Settling Into The Rhythm Of The Northwoods (Part#3 of 3)

“The sense of belonging, of being home in the wilderness, is profound.  There is no place I’d rather be.”

-Leo Keane, p.#26, Boundary Waters Journal (Fall 2024)

My night spent on the hilltop bluff was cold, but not as cold as the previous evening.  I had slept well under the largest full moon of the year, waking to the muffled call of the distant barred owl and the nearby scurrying of the crazy red squirrels.  I finished reading the second article in my Boundary Waters magazine and caught up in my daily journal before exiting the tent.

Once I had surveyed the area I started preparing for breakfast by collecting firewood and lowering my food bag from a large, second growth white pine.  I cut up a potato, brat, and cheese; cooking those ingredients with 2 eggs that had survived yesterday’s portages.  It was a hearty skillet to kick off my third day in the Big Island Lake Wilderness.  I washed it down with a cup of hot chocolate. (Click here to go back & read Part#2)

By the time I was finished, and had tidied up my gear around the camp, it was early afternoon and time to get on the water.  The sun was shining and I could feel the air beginning to warm; it was a welcome change from the past couple of days. I wondered if it was under similar circumstances that David wrote about the skies declaring the glory of God when he wrote, “In the heavens he has pitched a tent for the sun.” (Psalms 19:4b NIV)  I was looking forward to fishing, exploring, and hanging out around camp!  For the first time on this trip, and probably for a good chunk of my life, nothing was specifically planned or set in stone.  Dennis Weidemann, in his book entitled, This Water Goes North had stated, “Journeys with too much purpose are like rigidly planned vacations, fraught with schedules and tension.  Eyes that are so narrowly focused can’t see all that each place has to give, nor is there a chance to happen upon an unknown gem and spend a day admiring it.  Purpose isn’t fun.  That’s work!” (20-21)

Now, some would argue that paddling, portaging, and wilderness camping is itself a lot of work - and while I would wholeheartedly agree, it’s the kind of labor I personally find freeing.  Even so, whatever I was going to do, I wanted to get started!  Where was the day’s time going?

I posed for a couple of pictures at the base of the lake and in front of the steps leading up to my campsite.  Using the timer on my phone’s camera I wanted to capture the fact that I was christening the hat gifted to me this past spring from the staff at the Upham Woods Outdoor Learning Center.  The design was much like the evergreen tree and shoreline of a waterway that I use as my signature mark.  It was that logo that I had drawn out on the wide blade of my paddle using a permanent marker.  The paddle also had been given by Upham Woods on my last trip to the camp, and prior to my retirement.  In the picture I wore a specific, pre chosen T-shirt.  Although it was a little cool to wear on its own in the shade, it was poignant because the design captured the dream and rhythm of the northwoods that I’ve felt my entire life.  I have a ton of T-shirts that embody the spirit of the outdoors.  From that collection I chose 3 to bring on the trip; plus one with a change of clothes that I’d left in the Jeep and planned to wear home once I’d paddled out the following day.

FROM THIS COLLECTION OF T-SHIRTS,
CAN YOU GUESS THE 3 I
BROUGHT ON THE TRIP?

I launched my canoe and headed out to fish; gentle ripples pushed me along in the southeast end of the lake.  As it happened, I hooked into absolutely nothing, which was a little tough to stomach when I generally see myself as an above average fisherman.  Vanity aside, I gave it my all and fished for a good hour, before turning my attention to the portage at the end of the lake.  I would be heading out the following day, and the call to continue exploring was tugging at my heartstrings.  I pulled the canoe well up onto the shoreline and left all of my fishing gear within it.  I took one last look out over McInnes Lake that I was camped on and began hiking up the hill towards Klondike Lake.

Walking the ridge was indeed a sensory overload.  I found myself relaxing, and feeling completely content, while remembering the vivid colors of the woods and hills where I had grown up in Otsego County, Michigan.  People used to pull off to the side of our road and take pictures of our setting.  The house and farmyard were a couple hundred yards away and sandwiched between the light green of the front field and the vibrant red, orange, and yellow fall colors splashed across the back hills; framed by the band of dark evergreen red pines.  I smiled to myself while thinking of having lived in a location that others saw and tried to capture as “picture perfect.”

I felt similar walking the half mile to Klondike.  It was an absolutely beautiful hike, and one I was elated to walk without any cumbersome equipment.  The breeze revealed its presence by rattling the leaves; the leaves of so many various hardwoods.  The sun through the multicolored canopy was like looking into a cathedral with floor to ceiling stained-glass windows.  The air felt dry; the skin of my hands tight from having had them in the water while fishing and paddling.  The taste and smell along the portage trail could best be summed up by Sam Cook.  When he wrote about the autumn season in his book Up North he said, “In fall it’s a boggy, dusky smell - full bodied and rooty.” (153)

The path weaved along upon the ridge like a slithering snake on the surface of still water.  As I walked, I took note of the wrist thick dead maple that would make great firewood for the evening.  Soon the marshy north end of Klondike Lake came into view; Mother Nature’s tease before open water and the trail’s descent through golden light.

