Our Excellent Adventure

Day One
Paddle harder! We’re losing ground! Aching muscles exact their toll as we aim towards a distant point that will shelter us for a few minutes before we venture out to the next island, the next point, the next refuge against an unrelenting wind.

Last night, pouring over the map for our Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCAW) expedition our future was ripe with possibilities. Nooks and crannies presenting an ever-changing vista, rocky shorelines, islands and bald eagles soaring overhead were to be ours. The names Kawishiwi River, Disappointment Mountain, Abinodji Lake and Adventure Lake rolled off our tongues and intrigued us. We would load our supplies and shelter and move into the wilderness. In the lowlands we would meet moose, in the dusk wolves would howl and an aurora borealis would dance in the heavens at night.

Much can be gleaned from a chart: topography, elevation, lowland areas, roads and trails. What it cannot illustrate is wind, an invisible force generally blowing from the direction into which one is headed.

Now there are small whitecaps. The water darkens as the leading edge of each gust approaches and catches yet again the bow of our canoe; we stroke faster despite rapidly tiring arms to maintain our heading. When we reach our intended destination we are relieved to find the campsite not only unoccupied but utterly perfect.

It is early evening and as a cool breeze sweeps around our island all effort is fully rewarded. Birch trees rustle overhead and pine needles whisper among themselves. I meet a gray jay for the first time, an inquisitive bird that darts around the campground. The sun will set in a while and casts a warm hue on the islands lying to the east. A short walk on the island’s thin trails threaded by previous visitors reveals carpets of bunchberry and large-leaf aster. Blue-bead lilies, their leaves yellowing, crowd around birch trees. A red squirrel chatters querulously while a pair of loons dives in tandem. Trees sending exploratory roots along the rocky surface cling precariously to this island. Life here is not to be taken for granted.

Many areas in this untamed country must have presented harsh survival conditions. This northern land of rock and water possessed many advantages: fish, wild rice and waterfowl; woodland berries and nuts; game birds and mammals; maple sap and sugar; and trees that could be used to build shelters and canoes and serve as fuel wood. Many peoples have made this area their home. The first, following the last glacier northward, lived among wooly mammoths. When Europeans first explored the waterways Cree, Ottawa, Ojibway and Assiniboin lived here. Today thousands come each year to experience the rugged beauty that has enticed man through the ages.

Despite the slight ache in our arms, tomorrow once again seems filled with promise and we will with glad hearts aim our canoe once more into the wind.

Day Two
The evocative music of loons reverberating through the surrounding watery landscape awakens us at dawn as pink hues streak across the eastern sky to announce the day. We are galvanized by this siren call whose promise has lured us miles into the wilderness – we are ready for a new day. As we eat a warm breakfast, a downy woodpecker picks a delicate tattoo on one of the two birches framing our view and I think of all those through the centuries who have looked on to just such a morning.

Among them, the Voyageurs who moved through these waters in the 1700s, stand out. Colorful characters of French Canadian origin theirs was a culture that still vibrates in this landscape. Details of their way of life defy modern day imagination. Often laboring 15 to 18 hours per day, they arose well before dawn and paddled several hours before breakfast and only consumed their second meal after nightfall. In between, they paddled 40 strokes per minute and moved through the portages at a trot. Each voyageur, leaning forward to balance the load, carried three or four 90lb bales at a time. The canoes themselves weighed between 300 and 500lbs and loads ranged from 3000 to 6000 lbs. They stopped long enough for smoke breaks, slept under their boats and dined on lyed corn pudding, rubbaboo stew, and galette. And throughout these long days their voices rose in song to fill the air and fuel their spirits.

Admittedly, we are neophytes. Definitely not voyageurs. Our day’s adventure to moose habitat involved several charted portages – the longest almost a quarter mile – to a thin channel of water meandering through lowlands. It was delightful to coast along, sheltered from the still strong south easterlies that had yet to let up. Green and golden grasses swayed in the breeze. Dragonflies motored by us. After undertaking two uncharted portages (?!) we ran out of water. Our beautiful stream was reduced to a band of water 12” wide. And so began an arduous portage marathon that would turn out to be almost a mile long: pushing; pulling; hauling; carrying; four-letter words and thoughts. We saw not one moose – too much cussing, grunting with effort, crashing through the landscape clumsy with the portage of our gear. Moose tracks, yes. So the idea was good but the execution poor. And yet it afforded us the briefest communion with the people that had traveled here for thousands of years through an unmapped landscape.

Day Three
We are comfortably ensconced under a tarp strung out between the trees. Fortunately, we were able to break camp before the rain struck and we are now awaiting a clearing in the weather so that we can head out. An impending wind shift from SE to NW has prompted the decision to paddle back to Lake No. 1 sooner rather than later. In the meantime we watch the rain drum the water’s surface as a cool autumnal breeze teases the golden birch leaves from their branches. They flutter earthward to become cheery splashes of color atop the fragrant carpet of pine needles. Eagles soar overhead and a white-throated sparrow forages beneath a nearby spruce. The rocks along the shoreline are lined with rainwater and subtle shades of green and ochre and yellow foliage come to life against the misty background. A sudden darkness swells the southeast sky and the rain comes down harder than ever. I think of how far we have come to be on this unnamed island in Lake No. 3.

