“What’s this for?”, I ask.
“Your bag!”, he responds.
I look at him and back at the sack again. I have no idea how I am supposed to fit a weekends’ worth of stuff into something so tiny. I tell him as much, confronting a new “less is more” mindset that is apparently helpful in this context. We narrow it down to a few items of clothing, and I look longingly at my pile of discarded items, my deodorant and shampoo bottles among them. I shrug my shoulders, quietly accepting that body odor and greasy hair will be part of the experience.
We haul out our gear and lay everything on the garage floor, preparing to pack it into the vehicle.
“I don’t know, Ri. I just can’t really picture you roughing it in the Boundary Waters”, my cousin’s voice echoes through my mind as I recall our phone conversation from earlier in the week.
I balance my end of the canoe above my head, and we gently set it down on the roof of our Ford Escape. I catch the blue nylon straps as they flop over onto my side of the canoe, loop them through the roof rails, and toss them back over to JT so he can tie it down.
My heart beats nervously in my chest as we hop into the vehicle and make our way north. I don’t know much about camping let alone paddling a canoe. This will be my first time meeting JT’s friends, Joe and Liz, who are also fellow BWCA enthusiasts. As the only newbie in the group, I worry that I’m going to look like a buffoon. Earlier in the week, JT had asked Joe and Liz about a plunging forecast, and their response was, in its entirety, “I can’t imagine we’re afraid of a little cold.”
JT must sense my nervousness and leans over to pat my leg. I smile back and try to push away my worries.
“This will be fun”, I reassure myself. “Lots of fun. A new adventure…”
***
Hail pelts my face. Wind lurches the canoe sideways, and water sloshes over the front, soaking my already numb hands and feet.
“You’re doing great, hon!”, JT shouts from the back of the canoe.
I appreciate his encouragement as I try to ignore my thoughts of doom. I have no idea if this is what the Boundary Waters is supposed to be like, but I’m becoming increasingly certain that I am not cut out for it, worrying that the next gust of wind is going to tip us over, and I’ll meet my demise in a frigid lake, trapped under the giant pack – aptly named “Big Blue” – that is nestled in the middle of our tightly packed Kevlar canoe.
“I tried to tell her she wasn’t a Boundary Waters gal…”, my cousin will say at my funeral, shaking her head sadly at my naivete.
I force the thought out of my mind and focus on paddling, my shoulders aching with the effort. Joe and Liz trail just to the left of us, their faces strained, shoulders hunched, our paddles moving quickly in and out of the water as we push through the elements. By some miracle, we eventually arrive at a campsite, which at this point is any campsite, the hail giving way to a light but steady rain.
We hurriedly pull our canoes on shore and set up camp. Liz pulls out a bag of trail mix, and I scoop out a few handfuls and devour them as we huddle under a gathering of dripping wet Cedar trees trying to find refuge from the rain.
“A fire’s going to be tough”, JT and Joe comment as they stare into the fire pit, small puddles of water accumulating at its edges as the rain continues to fall.
We disperse and look in vain for dry wood to start a fire. We manage a few damp pieces, just enough to “cook” brats over a small flame that is more smoke than fire. My brat is lukewarm, but I wolf it down, grateful for some replenishment after the long, difficult paddle and hours of shivering in the cold.
The temperature continues to drop, and the rain shows no signs of letting up. After a few moments of group indecision, we retire to our tents while it’s still light out. I peel off my wet layers and snuggle into my sleeping bag, pulling my hat down snuggly over my ears and tightening my hooded sweatshirt to encase as much heat as possible. Barring a bladder emergency of significant proportions, I will not be leaving this spot for quite some time.
“Hoo it’s chilly. Thank you for hanging in there with this”, JT says as he shivers next to me, only his eyes and nose peeking out over the top of his sleeping bag.
I lean over to plant a kiss on his forehead, grateful to finally be dry and warm. Despite the early hour, my eyes quickly become heavy, and I fall into dreamless sleep.
***
I snap a quick photo as JT brushes snow off the canoe. It’s day two of this late September trip. My breath comes out in short, white puffs as I make my way to the rocky outcropping to look out at the lake. The sun peeks out over the treetops, its light gently dancing on the water. I inhale deeply and feel the cold air expanding in my lungs.
It’s at this moment that I start to feel the quiet, a deep, peaceful kind of quiet. It feels as though we are the only people around for miles. We actually might be. I squint as I look across the lake trying to make out other possible campsites in the distance.
