After completing my first solo in the Boundary Waters in 2023, I was eager to again spend a week in this wilderness, my favorite place in the world, in 2024. Last year’s experience of traveling the Louse River deep in the heart of the BWCA was sublime, and I knew that I wanted another similar experience for my next trip. Since the Louse trip had gone well overall, I knew that my only limit was the time I had available for this trip. From the beginning, only one river was seriously considered: The Frost River.

Whenever rivers in the Boundary Waters and Quetico are discussed, the Frost River is always a part of that discussion. This river is thought of by many paddlers as the most iconic route in the park, due to its challenge, remoteness, and beauty. It is notorious for challenging paddlers with a non-stop barrage of short portages around a multitude of beaver dams, the number of which varies greatly depending on the time of year and the prevailing water levels. For this reason, most choose to run the Frost River early in the paddling season, when water levels are at or near their highest of the year. This coincided perfectly with the May timeframe slated for my trip.

I had several personal reasons for choosing the Frost River, too. Ordinary, everyday family life could only be described as beautifully frantic, and I didn’t expect the pace to let up for many years. As an example, in January, I celebrated my 40th birthday by spending the day watching my three oldest children play in nine different basketball games. While I continued my daily workout routine of long sessions on the rowing machine at home and long treadmill runs while at work, the increasingly full social calendar meant that it took a very purposeful effort on my part to make time for maintaining my health. My oldest daughter Mary would be graduating eighth grade in the spring of 2025, and that meant I would need to choose a different week for my canoe trip next year. Through the immersive experiences of planning for and experiencing Boundary Waters trips the past two years, I had learned that this wilderness sanctuary was also a sanctuary for my soul. When I was in the Boundary Waters, I felt unencumbered, free to “step back from the canvas” of increasingly frantic daily life and just drink in the love of God. While I loved traveling solo, I also felt a deep longing to share this soul-cleansing sanctuary with my family, namely my growing sons. Next year would likely be my first trip with my oldest son Andrew, who would be 12 next spring.

All of these factors led me to approach this specific solo trip with the understanding that this could very well be my last solo trip for several years, as well as my last May trip for a while. May was a perfect time to travel the Frost River, and I was confident that I’d be able to handle the challenges of this route at this stage in my life. And so it was. 2024 was to be the year of the Frost River.

I prefer to enter the wilderness early in the morning on Sunday and exit early on Saturday, and began perusing the maps for the trip with this timeframe in mind. The Frost River itself is much shorter than the Louse, so I wanted to find a way to extend this loop slightly to make the best use of my time. Last year, I similarly extended my Louse River solo to visit Fisher Lake. While I loved camping on Fisher, my route last year was overly ambitious, resulting in fatigue and not enough time in camp to relax and fish as much as I had wanted. This year, I was determined to catch a fish, namely a northern pike or two, because I wanted to be able to experience the thrill of catching pike with my sons when they join me in the coming years. Also, purposefully making time to try to catch fish, even if unsuccessful, would force me to slow down and relax a bit more than last year. After a few months of pondering the maps, I finally settled on a route entering at Missing Link, with planned camps on Frost, Bologna, Little Saganaga, Spice, and Grandpa lakes, exiting at Seagull. After a quick call to Tuscarora to rent the canoe and request they book my permit in January, there was nothing left to do but pack!

Last year was my first year of preparing my own dehydrated meals, and I underestimated how much food I needed. This year, I was determined not to make the same mistake again, and increased each meal portion around 30%. This was also more motivation to try to find a way to catch a fish or two to eat! I spent three nights in February re-learning how to set up and sleep in my hammock in the yard when the weather approximated the overnight temps I’d be facing the Boundary Waters. The packing process itself was running behind schedule in the months leading up to the trip, but thankfully I was able to carve out a day or two in April to organize. I worked a lot in the last few days before the trip, but that allowed me a day or two after I returned to re-calibrate. [paragraph break] Ooh, crazy's what they think about me [paragraph break] Ain't gonna stop 'cause they tell me so [paragraph break] Fitz and the Tantrums “The Walker” [paragraph break] It’s always surprising to me how much planning goes into simply making such a long drive on either end of this trip. The drive home is simple: Exit the BWCA as early as possible in the day and power through the whole way home. Driving up is more difficult. Due to generally more favorable winds, I vastly prefer to be on the water paddling just before sunrise when in the park. In order to do so, I need to arrive at the outfitter during business hours the day before (Saturday) to check out the canoe and pick up my permit, then complete “final final” packing the night before entry at the bunkhouse. Entering at sunrise on Sunday necessitates attending Mass on Saturday evening in Grand Marais at 5 pm. All of these factors combine to make it most sensible to arrive on Friday, sleep (this year I camped at Trail’s End campground for a night), then do a short day trip on Saturday before heading to Mass, then returning to the outfitter to finish packing and sleep. In order to arrive on Friday with plenty of time to set up camp and to allow time for unforeseen stops or a roadside nap, I needed to drive through the night. This is a decidedly crazy thing to do. But as I told a friend or two leading up to the trip, I may spend the entirety of the year coloring inside the lines and conforming, but this is “Heath gone wild.” A singular week of the year that operates outside of all standard convention. [paragraph break] Gear changes for this year:

-No leeches. In spite of significant effortslast year, I just couldn’t keep them alive long enough to be worth the effort.

-Astral Rassler water shoes for wet foot portaging. Even though it was May, I found that I always ended up with water coming in over my Muck boots anyway.

-New food additions are whey protein powder plus more dry milk for protein shakes, and dehydrated homemade tomato soup for chilly, rainy days. -It seems each trip in the past had at least one chilly, wet, “tough” day. In spite of the extra weight and bulk, I brought along my 10x14” CCS tundra tarp. To pack or not pack the tarp was hands down the most angst-ridden decision I faced pre-trip. I threw it in the pack but planned to further evaluate this the night before my entry date when I had a more reliable weather forecast to go off of.

-I brought a different brand of weather radio (Midland from Menard’s) this year after getting zero reception anywhere in the park with my CCrane pocket radio last year.

-The canoe I rented was a NorthStar Northwind Solo. Last year, my Wenonah Wilderness from Sawbill had a permanently installed portage yoke, but this one had a clamp on yoke.

-I had shortened my bent shaft carbon fiber paddle 3” (to a new length of 52”) over the off season and looked forward to trying it out! [paragraph break] Stats—>Pack weight without food: 53 pounds|Final pack weight with food: 70 pounds| Meters rowed since last trip: 2,286,829|

With the gear assembled, double-checked, and packed, I shuttle all of it to the trusty Honda Civic at 2:30 P.M. The Civic is my long haul steed for the third straight year. In March, I scheduled a precautionary visit to the mechanic to make sure it was ready for this drive, and a substantial oil leak was discovered, then fixed. This was my first time to have the mechanic give a general once-over look of the vehicle as part of pre-trip planning, and I intend to keep doing this. The timeline is tight and this trip is too important to ignore the impact of a preventable catastrophic failure between here and the north country.

There are always so many life commitments to button up before leaving. I meet with a home improvement salesman at 3 P.M. about our rotting siding. When I mention my trip as a reason I will be difficult to reach in the coming days with a proposal, he expresses nothing but support, which feels great. It always feels very self-indulgent to leave my home for a week in the woods alone. I should be exhausted, but my spirits are high now that the months-long ordeal of packing and prep is behind me and my entire trip lies before me. Since it’s my last meal at home with the family, I scramble to fire up the grill for one last hearty meal of burgers and bratwurst for everyone. My daughter has a softball game tonight, and the boys are headed to a trampoline park with friends, but I reluctantly tell them that I need to stay at home and sleep before beginning my cannonball run north.

Sleep comes easy, and I awaken as everyone arrives back home from the game and trampoline park a few hours later. Once all are tucked in and I say way too many goodbyes, I nervously piddle around a bit more before realizing there’s truly nothing left for me to do. It’s time.

This year’s audiobook for the drive is “Outlive” by Dr. Peter Attia, which is very technical but also engaging and practical. [paragraph break] Hey, waitress, pour me another cup of coffee [paragraph break] Pop it down, jack me up, shoot me out, flyin' down the highway [paragraph break] Lookin' for the mornin' [paragraph break] Ooh, I'm drivin' my life away [paragraph break] Lookin' for a better way for me [paragraph break] Ooh, I'm drivin' my life away [paragraph break] Lookin' for a sunny day [paragraph break] Eddie Rabbitt “Drivin’ My Life Away” [paragraph break] The energy is still high when I make my first fuel stop in northern Missouri at 3:45 A.M., but I choose to grab a giant cup of coffee “just in case” I need it later. This turns out to be a good choice because within 30 minutes of continuing my drive, I start to hit a wall. As I pass through Ames, Iowa, the sun is rising and I am feeling pretty lousy. When I drove through the night two years ago, I remember this same struggle from Des Moine to Mason City, which is the halfway point of the drive. Thankfully, another old friend that I haven’t heard from in years calls just before Mason City and we chat all the way to Minneapolis about everything under the sun. He got me through the worst of it today. I say a prayer thanking God for this trip, for making it through the night, and for the friends I am so blessed to have in this life. While it’s rare we can see each other or even talk on the phone anymore due to hectic family lives and demanding careers, the fact that they take the time to reach out to me during this time means more than I can express.

Soon enough I find myself driving through Duluth, where I notice a Great Lakes freighter ship right in downtown that allows tours, the WA Irvin. These ships have always been a fascination for me, and we as a family have been learning about the Edmund Fitzgerald by listening to podcasts in the van. Once I start bringing the kids up, we will have to find a way to stop here for a visit.

Once I start driving up the north shore, I realize I haven’t listened to a single one of my birdsong tracks that I intended to refresh while on this drive. While I’ve been listening to these for months, I still have a long playlist of BWCA birds that specifically challenge me, especially the warblers. I’m able to get through this entire list once on the drive to Grand Marais.

It’s around 1 P.M. when I hit the brakes and pull in to “Sugarloaf Cove” for my longest stop of the drive. This is a geologic point of interest where one can view several areas that have volcanic rocks and lava flows on the shore of Lake Superior that I’d heard about. As it turns out, the highlight of the short walk is the birds I see and hear. I hear an ovenbird and a green throated warbler, and am able to visually identify Blackburnian and Yellow-Rumped Warblers. The Blackburnian Warblers are particularly striking.

