Spirit Journey to Tip Top Mountain

TO THE TOP OF TIP TOP Around our evening campfire at Simons Harbour, each of us was bone-tired and famished. We had just paddled 23 miles—2 miles of the White River to Lake Superior, and 21 miles on the Big Lake itself.

After dinner, we reminisced about our final two days on the White after leaving Chicagonce Falls. Already our push down the river was a blur of long hours of paddling and portaging around rapids and crashing waterfalls. We encountered black bears and moose, but only two other canoe parties. Other than one more capsize, various mosquito bites, one slightly sprained knee, and a multitude of sore backs and muscles, we had made it in good shape to Superior’s North Shore. Now we were ready to begin the real journey within our journey. By headlamps, we spread out the topo maps and sketched our plans for tomorrow’s bushwhack to Tip Top. Rising approximately 1,500 feet above Lake Superior, the mountain itself wasn’t the problem. It was the getting there. From camp to Tip Top’s peak was seven, maybe eight miles on a straight-line course, but it was anyone’s guess how many miles away it was with all the ups, downs, and zigzags we would have to make. Rummaging through our food bags, we packed enough provisions for four days in the bush. “If it takes any longer than that we’ll be eating tree bark and moose poop,” Todd said with a wry laugh.

Next, we sorted through our gear, deciding what to toss in our backpacks and what to leave behind with Scott, who would be watching over base camp while we were away. “Well, I don’t know about you fellas, but I’m turning in,” Dan finally said, heading toward his tent. “We’ve got a hard day ahead of us, and just as a reminder, I’ll be waking you all up in the dark at five.”

Now, after two days and 17 hours of schlepping backpacks in some of the most absurd, god-awful hiking conditions imaginable, we plop down beside a shriveled-up pond at the base of Tip Top Mountain. The rounded tree-and-glade-covered massif is only a half-mile away and maybe 500 feet above our small clearing. The mountain’s less than impressive height means little, however; the challenge of getting here has transformed Tip Top into Ontario’s Mount Everest.

Suffering from painful blisters on his feet and coughing up smoker’s phlegm, Todd remains positively buoyant. His long-sought goal is finally within reach. By contrast, Jake seems to have lost interest in his dad’s mission. The kid’s been a trouper, but it’s obvious that by now he’d much rather be back in Michigan with his girlfriend and football pals.

Todd is patient and sympathetic, knowing that his youngest son is on this vision quest only because of him. “The boy’s tough—an awesome jock and as strong as an ox—but all this wilderness and canoeing stuff is new to him, just like it once was to me,” Todd tells me while Jake listens to his Walkman. “I invited him to come on this trip months ago, but he wasn’t interested. Just two weeks ago, though, he changed his mind. He said this may be the last chance for us to do something like this before he goes to college. It means the world to me that he’s here.”

At daybreak the next morning, the summit team prepares for the final assault. However, there will be only three; Jake and I are staying back at camp. Like Todd, I have a firestorm of raw blisters, but unlike him, I have decided to save my feet for the return trek. And in the tent beside mine, Jake has decided to sleep in. His dad tries to cajole him to get dressed, to join him on this last leg: “Young Jake, you don’t know how lucky you are. Only a few people on earth have ever stepped foot where we are right now. When people talk about adventure, they don’t have any idea what real adventure is. This is the real deal!” But Jake doesn’t budge. “Reaching the top isn’t as big a deal for me,” he tells his dad. “I just want to see you make it up. That’s why I came on this trip.”

MESSAGE FROM THE MOUNTAIN While Todd and the others are making their final summit bid, I hear the unmistakable howl of a wolf—a single, wavering, mournful sound that wafts over our lonely camp. Maybe it’s an omen that the guys made it to the top, I think hopefully. After all, it’s been about two hours since they left. Approximately an hour later, limping around, taking down my tent, I hear not a wolf this time, but distant voices. In a few minutes the ragtag gang emerges from the forest and strides into camp. “Did you make it?” I ask excitedly. “Sure did!” Todd bellows with glee, a huge smile crossing his haggard face. “We made it to the top of Tip Top Mountain! THANK YOU LORD!”

After heartfelt congratulatory hugs, Jake and I ask about their climb. Kicking off his boots to patch his blood-blistered feet, Todd relates how they found an old piece of survey ribbon tied to the highest tree on the peak, “probably a scrap that Verlen left behind.” And then his eyes close as he describes the view. “We could see forever, clear out to Lake Superior, far up and down the coastline,” he says, still aglow with excitement. “No wonder Dad and Verlen wanted to get up there.”

Suddenly overcome with relief and emotion, Todd tells us that he left a token on the summit, a remembrance: his father’s old compass. “I’ve been navigating with it this whole trip, as if Dad was looking over me, pushing me forward, guiding me on,” he sobs softly. “Well, Dad’s finally made it to the top of that mountain. When I reached the peak, I walked right through his spirit. He was right there with me, every step of the way. But now I figure it’s time for me to let go, to start navigating life on my own.”

With that, taking a deep breath and wiping his eyes, Todd slips on his boots, rises to his feet, and says in a strong, clear voice, “We’ve still got a long way to go, gentlemen. Let’s get moving. We’re done here.”