My Old Man’s Beach

Preamble: This is an invitation, not a guide. If you’re seeking the latter, there are plenty of articles that subjectively countdown the best beaches on Lake Superior. This story is meant as encouragement to summon your own sense of adventure. I request that you journey responsibly. While it’s true that huge chunks of Lake Superior’s Canadian shore are protected by national- or provincial parks, or designated publicly accessible Crown land (where residents may camp free of charge), private parcels do exist. Be sure to obtain the necessary permits where required, strive to leave no trace of your passing, and obey private property signs.

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I grew up listening to my father’s stories about a place he only referred to as “the Beach”. Its location was obscure: somewhere between our hometown of Sault Ste. Marie and the community of Wawa, a certain number of rock cuts beyond a tiny commercial fishing hamlet, and a short trek from a narrow pull off on Highway 17. “Blink and you’ll miss it,” Dad would say, in a beautiful nod to the analog world before Google Maps took some of the magic out of navigation. “You just know by the rocks when you’re there.”

Now I realize now my father’s reminiscences about the high times he spent camping at the Beach when he was a young man were expressions of nostalgia for glory days he would never get back. Yet still, each tale ended with a promise to return. Regrettably, I never knew this joy.

The reality was our summers were busy. I was constantly occupied by competitive sports, and my younger sisters attended various summer camps. What’s more, my maternal grandparents had a wonderful place at the outlet of Lake Superior, mere 20 minutes from the city, where I spent countless summer days on the water. My father was a high school teacher with the summers off; on our weeks with him it was simpler to load up the station wagon and take off on day trips to one of the many amazing public beaches within an hour's drive of Sault Ste. Marie—Pointe des Chenes, Batchawana or Pancake Bay—rather than embarking on a longer jaunt further north. And so, just as the Beach was a touchstone for Dad, it was a mythical place for me. It existed just beyond the horizon of my summer geography.

Dad never gave up telling the stories and the older I got, the more intriguing the Beach became—especially as I started to encounter some of Lake Superior’s more remote coastlines as I worked my way through summers between university terms as a sea kayak guide. I wondered how my father’s secret oasis compared to the magically isolated and pristine places where I’d made special memories and come to cherish as icons myself.

I drove from Sault Ste. Marie north to Lake Superior Provincial Park, Wawa, Pukaskwa National Park and beyond countless times during these frantic summers. I was always too preoccupied with the coming and going, often with a cumbersome kayak trailer in tow, to make much of a reconnaissance. There was never enough time between trips; and when the time did exist, I was too busy chasing distant shores.

Finally, I encountered the Beach on a solo sea kayak trip from Sault Ste. Marie to Wawa. It was early spring, just after I returned home from grad school, and with a week off I had the grand idea of paddling to a kayak instruction gig in Michipicoten. The weather was cold and blustery, and though I recognized the spot from Dad’s descriptions, it made little impression on me: windswept and exposed, I paddled on in favour of a more sheltered cove further up the coast.

The summers came and went, outdoor adventure became my career post-graduation—and still now, as I nudge into middle age. Lake Superior never grew boring. Its wildest places issued sirens’ calls: Beatty Cove, Dog River, Fish Harbour and a special spot, shared only with my closest friends, who coined it “Conor’s Cove”. With so many alluring places to return to, it took me over a decade to revisit the Beach.

Then, Dad was gone. My sisters and I went to the Beach together on what would’ve been our father’s 65th birthday, a month or so after he passed away. It was a spring day with glorious sunshine and a gentle breeze—the type that could easily be mistaken for July. Together, we lounged by the water, talking softly as the waves breathed rhythmically on the sand and gravel shore, escaping our lingering feelings of grief. Eventually, the four of us paddled out in a canoe to scatter Dad’s ashes. There was a sense of relief as I watched them drift down into the depths of the crystalline water.

I’m still drawn to the places I paddled in the halcyon days of my 20s. But now, I make a point at least once each year to pause at my old man’s beach: to lie by the shore, go for a swim and camp for a night in a spot that still lives up to Dad’s memories.

Experience the Outdoors in Algoma

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