1973 Trip to the Soo

A Thursday Evening, Duluth, late May 1973

Tom Schultz moved through his East Hillside house in Duluth with the purpose of someone who’d been waiting all winter for this weekend. The sun was low over Lake Superior, throwing a soft orange wash across the worn hardwood floors of the living room. From the front window he could see a sliver of the lake and, if he leaned just right, the faint silhouette of a laker easing toward the canal. This evening, he spotted the 644-foot John Dykstra of the Ford Motor Company fleet, about 20 minutes’ sailing time from the Aerial Bridge, enroute for its usual destination, the east side of Duluth, Missabe & Iron Range Railway Dock #6 to load taconite pellets for the Ford Motor Company plant in Dearborn, Michigan.

He’d been watching ships from this hillside since he was ten. Now twenty‑eight and single, Tom was ten years into his job at Diamond Tool & Horseshoe in West Duluth that he landed a couple of weeks after graduating from Duluth Central High School in 1963. Now a machinist, it was steady work, the kind a man could count on, and Tom took pride in the precision of it. But what he loved most were the ships. And he was finally taking the trip he’d dreamed about for years: a long weekend in the Soo, where the boats came through one after another, hour after hour. He felt the same quiet excitement he used to feel pedaling his bike down to Canal Park with a notebook in his back pocket.

His suitcase lay open on the bed upstairs, half‑filled with neatly folded shirts, jeans, socks, and a flannel or two in case the Soo turned cool. His toiletry bag sat beside it, already zipped. He checked his packing list again, handwritten on a yellow legal pad, each item carefully crossed off:

  • Cameras
  • Color slide film
  • Print film
  • Scanner
  • Extra batteries
  • Clothes
  • Toiletries
  • Boat book

The boat book was his log of vessel sightings, dates, times, weather notes, and the occasional rough sketch. It was already tucked into the outer pocket of his camera bag. He’d been keeping it for eighteen years. The first entry was the Arthur M. Anderson, seen from the Lake Avenue bridge when he was still small enough to sit on the railing with his father’s hand on his shoulder, back in the spring of 1955.

Downstairs, the house was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional hiss of a passing car on East 7th Street. His four‑channel handheld scanner sat on the table by the door, crystals installed for the most important VHF‑FM ship frequencies. From up here on the hill, he could sometimes catch radio traffic from ore boats still miles out on the lake.

He stepped outside into the cool evening air. His tan 1971 Plymouth Valiant sat in the driveway, clean enough, reliable as ever. He’d filled it up earlier at Erickson’s on 6th Avenue East. The trusty Slant‑6 under the hood would hum all the way to the Soo without complaint. He popped the trunk and set the suitcase inside, then the toiletry bag. The trunk lid closed with that solid, old car thump. The camera bag and scanner he left by the front door inside. Tom would grab them in the morning when he left.

Back inside, he picked up the phone from its cradle on the kitchen wall and dialed the number he’d written down weeks ago. The Crestview Motel answered on the second ring. He confirmed his reservation. Tom would stay four nights, Friday through Monday. He reserved a room with a queen bed, overlooking downtown and the river. It was twelve dollars a night. The Crestview was clean, simple, exactly what he needed. He wouldn’t be spending much time there anyway. When he hung up, the house felt even quieter. The kind of quiet that comes before a long drive and a good trip.

He set his alarm clock for 4:30 a.m. He planned to be on the road by 5:30, taking the quiet early morning streets down to US‑53, then across the Blatnik Bridge toward Superior and the long run east on US‑2 and eventually M-28 across the Upper Peninsula.

He turned off the lights, checked the door lock twice out of habit, and stood for a moment at the window. Down the hill, the lake was a dark sheet of steel. Somewhere out there, a ship’s horn sounded.

Tom smiled to himself. “The Ernest T. Weir.”

Tomorrow, he’d be in the Soo. And the ships would be waiting.

Friday, 4:30 a.m.

East Hillside, Duluth

The alarm rang at 4:30 a.m., sharp and insistent in the dark bedroom. Tom reached over, shut it off, and lay still for a moment, listening to the quiet house around him. The radiators were silent, the street outside still asleep. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the distant, low moan of a ship’s horn out on the lake broke the silence.

He swung his legs out of bed and dressed quickly. He put on jeans, a flannel shirt, and the light jacket he always wore on early morning drives. The house felt cool, the kind of spring chill that lingered in old wood frame homes long after the weather had turned.

Downstairs, the camera bag and scanner waited by the door, exactly where he’d left them. He flicked on the kitchen light, poured himself a quick glass of orange juice, and ate a slice of toast while the sky outside the window shifted from black to a deep, early morning blue. From this high on East 7th Street, he could see the faintest glimmer of dawn over Lake Superior.

He grabbed the scanner first, checking the battery pack with a practiced thumb. Then he loaded the camera bag. It was heavier than it looked with the extra rolls of slide film tucked into the side pocket. Last, he slipped his boat book into the outer pouch, making sure the pencil was still clipped to the spiral binding.

When he stepped outside, the air was crisp and still. The street was empty, the houses dark except for one porch light halfway down the block. His tan 1971 Plymouth Valiant sat in the driveway, dew beading on the hood. He unlocked the driver’s door, set the bags on the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel.

The reliable Slant‑6 turned over on the first try. He let it warm for a minute, watching the faint plume of exhaust drift into the cool air. Tom checked his watch: 5:22. Tom was right on schedule, if not a little early.

He backed out of the driveway and eased down East 7th Street, the tires whispering on the pavement. The neighborhood was quiet, the streetlights still glowing. He turned down 6th Avenue East, descending toward downtown as the first hint of sunrise touched the lake.

At the bottom of the hill, he turned west onto 3rd Street, passing St. Mary’s Hospital and Washington Junior High School, caught Mesaba Avenue and followed it toward the freeway ramps. The city was just beginning to stir. Tom passed a bakery truck, a lone jogger, and a Duluth Transit Authority bus. He merged onto US‑53, the road empty enough that the Valiant’s headlights stretched far ahead.

A few minutes later, the Blatnik Bridge rose before him, its steel trusses silhouetted against the pale sky. He crossed into Superior as the sun finally broke the horizon behind him, turning the harbor water a muted gold. The E. G. Grace was loading at Farmers’ Union grain elevator adjacent to the highway, visible as Tom negotiated the cloverleaf interchange coming off the bridge.

Leaving Superior, he stayed on US‑53 until the familiar split where US‑2 branched east. He took the turn without hesitation. “Beautiful” by Gordon Lightfoot came over the speaker as the Valiant’s radio was tuned to KDAL, 610 AM from Duluth.

He reached over and switched on the scanner. Static, then a burst of distant chatter from a ship somewhere off Duluth. He smiled. Even out here, the lake followed him.

The Valiant settled into its highway rhythm, the engine humming steadily as the miles began to slip by as Tom steadied the speedometer between 60 and 65. The sky brightened, the sun almost directly ahead at points as he approached County Highway F in Maple and began to climb the hill, crossed the Burlington Northern railroad tracks, and proceeded on toward Brule and Iron River. The day stretched ahead of him. Tom looked forward to a full day’s drive, four nights in the Soo, and as many ships as the river could offer.

Tom Schultz was on his way.

US‑2 Across Northwest Wisconsin

Traffic was light. Going the opposite direction, Tom saw a milk truck, a couple of pickups, and a lone 1970 Chevrolet Nova sedan heading west toward Superior. Most of the towns along this stretch were still waking up. Tom cracked the window an inch, letting in the cool morning air and the faint scent of pine and damp earth.

On the passenger seat, the scanner murmured with occasional bursts of static. Every so often, a distant ship call from Lake Superior broke through. The reception was growing faint as he pressed eastward with the Twin Ports farther behind him. He smiled each time. Even out here, miles from the lake, the voices of the ore boats followed him.

As Tom approached Iron River, “Share the Land” by The Guess Who came across KDAL on the radio. As the miles slipped by, the signal began to fade, replaced by the softer, more distant hum of 560 WEBC from Duluth. Eventually even that thinned out, giving way to static and the occasional hint of a station from Ashland or Ironwood.

He made his first stop in Ashland, pulling into a small roadside turnout overlooking Chequamegon Bay. The water was calm, a pale blue under the morning sky. He stepped out, stretched, and took a few deep breaths of the cool lake air. The self-unloader Joseph H. Frantz was unloading coal at the C. Reiss Coal dock, and Tom got a couple of pictures.