After fueling up the car and a quick photo at my favorite road sign in the world, the Gunflint Trail sign near the library in Grand Marais, I head up the trail. The weariness of the day starts to creep up on me again on this final stretch of winding pavement through the woods. I reach site 19 at Trail’s End Campground at 3:55 P.M. with plenty of time to set up before nightfall.

I had wondered for months whether or not the site I chose based on a few photos online would offer a single decent spot to hang my hammock. Fortunately, I find a solid place to hang, near the flowing rapids behind the site, which should provide some outstanding white noise for tonight’s much needed rest! The weather forecast for the week predicts rain showers nearly every day, and right on cue, a steady rain pours down as I make my first hammock set of the trip. While I don’t mind setting up in my rain gear, keeping my down under/top quilts bone dry is trickier in these conditions. But I suppose I’ll get better as the week goes along!

After I have the hammock hung, the sun comes out and I enjoy a lovely evening by driving around evaluating campsites for future stays (18 is right night to the rapid and more spacious with better hammock options. Sites 20, 21, and 25 also look very promising). I filter some water, clean out the car, and prepare a dehydrated meal of scrambled eggs and sausage with hot salsa, then prepare my breakfast and lunch thermoses for tomorrow’s day trip. With all the activity of the drive and getting settled, I allow myself a few extra minutes to relax and read some pages of the Walter Isaacson Elon Musk biography on my phone, which is a very entertaining read.

It’s time for a moment of truth: Will the newly acquired weather radio work? It does! This is great news! The forecast is for a wet week, but at least it will be windy, too. Rain tonight (I don’t think I’ll float away next to the rapids?), windy and chances of severe thunderstorms tomorrow afternoon. I’ll need to blast out of here early to get the earliest jump possible if I want to get that day trip in off of Round Lake. The forecast for entry day is for steady 5-10 mile per hour winds…with 25 mile per hour gusts. I certainly won’t be fishing Frost Lake in gusts of 25!

After organizing the site I finally set up my chair on a rock next to the rapids as the evening light fades to journal and reflect on this day, and all that has led me here. At one point during my drive this morning, I spent four hours in silence, decompressing, praying, and thanking God for all He’s given me in this life. During the course of the year, the path to success seems to be one of ignoring my own needs, quietly accepting the burdens that must be carried in order that others may succeed. But this week is a time each year that I feel God’s love for me, for exactly who I am, more than ever. And in spite of the challenges of this manically beautiful life I lead, each paddle stroke, each mucky portage step, each view of unexplored territory, is my praise and thanks to God for who I am, where I am, for where I’ve been, and for where I’m going. In this wilderness, God’s love and wild spirit is made present to me in a very personal, real way.

Judging by the forecast, this week might be one where I feel the “wild spirit” more than the love! I guess I’ll find out soon enough! Good night.

Stats—>Miles: 939|Google Maps time: 14:32|Total travel time: 16:30 (91 minutes of stops, 54 minutes of which was at Sugarloaf Cove)|Best miles per gallon: 41 (windows up, a/c off)

I head back down the Gunflint Trail to Tuscarora and arrive at 7:05 A.M. behind one other group to watch the permit video, check out, and make some last minute purchases of another isobutane fuel canister (this makes three 8 oz canisters in total, one of which I noticed is more empty than I thought when cooking supper last night), a pint glass to replace the one that got broken almost immediately at home two years ago, and one more dry bag specifically for my hammock and down quilts, to keep them completely segregated from my wet tarp. Unsurprisingly, it takes me a while to get everything fully squared away for my day trip, mainly due to needing to repack the hammock with the new dry bag. A hard rain shower rolls through while I’m accomplishing this from my trunk in the parking lot, but I take this as something worth getting used to sooner rather than later, given the weather forecast for the week ahead. I haven’t even taken a paddle stroke, and I’ve already used the rain gear more than the entirety of last year’s Louse River trip.

Once the pack is squared away, I set up the canoe, using BDB’s to lash my fishing pole and spare 52” bent shaft paddle to the thwarts. The pack fits well behind the seat, but that means I will need to be ready to add weight in the bow for the windy paddles that surely lie ahead of me. But for now, the conditions are calm enough to not need any extra rocks in the bow.

At 9:10 A.M., I paddle away from the landing on Round Lake, which is a full hour earlier than last year. My elation is quickly quelled when I realize 10 minutes in that I forgot to fill out a day trip permit before leaving the landing, and have to return to do so. With my permit filled out, I once again head for the portage to Missing Link in hopes of a campsite break for breakfast and some fishing.

The first thing I notice about this canoe is that the seat sits much lower than I expected, and apparently much lower than last year, because my paddle once again seems too long. It’s not too bad, but it looks like for this canoe, a 50” paddle would be best for me. Aside from this, the canoe handles well. It feels just a bit more “sleek” than last year’s Wenonah Wilderness, though still plenty stable for my skill level and easy enough to turn.

I reach the portage to Missing Link behind a group of four and it feels like I’m right back in the parking lot again…discombobulated, disorganized, and outmatched. The thwart bag is always a tough thing to figure out how to portage since it flops around and can block my view. I end up attaching it to my pack today so it doesn’t affect the balance of the canoe. The pack just feels insanely heavy today. To make matters worse, this is quite the portage to deal with for my first since last year. Uphill right away, rocky, and muddy. What am I doing out here?! Fortunately the canoe feels super light on my shoulders on the second trip across, though I get a surprise when the yoke falls off near the Missing Link end. But I spend some time fiddling and learn how to secure it better.

In the northeast bay of Missing Link, a fly fisherman is fishing and says he has caught a couple trout, which is good to hear. The rainy morning and the challenging portage have worn me down, and I look for an open site to enjoy a much-needed breakfast break. The only one open on the lake is the one nearest the portage to Tuscarora, and it’s a rough-and-tumble site with a steep landing, lots of brush, and a hungry horde of mosquitoes…more than I’ve had to deal with in the past two years combined. Between the rain and the mosquitoes, I sense that this year is going to be one where I earn my stripes as a paddler! Also, after hauling my pack up the hill to the fire grate area, my leather belt snaps in half. I think this is because I was carrying my birding binoculars on my belt and the pack strap was putting pressure on all of it, stressing it to its breaking point. Oh well, I never liked that belt anyway. While eating breakfast, my weather radio sounds an extremely annoying and loud whooping alarm for several minutes. This has happened multiple times already today, and with the radio buried in my pack, there’s little I can do about it out here without a total unpack/re-pack sequence. For now, I add it to my list of annoyances that need to be fixed and stoically bear it.

Back on the lake, I toss out a jointed shad rap in perch color to halfheartedly troll the south and east shores of Missing Link, but don’t have any luck. It’s nearing noon at this point, and Andy at Tuscarora had advised me to get back early from my day trip due to the afternoon forecast for a strong thunderstorm or two. So I head back to the portage to Round to return and settle into my bunkhouse for the night.

It’s humid and the sun is shining directly on me as I portage back to Round. In addition to the increasing heat, this pack still feels way too heavy, and I think I’m still recovering from the strain of my all-night drive to get up here. But these problems pale in comparison to the humbling annoyance of portaging without a belt in my pants. Without a belt, my pants fall down around my knees after three steps, unless held up by my hand. With one hand solely dedicated to keeping my pants up, I wearily trudge back to Round, wondering how I can possibly handle the challenge of the Frost River if this first portage has caused me so many problems today. I vow to leave the extra bulk and weight of the tarp in the car, given how heavy the pack feels.

At last back on Round, I decide to troll my shad rap back to the landing but again have no bites.

I reach the landing around 2:30 P.M. and it feels good to have one more night in the civilized world to sleep in a bed and consider what my short “shakedown” paddle has taught me today. First off: I must find a belt in town before closing time tonight. Andy recommends some places in town which sets my mind at ease that I won’t be spending the week portaging with one hand while the other holds up my pants. He assigns me bunkhouse 7 for the night and I move my gear into it. I’m famished and quickly eat the lunch from my thermos, then unpack my gear onto the floor into various piles: Things I know I’m bringing, and things I need to think about leaving behind. By the time I recombobulate, it’s past 3:30 and I need to motor into town to find a belt before the stores close and then go to Mass at St. John’s.

On my way back down the Gunflint Trail, I realize I forgot to request to swap the 52” spare paddle for a 50”. Fortunately I am able to call and Ada swaps out my spare paddle that I left in the bunkhouse while I am in town. Once in town, I go to Stone Harbor and find a canvas belt that is built to last. I somehow have just a few extra minutes before Mass begins, so I drive down to Artist’s Point and call home once more. They’ve been busy socializing with friends at graduation parties all day. I catch them up on my daytrip misadventures and say one last goodbye before going to Mass. From Artist’s Point, I can see a giant thunderhead building somewhere west of town over the Gunflint area. This makes me really glad I didn’t push too hard today!

After Mass, I head back to Tuscarora with plenty of loose ends to tie up. First, I need to better situate the load in the canoe for balance while portaging. I flip my fishing rod around so the heavy reel and line will be in the bow while portaging, and use BDB’s to attach my shorter spare paddle to the other side. I then attach the thwart bag to the rearmost thwart behind the seat and flip it up, and it works beautifully! This removes a nice chunk of weight and bulk from my pack. Next, I listen to the weather radio while tending to my gear in the bunkhouse, searching for any amount of weight worth leaving behind. The forecast is for plenty of wind and rain the entire week. Especially tomorrow and Monday. In spite of the annoyance, I have to bring the tarp. The binoculars weigh 20 ounces and would be an easy way to cut some weight, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Discovering birding has brought me much joy this year and so they’re coming along. I do choose to leave ½ pound of cheese behind, but really that’s about it. Then the weather radio starts blaring again, sounding its siren that seems intent on destroying the peace of everyone within a two mile radius. My solution is to remove the batteries after every use since I find no way to shut off the siren. It’s a pain, but it will have to do. At last, as the sun sets, I cook up a curry chicken supper with some pumpkin spice apples for dessert, and catch up my journal with the events of the day while wearing my headnet and swatting mosquitoes. I text back and forth with my wife a few times about a home repair proposal for our failing siding that was sent to me today.

