My Environmental Manifesto

I’m sitting in a grove of thorny, low growing bushes called prickly ash.  The name belies their origin because they truly are nowhere near any rendition of an ash, other than the compound leaf that most likely gave it its name.  Besides, the ash we know has been wiped out now for nearly two decades, although I walked through a marshy cathedral of their remnant trunks on my way into this grove.  They are the aftermath of an invasive species gone unchecked.  And while I do know of a micropopulation of decent aged green ash that are growing at the base of a ridge just beyond the banks of a clear flowing trout stream in Northern Michigan–hemmed in by a cedar and tamarack swamp–not many ash trees still exist.  With each species loss in a specific ecosystem, the diversity of our environment takes a substantial hit.  My prayer is that like the chestnut of yesteryear, the green ash too may find a way to rise from charred ashes as the storied phoenix bird–to grow again in our forests.  It’s a mythical story lined with hope for something different.  It’s hope that can provide fuel, especially at a time when diversity is served at a minimum and draws hisses from the forked tongues of those who claim to preach grace, mercy, and acceptance.  Diversity is the building block of our earth.  Just look around!  Do they wish to live in a world of box elders without oaks, pines, hickory, and firs?  It appears their aim against diversity is a bullseye for those who may believe differently from what they’ve deemed suitable.

Did they miss school on the day their 5th grade science teacher taught the basic fundamental principles of ecology–fondly referred to as life science?  They must have zoned out when symbiotic relationships were discussed in combination to how all things are connected.  You need carnivores and herbivores alongside the omnivores, scavengers, decomposers, parasites, and hosts; plant, predator, and prey.  And while I love a good grove of scrubby scotch pine, as they have their purpose as a pioneer plant, my eyes light up when a white pine takes hold.  In short order its soft needled branches will help bring shade and coolness to the sun scorched sands its roots hold onto–leading the land towards the next stage in the succession of life and a climax community.

The idea of a sentinel white pine staking claim in the midst of fast growing, short lived, pioneer plants reminds me of new houses lining a beautiful blue lake with every centurion tree reduced to irrigated blue grass.  What of the one lake house holding on and not competing with the Jones’; hidden amongst the remnant oaks and hickories that once lined the shoreline and forests beyond?  Neighbors look on with spite at the leaves, acorns, and nuts that are seasonally dropped, while the owners revel at the cool breezes, wildlife, and natural shade–looking out past the docks at the dimpled water. One side seems sterile while the other does its best to blend.

And so I sit amongst the prickly ash.  I’d love to have a small plot of them in my own yard.  The roots send up new sprouts into available light, and their sharp thorned branches intertwine.  I am also at the base of massive oaks–of the diversified red, white, swamp, and burr.  These oaks anchor a point surrounded by the inside bend of a river, intermixed with trees such as hackberry, cherry, cottonwood, black walnut, shagbark hickory, and silver maple–in addition to low growing shrubs of gray and red osier dogwood, gooseberry, and button bush.  Each is a necessary and valuable detail of a bigger picture.  Each is a piece of our ecosystem’s puzzle.  Each is included in a melting pot for what we label as the forest.

For indeed, without the inclusion of a vast array of species, we are left with a plantation born of a monoculture.  Have you seen the aerial shots of forests planted with one species after a devastating disease or invasive insect sweeps through?  You end up with geometric shaped dead zones within property boundaries; brown year-round until they rot back into Mother Earth.  Or how about black and white pictures of quaint towns and cities shaded under massive, iron strength American Elms?  Once upon a time now passed, it was like driving through a wooded tunnel.  Orioles, in their hanging soft-weaved bassinets, raised their babies high above the streets.  That was before the disease killed off our American Elms in the 1960’s and 1970’s.  I still see lone elms growing occasionally in out-of-the-way places, for their shape is unique and distinct, but their age seems limited with an expiration date.

With the elms gone, city planners planted the green ash.  When those disappeared, they looked around in wide-eyed wonder.  Cities were left treeless due to their lack of diversification.  But since a generation of leadership had come and gone, we forgot to learn from those who lived and saw what happened before us.  Perhaps humans are more cyclical than we give them credit–but not always in a good way–making the same type of decisions while expecting different results.  They say that’s the definition of insanity.

Equity.  Each species needs the chance to grow and live unencumbered.  Nature finds a way, and can somehow heal, but it takes time; so much time–espcially after human interference.  It’s the kind of time that simply won’t make a whole lot of difference in some areas–developed to death and destruction without the opportunity to live in conjunction with humans; irrevocable as opposed to in harmony.  And in the places where various species of trees are allowed to come back–back to a point where we can look at them in awe, and wonder at their history as a hub tree–a Grandmother Tree–our time will have expired and we’ll have missed their resurrection.