Behind me, JT arranges a small pile of twigs and paper in the fire pit. The blue speckled percolator sits on top of the grate, and I walk over to see how I can help, eager to sit with a cup of coffee and warm up my cold, stiff limbs. He shows me how to keep the fire going and heads off into the woods in search of more firewood. I kneel on the ground, cup my hands around my mouth and gently blow on the fire, watching the coals glow bright and orange. The wind changes direction, and I lean back suddenly, coughing and waving away the smoke and ash that is now blowing directly at me.
Joe and Liz emerge from their tent, and Joe takes over fire duties, grabbing the top of the food barrel container and waving it back and forth in front of the grate which proves to be much more effective than my pitiful puffs of air. Soon, big orange flames crackle in the pit and the percolator starts to bubble. JT emerges from the woods and sets a couple of logs on top of the grate to dry out.
As we sip our coffee and prepare breakfast, the temperature slowly starts to rise, and I shed one of my layers. We all agree that we should try to find a new campsite, our current spot being small, wet, low, and generally dark.
While launching the canoes, I lose my footing and fall into the water, soaking my entire lower half. Despite my efforts, I feel like the Boundary Waters is actively resisting me, almost mocking me with its many challenges. I ignore my wet boots and pants and hop into the canoe, determined to make the best of it.
The waves lap gently against the sides of the canoe as we make our way out onto the lake. This already feels vastly different from the day prior. I slowly dip my paddle in and out of the water, quietly absorbing the sights around me. The sun shines against my face, picking up steam, and I close my eyes, grateful for the warmth.
We reach our destination and climb onto shore, eager to check out our new spot. The new site is expansive and elevated, with a beautiful view of the lake.
“A buddy stash!”, JT shouts excitedly.
I look over and see that whoever came before us has left a pile of wood, dry due to its placement in a small rock cubby next to the fire pit. It feels like we’ve won the jackpot, and our shouts echo along the lake as we discover all the benefits our new site has to offer.
As early evening arrives, JT and I head out to fish. The day has been good to us, full of sunshine, conversation, and laughter.
“ ♪ Little baby Walter ♪…”, JT sings jokingly, as he tosses his line into the water, trying to entice walleye to the boat.
I laugh and watch the sun as it slowly sets, its colors fading from orange to pink to purple. I take out my phone to try and capture this moment. I feel content and at peace, as though I’ve earned something. I am beginning to understand why so many love this place.
I feel a gentle tug on my line and quickly grab my rod. I reel up the slack, set the hook, and promptly feel the fish let go. It appears that the Boundary Waters and I have reached a reconciliation of sorts, and I accept this small defeat, knowing I’ve gained something greater by simply having the opportunity to be a part of this place.
***
We used to count my trips to the Boundary Waters, each one accompanied by a new story to tell.
There was the time my brother, Zach, joined us, the three of us weighed down in the Kevlar, the top of the canoe barely staying above the water’s surface while we navigated the many portages on our way down the Kawishiwi River. That evening, JT went out fishing by himself and returned to find me and Zach halfway through a box of Merlot back at camp, tipsy and giggling while sitting around the fire, singing along to country songs. (Too much Merlot, if we’re being honest, but an amount that did inspire me to learn the benefits of a cold plunge in the river the next morning.)
Or the time our black lab, Ziggy, swam out into the middle of the lake to chase beavers. Our attempts to call her back were futile, as she paddled back and forth between two beavers that would pop up in different spots on the lake, diving deep below the surface when she got too close. Eventually, she tired of the game, panting happily when she returned to shore and covering us with water as she shook out her coat.
And then there was the time we discovered Haines Point. It was Memorial Day Weekend, and we had paddled around half the lake, unable to find a spot that wasn’t filled with campers. Just as we were starting to get discouraged, we found it, tucked inconspicuously into the corner of the lake.
“This place is huge!”, I shouted to JT, checking out the various spots where we could pitch our tent.
Pleased with our discovery, and partially relieved that we wouldn’t be faced with far more difficult options, we naturally decided to name the place after ourselves.
We’ve since lost track of the number of trips, but each time I am reminded why I continue to come back. It is beautiful and special to spend time with people in the wilderness. Free from distractions, I connect with others in a different and deeper way while watching the warm colors of a sunset or pointing out the Big Dipper in a vast evening sky full of stars. Time moves at a different speed, a pace that allows me to appreciate a merganser in flight, watch an otter as it feeds from the shore, or sit back in my camp chair sipping coffee and watching the leaves of the trees blow gently in the breeze.
The Boundary Waters will always be filled with challenges – thunderstorms, windy days, empty bellies, difficult paddles. But each challenge feels meaningful, an opportunity to discover things about myself that I never really knew, an opportunity to enjoy the other end of it. In a world that is fraught with expectations to do more, see more, and be more, the Boundary Waters is a place where I can simply be.
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