A Northwoods Memoriam

Recalling north country adventures with Ron Blickem: husband, father, grandfather, friend and fellow adventurer.

Canoe Country, but on Foot?

It was the mid-1990s. My life-long friend Mike and I were consistently undertaking annual adventures to the lakes and woods of northern Wisconsin and Minnesota. The previous year, we attempted a backpack crossing of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness along the Kekekabic Trail but had to turn back having seriously underestimated the rigors of this remote footpath.

But like the early explorers, those who failed in their initial attempts at conquering a particular mission, we were fully dedicated and intent on completing what we couldn’t the year before. We were going to revisit the Kekekabic Trail. There was nothing that was going to stop us this time, as we were properly prepared and were determined not have this monster defeat us again.

This trip seemed to have caught the fancy of many acquaintances. Friends, family, and the people at work had all taken on an unusual interest in our trip, at least more so than in previous years when I shared with others my stories of past journeys. What made this year different, I didn’t know. But many asked questions, looked at the photos, and were generally intrigued by the whole thing, which was just as well, since I enjoyed talking about it.

This interest prompted a friend to ask if he could join us on our second attempt at the trail. Ron Blickem was in his 50s at that time, the decade I will now soon be leaving. He was an active guy regularly running and cycling to stay in shape. While he didn’t say so, I believed that that regimen was no longer enough for him and that a new and different level of adventurousness was needed at this point in his life. I sensed something then that I, myself, readily feel today, two decades later: namely that Ron was on a mission to live more fearlessly and to make up for what he may have missed while he was younger. Given his eagerness and proven physical ability, Mike and I heartily welcomed him to our team.

Fall Lake

The three of us, split up into two vehicles, headed north from our Illinois homes for the ten-hour trip to Ely, Minnesota. It started to rain when we arrived at the Fall Lake campground. It was getting dark leaving no choice but to set up the tent in the drizzling rain. Before we could get the rain fly in place, the tent floor became wet, and would stay that way for most of the rest of our trip. Despite the damp and chill, we quickly fell asleep to the sound of the wind and the rain in the trees that surrounded us.

Bingshick Lake

Breaking camp the next morning was a swift process, for to stand still for any length of time proved to be a cold and wet experience. The temperatures dropped into the 40s overnight. I was chilly with only my lightweight summer sleeping bag. And the dampness from the rain throughout the night didn’t help matters.

After parking Mike’s car at the western trailhead of the Kek, we headed out in Ron’s van on a four-hour drive over to the Gunflint Trail, where we would start our trip at the Kek’s eastern trailhead.

Just before we began the hike, I pulled out a cigar to crumple between my fingers. As I did, the bits and pieces of tobacco sprinkled out over the trail. I read where this was good luck, an offering to the Ojibway spirits who would now watch over us to ensure our safety. It was to become a ritual I would repeat at the start of all my trips in the years to come.

The trail seemed much easier than what I had remembered from the previous year. And if not easier, it certainly was much drier. We never got our feet wet for the entire day, which was not the case at this early point in last year’s trip. But it did rain off and on as we neared the Bingshick Lake campsite.

Again, we had to set up camp in the rain. We lazily fished and did some chores around camp. Ron caught a couple of small bass while I was tending to my finger that I cut while sawing some firewood. We ate a good meal as the sky began to clear. It would be cold again overnight.

Gabimichigami Lake

It was indeed a cold evening and then an equally cold morning over breakfast. Our new hiking partner had brought with him a treat of which Mike and I were unaccustomed. Ron liked his coffee dark and rich. So did we. But in the past, we had been lazy, and only brought the tea bag versions of instant coffee.

Ron on the other hand had bought some rich coffee beans that he then had finely ground before leaving. He pulled this black magic from his pack and made us the most delicious campfire coffee one would ever want to taste. The morning’s cold quickly became a distant memory.

