Think I'm In Love - Part#1 In The U.P.

I had a day.  Not in the typical sense of it being bad, overwhelming, or more than I could handle.  I literally meant I had a day!  I had about 24 hours to myself before I promised to meet up with family.

The day before leaving, I spent a few hours looking up some possible get-a-way locations in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (U.P.).  Once I had narrowed down the possibilities, I called the Ottawa National Forest Visitor’s Center.  I was able to talk to a representative named Karl who answered my list of questions; everything from out of the way places to camp, to rules on collecting firewood, and his thoughts about local trout fishing.  He was super helpful & encouraging, which energized me to start packing!  I could hardly wait to explore a new area I had never been to before.  Granted, I had driven by the general area about a dozen times or so over the course of my lifetime, but I had never veered east to the actual rivers and woods I planned to immerse myself in while camping and fishing.

Early the next morning I rose with the birds and grabbed my running gear for a 5 mile run through the town near our home.  The run was cold and drizzly; a bit atypical for the later part of May, but I cranked it out.  Once back home, I said goodbye to Cindy as she left for work.  I showered and cooked up a respectable breakfast; the kind of breakfast that’s perfect for the iron skillet that sits permanently on our stovetop for just such a purpose.  It was the kind of breakfast that would either make you really sleepy 20 miles down the road, or stick to your ribs until you reached your destination hours away.

Despite the constant rain up through Wisconsin, I drove with purpose and made good time.  The Visitor’s Center was scheduled to close at 4:00 and I needed to get one of the few remaining maps that Karl had said were left.  Like a good salesperson imploring a scarcity marketing tactic, he had convinced me that I needed to get that “collector’s edition” of a map.  I love maps!

After a quick stop in Eagle River, Wisconsin, I made the final push and arrived at the center with time to spare.  Karl, who I had spoken to the previous day, produced the map for me to purchase.  I broke out my reading glasses and we spread the map out on the countertop.  Together we poured over it so I could pinpoint various features and ask questions that came to mind as I looked at the squiggly blue lines of rivers and twisting gray roads marked as gravel, dirt, or the two tracks “not maintained for passenger cars.”  Gleaning as much information as I could gather was my purpose, but it worked inversely.  The more I gained and stored in my brain to recall later, the more giddy and anxious I was to get going as soon as possible.  With a wave and a promise to swing by later to let them know how it had gone, I headed out, trying to drive away respectfully and not squeal tires in excitement!

Actually, under the suggestion from Karl, I drove the short distance west to Sylvania Outfitters and talked to the owner, and apparent local legend, Bob.  He gave me a brief history of the local Watersmeet Gneiss metamorphic bedrock which had recently been determined to be the oldest in the United States.  You could tell he was proud of the distinction over rocks found in Wyoming and the Canadian Shield of Minnesota.  I thanked him and bought an Ottawa National Forest Sticker.  I was in the midst of the maiden adventure voyage for my “new” 2004 Jeep Liberty, so I needed to start the usual collection of fun, out-of-the-way stickers I like to have outline the back window of my vehicle.

Within minutes I was driving the dirt roads of the National Forest.  It felt good.  It felt right.  Curvy dirt roads have a sensual attraction - especially through thick coniferous forests.  I pulled into the small campground of choice a little after 4:00.  Only a handful of sites were there, and only one was occupied on the opposite end.  For all practical purposes, I had the area to myself and it felt perfect.  I chose a site that was under a grove of red pines.  From there the river was still clearly audible.

What the campground lacked in people, it made up for in blackflies.  I tried ignoring them while I unpacked some of my gear and set up the tent.  Hiking back into the woods, I found a few dead maple trees that I bucked into manageable lengths for an evening fire.  I stacked the firewood behind a massive red pine.

Since the late spring days were gradually growing longer, I still had time to go fishing at a nearby creek I had seen on my drive in.  The creek felt more personal and intimate than the larger, faster moving river next to the campground.  I put on my waders and began walking alongside the bank; careful to watch my footing and avoid both the vibrations that would scare the trout, as well as the numerous beaver slides between the water and clumps of tag alder, dogwood, and willows.  The large rodents had clearly been busy.  As busy as a… Well, you know!

The terrain was sublime, with plenty of room between the creek and the thick forest of spruce, balsam, birch, and tamarack that lined each side.  Two things stuck with me as I made excellent cast after excellent cast on this, my inaugural trout fishing trip of the season.  The first was that the temperature was quickly plummeting; which sent the blackflies packing!   In fact, they completely disappeared, never to be seen again.  The second was that although I wasn’t hooking into any fish, I had seen a few, and that was encouraging.  I knew it would be tough fishing with the falling temperature, winds out of the north, and the rising air pressure.  When you stand in such a beautiful setting, however, you really don’t care what an ichthyologist (fish biologist) or a meteorologist may say about how weather affects the fish.  I don’t tend to think much about such things anyways, focusing instead on nature’s vivid elegance.

