This image always brings a smile, a reminder that even the best-laid plans can veer off course—yet sometimes deliver something more rewarding. On this dive, visibility was poor, the wide shots impossible. Instead, I turned my focus closer, to the fine details revealed in the dim light.

Before me emerged the Comet’s steam engine, its paintwork still vivid, its lines as crisp as the day they were laid down. The care and craftsmanship of another era remain etched here, preserved beneath the lake for more than a century. In that moment, what began as a limitation became a gift: a chance to marvel at artistry that has endured against time and water alike.

This is one of my older photos, taken beneath the decking of the Stuart. The space was surprisingly accessible, and to me, it looked just like a cave—so I decided to shoot it as one.

I placed a few lights, but in the process stirred up some silt. Instead of ruining the shot, the haze created a smoky, atmospheric effect that I think actually works.

As always, my good friend Terry Irvine waited patiently nearby, giving me the time and space to bring the image to life.

The SS Carl D. Bradley was a self-unloading Great Lakes freighter built in 1927 by the American Ship Building Company in Lorain, Ohio, for the Michigan Limestone division of U.S. Steel. At 639 feet long, she was the largest freighter on the lakes and held the title of "Queen of the Lakes" for 22 years. Designed to haul limestone from Rogers City, Michigan, to ports across the Great Lakes, she was a symbol of industrial might and innovation, boasting a fully electric system and modern crew accommodations. Throughout her career, she set cargo records and even acted as an icebreaker in early spring passages. Though officially registered in New York, her operations and crew were rooted in Rogers City, where she became a source of local pride.

On November 18, 1958, after more than three decades of service, the Carl D. Bradley met her tragic end in a violent Lake Michigan storm. The vessel, already known among her crew for structural wear, broke in two and sank swiftly, with only two of her 35-man crew surviving. The disaster devastated Rogers City, where 23 of the lost men were from, leaving behind grieving families and a community forever marked by the tragedy. Investigations pointed to structural weakness from the brittle steel of her era and the stresses of heavy weather as causes. Today, the Carl D. Bradley rests in 310–380 feet of cold Lake Michigan water, a memorial site for technical divers and a lasting reminder of the perils faced by Great Lakes mariners.

For years I dreamt of visiting the Bradley, turning over every detail and scenario in my mind while waiting for the chance to come. When circumstance finally allowed, all that planning narrowed to a handful of minutes—just long enough to capture the image I had imagined for so long.

Descending onto the second-largest shipwreck in the Great Lakes was both awe-inspiring and humbling. The sheer scale of her broken form felt less like a wreck and more like a vast, silent monument—a somber memorial to the crew who never returned.

This photograph is not mine alone. It belongs to the entire team whose effort and commitment made it possible. For that reason, I can think of no better name for these images than “Gratitude.”

The Judge Hart—a steel St. Lawrence “canaller” built in 1923—met her end in a late-November 1942 gale on Lake Superior when heavy icing crippled soundings and she grounded on Fitzsimmons (Fitzsimons) Rocks off Ashburton Bay while downbound with wheat from Fort William; after being pulled free, she flooded and slipped into roughly 200–220 feet of frigid water, with no loss of life. Today the wreck rests upright and remarkably intact in remote northern Superior, a site only occasionally visited by technical teams.The bow’s wheelhouse is a showpiece time capsule: wheel, binnacle, and engine-order telegraph still stand, the ship’s name remains legible on bow and stern, binoculars still lie on the chart table, and early radio gear sits in place—an arresting tableau in the dark.

Of all the shipwrecks I’ve explored, the Judge Hart stands in a league of its own. So much of this vessel appears ready for service that descending on her decks feels almost eerie—like stepping back in time.

On most wrecks, the ship’s bell is either long gone or hidden away in some inaccessible spot. Not here. The Hart’s bell is proudly displayed, gleaming in the shadows, and it practically begs divers to frame it in their viewfinders.

Conditions on the Hart can swing from breathtaking to brutal, but fortune was with us. Ryan Staley and I dropped through late-summer thermoclines into clear, inviting water, the kind that makes every detail leap into focus. It was the perfect backdrop for one of my most unforgettable dives.