[paragraph break] And every demon wants his pound of flesh [paragraph break] But I like to keep some things to myself [paragraph break] I like to keep my issues drawn [paragraph break] It's always darkest before the dawn [paragraph break] And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't [paragraph break] So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road [paragraph break] And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope [paragraph break] Florence + The Machine “Shake It Out” [paragraph break] By making the time before my entry date for a day trip, I was able to work out numerous kinks that would have cost a lot of time tomorrow, namely the belt issue, improving the canoe loading for portages, and improving my pack loading. In a pinch, I could have fashioned a belt with spare cordage in the park. But that wouldn’t have been much fun to deal with multiple times per day. “I’m just going to take a day trip today!” Sounds so footloose, so carefree. In reality, this day greatly challenged me, especially mentally. A daytrip means there’s a schedule to keep of some sort outside of the wilderness. And of course, the farther you go, the longer the return journey. For me, it causes an unsettling “half in, half out” feeling between two worlds that really don’t jive with one another. No matter where I went today, I constantly thought of where I needed to be next, and at what time. While my body stands perched at the edge of the icy cleansing water of these pristine lakes, eager to jump in and rinse the world’s stresses away in an instant, the home repair issues that I have to deal with (and will have to work extra this summer to pay for) cling to my brain like a mess of sandburs on shoelaces. In spite of all the planning I’ve put in, I can’t help but wonder, “Am I really supposed to be all the way up here right now?”

Night falls, and in spite of my frantic efforts, I won’t have much time for sleep before dipping my paddle into Round Lake at first light. Sure, I could sleep in. But the afternoon winds would surely make me pay for it. I need to close my eyes and stop thinking, if only for a few short hours. Tomorrow awaits with its challenges, and each day that follows. And whether I like to admit it or not, these challenges are a quintessential part of what keeps drawing me back to this place. As I’ve aged, I’ve come to realize that the physics of human existence necessitate a slow, meandering trudge up a rough and tumble uphill road of suffering in order to reach any glorious reward that one seeks. Rest up, my weary soul. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

New, notable bird songs heard today were: Northern Parula (my favorite today), Pileated Woodpecker, Eastern Wood Peewee, and Least Flycatcher. These bird songs have been my favorite part of the whole trip so far.

Stats—>Lakes: 2|Portages: 2|Portage Rods: 276 (0.9 miles) [paragraph break] ~Round Lake, Missing Link Lake

I put the pack on, and immediately feel energetic enough to charge the initial climb out of Round! The surge doesn’t last long, but wonder of wonders, I know at that point that I am truly ready for a big travel day. It’s amazing what cooler weather, a better attitude, sleep, better load distribution, and a working belt on one’s pants can do. Yesterday, I noticed the fiddleheads growing alongside the trail when I was preoccupied with heat, bugs, and faulty pants. But today, I see them everywhere.

At the Missing Link landing, I hear my favorite new bird song of the day, a Veery. This is the first of many I would hear on this trip, but it remains a favorite.

After an uneventful paddle across Missing Link, I reach the 133 rod portage to Snipe, where I’m greeted by the “toy trumpet” call of a Red Breasted Nuthatch. The landing is a small “notch” on Missing Link. This portage has plenty of up and down in it, but mostly good footing. It’s a steep descent on the Snipe end to a great landing. Thanks to better footing, I make even better time on this portage, getting the pack across in 12 minutes. For double portaging, my rule of thumb is rods/5=minutes to get all the gear across. Though this time is frequently slowed by recording bird songs in the Merlin app, snapping photos of cool plants, and taking portage notes! There were many stiff club mosses on this portage, and a large swamp filled with the cheerful song of Spring Peeper frogs in the middle. Other notable bird songs heard here were: Nashville Warbler, Black/White Warbler, Northern Flicker, and Red-Eyed Vireo. [paragraph break] I’m sane, but I’m overwhelmed [paragraph break] I’m lost, but I’m hopeful, baby [paragraph break] Alanis Morrisette, “One Hand in My Pocket” [paragraph break] After about 15 minutes of paddling on Snipe, I realize I am disoriented. I paddled right by the “slot canyon narrows” that lead to the east toward the Cross Bay portage, and then it took me a while from there to locate the correct direction to turn. It ends up taking a good 20 minutes to orient myself, which is always a little unnerving, but thankfully I’ve had this happen a time or two so I’m getting used to it.

I reach the landing at 8:00. The landing for the Cross Bay portage is just before the beaver dam at the east end of the lake. There’s a steep rocky section in the middle, but otherwise this one is a lovely walk along some falls.

At the Cross Bay end, I eat an Rx bar and strip down to my t-shirt as the morning sun shines directly on me. This short river section at the west end of Cross Bay is a nice paddle, albeit quite buggy. So far the bug presence is the biggest difference I’ve noticed when comparing this trip to those of prior years. But all in all, it’s not too bad, provided I put my head net on.

I almost miss the portage to Rib. The landing is to the left (northeast) of the rapids a good bit, and has a small notch landing. When you start hearing the rapids, paddle close to shore and look for the notch! While on this portage, I notice many plants that look like tiny bright orange goblets peeking through the soil. Does anyone know what these are? The portage itself isn’t too noteworthy, aside from a long climb at the midpoint with some mud. While walking back for the canoe, I hear and feel the first ominous wind gust rushing through the trees off of Cross Bay. Already?! My portage notes said the Rib side had a terrible landing, and those complaints are valid. There’s plenty of space on the shoreline here, but a minefield of boulders in the shallow water means there’s nary a spot to put the canoe and loading packs is a sketchy endeavor to avoid a sprained ankle. I am thankful that I committed to wet footing and wearing Astrals this year.

At 9:05, I’m paddling on Rib. Somehow the lid came open on one of my Nalgene bottles, so I pause a moment in the calm north bay to pump some water. Though travel hasn’t been too difficult this morning, I am quite hungry and looking for a suitable spot to take a short break and eat some sweet potato porridge for breakfast. My hopes are set on the lone campsite on Rib, but when I come upon it, it is occupied, so I paddle on.

As soon as I round the point south of the campsite, the gusts I heard on the portage hit hard and fast. Whitecaps are rolling across Rib’s wide open southern bay from the west. Since I didn’t take any time to put extra weight up front before leaving the landing, I am quickly pushed into a weedy hummock in spite of my best efforts. Deep breaths. I need to find weight in this swamp to put in the canoe to continue down the lake to the portage, especially since the Rib campsite is taken. By God’s grace, right in front of me, are three hefty beaver chews. I don’t even have to get out of the canoe to retrieve them, and they are easily slid up to the very front of the canoe.

With massively improved control, I continue to make steady progress following the swamp hummocks on southeast side of Rib. There’s one small creek inlet I pass, but the second one is what leads to the portage. Once I reach it, I quickly turn into it with the full force of the wind and its accompanying whitecaps right on my stern. After about five hard paddle strokes, I surf right into the portage landing. Wow! That was more than I bargained for!

The portage to Lower George is uneventful with a good landing on the Lower George end. Since it’s a short portage and they worked so well on Rib, I bring two of the beaver logs with me.

The portage to Karl is a lovely forest walk with lots of birch trees, resulting in finding some prized loose birch bark laying on the forest floor. Some of these will become thank you notes and notes of encouragement for runners on my daughter’s junior high track/cross country teams in the coming year.

The portage from Karl to Long Island is incorrectly marked as starting in the campsite on Karl, when in reality the portage is just south of the campsite. I briefly consider staying here because I know the wind will be howling on Long Island and the site looks pretty good. But alas, I press on. This portage commences with a steep climb but is otherwise another short and pretty forest walk. I carried my two logs and a pretty big rock from the Karl landing, in anticipation of whitecaps on Long Island. I figured if I saw someone on the portage I would joke that I am a wide receiver on a football team and coach keeps telling me I need to get better at “holding on to the rock.”

From the portage landing, the sight of Long Island Lake stretched out to the west before me in an angry froth of whitecaps is a frightening one. I take a few more deep breaths and have a seat on a log to finally eat my breakfast, rest, and contemplate my options for a few moments.

This all has to be right. No getting lost when the waves are like this! I review my maps and see that there’s a site less than 100 yards away down the shore, and from what I can see, it looks like a nice spot. This is my first “out” in case the conditions are too rough for me to handle. From there, it’s a long open slog into the wind before reaching another place to stop, but I plan to follow the shoreline for protection and know that the waves should gradually subside as I reach the west end of the lake.

After a few more deep breaths, one more look at the map, and a short prayer, I shove off and begin making slow, steady progress to the southwest along the shoreline. I pass the first campsite easily enough and decide to press on. This is working! The toughest part is knowing when to turn south toward the start of the Long Island River. Once I do so, I spy a canoe ahead of me make a turn to the west and disappear, which confuses me, until I realize they must be headed down the Long Island River as well. Again, this feels like a gift from the heavens, as I’m not sure I would have seen the place to turn for the start of the river without that canoe showing me the way.

Now that I’m on the river, I’m quite committed to getting to Frost Lake today. That would be good news if it weren’t for all this wind, as Frost is known to kick up plenty of waves on a day such as this. While I wonder if I made the right call, all I can do for now is paddle on.

I portage around a beaver dam on the Long Island River and pull through a second.

Though I’m still waffling over my decision to head to Frost, I receive some more reassurance from above as the first Bald Eagle of the trip flies directly overhead twice while on this river section. Let’s do this!

For whatever reason, the Long Island River to Gordon portage isn’t on the map and that confuses me into thinking I was on the portage to Unload. I realize this when the portage is much shorter than expected. As I am getting situated on Gordon, the group of three canoes I’ve been trailing goes out of sight on the south end of the lake, which confuses me for a bit, until I realize they are likely headed to Cherokee. The huge overhanging cliff on the north shore of Gordon is the best rock feature on a lake I’ve even seen in the Boundary Waters and is impossible to fully describe here. Shortly thereafter I arrive at the portage landing to Unload Lake.

The forest on this portage has a prehistoric, unkempt, “Louse River” feel to it. It’s muddy, steep, and dotted with fiddleheads for the first half, and then it gets easier. The trees are amazing on this walk, with gigantic white pines at the halfway point, and enormous cedars in a grove very close to the landing on Unload.

