Something About That Day - AKA: The Gold Of Klondike

“Every bit of water had turned to gold and, as the valley darkened, it looked as if molten metal had been spilled and dribbled over the black velvet of the land.” 

-Sigurd Olson - p.#123, Runes Of The North

My second night in the national forest was spent with a family of beavers; 5 to 6 of the rather large rodents if I had counted correctly in the evening’s waning light reflected off the lake.  Throughout the ensuing darkness I was serenaded by their moans and whines as they communicated about the best softwoods to gnaw and chew as a food source.  Several times I woke and could have sworn they were just outside my tent.  Each time I checked, however, I was assured they were still down in the lake, 40 feet away, when they loudly slapped their tails in alarm.  The setting for my campsite was like that of an amphitheater; with a small bay at the foot of a knoll rising up off the shoreline and the space I was temporarily calling home.  Sounds rising off the water amplified clear and true.  A fallen tree trunk just beyond my beached canoe provided a nocturnally safe venue for the beavers to sit and chew nutrient rich bark; systematically turning the branch like one would a cob of corn at a summer’s day picnic.

As the falling leaves of red and yellow could attest to, the Northwoods were deep into the season of autumn.  It was perhaps a week out from peak color, but the view from the ridge was spectacular none-the-less, as the morning light slowly built and began burning off the mist.

Looking Down Klondike Lake

I filled my pot with water and made a small fire to begin heating it for oatmeal.  Although my previous morning’s breakfast had been a delicious stick-to-your-ribs skillet, I do love hot oats with a smattering of granola, cranberries, and brown sugar toppings; both for its ease as well as its taste.  As I ate and looked out over the lake, I noticed that the beavers had departed for the day to groom and rest in the fresh, dry, confines of their lodge across the lake.

Having spent the first couple of days paddling, portaging, and camping my way into this fifth body of water within Michigan’s Big Island Lake Wilderness Area, I made a plan for the day centered around my campsite on Klondike Lake.  I decided two main goals would be to fish and explore.  They seemed like worthy objectives.  First I tidied up around base camp and organized some of my gear.  Although the air temperature began the day in the upper 30’s, it promised to warm up once the sun broke through the thin cloud layer.  Until that time, I dressed to be comfortable.

My Campsite And Tent Up On The Knoll.

Once loaded with a pole, net, and small backpack of fishing gear, I pushed my canoe out into the water, around a point, and into the southeast corner of the lake.  While some of the trees were now bare, the birches were golden and the red maples deeply rich.  Interspersed throughout the forest's hillside were the dark green boughs of the needled white pines and hemlocks.  The view as a whole could have been best described by something other than words themselves; perhaps with fire tipped brushes of a Bob Ross-esque painter.  I fished the still waters clockwise around the bay, taking note of the portage trail going even further into the interior and the sixth lake.  Unlike the other couple of times that I’d fished on this trip, I came up empty handed.  Fortunately the sun broke out of both the slight cloud cover and over the tree line at about that time.  As a result, I decided to paddle across to the northeast side of the lake where the sun was shining directly within a gently recessed cove.

The Cove Off In The Distance

I’m kind of partial to open coves or nooks.  They aren’t as deeply cut as a bay, and yet they still tend to drop off nicely.  Such a nook is a great habitat for bass and pike — with water that can warm while still providing a quick escape into deep dark depths.  It’s a habitat for hunkering, lurking, or ambush.

Using a lightweight grappling hook of an anchor I had portaged in from the trailhead, I positioned myself within easy casting distance from the shoreline reeds and the drop-off.  Right away I caught two large mouthed bass.  The second a nice 16 incher that fought well and already had a fat belly to help through the winter months soon to come.  After that I caught so many northern pike that I honestly lost count.  They were mostly in the 20-24 inch range and hit with vengeance.  It was fun, and combined with the sun on my face, I was feeling pretty good.

That feeling of enjoyment and contentment had at times been muffled on this particular trip.  Those different emotions were a strange change of events for me.  Typically I’d be excited and grateful for such an opportunity as spending days on end in a wilderness area.  And while I was appreciative of the time, gear, and remote backcountry, I had also come in a little more on the side of being nervous and anxious.  The fluttering leaves in my stomach hadn’t been enough to keep me from venturing forth, but it was close; touch and go as they tend to say.

Bathed with cool temperatures at my launch two days prior, I had pushed off using the broad tip of my paddle; enjoying the fall colors, solitude, and beauty while assuring myself that everything would be alright.  Why the tension in my soul?  I do not know!  Perhaps it had been the expectations.  Perhaps it was the added pressure of needing to be one step ahead of my decision making while paddling on my own; miles from the nearest person.  Perhaps it was just life stuff.  Either way I found myself harboring apprehension while exulting at the chance to delve further into the area’s lakes and forests than I had last fall.

