Yesterday it occurred to me that I ought to run up to Ely and do a day trip on the Little Indian Sioux River (North) (LISR). In 1999 we moved, about 600 feet, from our rental cabin to our current home. Because we were moving such a short distance, we did a horrible job of packing, what we did pack. A day trip into the BW is similar, after all, it is “just” a day trip. I had not done what I would normally do, which is get everything ready the night prior. Yesterday morning found me gathering up what I would need, loading up the truck, throwing together whatever food I could find in the fridge, and with all that putzing and homestead chores, I did not head out until 11:30 a.m. By “run up” to Ely I mean drive 120 miles. One way. Add to this that my normal route was lengthened due to known road closures/construction, and then slowed due to unpredicted road work on #169. Then there is the small matter of me kind of forgetting just how far down the Echo trail lies entry point #14! Y’all have heard of the old acronym “HALT.” As in, if you get to hungry, angry, lonely, and/or tired, you need to halt. Take a break. Slow down. I wasn’t angry. I sure was tired, somewhat hungry, and maybe lonely. You see, on Saturday we had to put our dog down. We had to say the final goodbye to our beloved 14-year-old boy. It tears me up even to write this. I was out of sorts. I haven’t been sleeping much. I needed to just get away, to dip my paddle in the river, and mix my tears with the waters of the LISR. By the time I got to the entry point it was 3:30 p.m. This is about the hour when my stomach starts dropping hints about supper. I pulled into the very tiny grassy parking lot and went to fill out my day-use permit. I found it odd that the sign board indicated entry point #9. No matter. I then got my kit together, dawned my day pack, flipped up my canoe, and headed down the trail, marked by a sign reading “trail.” I am out of shape, with significant joint issues, but I knew this portage was only about 40 rods, so I wasn’t too concerned. I generally don’t find a reason to curse when I’m in the BW, but I eventually was muttering something along the lines of “40 rods my arse,” as I clamored on, dodging bottomless holes in the trail, skirting down trees, climbing over tree trunks, and far exceeding the 4 minutes it typically takes me to do 40 rods. I did not bring along bug spray, for which the mosquitoes were grateful. At least I’d had the presence of mind to grab a lightweight long sleeve shirt, which I wore over my t-shirt. As many of you (if you’re still reading) are well aware, I was off kilter, in more ways than one. I arrived at the obvious put-in place. There stood a young fella gathering up his fishing gear. He was next to the tell-tale massive squarish boulder, and a set of wooden steps. What the ___?! I had followed the river path, not the portage trail. Ugh. I loaded up and got on the water and away from the biting vermin. It began to creep into my consciousness that I was tired, and hungry, and distracted by my grief, and thus not making the best of decisions nor being as observant as I ought to be, or would be at baseline. Downstream I encountered a pair of swans, and much to my delight, a trio of otters. The mom otter made darn sure I wasn’t going to bother her pups, and then the three eventually slipped away. The skies were cloudy and gray, fitting for my mood. The air was hazy, due to high humidity and distant wild fires. After some time on the water, and enjoying the Elm Portage, one of my favorites, I returned south, backtracking up the river. The swans were at once in front of me and swimming ahead. They did not seem to appreciate me baring down on them in my barge. Well, not exactly baring, more like crawling. And not exactly a barge, but my beautiful little red Bell Wildfire solo canoe. Never-the-less, the duo began chatting swan talk, and frequently it sounded like they were saying, “oh no!” repeatedly! More than once they took off only to land a bit further up-river. Those big-footed swans taking off on water sound a lot like a team of Percheron draft horses wearing Scotch bottom horseshoes trotting at a good clip, on concrete. Both sounds bring a smile to my face. The otters and I met again, and the parent gave me “the look.” I steered clear. By now I am good and hungry, and I am not at all convinced I’ll be able to pry my arthritic knees out from under my canoe seat. Back at the portage I decide, since I KNOW it’ll be shorter this time, to take my day pack and the paddles, and come back for the canoe. On the way in, I though it odd that I was not encountering the bald face sloping Canadian shield rock that I recalled. The kind that guide books warn you, and rightfully so, to exercise caution when wet. Now on my exit, I crossed that rock face and it was like meeting an old friend. In another two minutes I was standing in a large and crowded parking lot. How long does it take for the lights to flicker in my noggin? It started to come together – in my foggy mental state, I had pulled into the river south parking area. Presently, I hiked out of the river north lot, a short bit down the road, and into the small south “lot” to retrieve my truck. I drove back to the proper lot, noticing the classic forest service sign that I somehow had not even seen on my way in. It was easy work retrieving my boat and loading up; and an outhouse to boot. What is even more astounding to me is that I have once tripped out of entry point #9 (LISRS), and a few times out of #14 (LISRN). This is the power of being tired, preoccupied, low blood sugar, etc. I reflect on a few things. One being my wise ol’ dad’s words, ‘it’s always when you are alone that something will happen.’ He told me that when I was quite young and starting to do things solo, such as fish or hike or camp. I was thinking about this sage phrase on the first night after I moved ‘up north’ in 1995. As I was hearing my dad’s words in my head, I happened to look up and out the sliding glass door of the log cabin I’d moved into, only to see a bear staring back at me. Hmm. Dad was right! I also recall the findings of the authors of “Death in Grand Canyon,” an account of all the known fatal mishaps in the Grand Canyon National Park. I read the book prior to backpacking in the park seven years ago. Statistics reveal that it is much safer to travel in pairs as opposed to solo. Our decision making is better. Gosh is that true. My whole day was a cluster of small and/or potential errors. Fortunately, there wasn’t a lot on the line. I mean, I wasn’t solo repelling down a previously unexplored slot canyon or some such. I did have my noggin screwed on tight enough to: leave an itinerary, bring the survival kit I’d made, bring a spare survival bivy sack, matches, lighter, compass, fleece shirt, rain jacket, …. and pick up a few different kinds of energy bars when I blew through Ely on the way up. I have made plenty of amateur mistakes in my BW tripping, long past when I would be considered an amateur. Yesterday tops out that list pretty well. Whenever I use my chainsaw to harvest firewood, I follow rules. I only cut when I am well rested and well fed, and only when I am in a frame of mind where I can totally focus. There just aren’t minor accidents with chainsaws. It is probably a good mindset for other applications as well. Like, for example, solo tripping! I am an old dog still learning valuable life lessons. And speaking of the old dog, …. We’d only brought this guy on a couple of BW trips, along with his best friend, our beloved “Cache” (after Cache Bay), who we lost last year to cancer. They just were not good tripping dogs like their predecessor. The biggest trip we took them on started and ended at…. LISR North. “Sometimes it takes a rainy day Just to let you know Everything's gonna be all right” ~ Cris Williamson