The SS Samuel Mather, a 246-foot wooden-hulled freighter launched in Cleveland in 1887, was among the last of her kind on the Great Lakes—a coal carrier occasionally pressed into wheat runs. After a brief but eventful four-year career marked by gales, mechanical failures, and collisions, she met her end in the early hours of 22 November 1891 when, heavy with 58,000 bushels of wheat, she was rammed amid dense fog in Whitefish Bay by the steel freighter Brazil. Holed near the stern, the Mather sank within 25 minutes, her crew escaping without loss of life but losing all possessions. Today she rests upright in 180 feet of frigid Lake Superior water within the Whitefish Point Underwater Preserve, her deck and stern superstructure largely intact—a rare and accessible example of 19th-century wooden freighter design. Her mast tops out at 75 feet, making her a popular yet challenging technical dive. The site has claimed three divers in modern times, underscoring the hazards of deep, cold wreck penetration. Artifacts illegally removed in the 1980s now reside under State of Michigan stewardship and are displayed at the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum, preserving the legacy of one of the lake’s most evocative wooden wrecks

After years of diving Whitefish Bay, patience finally paid off. A stretch of perfect weather opened the door for the long run out to the Samuel Mather—a wreck that feels like two eras of shipbuilding fused into one.

Picture a steamship crossed with a schooner, and you’ll begin to imagine the Mather’s unique character. Her split bow draws you in, and once below the surface, the wreck unveils a feast of detail: engine and boiler rooms, the massive propeller, and standing masts still rigged as if waiting for a breeze.

All of it revealed in a single dive.

For wreck divers, there’s simply no stage more dramatic than Whitefish Bay, Lake Superior.

The Gunilda, a luxurious 195-foot steel-hulled steam yacht built in 1897 by Ramage & Ferguson of Leith, Scotland, was once hailed as one of the most beautiful vessels afloat. Purchased in 1903 by oil magnate William L. Harkness, she served as flagship of the New York Yacht Club and cruised the Caribbean, Atlantic, and, in 1910, the Great Lakes. Her end came on 11 August 1911, when—after Harkness twice refused to hire a local pilot—Gunilda struck McGarvey Shoal near Rossport, Ontario. Freed by the tug James Whalen, she rolled, flooded, and sank within minutes in 270 feet of frigid Lake Superior water. Discovered in 1967, the wreck remains astonishingly intact, with her masts upright, gilded hull gleaming, and interior artifacts undisturbed—a time capsule of Edwardian elegance. Jacques Cousteau called her “the most beautiful shipwreck in the world,” and today she stands as one of the planet’s premier technical diving sites, a deep-water jewel preserved by the lake’s icy embrace.

Among the most legendary shipwrecks of the Great Lakes, the Gunilda holds an allure that few others can match. For years, I wondered what secrets her interior might still guard beneath the cold, silent waters. Careful planning and steady teamwork finally carried me into this forgotten space, where I found myself standing before a row of rusted bunk beds.

Look closely, and in the upper right you’ll see a haunting detail—two bowler hats, still resting neatly on the rack, as if their owners might return at any moment. There are aspects of this photograph I might change, yet the memory of capturing it remains one of the most demanding—and rewarding—moments of my diving life.

When one wheel was not enough—what luxury it must have been. The flying bridge of the Gunilda remains a striking sight even now, a perch that would have been the finest seat in the house on a hot summer’s day, high above the glittering waters of Lake Superior.

For me, though, this dive carried a different weight. The Gunilda and I have a long history, and more than once she seemed determined to see me off this mortal coil. But on this day, descending to her bridge, I felt the old tension fade. When I finally surfaced, it was as though a quiet truce had been reached—an understanding sealed between diver and ship.