CLICK BELOW FOR A VIDEO OF

WALKING THE PORTAGE TRAIL:

"THROUGH THE GOLD & DOWN TO KLONDIKE"

Klondike reflected the clear blue skies and the yellowish-orange leafed birch lining the shore.  Far to the south I saw what I presumed to be the lake’s lone campsite; an excellent prospect for a future trip.  I could see the sandy lake bottom in front of me which didn’t appear to plummet into the depths as quickly as in McInnes where I was camped.  Perhaps in a warmer season I’d be able to peel down, dive in, and swim around.

On my return walk I took a few pictures, and then went about the business of collecting the dead, and dried maple.  It would burn long and consistently, creating good coals for cooking.  Once back to “my” lake, I loaded the firewood into the bow of the canoe and shoved off into the lake.  After casting along the western shore and then drifting several times across the north end, I decided to switch gears.  The wind was picking up and I wanted to start dinner at an earlier time that evening.  The day’s hiking and paddling had made me hungry!  And what a beautiful place to continue honing the skills needed for such endeavors.  In A Sand County Almanac Aldo Leopold, our beloved pioneer in conservation wrote, "Wilderness areas are first of all a series of sanctuaries for the primitive arts of wilderness travel, especially canoeing and packing.” (193)  As I climbed back up the steep incline to camp, I found myself thankful that we still can find sanctuaries where we can escape and ruminate.

A BEAUTIFUL SETTING FOR A
PIT TOILET : )

I began my afternoon camp chores cutting up the long maple poles.  It’s something I do wearing leather gloves.  At this point I’ve lived long enough to have had several near misses; almost losing a finger or two.  Once as a teenager I had the saw I was using become bound before bouncing from its cut and taking chunks out of my flesh.  On another occasion following an early morning storm in Rockford, Illinois on July 5, 2003 , winds in excess of 80 miles an hour threw trees like matchsticks.  Since the power was out, I decided to collect some branches of ash, hickory, and oak from the massive downed trees at nearby Sinnissippi Park to use for various projects.  While using a folding hand saw, the blade popped out of the track that I had started and raked across my brace hand; tearing and shredding muscles and nerves to the bone.  I returned home looking ghostly pale and gripping my left index finger; blood oozing between the digits.  I believe it was after receiving multiple stitches from that experience that I decided I’d better use leather gloves when sawing!

My meal that evening consisted of Bush’s original baked beans, acorn squash (filled with my own homemade maple syrup), and fried voyager bannock (topped off with strawberry jam).  The bannock seemed appropriate and traditional within the realm of canoe country.  This region certainly was caught up in the fervor of trapping and trading animal hides for goods by the voyagers of old.  Writing in The Lonely Land, the famed Northwoods author Sigurd Olson wrote, “That afternoon I made another bannock.  Taking a cupful of prepared biscuit mix, I added just enough water so I could knead it into a fairly dry ball of dough.  The kneading is important, for without it the bread might be too porous.  Finally patting the ball into a flat cake, possibly not much more than half an inch in thickness, I pressed it into a well-greased frying pan, browned it gently on each side, then placed it beside the fire where it would catch the heat and bake slowly for half an hour.  It is the traditional bread of the North, and Indians and men of the bush vie with each other in method and ingredients, and guard their recipes jealously.  Some say that one must start with flour and salt and that prepared mixes are no good, others say that reflector ovens or Dutch ovens are the answer, but most men I know stick to the old traditional use of the frying pan…  Flattened out and fried in a pan, it is food for men. Store bread is for city folks, say old timers, bannock for the bush.” (76)

Once everything was baked, heated, and cooked I simply sat.  It’s sometimes a difficult task to “untask” and do nothing; even if just for a brief spell.  With the sun setting and my immediate world aglow, it demanded passive attention.  And so I obliged; sitting on the needle covered moss and looking out over McInnes Lake while eating my meal.  As Sam Cook mentioned in Friendship Fires, “What you remember again is that after three or four days out there, you begin to feel about as good as you ever feel.  Life has been reduced to these essentials - eating, sleeping, hunting [or fishing, paddling, hiking].  You finally begin to slow down.  You have rekindled the old skills of watching and listening.  You have become as much a part of the forest as a human is ever allowed to become.” (104-105)

Before settling in for the evening I packed away some of my gear, went down lakeside to clean off a few of my dishes, and made sure my canoe was secure.  While there, I was fortunate to capture the remaining rays of sunshine smeared across the trees on the opposite side of the lake.