After switching from a spinner bait with a trailing hook to a #5 Mepps — simply for something different — I hooked into a pike closer to 26 inches.  It was strong; diving and thrashing with violent head shakes.  I said, aloud to nobody in particular, “And that folks is why I bring along a big net!”  As I scooped him up, he threw the lure, but stayed nestled down within the soft rubber mesh.  I smiled to myself for a brief second before he launched one last time; up and out of the deep, large hooped net and back into the lake from which he came.  I stopped smiling and sat still for a few moments, letting the sun bask.  With a shrug of shoulders I took my time to mentally regroup and then went back to the task at hand.

Not long after that, and a couple of fish later, I landed a ripsnorter of a 24 inch pike.  Its green body and yellow dashed markings were magnificent in the light!  I carefully slipped my fingers up inside the outer flap of its gills, with my left thumb up over its snout, and lifted it up for some great pictures using my phone.  There is absolutely no service in such a place — which is kind of the point of being there — but even with the device on “airplane mode” my phone can take great pictures with excellent color and clarity.

It was then that I decided to keep the pike and have it for lunch.  I didn’t want it to suffer, so I decided to dispatch it by thumping it on the head.  But when I tried, using a pair of multitool pliers that a friend had given me as a gift, the fish jerked and my thumb slid over and into a tooth sticking up out of its jaw on the other side of its mouth.  I silently yelped, and proceeded to smack him once again.  And wouldn’t you know that the same exact darn thing happened again!  Lightning struck twice when I forgot to use my brain.  And it hurt like the dickens!  I was gripping tight to an angry pike, and my blood was now pooling on the bottom of the Nova Craft canoe.

I sat for a moment and then grabbed a stringer, ran it carefully through the pike’s mouth, tied it off on my seat, and threw it overboard.  Because I tend to do these types of things, and fish with teeth are unpredictable, I carry a baggie of first aid equipment.  I took out some gauze, wrapped it around my left thumb, and held it tight.

What a beautiful day it was.  The sun was shining, the water glistened, and the surrounding hills of hardwood trees were ablaze with color.  I spun circles in my canoe; still anchored in the cove.  Gradually the pressure reduced the blood flow.  I applied a glob of antibiotic cream and two bandages to the slashed wounds and then wrapped athletic tape both up and over my thumb as well as around it to hold it all in place.  That procedure seemed to do the trick, so I pulled up my anchor and paddled back to camp.

When you’re camping in the bush, cutting firewood is a constant chore.  I had a small pile, but I also knew that I’d need some more, so I set to work.  Grabbing my leather gloves and foldable saw, I hiked the nearby ridge.  Soon after I dragged back some dead and dried maple, white pine, and beech trees that I cut up into manageable lengths.  I cleaned the pike and got two beautiful fillets; cutting both in half to produce 4 thick chunks of meat that I covered in original Shorelunch breading.

For the trip I had brought along my old aluminum mess kit from the days when I was in Cub Scouts.  It was light weight, compact, and the perfect piece of equipment for the journey; even at 50 years old!  Once the fire was going, I added olive oil and a little butter to the kit’s aluminum skillet to fry up the fish in two separate sessions.  To my delight the fillets came out golden brown and tasted absolutely delicious; in fact, they were mouthwatering.  I had hoped to have a catch and cook experience on this trip, and while savoring the seasoned fish, it surpassed my expectations!

Once I had cleaned up, I again found myself looking out over the lake.  Now what?  Should I sit and relax while reading and writing?  Should I go explore?  I was continuing to enjoy my experiences but still felt an inner pull, or perhaps an inner uneasiness.  Since I was already using the evenings within the tent to read and write using my headlamp, I elected to go explore the next lake over.  The weather was absolutely gorgeous at that time with warm temperatures and sunlit views, so I decided to take advantage of the situation.  I threw the fishing gear back into my canoe and added my small Canon camera on the off chance I happened to see any interesting animals away in the distance.

Shoving off, I rode the slight breeze to the portage.  Now as an explorer, and because I had no intention of paddling around the next lake, I pulled my canoe up onto the bank and left it as I hiked up the trail.  The forest was much like the area where I had grown up, so my senses were heightened and alert.  But not alert enough to prevent me from stepping into some muck up to my ankles in the middle of the trail.  Once upon a time people had thrown down sticks and logs to cross thirty feet of soupy soil — but it wasn’t sufficient.  The spring water seeping out of the embankment made it tough to walk through.  My shoes were now wet and black with silt, so I climbed up onto the steep hill beside me and skirted around the area; hopping fallen tree trunks.