He crossed into Michigan at Ironwood, the “Michigan – Great Lakes State” sign welcoming him to the Upper Peninsula flashing past the windshield. At Wakefield, Tom made the turn onto M‑28, then the long run east toward Marquette. He settled back into the seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on the scanner, which he turned off for now as the drive would take him well inland for a while. The day was young. The miles were easy. And the ships were waiting.

Friday Late Morning

M‑28 Across the Western U.P.

Traffic was light as Tom headed east out of Wakefield on M‑28, the Valiant settling into a steady rhythm as the road carried him into the long, quiet stretches of Ontonagon County. The sun was higher now, bright but still soft, glinting off the tops of the pines. His watch read a little before 8:00 a.m. Central.

Exactly 11.6 miles after leaving US-2, he passed the county line from Gogebic into Ontonagon County and with it the Eastern Time Zone. He glanced at his watch again and mentally nudged it forward an hour. Just after 9:00 a.m. Eastern. He’d physically change it later. The day suddenly felt a little farther along.

The road opened ahead of him, a straight ribbon through the woods. He passed the signs for several small communities: Bergland, Topaz, Matchwood, Ewen. Leaving Ewen, the Soo Line railroad trestle rose over the highway, its concrete and steel frame silhouetted against the sky. As he approached, a freight train rumbled across it heading east. Tom eased off the accelerator for a moment, watching the wheels clatter over the rails above him before he passed beneath the bridge and continued on.

A few miles later, he reached Bruce Crossing and pulled into the lot at Settler’s Co‑Op. The pumps were old but reliable, the kind with the rolling mechanical numbers. He filled the Valiant’s tank, stretched his legs, and stepped inside for a quick restroom break. By the time he reached Covington, the landscape began to shift. At the junction with US‑41, he turned and felt the change immediately. US‑41 was more winding, the kind of road that demanded a little more attention and rewarded it with better scenery.

He switched on the radio again, turning the dial slowly until a strong signal came through: WDBC, 680 AM, Escanaba. The station played an eclectic mix: a contemporary pop song fading into a 1950s doo‑wop number, followed by a crooner from the American standards songbook. Between songs came local news, funeral announcements, and an ad for Heynssens‑Selin’s Furniture in Escanaba, a commercial he’d hear several times while he was within radio range of the station.

The miles slipped by. The traffic picked up. And before long, the outskirts of Marquette appeared, with Lake Superior stretching out blue and wide as he headed down the long hill into town.

Tom felt his stomach remind him it was lunchtime. Along the combined US‑41/M‑28 corridor, he spotted the sign he’d been waiting for: Big Boy. He pulled into the lot, parked the Valiant, and shut off the engine. Tom grabbed his camera bag from the passenger seat and headed inside.

Presque Isle Park

After finishing lunch at the Big Boy in Marquette, Tom decided he wasn’t quite ready to get back on the highway. Much as Tom was anxious to get to the Soo, he knew he was only a few minutes from Presque Isle Park, one of the closest places to see a boat loading on Lake Superior. He turned the Valiant north, winding past a beach area until the massive silhouette of the Lake Superior & Ishpeming ore dock came into view. Even before he parked, he heard it: the deep, metallic rush of taconite pellets dropping into a ship’s hold. A boat was loading.

Tom pulled into the small gravel turnout stepped out into the warm air. The lake stretched wide and blue, and tied up along the ore dock was the Cliffs Victory, her hull riding low as the chutes poured iron ore into her forward holds.

She was one of a kind. The Cliffs Victory was a straight‑deck classic with a sleek, unmistakable profile, her after deckhouse placed forward of the aftermost cargo hold. Tom walked out onto the sand for a better angle, the breeze cool on his face as he framed the ship against the towering dock. The loader thundered, the pellets rattled, and the Victory sat patiently, taking on her cargo one chute at a time. Tom snapped a few photos, breathing in the mix of lake air and iron dust. This was exactly the kind of moment he’d hoped for on this trip. It was a little bonus, a little surprise, a little reminder of why he loved the boats so much.

After a few minutes, he headed back to the Valiant, the sound of the dock fading behind him. The Soo was still about three hours away, but the day already felt like it was going his way.

Friday Early Afternoon

Tom wound his way back down Lakeshore Boulevard and merged back onto US‑41/M‑28, the Valiant settling into its familiar hum as he headed east. The lunch break had been just enough. Tom had a chance to stretch, refuel himself, and reset for the long afternoon ahead. The sky over Marquette was bright and clear, the lake a deep blue to his left as he passed the last clusters of businesses and houses.

At Harvey, he slowed and took the left turn where M‑28 split from US‑41. 680 WDBC still came in strong, the signal carrying comfortably across the U.P. He let the eclectic mix play, with a little pop, a little oldies, and a little something from the 1950s that he couldn’t quite place, as the miles began to slip by again.

The highway carried him past the Brownstone Inn, its sign standing out against the trees, then farther east toward Christmas, where the pavement shifted into a two‑tone stretch. One lane, recently re-paved, was darker than the other, the kind of detail only a long highway could accumulate. Tom noticed it the way he noticed everything on this trip: quietly, appreciatively, filing it away without comment. Soon the road began its descent toward Munising, the lake opening up ahead of him in a wide, shimmering expanse. The view was striking, and he eased off the accelerator just a little, letting the Valiant coast down the hill as the town came into view. Fishing boats bobbed in the harbor, and the smell of water and pine drifted faintly through the open triangular vent window.

Munising passed quickly. By the time he reached Shingleton, he was ready for another stop. He pulled into a small gas station and topped off the tank. Having studied the map earlier, it didn’t look like there would be many options to get gas after this before the Soo. A quick restroom break, a splash of cold water on his face, and Tom was back on the road.

Ahead lay the Seney Stretch. It was just over twenty‑four miles of perfectly straight highway between Shingleton and Seney. Tom had heard about it, and it was evident on the map, but seeing it was something else: a ruler‑straight line across flat marshland and scrub, the horizon a thin blue band in the distance. He settled into the flow of traffic, the Valiant humming along at just over 70 miles per hour, the engine smoothly and effortlessly.

The miles passed easily. The scanner was quiet. Tom was too far from the Soo yet and well inland. He let the silence settle, turning off the car radio, the silence broken only by the rhythmic thrum of the tires and the faint whistle of wind around the windows, his little triangular vent window still open to provide a nice breeze.

Past Seney, M‑28 shifted into a pattern of shorter straightaways and gentle curves. Tom eased back to around 68, comfortable and unhurried. The forest closed in again, the road rising and falling in small, steady motions.

Near the junction with M‑117, he reached over and turned the radio back on. The dial landed on WNBY 1450 AM out of Newberry. The station again offered a peculiar eclectic mix: Brook Benton’s “Fools Rush In”, followed by Rare Earth’s “Get Ready.” It was the kind of unexpected variety that made small‑town radio feel personal.

A little farther on, the landscape opened into scrub and sandy soil. Tom passed the long, low remains of the recently deactivated BOMARC missile base west of Raco, its fenced‑off structures sitting quietly under the afternoon sun. It was similar to the one recently deactivated between Duluth and Two Harbors that Tom had heard about. He tuned the radio again, and this time a new signal came through, which was WSOO 1230 AM from Sault Ste. Marie. He felt a small jolt of anticipation. Tom was getting close now. He reached over and switched the scanner back on. He heard static at first, then faint voices. They weren’t clear enough to make out, but enough to tell him he was nearing the river. His plan was simple once he got into town: Check into the motel. Drop his bags. Quick restroom stop. Then head straight for the Locks and the river. As Tom made the tight cloverleaf turn off of M-28 and onto northbound Interstate 75, it wouldn’t be long now.

Friday Afternoon

First Look at the River

Tom eased the Valiant out of the Crestview’s parking lot and turned toward downtown, the scanner already murmuring on the seat beside him. He didn’t bother unpacking anything beyond what he needed for check‑in. The river was calling, and he wasn’t about to waste daylight. He was anxious to see the boats! He drove slowly past the Soo Locks, craning his neck as he rolled by. He saw nothing in the chambers. No gates were open. A few spectators were waiting. It seemed quiet for the moment. He’d be back soon enough.

He continued down Portage Avenue, the afternoon sun bright on the storefronts and sidewalks. The Tower of History rose above the trees like a concrete sentinel, stark and unmistakable. A little farther on, the museum ship Valley Camp sat moored in its basin, its black hull towering over the parking lot. Tom slowed instinctively, taking in the size of it.

