Up a 4. The truck slept hot and restless. The rain didn’t break the heat but managed to wake me regularly. The morning was humid and quiet. After a quick cup of coffee and a Cliff bar, I was on the water by 5:30. The lake was glass, and I glided effortlessly. Dawn paddles capture the essence of canoe country. The first portage to Missing Link was wet and treacherous, a dripping jungle. I was soaked from the waist down, but I floated on the constant disbelief that I am really here, alone, ready for eight days of peace.

I broke up the mile to Tuscarora in ten minute legs, leapfrogging the gear. As my third time double portaging this beast, it has become familiar. Tuscarora was smooth when I hit it, and I crossed to Owl by 9:30. I saw my first folks on Tuscarora, but most sites were empty. Owl and Crooked were burnt but recovering. At Tarry I waited for a family to clear the landing. Two children under 8 by my guess, dad hauling a monstrous boat, mom lugging an equally impressive pack. I was in awe of their grit and patience. I was jealous of their parenting power, but I am here for something I can’t find with other people.

The Mora-Little Saganaga portage is one of the most beautiful I have seen in BWCA, but I hurried over it. I knew I would see it on the return, and today was about making miles. I fell on the last leg down the last hill, but Lady Luck saved me from anything more than wounded pride. I gulped down a lunch of jerky, cheese and crackers, scarfing some trail mix and slamming another BeFree scoop of water.

Little Saganaga was long, slowly building some chop, and a precious glimpse of heavenly beauty. I love that lake, dotted with islands and graced with long, hidden bays like little fingers poking into the deep green.

I made the Elton ponds by 1:00 and encountered eight wonder women headed the other way. It must have been some camp group, denoted by matching sweatshirts and ponderous wooden portage boxes. Three barges lumbered past, each carried by a smaller girl. I felt like a sheepish giant carrying my 28lb Advantage.

By Mawka I was beat, but I wanted more. The Fee site was mediocre, a widowmaker falling OUT of camp, the landing mucky. But as I have often thought, the worst BWCA camp is miles better than some state park postage stamp, surrounded by slamming car trunks and the dull noise of humanity. The mosquitoes were Amazonian on the last portage, making it easy to settle for the relatively bugless site. After hanging the Nemo and hammock, I braved the mud for a swim, still hot from the 11 hour paddle.

My Texas State Chili (Packit Gourmet) was excellent, but I found myself wondering why I take hot food at the height of summer. Starburst dessert and a bump of whiskey finished my day. I know I have done it right when I sit down hungry and wash dishes satisfied.

I reviewed the day. My new organization worked well (camp chair and paddle strapped under seat pedestal, rods and reels in tubes strapped to gunales, crocs strapped to rear thwart). The homemade yoke worked, but it needs refinement. A better pad and some way to keep it from rolling would really improve it. I made notes about using the wooden yoke off the Seneca.

At dusk, a pleasant breeze was blowing from the east. At home, that would mean rain. Here, it lulls me to sleep, my last thoughts full of the quiet disbelief that I am here, alone, and I get to do this for 8 days.