Will it be enough to have set aside areas for future generations?  Imagine areas that are small like natural backyard gardens and neighborhood parks of native prairies, forests, rock, or desert flora next to playground equipment and athletic fields.  Imagine areas for future generations that are beyond our comprehension–lined with countless lakes, sprawling swamps, and extending mountain ranges.  We find ourselves now on a precipice of decision making; decisions made by those deemed responsible by a majority vote and quest for power and resources.  Somewhere in the mix of pick-up-sticks, that is chaos and despair, I hope.

Westward expansion, even then at a great expense, no longer exists.  The millions of First Nation people past and present could tell you stories.  It wasn’t a blank slate without a cost.  We now know the ends of the Earth.  So what is left that greedy eyes hope to conquer and consume?  The legacy of our values and decisions becomes the heritage our bloodline will receive.

While I wonder at the diversity of species, equity of lands preserved, and the inclusion of environments allowed to work together, I have to also wonder about the Earth itself.  Will resources always take precedence so nothing is sacred?  Will nothing be set aside and left untouched?  If I look at how land and water have been treated, both here at home and abroad, I gasp.  Natural resources the world over have been treated as a commodity.  And when it's gone and destroyed beyond recognition, it’s deemed “not my problem” and shelved as a historical archive.  It makes you wonder if people truly believe that “might makes right”.  It’s not how I was raised.  It’s not how I was taught to treat people or the earth.  It’s not how I spent 35 years teaching students.  It’s not how my wife and I raised our own kids.

Shouldn’t the core of how we interact be the attributes of respect and responsibility regardless of our differences?  It’s been my badge and personal mantra–both for our Earth’s creation, as well as for our fellow global neighbor.

Today in the forest surrounding me I’ve been serenaded by chickadees, nuthatches, blue jays, canadian geese, sandhill cranes heading north but confused by winter’s fake spring, barred owls on the tail-end of their mating season, pileated, flicker, and downy woodpeckers, mallards, and ironically the cries of the bald eagle; our nation’s symbol.  Those are the diversified feathered species I am familiar with and can identify.  There are so many I don’t yet recognize.  I could stay ignorant and call these surrounding members of nature the generalized label of trees and birds one is apt to do–by someone who lacks a deeper understanding–but I choose understanding, while knowing it’s an ongoing process.  I choose the fairness of opportunity to include all the pieces of the environmental puzzle–to live and let live.

That’s not to say I don’t fish, hunt, or gather; but only within personal boundaries.  If I take, I give back.  I believe the buzz word for that is reciprocity.  I like the relationship it takes to build such a thing.  With my students and my own children I used to say, “If you kill it, you need to eat it.  If you don’t want to eat it, then don’t kill it.”  That goes for northern pike, gray squirrels, or a spider you find in the corner of your living room.  Would you say that’s a philosophy that highlights respect?  Would you say that’s a philosophy that recognizes that everything has a purpose?  I feel that it’s an important aspect to bring up, because the sheer number of people and their monies that are invested in hunting, for instance, can help purchase and maintain public lands and their restoration–if those funds and their directive are used for good and not evil by the entrusted governing body and the ensuing policies under that governing body’s leadership.

“Nobility is not a birthright” was a line used in the 1991 film, Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves.  It was spoken by the protagonist Robin of Locksley.  It reminds me that leadership should never be followed simply because of a person’s flex of power.  If I am to personally listen to or be guided under one’s leadership–respect will have to be earned.  How does their integrity stand up to time and pressure?  How do they act?  What do they say when they speak?  How do they treat others?  Do others follow out of desire, or out of fear?  Does the leadership at hand work to be a voice of the people they represent or fall under the agencies at play around them–those who have the most money and sway?  What happens to those who deviate ever so slightly from the leadership's beliefs–including those who helped them get into that position?  Will the leadership forge ahead and do their own thing regardless of wise counsel?

Who else will speak for the trees?  Who else will reserve the land and treat it with respect if the community at large doesn’t step up to the plate?  I also used to teach my students that whatever we do to the land we do to the water, and whatever we do to the water we do to the land.  They are inseparable.  They work as one.  Nature as our teacher.