Past the Valley Camp came the docks for the tour boats, their gangways quiet at the moment, the river beyond them glinting in the sunlight. The road curved gently, following the shoreline, and then the view opened wide. Tom had picked up a brochure for them when he checked in the motel, hoping to take a tour on one while he was there.

A few minutes later, there it was. The bend in the river that marked Mission Point. And ahead, Tom saw Clyde’s Drive‑In and the Sugar Island Ferry dock, side by side like they’d been placed there for him. Tom felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. It was a shipwatcher’s dream. Mission Point was a close vantage point for the boats. It offered a place to eat, a place to park, and a place to stay as long as he wanted. He pulled into the lot at Clyde’s, found a spot facing the river, and shut off the engine. The Slant‑6 ticked softly as it cooled. He grabbed the scanner and stepped out into the warm afternoon air.

The riverbank was only a short walk away. He crossed the grass, the sound of the water growing clearer with each step. A light breeze carried the smell of the river. He reached the edge and looked downstream. And there it was. A long, low silhouette in the distance, sunlight catching the white of the pilothouse and the distinctive hull below. Even from miles away, he knew that profile. He’d seen it in Duluth since he was a kid.

It was the Wilfred Sykes, upbound. His first boat in the Soo. He felt a quiet thrill. It wasn’t loud, not dramatic, just a deep satisfaction. He’d made it. He was here. And the river was already delivering.

Then the scanner crackled suddenly, sharp and clear:

“Soo Control, the Thomas W. Lamont, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

Soo Control was the vessel traffic service that had started recently in the St. Mary’s River, operated by the United States Coast Guard. Vessels would call in at various points to report their location, and Soo Control would track the traffic. Additionally, vessels called in to the lockmaster at the locks at various points which helped them coordinate traffic and lock assignments at the locks. For the boat watcher armed with a scanner, it offered useful information to predict vessel passages in the St. Mary’s River system, and Tom would use this information to great advantage over the next several days. He was encouraged by what he had seen and heard in just a few minutes at the river. Tom’s pulse quickened. Two upbounders already. And if the Lamont was at 9 Mile, it wouldn’t be long before she came into view. He looked upriver, then downriver, then back at the scanner. The traffic was moving. The river was alive.

He took a slow breath, letting the moment settle in. This was exactly what he’d hoped for. Exactly what he’d driven all this way to see. Exactly what he’d been dreaming about since he was ten years old, watching ore boats from East Hillside in Duluth. Tom found a spot on the grass, sat down, and rested the scanner on his knee. The Soo was busy. The ships were coming. It was Friday afternoon, and he had until Tuesday morning to take it all in.

The Sykes at Mission Point

Tom stood at the riverbank near Clyde’s, the scanner resting in his hand, the breeze off the St. Mary’s carrying the cool scent of water and spring. The Sugar Island Ferry rumbled quietly at its dock to his right, loading cars for the next crossing. Behind him, the faint clatter of trays and the hum of conversation drifted from Clyde’s Drive‑In. But Tom barely heard any of it. His eyes were fixed downstream. The Wilfred Sykes was coming.

He stepped a little closer to the water’s edge, the grass soft under his shoes. The river moved steadily past him, wide and confident, the current pulling north toward Lake Superior. A gull wheeled overhead, calling sharply before settling on a piling near the ferry dock.

He looked back toward the Sykes. She was closer now, her bow cutting cleanly through the water, the long deck stretching behind her like a steel horizon. Even from this distance, he could see the sunlight flashing off her windows, the faint plume of smoke rising from her stack.

A couple of locals stood farther down the bank, hands in their pockets, watching casually. To them, this was just another Friday afternoon in the Soo. To Tom, it was everything he’d hoped for.

He listened to the river.

The low whine of the Sykes’ steam turbines reached him. The sound carried across the water, blending with the hum of the ferry and the distant traffic on Riverside Drive. Hearing a boat’s engines was a sound he’d known since childhood, but here it felt amplified, framed by the narrow channel and the closeness of the shoreline.

The Sykes grew larger, her bow wave spreading out in a gentle arc. Tom could make out all the details now — the Inland Steel colors, the curve of the pilothouse windows, the long, clean lines of her deck. She was beautiful in motion, purposeful and unhurried.

He lifted his camera, adjusted the focus, and took the first shot. His first Soo photograph. His first Soo ship. His first moment at Mission Point.

The scanner crackled again with another voice, another ship calling in, though he didn’t catch the name. It didn’t matter. The river was busy. The river was alive. And he was standing exactly where he’d always imagined himself standing.

The Sykes passed in front of him, close enough now that he could see crew moving near the rail. One of them lifted a hand in a casual wave. Tom raised his own hand in return, feeling a quiet thrill settle in his chest. This was it. This was the Soo. And he had three more days of this. He lowered the camera, kept the scanner close, and watched the Sykes make her way toward the Locks.

The weekend had officially begun.

Clyde’s Drive‑In — Just After 5:00 p.m.

The Valiant rolled into a parking spot adjacent to Clyde’s. Tom shut the engine off, and lowered the window. Warm air drifted in carrying the smell of the St. Mary’s River, fryer oil from the kitchen, and the faint sweetness of someone else’s root beer float.

He’d just watched the Thomas W. Lamont ease past Mission Point, her stack trailing a thin gray ribbon against the sky. The scanner on the seat beside him crackled again, a clean voice cutting through the static:

“Soo Control, the William Clay Ford, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

He checked his watch. Tom would have about fifty minutes until she reached Mission Point. It was enough time to eat, but not enough to dawdle. And the evening was shaping up fast.

Up at the locks, the John O. McKellar and the Herbert C. Jackson were both working their way through. Two downbounders. The Jackson would pause for supplies from the Ojibway, as she always did, but they’d still be stacked close together by the time they reached Mission Point. It was the kind of early‑evening lineup that made the Soo feel alive.

A car hop walked up to his window, order pad in hand.

“Evening. What can I get you?”

“Burger, fries, and a root beer,” Tom answered.

“You got it.”

She headed back toward the building, weaving between cars, and he settled into the bench seat, one arm draped over the top. The Valiant’s Slant‑6 ticked softly as it cooled. The scanner filled the quiet with bursts of static, call‑ins, and position reports. A few minutes later, the car hop returned with the tray and hooked it onto his window. The root beer was cold and sweating in the warm air. The burger smelled like summer. He took a long drink, watching the river through the windshield.

Somewhere upriver, the Lamont was easing toward the Locks. Meanwhile at the Locks, the McKellar and Jackson were easing out, one after the other. And coming the other direction, the William Clay Ford was making her steady approach.

A busy start to the evening was exactly what he’d hoped for. He unwrapped the burger, took the first bite, and kept one ear tuned to the scanner, waiting for the next voice to break through the static.

Clyde’s Drive‑In and the Riverbank, Around 5:30 p.m.

He finished the last of the root beer and gave the car hop a quick nod as she came by to grab the tray. The Valiant started with that familiar Slant‑6 rumble and he eased it across to the far side of the lot, the side closest to the river. From here he had a clean view downriver. He shut the engine off. The evening light had that warm, late‑May softness, the kind of light that made the Soo feel like it was holding its breath between shifts.

The scanner crackled with a voice that sounded steady and businesslike and a noticeable Canadian accent:

“Soo Control, the John O. McKellar, downbound clear of the Locks…”

He leaned forward slightly and looked backwards upriver. Sure enough, the McKellar appeared first, her bow easing into view as she lined up for Mission Point. The clean, well-maintained vessel of the Misener fleet was making steady time.

A few minutes later, another burst of static:

“Soo Control, the Herbert C. Jackson, downbound…”

The Jackson followed, just as expected. The Jackson was a little slower, taking her time with the supply visit from the Ojibway. The two ships passed below him in sequence, the McKellar already angling toward the lower river as the Jackson held back, still getting supplies. The low whine of their engines drifted across the water, mixing with the faint hiss of tires on Riverside Drive.

Then the scanner came alive again with a voice he recognized instantly from its many security calls arriving at Duluth:

“Soo Control, the William Clay Ford, upbound above 6 Mile…”

He glanced upriver. The Ford and the Jackson would meet just above Frechette Point. It would be a perfect crossing, the kind that made the river feel choreographed. And sure enough, a few minutes later, the Ford’s bow easing into plain view, sunlight catching her blue stack. She passed the Jackson with that quiet, heavy grace only the biggest boats had.

He settled back in the seat, content. Tom was having a good evening already, and it wasn’t done.

