Boundary Waters – Lake One to Insula Lake

Day One

Over a voluminous and very fortifying breakfast in Ely, we poured over our maps to review the trip we had ahead of us. My son Matt’s and my plans for this year’s late May adventure are to put-in at the Lake One landing about a half-hour northeast from Ely, Minnesota. From there, we will paddle through Lakes Two, Three, and Four, and then into Hudson for our first night’s camp. The next day, we will paddle onwards to Insula Lake where we will establish a three-night base camp. At the conclusion of our base camp stay, we will paddle back the way we came and spend our fifth night at Lake Two. We will finish our trip with a final paddle to the Lake One landing on our last day.

Our traditional offering of tobacco to the Ojibway spirits, to make sure we're safe as they watch over us while on our journey. 

At the outset, we were greeted with a warm and sunny day with moderate cross winds. The tops of our hands, fully exposed due to our paddling motion, were getting a good burn. We enjoyed the weather while it was with us knowing that the forecast called for drastic changes in the coming days.

Soon after entering Lake Two, and then onwards through Three, Four, and Hudson Lakes, we were exposed to the lingering evidence of the Pagami Creek Fire caused by a lightning strike in 2011. It started out as a relatively benign and smoldering bog fire but soon flared up due to the strong September winds. It ended up burning nearly 100,000 acres.

The “numbered” lakes through which we paddled were on the northern fringes of this fire. Their burned-out shorelines showed how nature was slowly recovering. Among the charred husks of the remaining and still standing trees, new pines, aspen, and birch, all green and flourishing during the early years of their lives, were making headway and contributing to this recovery. It was clear they were all in competition with each other, hoping to be the one to survive and become dominant when this forest makes its full comeback. Still, though, it looked like there were still many years to go before that would occur.

We had some luck catching fish while we paddled along. Our technique was to troll crankbaits about 50 feet behind the canoe while making forward progress. Relatively small northern pike and walleye apparently found our offerings appealing for they soon were striking our flashy and wobbling lures.

While traversing the portage from Lake Four into Hudson, we met a family from Florida - a mother, father, and their three 20-something adult children - coming from the opposite direction. They were in the final stages of their trip. Mom and dad looked worn out. He was muddy and disheveled. She was slumped in the shoulders with her head hanging down. Her face was streaked with layers of sunscreen cream she apparently was too tired to fully spread into her skin. 

“Ask me how many times I’ve taken a trip like this,” she asked me while I set down my first portage load at the water’s edge.

“How many times have you taken a trip like this?” I dutifully asked.

“I’ve done it exactly once. This is the first, and will definitely be the last time I’ll ever do this,” she said with a weakening smile. “How can anyone in the right mind say that this is a fun thing to do?”

It wasn’t until after this exchange did we realize that her kids, being full of the energy that comes with their youth, had brought over our second portage load thereby relieving us from the burden of doing so ourselves. “I’ve never had anyone ever do that for me before,” I exclaimed while thanking them.

Our first camp was found on an island at the eastern end of Hudson Lake. Despite being surrounded by water, it was not spared by the fire for it was as burned out as the distant shorelines were. The lack of sizeable trees prevented us from stringing up a tarp to keep the hot, burning sun off of our sunburned bodies. But, this more or less tree-less terrain allowed the breeze to blow through camp which kept the flying insects at bay.

Crawling insects, ticks in particular, were not so deterred. The grassy areas, along with the downed and dying wood that surrounded our camp, were an ideal environment for these nasty little devils. At one point, I had one crawling up my bare leg while I was sitting down on the… Well, let’s just say I was sitting down and leave it at that.

Day Two

The forecast called for a stiffening breeze increasing to gale-force winds as the day went by. So, we were up and out of camp early to make it to our Insula Lake base camp before these winds could dangerously buffet, and possible swamp, our little canoe.

First, however, was our need to tackle the 105 rod (about one-third of a mile) portage from Hudson over to Insula. All portages in this canoe country are measured in rods (a rod is equal to 16.5 feet), a holdover from the old surveyor days. Coincidentally, a rod is also roughly the same length as that of a modern-day canoe.

Most canoe trippers “double portage” their gear as opposed to carrying everything over in one go (only the hard-core minimalists carry everything in one trip). The term can be misleading though in that by double-portaging, you are actually walking the portage three times.

In the first crossing, one person wears a small back pack while shouldering the canoe. This is always Matt’s job for he has the strength to horse our 75-pound behemoth of an aluminum canoe up and onto his shoulders. He did fashion a new yoke system to minimize the pain of the canoe’s weight on his neck and shoulders that he otherwise endured during our last year’s adventure. While one person (him) does the heavy lifting, the other person (umm… that would be me) carries a larger backpack, food bucket, and fishing rods.