At 1:05, I’m making my second pass across the portage with the canoe, and am feeling very good about how the day has gone. I know that the wind will make things difficult for me on Frost, but I’m getting here at the time of day I hoped for.

But before Frost, I have to deal with the beaver dam out of Unload. There’s probably a better way to handle this, and I hoped to pull over at first, but the water was very deep and I sank up to my knee in muck before portaging around the dam. This event, along with seeing a uniformly spaced, terrifying parade of whitecaps awaiting me on Frost, brings me right back down to a tired and frazzled state. I take my time gulping some water and locate a large rock or two for the front of the canoe here, including one gigantic perfectly triangular rock.

The paddle across Frost features the largest waves of the day: Constant two foot rollers. Fortunately I’m paddling into the wind which makes progress slow but control easy, and that means the waves should shrink as I slowly plod across the lake. There are five campsites here. Sites 1 and 2 are taken. The third one, which features a giant beach in the northwest corner of the lake, is also taken, and I can see a canoe on shore at the fourth. Just one more left, the site that is closest to the portage to the Frost River. This is my first choice campsite due to the location, but I hadn’t planned on this much suspense as to whether or not it would be open. If it’s taken, I’m in a pickle, because I really don’t want to paddle back across Frost in these waves. But it’s also a fair distance to wearily paddle onward to Bologna Lake’s single campsite, knowing that if it’s not open, I’ll be paddling down the Frost River in the dark to the next site on Afton. I am positively over the moon when I round the corner at 2:25 and see that this last site on Frost is open!

All the portages and the wind mean I’m worn out and famished, but I realize that I forgot to soak the noodles for my spaghetti in the thermos, so I pour those in and head out for some water for the filter and some firewood. While I love a good cedar fire, today I just find jack pine, but it should work just fine. On the way back to my site, another group of two canoes pull up to the site, also hopeful that they had found the last spot to camp on Frost today. I tell them they are welcome to share with me since the lake is full and I’m just a solo guy that will be leaving at first light, but they decline. Not sure what they ended up doing because they hung around fishing for a few hours after that.

Back at the site, once the firewood is fully processed, I begin unpacking and settling in. There’s plenty of open space here, but it’s oddly difficult for me to find decent hammock trees around due to lots of brushy spruce trees, as well as a very large jack pine that is down in camp. Eventually I figure out a spot that will work well enough, which means I finally feel like I can relax a little and finally eat my lunch along with an instant cherry limeade and a protein powder/dry milk shake. The fire grate has a nice view of the lake and there’s plenty of space in the kitchen area. There’s also a large tree right near the fire grate that has a raucous family of ravens living in it, which lends the site some additional character. When one of the raven parents returns with food, they get very loud, but this is a most joyful wilderness noise. While I’m finishing lunch, the wind suddenly dies down, and I see a canoe quickly head for the area south of the island for some fishing. After my dishes are cleaned up and they’ve vacated the area, I decide to try the same, since this will be my best chance at catching a Lake Trout on this trip. The wind stays calm and I get a good 60 minutes of unproductive fishing in, but considering how this lake looked just one hour prior, I’m very happy that I even got to try. [paragraph break] I want to run, I want to hide [paragraph break] I wanna tear down the walls that hold me inside [paragraph break] I wanna reach out and touch the flame [paragraph break] Where the streets have no name [paragraph break] U2 “Where the Streets Have No Name” [paragraph break] Back at camp I leisurely amble through the evening rituals of supper (unstuffed peppers with banana nut bread pudding), cleaning up, listening to the weather radio, and journaling by the fire. The weather should be ok tomorrow, albeit with intermittent rain showers. But things are supposed to turn truly lousy on Tuesday afternoon, and stay that way through the whole of Wednesday, with lingering effects throughout the rest of the week. While I had planned to make tomorrow a shorter travel day, stopping to camp and fish for pike on Bologna, I vastly prefer to get farther along on my planned loop while the weather allows it. Especially if I’m paddling past Bologna before 9 AM, I favor pushing onward toward Little Sag. If I choose to stop on Bologna, then I’ll make a shorter loop through Crooked, Tuscarora, then back out via Snipe and Round. These ideas are nothing more than wild brainstorms at this point, and I’ll just have to see how the river is treating me as I go along tomorrow.

I’m still journaling as the last light fades from the sky, and finally close my notebook at 10:15. A bizarre “pumping” noise occasionally emanates from the campsites to the north of me, and at first I assume that they must have a Bluetooth speaker and are having a little dance party up that way. But after a few minutes, I vaguely remember hearing that this is the very unique call of the American Bittern. As I listen to this incredible bird call, I reflect on today, which in many ways left a lot to be desired. The wind wore me down, the bugs were an annoyance, and I didn’t catch a fish or see a plethora of wildlife. Even so, this was unquestionably a marvelous first day. The difficulties that I faced today required focus, a little bravery, and a little luck. Somewhere out there during the long slog to reach Frost, I let go of the problems and tasks left undone back home, nearly 1000 miles away. I am here. And tomorrow, I will be following that sacred ribbon of life known as the Frost River even deeper into the heart of this wilderness which I hold so dear.

Stats—>Lakes: 12 (11 lakes, 1 river)|Paddle distance: 8.8 miles|Portages: 10 + 3 beaver dams|Portage rods: 661 (2.1 miles)|Travel time: 9 hours, 20 minutes [paragraph break] ~Round Lake, Missing Link Lake, Snipe Lake, Cross Bay Lake, Rib Lake, Lower George Lake, Karl Lake, Long Island Lake, Long Island River, Gordon Lake, Unload Lake, Frost Lake

When I flip up the canoe at the landing to put on my pack, quite a bit of water dumps out of it, and this causes me some anguish for the next 20 minutes. I’ve been as gentle as possible on this canoe, but I can’t help but wonder if it somehow has sprung a leak. The only other possibility is that I slopped in some water when I left the landing at camp and when I got back into the canoe after getting out at the “non-portage” landing before this one. This portage is uphill early on, then some rocky spots, then back down. Really it’s not too bad albeit a bit rocky on the river end. With less traffic through here, there’s more great birch bark scraps to be found! Along the way, I hear the “Che-BEK” song of many flitting Least Flycatchers, and the hyperactive tittering of a Winter Wren. There are many upright club mosses on this portage, too, which again remind me of the less-trafficked Louse River portages from last year. When carrying the canoe across, I decide I will pause for a few minutes with the boat in the water to closely monitor if any water is leaking into the canoe. When faced with such a situation, it really makes one appreciate all the tiny little things that have to go right in order to complete the journey. After this pause, no water accumulates, and I say a prayer of thanksgiving that I will continue on down the Frost River!

After a short paddle down the river, the water suddenly opens up and I’m on Octopus, having unknowingly skipped the portage. It’s raining steadily at this point, but the rain gear is keeping me dry and the gloom adds to the mystique of this oddly-shaped lake deep in the wilderness.

The portage from Octopus to Frost River has an unclear rock landing right of the falls, with some large boulders.

Then there is a large beaver dam/falls to portage around, though I got into the boat above the falls and had to get back out to finish the portage.

I run my first beaver dam of the day.

Then a portage around another falls.

There are giant birch trees at the Chase end of the river to Chase portage, and plenty of wolf scat. There’s also a bad deep water boulder landing on one of the ends, but this could probably be said of all of the Frost River portages.

It’s 8:00 and I’m on Chase Lake. At this early hour, with near-continual light rain showers, but otherwise great traveling conditions, it doesn’t make much sense to go to Bologna today. Someday I’ll get there. The bug presence is also near-continual, in spite of the rain. I’m getting in plenty of headnet time today.

The Chase to Pencil portage landing is right of the falls right below a large boulder with a steep initial incline. The landing on the Pencil Side is extremely steep and hazardous. Be on your guard here.

I then find myself totally flummoxed by the Pencil Lake to Frost River portage. I paddle to the dam, then head up the steep incline to the right, but it’s a total brushy bushwhack after that. So I tried heading up the steep incline to the left of the dam, but the trail is non-existent there too! Now what?! I bushwhack through some dogwoods to the left to see if I can make a way, and soon find an immaculate portage trail through. I review my portage notes and see that this portage has been moved due to a fallen tree, so I paddle upriver and at last find the tiny little landing. It’s on the south shore about 50 yards before the beaver dam, on the left as you travel downriver. If you get to the beaver dam, you’ve gone too far!

Pleased to have another portage goof behind me, I pause a few moments to enjoy some warm peach crumble for breakfast as I admire the upcoming narrow section of the Frost River.

As others have stated, this section of the river is the main attraction, very narrow, with plenty of turns to keep you on your toes, and an occasional but not too difficult “Which way is the right way?” moment. In most of these places, it matters little which way you go, though one is usually easier than the other. When in doubt, a simple check to see which direction the grasses below the surface are bent will help one discern the flow direction of the river. It reminds me of exploring a cave that has a long section of tight squeezes in order to reach the next room, then another, and another. Each time I squeeze through a narrow path in the hummocks, it feels I’m drawing closer to the beating heart of the wilderness…unless I’m just getting more and more lost!

I run two beaver dams, then lift over a large beaver dam.

Then I take a short, obvious portage.

I run another fun beaver dam, down a very fun little drop that gives me a little boost! I think I like this!

Then, it’s two more portages, the first a short and obvious five rods, and then a 12 rod portage just above a small rapids.

After that, I run ten dams in succession, most of which are super easy, some likely runnable even in lower water. There are also three barely noticeable dams that I paddle through, either old completely blown out beaver dams or new ones that are a long way from being completed. I was in such a groove that at one point I decide to run a very short, tame rapid which probably isn’t the smartest thing to do, but it goes alright.

Just before Afton, there’s one beaver dam to lift over, the final goodbye to the Frost River. And just like that, I am back in lake country.

Closing thoughts on the river itself:

While the Louse River was difficult last year, even with the higher water, I believe the Frost is more difficult, due to all the in/out and unloading/reloading at the short portages. They just keep coming, and few if any of the landings are easy ones. Somehow my pack is pretty lopsided today too, due to an unruly cook kit.

You will be wet, get used to it (Especially if it’s raining!).

