One of my favorite wilderness areas is
the canoe country along the Minnesota/Ontario border. The Boundary Water Canoe
Area Wilderness and Ontario’s Quetico Provincial Park teem with interconnected
lakes superbly suitable for canoe tripping and wilderness excursions. I have
traveled and canoed there since the mid 1990s with various friends and family
members. This trip report is one of several that I have included in this blog.
Please use this site’s search function to see other “Canoe” trip journeys in
this and other wonderful wilderness areas
I found myself distracted and
unfocussed. I felt this way throughout my preparations. A small part of me
wasn’t really into making a go of it. I was mentally tired. I couldn’t
concentrate on the various tasks that needed to be undertaken to properly pack
and prepare for this trip to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in
Northern Minnesota.
Well into our drive north, I felt the
same way; a somber mood prevailed upon my spirit. The mood darkened when we
arrived at the canoe launch at Kawishiwi Lake. All of campsites were full. We
parked my pick-up truck in the parking lot, ate dinner off of the back end, and
slept fitfully in its bed for our first night out in the “wilderness.”
It had been a couple of years since
Mike and I had undertaken a trip of the tougher variety. At first, the thought
of it didn’t trigger in me the desire to get out sooner rather than later. Last
year, I was convincing myself that only the softer side of adventure was going
to my preferred choice of trips. But over the winter I was inspired by a quote
from the famed environmentalist David Brower: “A ship in harbor is safe. But
that’s not what ships are built for.” This convinced me that I needed to test
my spirit, and my body, to see if I could have a go at it, and to see if this
trip would be telling of any future desire to do so like this again.
I figured that my funk from
yesterday would have passed after awakening in the morning. Instead, I felt
lethargic pretty much all day. I just couldn’t muster the energy needed to
overcome the challenge of the trail.
We awoke before the alarm and were on
the water by 7:00 a.m. Sleeping in the back of the truck turned out okay,
affording us a short but good night’s rest. We traversed many portages, perhaps
a half dozen or so, as we headed north out of Kawishiwi Lake.
Many other paddlers were heading back
in to the trail’s end as we were just now heading out. We must have seen a 15
to 20 other canoes all heading south against our northward progress. It was
only later in the day that another group caught up with us and trailed us for a
time during the day’s last leg as we paddled into Mahlberg and our campsite.
Mid-afternoon found us in Mahlberg, a
very pretty and elongated shaped lake with narrow bays and passages jutting out
in many different directions from its main body of water. Our campsite, along
one of the narrow arms of water, was surprisingly open when we paddled up on
it. All the others we had passed at that point were already filled with other
canoeing parties. The “crowds” may be a problem for us as we try to get a
campsite on future nights. The conditions may force us off of the water early
so that we can grab a site before anyone else does.
We turned in after we watched a half
dozen turtles scamper up the gravel launch area, dig holes, and begin to lay
their eggs in the depressions they were creating. It was quite a natural phenomenon.
It revived me. My mood and spirit had matched my surroundings. I was ready to
take on the next day and the remainder of the trip.
We didn’t know it when we packed up in
the morning, but we were to have a very tough day ahead of us. We left camp
fairly early, making sure we didn’t disturb the turtle nests near our beached
canoe. The wind was already up despite the early hour. It added to our concern
that by mid-afternoon, the winds would increase making paddling a chore rather
than a pleasure.
We left Beaver Lake to portage over
and into Adams Lake. I somehow misread the maps or miscounted the number of
bays to judge where the correct portage was. The map’s 90-rod portage instead
turned out to be more like 190 rods. At water’s edge, there was evidence of
previous use by other canoeists.
After getting out of the water and
making our way into the forest, the trail became a very swampy, difficult to
read, and bug infested morass. Mosquitoes and ticks were all around and on us. The mud and muck was knee deep and
on occasion came up to our thighs. The bug dope, head nets, and hopes for the
once feared strong winds were with us the entire way.
We later figured that I indeed
miscounted bays and overshot the one in which the true portage had started. I
thought I counted them correctly, but there were way too many of them. We got
turned around somehow, and made our way into the next lake by taking the long
way instead of the correct and easier way. An hour and half was devoted to
making the crossing.
This detour took much more time than
we had scheduled, as well as precious time away from any kind of fishing. We
felt it best to put in some miles as we had not many behind us and it was
already late morning. We continued our paddling, leaving Adams and Boulder
Lakes, and trudged through many more portages as we made our way into tiny Cap
Lake.