The SS Jane Miller, a small cargo steamer built in 1879, served the Bruce Peninsula and North Channel before meeting her fate on 25 November 1881 in a sudden Georgian Bay blizzard. Laden with cargo—thirty extra tons hastily taken aboard at Meaford, much of it stowed on deck—she left Big Bay after dark bound for Spencer’s Wharf, her trim compromised by reduced fuel weight and excess top-load. Witnesses last saw her passing White Cloud Island before a squall swallowed her from view; she rolled and sank within minutes, taking all 28 aboard. Despite immediate searches and drag attempts, the wreck eluded discovery for more than 135 years until 2017. Today the Jane Miller stands as a remarkably preserved time capsule of Great Lakes maritime history, a solemn yet compelling dive into one of Georgian Bay’s deadliest shipwrecks.

Some wrecks stir wonder, others awe—but the Jane Miller carries a weight of sorrow that lingers in the water. The bow itself feels haunted, as though the tragedy of her sinking still clings to the timbers.

I chose to keep my distance, framing the wreck from afar. To move in closer felt like an intrusion, a trespass on something sacred.

Here, 28 stories ended abruptly. Lives that never had the chance to grow old remain suspended in time, written into the silence of this site.

The Kyle Spangler, a wooden schooner launched from Black River, Ohio, in 1856, embodied the hard-working mid-19th-century Great Lakes cargo carrier, hauling coal, lumber, iron ore, grain, and salt between inland ports and the Atlantic seaboard. Owned by Cleveland merchant Basil L. Spangler and named for his young son, she endured a string of mishaps—groundings, dismastings, and collisions—before her final voyage on 5 November 1860, when, laden with corn and sailing upbound on a dark Lake Huron night, she collided with the schooner Racine. The impact crushed her bow and sent her to the bottom, though all hands escaped. Rediscovered in 2003 by diver Stan Stock and documented by NOAA’s Thunder Bay National Marine Sanctuary, the wreck rests upright in 185 feet of cold, clear water, astonishingly preserved. Her twin masts still stand with crosstrees in place, the ship’s wheel, rudder, pumps, winch, and capstan intact—a time capsule from the 1850s and a premier technical dive site within the sanctuary’s deepwater fleet.

Graceful and inviting, the Kyle Spangler is a schooner that never disappoints. Resting at an approachable depth, she offers divers a perfect gateway into the beauty of Great Lakes wrecks—a glimpse of how intact and evocative these ships can be.

I return to the Spangler time and again, drawn by her photogenic lines. From bow to stern, every angle reveals something new: the play of light across her timbers, the quiet dignity of her wheel, the sense that she still carries the pride of sail.

The SS John B. Cowle, a 420-foot steel bulk freighter launched in 1902 for the Cowle Transit Company, was among the Great Lakes’ early “tin pans”—fast, modern ore carriers of their day. Her career ended abruptly on July 12, 1909, when, laden with over 7,000 tons of iron ore and navigating dense fog off Whitefish Point, she was nearly cut in two by the upbound Isaac M. Scott on its maiden voyage. The Cowle sank in just three minutes, taking 14 of her 24-man crew despite desperate rescue efforts amid wreckage-strewn waters. Discovered in 1972 in 220 feet of Lake Superior, the wreck is exceptionally well-preserved, featuring one of the few intact pilothouses on the lake, along with Texas-style bow cabins and visible hull details. Though artifacts were illegally removed in the 1980s, they are now under State of Michigan care and displayed at the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum. Protected within the Whitefish Point Underwater Preserve, the Cowle is a challenging deep-water dive—hauntingly beautiful, historically significant, and a sobering reminder of the perils of early Great Lakes commerce.

The wrecks of Whitefish Bay never disappoint, though some days the visibility can test even the most patient diver. On this dive, the conditions called for a close-up approach with dim lighting to cut through the murk.

The pilot house itself is remarkable—packed with intact details that hint at its past life. All it needed was a touch of light to bring those features into focus.

As I framed the scene, Mike Theobald drifted into view, his presence adding both scale and a sense of life to the image.