As I crawled into my tent, the moon again regained its prominence over the night sky like a beacon for the ages.  Yes it reflected the sun, now well over the horizon and making its way to others on the flip-side of the Earth thanks to our rotation, but you’d never know it.  Our celestial and lunar nightlight, especially when full, takes center stage and acts as if it’s generating its own radiance.  It spent the evening casting its own moon shadows!  I, on the other hand, spent several hours reading Stu Osthoff’s editorial of his summer fishing expeditions to Quetico’s canoe country and the Sutton River near Canada’s Hudson Bay.  It took some time, but I wanted to finish the article, and time was something I had.  It was the third article in three days, and since it was warm enough (despite the wind), I sat up and read before drifting off to sleep.

MOON SHADOWS

I woke early and, using my headlamp, packed up my bedding and tent.  It was going to be a long day getting from McInnes Lake back to the Illinois-Wisconsin Stateline.  I wanted to enjoy the process while knowing it was going to be a process.  I made a quick fire, heating water to make oatmeal and hot chocolate.  By now I was into day number two of using water I had gotten from the middle of the lake and filtered to make it consumable.  Water along the shoreline had been too cloudy and murky due to the wind and waves.

That day, of all days, was calm; the last day in Big Island Lake Wilderness.  As I carried my gear down to the water’s edge and packed my canoe, the scene before me was absolutely breathtaking.  The shore across the lake was locked in a perfect reflection that allowed me to enjoy it twice as much, even on a day where I needed to move double time!  The display called pleadingly for personal reflection if only for a moment.  Sometimes the cadence of the North is silence in the form of observation. Sigurd Olson described this by saying, “Now were the days of color and of finding the places where it was best, for time does not wait in the north and a gale could change it swiftly overnight.  Nothing more important now than reveling in shifting panorama, exploring scenes remembered vaguely from the past, surcharging minds and spirits with color and warmth against the coming white and cold.  There were so many places to go, each one different, places that somehow had poetry of their own and, while part of the changing scene, stood out and said: ‘Enjoy me while you can’.” (Listening Point - 186-187)  While that was my first time in the Big Island Lake Wilderness, I knew of places where I’d reveled in shifting panoramas, and enjoyed going back to those lofty pines or bends in the river as often as I could.  I made a mental note to add this wilderness area to that list!

Before leaving I arranged my leftover firewood for the next camper; complete with birch bark to get it going.  Someone had done the same for me and I meant to reciprocate that.  My cousins and I tend to do that on our annual camping trip each summer.  I like how Robin Wall Kimmerer explained this act when she stated, “My mother had her own more pragmatic ritual of respect: the translation of reverence and intention into action.  Before we paddled away from any camping place she made us kids scour the place to be sure that it was spotless.  No burnt matchstick, no scrap of paper escaped her notice.  “Leave this place better than you found it,” she admonished.  And so we did.  We also had to leave wood for the next person’s fire, with tinder and kindling carefully sheltered from the rain by a sheet of birch bark.  I liked to imagine their pleasure, those paddlers, arriving after dark to find a ready pile of fuel to warm their evening meal.  My mother’s ceremony connected us to them, too.” (Braiding Sweetgrass - 35)

Well said Dr. Kimmerer!

My paddle to the north end of McInnes was wonderfully uneventful in the growing sunlight and I tried to relish the opportunity to rustle the dry leaves with my boots while hiking the portage trail to Coattail Lake.  Following my double portage, the lake came out of shadow as the sun cleared the tree line.  I needed to keep pushing, but I couldn’t fathom leaving without catching a fish, and that lake looked perfect for such an event.  In fact, while standing there deliberating, I actually saw some surfacing.  I assembled my pole, grabbed my favorite #5 Mepps, and loaded my canoe; easing it gently into the water to prevent obtrusive ripples.

At the entrance to the ensuing shallow bay, I caught a northern pike.  Whew!  That had felt good and I took a deep breath.  I caught a second of almost the same size a few minutes later - off an opposite point of land.  In a perfect world I would have fished that lake all day long, but as it was, I paddled over to check out what the lake’s campsite looked like before making my way over to the portage.  The haul up and over the ridge into Mid Lake wasn’t long, but it was steep! As Jerry Dennis expressed within the pages of From A Wooden Canoe, “Portaging awakens us to the hard old ways of doing things.  Every jolting step, every arrow of pain, every aching muscle reminds us that we’re not far removed from life as it was lived centuries ago.  Carrying our equipment from one waterway to another makes us stronger and more independent.  Every portage takes us another step away from the frenetic and mind-numbing world of commuter airlines and cellular phones.  We don’t want it to be easy.  A PORTAGE HERE sign is an announcement that we’ve gotten soft, that there are too many of us, that the great American wilderness has been packaged forever.  Who wants to be reminded of that?” (28-29)

