Discover Elk Island

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 25/09/2021 (1656 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

“Let’s walk to a Lake Winnipeg island!” I exclaimed to Margie. “Forget about Mont-Saint-Michel over in France!”

Folks usually boat or wade the kilometer to Manitoba’s Elk Island but, with low water, I heard you can walk on a mostly dry sandbar.

Elk Island is a nine square-kilometer provincial park west of broad Traverse Bay and north of Sandy Bay, least known of Lake Winnipeg’s east-side beach communities. The Cree name is Misse Ministik, meaning big island. The park is designated for natural wilderness with no development, amenities or, apparently, elk.

We first found Sandy Bay last year, surprisingly discovering two red tractors with trailers – sitting in the lake. Are farmers prepping for the next flood? Growing watermelons?

I later read that with strong waves and crushing ice here, locals traditionally rely on tractors, and not docks, to launch their boats.

Where Highway 59 from Winnipeg turns west to Victoria Beach, we kept northbound on Highway 504 to its end. No-parking signs abound; Elk Island Provincial Park offers no parking. They should re-think the word “park.”

We saw some vehicles left along 504 southbound and parked there. Before the Elk Island hike, you hike.

From the lake’s public access by 504, we saw another red tractor and trailer, plus a truck in the lake. Parking!

We trekked east down Olafson Boulevard. An intriguing sign announces Sandy Bay Stairs, followed by a quaint wooden arch saying Pathway To Beach.

Sandy Bay Stairs comprise a substantial wooden walkway so folks can surmount huge sand dunes without disturbing vegetation — and avoid sinking without a trace.

But the fine near-white sand covers the ramp. Trudging this sloping passageway is like the stairs to the kids’ bedrooms when they lived at home — except there’s sand, not homework, shoes, laundry.

Ahead lies, well, the Atlantic, or the Pacific. Maybe that street-sign on 59 at Brokenhead isn’t so ridiculous — the one saying Ocean Drive.

Elk Island is all that interrupts a landless horizon. Wind straight from Calgary blew my hat toward Toronto. But good thing for that unbroken blow because, while the temperature hit 33 C, it felt no more than, say, 31 C.

Toward Elk Island, a panoply of pebbles plus, argh, scattered zebra mussels, accompany the vast stretches of the beautifully rippled sandbar. We even smelled the ocean.

We meandered to where the water is shallowest. Margie removed her shoes.

I balanced on my running-shoe heels, reportedly like a nincompoop, but insisted, “It’s the only way to go! And it’s good for the calves. I should do it more often!”

I got a soaker.

I mean, a booter.

A giggling couple clicked selfies on the glittering expanse. Five happy little girls, holding hands, searched with nets for minnows. They’d built a sand castle. I wouldn’t even think of asking to scoop out a badly-needed moat. Didn’t even cross my mind.

Margie found herself a tiny sand island. Canada’s tiniest inhabited isle. She waved proudly. I said, “How’s it goin’ there on Gilligan’s Island? ‘You Ginger or Mary Ann?” (for boomers only)

She replied, “I’ve always been Mary Ann! Unless you think I look like Ginger.”

Why did I ask that question? I called out, “You’re both!” Whew.

Elk Island offers uncluttered vistas and shows off powdered-sugar beaches and striking sandy bluffs, relieved of reminders of humankind – except a tree sign saying “Press On,” and a pink floatie marking a trailhead. It felt virgin, pure, distant. This is magnificent coastal country, like Key West or San Diego – without San Diego.

We hiked toward the island’s northwestern point until boulders and several black gumbo lumps looking like igneous rocks crowded the shore. Margie insisted I sit on a big chair-like boulder for a photo.

We turned back and laid our towels on comfortable sand. From Albert Beach’s bountiful Saffies General Store, we shared a butter tart. Lounging – with relentless waves whooshing and under a hovering hawk – a disturbing reality set in: no raisins.

I then asked Margie, “Where’s my sunglasses? Did I leave them on that rock?”

She said, “You’re wearing them.”

The sun so stunningly shone, I expected more tint. Or I lost my marbles.

Margie added, “Even Gilligan would know his sunglasses were on his face.” Ow. She then held out a rock shaped like a heart. Aw.

Three troops of hikers passed. They headed to the island’s long trail that disappears into the bush. We debated if we should follow. I offered two syllables: “Home. Nap.”

Further hiking was meant for a temperate day and for when we packed more than a tart. We beachcombed to Sandy Bay.

Back on Olafson Boulevard, we encountered folks encouraging a skinny guy barely carrying an oversized red cooler, and a girl struggling with a massive clear jug of orange liquid, red fruit, and who-knows-what lapping from side to side. We should have stayed to watch the dramatic comedy on the Sandy Bay passageway.

Margie’s health app reported we walked 16,000 steps – in a scorcher. I felt each of the last thousand. But I’d do it again in a minute. Ok, when I’m younger.

gordmackintosh@hotmail.com