Adams to Little Sag (5) 17.5 miles

Happy birthday America! Despite all of your troubles, you are extraordinary and in the great roll of the universal dice, I wouldn’t have wanted to be born anywhere else. I thank all of those who came before me, my family included, for all they did to make this day possible - for me to stand on this rock ledge as daylight fills the smoky sky and know this sense of complete freedom.

Another breakfast of pancakes and bacon helped me plan my day. I would paddle south, enjoy the Adams-Beaver portage, find my way to River Lake, perhaps dip into Malberg, but end somewhere in the Pan- Mawka chain. It was ambitious, and the heat already haunting the morning mists promised a hot paddle.

The Beaver-Adams portage didn’t disappoint. Climbing the west cliff in the early heat of morning broke a sweat that was 100% worth the effort. How does rock like this form? The steep, undulating smooth face climbs inexorably, broken by stubborn life clinging in cracks, scrub pines roots splayed across granite.

The Beaver end balances with a eastern face far less accessible. I regret not climbing it, but the cool swamp cedar air lulled me into a late morning snack. I could have slept perched on my pack, looking south down the long, narrow bay crowded by tall pines and piercing blue skies. I steadily paddled and portaged to River Lake. At the west access to Malberg, the heat of early afternoon and the growing wind dissuaded me from any tangential exploration. I plodded on. The Makwa cliffs were stunning, but I was so spent by then that I just captured a zoomed in shot across the lake. Somewhere after River, my heart had settled on staying on Little Sag. The summer before, with my 8 year old daughter and 75 yr old father, I had explored the lake over three days. We pulled up our first canoe country lake trout and I fondly remembered island camps that I wished to explore.

At the Elton portage, I met an elderly man headed the other way. His deliberate competence at the landing, his efficient packing and portaging, and his clearly earned physical shape left a strong impression. To be honest, I am obese by most definitions, and if I hope to ever match his stately performance, I need to change my daily life in radical ways. He was a man that didn’t worry about finding motivation; he had developed a far more valuable skill - the art of discipline. Even months later, I remain inspired by his silent example.

By late afternoon, I had found a pleasant island site (816). It was tight, but the weather radio called for storms, and the deep, old growth tent sites offered the perfect protection for the Nemo. I fished without real passion, not really eager to clean dinner, the pack still full of Packit meals. The heat was killing my appetite, and the pack wasn’t lightening up like it should.

I swam just before bed again, the peaceful float of jacket and Crocs making me fantasize about sleeping in that cool escape. I still suffered from intense anxiety about the Nemo, fearing the intense nightly onslaught. My last thoughts are of my family. I am so used to the constant buzz of young, active daughters, and the hurried pace of two full-time workers (plus my night teaching). The deep silence reminds me of the peace that I can find anywhere in remembrance of the irreplaceable joy of their presence. I fall asleep knowing I am the luckiest man alive.