02/24/2023 08:29PM
My first trip into what is now the BWCA was in 1972 with my dad. I have owned property next to the BWCA since 1984 and still venture in many times a year.
I introduced my son-in-law to the great white north and BWCA trips a decade or so ago. When he took an interest he suggested I share my history and stories. We once looked over a map of the BWCA. Evidently there are over 1000 lakes. If so, he couldn't find one I hadn't been to. Many more I have bushwacked in to. Every one has a story.
If I stray from BWCA related content, it's because I hope to only tell my story once and the back story is important.
My dad was infatuated with the area that is now the BWCA. He grew up horribly abused by an alcoholic father and then suffered from severe PTSD from serving our country in Vietnam. My mom accepted his shortfalls and supported his passion, but insisted if he went fishing he take his hyper active oldest child with him (that was me).
My dads passion is what is now the BWCA. With his inner demons, my mom supported that passion, it's the only thing that kept him alive. My mom loved him dearly. That being said, till death do us part, it was an obsession. An obsession I was dragged into. An obsession my mom supported because otherwise she would have lost her husband entirely.
GEAR for the BWCA. I have to laugh. In the decade of the 1970's I lived in the BWCA. My clothes were my play clothes. My play clothes were last years school clothes. My school, until I reached high school age, had a rule. No jeans, tennis shoes, or t shirts. I made a decades worth of trips into the BWCA wearing polyester dress pants, button down shirts, and leather dress shoes. All were outgrown and worn out.
If it was wet or muddy. I had over shoes, galoshis. You put your shoe in it and button it up. If they were new, they were 2 sizes to big and I had to tape them to my feet, when I was getting ready for a new pair I had to take my shoes off, put them in the boot, then put them on.
Long story short. We were poor. Very poor. When we went into the BWCA my dad always packed our food to depend on catching fish. Considering, in our everyday life, we went to bed hungry often. It is understandable. He also tried justifying our trips by packing light on food to justify our trips.
Our tent was canvas and it stunk. In the morning you could wake up, keep your eyes closed and know whether it was sunny or overcast based on the stink. You could also know the amount of humidity in the air. Everytime it rained it leaked. Every time it leaked my dad would blame me for touching the fabric. I never, ever touched the fabric but never dared tell him.
Canoes. My dad had 2 matching Old Town HW wooden strip canoes. He loved those canoes and was very proud of them. He earned them by working a summer for an old timer in exchange for them. The guy he worked them off from is somewhat of a legend in the north country. But, that is another story. Those canoes were from the late 1920's and probably made a thousand trips into canoe country. I remember the demise of both and it was a sad day each time.
A good time to mention. My dad was a bigger out-doors-person than any two people any of you can think of. He lived to hunt and fish. In his entire adult life he owned one pair of boots. His Army boots. He had snow boots, and muck boots, but that one pair of army boots! They went from boot camp to England to two tours in Vietnam to 50 years of deer hunting, grouse hunting, and BWCA trips. After every trip they were spit shined and mink oiled. I suspect they were re soled a dozen times. I remember after one BWCA trip late in his life I took with him, his boots were all scuffed up. I thought, that was a tough trip. Imagine owning one pair of boots your entire adult life. After he died I wore those same boots. They were so awful, I donated them to Goodwill.
My dad made two matching coolers we would bring into the BWCA. They were stainless sheetmetal inside and outside and about two inches thick. I have no clue what he used for insulation but they worked great and were bear proof. The top lids extended past the sides, so there was a ridge around the top edge. When a bear would try to break into it he would munch on that edge. The big bears would leave tooth punctures which my dad would braze and fill the holes. After 20 years of use those cooler edges had hundreds of repaired puncture marks.
Dehydrated food, LOL. I can't imagine. My mom would pack some casseroles, potatoes, and bacon. Usually we did a 2 week trip. My beverages consisted of tang orange powder for breakfast, powdered milk for supper and she would have a sandwich bag of cocoa for a treat. Like enough for one night. My big treat she packed. A half dozen graham crackers.
We were in Jap Lake in the summer of 1976. It was hot, still, and calm. We couldn't catch any fish. Usually we would chase walleye, then work the northern, then flip over rocks to get worms for perch. Jap was a trout lake so we didn't have those options. We were rationing our food and we were hungry. What food we had left was terribly bottom of the barrel. My brother and I were fishing during the middle of the day. While fishing late one morning my brother had a suggestion for something we should do at camp, so we both began rowing like lunatics. I forgot my lure was out. The fluttering motion caught the attention of a 10 pound laker. That fish was precious to me. We really had nothing else to eat. Coming up on 50 years later, that is still the best fish meal I have ever eaten.
That night my dad had gone to bed. My brother and I were sitting around the campfire. It was one of those nights where it was so dark you couldn't see the horizon above the trees. Pitch black. We heard crashing coming towards us through the woods. It got closer and closer. Pretty soon whatever if was got out of the woods and was in camp. We could then hear like smacking or popping. A bear walked up to our campfire and was digging in it. He was so close I could have slapped him on the butt. He'd dig in the fire, back up, do the smacking/popping noise, then dig in the fire again. He did this 3 times. The fourth time he backed up but instead of going back to the fire he decided to circle it. I was sitting in a camp chair and he turned to circle, stopped and realized we were there. My face was inches from his. 6-8". He curled back his lips which scared me, like a dog snarling. I started yelling "get away you dumb bear" he backed up and walked away. My brother said " what a dumb bear" when it was over. That was the total of our conversation.
We had tossed our fish guts in the fire. I'm certain that's what drew him in. What shocks me is he had no fear of the fire.
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