Although both are non-living entities, soil and water–in conjunction with sunlight, air, and rock–are the very ingredients that allow for the living here on Earth.  To say non-living aspects aren’t important or necessary is similar to yanking the table cloth out from under a set of your Grandma’s finest china; something in the realm of the living is going to come crashing down.  You can’t have the living without the non-living.  You can’t influence the land without affecting the water and visa-versa.  Thankfully, with an environmental mindset, the hope is that the land and water can also help heal each other–if just given half a chance.  As Rick Bass stated in With Every Great Breath, “Nothing exists long without the support of another thing.” (277)

What are the logistics behind the hope for a healed Earth; a better Earth?  What is the next step?  Do we wait until the water at our kitchen tap is making us sick?  Do we wait until the air in our community’s AQI rating is over 300?  Can we save the wood plot a few roads over?  Can we prevent an entire field from being covered in solar panels and direct the powers that be to instead use the large rooftops of existing corporate buildings?

I love the idea of preventing urban sprawl by carving wilderness from previously developed spaces; now in disarray and in need of a healing hand willing to lend tender love and care.  Tearing down, fixing up, or repurposing spares the wild while bringing community pride and a fresh hope to areas otherwise forgotten.  If I was that space, it’s how I’d want to be treated.  Just give me a chance–I’d say–and I’ll show you what I can do!

I also love the wild; plain and simple.  Some are afraid of it and do all they can in their power to tame it and to subdue it; squelch it.  Yet there are so many facets and spider webbed aspects of the wild.  The wild out there is the wild within.  Do we not realize that by destroying the diversity of the wild and its inclusion of living and non-living components destroys us?  The wild’s inclusion of all things–the living, once living, and non-living components–is what brings equity to all within an ecosystem’s limits.  And I’m not sure there really are any distinct limits–margins maybe–but the areas between ecosystems mesh like a zipper even in those zones.  Granted, there are ebbs and flows–flucuations in the populations–but that’s the way a system works.  It’s why each entity belongs.

Certain members of society would say the demise of the world is a sign of the end times and clap together in apocalyptic glee while celebrating that something better is offered beyond this life; following Armageddon.  And while I wouldn’t argue against any sense of restorative hope, I also call bullshit.  "What about now?”  What about the present?  I believe the quote people use for such a circumstance is, “Are you going to fiddle while Rome burns?”–with a no-care attitude.  I learned at a young age to take care of my toys.  Personally I feel as if we should show respect while taking care of this creation we’ve been given–that we’re a part of–that we are guests of while here.

To take a step forward we need hope.  It’s what moves us forward; mentally, physically, spiritually–individually, nationally, globally.  Each of us has a unique talent based on our gifts, our available resources, and our locale.  What is your niche?  What is your super power to help?  Do you have talents as a civic planner, teacher, grant writer, engineer, construction worker, real estate agent, leader, public advocate, surveyor, advertiser, organizer, fund raiser, or even a rah-rah person?  You always need someone to cheer from your corner!  I like Brene’ Brown’s spunk when she states in Braving The Wilderness, “Imagine an organization where a critical mass of people are leading and innovating from a wild heart, rather than following suit, bunkering up, and being safe.  We need a wild heart revolution more than ever.” (162)  Amen sister!  We can’t do it all. And we often are already stretched thin.  So sometimes we start small to learn the facts and recognize what’s going on around us.  Sometimes we must start small–have to start small–to avoid burnout and despair.

In her book Braiding Sweetgrass, Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer states:

“Despair is paralysis.  It robs us of agency.  It blinds us to our own power of the earth.  Environmental despair is a poison… But how can we submit to despair while the land is saying “Help”?  Restoration is a powerful antidote to despair.  Restoration offers concrete means by which humans can once again enter into positive, creative relationship with the more-than-human world, meeting responsibilities that are simultaneously material and spiritual.  It’s not enough to grieve.  It’s not enough to just stop doing bad things.

We have enjoyed the feast generously laid out for us by Mother Earth, but now the plates are empty and the dining room is a mess.  It’s time we started doing the dishes in Mother Earth’s kitchen.  Doing dishes has gotten a bad rap, but everyone who migrates to the kitchen after a meal knows that that’s where the laughter happens, the good conversations, the friendships.  Doing dishes, like doing restoration, forms relationships.” (328)

These things I’ve pondered today.  While sitting in a grove-like thicket of prickly ash, at the base of a white oak, and a stone’s throw from a flowing river, I’ve wrestled, debated, and thought about the ideas swirling around our world.  I’ve also cooked a meal, sat still, and observed–but I’ve also pondered.  In some ways these ideas are nothing new, but with the limitations of space and growth of selfishness, our environment and world yearns for healing while exercising the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion of the species and systems that have been churning along on Mother Earth for quite some time.

See you along The Way…

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