Winter 2025
Where the Birches Bend
A family’s journey to Isle Royale National Park.
Do you mind if I read you a poem?” my 80-year-old father-in-law, Fred, asked as we drove through the birch-lined forests of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. “Not at all,” I replied, and he immediately began to recite the words of Robert Frost. “When I see birches bend to left and right / Across the lines of straighter darker trees, / I like to think some boy’s been swinging them …”
The poem, “Birches,” seemed to stir up deep feelings in him. As we drove, he reminisced about his childhood and the woods he once knew well. He spoke of a road trip to the tip of the Upper Peninsula that he’d taken with a schoolmate when he was 12, and of the summers he spent at a camp on the Lower Peninsula’s Au Sable Lake, where his mother occasionally volunteered as a cook. I realized this trip, months in the making, meant more to him than I had understood.
My brother had been following behind us on the trip from Knoxville, hauling three teenagers — my son, his son and another nephew — and a kayak for each of us. The two-day drive ended in the charming city of Houghton, where we spent the night before embarking on the last leg of our journey: a 73-mile ferry ride to Isle Royale National Park, a remote cluster of islands near the Canadian border in Lake Superior.
Isle Royale is known as Minong, or “the Good Place,” to Ojibwe-speaking peoples. In 2019, the U.S. government designated it as a traditional cultural property of the Grand Portage Band of Lake Superior Chippewa, whose ties to the land go back many centuries and are ongoing. Largely untouched by the modern world, Isle Royale is also a haven for hikers and boaters. As a ranger explained during an orientation on the boat, 132,018 acres — or 99% of the park land scattered across one main island and more than 400 smaller ones — are federally designated wilderness. The islands, which lie on the boundary between the boreal and northern hardwood forests, contain elements of both, including abundant balsam fir, ancient white spruce and yes, towering birches.
Six hours after departing, we finally arrived at Rock Harbor. We took our time carefully loading our kayaks with food and equipment before setting out. The primary concern for paddlers is tipping over: Because Lake Superior’s waters are unusually chilly, hypothermia can set in with scary speed. We strategized about a safety plan and began our 6-mile paddle to Caribou Island, where we would spend the next three nights. Fortunately, the waters were relatively calm, and we reached our destination with ease.
We were lucky to share our campsite with a couple who were experts on the area. Brendon, a historian, and his wife, Gina, a naturalist, gave us a tour of the island, teaching us about its rich flora, fauna and geology. It was June, and the forest floor was carpeted with wildflowers. The trees echoed with the songs of warblers and thrushes, occasionally punctuated by the rhythmic drumming of pileated woodpeckers and northern flickers. We spotted red-breasted mergansers and common goldeneyes tending to their young at the water’s edge, and the haunting calls of common loons filled the evening air.
The next day, Dave and Russ, Upper Peninsula natives and expert fishermen, arrived. We chatted for a while before they headed out, vowing to return with a lake-trout dinner for everyone. They delivered on their promise, and I can honestly say it was some of the best fish I’ve ever eaten.
Toward the end of our time on Caribou Island, my son John, who is 18, invited me on a hike. The two of us followed animal trails through the woods until we reached a cliff offering a stunning view of the lake. We sat together in the sun and silence for a long time. I was glad to see that my son still possessed a childlike wonder at wild places — and that he wanted to share it with me.
For my father-in-law, the trip had been a journey back to the wilderness of his youth — and through dearly held memories. For the teenagers, it was something entirely new. I wondered how their memories would change over the years. Someday, would they view this place, their awe at nature’s bounty, and their time with family through the sweet and sometimes prickly lens of nostalgia? What would that look like?
On the paddle back to Rock Harbor, I noticed birches bending over the channel. It was a fitting image to leave with — and it reminded me of the final lines of the poem Fred had recited with such gusto. “I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,” it goes. “And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk / Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, / But dipped its top and set me down again. / That would be good both going and coming back. / One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.”
About the author
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Matt Brass Author
Matt Brass recently retired from his job as vice president of creative at an ad agency specializing in sustainability and the environment after a 17-year run. Since then, he's founded a company, Smoky Outfitters, that creates art about destinations around the U.S., including many national parks. Based in Knoxville, Tennessee, Brass continues to pursue photography and document his adventures in the great outdoors. To learn more, go to mattbrass.com.