The scanner popped again, a deeper voice this time:

“Soo Control, the Benjamin F. Fairless, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

He smiled. The Fairless was a favorite, a regular in Duluth and Two Harbors. About fifteen minutes later, another call:

“Soo Control, the Georgian Bay, upbound…”

A Canada Steamship Lines boat would round out the upbound parade. The river was earning its keep tonight.

The light softened further, edging toward evening. The upbounders would take their time making their way toward the Locks, and the downbounders would be well into the lower river by now. He could feel the day settling, the river easing into its nighttime rhythm.

Then, as if on cue, two more voices broke through the static:

“Soo Control, the John Hulst, downbound…” “Soo Control, the Frank Armstrong, downbound…”

A final pair to close out the evening, that would look good in waning daylight.

He sat there a while longer, window down, the Slant‑6 cooling quietly under the hood, the scanner murmuring in the background. The river moved, the ships moved, the light faded. A full evening, exactly the kind he’d driven all this way to see.

Saturday Morning

The Weir or the Saltie

Tom’s alarm rang just before 6:00 a.m., a sharp buzz in the dim room at the Crestview Motel. He sat up immediately, anxious for the day ahead. He’d slept well, the kind of deep sleep that comes after a long drive and a full evening of watching boats.

He showered quickly, steam fogging the small bathroom mirror, then stepped back into the room and reached for his scanner. He flicked it on.

Static. A burst of chatter. Then a clear voice:

“Soo Control, the Ernest T. Weir, downbound at 9 Mile Point…”

Tom froze.

The Ernest T. Weir was the boat whose horn he’d heard drifting over Duluth as he went to bed Thursday night. He was hoping to see it on this trip.

He checked the clock. Just after 6:00 a.m. He guessed he had maybe an hour to try for the Rock Cut, or at least the Neebish Island Ferry dock at the entrance to it, and catch the Weir in the best morning light he’d ever get.

But then the scanner crackled again:

“Soo Control, the Ziemia Bialostocka, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

The Ziemia Bialostocka was a saltie. A Polish Steamship Company vessel, new to the Lakes, built the year before.

And she’d be at Mission Point in under an hour.

He couldn’t see both. Not a chance, as they were heading in opposite directions.

He looked at the folded Michigan Department of Transportation map on the nightstand, the only map he had. The roads south of town were nothing but thin gray lines, unlabeled and uncertain. He had no idea how to reach the Rock Cut. He had only a vague idea of where the ferry dock was It looked like he could get there in time, but no real idea of how long it would take.

Mission Point, on the other hand, was easy. It had become familiar after his first night. But the light would be terrible unless he crossed to Sugar Island, and he didn’t know the ferry schedule. Tom stood there for a moment, weighing it all, then he made his choice.

Tom was going to try for the Weir.

If the saltie was headed for Duluth, he might see her again. But the Weir was a modern classic, built in 1953, a coal-fired steamer with sleek lines, a boat he’d grown up watching many times and ranked among his favorites. This was the moment. He grabbed his camera bag, the scanner, and his jacket, and headed out the door.

Outside, the morning air was cool and clean. The Valiant started on the first turn, the Slant‑6 settling into its familiar idle. Tom pulled onto Ashmun Street. The Soo was quiet , with a few early risers, a delivery truck, the faint smell of Algoma Steel wafting across from the Canadian side.

He passed the Soo Locks, then the Tower of History, then the Valley Camp, each one catching the early light. A few minutes later he rolled past Clyde’s Drive‑In, empty at this hour, and the bend at Mission Point. The road became Riverside Drive, curving gently along the shoreline.

Then came the fork.

Staying left toward the river followed Scenic Drive. Veering right at this point and staying inland continued on Riverside Drive proper. Tom slowed down as he approached, then hesitated. Tom guessed. He veered left.

Within minutes he realized he’d chosen wrong. The road narrowed, hugging the river too closely, the houses spaced farther apart. He checked the map again. It was useless to him. Just gray, unlabeled lines and blank space. He turned around, retraced his path, and found his way back to Riverside Drive, and turned south. This time he stayed on it, picking up speed as the road straightened.

The mile roads came quickly now:

9 Mile Road. 10 Mile Road. 11 Mile Road.

Each one flashed past in under a minute as the Valiant’s speedometer passed 60. Tom kept going but did not see anything that seemed to lead to the ferry dock or Rock Cut. Had he missed it?

At 15 Mile Road, in the small community of Barbeau, he spotted the sign:

NEEBISH ISLAND FERRY

He turned left.



The road dipped and curved through trees and open fields, then straightened as it approached the river. The Valiant, going between 70 and 75 down the narrow 15 Mile Road, empty with traffic on this Saturday morning, bobbed with every dip in the road as Tom was anxious to get to the river. Had he already missed her? Was it all for nothing?

A moment later, the Neebish Island Ferry dock appeared. The dock was a simple landing, with a few cars waiting to board the ferry. The river stretched broad and bright to the left in the morning sun as Tom faced the dock.

And there, upstream, a long, dark, vermillion red hull approached.

The Ernest T. Weir.

Tom parked quickly, grabbed his camera, and jogged to the river’s edge. The light was perfect. The sun caught the Weir’s pilothouse windows and the curve of her bow. She made the slow, deliberate turn above the ferry dock, lining herself up for the entrance to the Rock Cut. Tom snapped shot after shot — the gentle bow wave, the deck, the plume of coal smoke rising from her stack. The Weir looked magnificent, her lines sharp against the bright, nearly still water.

Then, as she straightened out, her steam horns sounded. The Weir gave a deep, resonant steam horn salute, rich and full, echoing across the river and rolling over the ferry dock like a warm wave. Tom felt it in his chest. He lowered the camera, smiling without meaning to. This was worth the early start. Worth the wrong turn. Worth missing the saltie. He watched until the Weir slipped into the Rock Cut, her stern disappearing behind the trees. Then he turned back toward the Valiant. Breakfast at the Lockview Restaurant was calling, and the day was just beginning.

Breakfast, the Locks, and a Plan

The drive back to Sault Ste. Marie felt easier than the drive out. Tom knew the turns now, knew where Riverside Drive curved, knew where Portage Avenue widened and the river came back into view. The adrenaline of chasing the Weir had faded into a warm satisfaction.

He turned onto Portage Avenue, the morning sun bright on the storefronts, and pulled into the small lot beside the Lockview Restaurant. The neon sign in the window glowed faintly even in daylight. Inside, the place smelled of coffee, bacon, and toast, the kind of breakfast scent that felt like a reward after an early start.

Tom slid into a booth by the window. The waitress poured him coffee without asking, and he ordered eggs, toast, and sausage. The breakfast was simple yet filling, exactly what he needed.

As he finished the last of his breakfast, the scanner on the seat beside him crackled:

“…Ziemia Białostocka departing the Poe Lock…”

He looked out the window just in time to see the Polish saltie easing away from the Locks, her bow turning gracefully into the channel. He watched her glide past the park, her hull bright in the morning sun. Tom was fascinated, but he didn’t regret missing her at Mission Point. He’d made the right choice. And now the Locks were empty again.

Walking the Locks

With no ships immediately approaching, Tom had time to explore. He crossed Portage Avenue and entered the Soo Locks Park, the grass still damp with morning dew. The air was cool, the breeze steady off the river. He walked along the railings, pausing at the viewing stands above the MacArthur Lock. A pair of small pleasure craft were locking upbound. The lock gates closed behind them with a deep metallic thud, and the water began to rise, smooth and quiet. Tom leaned on the railing, taking it in. When the pleasure craft cleared the lock, he continued toward the Soo Locks Visitors Center, the free museum run by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of polished floors. Displays lined the walls, including ship models, historical photos, and diagrams of the lock mechanisms. He wandered slowly, absorbing everything.

Then the scanner broke the quiet:

“Soo Control, the Cadillac, downbound at Ile Parisienne…”

Tom straightened. The Cadillac was a Cleveland‑Cliffs boat he’d always liked the look of.

Ten minutes later, the scanner came alive again. “Soo Control, the Royalton, downbound at Ile Parisienne…”

The Royalton was a classic at 550 feet, built in 1924. A survivor from another era, carrying grain from Thunder Bay to Owen Sound.

The two downbounders would come close together. The timing was perfect. Tom stepped outside into the sunlight and mentally mapped out his day. First, Tom had some time to walk along Portage Avenue to check out the gift shops. He found a small bookstore with a rack of maritime titles and picked up the 1973 edition of Know Your Ships. The cover was crisp and new, the pages smelling faintly of ink. He tucked it into his camera bag.