There’s no real way to follow along with the turns on the map. One could follow along with the portages kinda well, but even that is a lot to manage. I diligently counted portages and beaver dams to provide more clarity to the route as noted above, but even that was a lot to take on.

After a short paddle across Afton, the notorious portage to Fente awakens me from the carefree pace and short portages of the Frost River. The landing is just past the campsite on the northern shore, and the whole works is just…special. It’s an insanely steep climb up, then somehow an even worse descent into Fente down a rock face, which is plenty wet and slick today. To boot, there are more than a couple trees that come into play on the descent, making it all the more difficult to continue on a safe line down the cliff, and all the easier to hit your canoe against a tree, and lose your balance.

It’s noon when I’m paddling across Fente toward the portage to Whipped. This ends up being an uneventful, easy portage, though I do spot a lovely Northern Parula here. Whipped is another nondescript paddle, though I do spy a Ring-necked duck on the lake. The portage from Whipped to Mora ends up being a very pleasant surprise. The woods on this portage had a very prehistoric, untouched feel to them, dotted with numerous club mosses and fiddleheads. There is a stretch of shin high mud to deal with in the middle, but this small hardship is more than offset by the surrounding beauty. I also hear a Blac- throated Green Warbler on this portage, as well as the slow staccato drumming of a Sapsucker.

I’m paddling on Mora at 1:20. I have targeted this lake as a possible “earliest” stopping point, but I’m still feeling strong so I plan to paddle on to Little Sag. The mostly unburnt shorelines of Mora are positively loaded with cedars, which would make for a great campfire if I chose to stop here. The island campsite looks very inviting with a picture perfect kitchen area located in a cozy cedar stand next to the lake, but I stick with my plan to paddle through, and head onward toward the northwest. This feels like the right call until I realize I misread my map and have paddled quite far into the northwest corner of the lake, which is a total dead end. This mistake burns an hour of my time and energy. I keep telling myself to just let go and enjoy the surrounding wilderness, but I can’t help but feel a bit frazzled by the time I finally set foot at the landing of the portage to Little Sag.

My portage research was filled with words of high praise for the beauty of this 48 rod portage, and it doesn’t disappoint. While most portages take a bit of energy away from me, this one does quite the opposite. The portage is an elevated path above many enormous boulders with multiple raging rapids and waterfalls. The power of the water, the sound of its rushing, and the intoxication of having this singularly stunning corner of the world all to myself for just a few moments provides just the jolt of energy I need before beginning my final paddle of the day.

At 2:45, I am paddling northbound on the perfectly glassy waters of Little Saganaga. The rain has stopped and even the bugs have abated. I am targeting one of several campsites on the northeast end of the lake, which means I have a fairly long paddle ahead of me. I’m feeling lucky enough to troll a Rapala along the eastern shoreline as I paddle along, but don’t have a single bite. Once reaching the northeast end of the lake, I am dumbfounded by the beauty of the campsites there. The first site on an island has a fire grate area so large and elevated, it is visible from very far away, but I paddle on further north to check out a couple more. The next one I land at is wide open and gigantic, with a solid water view, but it appears to have been heavily trampled, as there’s hardly any ground vegetation present at all. Though I am more than ready to call it a day and settle in, I decide to check out one more campsite across the water.

I pull into this site at 3:55 and immediately know I’ve found home for multiple nights. The site has an immaculate, shallow landing with a perfect “canoe garage” area tucked away from the main site. The fire grate and kitchen area is incredibly spacious and has an elevated 180 degree view of the lake from a 5 foot rock promontory. It is a bit more exposed than I would like considering the weather forecast for the coming days, but I know I can make it work, even if it means spending a bit more time huddled under the hammock tarp. Options for hammock trees abound here, with multiple healthy groves of cedars offering the perfect blend of shelter and openness. Even though I’m positively starved and exhausted, I head around the corner to saw some perfectly dry cedar and fill up my water filter bag in the lake. After processing the wood, it’s at last time for a quick lunch on the point, while gazing at the maps and listening to the weather radio. The forecast for tomorrow holds steady with awful winds and heavy rain moving in tomorrow afternoon, though you wouldn’t know it today, because Little Sag is pure glass this evening.

I set my hammock between two cedars near the fire grate and somehow I get it right on the first try, which never happens. This whole site just feels charmed. As a bonus, the path to the latrine leads me up a fairly steep rock face, which offers a panoramic view of the lake.

With all of the positive qualities of this site plus the weather forecast, I decide that I am definitely staying here all day tomorrow to rest and hunker down through the weather. It’s been a challenging couple days, and a rest day sounds pretty good, too. I had hopes of getting to Spice Lake tomorrow and then spending a rest day there trying to catch fish, but by the sounds of it, even if I get to Spice tomorrow morning, the conditions for fishing will be lousy during my time there, even if I spend an extra night. A Bald Eagle flies right over the site soon after making this decision, and for me, that is always a reassuring omen that I am in the right place, doing the right thing.

I do try to fish a bit before supper from the rock ledge, but have zero bites. Even so, it feels great just to relax at the site and leisurely fish as the light fades from another magnificent day, one where I saw zero sign of man from start to finish. While I’m not usually a fan of larger lakes, having one of this size and beauty apparently all to myself feels euphoric. There will be much to do to prepare for the storm tomorrow morning. But for now, this place and this moment are all I could ever ask for.

Stats—>Lakes: 9 (8 lakes, 1 river)|Paddle distance: 11.9 miles|Portages: 14 + 2 beaver dam lift overs + 14 beaver dams run + 3 very small dams run + 1 rapids run|Rods: 524 (1.6 miles)|Travel time: 10 hours, 40 minutes [paragraph break] ~Frost Lake, Frost River, Octopus Lake, Frost River, Chase Lake, Pencil Lake, Frost River, Afton Lake, Fente Lake, Whipped Lake, Mora Lake, Little Saganaga Lake

The whole time I’m processing firewood, I am constantly hearing multiple bird songs, so when I’m done I take 30 minutes to wander the elevated rock face area near the latrine in hopes of getting a closer look at more birds. This part of the site is thick with new birch growth and appears to have burnt, so I actually have a pretty tough time getting a good look at any. Again, like my unsuccessful fishing last night, it feels good just to take a few minutes to try.

At last I have a seat under my tarp to eat some breakfast and relax a bit. With camp organized, wood chopped, and plenty of water filtered, I feel well prepared for the coming storm, albeit stir crazy. I can’t help but think about the distance I could have covered this morning while the waters were glassy. But I also know that likely would have meant trying to set up a new camp as the wind and rain moved in, which can be a miserable experience. As it stands now, I feel I will be able to relax here for a while no matter what the weather does, and that’s a great feeling. The wind finally begins to pick up around noon, and the rain begins at 1:30. A sudden wave of fatigue rolls over me so I retire to my dry, cozy hammock in the cedars for a nap.

When I wake after an hour, it’s still raining so I spend a while catching up my journal. Periodically, I hear rain running off of my tarp, but I am scared to look because I am cozy where I am and I don’t want to spend more time messing with the tarp in the rain. But eventually I do head out and spend another 40 minutes better rigging the tarp to shed water and it’s much better!

Now well rested, I sit under the tarp eating lunch at 4:00. This is the perfect day for dehydrated tomato soup, a new addition this year. I also try to shake up a chocolate milk protein shake using hot water, and find out that doesn’t work at all! Whey protein needs cold water and stays pretty chunky in hot water, so I won’t try that again. The only thing missing from this cozy meal is a fire, so out of pure sport I decide to see if it’s possible to get a fire started in the rain. It’s a little tricky, but if I place an “umbrella rock” over the initial fire kindling, I can get a decent fire going. But due to my tarp set, it doesn’t provide much warmth back where I’m sitting, so I let it burn out.

After a few texts on the Garmin back home to check in, it’s back to the hammock to get my journal completely caught up. I absolutely love this cozy, warm nest! The weather report for tomorrow is more doom and gloom, with the rain decreasing in intensity tomorrow afternoon, with winds 15-20, gusting to 45 mph. On Thursday, the winds are forecast from the east at 5-10 mph with gusts to 30 mph. I take another look at the maps to evaluate my options. From here, it looks like a hard 12 hours to Grandpa Lake. Aside from completing the Frost River, catching some Northern Pike was my number one goal for this trip, and I feel that Grandpa is my best chance to do so. Tomorrow looks to be another day in camp due to the wind, so it looks like my next travel day will likely be another big one. However, if the weather doesn’t cooperate, I plan to paddle back to Round via Crooked and Tuscarora. Spending a day on Tuscarora fishing and maybe even checking out Thelma Lake for some pike fishing sounds pretty good to me. But I’ll just have to take it as it comes at this point.

Incredibly, the rain stops for a bit, and I get out of the hammock to go have supper out in the open by the fire grate. But as soon as I get the camp kitchen set up, it starts raining again. Back to the tarp I go, thankful to have brought it along, even though it’s strung so low my head touches the ceiling. This day of rest has gone surprisingly quickly. On past trips, bad weather days have been a great struggle for me mentally, but it wasn’t the case today. While I’m a bit stir crazy, I’ve been able to stay warm and dry all day. In order to combat my unrest, I spend 20 minutes listening to a podcast before turning in for the night.

Stats—>Total time messing with tarp: 3 hours, 10 minutes|Nap time: 1 hour|Time processing firewood: 1 hour, 40 minutes [paragraph break] ~Little Saganaga Lake

I eat my breakfast under the tarp while watching the wind-agitated waters of Little Sag. My campsite is in a fairly exposed area of the lake, so I feel that what I’m seeing represents the worst-case scenario in terms of wind and whitecaps. The more I watch, the more antsy I get. The wind and rain just don’t seem to be as bad as forecast, and there’s very few if any gusts. I turn on my old friend the weather radio in hopes that the forecast has changed for the better. But it hasn’t, with winds from the west at 15-20 with gusts to 40 mph today. It just doesn’t line up with what I’m seeing, which is some wind and rain, but zero whitecaps, even out here on my point with plenty of open water to the west.

