Sam led the way and soon the path disappeared and we forged through extremely thick undergrowth toward the cliffs. I kept Sam on a leash for fear he might run over the edge by accident, and at first we kept getting entangled, but in a few minutes Sam learned which course to take so that I could follow and consistently chose correctly. It was uncanny. We reached the cliffs and the brush opened up to a spectacular view of the bay. Cabot Head was 17 miles to the north, then Smoky Head five miles distant, and White Bluff just opposite two miles away. Below us to the left lay our sleepy little town and immediately below us was a narrow rocky beach which dropped off quickly to a depth of about 150'. The weather was looking good and I was ready to move on.

     My transistor weather receiver did not survive the trip in through the rain so I called the Wiarton Coast Guard Station twenty miles to the south each day for the weather forecast. By the time I left Lion's Head Wednesday, I no longer bothered to call for the forecast since it without fail did not match what I was seeing. Even the report of current conditions didn't concur once. I was left to instinct.

     The original plan had planned to continue up the coast, but the weather caused such a delay that I instead decided to return directly to Owen Sound. That would give a leisurely return trip that could be divided into two or three days.

     We left Lion's Head at two-thirty Wednesday with blue skies and a light east wind which meant that we would have to beat upwind for two miles before we could clear the point for our trip south. Steadfast was wearing her jib and reefed main. With Sam to windward of the centerboard (tipping the scales at ninety pounds), and me on the rail, we were still heeling a bit much, but we worked our way through the waves until we could round the point on port tack. Once clear of it we bore off to a close reach and began to scoot right along. It was a beautiful day with a steady, cool wind, warm sun, sparkling water, and clear skies. Ahead of us was another sailboat about 24 feet long on the same course. It wasn't long before we overtook her, about 100 yards to windward. We exchanged greetings with her crew, and then Sam and I left her in our wake. Steadfast was easily doing twice her speed.

     We crossed Barrow Bay and slipped between skinny Barrier Island and the mainland and bore off to follow the coast around into Hope Bay where we planned to spend the night. Just around the corner a little spit of land forms what appears to be a snug harbor against all but southwest winds. The bottom shallows very gradually and is covered with rounded rocks about the size of footballs. Along a small section of the shore is a sandy beach, but it appeared to be privately owned. The rest of the shoreline consists of the rounded rocks. Two or three other boats were moored, but they were deserted. We had the cove to ourselves.

     I lowered the Danforth and watched as it descended to the bottom then paid out some rode and set the anchor. Then I let out a bunch more, lowered the mushroom anchor off the stern, and took up some of the Danforth's rode again. Then I inflated the dinghy and rowed over the anchors to check them. It was unnerving. Both were barely even hooked on the rocks. After fooling around some more, I couldn't get them planted any better, so I left them. (That made for good sleeping!). Then we went ashore and both stumbled around on the rocks for some exercise before dinner.

     The next morning there was a fairly stiff east wind; straight from the direction I had to go to round Cape Croker. I stalled until eleven, and then Sam and I set out under jib and reefed main. We had three distinct wave patterns coming at us from different directions which made for a rather rough ride with a lot of spray flying back at us. It was here that my little dodger really earned it's keep, shedding quite a lot of water and helping to keep the boat dry. As we rounded the Cape, the wind shifted with us, forcing us to continue beating.

     When we finally cleared it and could head for the passage between Hay and Griffith Islands the wind just kind of died away. After an hour or so it reappeared, very light but steady, and we ghosted all the way back to the marina at Owen Sound. We arrived at three o'clock Friday morning, just in time for some more rain, and spent the night in the truck.

     Each summer Owen Sound hosts a folk festival in a town park. It just happened that this was the weekend for it so for just a couple dollars we were entertained all evening by the sounds of acoustic guitars, banjos, dulcimers, and of course, the strains of old-time fiddle music. A very pleasant way to end our voyage.

Approximate course of the Steadfast