We were anchored at the end of a narrow bay under glittering pink granite cliffs. A whiff of pine scented the air. From Belamies, our PDQ 36 catamaran, I swam ashore in the clear water. Lying on a rocky slab warmed by the sun, I closed my eyes and listened to ripples slap at my feet.
Was I in Greece? The Pacific Northwest? Perhaps Croatia
Nope, much closer to home. This was Canada’s North Channel at the northern end of Lake Huron, a freshwater gem situated between the north shore of Manitoulin Island and the shore of Lake Huron in Ontario. It opens to the east to broad Georgian Bay; its western edge leads to the St. Marys River adjoining Lake Superior.
One-hundred-sixty miles long, it is remote, rugged, and pristine. Freshwater seas lap the shores of its hundreds of craggy islands covered in stands of white pine, jack pine, and cedar. Several historic waterfront communities provide cruising amenities, and protected anchorages abound.
One could explore here for years, though at 46° north latitude, the sailing season is short and sweet, lasting from early June to late August. An unrivaled cruising ground that’s largely unknown to sailors outside the American Midwest, the North Channel is also a geologist’s dreamscape, and many of its rocks were formed billions of years ago—they are among the oldest on the planet.
Getting here takes a bit of doing. Toronto and Detroit are the closest big cities, and driving is the best option. In mid-July 2023, I joined five friends and drove 600 miles up from Ann Arbor, Michigan. All of us are experienced sailors—some in dinghies, others in keelboats—and we’d arranged a weeklong charter with Canada Yacht Charters (CYC). Our skipper was our friend Becky Prepejchal (also an ER doctor) who has chartered extensively in the Caribbean and has the documented experience required by CYC.
Canada has removed its Covid-19 border restrictions, so crossing into Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, was easy. The drive east along the channel’s north shore reminded me of coastal Maine with its rocky headlands and pine forests. Eventually, we came to the village of Little Current, where a single-lane swing bridge connects mainland Ontario to Manitoulin Island. Once on the island, we drove 35 miles west through rolling farmland to the village of Gore Bay, where we met our CYC hosts.
CYC has a fleet of 19 boats including monohulls from 31 to 47 feet, catamarans, and trawlers. We checked in with co-owner Ken Blodgett, who introduced us to the PDQ. I mentioned to Ken it would be nice to sail a boat drawing fewer than 3 feet so we could anchor in the shallows.
“That’s the kind of thinking that gets the PDQ grounded more than any of our boats!” he said, pointing a thick finger at me. “Stay in deep water.” Point taken, we never anchored in anything shallower than 10 feet.
After spending a few hours moving gear and food (lots of food) aboard, we popped over to a local restaurant for a dinner of fish and chips made with fresh-caught whitefish.
Six aboard a 36-foot boat is a squeeze, but with two of us sleeping on the fold-down salon table we managed. With a cabin forward in each hull, and a small cabin port side, the boat had room for all.
Next morning, facing the prospect of cooking for six, we went ashore for breakfast. Back aboard we studied charts with a delivery captain whose local knowledge stretched back 30 years. At 1100 we started the boat’s two 9.9-hp outboards and cast off.
The North Channel holds special memories for me. Thirty-five years ago I sailed here with my parents aboard our family’s Freedom 30. It felt great to be back.
Deep Water, Deeper History
Gore Bay lies at the end of a deep inlet surrounded by rocky headlands. We set sail in a fair west wind and turned east toward Little Current and the islands beyond. Picking our way down a narrow channel below Clapperton Island we carefully followed the red and green buoys.
Keeping a close eye on the chartplotter and a keen lookout is a must when navigating the North Channel. Depths change quickly from 100 feet to 1 foot, and woe to the sailor who does not pay strict attention to the surroundings. Sharp rocks and blunt boulders lurk below, eager to rip the bottom out of wayward vessels.
At Little Current, the island’s biggest town, we missed by minutes the swing bridge that opens on the hour. Mindful of the current, we docked alongside at the downtown marina to wait. Though this is not tidal water, the narrow channel running roughly east-west is easily and profoundly affected by wind-driven water squeezing through either from the eastern or western arms of North Channel, and at times it can reach 4 knots. So, it’s important to pay attention to what the wind is doing when transiting here.