At this point, no matter what route I take, I’m about as far from the exit point as I can be. The prospect of an extremely long paddle day to reach Grandpa tomorrow in order to have time to fish on Friday just doesn’t sound like much fun to me at all, especially when I consider that I would be paddling the wide open waters of Seagull Lake during the late afternoon, putting me at high risk of dealing with dangerous waves due to afternoon wind gusts. While I’ve become more confident in my abilities to deal with whitecaps on this trip, I know that Seagull is not a lake to be taking any chances on. [paragraph break] I took a walk in the rain one day [paragraph break] On the wrong side of the tracks [paragraph break] I stood on the rail 'til I saw that train [paragraph break] Just to see how my heart would react [paragraph break] Now some people say that you shouldn't tempt fate [paragraph break] And for them I can not disagree [paragraph break] But I never learned nothing from playing it safe [paragraph break] I say fate should not tempt me [paragraph break] I take my chances [paragraph break] I don't mind working without a net [paragraph break] I take my chances [paragraph break] I take my chances ev'ry chance I get [paragraph break] Mary Chapin Carpenter “I Take My Chances” [paragraph break]

After another five minutes of pacing and waffling, the rain completely stops, and almost immediately a White-throated Sparrow defiantly sings its distinctive, carefree song as if to say, “The storm is over!” I respond with a hearty and only half-joking “Hell yeah, bird!” The die is cast. I’m going to pack up and give this a go today. I figure if I pull onto Gabimichigami and it’s too much to handle, I can find a site there, and still have made significant progress. If Gabi isn’t an issue, I should be able to make it to Ogishkemuncie or even points beyond, which would be a game changer regarding the distance left to cover to get to Grandpa on Thursday.

I pack up the tarp, then the hammock, then clean up the rest of camp, regretfully dumping out my IKEA bags full of immaculately split cedar beneath the shelter of one of the cedar groves. As I do this, I notice the waves are progressively building in size, but still with very few whitecaps. At 10:00, I don my rain gear and launch, promising myself to stop and call it a day if it gets sketchy. I take a few extra moments to review my maps and portage notes on shore in hopes of avoiding any navigational faux pas while out on the choppy water.

Right off the bat, even though I knew it would be a bit tricky to see, I miss the portage landing to Rattle Lake. I run a tiny rapid with zero issue, but the next is one looks far worse, so I now have to find my way to the portage via bushwhack. Fortunately it doesn’t take too long to sniff it out, and aside from dealing with the brushy makeshift landing, this one is uneventful. I make quick work of Rattle, now firmly in the burn area of the Cavity Lake fire. The portage to Gabimichigami is also uneventful. The southern bay of Gabi is filled with plenty of rollers but few whitecaps. I snag a few heavy rocks nearby for the bow of the canoe and push off, knowing that my first major decision point lies just ahead. If the wide open waters of Gabi are too inhospitable, I hope to be able to use the highly rated campsite at the south end of the lake for the night. But if the waters aren’t too rough, I plan to make the crossing, circumnavigating the shoreline if needed.

Once exiting the southern bay, there’s plenty of whitecaps parading across the lake, but the large campsite is open, and it looks like a good one. However, as long as I’m taking the waves right on the bow, the canoe handles well and decent progress. I decide to make the crossing. I cross to the western shore across from the campsite, which is the worst part, with the waves steadily marching from the northwest. Given the fetch at this part of the lake, I know that this is the worst the waves will be. I choose to turn directly into the somewhat gusty wind to take the waves as directly as possible, and turn up my effort level a notch to get across as quickly as I can. Progress continues at a steady pace, though I’m working hard. Occasionally a wave creates a bit of spray to go along with the light rain showers, but overall I am happy to dig deep and keep grinding my way along. The crossing itself takes 30 minutes, and I’m comfortable with how this has gone so far, especially as the waves begin to abate near the north shore. I begin working my way back to the east along the shore toward the portage, searching for a campsite that is supposedly located near the portage. But I never find it. In fact, I end up paddling for quite some time along the shoreline until I realize I have certainly bypassed the portage. While I’m not exposed to the big waves in the middle of the lake anymore, by no means am I in a place where I need to be out here longer than necessary. I can still see the large southern campsite, and spend several minutes taking compass bearings to try to draw a bead on the precise location of the portage. I end up paddling a solid 30 minutes back to the west, and still can’t find it! What gives? Really, there’s only one place it can be at this point…a small notch that I noticed earlier, guarded by cedars in a small nook of the north shore. While I’d seen this notch earlier, I discounted it because I never saw the corresponding nearby campsite, and so I paddled right on by, a short distance away. Now, as I near this notch, it’s very clearly the portage, and easily the most relieving moment of the trip so far. This misadventure added a taxing 1 hour and 10 minutes of paddling to my day.

The weather radio had warned of flooded, slick portage trails, and this would be the first of several such trails today. This one is flat and unremarkable, save for the fact that the entirety of it is submerged ankle deep or higher. Wet feet never felt so good…on to Agamok I go.

Agamok is an oddly shaped lake but fortunately even I can find a way to keep my bearings here. The sites appear relatively unused but in decent shape. Soon I’m at the longer portage to Mueller, which is predictably wet and muddy, with multiple spots where one needs to watch their footing. While I’m already thinking of making time to quickly reach a suitable camp on Ogishkemuncie, I decide there’s no way I can skip a short side trip to Mueller Falls. It’s a 7-8 minute one way walk to reach the falls, but with all the rain, they are quite the sight. After a few moments taking in the view, snapping some photos and video, it’s back to work, carrying the canoe to the landing on Mueller. Even though Mueller is smaller, I am immediately forced to shore by some small winds and waves, where I scrounge up some rocks to put in the bow again. The portage to Ogishkemuncie is located just to the west of the northern campsite on Mueller. Aside from the daily special of mud and water, this one has more than a few rocks, with some rolling hills, before a big steep descent to Ogishkemuncie.

Initially, I figured “If I can just get to Ogish today, I’ll have really helped my cause.” With my later start and navigational issues plus tough paddling conditions, it’s around 3:00 which is later than I usually start looking for a campsite. That said, even though I’m tired of traveling, tired of being wet, tired of dealing with waves, and just plain tired, I feel like getting to one of the lakes east of Ogish would be set me up to tackle the big Seagull paddle early in the morning, so I plan to keep pushing onward if I can keep making steady progress. I have little trouble making my way northeast along Ogish’s jagged shoreline and am for the most part well sheltered from the worst of the waves. When I pass through the narrows in the middle of the lake, the highly rated campsite there is available and looks very inviting. Though I know I’m pushing a bit at this point, I choose to continue on my way, targeting Jasper or perhaps even Alpine. In order to avoid setting up camp too late, I know I need to avoid any further navigational blunders or portage shenanigans, but once I’m moving, I find it’s just easier for me to keep on going rather than stop.

The portage to Kingfisher takes me by surprise, and I realize it when I hear the rapids leading into Kingfisher. I frantically scan the shoreline for a portage landing, but see none, so I turn the canoe around and begin paddling furiously back up the shore. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t out-paddle this current. When I look down, the water looks shallow enough, and without a second thought, I bail out of the canoe into 2-3 feet of icy water so I can walk it to shore against the swift current. I take a stumble or two on the rocky bottom and at one point am submerged up to my thigh, but I plow ahead to landing. In spite of the conditions, I’ve been relatively comfortable all day long, but this moment is when I begin to feel quite wet and cold, and realize that perhaps I should have taken my chances on running the rapids versus getting my legs so wet. When I review my portage notes, it appears that I would have had no trouble running them. In spite of what most would consider maniacal preparation for these trips, it’s amazing to me how it’s usually the portages that I’ve taken for granted that have given me the most trouble. The portage is thankfully a dry one and has an easy landing on the Kingfisher side.

It’s 4:30 and in spite of being cold, tired, aggravated, and hungry, I’m in “hammer down” mode. If that decent Jasper site is open and offers some shelter from this wind and rain, I intend to check it out. I quickly paddle straight across Kingfisher and hump my sopping wet gear and self across the easy portage. With another quick check of the map, I’m paddling on Jasper. The singular “good” Jasper site has been claimed, which makes my decision to continue on an easy one. The person I see in the site battling the wind to hang a tarp high above the lake is the first sign of humanity I’ve seen since Sunday on Frost Lake. I paddle right by the other sites on Jasper, which appear to offer little in the way of protection from the wind.

A Spotted Sandpiper greets me at the portage landing to Alpine. Reaching this final portage of the day fills me with relief. It cannot be overstated how weary I am of messing with zippers and buckles at this point. Everything has its proper, secure place to be, and each of those places requires dealing with a zipper or a buckle. I’ve made a much more concerted effort to take care of my hands on this trip by using bag balm lotion and gloves each night, but still, my fingers are quite tender. In addition, my hands have always been quite susceptible to losing dexterity when cold, which doesn’t help.

This travel day has been one unlike any other I’ve experienced in the Boundary Waters. Not the most fun one to be sure, but no less exhilarating and memorable. The falls into Alpine are raging, and I again take a short break to snap a few photos. In spite of my fatigue and the gnawing cold that seems to be seeping deep into me, the thought of settling into a sheltered campsite on Alpine with a warm meal fills me with hopeful expectation.

It’s 5:00, the latest I’ve ever been paddling in the Boundary Waters. I’m concerned about navigation given the trouble I’ve had before navigating island and bay filled lakes such as Alpine so I thoroughly review the map one last time before pushing off. This is time well spent, because no sooner have I pushed off the landing when I realize this lake is a maze, moreso even than Little Sag was. I keep checking and re-checking the map, struggling to make it all make sense. To top it off, I forgot to put a rock in the bow at the landing and have to beach the canoe to snag a couple in this wind.

[paragraph break] Oh please believe me I'm more scared than not [paragraph break] That oh now this isn't the way [paragraph break] And please be there I can barely hang on [paragraph break] But oh I wait til I break [paragraph break] LP, “Into the Wild” [paragraph break]

My target is a couple campsites just west of the portage to Seagull, and I manage to stay just unlost enough to find them after a hard-earned 45 minutes of paddling. The first site is claimed, which worries me due to my increasing cold in this slowly fading light on a lake that is more heavily traveled. However, I am elated when I reach the second campsite to the east and see it is open! In retrospect, the fact that the first campsite was taken was a blessing in disguise, because it allowed me to know my position on the map with absolute certainty.