By now, we had our pack distribution,
canoe hauling, and miscellaneous gear toting down to a science. Without
speaking, we both knew what the other would carry and how we would carry it on
each of our endless portages. As we walked, we would rarely speak to each
other, not because we were angry at each other, but because we were lost in our
own thoughts, keeping our minds occupied with the tasks at hand, enduring the
paddling and walking in the name of putting miles behind us.
We were soon within what remained of
the forest after a horrendous windstorm. The aftermath of this destructive
force was very apparent. Many trees over many square miles were knocked down during
this event. The portage trails, once covered by a tree canopy, were now framed
by fallen trees and fully exposed to the day’s sun.
Another series of portages took us
into Sagus Lake and our next campsite. This was not supposed to be our planned
spot for the evening. Further up the canoe trail – Gerard Lake – was our
scheduled stop. The ordeal earlier in the morning and the other endless number
of portages brought us up short even though it was 6:30 p.m. We put in nearly
12 hours and we had enough for the day.
We retired to raindrops on the tent
roof and reviewed our maps to determine if our morning setback was enough to
consider an alternative route so as to finish the trip by the end of the week.
After awhile, and after the evening cocktails took effect, we agreed that we
would simply push a little harder and continue along our original route.
Rain, wind, mosquitoes, ticks,
leeches, 15 portages, and 50-degree temperatures were apt words to describe the
following day. It didn’t start out that way, though. Barely a whiff of wind
greeted us as we began our paddle out of Sagus Lake and into Shepa and Ferguson
Lakes.
It wasn’t until we were in Wisini and
Strup Lakes that the skies really began to darken with a low, ominous, and
fast-moving cloud cover. It brought with it a constant and chilly drizzle that
sometimes quickened into real raindrops. These conditions stayed with us
through to the early afternoon.
Our plans to do this trip in a
clockwise direction, to take advantage of the prevailing westerly winds to our
back while on the big lakes, backfired on us. We were on Lake Kekakabic, the
largest lake in the area, paddling east right into the northeast wind that was
carrying with it the driving rain and drizzle.
Our rain gear held up to the task and
kept us dry. But the wind and overall damp and dreary conditions chilled us to
the bone. We kept paddling into the teeth of wind and rain knowing that the
harder we would paddle, the sooner we would get off of this big lake and into
the relative shelter of the Ponds area at the far east end. Once there, we
quickly donned our warmer clothing and ate a very hearty lunch of gorp, chex
mix, sardines, and crackers.
The Ponds area consisted of a series
of small lakes and rivers, all connected by a half a dozen 15-rod portages.
While short, they were numerous, and we got used to the repetitive short
paddle-get out of the canoe-haul it and the gear across-and into the next
lake-pattern.
The hard work was eventually made
worthwhile. We were soon blessed with a clearing skies and beautiful warm
sunshine. We spent the remainder of the afternoon putting in a glorious paddle
on what would be our host lake for the evening.
The sun was to our back and beautiful blue skies interrupted with large,
white, puffy, cumulus clouds, were gloriously spread out before us for our
viewing pleasure.
The setting sun gave way to a very
quiet and still evening. The only sounds were the occasional loon and the
distant hum of Agomak Falls.
We broke camp at the usual early
morning hour. We again found ourselves into a series of portages leading to the
Mueller/Agomak Lake pair. The trail through here intersects with the Kekakabic
Trail. Our memories took us back to the early 1990s and the monster backpack trip
we took along this trail. We failed on our first attempt, but determined, we
successfully finished in the following year.
We detoured off of the main portage
trail and headed east along the Kek to the footbridge that crossed over Agomak
Falls. The place was utterly destroyed from a previous windstorm. The bridge
itself was partially damaged. The spot that we had camped at last time through
was nothing but a tangled mess of downed birch and spruce lying every which
direction. What was a very nice campsite was now a horrifying place of
destruction. It will take years for the trail stewards to clear up this and
other portions of the trail, if Mother Nature doesn’t take care of it first.
After several more portages, we
decided to pause and try our luck at fishing on either side of a lesser falls.
Lucky us! Both Mike and I caught some very nice-sized brown trout. They were
real fighters and fun to land and then release. Neither of us had ever caught a
trout before.
Strong head winds greeted us as we
paddled into Gabimichigami and Little Saganaga Lakes. We made the best of it by
paddling in the lee of whatever land mass and islands we could find and use to
our advantage. Some very savvy navigation (if I may say so) through a tricky
island series got us through without any difficulties or the need for major
hardcore paddling.