The John M. Osborn, a 178-foot wooden steam barge launched in 1882, met her fate just two years later in one of Lake Superior’s most notorious fog-bound collisions. On July 27, 1884, while downbound with iron ore and towing two schooner barges, she was rammed amidships by the steel steamer Alberta—a vessel already feared as the “terror of the lakes” for her aggressive handling. The Alberta’s bow tore 16 feet into the Osborn, triggering a boiler explosion that killed two instantly; three more lives were lost as she broke free and sank within minutes. Despite a high-profile court battle, both vessels were found at fault for excessive speed in limited visibility. Discovered a century later in 1984, the wreck was once described as a “time capsule” of 19th-century Great Lakes shipping, though it suffered heavy artifact removal in the 1980s. Today, lying in 165 feet of cold, clear water within the Whitefish Point Underwater Preserve, the Osborn is protected by law, her salvaged artifacts held by the State of Michigan and displayed at the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum—a poignant reminder of the steel-versus-wood age on the inland seas.

So many of these wrecks still carry stacked anchors, and I’m always struck by the thought of how they had to be wrestled into place by hand.

It’s easy to imagine the crew grumbling at the extra work each time the captain called for the anchor to be dropped—an echo of effort still frozen in steel on the Osborne’s bow.

The SS Marquette, launched in 1881 as the Republic and later renamed, was a wooden-hulled freighter built in Cleveland for the Republic Iron Company. Measuring 245 feet and reinforced with innovative iron strapping, she represented a transitional generation of Great Lakes ore carriers. On October 14, 1903, heavily laden with over 2,000 tons of iron ore from Ashland, Wisconsin, she began leaking mysteriously in the night while crossing Lake Superior. Captain Caughill turned for Michigan Island, but as she settled lower, most of her crew abandoned ship in lifeboats. Near dawn, the remaining four men also escaped as the Marquette foundered, her cabins torn away by escaping air. Resting undiscovered for over a century, her wreck was located in 2005 in 215 feet of water east of Michigan Island. Though her superstructure is gone, the bow remains nearly intact, her engine stands upright, the propeller is in place, and iron ore still blankets much of the hull—a deep-water relic now protected on the National Register of Historic Places.

Standing like an alien monolith on a distant planet, this is a steam engine without a ship. Its sheer size alone makes it worth the dive.

A builder’s plate, gauges, and a maze of valves offer a glimpse into the machinery that once powered these great vessels. Further off lie the remains of the bow, but reaching it requires careful navigation through the bay’s often poor visibility.

Launched in 1898 at Lorain, Ohio, the SS Superior City was the largest vessel ever built on freshwater at the time, a steel pioneer in the era’s race for bigger, stronger Great Lakes freighters. For 22 years she hauled iron ore until the night of August 20, 1920, when—laden with 7,600 tons—she collided in Whitefish Bay with the steamer Willis L. King. The King’s bow tore into her port side, triggering a catastrophic boiler explosion that blew off her stern and killed most of the crew instantly; only four of 33 aboard survived. Courts later ruled both captains had failed to follow navigation “rules-of-the-road.” Discovered in 1972 and later filmed by the Great Lakes Shipwreck Historical Society, the wreck became mired in controversy over graphic video of crew remains and illegally salvaged artifacts, now held by the State of Michigan and displayed under loan. Today, resting in 270 feet of cold Lake Superior water within the Whitefish Point Underwater Preserve, the Superior City is both a challenging deep technical dive and one of the lake’s most sobering shipwreck memorials.

Perhaps the most challenging dive in Whitefish Bay, the “City” is dark, deep, and disorienting. On this wreck, the best strategy is to work quickly and keep the plan simple.

This shot of the stern name was one of the very first images I ever captured of the Superior City. Even now, it reminds me of an important lesson underwater: don’t complicate things unnecessarily.