Before leaving camp, we heard a splashing, wave-like noise coming from the shore. The thick and dense brush prevented us from seeing what was the source of the noise. We edged closer to get a look. And as we did, a loud rustling noise came from the trees, still too dense to see. We walked in the direction of the noise but never did see its cause. It must have been a moose that had swum across the lake and came up on shore near where we were camping. Nothing else would have made as loud a racket.

The morning’s walk was a foggy and wet one. There was a lot of dew on the trailside brush.  I led the pack, and as a result got my feet and lower half of my legs soaked through to the socks because of all the water on the brush. Mike and Ron said their feet were perfectly dry. This was not a surprise, since I cleared the way for them.

The rest of the day’s walk was uneventful. We averaged a mile and a half per hour, relatively good time due to the lack of standing water on the trail. Even the Great Dismal Swamp, a wet area that last year saw the trail completely under water, was a cinch to get through this time around.

We eventually found ourselves at the Gabimichigami Lake campsite just as it started to rain. We got the tent up and threw in our gear and sleeping bags before they could get soaked. We climbed in and took a nap while we waited out the rain.  It was still raining when we awoke at 5:00 p.m. but it eventually tapered off enough for us to start a fire and have a dinner without being tent-bound.

Tent Bound Until Dinner

Harness Lake

We awoke to the after-effects of the all-night rain. Things looked miserable outside the tent door, so we rolled over and slept for another hour or so.

At mid-morning, there was a stretch of trail that was an uphill bitch. It totally depleted our strength and energy, plus we were cold and wet from the on again, off again rain. We found it amazing that when you’re tired, sore, wet, and cold, how some food and water will really revive you. And at this low point at the top of the hill, we consumed some food from our stores and found it recharged us something fierce, both mentally as well as physically.

Our spirits were revived further as we reached the top of another hill. We had reached the high point of the trail and all of the scenery that it afforded. These by far were to be the best views of the distant hills that were otherwise hidden from us for most of our trip. These hills stretched as far as the eye could see. They were all covered in the green carpet of trees, and they were beautiful. What a morale booster!

We lingered at the Agomak Falls area, the turning point of our aborted trip last year. It was here that our tired bodies and demoralized spirits were enough to convince us to quit, turn around, and decide to tackle this trail at another time. This other time was now upon us, and Agomak Falls found us in good shape, full of the strength and determination that we would need to finish this trail.

We continued our walk until we came upon the Loki-Harness Lakes campsite. A loon was sitting by itself in the middle of Harness Lake, calling out with its signature hoot. Ron mimicked the call, and each time the loon returned it. Only after we fully came into view did the loon finally figure out that we were not going to be suitable mates.

This was an excellent, serene, and very remote area. In fact, it was probably the most remote and inaccessible location I had ever been too, as measured in terms of days needed to get back to civilization. The solitude is what we came here for, and we were getting our fill.

The sun came out as we were setting up the tent. We took advantage of this rarity and worked to dry out our gear and sleeping bags. We showered from water that fell from the spigot of our collapsible jug, which Mike routinely suspended from a nearby tree at all of our campsites. It was going to be nice to finally go to bed clean and dry.

Just before bed, we sat apart from each other, lost in our own thoughts, admiring the scenery all around us. The setting sun was casting an orange light onto the scene if front of us. The lake was still, not a ripple on it, and the orange sky with the backdrop of trees reflected off of this still water perfectly. It was times like these, along with the scenery and the serenity, which made the sore muscles and hardships all worthwhile.

Thomas River

Our morning was as sunny as yesterday evening. Again the scenery and serenity was spectacular. I hated to leave.

We did some major humping today. We put in nine miles when the itinerary only called for four.  In this terrain, nine miles meant seven to nine hours of continual hiking. After walking some tough uphill grades for three hours, we came upon the spur trail leading to the Strup Lake campsite.

It was only noon, and this campsite was to be our scheduled stop for the day. While eating lunch at the campground, we reviewed our maps to gauge how much further we had to go to the next site. We saw that the Thomas Lake campsite was another five miles down the trail. We were feeling good and full of strength, so we decided to push on and get ourselves a little ahead of schedule. 