After perusing the gift shops, Tom headed back to the locks to watch the Cadillac lock down. He found a spot on the viewing platform as she approached, her bow cutting cleanly through the water, her deckhands readying lines. The lock gates opened, the Cadillac eased in, and Tom took several photos as she settled into the chamber of the MacArthur Lock. When she cleared the lock, he headed for the Valiant. It was time for Mission Point.

The Afternoon Parade

Tom parked at Clyde’s again, grabbed a burger and a root beer, and settled into his spot on the grass near the riverbank. The scanner was alive now, voices overlapping, ships calling in from upbound and downbound directions.

The day unfolded in a steady rhythm:

1:30 p.m.: Gulf Canada, upbound. A tanker, sleek and purposeful, her bow wave sharp in the afternoon sun.

1:45 p.m.: Beavercliffe Hall, downbound. A Canadian grain carrier, her distinctive stack colors bright against the sky.

2:30 p.m.: Silver Isle, downbound. An all-cabins aft laker, distinctive but graceful, her hull throwing back flashes of light.

3:10 p.m.: Philip R. Clarke, downbound. A regular Tom saw in Duluth, her whistle echoed across the river as she passed.

4:55 p.m.: J. L. Mauthe, upbound. A straight‑deck beauty, her lines clean, with a small after deckhouse making her distinctive from the other vessels similar in design to her.

6:20 p.m.: Algorail, upbound. A workhorse self-unloader loaded with coal for Algoma Steel, her bow pushed a strong wave.

7:00 p.m.: Sewell Avery, downbound. Her Lentz engine providing a deep sound, her deckhands waved as she passed Mission Point.

8:20 p.m.: Arthur B. Homer, downbound. A former Great Lakes iron ore record holder, commanding, she looked great in the warm evening light.

Tom photographed each one, the light shifting from bright afternoon to golden evening, the river turning smooth and reflective as the sun dipped lower.

Between the J. L. Mauthe and the Algorail, he drove up to the West Pier Drive‑In for supper. Tom had a burger and fries, eaten in the car with the windows down, the scanner still murmuring beside him. Then he headed back to Mission Point for the evening show. The light was perfect. The river was busy. Tom felt completely, quietly content. This was the Soo he’d imagined. And it was even better in person. Yet Saturday was the slow day. Sunday would be even busier.



Sunday Morning

A Flurry of Traffic

Tom woke just before 6:00 a.m., the gray light of a clouded‑over morning filtering through the curtains of his room at the Crestview Motel. The air felt cool, still, and promising. It felt like the kind of morning where the river would be busy and the lighting would be forgiving no matter where he stood. He showered quickly, dressed, and clicked on his scanner. It came alive immediately.

Calling the Lockmaster, the Johnstown, downbound at Big Point…”

Tom straightened. The Johnstown was one he didn’t see as often in Duluth, as it preferred to load in Taconite Harbor, Minnesota, 75 miles to the northeast.

A few minutes later, another call to the Lockmaster:

“The Enders M. Voorhees, downbound at Big Point…”

Two downbounders, close together would be a nice start to the day. The Johnstown was assigned to the relatively new Poe Lock, while the somewhat smaller Voorhees would take the MacArthur Lock. The Voorhees was a Duluth regular, but in the MacArthur Lock Tom could see her up close. He was about to get in the Valiant to head down to the Locks when, before he reached the door, the scanner erupted again, this time with a rapid‑fire sequence of upbound calls within a few minutes of each other.

“Soo Control, the Pontiac, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

“Soo Control, the Frank A. Sherman, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

“Soo Control, the James E. Ferris, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

There would be a full parade. Tom paused, with his hand on the doorknob. He couldn’t be in two places. He couldn’t see everything. He had to choose. The downbounders would be impressive in the Locks, but the upbounders would pass Mission Point first, and the lighting, even under clouds, would be perfect from the mainland side. Plus, the downbounders would make it to Mission Point eventually.

Tom made his decision. Mission Point it was. The overall photo composition works better there. He’d see the three upbounders first, then the Johnstown and the Voorhees. Then breakfast. He grabbed his camera bag, scanner, and stepped outside.

The Drive to Mission Point

Portage Avenue was quiet, the storefronts still waking up. Tom passed the Mid-City Motel, the sign advertising “COLOR TV” still glowing faintly, and continued toward the river. The sky was a uniform gray, producing no harsh shadows, no glare, just clean, even light.

He rolled past the Tower of History, the Valley Camp, and the tour‑boat docks, then followed the bend where Portage became Riverside Drive. The river widened ahead of him, calm and steel‑colored under the clouds. Clyde’s Drive‑In came into view, its lot mostly empty at this hour. Tom pulled in, parked facing the river, and stepped out into the cool morning air.

The scanner crackled again. The Pontiac calling in at 6 Mile now, with the Sherman not far behind, the Ferris trailing but steady. They were coming.

The Upbound Parade

Tom walked to the riverbank, camera ready. The breeze carried the faint smell of water, diesel exhaust from the Sugar Island Ferry, and the mixture of coal smoke and slag from Algoma Steel, the familiar scent of the St. Mary’s in motion. The Pontiac appeared first, a Cleveland‑Cliffs steamer, her bow wave crisp, her olive green cabin colors bright even under the gray sky. She passed Mission Point at a good pace.

Less than ten minutes later came the Frank A. Sherman, her Canadian lines clean and purposeful, her deckhands visible near the bow as she made the turn.

Then the little James E. Ferris, smaller, built in 1910, loaded with salt for Duluth. She rode low in the water, her hull weathered, her pace slowed with the traffic ahead. Tom took several shots as she passed. The Ferris was the kind of ship that didn’t set records, but attracted attention due to her looks.

Three upbounders in under forty minutes. The river was alive.

The Downbounders Approach

The scanner came alive again:

“Soo Control, the Johnstown, downbound clear of the locks, another call at the Mission…”

Tom stayed put.

The Johnstown came into view between the trees in the distance, downbound and stately. As she rounded Mission Point, she passed close to shore, her turbines a deep, steady heartbeat. Behind her, the Enders M. Voorhees, a U.S. Steel ore carrier, followed, her stack plume rising straight into the gray sky. Tom photographed her as she passed, the lighting soft and even, the river calm beneath her hull. The Voorhees made five ships before breakfast. And it wasn’t even 8:00 a.m.

Tom drove back up Portage Avenue and parked near the Lockview Restaurant. Inside, the place was warm and bustling with early diners. He ordered pancakes and sausage, poured himself a second cup of coffee, and set his scanner on the table beside him. He listened as he ate, waiting for the next call‑ins, the next hints of traffic, and the next decisions to make. The day was young. The river was busy. And Tom had a full Sunday ahead of him.

Sunday Late Morning

The Block, the Stadacona, and an Upbound Surprise

The scanner sat beside Tom’s plate at the Lockview Restaurant, its antenna angled toward the window as if it, too, were waiting for breakfast. Outside, the sky hung gray.

Tom had just finished his coffee when the scanner crackled sharply:

“Soo Control, the L. E. Block, downbound at Ile Parisienne…”

He nodded to himself. The L. E. Block was an Inland Steel steamer with a distinctive profile and color scheme to match. She would be a good catch.

A few minutes later, another voice:

“Soo Control, the Stadacona, departing Algoma Steel, downbound…”

Tom paused mid‑bite. The Stadacona, a Canada Steamship Lines self‑unloader, would be coming downriver soon, and she’d have to lock through before the Block.

He finished breakfast quickly, paid his bill, and stepped out into the cool, gray morning. The air smelled faintly of river and wet pavement from a brief shower. He crossed Portage Avenue and headed toward the Locks.

He reached the railings just as the Stadacona approached the MacArthur Lock, her self‑unloading boom stowed neatly along her deck. Tom found a spot above the chamber and watched her ease in, her deckhands moving with practiced precision. He took several photos including the bow, the pilothouse, the long sweep of her deck, with the gray sky giving everything a clean, even tone.

As the lock gates closed behind her along with a buzz-buzz-buzz of an alarm, the scanner crackled again.

A single, deep voice:

“Soo Control, the Robert C. Stanley, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

Tom paused.

The Robert C. Stanley was a U. S. Steel steamer, one of the Maritime class.

