I slept great, the long paddle and complete silence only slowly letting me rise from the deep dark of pure slumber. In the complete peace found with oatmeal, coffee, and no human sound, the morning was still, the heat of the day just beyond but the cool swamp night air lingering. I was on the water at 7; brilliant blue skies promised sweaty portages and the unique joy of late afternoon swims.

Fee to Boulder is some of the most remote BWCA territory I have yet to see. The portages are overgrown, your feet hidden by ferns, the canoe consistently scrapping growth old and new. It doesn’t feel like a busy place; I know I shared one portage with a moose; its tracks were clear on the trail.

The view of Boulder Lake, after the long portage, strikes suddenly, the wide, shallow shelf inviting a quiet sit in the water. I could spend the rest of my life at such a place, looking over the broad expanse of glinting blue edged by deep old green.

Boulder was peaceful, rejuvenating, a lake I shouldn’t have just paddled through. Someday I will go back. The portages between Boulder and Adams were severely impacted by the low water. The last torture of beaver dams and swampy channels sapped my strength, reminding me of my over-exertion the day before. As I followed the last track out into Adams, it shallowed. Mud flat terror gripped me; stuck on the muck, the paddle plunging deep without resistance, I shuffled my ass with unique desperation. Once I was finally free, I was ready to settle for whatever site I found. I knew the island site was celebrated, but had it not been the first I found, I would have camped elsewhere.

And it was worth every painful stroke. The island invites with a gentle landing, a long rock shelf and a gradual rise to the kitchen. Sheltered by a few trees but still offering lake views, the kitchen captures all the classical elements of BWCA. After unloading, I took the first of many swims. Between my life jacket and the crocs, I could float just off a big rock, cooling down in what had become a hot afternoon.

After camp was set, I rested, finding the perfect shade spot to read and soak up the quiet. I am convinced that those are hours that God doesn’t count, timeless moments where the bustle of daily life is forgotten, the deep imprints of modernity slowly soothed. I cooked ramen noodles, soaking it up with fry bread and ghee, too tired to fish; the hot evening lacked angling promise regardless.

The backside of the island rises to a large rock outcropping. Sweeping views north bend my knees, drawing long gazes and deep thoughts. The rock was warm, and a perfect swell stretched my lower back when I layed down and thanked God for everything. I was struck by how wilderness canoeing is deeply wonderful and achingly hard - both physically and mentally. The dwindling twilight brought on an emotional roller-coaster I haven’t felt before. I was deeply moved, but I was struck by the absence of anyone to share it with. However, I wondered - would I have felt such intense joy if I wasn’t alone? The paradox of the solo.

I went to bed early, the hammock hot, but the bone-tired weariness overcame it. My last thought was of how I didn’t see a single human since the eight wonder women 30 hours previous.