The rain began to fall as soon as we started walking. This was no shower but instead a real downpour coupled with fifty-degree temperatures. But we pushed on, not letting the cold and wet afternoon deter us.

The trail was relatively flat, but it was real bushy and swampy. If the rain didn’t get us wet, the ferns and other forest underbrush with their moisture holding tendencies certainly did. We were soaked in no time.

At several different locations on the trail, we came up on some real swampy sections. There were no readily visible trail markers. In fact, the trail just simply ended into the swampy and overgrown morass. There was no evidence whatsoever as to which direction to head. We had to guess where the trail began on the other side of the swamp. Fortunately, we guessed right each time after sloshing through the knee-deep water and mud. I didn’t want the next group to follow to have to go through the same guessing game that we did, so I tied bright orange surveyor’s tape to tree branches at frequent intervals along our route. The next party would not have any troubles finding their way.

The rain finally stopped and, after sloshing on for three more hours, we arrived at Thomas Lake and Thomas River. We tried in vain but couldn’t find the designated campsite. A group of canoeists were passing through on the nearby portage trail.

“You guys seen any evidence of a campsite from the water?”

“Nope.” They were not a talkative bunch, and very grubby as if they had been in the bush for many days.

“What maps are using?” I asked. “Ours say that there is a campsite around here somewhere.”

Looking at our maps, one of them grunted, “We have the same maps. Haven’t seen the campsite.” They continued to shuttle their gear across the portage. It seemed as if they were hoping to see and talk to no one on their trip, and instead they were perturbed that they ran into us in the most unlikely of places. So, they were no help at all.

We backtracked down the trail and finally spotted a side path that led to the campsite, or what resembled a campsite. It was a real dog. It was very muddy with no level spots on which to erect the tent. But we managed. And no sooner had we set up the tent did it begin to rain again.  We threw all of our gear into the tent and climbed into our sleeping bags to ward off the shivers.

I was numb from exhaustion, so much so that my brain was fried. I just lied there, dumb, my mind devoid of any thought.

“Ah, this sure beats a vacation in Cancun,” Ron pithily remarked.  

“Fuck you,” we both groaned in unison as we buried ourselves in our sleeping bags, dozing off soon thereafter.

After our little nap, we cooked and ate dinner and then scouted the trail ahead. There used to be a bridge crossing the Thomas River, but we could find no evidence of one. It looked like our day tomorrow would start off by either fording the river, with its icy cold water up to our knees, or by trying to cross it via the beaver dam at the head of the rapids. It looked like it would be a real challenge.

Parent Lake

We left camp relatively late, 9:15 or 9:30 or so. We immediately had to cross the Thomas River by way of the beaver dam that we scouted the night before. Ron offered to go over first, being the lightest of the three of us. We figured that if Mike or I went first, we would ruin the dam for the use of everyone else that would follow, let alone the beavers that inhabited the area.  So, Ron went first and made it over nicely. Mike went second, and likewise made it over. I was last, worried that the first two may have weakened the dam as I crossed. But, I made it over without incident.

Onward we trekked. Beaver dams would be the continued order for the day. We later came across two huge and humongous ones. These things were also ancient, and had backed up enough water to create a couple of sizable lakes.

We paused here to review our maps and the trail literature. It suggested that the best way to traverse these impediments was to cross directly on the head of the dams themselves as opposed to circling the lakes.  So, we did, getting a little soggy along the way, eventually finding ourselves on the other side without much of a problem.

The weather stayed mild and calm for most of the day, never getting warmer than the mid-60s or so with long stretches of sunshine. The trail ever since mile 15 or 20 had gotten much easier. There were less rocks and stumps to negotiate, and the tread was wide and flat. Because of this, we were able to cover between one and a half to two miles in an hour as opposed to the one-mile per hour pace for the first 15 miles. We were making excellent progress.