As I paddled Mid Lake, I passed an immature loon; on its own now to fly south.  I had hoped to catch sight or sound of any of the U.P.'s big three of black bear, moose, or wolves, but I was at least graced with the occasional glimpse of wildlife.  When I cruised past the lake’s lone campsite, the gentleman from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin that I had talked with on my way in - two days prior, was down cleaning some dishes at the lake.  He and his wife were pulling up stakes and leaving too.  As he stood, and I treaded water in the canoe, we talked.  We swapped stories about our recent experiences for a spell and then he asked me about the site I had camped at - that he had suggested to me without actually having been there.  I described it to him, and then he went on to tell me a story about a young man who had died at that site several years ago.  The man from Fond du Lac had previously refrained from telling me those particulars for obvious reasons.  He and his wife had been camped on Townline Lake that same weekend the man had died.  In addition to the calamity, it apparently had been some of the worst weather they had ever camped in.  I had of course stumbled upon a brief synopsis of that story when researching the area, but was not aware of any of the details.  While the idea of camping on what apparently was this young man’s final resting place was obviously alarming, I was not, however, spooked by the information.  It actually helped solidify what I had felt from the beginning; the fact that the campsite itself had felt sacred!

Once I returned home, I did a little more searching online and found a detailed article written by the Detroit Free Press on the man, his family, and the ordeal.  I was pretty emotional while reading it over and found it difficult to control both my feelings and the thought of tragedy leaving behind a wife and small boy.  I knew the water, the hills, and the trees he had looked up into with his final breaths.  It was a vivid reminder, brought closer to home, to try to be as careful as possible when out solo camping while also making the most of our time here on Earth.  Life has a billion facets, some of which are difficult or wonderful, but that can also be dangerous and shorter than what we often expect.  With solemn thoughts while reading the online article, I silently offered distant condolences and deep sympathies.  It’s not the kind of story I’ll ever forget, as there is somehow a common bond through a shared environment.

After talking from my canoe, still somber and thoughtful, I then portaged the short distance from Mid to Big Island Lake.  Casting to the secretive muskies the lake held deep was tempting, but I forged ahead to the take out spot.  I took a picture to commemorate the moment.  I had fulfilled my dream of paddling and portaging into a wild area.  And while the specifics on how that would play out had been unknown, I was a part of an adventure and a set of experiences that were different from anything I had been a part of prior to that.  The goal had definitely been achieved!  As Robin Wall Kimmerer also wrote, “I come here to listen, to nestle in the curve of the roots in a soft hollow of pine needles, to lean my bones against the column of white pine, to turn off the voice in my head until I can hear the voices outside it: the shhh of wind in needles, water trickling over rock, nuthatch tapping, chipmunks digging, beechnut falling, mosquito in my ear, and something more - something that is not me, for which we have no language, the wordless being of others in which we are never alone.  After the drumbeat of my mother’s heart, this was my first language.” (48)

From the soothing sounds of a mother’s heart to the rhythmic pulse and intricacies of nature into which we are born, life reveals itself within a purpose greater than ourselves.

I carried the first load up the trail to my waiting Jeep.  Three young men were in the trailhead parking lot; talking, excited, and about to hoist packs onto their backs.  Together they were hiking into the woods to enjoy the area without canoes.  It was an interesting concept that I hadn’t thought about, so I offered to take their picture for them to commemorate the moment.  It was the kind of last minute photo that they’d be glad to have - long after they had forgotten who took the picture.  It was also the kind of picture that would probably end up in a memoir someday as a black and white reflection of an ironic adventure between three friends.

By the time I carried up my canoe and began to lash it down, the couple from Fond du Lac arrived with some of their gear.  We talked again as we packed, sharing a little bit about ourselves while showing some of the equipment we had used (they apparently used a reflector oven to bake deliciously interesting meals).  I changed out of my camping clothes into some shorts and a T-shirt, as I was getting hot in the multiple layers I had been wearing.

With a look around I checked to make sure I had each of my dry bags of gear packed away and that the canoe was secure.  I was a little sad to leave, because now I had tasted what it was like and looked forward to trying it again.  At the same time, I couldn’t wait to get home to see my wife, and share all of the experiences with the rest of my family.  Jumping into my old Silver Jeep, I headed out on what could only be described as a beautiful day - on winding dirt roads.  It was also turning out to be the kind of day where a guide or resort manager would probably say, “You should have been here yesterday, it was perfect!”

En route to home I stopped twice; once for another Yooper pasty, to eat as I had on my way up North, and again for a quick break to fill the Jeep with gas.  Once I had regained cell service, I sent a text to loved ones that I was okay, with a picture or two to whet their curiosity.  Later, I called a few friends and family to give them a brief synopsis of my trip; it helped pass the time while driving.  Traveling through one time zone change, I arrived home by 7:00.  Enough time was left in the day to unpack a few things and settle in before heading to bed; dreaming of that rhythm of the Northwoods.

See you along The Way…

------------------------------

“There is magic in the feel of a paddle and the movement of a canoe, a magic compounded by distance, adventure, solitude, and peace.  The way of a canoe is the way of the wilderness and of a freedom almost forgotten.  It is an antidote to insecurity, the open door to waterways of ages past and a way of life with profound and abiding satisfactions.  When a man is part of his canoe, he is part of all that canoes have ever known.”

