End of the Lighthouse Season

Sitting in the Andrews cabin on Barnum Island this evening, I hear only the wind and the water lapping on the rocks behind the cabin. The laughter from the fish house across the harbor on Washington Island has faded; the boys from the Johns Hotel restoration no longer make the trek to north side rock beach to find just the right cell phone reception for their phone calls and downloads; the evening laughter from the neighboring cabin is now absent.

Only the Rock Hopper is on the dock, with all the other docks on both islands empty. I’m the only one remaining to accompany the moose that transits these islands.

It was fun, with all the company of island family descendants, fisherman guests, and restoration helpers. The deck around the Sivertson fish house is complete, with a new section tying the dock-house to the shore, complete with lake rock trimming its edge. The new door opens and closes easily for the first time in decades. The floor is ready for gatherings, fish fries, social hours and perhaps. next year, dancing. Rumor has it that the Fishheads may be back after years of absence to provide music to dance to next year. For many years, the Barnums provided a band to set a dance rhythm for islanders, with many joining in to make the music. Those band members became close friends of George Barnum, with descendants still occupying a couple of the cabins on the island and contributing significantly to the maintenance of the island buildings to this day.

Tom Johns, great-grandson of local legend and homesteader John Johns, accompanied us on the island's east end, working daily to enhance the legacy of the first hotel in Washington Harbor through restoration. The origin Johns built the four-bedroom hotel to capture some of the growing tourist business in 1892. In the early 1900s, the Johns fishing and tourism empire spawned 16 buildings on this site, including the hotel, dining room, store, barn, fish houses, warehouse, five cottages, and expansive dock. The hotel and one of the cabins are all that remain.

Tom and I would share a cup of coffee and a pancake or two while the two boys he brought from his hometown slowly woke up. The lads work at a community center where Tom  volunteers, living in a tent a few weeks each year to help him with some restoration projects. Most of Tom’s effort is self-funded, though the Park Service does lend a hand and materials. As a retired Duluth school teacher, Tom is known to stretch a penny, evidenced by his water transportation vehicle.

My own water transportation came compliments of Jeff Sivertson. He restored one of George Barnum’s row boats a few years ago, and I love it for its classic lines, speed, and smooth cut through the water. More than a few times, I rowed that boat well outside our little harbor and into the lake. On one occasion, I thought I’d try rowing through the waves kicked up by a northwest wind. It bobbed like a seagull and moved through the wind and water with ease.

Sunrises and sunsets never cease to delight, with my inventory of photos growing exponentially. Someday, I’ll need to put together a sunset-sunrise slide show. It could probably run for an hour or two without repeat and would surely treat insomnia.

The Rock Hopper performed flawlessly, even if she was a bit abused on a couple of the landings on the Rock. A new experience was having the swells create a current in the small “harbor,” sucking the boat into the dock when I wasn’t expecting it. That put one of the props up on the recently sunken concrete decking off the end of the dock, the second time the stern had wrapped around to threaten damage. The first time a protruding chunk of 1” rebar connected with the hull, leaving an ugly but inconsequential scratch. This time, as the swell kept the port prop immobile (the motors were in neutral as my only reaction to losing control of the approach) but the starboard prop was still free. I closed my eyes and gave it a quick burst driving the boat forward enough to get purchase in the water and extract it from the harbor for another try. As I looked back at my passengers, they were all wide-eyed and frozen in place, unsure of what to do. On the next approach, we stayed well off the dock and lassoed the dock cleat to pull in the boat. Everyone seemed very glad to climb up onto terra firma. Fortunately, no harm, no foul. Just the hazards of the job in less-than-calm conditions.

All that’s left to do is close up the lighthouse, pick up the lads, close up the cabin, and get the boat back to Grand Portage for haul out. It doesn’t seem like I spent a month of my summer in this near-wilderness, but I am ready for regular showers, running water, and use of a toilet again. Not to mention the smiles and harassment of family members, and the company of my closest friend and wife. It’s a privilege to live amongst the history and people of Washington Harbor and to facilitate the restoration of the lighthouse that for so long we stood in awe of as passengers on the Skipper Sam or Loosdrecht. I hope I can find a way to finagle my way back into the Harbor next year.