From Duluth there are two ways to get to Ely. The one we chose hugs Lake Superior’s northern shoreline and the awesome power released by the intersection of unrelenting water and unmoving rock renders beautiful panoramas. Route 1 leads north to Ely through forests unmarked by habitation or commerce. The road winds and twists around ponds, rocks and lowlands, a narrow ribbon of asphalt that seems to have been gently laid upon the land to conform to its every whim and wrinkle. Red maple leaves pop against dark evergreen spruces and birch leaves flash the color of captured sunlight. A lake sparkles between the trees. It is a move into solitude.

Ely is the springboard to the BWCAW. A small town of roughly 4000 people, it has been remarkably resilient in the face of a difficult economic landscape. Located in an area that was the traditional homeland of the Ojibway, European trappers first came in the early 1700s. By the mid-1800s, gold was discovered which led to the much more significant find of an iron ore that was sixty percent pure. Rail lines were extended to Ely and logging operations became viable. During the first half of the 20th century almost all American steel contained some percentage of Ely iron. When the last mine closed in 1967, Ely had to reinvent itself and turned once again to its natural resources. Now, love for the BWCAW wilderness is part of the make up of many an outdoor enthusiast’s heart.

The sky lightens almost imperceptibly and the rain eases off. We pack the canoe and set off casting admiring glances at the beauty of our island. Paddling is much easier with the wind astern. Portages also seem less grueling. Lake No. 1, in proximity to a popular launch area, is much busier than we’d anticipated and the camp sites reveal extensive usage. Our outfitter at Canadian Waters had mentioned that the BWCAW with its one million acres welcomes 200,000 visitors a year. Quetico Provincial Park, just north, also has one million acres, but sees only half that, while the wilderness area even further north, with two million acres, receives only 800 visitors. Nevertheless, our only visible neighbor is a beaver across the water we have yet to meet.

Evening’s dark mantle gently cloaks the lakes and trees as the wind softens and blue sky bleeds through the clouds. A loud slap echoes across the water – we have been introduced to our neighbor.

Day Four
I love the “cluck” the raven makes. We hear them calling this morning, checking on one another after last night’s thunderstorms. Many before us have also listened to this trickster’s call.

Native Americans, traders, trappers, missionaries, explorers, voyageurs, prospectors, lumberjacks and miners have all left their marks. Many have fallen in love with this rugged geography. In recent times, Sigurd Olson, gifted writer and unflagging advocate for wilderness preservation fought tirelessly to save this northern paradise. Dorothy Molter came to the Isle of Pines Resort as a nurse in 1934 and stayed on to live more than 50 years alone in the wilderness to become the last resident of the BWCAW. Every year 6000-7000 visitors stopped in to visit the “root beer lady” and sample a bottle of root beer from the roughly 12000 bottles she put up yearly. Canoe builder Joe Seliga, a miner all his life, fell in love with the art of canvas canoes and through trial and error became a master craftsman elegantly weaving his love for the canoe country with his artistic enterprise.

Though the wind has clocked into the west in the wake of the storms, gray skies continue to blanket the lakes. Our beaver, swimming back and forth, is still patrolling the front of his lodge. Three gray jays flit around the campsite, masked bandits scavenging stray Ramen noodles from last night’s meal.

Another dawn in the BWCAW. Paddling in a gently falling rain that dimples the smooth water is wonderfully pleasing. Finally the wind has eased up and we are able to view the rocky coast with its elusive twin reflection. We portage (we have pared down to one canoe, one backpack, one trip) Lake No. 1 Dam and set into Confusion Lake which represents everything we imagined BWCAW to be. The water pushes its way through rock outcroppings on which trees have anchored themselves. The fragrance of spruce and cedar swirls around us, sharpened by last night’s rain. Gray jays chatter, alarmed or perhaps amused by our presence. At the north end of Confusion Lake there is another portage into a small unnamed lake that is simply enchanting. In one corner red maples blaze with their foliage afire against a dark sky. A small island with steep rocky faces offers itself up to the water and is reflected back perfectly. Clumps of royal fern tarnished to shades of ochre and burnt sienna peak out of sheltered nooks and crannies while the golden leaves and white trunks of birch trees glow against a dark background. A pileated woodpecker flies across our bow, lands, and scolds us. As we return the sun peeks out and briefly illuminates the red maples. A momentary gift.

Soon our last portage is complete. Skies have cleared with northwesterly winds sweeping over us. There is a chill in the air this evening as we sit in camp and admire the island panorama. Gray jays drop by and we treat them to crackers as they pose for our cameras.

This is our last evening. We have not heard any news from the world beyond BWCAW. We came to share in the world of loons and eagles, water and rocks. Leaving the world we know behind frees us to fully immerse ourselves in the wilderness we have inhabited forever, the wilderness we long to return to.

Day Five
It is almost 8 o’clock and we are all packed up for a final paddle to our pickup point. The day is overcast, the wind gentle and we glide easily through still waters enjoying the slight tension of the water’s surface just before the paddle is engaged, the power traveling from our bodies through to the blade, the release of that blade back to the air and the arc of water droplets returning to the lake. As Sigurd Olson so eloquently wrote, “the movement of a canoe is like a reed in the wind”. We stroke and glide attentive to the varied nuances of this elemental landscape. A pair of chickadees sing farewell. As we round one of the last bends a beautiful doe stands at the water’s edge. Her coat gleams as she eyes us curiously, unalarmed. We glide past and she carefully picks her way through the water to the other side.

In the weeks and months to come, as we return to our busy lives, these few days will sustain us. We have opened our hearts and returned to that which is most essential to our well being: the knowledge that we are of this world, a world made of rock and water and wind and fire.