Sigurd Olson - p.#82-83, The Singing Wilderness

Sensory Overload (Part#2 Of 3)

You probably learned at an early age about each of the body’s 5 senses that allow us to see, hear, smell, taste, and touch.  And while these senses grant us the unique opportunity to connect with our surroundings, they can also enrich our experiences, offer an element of protection, or work together as a synergistic unit to make the whole stronger than the individual part.  Some may even claim a 6th sense that allows them the ability to know or understand something without the use of the body’s original five; a type of intuitive knowledge or perception within ourselves.

On the cusp of heading North to kick start those senses, and fulfill a lifelong dream of a picture that had been rattling around inside my head, I finished the preparation necessary to pull the trigger and hit the road. (Click here to go back & read Part#1)  After packing gear, I set to work on putting my food together.  It took a bit longer than I would have liked, but I stayed relaxed and followed the course I had prepared ahead of time on my packing list.  I made it to bed by midnight.

With my senses on high alert, I woke at 5:00, put the dry bags of camping equipment into the old Jeep, and then worked on securing my new canoe onto the roof rack.  I said goodbye to my wife Cindy, who was up by then getting ready for work, and pulled away from the house by 6:30.  I filled up with gas at a nearby station and drove into the darkness.  It would be an early morning where I could watch the eastern sky glow pink and the sun peek forth while traveling up through Wisconsin on Interstate#39 to Madison, US Highway#151 through Fond du Lac, OshKosh, and Appleton, to Interstate#41 around Green Bay and into the state of Michigan.

Once into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula I began to grow hungry.  There was only one thing on my mind at that point - Michigan’s “Yooper Soul Food” as it’s lovingly called; better known as pasties.   Yooper is slang for someone from the U.P. - Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The pasty arrived in America along with immigrants from Great Britain; specifically the Cornish people from the county of Cornwall on England’s southwest corner.  Many of these people settled in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula where copper and iron mining was prevalent.  The pasty was a perfect food to have during a hard work day, with its flaky crust pocket filled with beef, potatoes, rutabaga, and onion.  Some people eat pasties with ketchup, and I’ve been known to dip it in it.  Some apparently use gravy, which is a sure fire way to show you’re a tourist.  But when bought fresh and warm, I simply like peeling back the foil wrapper, watching the steam waft into the air, and delving into a mouthful of goodness.  A well made pasty is hearty, sticks to your ribs, and delicious!  The smell and taste are a step back into history for Michigan and myself growing up as a lad.  For that reason it’s a sensory overload worth every single bite!

After stopping by Dobber’s in Escanaba, I drove over to nearby Gladstone and parked next to the beach and harbor to eat the pasty while looking out over Little Bay de Noc.  The wind was crazy and rocked my Jeep.  White caps out in the middle channel raced each other south to warmer climates.  I could feel a little apprehension rising inside my chest about paddling in it later that afternoon.  Before getting back on the road, I stopped by a little IGA grocery store to pick up a can of stew that I realized I had forgotten to pick up for one of my camp meals.

Typically when my wife and I visit our daughter and son-in-law in Waco, Texas, we love to go to a favorite food truck-now turned restaurant-named Yaki.  The smoked salmon with coleslaw and rice makes my mouth water just thinking about it!  When I went through the U.P. this summer on the way to camp with my cousins, I picked up some smoked whitefish.  After setting up our sites, we made our version of that Yaki meal.  It turned out great and I meant to duplicate that my first night canoeing and camping.  Although still content from the pasty, I could almost smell and taste the evening’s smoked fish meal.

NATIONAL FOREST RANGER STATION

After a quick stop at the Hiawatha National Forest Ranger Station in Rapid River, I headed further east along U.S. Highway#2 in search of a little shop selling smoked fish.  That venture, while noble, took literally way too long.  In my mind I could see pasty and smoked fish shops every few miles along Highway#2.  Over the years I’ve traveled that route hundreds of times and have stopped by many of them.  But do you think I could find one?  The wind was still howling, it was now overcast while starting to drizzle, and I had already passed by two different roads heading North to where I needed to go.  I was beginning to drive way out of my way!  As a last ditch effort I stopped at “Foxy’s Den Convenience Store” near Garden Corners, who then suggested I try “Woody’s Outpost” in Thompson another 11 miles away, before the dinner idea of smoked fish and rice fluttered away like leaves in the wind.  It was then that I simply turned and headed up country road #149.  Apparently most family run fish shops are further along the north side of Lake Michigan between Manistique and St. Ignace.