Very scenic Elton Lake greeted us out
of Little Saganaga. The route there was through a beautiful, swampy pond system
where only a narrow band of water served as our course through acres of tall
grasses and lily pads. It challenged our navigation skills.
It clouded over as we paddled into
Makwa Lake, our stay for the evening. It was the type of cloud cover that we
knew would bring in a front full of rain, a long lasting-all day type of rain.
We knew what we were to look forward to the next day.
While it didn’t rain much overnight,
strong storms full of rain, thunder, and occasional hail descended upon us
around noon the next day. And it never let up until we turned in later in the evening.
Lake Polly had to be our destination
for the night. We needed to get there so that our final day the day after could
end at noon when my brother Dan was scheduled to meet us at the campground at
Kawishiwi Lake, our departure point earlier in the week. To get there, we had
to paddle and portage despite the horrid weather conditions.
The constant rain created a consistent
and soft hum as it fell all around us, splashing the water, briefly leaving
little bubbles until the next raindrop fell nearby. The pattering of drops,
muffled by the hoods of our rain capes, soon lulled us into a trance. We
paddled to their beat, one long pull after another, mile after mile, one
portage then another.
But something changed. The sound of
the rain as it spilled into the forest and on the water around us was no longer
soft and comfortable. The rush of a harder-edged sound, mildly terrifying in a
way, came swiftly at us from the deep woods off to our left. Soon, the metallic
ping of ice rang off of our canoe and tore at the leaves of the trees. The
water boiled with the fall of large hail. Visibility was reduced. We moved over
to shore, under the shelter of the overhanging trees, which offered some
protection from the otherwise stinging hits on the exposed parts of our arms
and legs.
We moved on eventually. We had to keep
in motion, for the effect of exercise was to keep us somewhat warm. We couldn’t
hole up and seek shelter. To do so would keep us from our schedule and would
have us even more chilled than we already were.
Rain replaced the hail. Our paddling
continued. Lake after lake, portage after portage. We would cross eleven of
them that wet afternoon. But they were only a small percentage of the nearly 60
portages that we had tackled throughout the week.
“What kind of crack were you smoking
when you dreamed up this trip?” Mike had regularly and jokingly asked this
question during some of our past day’s more grueling stretches. Although this
time, I think he was more serious. At times, I too doubted my sanity.
We finished the evening under a tarp
we had strung up between the campsite’s trees. We drank some of our distilled
spirits and filled our stomachs with hot food. Our talks and reminiscing helped
ward off the deep cold and dampness of our surroundings. The trip had been a
challenge, although a good kind of challenge. It was one that we both enjoyed.
We saw a lot of this part of the
Boundary Waters, parts that we hadn’t been to before. We saw and experienced
many beautiful, stunning, and interesting things: the storm damage from previous
years’ winds; the mist rising off the lake in the early mornings; beavers,
moose, pike, trout, a bald eagle, several white-tailed deer, many woodland
grouse with their distinctive wing flapping thump; rock formations the size of
battleships; waterfalls, gorges, swamps, marshes, clear skies, the setting sun,
gray skies, the pelting of rain and hail, many lakes, a few creeks, a large
river, and good company from a life-long friend.
I again slept very well, all wrapped
up tight in my cocoon of a sleeping bag. My physical condition helped to make
me quickly fall into a deep sleep. I was very tired and sore, having to take on
an extra effort to perform what had become the routine of breaking down camp,
paddling the canoe, and portaging the gear from lake to lake. I would lose
seven pounds because of the effort expended.
But it was a good kind of soreness,
one that you feel after a very worthwhile effort. It was one that gives you the
satisfaction that you earned something of great value, a certain kind of
physical and spiritual growth. I had that feeling glow inside me as we paddled
into our final lake.
We were disappointed to find Dan
wasn’t there as originally planned. We looked forward to sharing with someone
other than ourselves the experiences of our trip and, not to mention, what
likely would have been a cooler of sweet tasting ice-cold beer. We learned
later that car troubles kept him home.
The long drive home kept us quiet, both
of us lost in our thoughts. I thought of the day before as we paddled the last
few miles. I had taken one last note of my surroundings to soak in all of its
natural beauty. Throughout the trip, the rich blend of sights and sounds were
oftentimes evident and difficult to miss.
But there were the more subtle visual
delights: the budding yellow flowers of the water lilies; the gold and green
lichen-streaked rocks and boulders; or the orange and black butterfly back on
day three that circled the canoe, its safe harbor, as we paddled a long stretch
of open water.
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