Periodically I looked ahead; expecting a moose or black bear to walk out of the brush at any moment.  Such a spectacle would have been natural and proper in such wild terrain.  And although it was possible, I’m not going to lie that it probably would have surprised the heck out of me!  Still, I smiled to myself at the likelihood and continued walking and casting undeterred.  I was already falling in love with this creek and forest and we had just met!

As I started to consider heading back and cooking dinner, I saw movement a few creek bends up in front of me.  I wondered to myself what it was.  It didn’t really match anything I could picture, and yet its motion was constant.  After a minute of two, a man sitting in a canoe came into focus.  He had been fly fishing with a streamer and casting ahead as the current carried him along.  I gathered that it was his truck I had seen parked in the woods just off the dirt road where I had started.  We talked as he paddled, and I hiked on the bank beside him.  Apparently he had had about as much luck fishing as I had, but he admitted that he had done well in the past.  I didn’t doubt it.  We told stories of big animals we’d seen before and fishing trips of the past.  I asked him questions about the area, and for being a local, he appeased me and answered them as best he could.  Just before I got back to the bridge and gravel road, I came upon a wood turtle.  He seemed pretty chill and didn’t seem to mind my presence, but then again, maybe it was the nippy temperature that was slowing him down.  You know, being a cold blooded reptile and all.

For dinner I boiled water in a pot for rice while slicing up a yellow pepper, mushrooms, pineapple, and a big tomato that I cooked together within my camp skillet.  It was more than I could eat, but with a yeoman’s effort I attacked and polished off a good amount.  The leftovers were packaged and thrown into a small cooler, before I washed down the meal with some hot chocolate.  The temperature, while continuing to fall, was now dipping below 40°.

Unlike when I had camped this past winter, and the temperature had bottomed out at a flatline zero, I knew my sleep system was going to work perfectly to keep me comfortably warm.  I was counting on it.  In fact, I was looking forward to it!  I was in my tent by 9:30, but wrote in my daily journal for a while before falling asleep around 10:45.

I woke at 4:00, listened to the waterfall at the river for a while, and then slept again from 5:30 until 7:00.  According to my thermometer, it had gotten down to 32.4° during the night.  But I was comfortable despite forgetting my pillow and having to use my fleece pullover stuffed inside of its own sleeve. I got up and boiled some water on my campstove.  Down on the rocks beside the waterfall and river, I ate a breakfast of oatmeal topped with granola, raisins, strawberries, and a drizzle of honey.  Finding myself easily captivated by my surroundings, I felt like it was darn near perfect.  And while I’ve been to some beautiful places, and have witnessed some spectacular vistas, I think I was falling in love.  The constant roar of the water and rising sun shining off tree tops began to stir me to get going and move.  I wanted to begin exploring!

After cleaning up my dishes, and straightening up my site, I looked over my new map and headed off up a national forest dirt road.  Within a few miles I stopped to check out a small creek.  I considered fishing it, but thought I might have a better chance further downstream as it gathered volume.  I decided instead to take a little detour and go look at a tiny body of water called “Corpse Pond” - while wondering what the long forgotten story was behind its name.  The two-track trail off the dirt road started out promising, but eventually petered out to little more than a foot path.  Several times I got out and sawed up a couple of downed trees to allow my blue Jeep through, but it was of no use.  Between the narrowing brush and squadrons of mosquitoes attacking as a united front, I quickly realized that if I continued any further, my desired destination of Corpse Pond was going to come into fruition when I became its poster child namesake!  I pictured an unlikely autumn hunter stumbling upon my remains out in the middle of nowhere beside a shallow swale, chock-full of algae.

With a shudder, I backed up, turned around, and made my way back to the dirt road; with the windows down to suck out the blood thirsty skeeters.  I checked on the same small creek a couple of miles down, and although there was a nice clearing to access the water, the creek itself was clogged with beaver dams and choked full of brush.  I'd be next to impossible to fish it.  It would have to remain a sanctuary for small brook trout to survive and flourish unencumbered.  In the end, I elected to head back to the creek I had fished the night before.  It was wider, deeper, and I had much more yet to explore.

At about that time the wind picked up considerably, which in turn pushed the mosquitoes for cover.  Neither hide nor hair was seen of them for the remainder of the day - which was a godsend!

