Boundary Waters – Lake Agnes Basecamp

It had been a cold and wet spring. Freezing temperatures and ice covered lakes had lasted well into the first week of May. Then there was a warm spell, accelerating the ice melt, followed by torrential rains and heavy downpours. This combination of events, occurring only ten days or so before our arrival, caused widespread flooding and a record rise in the water levels of various lakes.
 
One such lake was Lac La Croix, straddling the U.S.-Canada border, part of the lower end of the Rainy River watershed that was subject to numerous flood warnings and notices from the Weather Service and the Forest Service in the weeks leading up to our departure. It had been the lake that we planned on paddling our canoe to, about 15 miles north into the wilderness, and which was to serve as our base camp for the week ahead.
 
When my son, Matt, and I arrived in Ely, Minnesota to pick up our wilderness permit, we inquired further with the staff at the issuing station for the latest intel on conditions along our planned route. We were advised that water levels were indeed high and were continuing to rise. Various campsites, we were told, were likely underwater and would stay that way for the next couple of weeks.

"What do you think?" Matt asked as we walked away from the permit desk.

"Well, I think we have no choice but to change plans," I responded. "Instead of Lac La Croix, what if we we instead paddle only ten miles north to Lake Agnes and set up basecamp there?"

"Good plan. We could then take day trips from there to La Croix," Matt said as he pondered our options. "Agnes is higher then La Croix, right?"

"Yep. And shouldn't be too impacted by the floods." 

Our revised route.

Monday
 
Our entry point was along the Nina Moose River off of Echo Trail Road, about an hour north and west from Ely. Entry to the wilderness is usually via the water right off of the parking area. However, this particular entry was unusual in that it was one of the few in the Boundary Waters where you must first portage your gear from your car for a good distance before you can place your canoe into the water. In this case, the access to the waters of the Nina Moose River was 160 rods (all portages up here are measured in rods, about 16.5 feet per rod), or one-half of a mile away along a muddy track through the thick pine and birch forest.

Having carried gear along numerous portages over the years, Matt and I knew the routine without even having to speak about it. The size of our packs, gear selection and distribution, food storage and waterproofing, who carries what along the portage path and when – all of this was unspoken and yet was performed very efficiently and effectively.
 
Most importantly was the canoe. I don’t do heavy anymore. That includes the 75-pound canoe. That is Matt’s job. Like the other gear, this too, wasn’t even discussed before the trip. It was just assumed and it was how it was to be.
 
We flowed with the current as we headed north along the Nina Moose River. Beaver dams, rocks, and other underwater impediments that under normal conditions would have slowed progress were instead easily floated over due to the high water. Evidence of even higher water earlier in the month was very evident. Shore line willows, small trees, and miscellaneous scrub were dying and decaying, all being smothered and suffocated by the large and deep amount of flood borne silt and mud.

The fishing, however, proved to be bountiful. Whether by the cast and retrieve method or by trolling behind the canoe, we were successful in landing numerous northern pike as we paddled along the river’s twists and turns. At one point, at the northern end of Nina Moose Lake where it empties into the continuation of the river, I caught a 28-inch, 4.5-pound pike which would later prove to be the largest pike we would catch during the week ahead (but just barely as I will describe later).

28-inch, 4.5 pound northern pike.

After seven hours, we found a wonderful southwestern facing campsite on the north end of Lake Agnes. It would serve as our homebase for the next several days.

Some of you may have wondered: "Where did you go..umm...to the bathroom?" Well, here you go, "The Throne of El Dropeth of Thy Deuce."

As I tended to some of the chores that remained after setting up camp, Matt proceeded to repair our one and only landing net, the handle of which snapped off while landing all of those fish earlier in the day. He used his ingenuity and creativity to fashion a new handle out of a piece of driftwood that would serve us well in the coming days. It always amazes me at how he confronts an issue, sizes it up, and then proceeds to fix it or address it with positive results. All self-taught for he certainly didn’t learn it from me (I feel accomplished when I change out a light bulb or successfully open a beer can without the foam spilling over).

 
Tuesday
 
Our full day-trip the next day, consisting of seven miles and three portages, took us into and around the southern portion of Lac La Croix. This lake is fed by many chains of lakes from the east, all of which, as mentioned earlier, have been late with ice-out and then inundated with heavy rains and storms in the previous weeks.
 