After the day’s walk, when we stopped at the Parent Lake campsite, we figured we would only have five miles or so left until we reached the end of the trail. An easy and short day, our last day, would be in order for tomorrow. We set up camp and began to soak in all that the surrounding wilderness had to offer. This would be our last night out, so I was going to absorb this outdoor setting while I still had time left. I was feeling quite well and was content with the quiet and serenity that surrounded me.

“God, I love this!” I softly whispered to myself. All the aches and pains one has to put up with are all well worth it when it ends with days and evenings such as what I was reveling in at that moment. 

Trail’s End

Chilly! It got very cold last night, certainly below freezing since there was ice in the water bottles in the morning. But there was no rain, the first time in many nights.

The day’s hike was short and sweet. We put in a relatively easy five to seven-mile hike. The grades were easy and the tread was wide.

With about a mile or two left, we came across two hikers coming from the opposite direction. They advised us of yet another beaver dam ahead that we would have to cross. They said that without walking sticks, which they of course had and we didn’t, the crossing would be a difficult one.

Upon our arrival at the dam, we quickly found out why walking sticks would be necessary. The only dry log across the dam was a long one, but it was only as wide as a pool cue. There would be no way we would be able to balance ourselves and walk this tightrope without getting wet.

Ron found an old fat log that would do the trick. I used it and went over first, balancing myself like one of the great Wallendas with well-placed stabs at the murky and muddy water immediately next to my thin bridge. I threw the log back to Mike and Ron for their use, and they too made it over without getting wet. We all commented on the need to add a walking stick to our gear lists. One would have come in handy on other portions of this hike as well.

We trekked on for another mile or so before we reached the end of the trail and Mike’s waiting car. We had finished the 41 mile Kek. There was no fanfare, no applause, and no ticker-tape parade. We just simply finished the trail and took off our backpacks for the last time.

A Recap and Thoughts about Next Year

This year’s wilderness expedition was a success. We completed our goal of hiking the entire trail. But apparently it was a success that not many other people experienced. A ranger, who had stopped to chat while we were starting up Ron’s van back at the Gunflint Trail, said that on average only a half dozen people hike the full trail in a year. This knowledge added to what we felt was already a great achievement for three guys who annually set out to try and accomplish their version of an adventure vacation. 

We had many hardships: sore muscles, shear exhaustion, cold weather, rainy and dreary days, and wet gear. We also had many joys: beautiful sunsets, warm campfires, fresh air, quiet nights, and good friends. The trail was tough with rocks, roots, swamps, steep grades, and beaver dams; yet at other times it was easy with dry ground, a wide tread to follow, and small conversations with some canoeists and fellow backpackers along the way.

I loved taking trips such as these, and was getting hooked on their challenges. I immediately looked forward to another challenge the following year and began to discuss options with my teammates.

Both Ron and Mike sighed. I thought I saw their eyes roll.“How about we talk more this coming winter, ok?”

Ron's reaction when I began discussing
next year's plans

Finally, Canoe Country as Seen from a Canoe

One year later, we were back to the Northwoods. This time we traveled by canoe, the more typical method of choice in the Boundary Waters area.

This year, Ron’s son John joined us. He was a slender young man, 16 years of age or so. His father figured he was ready for this adventure with the older guys. It was also an opportunity for the two to spend some valued time together since it would only be a short while before the boy would be heading off to college and on his own away from the family nest.

Preparing for our adventure

Birch Lake

The yellow We-no-nah Sundowner canoes we rented from the outfitters were wonderful, something we found out immediately upon our entry into Moose Lake. They were light, tracked well, and were easy to paddle. They weighed only 40 pounds, so light that the sun would shine through their very thin hulls. And with the bent shaft paddles, they cut through the water with much less effort than my old and reliable Alumacraft back home.

The day started out mild, but real smoky from the nearby forest fires. The skies were filled with a thick haze for the better part of the morning before the winds picked up to disperse the smoke. We made good time through Moose and Newfound lakes while sharing the waters with many motorboats rigged with other trekker’s canoes and gear. These outfitters were motoring in many people through the first couple of lakes to the first series of portages. It took us awhile to get used to their noisy engines and the wakes we had to paddle through.