Built at the traditional crossing point to Manitoulin Island, Little Current’s history is reflective of many of the communities along these shores. The signing of the Manitoulin Island Treaty of 1862 opened the region “to European Canadian settlement and resource extraction,” according to The Canadian Encyclopedia. The treaty created five reserves for First Nations people; only the Wiikwemkoong refused in the end to sign it. Today, the Wiikwemkoong Unceded Territory occupies the island’s eastern end and remains homeland to “the Peoples of the Three Fires Confederacy: the Odawa, Ojibway and Potawatomi…steeped in the Indigenous culture and language of the Anishinabek.”
Located on the steamer route, what’s now called Little Current grew prosperous with the timber trade. The first sawmill was built in 1874. In 1877, the town caught the eyes of Isaac and Elizabeth Turner, who were westbound in search of land. They established a store, and today, the family’s fifth generation continues their legacy. According to a story by Isobel Harry on exploremanatoulin.com, Turner’s is “ ‘Canada’s oldest nautical chart dealer’ [and] still sells charts, reflecting the family’s passion for boating of Grant Turner who founded the Great Lakes Cruising Club, and of Jib Turner, a sailor of some repute.”
If you want to get a greater sense of the area’s deeper history, the Centennial Museum of Sheguiandah, about 6 miles south of Little Current, “offers a sweeping survey of this area’s origins, beginning with the earliest human activity. Artifacts on display, excavated from a quartzite outcrop nearby known as Sheguiandah Hill and carbon-dated by archeologists to 10,000 years ago, are evidence of quarrying by the first humans on Manitoulin Island after the last Ice Age. In 1954, the Sheguiandah archeological site was designated a National Historic Site of Canada, along with the habitation area that encompasses today’s village of Sheguiandah.”
We, however, had different travels in mind, and as we passed through Little Current’s iconic and massive swing bridge built in 1913, we continued east as a small cruise ship overtook us. The Great Lakes host a number of these ships small enough to explore little towns and out-of-the-way places. We motored past Strawberry Island Lighthouse, its red roof and white sides warmed by the sun’s evening glow. At this latitude the midsummer sun sets after 9 p.m., and twilight lingers till 10:30.
Heywood Island was crowded, and we anchored in the company of a dozen other boats. In the high season anchorages are often full and it is best to arrive early to get a spot. It’s also fair to say that while these cruising grounds offer easy day hops of relatively short distances, you may motor as much as you sail. The local boating population seemed to be about 50-50 sail to power.
I came on deck in the predawn hours. Stars filled the black sky and our neighbor’s anchor lights shone like bright planets. In the morning, the haunting call of sandhill cranes broke the silence, as wisps of fog rose from the still water.
Quartz Cliffs and Indigo Lakes
We set course for Baie Fine (pronounced Bay Fin) and entered the 6-mile-long fjord that lies between cliffs of the La Cloche Mountains, located in Ontario’s Killarney Provincial Park. Though today they look more like high hills, they are estimated at 1.88 billion years old and once towered as tall as the Rocky Mountains. Wikipedia provided this nifty blurb: “According to legend, the hills were warning bells, or tocsins, used by local First Nations for signaling. These ‘Bell Rocks’ could be heard for a considerable distance when struck, and accordingly when when voyageurs explored the area they named it with the French word for ‘bell’—La Cloche.”
Today, Baie Fine is one of North America’s top cruising destinations and not to be missed. Navigation is tricky, and we threaded slowly between rocky islets, the channel leading us a boat’s length from gleaming quartz cliffs. A bald eagle peered down from a tree limb, and twitchy cormorants dove below the surface soon to reappear a safer distance away.
Down another even narrower channel we arrived at the Pool, one of the best-known anchorages in the region. Offering all-weather protection, it lies at the bay’s end surrounded by lofty hills and dense pine forests. Surprised to find only six other boats, we got a prime spot in the middle. A cozy cabin built by the Evinrude family of outboard motor fame perched on a nearby island.
A steep hiking path led us up to Topaz Lake, a jewel of inviting blue-green water. We swam surrounded by cliffs and forests of pine, then dried ourselves on the sun-warmed rocks. Vireos, thrush, and blue-headed warblers called from thick stands of hardwood as we walked back to the dinghy in the forest’s green light.
Crewmember Kay warmed a hearty stew that had slowly thawed in the 12-volt refrigerator. After dinner, a snapping turtle the size of a serving platter swam around the boat eager for a handout. We resisted the urge to feed him—despite his persistence and pleading eyes.
Low clouds hung in the hilltop trees at morning. We set out on a dinghy ride, but as the heavens opened with a deluge, we thought the better of it and headed back to the boat. Ready to move again, we began winching up the anchor. I have never seen a more weed-choked snarl. I ripped and tore at the twisted mass pulling in the chain inch by inch. Long tendrils of seaweed tangled the props and rudders and covered the starboard foredeck in a green carpet of matted mud.