The warnings we were given on high water levels and flooded campsites were proven factual soon after we entered the lake. Portage entries had water far up and into the trail. Water was high up the trunks of formerly dry shoreline trees, giving a bayou-like image as we paddled along.

We investigated numerous campsites; ones we would have tried to camp at had we stuck to our original plan of using Lac La Croix as our basecamp. Many were flooded-out. In several of them, the fire grates, normally high, dry, and three to five feet above the shoreline, were now under two feet of water.

In the center-left of this picture, you can see the fire grate, normally high and dry, is instead under two feet of water.

Between the fire grate and the woods in the background are where tent pads are normally located. 

This underscored the need to conduct thorough research before a trip to the wilderness. Read what other people are saying on the various trip forums and chat rooms. Once you arrive, talk with forest service rangers or other officials. What do they know or may have heard about your planned route? Had we not done this, we would have shown up late in the afternoon on La Croix confronted with unusable campsites and little prospects for suitable options before dark.
 
Given these high-water levels and turbid waters, it was no surprise then that the fishing on La Croix was poor as well. In fact, I don’t recall catching one fish between us using what were our otherwise successful methods on the lakes and streams during the previous day. But, it was good to get out and explore our surroundings in this beautiful wilderness.

I was feeling the rigors of the trail when we later settled into camp. As I approach the Age of the Medicare Eligible, I am more susceptible to overall fatigue. My hands, fingers, and shoulders are sore. My strength, particularly in my upper shoulders and hand grip, is noticeably weaker. Long gone are the days of easy and fast rebounding and recovery from strenuous activity which, so far in this case, consisted of two days of hard paddling and portaging.

 
Wednesday
 
The cold, dreary, and overcast skies did not deter us the next morning for we were up and out of camp early for another day or fishing and exploring. Despite having to paddle two miles or so into the modestly strong headwinds from the southwest, we chose as our destination the southern end of the Lake Agnes and the streams that fed into it.
 
Once at the main river, the fishing cranked up. Northern pike (and one bass) of all shapes and sizes seized our lures. They weren’t monstrous fish by any measure (in the 20-24-inch range), but they were numerous and fun to catch. We ended up calling many of those with long, slender bodies “angry pencils’ or “hammer handles” since that aptly described how they looked and acted.

A "Hammer Handle."

An "Angry Pencil."

While on shore having lunch, I commented to Matt that part of today’s route followed the route we took back in 2006 (almost to the day) when he was 18 years old. It was a particularly special and poignant father-son trip in that it took place just a week or so before he was to enter into Marine Corps boot camp. I joked with Matt that but for that past trip, he would not have been sufficiently toughened up to survive the hardships he was about to endure several weeks later when he would “step onto the footprints.”

Our lunches normally consisted of tortilla wraps with a thick slather of peanut butter and jelly. 

The skies were getting darker from the thickening and descending clouds. To beat the rain, we headed north back to camp. When we left the river and approached the open waters of the lake, imagine our dismay when we found that the winds had turned and were now coming strongly, very strongly, out of the east-northeast (such a turn of the winds is typically a harbinger of rains and unsettled weather to come).
 
The mounting waves battered us and the canoe. If the winds were only a mile or two per hour stronger, I’m sure whitecaps would have formed. We couldn’t take a shorter route and bee-line it straight to camp for to do so would have the waves broadside us on our right side. Instead, and without the benefit of any protecting shoreline, we had to paddle straight into the wind and waves, something very tiring and hard to do, but also something very necessary and strategically correct to avoid swamping the canoe. 
 
We finally got to the northeastern part of the lake and the shelter of that far shoreline after what seemed an interminable amount of time of hard, non-stop paddling. From there, we safely turned the canoe for a much easier - winds to our back - westerly course to our campsite.
 
Chilled and weary, we spent the rest of the waning afternoon drinking cups of hot coffee and smoking some tobacco while sitting under the tarp, watching as the cold rain finally arrived. Come dinnertime, we quickly agreed that our typical one serving per person wasn’t going to cut it. So, we dug into our reserves and had some extra without guilt. For we deserved it.