At about that time I could see a narrow pond to my left.  As I continued walking, I realized that the pond was a drainage from Vance Lake that soon appeared on my right.  A marsh and old beaver dam separated the bodies of water.  Here too was another great campsite.  I made a mental note of it for future reference.  I imagined being situated 6 lakes into the wilderness area by myself.  There was something alluring about that idea, and I was sure that I would solo camp there on Vance Lake at some point, but I also wondered when friends or cousins were ever going to retire so they could one day join me.  They’d love the setting and quite honestly there are times when I wouldn’t mind the company.  I looked around the site, peered out over Vance Lake, took several pictures with my phone, and then began my hike back; this time careful to avoid the muck trap!

While trudging along in my wet shoes and socks I started thinking about the trip's overall purpose.  It had been a great day; a great excursion for that matter — despite getting slashed earlier by the pike.  As stated, that had been my own darn fault.  It was Wednesday.  I had planned on going part way out on Thursday and then complete the task on Friday.  I was once again feeling that inner pull, however, and began to think that a Monday through Thursday trip was more than enough.  I had camped at a couple of different sites, caught and eaten a fish, witnessed some beautiful scenery, and explored another new area.  As long as I could pack up early, paddle and double hike my gear over 5 lakes and portages to where my Jeep was parked at the trailhead — while leaving enough time to drive the roughly 6 hours back home — then I felt like it was worth it.  I had completed everything I had set out to do!  I suddenly felt calm and satisfied with my decision.  I would simply enjoy the rest of my afternoon and evening before heading out on the morrow.

Upon arriving back at Klondike Lake and my canoe, I decided to fish the far north end before returning back to the campsite to cook dinner and sit around a fire.  As I paddled by the cove I had fished that morning I took a couple of casts, caught a small pike, and released it back into the water.  It’s simple enough; I enjoy catching fish — especially those hard hitting pike!  The thing about that species is that they are overtly slimy.  It’s both a suit of armor that protects against disease and infections as well as a means to be more hydrodynamic and streamlined.  It allows them to be the fearsome predator that they are!  Even though I always wet my hands before picking up a fish to minimize any impact on them, I still had slime on my fingers, in addition to the now stinky bandage around my thumb.  I reached over the side of the canoe to wash my hands off in the lake.  In that split second I went from rinsing to tipping.  It happened that quick!

I literally grew up paddling a canoe and later kayaks; logging countless hours on the water, and have never tipped over once.  But in that moment, history mattered not one iota!  I went from being comfortable and content to slightly panicky and definitely wet.

Some of that afternoon is quite honestly a blur, but I remember jumping over the side gunnel to clear out of the way as water started to pour into the canoe.  It allowed me to grab the edge and quickly push it back upright; albeit now with about 8 to 10 inches of water inside of it.  I kicked a half dozen or more times towards shore before suddenly touching the bottom with my toes.  The lakebed was solid; much different than the lake I had camped on last year that was deep and never sported a shallow section at any point — even along the shore.  I slowly walked the canoe to the bushy edge and realized that my new life jacket had worked perfectly.  It hadn’t slipped up as the salesperson at Rutabaga Paddlesports had feared.  It stayed snug and I stayed supremely buoyant.  In other words, it earned its keep and was well worth the small amount I had to pay on top of the gift certificate they had sent me for purchasing my canoe there last fall.

Miraculously everything was still in my canoe; my pole, net, backpack, and camera still in its case.  Even the pliers I had just used to extract the hook from the pike’s mouth were still in a side pocket of the pack; although I hadn’t remembered putting them there and feared at first that they were at the bottom of the lake.  I threw all of this gear up onto the bushes, turned the canoe over within the water, and then lightly lifted it while flipping it back “right side up.”  It was that simple!  It’s amazing how easy the process of righting a canoe is when your feet are planted firmly on something solid.  In fact, there’s probably a lesson hidden somewhere within that statement.  I was also surprised at the relative temperature of the water.  It wasn’t as cold as I had feared.  I allowed myself to smile at the thought that at least the muck was now washed from my shoes and would be clean once again.

That smile quickly changed when I remembered that my phone had been in my pants pocket!  I’m not sure what the actual feeling was right then, but it probably fluctuated somewhere between horror and emotional numbness.   I reached down into the water, took it out of my pocket, and carefully placed it in my fishing backpack; right next to the waterproof phone case I had brought along for the trip.  The phone spasmodically buzzed for a brief second and then fell silent — never to work again.

With the canoe now floating next to me, I reloaded my gear, and hopped up and into the hull.  The paddle back to camp was purposeful and true.  Once back, I glanced at the sun.  I had about an hour and a half to two hours at best before nightfall.  I quickly started laying out my fishing gear and opening any kind of container that needed drying; phone included, even though it wouldn’t do any good.  What was to become of all my pictures and videos I had been taking on my phone over the last three days?  There were so many great ones! I recalled that the last known picture saved to cloud storage, before I was out of range of any service, was of me in front of Dobber’s Pasties in Escanaba.  I knowingly feared the worst.

