As we
descended into Duluth and saw the deep blue waters of Lake Superior, Matt
switched to the music mode on his phone and tuned into the song, “The Ballad of
the Edmond Fitzgerald” and its lyrics about “the big lake they call
Gitche-Gumee.” He remembered how he and I, along with the rest of the family,
sang this song continuously when we were last up this way nearly twenty years
ago on a houseboat vacation.
For
this trip though, he and I were reliving the times when we took various canoe
expeditions in the nearby Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness back when he
was still in high school. While I have been back up here several times with
other canoe partners, our last trip here together was at the end of his senior
year, just weeks before he was to head out to Marine Corp bootcamp. He and I
haven’t been back since. In fact, we haven’t had much of chance for father/son
time ever since then what with careers, growing families, the passage of time,
and the distances apart (he lives in Texas, while I am in Illinois).
Just
as we arrived at the Baker Lake landing, a big female moose splashed about
along the shoreline opposite from where we were going to load the canoe. Behind
her we could see how the birch and aspen trees were just starting to bud with
their florescent green and still young leaves contrasting with the deeper green
hues of the year-round needles on the pine, fir, and spruce trees that
dominated the hillsides.
In the
shaded and shallow depressions of the forest floor, remnants of snow could
still be seen. It wasn’t too long ago that these lakes were still frozen solid
with winter’s ice. There were still two weeks left in the month of May, the
earliest we have been up here, and spring was still trying to makes its
arrival.
 |
| Matt sprinkles an offering of tobacco to the Ojibway spirits, for good luck and a safe journey. |
We
trolled lures behind the canoe as we paddled north toward South Temperance Lake
where we planned on stopping for the evening. A smallish northern pike struck
my lure, our first fish of the trip. After returning it to the water, we looked
up into the small bay to our left to see yet another moose thrashing about
along the shoreline. This one’s winter coat was molting off of her, giving it a
mottled appearance.
Matt
easily lifted and hoisted his 75-pound aluminum canoe onto his shoulders to
then make his way down the various portage trails connecting the lakes we were paddling
on. I could hardly drag the canoe, let along lift it. That is why, in large
part, that I decided to bequeath to him this canoe several years ago, choosing
instead to rent lighter weight fiberglass models for any canoe tripping I have done
since.
Matt,
on the other hand, liked the old-school nostalgia of this family relic and
insisted on taking it with us on this trip. So, being a big and strong guy (as
opposed to me, a big and weak guy), we agreed before the trip that he would do
all of the canoe carries on the portages while I would task myself with the
much easier and old-man friendly hauling of the various backpacks, fishing
rods, paddles and other loose gear.
After
a while, though, the homemade yoke system Matt had fashioned to help soften the
weight of the canoe on his shoulders and neck began to fail. The word ‘portage’
began to be associated with the word ‘pain’ as the metal canoe thwarts wreaked
havoc on his neck and vertebrae. This became most apparent while traversing the
265 rod (3/4 mile) portage leading into South Temperance Lake.
We
took a break at the mid-point just as a rotting tree chose at that moment to
fall and crash right next to us just a few yards away. We wondered if it would
have made a sound had we not been there when it happened.
As we
shrugged off this philosophical question, we scrounged around in our bags and
began to test how other pads, pillows, and pack items could be used to soften
the blow to his neck. We had a lot of portages to traverse in the coming days
and finding a solution to this problem was growing in importance with each
carry.
It was
now late afternoon and time to find a campsite for the evening. Unfortunately,
all of the prime sites on South Temperance were already filled with other
canoeists. This left just one possible alternative site in a far eastern arm of
the lake just before it connected into big Brule Lake. Our spirits lifted as we
found it was empty, spacious, cozy, and more than inviting after our long day.
We
woke the next morning to robin’s egg blue skies, warming temperatures, and fair
winds. An extra bonus was that there were still no bugs. Yet. There is plenty
of wood up here in these parts. We should have knocked on some for we would be
tormented by them in the next day or so.
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| One of those still mornings where it is difficult to discern the difference between what is the sky and what is a reflection. |
From
South Temperance Lake, the portage took us to North Temperance Lake and a brief
paddle along its southern shoreline. We fished here for a bit while
contemplating the route ahead. What lay before us was a grueling pair of 100
and 175 rod (1/2 mile) portages interrupted by a short paddle on Sitka Lake,
the highest point of land on our trek, before reaching the day’s final
destination in Cherokee Lake.
Pre-trip
research cautioned that the latter of these two portages was notorious for its
ups and downs, twists and turns, and mud choked and swampy depressions. It also
took us up and over the Laurentian Divide where waters to the east flow toward
the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence Seaway while waters to the west flow
towards Hudson Bay and the Arctic latitudes.
Matt
turned into beast mode as he hoisted the canoe and grunted his way over these
demanding and punishing portages. Halfway across the Notorious Portage, I knew
that the route we had planned in the coming days would have to be altered when,
with a grimace on his face and sweat dripping off of his nose, Matt growled,
“this portage can suck my d**k.”
We
found a beautiful southwest facing campsite on Cherokee with long distance
views of the lake interrupted with several small and sublime intervening
islands. We would spend the next two days here fishing its shorelines, inviting
bays, and deep-water holes While overall fishing was very slow, Matt was able
to successfully land a good-sized northern pike with his efforts.