Thursday

 
The rain had ceased during the pre-dawn hours. The sun tried the rest of the day to break out of the otherwise overcast skies. Winds were still from the north but much more modest than the heavy blow of yesterday afternoon.
 
We had no set agenda so could afford to sleep in for a change. Of course, knowing of this little luxury is why we were maddeningly wide awake earlier than normal.
 
We leisurely paddled in and around the numerous bays and exposed rocks that made up Lake Agnes’s northern shoreline, trolling and casting crankbaits and spinners along the way. We did so in two shifts. One before and one after lunch back at camp. We continued to catch northern pike (and one lone bass) with our total count now reaching the low twenties since our trip began. While I caught a few this day, it was Matt who did most of the catching, fish after fish, like a boss.

During one lull in the fishing, we watched with humor as two male Mallard ducks, with their strikingly iridescent green heads, brutally fought each other while battling over a lone female, the target of their amorous ways. Far overhead, a turkey vulture hovered and circled while biding its time, perhaps wishing for an injury arising from this war among ducks and the easy meal that would result. But all was to no avail for the ducks, uninjured, flew off into an adjoining bay and more private quarters where they could presumably finish what they had previously started.

This large piece of driftwood looks like something out of a Star Wars movie.

As the afternoon turned to early evening, the clouds cleared and the sun shone brightly as it approached the western horizon. A stillness descended onto the lake and the forest. It always strikes me how such an environment, full of wildlife, insects, and, until moments before, wind and moving water can become so still as to not make a sound. It becomes so quiet that all you can hear is the occasional crackling of logs burning in the campfire, the distant soft splash of a lure from Matt’s fishing pole as it hits the water and, at times, your own heartbeat as it presses and pulses onto the skin at your temples.
 
It is the antidote to the sounds of the civilized world in our modern times where we are continually assaulted with traffic noise, the buzzing of our electronics and screens, overhead jets, and the relentless hum of other various noises that surround us on an hourly, if not, daily basis. Here, on evenings such as this, there is not a peep from a bird nor a trill of an insect. There is no wind in the trees nor the sound of lapping water on the rocks of the shoreline. It is just you and your thoughts, deep and contemplative, as you sit still admiring the view and the silence that Mother Nature has delivered before you.

Friday
 
Its back was as thick and broad as my thigh. Its head was too large for the opening of our landing net. Its mouth, wide and gaping with razor sharp teeth the size of guitar picks, looked as if it could swallow a beach ball. It was a monstrous pike that Matt had hooked and was trying to land into our canoe. Given what we saw, it had to be at least 36, if not 40 inches, in length and a good 10 to 15 pounds in weight.
 
“Forget the net!” Matt yelled. “Just try to keep the canoe steady!”
 
We had left camp on what was our last full day and were heading south on the Nina Moose River when this behemoth struck Matt’s lure. He battled it for a good 10 to 15 minutes bringing the fish close to the canoe only to see it regain its strength and peel off more line as it pulled away. At times, the fish dragged us and our canoe northward back toward Lake Agnes as if it didn’t want us to leave.
 
He finally got it to the canoe where we were able to get a good look at its size and pure ugliness. Just when Matt touched its nose, held onto the wire leader, and tried to hook a finger (more likely his full hand) under its gills, did the fish perform one last massive shake of the head then tail and broke the line, descending back into the depths with the large lure and leader still in its mouth, never to be seen again.
 
“Dammit!” I sighed.
 
“I can’t believe it,” Matt groaned with resignation. “So close!”
 
What a shame, for it would have been a record fish for Matt (for most people, really), clearly exceeding the size of the pike I caught several days earlier. And it would have been a really great photo.
 
“Well look at it this way,” I said after some time for it all to register. “You’ll always have a good story to tell and retell to you kids and grandkids about the ‘one that got away.’ ”
 
“Yeah, but man, I sure wish I landed him!”

Dejected while explaining how the big one "got away."

Hanging my head, feeling bad for Matt.

"Are you done, Dad? Come on, let's get out of here."

