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.

Sensory Overload (Part#2 Of 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

NATIONAL FOREST RANGER STATION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FINDING A SITE
SUNLIGHT IN THE RAIN

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

SUNSET AFTER THE RAIN
THE COLD SETTLES IN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CLICK BELOW FOR A VIDEO OF

THE CAMP ON THE CLIFF:

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

THE SHORELINE LOOKED LIKE MY
SIGNATURE PINE TREE & WATER LOGO

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

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

THE RISING MOON WAS AWESOME!

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

See you along The Way…