Isle Royale — There’s a unique panic when your phone dies somewhere that’s actually wild—no bars, no GPS, no Spotify, and no lifeline. You can run away from that feeling, or chase it.
Isle Royale, Michigan’s most remote national park—40 miles long, 9 miles wide, and composed of over 400 islands in Lake Superior—requires you cross from Copper Harbor by ferry, step into a roadless world, and let the noise drop away.
I went for four days and three nights with a 32-pound pack, damp gear, a bad solar charger, and zero signal. What I found was more than a hike—it was a confrontation: “What happens when the world stops texting you?”
We drove eight hours to Copper Harbor music blaring and Upper Peninsula scenery unspooling. The ferry to Isle Royale was a transition: As the mainland disappeared, so did the safety net of cell towers and drive-thrus.
Isle Royale Queen IV carried us over 3 hours across open water to a place ruled by its own quiet rules.
We hiked our first leg from Rock Harbor to Daisy Farm. The trail cut through forests, wound around inland lakes, and introduced us to the Island’s rugged bones. That first night, we saw two moose wander past our shelter.
It felt like an omen, like the island saying, “Pay attention.”
Our original plan was to head to East Chickenbone, but trail gossip—a powerful force on the island—warned of mosquito hell. Halfway through the hike, rain poured. Our gear soaked through, and we set up our tent in a damp blur of frustration and adrenaline. Lane Cove was beautiful, but everything was wet. That night, temperatures dropped below what my sleeping bag was rated for. I slept poorly. I shivered. But I wasn’t hurt, and somehow, I didn’t mind.
When you’re that far out, discomfort is data. You adapt. You move on.
By the time we reached Mt. Franklin, the sun had returned and so had our spirits. We sat on top of the world, eating lunch, meeting strangers who felt like long-lost friends. Cell service flickered back on for a moment.
The view was surreal. The air was clean and sharp. People swapped trail stories like veterans in a quiet war. It was like summer camp for grown-ups—everyone out here for a reason, looking to be lighter, freer.
There was something sacred in the stillness up there, in the shared silence between strangers who knew without saying that modern life is louder than it needs to be.
We passed around granola, patched each other’s maps, and laughed like we weren’t carrying anything. For a moment, no one was tracking steps or scrolling. The world felt bigger, but so did we.
My phone died that morning. My solar battery bank had failed to charge the day before. Suddenly, I had no idea what time it was, but as the hours passed, the anxiety faded.
Time slowed. I couldn’t check anything. I didn’t need to. The trail was the trail. Back at camp, with no clocks or screens to pull me forward, the hours stretched out like elastic.
We sat by the lake, skipped stones, talked without rushing to finish, and let silence have space. I caught myself wondering if it was mid-morning or late afternoon—and realized it didn’t matter. When there’s no schedule to chase, rest stops feeling like entire chapters.
We did a final hike to Scoville Point, this time with no packs. Just ourselves. It felt like graduation. Like re-entry.
I keep thinking about Daisy Farm. About sitting on the docks with my friends, legs sore, spirits buzzing, talking to strangers who felt like summer-camp bunkmates. On Isle Royale, everyone shares: trail tips, weather updates, water reports, laughs.
The deeper you go into the woods, the more valuable people become.
I missed texting my girlfriend. I missed updates and music and air conditioning. But I also saw who I was without them. And that person? He’s okay.
He can figure it out. Even when the rain pours, the bugs bite, and the signal dies.
Next time, I’ll pack a better battery. But I’ll still leave a part of myself out there, somewhere between Lane Cove and Mt. Franklin, where the world goes quiet enough so you can finally hear yourself think.
Landen Taylor is a musician and explorer living in Bay City. Follow him on Instagram @landoisliving.