While the disappointment would forever linger, the drama of this event later faded as we approached the spot on the river where I caught the 28-inch pike earlier in the week. We beached the canoe and, BAM!, immediately started catching fish. And all of them were sizeable. The northern pikes were in the upper 20-inch range topping off with a 27.5-inch, 4 pounder that Matt caught. The walleyes were in the mid 20-inch range topping off with a 24-inch, 5 pounder that I caught.

27.5-inch, 4 pound pike.

24-inch, 5 pound walleye.

22-inch, 4.5 pound walleye.

Before arriving at this honey hole, our fish count total for the trip so far was around 20 fish. When we arrived, we agreed we wouldn’t stop fishing until we reached 25. At 25, we said, “okay, let’s keep it up and quit at 30.” Soon we were at 35, then 38. Truth be told, we were getting tired. “Keep at it!’ we cajoled each other. 39. Finally, we hit number 40 for the trip when Matt caught a nice sized pike. 

 

Happy, satiated, and cut up (sharp gill plates and teeth drew blood from our fingertips), we finished the day’s paddle when we found a suitable campsite nearby on the northern shoreline of Nina Moose Lake. It would be our last night after a most memorable day of fishing.
 
But there would first be another surprise. Throughout the week, we had found an assortment of gear that previous paddlers had forgotten to take with them when they left a campsite. And at this last campsite, we found even more. Added to our already sizeable haul of a Nalgene bottle, a Yeti cup, a hand shovel, and an assortment of fishing tackle and gear was a beautiful engraved cutting board, a hand-made filet knife and leather sheath, and a brand new chain-type fish stringer.   

Hello, Mr. Beaver. Where's Mrs. Cleaver?

What? Don't you slap your tail at me, mister!

Oh, oh. Look's like we've had a hitchhiker!

Just some of the treasures we found in empty campsites.

Saturday

 
Earlier in the week, the forecast called for rain this morning. In anticipation of this, we woke up at first light to break down camp for to do so in the rain is most unpleasant. Sure enough, no sooner than when we had all of our gear stowed and the canoe loaded for our final miles of paddling did the skies open up with rain.

Looking through the mist and the falling raindrops to find the creek entrance on the weedy southern shore was somewhat of a challenge. That is until Matt noticed how a linear portion of the lake’s surface extending out from the shore had a smoother appearance than the bubbly jumble of rings caused by the falling rain that was evident everywhere else. Being indicative of a current of water, we headed in its direction and sure enough, the creek entrance materialized in front of us.
 
The exertion of paddling against the current of the winding creek with its curves, bends, and an occasional hairpin turn generated the warmth needed to fend of the chill and wet from the now continuous rainfall.
 
Ducks and loons scattered and took flight when we rounded some of the bends, surprised that two humans in a large aluminum canoe paddled into what was moments before their secluded little spot. Portages were knee deep in mud, nearly pulling off our footwear from the suction formed when trying to step through. Trails were slick and greasy requiring a careful negotiation of rocks, roots and other impediments.
 
The rain stopped and the skies turned sunny when we reached our last portage, the one leading to our parked car. Seeing an opening, the black flies turned plague-like. They were everywhere and into everything. But for our head nets, we would have had no respite from their blood-letting bites and their tendency to get into our ears and eyes. 

We hurriedly loaded the car with our wet, muddy, and well-worn gear, quickly snapped a few final pictures, and took off. 

Wet, chilled, and weary, we settled in for the one-hour drive to Ely and a waiting steak dinner (medium rare, please). The shelter of the car was welcomed as were the seat warmers that Matt had turned on.
 
“What do you think of those warm seats?” Matt asked, clearly happy with this feature in his new car.
 
“Delightful,” I said, absorbing the growing heat. “Just delightful. It feels like a warm enema.” We both chuckled a bit at the thought while swatting away the remaining black flies that came into the car with us.
 
After a quiet and unspoken minute or two of reflection and satisfaction, Matt asked, “Dad, how would you sum up this trip, one of the most memorable that we have had?”
 
“Hmmm,” I thought for a moment. “How about, ‘We came, we saw, we….”
 
“No,” Matt politely interrupted. “That is an overused and tired saying.”
 
I thought some more. “Okay, how’s this: ‘We left as boys, we returned as men’?”
 
“That’s a good one,” Matt said with a smile. “I like that very much.” 

A video of our trip is at this link:

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