Two of the three campsites at the end of Birch Lake were taken when we pulled in just after noon. We made the better of the one that was left, which in the end turned out to be all right after all. We made much better time than I had originally anticipated, covering the day’s distance at about a three to four mile per hour pace.

We had scheduled a route that took us ten miles or so each day. We figured it would be a good thing if we could get into camp early each day as it would give us plenty of time to relax and fish around the campsite. Alternatively, we could slow down our pace and fish here and there along the way to our designated stop for the night.                    

Knife Lake

Water was coming in over the gunwales of the boat. The tail wind, normally a canoeist’s best friend, was wickedly strong today. It was after a series of harrowing gusts of wind and mounting waves that Ron yelled over to us from his and John’s canoe, wisely suggesting that we had better get off the windy, very treacherous, Knife Lake.

The day didn’t start out this way. Instead, we awoke to beautiful clear skies and little wind. We paddled and portaged our way through Carp and Seed Lakes. At one of these portages, we did some serious fishing. Mike caught some nice sized bass while the rest of us caught nothing. We skipped one portage altogether and walked the canoe up some ripples and rapids between the two lakes. It was here that Ron realized he had left his camera back at the previous portage. He and John paddled back while Mike and I finished the walk upstream and fished some more.

We crossed paths with two separate parties while waiting for Ron and John. The first was a party of two women who were heading in the same direction as we were. They and their aluminum canoe were quiet as they passed us at the portage. They didn’t say anything nor did they acknowledge our presence. Keeping to themselves was probably a very prudent rule to follow here in the middle of nowhere, if not because of us, but because of men in general. 

The other group consisted of two guys who were heading in the opposite direction. These men were re-creating the 1700s fur traders. They were dressed in period clothing with the only modern gear being their maps and fishing poles. Even their canoe was made of an imitation birch bark design. One of them was complaining that he had ripped off the toenail from his big toe. No wonder, he was wearing soft leather moccasins that those from two centuries ago used to wear. Looking at these two, it made me appreciate my modern footwear and other gear, wondering how the early settlers ever did what they did. It is likely that someday, after additional advances are made to our present-day gear, future travelers will say the same things about us.

Ron and John eventually made their way back. They found the camera, sitting on a tree stump just where Ron had left it. They also found a zip-lock bag full of a day’s worth of food. The bag was marked for Tuesday’s consumption and described in detail what that day’s three meals were to consist of. It was apparent, from the style of handwriting and the organizational aspects of it all, that the two women who had just passed us left it behind.  We spent the rest of the afternoon looking out for them as we paddled along eastward. We never did find them. Later in the week, after Tuesday had come and gone, we ate the contents of the food bag ourselves.

The wind picked up considerably as the afternoon wore on. We estimated that the gusts were pushing 30 to 40 miles per hour. It made for very treacherous going, so much so that Ron was rightfully getting worried for our safety. It was all we could do to keep the stern of our canoes perpendicular to the cresting waves. It was getting downright dangerous, and we began to take on water from the waves that were getting increasingly higher as the minutes passed. Never have I had a more challenging canoe ride. I had to constantly steer the boat with all of my strength so that the waves wouldn’t hit us broadside and swamp us, sinking us to the depths of Knife Lake’s chilly waters.

We needed to stop and get off of the water, but the winds kept pushing us eastward. Every campsite we passed was already full with other worried canoeists. We had no choice but to keep on paddling. Eventually we came upon a forlorn little island in the middle of Knife Lake. Because of the dangers on the water, we felt it was worth whatever trouble we might get into, however remote, to camp on this island even though it was an un-designated site.

The wind never did let up, even at dusk when winds normally die down by themselves. We hunkered down for the night and hoped for better and calmer weather in the morning.

Spoon Lake

We left “no name” island at 7:45 a.m. to another windy day, again from the west. While not as bad as yesterday, we still had 20 to 25-mile per hour winds.