When you arrive at your next lake, trail etiquette dictates that you lay everything off to the side so as to not clutter the shoreline with your canoe and gear. Sometimes, another canoe party may be coming through and you wouldn’t want them having to tip-toe in and around whatever congestion or mess you may have created.

The second crossing is a return empty handed back to your start where your remaining gear lies waiting (again, neatly piled and off to the side).

During the third crossing, you haul the remaining gear, packs, nets, and paddles while making sure you are still in good trim, having minimized the number of loose odds and ends from otherwise banging around and getting caught up in the trail-side brush. Of course, if you are lucky like we were at yesterday’s portage, you may find your third crossing unnecessary if you discover that a bunch of 20-year-olds have carried your gear for you.

So, even though the map indicates that this portage is one-third mile (105 rods) in length, you will have actually walked a full mile, much of which while bent over like an abused pack animal burdened with its full load.

As we paddled north into Insula Lake, we left its burned-out southern half in to the forested beauty of its northern half. It was there that we found a wonderful five-star island campsite that would serve as our base for the next three nights.

We arrived just in time. The promised winds picked up considerably. The 35 to 45 mile-per-hour gusts battered our site with dust and debris, tore apart our overhead tarp and its grommets, and kept us windbound on shore for the rest of the afternoon.

Day Three

The winds never abated overnight. In fact, they may have gotten stronger. They had turned from the southwest and now came screaming at us from the north. And they brought with them very cold, 30- degree temperatures, cloudy skies, spitting rain, and an occasional snow pellet or two.

The lake was awash with heavy, white-capped waves. There was no way we would be able to safely paddle out to the other side of the lake where the promise of some good fishing holes were reportedly located. We instead briefly fished from shore or from the canoe that we had taken out of the wind at the lee side of the island where Matt caught some decent-sized pike and walleye.

For the most part, our main task was to try and stay warm while on shore and by the fire. The other day it was all that we could do to stay out of the sun and its burning rays. Today, we welcomed whatever sun happened to shine through the breaks in our otherwise cloudy, cold, and generally miserable day. What was it that lady from the other day said to us about having “fun”?

Between shivers and the stomping of our feet, we engaged in conversation while I mused about my growing entry into the land of senior citizenship.

“How many more years do you think you’ll be wanting to do these types of trips?” Matt quizzed me. He was eager to know whether I will still be able to accompany him on similar trips in the future, first because I would like to think he enjoys my company (as well as, of course, my overall fatherly advice and unquestionable wisdom), but second because there aren’t many other people in our circles that would want to take on such trips when the comforts of home or a B&B sound so much more appealing.

“I’m thinking I’m still good for a few more,” I responded hopefully. I do enjoy these trips, especially the time they give me with my son whom I’m not always able to see on a more frequent basis. But, they are at times grueling and my 60-year-old-plus body is beginning to rebel at the rigors of wilderness canoe travel. 

In addition to the weariness and sore muscles that come with aging, there is also the matter of needing to more frequently answer nature’s call during the night. At home, this has become a mere nuisance. Here, it is no small task when the you’re snug as a bug in your zipped up sleeping bag and the temperatures outside your tent are a very windy, and sometimes wet, 30-something degrees.

You lie awake and debate with yourself as you consider your options. You tell yourself you’ll fight through it and wait until the arrival of the relative warmth (or, should I say, the lesser cold) of the growing light at dawn. Or, do I just get up and get it done with?

Inevitably, you can no longer avoid it and are faced with the need to do what nature is telling you to do. You draw deep into your well of willpower and execute the contortionist-like moves needed to quickly exit your bag and the tent. After returning and burrowing yourself back into the warm depths of your sleeping bag, you wonder why you even debated anything in the first place for you are now comfortable and soon fast asleep.  

Nature, indeed, is sometimes a mother...

Day Four

The cold, 30-degree temperatures still lingered when we got up in the morning. There was a thin layer of frost on the tent and over all of our gear and canoe seats. It was one of those nose-dripping, breath-seeing, and appendage-shrinking type of mornings, made only a bit better by hot cups of coffee and warm bowls of oatmeal. 

By now, we had had enough idle time. Fortunately, the winds had slowed down considerably. The weather was no longer going to deter us. We bundled up and paddled out and onto the lake. In a bay a mile or two to our northwest, there were a series of mini-islands that we paddled and drifted in and around while trolling behind us our crankbaits. We also used surface plugs, poppers, and jitterbugs. These methods proved very successful for we were soon catching fish, lot’s of ‘em.

At one point, Matt had a very large pike on the line. As he brought it to the boat, I screwed up while trying to net it. Somehow, my attempts to land the fish instead dislodged the hook and he got away. Matt estimated it was over 30-inches in size. He was a good sport about it and kept his disappointment to himself. He did later though catch a 26-incher coming in at four pounds. That was soon followed by a 24-inch, four-pound walleye that found my line.