My elation quickly fades when I land and begin exploring the site. It’s a highly rated spot, and I can see why, because it is very unique. This elevated site is situated on a gigantic elevated field of loosely-grouped boulders, and has enough open space to set up 10 or more tents. On a warm, lazy summer day, this would be an amazing spot, with access to the water from both the north and south of the site. But all this openness comes at a high cost. There are very few mature trees anywhere in this site, so hammock hanging options are sparse. Not to mention, the wind off the lake is absolutely whipping through here. On a day when I already arrived cold and wet, this is a decidedly bad place to be. But it’s 6 PM, and the next site requires significant paddling over harrowing and tough-to navigate waters away, so if I can make this one work at all, I’m going to do it. Priority one is getting my tarp and hammock set up so I can have some semblance of a dry and warm shelter. But I need to get going, fast, because I’m getting colder by the minute.

I begin madly setting up the tarp, desperate for any sort of reprieve from the unrelenting wind and rain. Of course, the tarp whips about like a wind sock, causing the lines to tangle up in a multitude of snarls and knots. This puts increased stress on my tender hands and fingers, which have lost much of their dexterity due to the cold. Each delay only leaves me more exposed, and I realize that while I thought the most dangerous place to be was on the water, I could easily go hypothermic right here in this campsite if I don’t find a way to set up and get dried out, pronto. This situation is exactly why I had initially planned to stay put on my whimsical cedar-sheltered haven of a campsite on Little Sag. I also think back to that inviting site on the narrows of Ogish, but the siren song of a short travel day across Seagull to try my hand at catching pike on Grandpa was just too much for me to resist. Now I’m here, and I simply must figure this out, now. When I finally untangle the lines and try to attach them to a stake, my hands simply don’t have the strength to cinch the pre-tied knot.

Without a campfire actively burning, my sole source of heat is my camp stove. While I brought plenty of cheap Bic lighters, I know that my hands will be unable to make those work, especially in the rain. I reach for the single mini blow torch that I bought on a whim for $5 the day I left home, which is much easier for my hands to operate. It fires, the stove is lit, and I’m able to warm my hands to finish setting the tarp up. Praise the Lord, who takes care of fools like me, and thank God I bought that lighter!

Once the tarp is set, I miraculously manage a perfect hammock set on the first try again. Somehow, it’s all coming together. In spite of my industriousness, I have yet to get warm, and I know I have to get in some dry clothes. I have worn most of my clothes while paddling in the tough weather today, but thankfully I do have a dry pair of socks, a lower base layer, basketball shorts, a t-shirt, and a fleece I can put on. It’s not much, but combined with my hammock insulation, it will do for tonight.

Even before I crawl into the hammock, I feel instantly better. I cram most of my gear under the tarp, and take special care to set up all of my necessary food/cooking gear within reach of the hammock. While I know it’s a generally bad idea to eat in or near the hammock, there is no way I am venturing out in this tempest anymore tonight. My thermos lunch is cold, but still satisfying. I follow it up with a piping hot bowl of tomato soup that I rehydrate, easily the most comforting bowl of soup I’ve ever eaten, anywhere. Aside from prepping tomorrow’s thermos breakfast and lunch, tidying my cooking gear, then stashing the bear bag, I never leave the warmth and shelter of my hammock. As chaotic as this day has been, I’m now safe, warm, and comfortable. Even with my late arrival, I am asleep at 9:00, my earliest bedtime yet for this trip. [paragraph break] Stars are dancing on the water here tonight [paragraph break] It's good for the soul when there's not a soul in sight [paragraph break] This boat has caught its wind and brought me back to life [paragraph break] Now I'm alive and well [paragraph break] Kenny Chesney (with Dave Matthews) “I’m Alive” [paragraph break] I awaken at 2 AM to use the latrine, and for some reason I am unable to get back to sleep. Perhaps there is still a bit of adrenaline running in my blood from this eventful day, or I’m just eager to get an early jump off of this inhospitable rock and on my way to the shores of Grandpa, which I envision as tranquil and loaded with fish with a perfect campsite. I switch on my old friend the weather radio to see if the forecast will be any better for the coming day. No significant rain chances, and still windy, but not as bad as this past day was. I toss and turn a bit more, then I need to use the bathroom again.

When I exit the hammock, I see the full moon, shining bright as a spotlight from a police helicopter. It is so bright that a sharp black shadow is cast behind me. After 2-3 days of nothing but gray clouds and rain, the skies have cleared, and even the wind has noticeably calmed down. The beauty of this solitary moment in the middle of the night is so majestic, it borders on the mystical. Who could have ever imagined that when I pulled into from this campsite not more than six hours ago, I would feel the indifferent violence of Mother Nature, soon followed by a tranquil beauty so pristine, it defies description?

There is something innate in humanity that seeks these contrasts between rugged beauty and life-threatening violence, that sees deep, abiding beauty in this “edge” that simply isn’t felt in everyday life. When we stand close to this violent edge, it’s like looking Mother Nature Herself in the eye. Usually, She goes about her daily business, seemingly oblivious to our presence. At other times, she snaps back with authority, scolding us for growing too comfortable, too cavalier in Her presence. And once in a great while, She allows us one single moment of seeing a mere fraction of Her beauty and love. There have been better campsites, more scenic portages, and more tranquil moments on this trip. But this moment feels like a sign from God, delivered via His creation, the wilderness. On a barren rock in the middle of the northwoods night on Alpine Lake, God, via Mother Nature tells me: “You drew too near today. You forgot the unfeeling power exists in this majestic, wild world that I have created. You had to suffer, because you had to learn. But you have learned. You are my son, you are never alone, and I love you.”

Stats—>Lakes: 9| Paddle distance: 10.1 miles|Portages: 9 + 1 rapids run|Rods: 394 (1.2 miles)|Travel time: 8 hours [paragraph break] ~Little Saganaga Lake, Rattle Lake, Gabimichigami Lake, Agamok Lake, Mueller Lake, Ogishkemuncie Lake, Kingfisher Lake, Jasper Lake, Alpine Lake

Fortunately it doesn’t take long to pack up my minimalist camp, and I’m on the water at 7 AM. Remembering yesterday’s navigational challenges, I take the time to shoot a quick bearing to the Seagull portage from the campsite, and am comforted to find that I’m so close I can actually see the wide, well-traveled portage landing. In less than five minutes of paddling, I reach the landing. As expected, this is a very straightforward, wide portage. There is some water flowing on it, but nothing too flooded, especially in comparison to yesterday. [paragraph break] I'm so lonely [paragraph break] But I know what I'm going to do [paragraph break] I'm gonna ride on [paragraph break] Ride on… [paragraph break] I ain't too young to realize [paragraph break] That I ain't too old to try [paragraph break] Try to get back to the start… [paragraph break] And I ain't too old to hurry [paragraph break] 'Cause I ain't too old to die [paragraph break] But I sure am hard to beat [paragraph break] AC/DC “Ride On” [paragraph break] I’m feeling great, having reached Seagull early in the morning to set myself up for success. However, I contemplate multiple times the possibility of just paddling straight to the public landing and ending this trip, because I am so weary of constantly cold, wet, and windy conditions. The old feelings of guilt about being away from my family, especially, my kids, begin to well up again, and I think getting back to see them a couple days early will make it all better. But I know in my heart that would be a regretful decision. Grandpa simply isn’t a lake that fits into a lot of route plans. With plans for two nights there and a healthy pike population, it offers my best chance to finally catch some fish, an accomplishment that keeps eluding me. Before I bring my kids with me on future trips, I feel strongly that I owe it to them to do all I can to figure out how to catch a fish or two up here. In short, I’ve come all this way, and in spite of my continued fishing failures, the only way to succeed to is to keep betting on myself to figure it out. To Grandpa it is.

But before Grandpa, I have a serious task in front of me, and the clock is ticking. While paddling conditions are good with a modest quartering tailwind helping me down the length of Seagull, I know that the conditions could worsen at any moment. Once reaching the first open stretch of lake, I feel confident enough to shoot a 050 degree heading toward a massive barren rock that takes me straight across the main body of water. After 45 minutes of paddling, I begin looking for the campsites on Miles Island and find I was one island too far to the north. The waves are building as I paddle south to loop back around Miles Island to get to the northeast corner of the lake where the portage is. As I round the western tip of Miles, the waves are at their worst, having built along the full fetch of the lake to this point. Paddling into them is easy enough, but making the turn around the island is a scary experience since I am briefly exposed broadside to the waves. That said, I never feel I’m out of control, and I am right next to shore with well-established campsites if I dump the canoe.

After making the turn, I’m sheltered from the building wind and waves as I paddle to Seagull’s northeast bay. For the first time since paddling on Little Sag, I allow myself to relax a little. The worst of the wind and waves should be behind me for this trip. I’m looking forward to the simpler, more carefree existence that staying two nights on a smaller lake offers. The weather forecast is much improved for the coming days, and there will be no more major travel days. In spite of my horrible track record, I allow myself to feel optimistic about catching (and eating) just one medium-sized fish. All of these feelings are further enhanced when I see the picturesque cedar archway above the portage landing to Grandpa come into view. This is really going to happen!

The full crossing of Seagull takes me 90 minutes.

My research indicated that this would be a very difficult portage, and that research was validated. From Seagull, the initial climb is interminably long and steep, with a small rock face to navigate. There are two mucky boardwalk areas, and the first one is in poorer condition than the second. After this, there are two more smaller climbs. It takes me 25 minutes to make it across with the pack, leading me to believe this one is well over 200 rods long. While the trail is easy enough to follow, it’s clearly not traveled much and therefore features plenty of interesting plant life along the way.

At 10:30, I am on Grandpa, and I can see the campsite on the point from the portage landing. After five minutes of paddling, I am at the landing which isn’t great with plenty of large, loose rocks below the water to deal with. This is a nice spot, an airy pine-duffed forest of jack pines that are uniformly sized and openly spaced. The view to the west from the fire grate on the point is perfect, the only weakness being that it is exposed to those strong west winds. Tomorrow afternoon’s forecast is for more wet and windy weather moving in, so I decide to string up the tarp again, figuring I’m a pro by now. I soon find out that I’m not a pro at all and spend over two hours dealing with tarp lines that somehow tangle themselves around half of the pile of brushy firewood left at the grate, and the howling west wind blowing the tarp about like a sail. But it is done!