It
wasn’t until day two at this campsite that I made quite an interesting and
pleasurable discovery. Deep in the hollowed-out end of a big log we had been
sitting on while enjoying our evening’s campfire, I found a full 1.5-liter
bottle of un-opened vodka with its seal still intact. Somehow, the seal soon found
itself broken, which then allowed me to safely and confidently mix cold lake
water with a generous snort (or two). I relished its deliciousness as I toasted
those before us who obviously had forgotten to take it with them. I can hear
them now:
“Where
is the vodka?”
“I
thought you had it.”
“No, I
thought you had it!”
“What?!”
“You’re
an idiot!!”
“Yeah,
well you’re a dumba*s!”
And so
on.
Anyhow,
while I sipped my cocktail and Matt smoked a cigar, we discussed if we should
alter the route given the canoe-yoke-equals-pain issues and the fact that we
had many long portages to come. We concluded that the best course of action was
to change plans.
Picture
in your mind having a map before you and tracing on it a route in the shape of
a backward facing letter “P”. We were currently at the top left of the backward
“P” just before it curves downward. The bottom of the stem of the “P” is where
our car is parked at Baker Lake and where we were to head toward and return to
as part of our originally designed route.
Now,
instead imagine an upside-down letter “U”. We were currently at the top left of
this upside-down letter “U” just as it curves downward. Instead of following
the backward “P” shaped route, we agreed to take the left-hand stem of an
upside-down “U” shaped route where, at the bottom of this stem, we would find the
Sawbill Lake landing. Once there, we hoped we could hitch a ride from another
friendly canoeist or from the outfitter located nearby and travel by car or
truck via the gravel forest road system back to our car at Baker Lake.
Comforted
with the satisfaction of knowing the new and altered route we had before us, we
turned in, falling asleep to the distant, and sometimes nearby, haunting and
wailing cries of the resident lake loons. Turn up the volume to listen to this
recording that Matt was able to make of them:
The
following morning, a beaver slapped his tail several times on the surface of
the water right next to our campsite as a warning against something he found
threatening. This was followed by the shrill call from yet another loon in what
had become a familiar sound throughout our trip. The sun had barely risen when
we were wakened by these sounds of nature.
Unlike
other evenings, I didn’t sleep well last night. I tossed and turned which kept
me from the deep and restful slumber that I had otherwise grown accustomed to
during the previous nights. I was too warm and somewhat head-achy as well. The
latter I blamed on the lack of proper hydration during the day. Certainly, the
two generous helpings of vodka and lake water cocktails from last evening
couldn’t have been the cause, right?
We
broke camp and headed south into the wind toward the far corner of the lake where
a winding creek served as passage toward our next camp in the northern portion
of Sawbill Lake. In past trips, I was always in the rear seat acting as canoe
steerer and navigator. For this trip, Matt has taken on this role while I sat
in front. His skills proved sharp for he was able to expertly guide us through
the complexities of route-finding around the oftentimes puzzling blend of
islands, bays, and the indiscernible differences of the innumerable shorelines.
A
rugged and tiring series of muddy portages and short paddles, along with a
beaver dam or two that we were able to power through and over, are what we first
had to confront and overcome during the next three to four hours. Unknown to
us, and not until we heard and then saw its large wings flapping as it flew
away, was a bald eagle that moments before was viewing our efforts from its
perch on a snag of a dead tree far above us.
The creek
through which we paddled narrowed down to passage not much greater than the
width of a car. At some points we were able to float through. At other points
we had to pole, using our paddles on the muddy and rocky bottom to propel us
through. And on occasion, we simply had to get out and walk the canoe,
relieving it of our body weight so that it would float up and over rocks and
other invisible underwater features.
Soon,
in yet another swampy area with boot-sucking and knee-high mud, the black flies
descended upon us. Up until now, we hadn’t had any issues with the bugs. The
warming weather must have triggered a hatch for we were now engulfed by them. Eyes,
ears, nostrils, exposed skin…nothing was spared.
 |
| Headnets and bandanas are deployed in our fight against the tormenting blackflies. |
When
we finally reached Sawbill Lake, the otherwise reviled headwinds were more than
welcomed for they kept the bugs at bay. Into these winds we paddled on this
beautiful lake past one campsite after another, finding them all filled with
other canoeists who had arrived earlier in the day. Like us, they too must have
known this lake’s beauty was too much not to camp on and enjoy.
Just
as we were about to give up, and just as we paddled up to the last site in this
portion of the lake where we happily, as well as gratefully, found it to be
empty, did a fighter of a smallmouth bass slam Matt’s trolling lure. After its
release, we wearily landed the canoe and set up camp for our last evening of
the trip.
More
attempts at catching fish ruled the following morning as we headed south toward
the landing. If there was any disappointment in this trip, it would be the very
slow fishing. We weren’t alone. All of those we paddled past on the lakes or
passed by on the portages said that they too weren’t having too much luck
landing any fish. Sometimes, that’s just the way things go.
At the
landing, we found someone to drive Matt over to Baker Lake to retrieve his car.
Upon his return to the Sawbill Lake landing, we loaded up our waiting canoe and
gear that we had strewn all over the shoreline. For the occasion, I had left
behind a few cans of beer in the trunk. They were still somewhat cold as we
popped their tops and toasted each other on our successful trip, one that we
will soon have to do together again.
Ahh,
the adventure of it all! Oftentimes, no wilderness trip is truly worthwhile
unless it requires great effort and, at times, a level of discomfort, that need
to be overcome. It is only then that one can truly feel the deep satisfaction
of being greeted at the end of the day with multi-colored sunsets, a filling
meal, a cheery campfire, and, in my case, a relaxing conversation and
reconnection with my son.
A
video of our trip can be viewed at the following link:
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