After pulling on my waders and putting my pole together, I yanked my fleece hat down over my ears, zipped up my coat, and put on my polarized sunglasses.  Doing so allowed me to see through the reflective surface of the water and into the depths below.  As I had found the evening before, with the edge of the creek clear of brush, I was able to carefully walk the bank instead of wading against the current and tippy-toeing through the dark, deep bends.  I love those deep cut bends as they are mysteriously alluring, but they can be downright scary too!

Within the first couple minutes of fishing I came upon the same wood turtle I had seen the night before.  It was in a different spot, but the same section of river bank.  He was eating earthworms, and undaunted, allowed me a close up picture while he ate.  Ten minutes later I had a solid hit from a fish.  The brook trout went airborne; dancing on the liquid silver surface of the creek.  Wild trout have so much spunk no matter what size they are.  As I reeled it towards me, I peered over the high bank and into the dark water; wondering how I’d scoop it into my net.  Fortunately it leapt again and took care of the issue by throwing the spinner and its hook.  I was just happy I had seen a trout.  Maybe they’d start feeding as it gradually warmed.  A few minutes later I caught a spunky 10 inch brookie and elected to keep it.

Catching and holding that native trout helped put the wax seal on finding a special area to camp and fish.  Surreal was the word that resonated in my soul, since I hadn’t even known of its existence until a couple of days ago.  The area definitely had the kind of vibes that grabbed my attention and I was intrigued by its aura!

After fishing for another hour, I began repeating the mantra of, “just one more bend.”  I knew the end was near.  It’s the kind of thing that a person who fishes hears echoing in their head when they’re absolutely loving what they’re doing and never want to stop - but know that they need to soon; it required a reaction minus the stomping and whining.  Very soon I was going to need to put the hammer down to hike back, pack up my tent and gear, possibly cook a lunch, and then drive another 80 some miles further North to meet up with my cousin Brad and his son Jack.  I looked ahead and saw a series of beautiful bends.  I promised myself that I’d stop there, break down my pole, and begin the trudge back.

Just before I reached that stopping point I had another solid hit.  I could tell the fish was bigger.  I worked it over to the bank and lifted it within my soft rubber net.  Native brookies are absolutely beautiful!  The green, worm-like marks across its camouflaged back belie the beauty found on the remainder of this trout’s sides and belly.  A brilliant white streak trims their orange and black fins.  Yellow spots speckle their flanks beside blue halos that surround pink dots.  I decided to end my exploratory fishing then and there.  I added that 12 inch brook trout with the one I had caught previously and knew that I’d share it the following day with my cousins; cooked somewhere special I was sure.

Before hiking out, I paused for a moment and tried to take a mental snapshot of where I was and what I was experiencing.  I was both speechless and spellbound.  Here within the loving embrace of the Northwoods, beauty ran deep.  From soft needles on a tamarack bough to the delicate flower petals of a forget-me-not or serviceberry bush.  I held that beauty to my heart.

Forget-Me-Not

Serviceberry (a.k.a. Juneberry)

Closing my eyes, I pictured the layout of my location on the map I had purchased.  If I remembered correctly, I thought there was a trail marked a little ways into the wood from where I stood.  I debated whether I should walk back the way I had fished in; along the many twists and turns of the snaking creek, or if I should hike into the wall of green and hope that I’d stumble upon that unknown path.  I chose the latter, and risked wasting time wallowing through underbrush and getting lost.  What I found surprisingly took me back to the Jeep within 15 minutes.  It was well worth the gamble.  The whole trip was playing out that way.

CLICK BELOW FOR A QUICK VIDEO OF

A WINDY DAY ON A BEAUTIFUL TROUT CREEK:

Once back to my site I carefully packed away my gear and then thought about whether I should just get on the road, or cook the final meal I’d been looking forward to.  I elected to fry up the beef stew meat, boil water for some noodles, and then combine these with a can of cream of mushroom soup.  I ate beside the river’s waterfall again and then saved the rest as leftovers to be eaten on a later date.  On the way back to my campsite I picked up a bag of various pieces of garbage that had been left behind by others.  It was the least I could do to feel as though I was giving something back to the forest.

Looking around the site as I stepped into my Jeep, I felt contentment creeping through my body.  I had spent just shy of 24 hours in the Ottawa National Forest and yet I already felt as if I had known her my entire life.  I think I was in love.  In fact, I was sure of it!

See you along The Way…

Fringed Polygala

New Growth Of A Balsam

Skunk Currant

Wood Anemone

Marsh Marigold

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