When the road I was on ended in a “T” at Indian Lake, there in front of me was a sign for smoked fish; a mere four miles to the right.  I sat there while the windshield wipers kept beat with my heart rate.  The temperature was plummeting, I had lost a good hour driving around, and here was this temptation to make things right again.  I turned and headed northeast, trying to simply enjoy the journey.  When I turned into the driveway for the Jensen Fishery, I could see it didn’t look promising.  A sign said something to the effect that they were open on Thursdays and Fridays, but upon peaking in the window, it looked like they were closed for the season.  I attempted to call the numbers provided to see if the owner lived in the house next door.  Maybe they’d pick up the phone, laugh at my predicament, and offer to run over and pull something out of the refrigerator to resurrect my evening - all before sending me on my way with a smile and word of encouragement.  Nobody answered.

At that point I was about a mile or two from Manistique on the northshore of Lake Michigan and just off the same Highway#2 that I had turned from 45 minutes beforehand.  I quickly thought, “What the heck…  Let’s see if there’s a downtown market!”  No such luck; it apparently was just not meant to happen.

I called out, “Rhines, quit screwing around.  It’ll be dark in 3 hours!”  Adding mentally, “And I still need to drive to the trailhead, unpack, load up, paddle, and set up camp!”  Nervous energy began to settle in.  In retrospect, it was a good thing I had picked up that can of stew back in Gladstone.  Tonight’s dinner was going to be fast and without any of the fanfare often associated with open fire cooking.

I did enjoy driving the dirt roads leading up to the Indian River near the small town of Steuben and into the Hiawatha National Forest.  The man at Foxy’s had told me the town was pronounced a bit differently than the way I had spoken it to him.  He said that if I mentioned the town of Steuben in the way that I had, the locals would immediately know I wasn’t from around those parts.  I had given him a knowing smile and nod.  Having grown up near Gaylord, Michigan, just south of the Straits of Mackinac, and now on the northern stateline of Illinois, I knew full well when out-of-towners slaughter a location’s pronunciation.  Once upon a time in Michigan we had referred to people who were obviously outsiders as, “Fudgies”.  It was a term of endearment for tourists who bought the homemade fudge that was famous for that area, but who also drove the economy and allowed the small towns and villages to survive and flourish.

Traveling dirt roads that afternoon reminded me of the Pigeon River State Forest where I grew up in Northern Lower Michigan; a kaleidoscoped tunnel amid autumn’s spectacular colors.  Once at the Wilderness trailhead, I scouted out the portage from the parking lot down to Big Island Lake.  I then proceeded to put on all the clothes that I had to build layers.  It was cold, especially with the 20 plus mile an hour winds.  

Two other vehicles were in the lot.  One was a truck from Michigan, and the other was a minivan from Wisconsin.  I unloaded the canoe, removed the Thule brackets, and then organized my bags.  It took two trips to carry everything to the lakeside, and I could see that I was about to learn firsthand how to do what I had been reading about for years in books and most recently observing on videos.

After having watched the YouTuber, “Woodsy” launching from this same exact shore, in addition to studying the map I had picked up this summer, I knew I had to paddle through a long section of lily pads to reach the open water.  The lake supposedly had pike and muskie in it, but due to time limitations, I would have to try fishing on a later day.  I had brought along my large landing net for that very reason!

I smiled to myself as I paddled my new Nova Craft Canoe for the first time outside of the practice pond at Rutabaga Paddlesports where I’d bought it.  It felt good in the water.  I paddled using my kayak paddle, for seemingly more control.  When I hit the open water beyond the lily pads, however, the situation got real very quickly.

While I’ve grown up paddling canoes and eventually kayaks, I was having a difficult time controlling where I wanted to go, and found myself surfing small whitecaps.  I felt a tinge of stress as I faced the unknown factors of my camp destination, the duration of the rain, the fast approaching night, and the temperatures dipping down to 30 degrees.  I coached myself through the situation saying, “If Woodsy was able to do this with the wind she endured in her first video, I can do this too…just relax, think, and take your time!”  Once I convinced myself that there was no real rush, I quartered the wind and waves to the other side of the lake and then angled my way to the island.  Unfortunately I could see a canoe already up on the shore at that designated site.  I knew from the map that a second site was located at the far end; down near the large trumpeter swans cruising the shoreline.  I made my way towards that site and found it to be open!

FINDING A SITE
SUNLIGHT IN THE RAIN

Feelings of relief and accomplishment flooded over me in addition to heavier rain.  I looked around and made mental notes about the series of steps I would need to take to be most efficient and take action.  The rest of the evening was spent unpacking, setting up my camp, lashing down my canoe in the prevailing winds (that were racing down the length of the lake and directly into my site), choosing a tree to hang my food up away from animals, and building a fire to heat up my stew.  I documented the process with a couple of pictures as I worked.  Eventually the rain stopped as the sun set and the temperature bottomed out.  I washed my dishes lakeside, using my headlamp to find appropriate footing while balancing on a downed tree.