Then, moments later, another voice:

“Soo Control, WE4805, the Arthur M. Anderson, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

Tom felt a quiet jolt of recognition. The Arthur M. Anderson was the ship that had started it all for him back in 1955, when he was a boy in Duluth watching ore boats, the first one he saw on a trip one day to Canal Park with his dad, crossing the Lake Avenue bridge over the railroad tracks near Joe Huie’s restaurant while the Anderson was still out in the lake. The Anderson was the reason he knew ship silhouettes by heart, the reason he carried a scanner, the reason he was standing here now. He checked the time. He could catch both upbounders at Mission Point, as well as see the Block and the Stadacona as they came down. He headed for the Valiant.

Mission Point Again

The riverbank at Mission Point felt familiar now. Tom set up near the same spot he’d used the day before, camera ready. The Robert C. Stanley appeared first, her U. S. Steel colors muted under the gray sky. She passed close to shore, her triple expansion steam engine a deep pulse, her bow wave crisp against the water. Tom took several shots, appreciating her clean lines and purposeful motion. The Stadacona passed downbound shortly after. Tom got a few more pictures from the Mission Point vantage.

Then he saw her. A long, red hull emerging. A familiar silhouette. A ship he could recognize from miles away. The Arthur M. Anderson. She approached steadily, her steam turbines a deep, resonant whine that carried across the water. Tom felt a warmth in his chest, perhaps not nostalgia, but something close to it. He lifted his camera and took the first shot. Then another. And another. The Anderson passed Mission Point, her deckhands visible near the bow. Tom lowered his camera slowly, letting the moment settle. He’d seen her in Duluth. He’d seen her in books. He’d seen her in his imagination for years. But seeing her here in the Soo was something else entirely.

Finally, the L. E. Block passed Mission Point downbound, its distinctive Inland Steel colors never disappointing, even on a cloudy day as this Sunday had started out.

After that, he’d head up to West Pier Drive‑In for lunch. The burger last night had been too good to ignore, and he wanted another one. Then it was back to Mission Point for whatever the afternoon brought.

The river was busy. The sky was perfect. Nine boats already, and it was not quite noon. And Tom had the whole afternoon and evening ahead of him. The Soo was giving him everything he’d hoped for and more.

Sunday Afternoon

Heavy Traffic and a New Friend

The clouds held through the afternoon, a soft gray ceiling that made the river look like brushed steel. Tom had finished lunch at the West Pier Drive‑In, where he enjoyed another excellent burger, and returned to Mission Point, where the Valiant now felt like part of the scenery. He set up in his usual spot near the riverbank, the scanner resting on his knee.

It didn’t take long for the next wave of traffic.

“Soo Control, the Frank R. Denton, downbound at Birch Point…”

Tom lifted his camera. The Denton, a classic, venerable laker, built in 1911, would be the first of the afternoon parade.

A few minutes later:

“Soo Control, the Leon Falk, Jr., downbound at Ile Parisienne…”

Then:

“Soo Control, WE7207, the steamer Reserve, downbound at Ile Parisienne…”

Three downbounders all in a row. The river was moving.

Tom checked the scanner again. Upbound traffic was coming too.

“Soo Control, the Maplecliffe Hall, upbound at 6 Mile Point…”

“Soo Control, the John A. France, upbound at 6 Mile Point…”

The Maplecliffe Hall arrived – and so does Dave. The Maplecliffe Hall appeared first, her bow cutting a clean line through the gray water. Tom raised his camera and noticed someone else doing the same a few yards down the bank.

Dave looked to be about Tom’s age. He had dark hair and wore a Detroit Tigers cap with a camera slung around his neck. Focused, Dave clearly knew what he was doing.

When the Maplecliffe Hall passed and the engines faded, the man walked over.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m Dave, from Port Huron.”

“Tom from Duluth,” he replied. “First time in the Soo.”

They shook hands. Dave grinned. “Oh, you’re gonna be spoiled after this. I grew up right on the St. Clair River. I thought I’d seen everything. Then I came up here once and realized I hadn’t seen anything at all.”

They both laughed, the easy kind that comes when two people speak the same language. Dave noticed Tom’s Plymouth Valiant with Minnesota plates. “Your Valiant is a nice car. I work at the Chrysler plant in Marysville. I have a ‘68 Plymouth Fury.”

The Afternoon Parade

The John A. France came next, her attractive lines, riding high, in ballast for Thunder Bay to load grain. Then the downbounders, first the Frank R. Denton and her classic lines. The Leon Falk, Jr. came next, downbound, one of the converted ocean-going tankers. Tom and Dave both took photos, then compared angles and talked lenses. Then the Reserve, one of the AAA class from 1952 and 1953, similar to the Arthur M. Anderson but with nicer guest accommodations, her wake rolling cleanly toward shore.

Between ships, they talked easily — about cameras, about the river, about the quirks of scanner reception, about the best places to stand at the Locks. With both of them having a work background in similar industrial jobs, they even talked shop briefly, though their real interest was in the boats and the tools of the hobby.

Tom glanced at the scanner clipped to Dave’s belt. “What’re you running there?”

“Realistic Pocket Scanner” Dave said. “Picked it up last year. Best thing I ever bought. You?”

“Just got one myself,” Tom said. “Still figuring it out.”

Dave chuckled. “Give it a week. You’ll be hearing call‑ins in your sleep.”

The Edmund Fitzgerald

Then the river grew quiet for a moment, the kind of quiet that meant something big was coming.

And then they saw her: The Edmund Fitzgerald.

A long, dark maroon hull with cream cabins emerged. A tall, commanding pilothouse as the boat was light with very little ballast, headed for Silver Bay. A ship that carried her reputation with her, the largest ship on the Great Lakes when launched in 1958, many times over a record holder, the last time in the summer of 1969 before being eclipsed by her near sister, the Arthur B. Homer, the following summer, and eventually by the first 1000-footer, the Stewart J. Cort, when it entered service in 1972.

Dave let out a low whistle. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

Tom nodded, lifting his camera. “She really is.”

The Fitzgerald passed Mission Point with a presence that was hard to describe. She wasn’t loud, not dramatic, just unmistakable. Tom took several shots, each one crisp in the even light. When she was gone, the river felt different, as if it needed a moment to settle.

A Goodbye For Now

Dave checked his watch. “I’ve gotta head for home. Unfortunately, I have to be back at work in the morning, and it’s a 5-hour drive to Port Huron.”

Tom smiled. “I’m glad you came over.”

“Me too,” Dave said. “It’s nice meeting someone who gets it.”

They shook hands again. Tom turned back toward the river, the scanner quiet for the moment. He felt something settle inside him, a sense of belonging, of connection, of being exactly where he was supposed to be. The Soo had given him ships. Now it had given him a friend.

Sunday Evening

Breaking Clouds and the Ryerson’s Run

After Dave drove away and the Edmund Fitzgerald disappeared upriver, the riverbank at Mission Point grew quiet. The clouds that had blanketed the sky all afternoon began to thin, breaking into soft patches that let warm light spill through in streaks. Tom stood for a moment, camera still in hand, feeling the shift in the air. The river looked different now. With the traffic easing, he decided it was time for a proper sit‑down supper. He packed up his gear, climbed into the Valiant, and headed west along Portage Avenue.

Supper at The Antlers

The Antlers sat just off the main stretch of Portage Avenue. The restaurant was a long‑time Soo staple with wood‑paneled walls, mounted wildlife, and the kind of menu that hadn’t changed in decades. Tom slid into a booth, ordered a steak, and let the warmth of the place settle around him.

His scanner sat on the table beside his water glass, turned low but still audible.

Halfway through his meal, it crackled sharply:

“Soo Control, the Edward L. Ryerson, downbound at Ile Parisienne…”

Tom froze mid‑bite.

The Edward L. Ryerson was Inland Steel’s flagship. She was sleek. She was fast. She was beautiful, a one of a kind, with an unmistakable profile. The Ryerson was a ship that looked like it had been designed by someone who loved ships. He checked the time. It would be close. But if she kept her pace, she’d reach Mission Point before sunset.

Tom finished the last of his steak in a few quick bites, paid his bill, and stepped outside into the cooling evening air.

As he reached the Valiant, the scanner spoke again:

“Soo Control, the Elton Hoyt 2nd, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

Another one. And with the clouds breaking, the light was turning perfect. Tom started the engine. Mission Point was calling.

Back to Mission Point in Evening Light

By the time Tom returned to the riverbank, the sky had opened into a wide, glowing canvas. The sun hung low behind the trees, casting long reflections across the St. Marys. The air felt warm, still, and full of promise. He set up near the same patch of grass he’d used all weekend.