The SS Manasoo—born the Macassa in 1888 at Port Glasgow, Scotland—was a steel-hulled Canadian passenger and package freighter built for the Hamilton Steamboat Company. Luxuriously appointed with carved hardwood, velvet furnishings, and electric lighting, she carried thousands between Hamilton and Toronto before being lengthened in 1905 and later sold to the Owen Sound Transportation Company. Rebuilt and renamed Manasoo, she plied the waters between Sault Ste. Marie and Owen Sound. On 14 September 1928, after loading 115 cows, a bull, crew, and passengers at Manitoulin Island, she steamed into a Lake Huron storm. Listing badly off Griffith Island in the early hours of the next day, she rolled and sank within minutes. Only five survived; sixteen perished. Her whereabouts remained a mystery for nearly 90 years until discovered in 2018, resting upright and astonishingly intact in 210 feet of cold, clear water—stern embedded in the lakebed, a preserved time capsule from the golden age of Great Lakes steamers.

This is a shipwreck I could return to time and again. Discovered only a few years ago, it remains rich with detail—each dive revealing something new to see and photograph on this elegant vessel.

Old car inside SS Manasoo: When I first heard of a shipwreck with a 1927 Chevrolet still inside, it immediately captured my imagination. Photographing it proved to be a delicate challenge—the environment both silty and fragile. Careful planning was essential, and light placement became the key. There was something deeply rewarding about looking through the viewfinder and seeing the plan come to life before me.

The stairwell: As I drifted through the stairwell, my imagination filled the space with life. I could almost see passengers climbing and descending, slipping in and out of staterooms, gathering in the common area. Their voices carried conversations, plans, hopes, and schemes—all eager to reach their destination and begin the next stage of their lives.

My good friend, mentor, and lighting assistant, Terry Irvine, hovered in the glow, his lights illuminating the stairwell as if he were holding open a doorway into the past.

The steamer Florida, a 270-foot-long package freighter built in 1889 by Robert Mills in Buffalo, New York, now rests at a depth of 206 feet near Presque Isle. With a beam of 40 feet and a gross tonnage of 2,103, she carried general package freight—including goods shipped in boxes, barrels, and bags—alongside bulk cargo such as wheat, corn, and coal. Though powered by a steam engine, Florida also carried three masts, a reminder of the transitional era between sail and steam. On May 20, 1897, while navigating dense fog, she collided with the steamer George Roby, the impact nearly cutting her in half. Florida sank rapidly; her stern was crushed against the lakebed, air trapped in her bow blew the pilothouse clear off, and debris lingered on the surface for days. Remarkably, her crew was saved by George Roby.

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by the wreck of the Florida. Her sheer size and endless wealth of photo-worthy details can leave you not knowing where to begin.

On this dive, I chose to focus on a single area, with Bob Larson lighting up the impact damage to give the scene scale. The beautifully clear waters of Lake Huron made the shot all the more rewarding—a rare treat in itself.

The Florida is a wreck I know I’ll return to.

The wooden-hulled freighter SS Ohio, launched in 1875, was one of the Great Lakes’ early bulk carriers, built by John F. Squires of Huron, Ohio. Measuring 202 feet in length with a beam of 35 feet, she was powered by a coal-fired Scotch marine boiler driving a low-pressure condensing engine. Like many freighters of her era, Ohio transported bulk cargoes such as coal, grain, and iron ore across the Great Lakes. For nearly two decades she operated reliably, but her career came to a sudden end in September 1894 when she departed Duluth with a load of grain bound for Ogdensburg, New York. Battling rough weather on Lake Huron, she encountered the steamer Charles J. Kershaw, which was towing two schooner-barges, Moonlight and Ironton. When the towline between the barges snapped, Ironton veered off course and fatally struck Ohio amidships.

The collision proved catastrophic for both vessels. Within half an hour, Ohio slipped beneath the surface along with Ironton, though all sixteen of Ohio’s crew survived after abandoning ship in lifeboats. Discovered upright in 2017, resting in more than 200 feet of water off Presque Isle, Michigan, the wreck of Ohio is remarkably preserved after more than a century on the lakebed.

This was from the second dive I ever did on the Ohio (2022), and we were blessed with spectacularly clear (and cold) conditions. After experimenting with some different lighting techniques, I was running short on time—since the Ohio rests in 300 feet of water. I dropped to the bottom, looked up, and took a couple of ambient shots before calling the dive.

It was during the very lengthy deco, while reviewing the images, that I noticed I had captured almost the entire length of the wreck in a single frame.