While I did take off my life jacket to let it begin drying, I left everything else on; although wet, I was at present warm enough.  I grabbed my saw and went back to cutting up more wood before starting a fire.  After adding to the stack, I went up to my tent.  Fortunately I had a couple extra layers of long sleeve shirts I could wear, but with my only pair of pants now hanging in the branches of a white pine, I put on the running tights I had brought to use as a thermal base layer if needed.  It completed the unusual ensemble but more importantly it worked to keep me warm.

I cooked a quick dinner of a brat and allowed myself the simple pleasure of hot cocoa.  While tipping and getting wet was slightly embarrassing, very humbling, and a hassle, I felt as though I had done everything as well as possible following the mishap and was now dry and safe.  I had learned a lot about both myself and how to handle what could otherwise be classified as a scary situation.  In addition, there was no way those clothes would dry overnight with temperatures beginning to fall into the mid 30’s, but if they could at least stop dripping, they would be a little less heavy when I packed out the following day.

I cleaned up my gear, hung my food bag from a hemlock back in the ravine, and got in my tent to hunker down by 7:30.  I had some reading and journaling to do on all of the day’s activities, but not before standing on the shore and watching the beavers return with new branches to chew throughout the night.  They didn’t slap their tails in alarm this time, and although they did watch me, they went about the business of slipping up onto the sunken tree trunk — which allowed me to take a couple of pictures using the Canon camera that remarkably came through the tipping ordeal unscathed.

Throughout the night I woke every couple of hours in anticipation of the first rays of dawn and putting the hammer down to start home.  Twice I looked out and spotted within the beam of my headlamp a crazy snowshoe hare making a guest appearance as it hopped around in the nearby bushes with its large padded feet.  Each of the other times I stirred and heard noises it ended up being the beavers again.  I was beginning to feel like we were becoming good friends; those large, brown eyed, flat-tailed rodents and me.  It was like they were making sure that I was either doing okay or at least not doing anything else ill advised. Perhaps the whole “eating branches” thing was an incognito cover-up to look inconspicuous while keeping one eye glued to how I was doing.  There’s something reassuring about having some mates to share an adventure with; even with our lack of direct vocal communication.  Still, I did talk reassuringly to them whenever they cruised near the campsite’s shoreline.

The following day I woke early, skipped breakfast to pack, left a message on the remaining firewood for the next camper to pay it forward while enjoying the Northwoods, and paddled out to the trailhead.  Cruising into the thick fog under the rising sun was surreal, but was also vintage Klondike Lake - especially surrounded by the golden glow of the rustling yellow birch leaves.

See you along The Way…

I Camped Under This Massive White Pine.

I try To Always Leave A Pile Of Firewood
For The Next Camper.

And I Typically Leave a Message With
My Symbol & The Phrase: "Pay" It Forward.
(Instead Of "Pass" : )

Morning Mist As I Began My Journey Home.

The Golden Glow Of The Rustling
Yellow Birch Leaves On Klondike Lake.

The Sun Upon Coattail Lake
(Where I Had Camped My First Evening).

The Portage Down Into Mid Lake.

Epilogue:

I learned a lot on this trip; what to do and what not to do.  Oh, and what to do when you don’t have a choice and life simply happens…quickly and without warning despite your best intentions!  Somehow you problem solve and put one foot in front of the other — or put another dip of the paddle into the water and pull yourself forward.

Once I was back to the trailhead with my gear piled beside the Jeep Liberty, I ate a couple of hard boiled eggs that I had saved, changed into some extra clothes I had brought along in the back seat, and then began loading up my equipment.  But, not before running into the BassBros YouTubers who were themselves preparing to paddle into the wilderness area for a few days.  It was fun to talk to the brothers and share experiences while looking over a map of the area.  It would have been an epic ending to my trip to have gotten a selfie picture with them, but, well — without a phone it didn’t happen.  Ha Ha, next time!  The cool thing is that they traveled to some of the same lakes and sites that I had, but in an opposite order.  You’ll have to check out the great video of their trip at: 3 Days Canoeing the North Woods Wilderness. Thanks for the couple of shout-outs guys!

On my way home I made a return stop for a U.P. pasty at Dobber’s.  As I've written before, I just love those meat and veggie pies with their flaky crust; especially fresh and warm.  The quick stop also allowed me to use their land line to call my wife and tell her I was coming home a day earlier than originally planned.  Three hundred and fifty miles from the trailhead and after a long day, I made it back to our house by 7:00 p.m. Which meant that at about that time, 5 lakes into the Big Island Wilderness Area, the beavers were going back to work and gnawing on sticks for the evening.

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…

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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.”

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