The Elton Hoyt 2nd appeared first, in nearly ideal lighting. Tom lifted his camera and felt the thrill of perfect timing. The Hoyt’s hull glowed, the water shimmered, and every shot felt like a keeper.

About 30 minutes later, another upbounder passed. The 608-foot Mantadoc, riding high in ballast, headed for Duluth to load grain. Her hull gleamed in the backlit glow, the sunlight outlining her shape like a halo. A distinctive boat, it was Tom’s first time seeing her in person, as she had just entered service in 1967 and more frequently called in Thunder Bay, though it had made an occasional Duluth trip during her first few years when the timing didn’t work out for him to see her for one reason or another.

Then came the Canadian Mariner, also bound for Duluth in ballast. She moved with a quiet confidence, her distinctive profile sharp against the brightening sky. Tom captured her as she passed, the river turning to liquid gold beneath her hull.

The evening felt almost unreal. It brought the kind of light photographers dream about. Tom had seen eighteen boats so far today. But the best was still coming.

The Ryerson’s Arrival

The river grew still for a moment, as if waiting. The sun had not quite dipped below the horizon. Then Tom saw her. A long, sleek hull emerging from the bend. A tall, elegant pilothouse. A ship that looked like motion even when she was standing still.

The Edward L. Ryerson.

She came downbound with a kind of effortless grace, her bow cutting a perfect line through the glowing water. The sunlight caught her polished surfaces, turning her into a moving sculpture of steel and gold. Tom lifted his camera, breath held. Every shot felt like a gift, whether it was the Ryerson framed in evening light, the river shimmering beneath her, or the sky glowing behind her. She passed Mission Point with authority, her steam turbines producing a smooth, confident hum. Then, the three long and two short blasts on her steam horns echoed across the river, a melodic, distinctive sound. Tom watched until, about 45 minutes later, she finally slipped out of view past 9 Mile Point.

A Perfect Ending

The river settled into evening calm. The scanner went quiet. The sky deepened into soft blue and fading gold. Tom let the moment sink in. He had two full days in the Soo, plus the afternoon and evening of the day he arrived. He’d seen dozens of ships. He met new friends. This evening brought him perfect light. And the Ryerson to close out the night. He couldn’t have asked for more.

Monday Morning

Sunshine, the Armco, and a Ferry Ride

Tom woke just before 6:00 a.m., the same way he had every morning since arriving in the Soo. The routine felt comfortable now. He showered, dressed, and clicked on his scanner.

Unlike Sunday’s gray skies, Monday morning was bright and clear. Sunlight streamed through the motel curtains, casting warm stripes across the bedspread.

The scanner came alive almost immediately.

“Soo Control, the Armco, downbound at Ile Parisienne…”

The day was off to a good start. The Armco was a familiar sight on Lake Superior.

A few minutes later:

“Soo Control, the Joseph H. Thompson, downbound at Ile Parisienne…”

Two downbounders would be reasonably close together. It was a perfect start to the morning traffic. Tom grabbed his camera bag and headed out the door.

The Plan

The Lockview Restaurant was already open, the neon sign glowing faintly in the morning sun. Tom ordered what had become his usual — eggs, toast, sausage, and a large coffee — and kept the scanner on the table beside him.

He’d seen the Armco and the Thompson many times in Duluth, but the lighting this morning was too good to waste. And with the sun rising behind the mainland, the best vantage point for morning traffic would be from the Sugar Island side.

He finished breakfast, paid his bill, and drove down Portage Avenue toward the ferry dock.

A short wait, a handful of cars, and then the Sugar Island Ferry rumbled to life, pushing off from the mainland. Tom stood near the railing, the breeze cool on his face, the scanner clipped to his belt.

Halfway across, it crackled again:

“Soo Control, the Merle M. McCurdy, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

Tom smiled. A classic coal‑burner. And she’d reach Mission Point before the downbounders.

The timing was perfect.

Sugar Island in Morning Light

Tom drove off the ferry just after 8:00 a.m., the island quiet and peaceful in the morning sun. He parked near the shoreline across from Mission Point, the river wide and bright in front of him. At 8:45, the Merle M. McCurdy appeared upbound, her stack trailing a thin plume of smoke that caught the sunlight. Tom lifted his camera and took several shots, the lighting crisp and golden. The river was calm. The air was clear. And the day felt full of promise.

The Downbounders

Just before 10:00, the Armco rounded the bend, her bow wave sparkling in the sunlight. Tom captured her from the island side, which offered a perfect morning angle, the sun at his back, the ship glowing against the blue water. Minutes later, the Joseph H. Thompson followed, long and powerful, her deckhands visible near the bow. Tom took more photos, appreciating how the morning light softened the lines of her hull. Two downbounders and one upbounder so far, and the day was still young.

Two More Upbounders

At 10:30, the scanner crackled again:

“Soo Control, the T. R. McLagan, upbound at 6 Mile Point…”

The McLagan appeared about thirty minutes after. She was a Canada Steamship Lines vessel riding high in ballast, her red hull bright in the sun. Tom photographed her as she passed, the river shimmering beneath her.

Then, at 11:15:

“Soo Control, the Eugene P. Thomas, upbound at 6 Mile Point…”

The Eugene P. Thomas, a U.S. Steel vessel, approached with a steady pace. Tom took several shots, appreciating the clean lines, her modern, streamlined stack, and the way the sunlight caught her pilothouse windows.

When she passed, the river grew quiet again, giving a natural pause in the traffic. Tom checked the time. It was nearly noon. He knew exactly where he wanted to go.

Lunch at Clyde’s

He drove back to the ferry landing, crossed to the mainland, and headed straight for Clyde’s Drive‑In. The lot was already filling with the lunchtime crowd, but Tom found a spot facing the river. He ordered a burger, fries, and a root beer and settled in to watch the water while he ate. The scanner rested on the dashboard, quiet for now, but the afternoon would bring more traffic.

Monday Afternoon

A Boat Tour, Three Ships, and an Italian Surprise

Lunch at Clyde’s Drive‑In tasted even better with the sun shining and the river sparkling in front of him. Tom sat in the Valiant with the windows down, the scanner resting on the dashboard. The breeze carried the smell of the water and the faint hum of traffic from Riverside Drive.

Halfway through his burger, the scanner crackled:

“Soo Control, the Lake Manitoba, downbound at Birch Point…”

The relatively new Canadian bulk freighter was close enough that she’d be in the Locks soon.

A moment later:

“Soo Control, the J. A. W. Iglehart, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

Tom paused mid‑bite. He’d picked up a brochure for the Soo Locks Boat Tours back at the Crestview Motel at the start of his stay. He remembered the schedule: there was a 1:00 p.m. departure. If he left now, he could make it, and with the Lake Manitoba and the Iglehart both approaching, he’d almost certainly see them from the water. He finished his lunch, wiped his hands, and started the engine. It was time to see the river from a new angle.



Boarding Le Voyageur

The tour boat Le Voyageur sat at the dock near the Valley Camp, its yellow hull bright in the afternoon sun. A small crowd was already boarding that was made up of various families, tourists, and a few locals. Tom bought his ticket, stepped aboard, and found a spot along the rail with a clear view upriver. At 1:00 sharp, the engines rumbled to life, and Le Voyageur eased away from the dock, heading toward the Locks. The river breeze felt cool and clean. The sunlight danced on the water. And Tom felt a quiet thrill. He’d never been on the river during traffic before.

Rising in the MacArthur Lock

Le Voyageur approached the MacArthur Lock, the gates opening slowly as the tour boat glided inside. Tom leaned on the railing, watching the massive concrete walls around them.

As the lock began to fill, the scanner on his belt crackled:

“Soo Control, the J. A. W. Iglehart, approaching Mission Point…”

The Iglehart, a cement carrier with a distinctive profile, was making the turn around Mission Point, heading straight for the Locks. He knew he’d get to see her at some point on the ride. By the time Le Voyageur reached the Lake Superior level, the Lake Manitoba was approaching the lock from the opposite direction, her black hull bright against the blue water.

Two ships already, and the tour had barely begun.

Up to Algoma Steel and Back

Le Voyageur continued upriver, passing the International Bridge and approaching the sprawling complex of Algoma Steel. The tour guide narrated the history of the plant, but Tom’s attention was on the water and the scanner.

As the boat turned around to head back toward the Locks, the scanner came alive again:

“Soo Control, the Robert Hobson, upbound at 6 Mile Point…”

Another one. Tom smiled. This tour was turning into a floating Mission Point.