SUNSET AFTER THE RAIN
THE COLD SETTLES IN

When I crawled into my tent a few minutes before 8:00 I was curious how the night would go.  The mantra of, “So many firsts” rang in my head; my first time using the tent, sleeping mat, and cold weather sleeping bag.  Would I be warm enough?

The relentless wind lulled me to sleep fairly quickly, and although I stirred about every 3 hours, I was able to drift back to sleep each time.  I felt somewhat protected, tucked away between a lakeshore berm and a hill rising up into the woods.

When I woke with the first rays of sunshine, I stayed hunkered and warm within my down bag and began reading the first article from my newly acquired (Fall Edition) of the Boundary Waters Journal.  At that moment I heard the distinct whirring of what could only be a drone, and thought, “Are you kidding me?”  Here I was hoping to camp and escape for a few days, but apparently I’d stepped headlong into the jagged jaws of a “Big Brother” trap; someone spying on my where-a-bouts.  Without actually seeing it from inside my tent, I heard the drone traveling along the shoreline past my site.  What I wanted to do was to go out and throw something at it, knock it out of the sky, and smash it.  What I actually did was lay there until it moved off and I could relax enough to finish my article.

After changing out of my sleepwear, dressing back into my layers of clothes, and tidying my tent gear, I stepped out into the sunshine and cold.  As I walked the frosty leaf covered trail along the shore, I suddenly heard someone talking.  Looking out into the lake, a young man was paddling just beyond the lily pads while fishing and talking rather loudly to himself.  I surmised that this was the same person who had flown the drone; presumably to scope out where to fish that morning.  Who he was talking to and what he was saying remained a mystery.

On a side note, about a month after my trip a newly released video popped up on YouTube entitled, “3 Days Alone in Remote Michigan Wilderness!!”  I was curious where this was recorded so I clicked on it.  From the leaf color in the thumbnail picture I could see that it was set in the fall.  In a weird twist, I realized that not only did this person camp in the same wilderness area I had been in, but he was the one who had been camped on the island, flew the drone, and fished out in front of my site that first morning.  I couldn’t help myself and decided to comment on his post.  I mentioned that I had also come into the area on the same windy day that he had, in addition to the fact that I didn’t really appreciate the drone.  He graciously responded, saying that he hadn’t realized I was tucked back in that camp site and apologized.  He replied by saying that when he had learned drones weren’t allowed in the area he immediately stopped using it while camped there.  Of course it suddenly all made sense as to why he had been talking to himself out in the canoe as he had been in the middle of recording his video.  I also found out that some of his louder outbursts were the result of accidentally snagging his extra pole on a backcast and flinging it out into the lake.  It’s the kind of thing that’s pretty darn funny in retrospect, because if you’ve fished for very long at all, you’ve probably done something similar.  You may also know the pain he was experiencing as you try to contemplate how such a feat is even possible!  Fortunately he was able to snag the lost pole, and reel it up off the bottom of the lake using a large muskie lure to retrieve it.  It ended up being a success story on all accounts!  I appreciated his honest explanation within our typed dialogue and said that I’d give him a shout out; wishing him luck on his video channel (BassBros) in addition to hoping he’d achieve his goal of catching a muskie.  If anything, it once again proved that we live in an interesting, wild, and small world!

After walking the shoreline and peeking at the short portage into Mid Lake, a sudden “6th Sense Revelation” came upon me.  I wanted to paddle and portage so I could set up a different camp on another lake.  Staying at this site, while a great location, would have been like the million other times I’ve camped.  I had a desire to track further into what for me was uncharted territory.  Plus, although the wind was picking up, the clear blue skies motivated me to get packing.  Speaking of which, the pit toilet that was available a short distance from each site, was an outhouse without the house.  It literally was a stool in the woods, which was pretty cool; especially with low temperatures and a breeze!  You couldn't beat the view as sunlight filtered through the yellow leaves, popping with vibrantly contrasting colors.  It felt as if you were sitting upon a golden throne!

I returned to camp and quickly made a fire to heat some water.  Lowering the food bag that had been suspended a little way from my tent, I took out the little bags and containers of oatmeal, granola, brown sugar, raisins, and the fresh fruit of strawberries and blueberries.  It was a great warm meal to start the day.  I then repacked my tent and equipment into the dry bags.  The gear I carried over to the portage.  I simply paddled my canoe.

After having been in the shade of my campsite, the warmth of the sun over Mid Lake was a welcome friend.  The lake was also calm of wind; itself a pleasant surprise.  As I loaded my gear and checked the map, a couple came paddling into the portage.  In talking with them, I learned that they had come up from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, had already been camping for over a week, and planned to stay two more nights; coming out on Friday the same as I planned to do.  While they were camped on Mid Lake’s only site, they were heading out to the trailhead to check on their vehicle and grab some more food from their cooler.  We talked about the lakes and some of the sites that they knew about.  Although he hadn’t been to it, the gentleman said that he had heard that there was a nice site up on a hilltop bluff several more lakes away.  It was nice to briefly talk to some people who knew the area firsthand and had plenty of experience paddling together in various places, including the B.W.C.A. in Minnesota.

