“Hang on! Here comes a big one!” Phil Warner shouted from the rear cockpit of his tandem kayak as an approaching, squall-driven wave prepared to wash over our decks.

Paddling in a two-man kayak alongside, I braced unsteadily and peered at the rocky, tree-lined shore some five miles distant.

“This isn’t fun,” I replied.

It was even less enjoyable for Steve Kurczy, paddling in the bow of my boat, and Jenna Cho, paddling in the bow of Phil’s, who both took the brunt of lashing winds and churning waves.

This was an inauspicious start to an expedition that few people had ever attempted, much less completed: a circumnavigation of remote Lac Manicouagan in central Quebec, one of the world’s largest annular lakes formed more than 200 million years ago when a three-mile-wide asteroid slammed into Earth.

The force of that collision liquefied rocks five miles deep for thousands of years and propelled a giant fireball as far as what is now New York City. Rain and rivers eventually flooded everything but an island in the 40-mile wide crater, creating a unique body of water visible from space known as “The Eye of Quebec.”

An image of the lake first caught my eye a few years earlier when I studied a map of Canada and noticed a strange, blue doughnut shape nearly as far north as Labrador. I zoomed in and saw that a single road led to a tiny settlement on the eastern shore, Relais-Gabriel. Hmmm ....

Not long afterward, I started planning a voyage and invited fellow adventurers Jenna, Steve and Phil to come along for the ride.

Our drive last August, in two cars loaded with kayaks, tents, food and assorted gear, took two days. After stopping 60 miles from our destination at Manic-5, a dam and hydroelectric station that generates power supplying communities as far south as New England, we began calling ourselves the Manic Four.

Just north of there, Route 389 becomes a bumpy gravel road, and it took us nearly two hours to reach Relais-Gabriel, where a single building houses a gas station, café and boat-rental/fishing tackle business.

“Kayak around Manicouagan? You can’t do that,” the woman proprietor told us in English mixed with French. She mistakenly claimed that the lake measures about 350 miles around.

“Big waves! It’ll take you a month!”

I had heard about another launch farther north, so we didn’t waste any time with her and drove another 10 miles to Uapishka Station. This outpost co-founded by the Innu Council of Pessamit tribe — Quebec’s original Aboriginal inhabitants — and the Manicouagan-Uapishka World Biosphere Reserve supports scientific research, economic development and tourism.

In contrast to our reception at Relais-Gabriel, the manager, Daniel Beaulieu, greeted us warmly. It was only slightly unsettling that, when we entered his office, Beaulieu was watching the movie “Deliverance.”

For a nominal fee, Beaulieu rented us a GPS spotter that allowed us to send a satellite signal every night indicating our location. If we didn’t “ping” him, Beaulieu promised to send a rescue boat.

He then led us to the launch site, where the wind and waves had begun to intensify.

We spent more than an hour cramming waterproof bags containing hundreds of pounds of provisions in hatches.

Just before we shoved off at 3 p.m., Beaulieu snapped a “milk-carton” photo. The picture, he jokingly explained, would be displayed in dairy aisles across Canada if we failed to turn up.

He was the last human we saw for nearly a week.

Our primary objective that first day was to head north a few miles and then make the treacherous six-mile crossing from the mainland to René-Levasseur Island so we could paddle the rest of the way along the lake’s inner perimeter, thus saving considerable distance.

A gusty headwind and pelting rain kept trying to beat us back before we finally reached the island, soaked and shivering. According to our GPS, we had covered 10 miles.

To add to our misery, a greeting party of gnats and mosquitoes awaited us, and we quickly donned head nets. Soon, though, the rain let up, and we found a flat area near the beach to camp. After cooking dinner, we pinged Beaulieu and crawled into our tents, exhausted.

Conditions were similar early the next morning — wind, waves and rain in our face — but by 10 a.m. the showers let up and we could finally take in majestic views of the lake framed on both shores by densely wooded hills. There were no houses or signs of other humans. The only sounds were the splash of our paddles and occasional tremolo warbles of loons. Our distance that day: 25 miles.

The headwind, which sapped our energy and spirits, continued unabated on the third day, accompanied by squall after squall after squall that stirred up whitecaps. With no easy places to pull ashore, we gritted our teeth and kept paddling. We all realized we were approaching a turning point. If conditions didn’t improve, prudence suggested we turn around rather than push forward.

Late that afternoon, though, dark clouds lifted and a few rays of sun grudgingly poked through.

“Look!” Jenna exclaimed.

A rainbow arched in the distance.

We took it as a sign the weather gods would finally give us a break. Sure enough, the wind shifted and propelled us like torpedoes. When the Manic Four at last pulled ashore just before a glorious sunset, we had covered a whopping 36 miles that day.

“We’ve crossed the Rubicon!” I exulted.

On Day Four, a tailwind continued to push us — almost too aggressively for my comfort. Phil and Steve, who were doing most of the navigating on the circular course, kept checking deck compasses and at last cried, “We’re starting to turn north!”

As if on cue, though, the skies darkened and soon wind-driven rain fell in sheets while seas built to three feet. Hugging the shore may have made us feel more secure, but it would add distance instead of taking a tangent at bays and inlets.

“Let’s cut across!” Phil repeatedly urged. It saved time but jangled the nerves. I noticed even Phil’s shoulders slumped in relief after such shortcuts.

We estimated our distance that day at 32 miles. The batteries in both our GPS devices had died, but Jenna was able to pull up data on her phone.

That night we gathered rocks for a fire ring, as usual, and I also constructed a stone stairway from our beach landing to a mossy plateau campsite. Evidently the island’s moose also liked to bed down there, judging from numerous droppings we kicked aside before pitching our tents.

Day Five dawned with a glorious sunrise, which illuminated the palisades of two small islands near the mouth of Memory Bay. A gentle breeze kept the lake calm. At last, we agreed: This is what we had been waiting for. Only 15 miles to go: The home stretch!

The crossing from René-Levasseur Island back to the mainland was far less perilous than the one at the start of our voyage. We even stopped at one of the small islands for a picnic while basking in warm sunshine.

After climbing back in our boats an hour later, we spotted Station Uapishka and sped toward it. Soon we could see Beaulieu waving happily.

We paddled in side by side, and I invoked one of my favorite expressions, first uttered by Edmund Hillary after he and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay conquered Everest.

“Well,” I said, “we knocked the bastard off.”