In heavy rain we motored back down Baie Fine. Wisps of low cloud raked the cliff tops, and the fjord’s steep sides disappeared into the mist ahead. A gale of rain and lightning swept over the hills lashing the boat with blasts of wind-driven spray. With visibility less than 100 feet we idled mid-channel till the storm blew over.
Back at Little Current the easterly wind pushed a strong flow westward through the narrows. Becky kept the boat in reverse, careful not to be swept down onto the bridge.
Blueberries and Stars
We docked at the city marina and ate dinner at the Anchor Inn Hotel, headquarters of a North Channel boating institution, the Cruiser’s Net operated by local sailor Roy Eaton. Every morning during the sailing season at 9 a.m., Roy comes on to talk about the weather, comings and goings, news and events, and even urgent marine broadcasts. His net is so popular that visiting sailors routinely stop and trek upstairs to meet the man in person. We tuned into the Net a couple of times during our charter and enjoyed the local know-how Roy provided.
In the bright morning we sat outside the Loco Beanz coffee shop. A friendly trash collector called over, “You’re so lucky!” We smiled and waved back. Sometimes we forget how true his words are.
A fresh southwesterly took us on a reach up to Croker Island under full main and genoa. Whitecaps dotted the aqua water and the distant Cloche Mountains faded into blue haze. We tucked in close to shore at Croker Island and ran a stern line, Mediterranean style, to a tree. Nestled under the glacier-smoothed hills, we lay sheltered from brisk westerlies that shook the pines on the ridge above.
I paddled around the anchorage in a small folding kayak until it began to collapse under me and sink. I pulled for shore and bailed it out only to find myself eye-to-eye with a water snake sunning himself on a branch. I’m not sure who was more surprised, but we parted on friendly terms.
Late in the afternoon we scrambled up the mossy rocks to the ridge top. Pausing to catch our breath, we took in the sweep of distant islands silhouetted by bright sunlight that sparkled on the wide bay.
In the evening, a mink explored the shore as he scurried from rock to rock looking for his evening meal. At midnight I stepped on deck and gazed at the Milky Way draped like a bright sash against a background of ten million stars.
After coffee we upped anchor and motored in the morning calm to a wooded bay that separates Hotham Island from the Ontario mainland. We found good holding in 12 feet and swam in the brisk water. The initial shock took our breath away, but we soon acclimated, and the water felt wonderfully refreshing in the hot afternoon.
I explored the shallows in the dinghy, quietly paddling through tall rushes that brushed against the side. Waterbugs zigzagged before me in the clear water, and giant lily pads cast their shadows across the rocky bottom. A monarch butterfly paused his flight but declined my offer to stop for a rest.
Back in the bay, I chatted with the owners of a trawler from Florida who were taking a year to do the Great Loop. The boat’s bow bore the telltale tannin stains of the Carolinas and the Dismal Swamp. They (and many like them) had come across the Trent-Severn Waterway from Lake Ontario and were bound for Chicago and the rivers that would take them south to the Gulf of Mexico.
After sunset a pair of loons called to each other as stars appeared in the purple dusk. We sat on deck marveling at the quiet and the solitude.
On South Benjamin Island, we anchored for our last night at the end of a deep cove. On the granite hills we found a treasure trove of sweet blueberries sheltered behind a rocky wall. In the cedar-scented air, we ate our fill. Cooling breezes rustled wildflowers growing among the lichen-covered rocks.
At the end of South Benjamin we dinghy-cruised narrow channels of glacier-rounded rock. A small sloop lay tucked between stony outcroppings, her lines attached to pitons hammered into the pink granite.
We continued around to the crowded harbor between North and South Benjamin islands. This anchorage, although beautiful, is so popular in midsummer that it may be best to give it a pass. Jet skis, powerboats, and day-tripping tour boats dashed between the anchored yachts, the shore dotted with sunbathers and beached dinghies. After a swim we headed back to our quiet cove on the island’s south side.
A forecast of strong westerlies sent us hurrying the 15 miles back to Gore Bay in the early morning. After refueling and pumping out we spent an hour unloading gear before signing off with CYC. It had been a fantastic week.
I’ve carried fond memories of cruising the North Channel for 35 years. Visiting once again, I was happy that so little had changed. The islands are timeless—a pristine wilderness untouched by modernity and the fast-paced life of the outside world, a land that time has forgotten.
April 2024