Matt's 26-inch northern pike. 

My four pound walleye. 

Watching all of these activities were gulls and loons who were guarding their nests on the nearby tiny islands. The gulls squawked and cried out as we neared. The loons stayed quiet, trying not to make themselves noticeable. At one point, one of the loons laid its head down with its wings outspread trying to lessen its visible profile behind some low grasses. Like a large person trying to hide behind a flag pole, it didn’t work. Later, when we passed him (her?), he was sitting upright, large and proud, having given up the pretense of trying to be invisible.

Day Five

Oh, what a glorious day for our long paddle back to the west! The temperature had warmed to the low 60s. The skies were blue and cloudless. The paddling was easy. A gentle southeast wind was to our back and helped to propel us along.

We met an older couple from Duluth on the portage from Insula to Hudson. She wore rubber boots with pictures of flowers. Her husband said her colorful knit cap had been attracting hummingbirds all morning. She said they were glad to have found this portage given that they, at times, had gotten lost in the maze of islands and bays along the way. Despite this, they were cheerful and smiling. Their great attitude was infectious. What a contrast to the attitude of the weary and worn-out couple we met at this same portage several days ago. And as that former couple’s young adult children had helped us carry our gear across this portage, so too did we do so for this couple from Duluth.   

Friendly couple from Duluth.

As we said our goodbyes, a young man paddled in. He was traveling solo. He wore a Minnesota Twins ball cap with open-toed sandals displaying his green polished toe nails.  A friendly fellow, we talked about baseball, fishing, and route selection. We would end up seeing him on several more occasions at portages or out on the water as both he and us made our westerly progress back to our starting point.

A traffic jam occurred at the portage from Hudson into Lake Four. Many parties, us included, just happened to converge at this portage at the same time. A smaller party included a young man who was a Marine. He and Matt had a brotherhood moment talking about their shared experiences while serving overseas.

One of the larger parties included a nine-person, three-canoe group from Tennessee. The family patriarch, with frustration in his eyes, tried to wrangle this large group of sons, daughters, boyfriends and girlfriends who, for the most part, looked to be relatively inexperienced. 

Most of the females we have seen during this past week all looked trail-tested and experienced with what wilderness canoeing entails. The young ladies of this Tennessee group all appeared to be somewhat delicate, wearing make-up, earrings, and nicer clothes. Some were looking at their cell phones. It was as if they were hoping for enough bars so that they could take one last look at their social media accounts. The trail etiquette about not leaving one’s gear all over the place at the portage was not yet something they had learned. We struggled through their debris and a scattering of bags, paddles and fishing poles. Matt and I later mentioned to each other that it was unlikely their trip would be a success.

As we paddled into Lake Two in the mid-afternoon, we soon discovered campsite after campsite were full with other canoeists. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise given the upcoming holiday weekend and the relative proximity to various nearby wilderness entry points. Just as our fortunes were starting to look grim, we found one off of a back bay that had been overlooked by these other parties.

Day Six

We woke up to another beautiful morning. The temperatures were still warm. The gentle winds were still to our backs. The long streak of a far overhead jet’s contrail was all that interrupted what were otherwise perfectly clear robin’s egg-blue skies.

I was in a contemplative mood as we paddled westerly over our last few remaining miles. Today would have been my mother’s 91^st birthday. I wondered if she would still react with her “you’re nuts, what are you thinking?” type of comments when she learned I was taking a trip such as this. 

I wondered why small patches of flourishing forest were somehow left unscathed by the past forest fire while everything else around them were burned out and now trying to recover.

I wondered why the only type of wildlife we had seen on this trip was of the fin and feather variety. Not once did we see even the smallest of squirrels or mice, let alone deer or moose, as had been the case on all previous trips.

I marveled at two bald eagles high up in the trees where their oversized nest was located. Just as I wondered how they and other predators do what they do to survive, one eagle took flight to look for a meal to feed itself and its young. 

I wondered why one is able to better adapt to changes in the weather the longer one is outside and how attitude and a sense of humor are just as important as proper clothing when it comes to enduring it effects.

And, I wondered if the people in that still visible jet, traveling at 550 miles-per-hour far overhead, looked out their windows and in turn wondered if there was anyone far below them paddling a canoe at four miles-per-hour in this land of woods and water.

This reverie was finally interrupted as the bottom of our canoe loudly scraped against the loose gravel of the Lake One landing beach. Gear was stowed in the van. The canoe was securely strapped to its roof. The pop tops of two, still cold cans of beer from inside a left behind cooler were opened. We clinked the cans, congratulated ourselves, and heartily drank their contents.

And then, just like that, we were off and down the road. The only things we had left were what was visible in the rear view mirror and the memories of another very successful father and son wilderness canoe trip.

A five minute video, with music, of our trip is at the following link:

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