As Le Voyageur approached the Locks for the downbound passage, the Iglehart was just clearing the chamber. Tom captured her from above as she exited, an angle he’d never get from shore. Moments later, the Robert Hobson came into view upbound, her bow wave shimmering in the afternoon light. Tom took more photos, grateful for the timing.

Back to Shore and One More Ship

Le Voyageur eased back into the tour dock around 3:30 p.m. The sun was still bright, the sky clear, and Tom felt energized as if the river itself had given him a second wind. He walked back to the Valiant, turned on the scanner, and heard one more call:

“Soo Control, the Fucinatore, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

This Italian saltie was a rare visitor. Tom drove straight to Mission Point, arriving just before 4:00. The Fucinatore appeared minutes later, her tall bow and foreign lines unmistakable as she made the turn. Tom captured her in the warm afternoon light, the river calm beneath her hull. When she passed, the scanner fell silent. For the first time all day, the river took a breath. Tom checked the time. It was a little early, but he knew exactly what he wanted for supper.

Early Supper at West Pier

He drove up to the West Pier Drive‑In, ordered another burger and fries, and sat in the car with the windows down, listening to the quiet hum of the river in the distance. It had been a full afternoon with ships from every direction, a boat tour, perfect weather, and a rare saltie to round it out. And Tom still had Monday evening ahead of him.

Monday Evening

The Cort in Golden Light

Tom pulled away from the West Pier Drive‑In with the windows down, the warm evening air drifting through the Valiant. The sun was still high enough to cast long reflections across the river, and the scanner sat on the seat beside him, turned up just enough to catch anything important.

It didn’t take long.

“Soo Control, the Stewart J. Cort, downbound at Ile Parisienne…”

Tom’s heart jumped. The Stewart J. Cort, the first 1000‑footer on the Great Lakes, new just the year before. He’d never seen her. Not in Duluth. Not anywhere. Now she was coming downbound toward the Soo on his last night. He checked the time. If she kept her pace, she’d reach Mission Point around 8:30 p.m. The timing would be right in the sweet spot of Soo evening light. He turned toward Mission Point.

The riverbank was quiet when Tom arrived, the grass warm under the late‑day sun. He parked the Valiant facing the water, rolled down the windows, and tuned the radio to 560 CFOS from Owen Sound, Ontario, the signal coming in clear and warm across Georgian Bay and Lake Huron. At 6:00, the first upbounder appeared. The Ashland, a Maritime‑class vessel built in 1943, with classic lines. She moved with a steady, dignified pace, her bow wave catching the sunlight in bright flashes. Tom stepped out of the car and took several photos, the lighting soft and golden. Just after the Ashland passed upbound, the scanner crackled again.

“Soo Control, the Detroit Edison, upbound at 6 Mile Point…”

A self‑unloader, the Detroit Edison appeared at 6:30, her boom stowed neatly along her deck. The sunlight hit her hull at just the right angle. Tom captured her as she passed, then leaned against the Valiant, listening to CFOS play a mix of easy listening and local Canadian news. The music blended with the river sounds in a way that felt almost nostalgic.

At 7:05, the third upbounder arrived. The Agawa Canyon, relatively new having entered service in 1970 and loaded with coal for Algoma Steel, rode low in the water. Her hull glowed in the evening light, the coal dust on her deck catching the sun in tiny sparks. Tom took more photos, appreciating how the Soo’s evening light made every ship look like a painting. The river quieted again. The sun dipped lower. And Tom knew the next ship would be the one he’d been waiting for.

The scanner broke the silence:

“Soo Control, the Stewart J. Cort, downbound clear the locks, another call at Mission Point.”

Tom stepped closer to the water. A long, dark maroon shape emerged from the bend, impossibly long. The Stewart J. Cort looked futuristic compared to the older lakers he’d seen all weekend. Her pilothouse perched at the bow, her stern stretching back farther than Tom could easily take in.

She was massive. She was fast. She was beautiful. And the light was perfect. The sun hung low behind the trees, casting a warm, golden glow across the river. The Cort’s hull reflected the light like polished metal, her wake trailing behind her in soft ripples.

Tom lifted his camera and took shot after shot. He captured the bow, the pilothouse windows catching the sun, the long sweep of her deck, the stern fading into the golden haze. He lowered the camera only when she passed directly in front of him, her engines a deep, confident hum. This was the moment he’d remember. The moment that would stay with him long after he left the Soo.

A Quiet Ending

When the Cort glided farther down the river, the river fell silent. CFOS played a soft instrumental piece. The sky deepened into orange, then pink, then blue. Tom leaned against the Valiant, letting the moment settle. It was his last night in the Soo. He had just seen the Cort to close it out.

He couldn’t have asked for more.

Tuesday Morning, Heading Home

Tom’s alarm sounded just before 6:00 a.m., the same way it had every morning since he arrived in the Soo. He lay still for a moment, listening to the soft hum of early traffic on Ashmun Street and the faint echo of the river in the distance. This was it. His last morning. He showered quickly, dressed, and clicked on his scanner. Whatever he saw today would be a bonus, the icing on a long weekend that had already given him more than he’d dared hope for.

The scanner crackled:

“Soo Control, the William P. Snyder, Jr., downbound at Birch Point…”

A good start. A familiar boat. A fitting final chapter.

One More Breakfast, One More Walk

Tom drove down Portage Avenue to the Lockview Restaurant for one last breakfast of eggs, toast, sausage, and a large coffee. The waitress recognized him by now and smiled as she poured his refill. After eating, he crossed the street into the park at the locks, the morning sun bright and warm. The grass was still damp with dew, and the air carried that unmistakable river smell. He walked the paths one more time, stopping at the railings above the MacArthur Lock just as the William P. Snyder, Jr. eased into the chamber. He watched from the viewing platform as she locked down, her deckhands moving with practiced ease. When the Snyder cleared the lock, Tom headed for the Valiant. Mission Point was calling one last time.

Mission Point and One Final Pair

On the drive down Portage Avenue, the scanner spoke again:

“Soo Control, the Harry Coulby, upbound at 9 Mile Point…”

One more boat. A final upbounder.

Tom reached Mission Point just in time to catch the Snyder again as she passed downbound, the morning sun lighting her hull in soft gold. Not long after, the Harry Coulby appeared upbound, her bow wave sparkling in the sunlight. Tom took several photos, not hurried, not frantic, just appreciative. When the Coulby disappeared upriver, the scanner fell silent.

The river took a breath. And Tom knew it was time to say good-bye to the Soo and start the trip home.

Checking Out

He drove back to the Crestview Motel, packed his bags, and checked out. The clerk wished him safe travels, and Tom stepped outside into the bright morning with a mix of gratitude and reluctance. At a gas station near the edge of town, he filled the Valiant’s tank. Then he turned onto I‑75 southbound, taking it six miles to the exit for M‑28.

The Long Road West

M‑28 stretched out ahead of him. The first stretches were long, straight, and nearly empty. He switched the radio back to WSOO. As he brought the Valiant up to almost 70 mph passing the intersection with Tilson Road, the opening bars of “Grazing In The Grass” by The Friends of Distinction came through the speakers.

The Upper Peninsula rolled past with forests, lakes, small towns, and eventually the wide sweep of Lake Superior near Munising. Tom stopped for gas and lunch in Marquette. Later on, in Houghton County, not far before the Ontonagon County line, Tom passed the Ottawa Lodge on his left. Then, about fifteen minutes later, he made another gas stop in Bruce Crossing, and then continued west, the miles slipping by easily.

By the time he crossed the Blatnik Bridge into Duluth, it was just before 5:00 p.m.

A few minutes later, Tom pulled into the driveway of his modest two-story traditional on East 7th Street. He was home. His Soo trip was over.

A Perfect Ending

Tom carried his camera bag inside and set it gently on the kitchen table. So many rolls of film. So many moments captured. He couldn’t wait to get them developed to relive the weekend frame by frame.

That night, as he lay in bed, the images drifted through his mind:

The Sykes. The Weir at the Rock Cut. The Anderson. The Fitzgerald. The Ryerson glowing in golden light. The Cort closing out Monday night. And dozens more. He thought about future trips to Port Huron, the Welland Canal, and even the St. Lawrence Seaway locks. Those were places he’d only read about, but after the trip to the Soo, they were places he could start to imagine with some clarity. The Soo had given him everything he’d hoped for. And it had given him something else, too. Tom was certain that he’d be back. Soon.