It was a beautiful day today as early spring days go. The fact that the sky was cloudless and the temperature was above freezing didn’t hurt. Plus, the winds were moderate to calm, which was a change of pace from the gale force tempest we’d been having to endure for the last week or two.
After a morning run, and watching the Iowa women win their first game of the NCAA Basketball Tournament, I started gathering together my outdoor gear. While prepping, I called and talked to my Dad to catch up on life. I also texted with my cousin Sean to let him know that I planned to head out to the woods to cook up some venison of his - from a deer he had harvested an autumn or two ago.
He didn’t exactly give the venison to me, but his Dad offered me some of it during a visit - to help clear out a little space in his freezer where it had been stored for a period of time. I appreciated being the recipient of the decluttering, and was finally in the perfect position to put the meat to good use! Thanks Uncle Bob!
Sean said he might go out too, make some coffee, and read a book; both of us thinking that we’d take our dogs, and soak up some sun and vitamin D. The temperatures promised to be in the mid to upper 40’s. Although we’d both be heading out to the woods at the same time, we’d unfortunately be on opposite sides of the big puddle called Lake Michigan - and a mere 337 miles away (from point to point) of where we each planned to set up our day camp. Even though we were far away from each other, we'd be enjoying the outdoors concurrently.
After parking, pulling on my new hip boots, and hoisting my pack, Kora heeled and trotted alongside my left flank. I figured that I’d wear the hip boots in case I had to slog through any water and also to ward off any early season ticks. I had my pant legs tucked within my thick wool socks and down inside the boots as an extra precaution. Kora had her monthly tick & flea treatments as a defense, plus I’d check her over as soon as we were back home and I’d brushed her out.
Once we were through a water filled ditch we plunged into a thicket of prickly ash. You have to duck and dodge the branches like a prize fighter to keep from getting poked or maimed by the thorns in those woods, which is why I like to periodically go there, nobody else attempts it!
There’s a massive sycamore tree back in that section of woods that sits on the bank of an old oxbow. The base of the trunk is 4 to 5 feet in diameter and its bone white branches raise their arms in perfect praise to the heavens. You can almost hear its sigh of relief at not having to worry about strong currents eroding its roots any longer. It’s content to sit and bask in the setting sun and find liquid nourishment beside calm water that is little more than a kidney shaped pond; once an outside bend to the bigger river now a couple hundred yards away.
As Kora sniffed and explored, I cleared away a few branches and set out both her flannel lined blanket and my sit pad. We would relax together as I studied from the book entitled, Aldo Leopold: The Man And His Legacy. With the sun on my side and the Grandfather Tree at my back, I read about Leopold’s quest to set aside wilderness. According to Craig W. Allin, “Leopold was pioneering the science of wildlife management.” (26) Before Leopold, wildlife was simply known as game. Resources were often taken for granted and the relationships misunderstood (i.e. the erosion of soil & the elimination of predators). Leopold himself enjoyed hunting and fishing, and recognized the need for raw materials, but was also trying to learn how things could be governed with responsible stewardship - animals, plants, and the entire genre of living and nonliving entities. This was something that the native peoples of our land had always understood; as their lives were interconnected and dependent with the land & water. As Aldo studied and gained knowledge, he made some mistakes, and found himself in the midst of a learning curve early on, but as Allin also wrote, “It [Aldo’s message] was, at its core, a plan for natural and cultural diversity and an effort to stimulate effective political demand for wilderness as a critical element in that diversity.” (29)
At the time, this was new thinking and the foundation of what was to become Aldo Leopold’s “Land Ethic.” The idea of renewing ecosystems and healing what had been exploited was revolutionary, because prior to this mankind simply moved further into the landscape to find more of what had become scarce in their present setting. A yeoman's share of his ecological journey took place in the 1920’s, and yet the struggle to put some of these crucial concepts into place continues even today - over a hundred years later! Susan Flader wrote about Aldo’s goal even further when she explained, “He would motivate not by inciting fear of ecological catastrophe or indignation… but rather by leading people from esthetic appreciation through ecological understanding to love and respect.” (23) Can you imagine such a thing? What a novel idea to move away from attempting to force feed others into a platonic relationship with the outdoors, and instead, create a positive and intimate association with nature that leads to an an intricate understanding of how land and water - in conjunction with the biotic (living) and abiotic (nonliving) - must work together! Wouldn’t you want to learn more about such things under those conditions? He’d be the kind of teacher we’d all want to have; the outdoors as our classroom!
As Sean walked with his dog Kali in a grove of white pines, I put aside my book and started a fire from flint and steel; fueled by dead and dried branches that had fallen from the sycamore's canopy. I had snowshoed with Kora in deep snow a few winters back, to this very spot, to cook a breakfast skillet. Today I was moving concurrently with my cousin who was a half day’s travel away, but contiguous to the bank alongside the familiar oxbow; same place - different season.
Kali & Sean Hiking Into Their Base-camp
To the venison in the iron skillet I added a shredded potato, and eventually a diced onion; pulling aside some of it to avoid giving Kora the onion which apparently isn’t good for dogs. The venison, which had come from a rather big 7 point buck, had been mixed with some pork during processing to add flavor and to keep it from drying out. Once it was ready, I added a sprinkling of Colby Jack cheese. Kora and I ate as the sun began to settle into the treetops beyond the still water. Sean had his hammock up and was reading.
Sean And His 2022 Buck
My Plate Of Venison Hash
Sean's Hammock Near Day's End
In the distance I heard the booming calls of a barred owl. Somewhere this raptor had a clutch of eggs that would soon hatch. Canadian geese honked overhead in conjunction with the whistling of wind through wood duck wings, peeping at me as they searched for safe backwaters. Surprisingly, a decent sized painted turtle paddled by; sticking his head above the tensioned surface to peer at me. Just two weeks ago this water was covered in thick ice and the turtle was buried deep in mud and decaying leaves. A fat headed bullfrog, still in tadpole form, propelled out from the shoreline and into deeper water. Birds chirped and a few flies buzzed the tower of the nearby bushes.
As I leaned against the tree and drank my hot cocoa, Sean pulled Kali onto his lap to swing in the hammock and watch the final rays of the setting sun. I pushed my books, cookware, and various supplies back into my pack, and in the growing shadows, began the hike back to my old silver Jeep. It was an afternoon of hope for warmer weather, something we appreciate in the Midwest’s changing seasons. Especially after the excitement for fresh snowfall has worn out its welcome. It’s something that Sean and I both, even two states away, could enjoy concurrently.
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…
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“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.”