And now, in my mind, everyone was accounted for that had been parked in the trailhead parking lot; the young man on the first lake’s island, and then the couple I had just met on lake number two.  Everything else was free of people and left me with the rest of the wilderness area; nothing but fresh air and sunshine as the saying goes. That was thrilling, exhilarating, and only slightly terrifying.  Being miles (or at least several lakes) away from the nearest human meant I needed to remain both vigilant and on my A-game.  Mistakes can happen, even with best laid plans, but being aware of my surroundings and thinking through various situations was vitally important. As I paddled out into Mid Lake I thought about the fact that this is where my “Spidey Senses” (or 6th sense) needed to be fully employed to stay safe while enjoying the experience.

I fished along the bank to the north end of the lake and to the short portage into Town Line Lake.  I got out and peaked at that lake, but opted against entering it since I couldn’t portage anywhere beyond it.  I decided that while the sun was out, and I had ample time, I would head southeast through the different lakes to the site on the lakeside hill mentioned by the couple from Fond du Lac.

The body of Mid Lake was long and narrow, but easily paddled.  In lieu of the kayak paddle I used the canoe paddle that had been gifted to me upon my retirement by the staff from Upham Woods Outdoor Learning Center near Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin.  Each year we had taken our 5th grade students on a 3 day-2 night school trip to that environmental camp; creating wonderful experiences with our classes and nature.  The paddle they gave me was a thank you for my efforts over the years in arranging that trip.  Using the paddle allowed me to practice my J-stoke to keep the canoe aligned without switching sides with the paddle.

The portage from Mid Lake into Coattail Lake was fairly short, but the trail climbed straight up and over a high ridge before plummeting down to the water’s edge.  I carried my gear over first and then followed that trek with another trip carrying my canoe; a double portage.  The lake, like the others I had seen, had a beaver lodge along its shoreline.  I paddled to the far end to scout where there was a small outlet named Delias Run.  I found that it trickled through a dam of sticks eventually making its way towards little Center Lake. Doubling back to the nearby portage, I unloaded my dry bags.

The portage into McInnes Lake was much longer but it felt good to fully dive into carrying my gear.  The smells of autumn were strong with decaying leaves, fresh needles, and the scent of lake water drifting up over the ridge.  The shoreline at the entry point was comprised of deep, silty, muck so I threw some nearby logs and branches into it that allowed me to balance on them, load the canoe, and inch my way out into open water over the drop-off.

I paddled towards a point that extended into the lake from the starboard side of the shore.  The lake was rimmed by a high steep ridge, so the site itself was only accessed by scrambling up a cascading series of steps.  The view from the turret-towered cliff allowed me to see both ends of the lake.

CLICK BELOW FOR A VIDEO OF

THE CAMP ON THE CLIFF:

After setting up my tent and organizing the camp, I decided to go out and fish for an hour or so before coming back to cook dinner and settle in for the night.  Despite my best efforts, and using an array of classic lures, I wasn’t able to hook into anything.  It was starting to get colder and the wind was an issue again.  I tried the lightweight grappling hook anchor I had gotten from my Dad, but the lake dropped off so quickly and deeply that the wind, which was more in control than I was, blew me helter-skelter.  Unless I positioned myself within arm’s reach of the bank, I didn’t have enough cordage attached to the anchor to reach bottom and if it did touch, the wind dragged it along as if I was purposely dredging the lake.

THE SHORELINE LOOKED LIKE MY
SIGNATURE PINE TREE & WATER LOGO

While fishing I was under the watchful eye of a bald eagle.  Using my camera, and a lot of patience, I captured a series of great pictures of the giant bird.  Taking such unique pictures, with its stark white head in sharp contrast to the background colors of the northwoods, eased the pain of not hooking into any fish.

Arranging the straight grained white pine that had been split and left as a gift by the last camper, I made a fire and cooked up a brat with a stir fry of squash and tomatoes on the new aluminum skillet. I wanted to sit and enjoy the fire, but darkness was again catching me by surprise and I still needed to clean up the dishes and put things away before bed.

THE RISING MOON WAS AWESOME!

Thank heavens the rising moon was nearly full and presented itself in spectacular form as I prepared to enter my tent.  The wind had died down somewhat, and with clear skies, I would have a gigantic night light throughout the evening.  After inflating my sleeping pad, I looked over the map and then burrowed down into my sleeping bag to read the second article in my Boundary Waters Journal.  I was elated about what I had accomplished throughout the day, but even more, I was excited about the fact that once I awoke I would have the entire day to hang out around base camp.  It promised to be a sensory overload that would continue giving me the chance to explore and soak in all the experiences that Big Island Lake Wilderness had to offer!

See you along The Way…