We headed east with the tailwind for only a short period, which ended as we came to the Eddie Lake portage. We paddled and portaged through this series of small lakes until we finally arrived at the larger Kekekabic Lake, the lake whose name is attached to the infamous trail we hiked last year. When we arrived at the headwaters at approximately 11:00 a.m., the westerly wind had picked up and was now a constant force. After two days of paddling east, we had now turned and started to paddle west, right into the teeth of a very strong headwind.

Ron and John, being the lighter of our two canoe parties, were having a hard time keeping the canoe straight into the wind so that it didn’t catch the bow and turn them. In time, this was happening often enough to where they weren’t making any progress at all. After a mile or so of this frustration, we stopped to eat lunch and to switch partners. I paddled with John while Mike linked up with Ron. This re-distribution of weight is what made the difference. We paddled mightily into the strong wind, and after an hour of constant pulling, we made over the next portage and into Spoon Lake where we found a very nice campsite to rest our weary bodies and sore muscles.

Vera Lake

I was paddling more often with John while Ron was enjoying being in the stern of the canoe he shared with Mike. We paddled leisurely, resting and fishing along the way. All of us had some luck, each catching a satisfying amount of pike and walleye.

We found a beautiful campsite by mid-afternoon. It was on a point with good sun exposure, nice fishing holes, and a good tent site. Our spirits were up, so much so, that we all took a luxurious, but chilly bath in our host lake.

Later in the day, as with all other previous days, we heard and then saw the big planes as they flew overhead to the forest fires to the northeast into Canada. We always saw big smoke clouds billowing on the horizon. It was an eerie sight, sometimes being scary as well.

Ensign Lake

We woke up to overcast skies. It looked as if we would see our first rain of the trip. But by noon, the skies cleared to another warm and sunny day.

Right off the bat, after leaving camp, we paddled up to our second 180-rod portage of the trip. It was my turn to carry the canoe while Mike carried all of the gear. I asked him to sing a song or hum a tune while I carried the load. He chose the medley of songs from the second side of the Beatles’ Abbey Road album. It was a good choice and I made it across the portage without incident, the songs diverting my thoughts away from the pain in my sore shoulders. Being the music aficionado, Ron knew this song well and said he couldn’t get the tune out of his head for the rest of the day.

Onward we paddled, fishing along the way. One cove we paddled into proved to be a real bonanza. Mike and I caught six or seven fish, keeping the three that were of legal size, a walleye, a bass, and, to my surprise, a good nine to ten-inch bluegill.

We found Ensign Lake to be more and more populated with canoeists as we paddled westward. There were many people. Most of the campsites were full. There was a noticeable difference in the clarity of water. We eventually found a nice site by mid-afternoon. We cleaned the fish and ate ourselves a tasty late afternoon lunch.

We left busy Ensign Lake early the following morning. This was not the wilderness solitude we had hoped for. Last night, we could hear people’s voices from nearby campsites, dogs (yes, dogs) barking, people belching and partying….yikes!

We got the hell out of there and began the ten-mile paddle back to Moose Lake and the parking lot where Ron’s van was parked. We had some success at fishing along the way, but otherwise had an uneventful paddle back to civilization, or, should I say, along with the civilization that found its way to this crowded corner of the Boundary Waters area.

It would be the last time Ron and John would join us on these yearly adventures. And not because of the lack of desire on their part. Life has a way of getting in the way when making plans, keeping you focused on other things that have become more important or with a more pressing priority. The passage of time and the pursuit of other interests resulted in Ron and I only getting together at infrequent lunches or chance encounters at social gatherings. Twenty years later, at our most recent lunch, where we were joined by our wives, Ron and I briefly reminisced about these past northwoods adventures saying that we’d have to tackle another one again soon. A few months afterwards, I learned Ron had passed away suddenly at his home leaving behind his wife Pam, four children, and many grandchildren. He was 74. 

Ron Blickem
1943 - 2017