After filtering water, setting my hammock in the jack pines, and tidying up camp, the winds calm a bit and the weather is gorgeous. “If I were a pike, I’d be biting right now,” I think to myself. Usuallly, I avoid relaxing until I have procured an ample supply of firewood, but I’ve been dragging my pole around for a week, and now is absolutely the time to do the fishing I’ve been longing for!

There are perch in here, so I troll the north shore of the lake with a jointed perch shad rap and have zero bites. I switch to a perch X-Rap and try the weedy bays, but they appear a bit mucky and shallow, and I get zero action. I keep trolling the X-Rap toward some more bouldery areas with a few fallen logs in the water, and lo and behold, I catch a fish! At first I don’t think he’s anything too special, but he measures 23” and has a deep gash in his back from an apparent fight with a larger pike, so I decide he will be eaten and put him on my stringer, rusty from years of disuse. That just happened! I keep joyfully saying to myself “I caught a fish! I caught a fish!”

I continue to troll up and down the sunny shorelines in the western bay and keep having good luck, boating three more fish, a couple smaller ones at 16-18 inches and a 20 inch. When unhooking one of these smaller fish, one of the treble hooks gets driven deeply, all the way to the shank, into the fleshy tip of my thumb. Somehow I’m able to quickly get the fish off, and then do all I can to breathe slowly and remain calm as a work to get my pliers out to deal with my thumb. Every single hook I use up here is barbless, and this very situation is a primary reason why. Thankfully, just one or two solid pulls removes the hook cleanly and I’m back to fishing right away. While it hurts, my only option was to approach it with a very cold hearted simplicity: The hook is in my thumb, I am alone, and the hook must come out.

I almost keep the 20 inch fish too, but don’t want to keep more than I can eat or desire to clean. Eventually I get into a big tangle of some sort with my stringer, fishing line, and the fish. Two hours have flown by, and I decide it’s a good time to clean up the snarl and go scavenge some firewood before heading back to camp to clean the fish and prepare for a feast. Finding firewood is easy enough, though it’s basically all jack pine here, with very little cedar to be found.

Back at camp, I take my time cleaning the fish. I’ve read a few times about how to clean a pike but considering I’ve never cleaned a pike before, it goes well enough. Supper is chili with some sauerkraut and banana nut bread pudding for dessert. Before the trip, I decided to use the same homemade fish breading mix I’ve had in a bag for a couple of years rather than make new, and it turns out to work just fine for frying the fish in some oil. When done cooking, I have two full bowls of fish nuggets. The first taste of this fish is nothing short of magical. So much dreaming, discomfort, work, and failure is distilled into this first bite, and I take the time to fully enjoy each bite of this meal, and every single piece of this fish. Sure, I could have hurried though supper, ate a little less, or spent less time enjoying the view. Had I done so, I could have gone out and fished so more in the perfect weather. But this meal was one that was tailor-made to be lingered over, and I took in every single joyful moment, turning it over, ruminating, and savoring it.

Catching the fish, cooking the fish, and eating the fish all feels like some sort of ancient ceremony, a way that man has deeply connected with the nature that surrounds him since the beginning of time. As I gaze into the burning embers of my campfire, I feel a deep connection to my primitive soul. I think about the “ancient ones” in my life that have shepherded me along to this very moment. My grandma Boots, who passed away over ten years ago, taught me how to fish, and also how to simply enjoy the act of fishing itself when the fish weren’t biting. My uncle Darris brought his Brittany Spaniel dogs out to the farm on fall weekends and always set me up in the best place to have a chance at shooting a Ring-necked Pheasant or a Northern Bobwhite Quail. My father had occasionally set bank lines in the Smoky Hill River for flathead catfish, and often brought my sister and I along in the family’s Grumman canoe to check the lines and try our hand at paddling. While I didn’t shoot many birds or catch many fish, those that I was fortunate enough to bring home were cooked by my mother. Most of these experiences in the outdoors were shared with my best friends in high school, Jared and Brandon. Two years ago, I miraculously caught and ate my first (and only) lake trout in Rabbit Lake with my friend Shawn. I wish I could share this very moment with each one of them, right now. That said, through all I have learned and shared with each of these people, in a way, all of them are here. A small part of each of them lives inside of me.

With this ritual meal complete, I can think of only one way to perfectly cap off this magical day in the Boundary Waters. I quickly strip down and run as far as I can into the water from the landing and fully immerse myself in the clear, icy waters of Grandpa Lake with a high-pitched “Ya-hoooo!” of shock and pure joy. After a quick stroke or two underwater, I head back to dry by the fire before re-dressing.

This is what a perfect day in the Boundary Waters feels like. I sleep deeply, inundated with the satisfied peace and contentment that only comes after the successful completion of a long, arduous journey.

Stats—>Lakes: 3|Paddle distance: 4.3 miles|Portages: 2|Rods: 306 (0.9 miles)|Travel time: 4 hours [paragraph break] ~Alpine Lake, Sea Gull Lake, Grandpa Lake

After a few smaller fish, I’m steadily paddling along one of the northern shorelines of the western bay of the lake when the rod forcefully jolts, and I feel like I’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. When I snatch the rod from my specially designed rod holder (also known as my leg holding it against the gunwale), the fish is on one of those telltale long drag ripping runs that signal an aggressive pike. Not only am I startled, but I’m also clumsy, as I pinch the line to the rod and instantly the leader snaps off. I only had one of those perch X-Raps…now it’s gone. While I have some steel leaders with me, I’ve just never seemed to have much luck when fishing with them. Plus, the swivels are cheap and very difficult to get fastened properly, so I’ve just been taking my chances with my fluorocarbon leader. Now I am paying the price for that gamble. Perhaps it wasn’t a giant fish, but I’m confident it was a larger one than the one I ate last night.

With the X-Rap gone, it’s experiment time. I tie on a steel leader and a similarly patterned X-Rap. I quickly catch a small one or two, but then the bite slows down again. I tie on a smaller perch shad rap and catch another small one. I then switch back to my fluorocarbon leader to see if that helps. I catch one or two more fish, but nothing of significant size. The very last one shakes himself of the hook just as I’m lifting him into the boat, and I say “That’s a perfect way to end it for now!” It’s time to head back to camp for a break and some breakfast. The wind has picked up noticably, and the temperature has dropped too. With these changes, the bite has slowed or stopped completely. The afternoon forecast is for plenty of wind with more chances of rain, so I figure I won’t be doing any more fishing on this trip. Before heading back to camp, I make one more trip into the woods to scavenge firewood to help keep me comfortable in camp today.

Relaxing in camp on another cold, gray, windy day draws me into a melancholic, but contemplative mood. With no more fish to catch and only one more portage left, I allow my mind to ruminate at will, reliving each moment of this trip, trying to understand not only the meaning and effect of each moment, but also who I am, who I long to be, and how that identity and purpose should shape future trips into the Boundary Waters. I’ve never understood why I feel so compelled to take these Boundary Waters trips, never quite figured out the point of it all, in spite of how much I love it. However, my ruminations on this day draw me as close as I’ve ever been to understanding why my soul feels most alive when I’m in the Boundary Waters. [paragraph break] It'd be easy to add up all the pain [paragraph break] And all the dreams you sat and watched go up in flames [paragraph break] Dwell on the wreckage as it smolders in the rain [paragraph break] But not me, I'm alive [paragraph break] And today, you know that's good enough for me [paragraph break] Breathing in and out's a blessing, can't you see? [paragraph break] Today's the first day of the rest of my life [paragraph break] And I'm alive and well [paragraph break] Kenny Chesney with Dave Matthews, “I’m Alive” [paragraph break]

With the end of my trip comes the return of multiple challenges waiting for me back home. When I think about the most important tasks in my life, namely maintaining strong relationships with my wife and kids, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the work that lies ahead, and how often I’ve failed in the past. To be fully honest, most of my home life is complete nonsensical chaos. Each day I pour myself out to try to make things better for our family, and the great majority of the time, I feel like I’m spinning my wheels, or worse, I feel that my presence has a negative impact. So many people think of a Boundary Waters trip as a very difficult thing. And it is, to be fair, but while the workload is high, the overall difficulty feels several orders of magnitude lower than the average day I spend at home, still working hard but also navigating the many ups and downs that go into taking care of a household of six. Why are the challenges of everyday life so exhausting to me, while out here, it often feels like I can go forever, pushing beyond limits in a way that I never dreamed possible? In fact, it is in the mere facing of these challenges that I feel invigorated, rather than exhausted. The challenges faced on a canoe trip often feel like something I am made for, while the challenges of life in the real world feel like I’ve been handed a test that I must pass, but never knew how to study for. Why couldn’t I simply have been created with what I need to handle the challenges of home life in the same way I feel so at home tackling the challenges of the BWCA? Wouldn’t the world be a better place if this was so?

The best answer I can come up with is this: It’s a better story. Your struggle isn’t part of your story, it IS your story. And this story of struggle is what bonds us together as part of the human race.

No one wants to hear me tell a story about catching fish on nearly every cast for a week in sunny weather. You want to hear how a tiny pike drove a Rapala hook deep into the meat of my thumb. Finally catching a fish to eat and then deciding to take a chance on the old breading I’d been packing around for multiple years. Getting lost, cold, making bad decisions, and then wriggling with all my might to escape the consequences of those decisions. Only then can a person become a character that others are interested in. The slings and arrows that wound us in the siege of life give us something to focus on, to work through. And though our wounds may knock us to the ground in defeat, they also bond us to those that journey alongside us in this human existence. After falling, we are forced to reach out to someone along the way, who lends us a hand, dusts us off, and tells us their own story of struggle. When the next man falls on the way, now we have a reason to reach out, help, bond, and share our own struggle, to provide a ray of hope in the darkness to the fallen.

I strongly sense that I won’t be out here solo again for a long time…and perhaps never again on a rugged route like the Frost River. My role on this planet is slowly but surely morphing from one focused on great achievement and conquering challenges that strengthen me to leading others to take on such challenges for themselves. Before this trip, when in the final packing phase, I told my 11 year old son, “You may not know this yet, but you are definitely coming with me next year!” I have every intention of making good on that impromptu statement.

My mind again turns to the “ancient ones” in my life that passed the experience of the outdoors to me, namely my father, my uncle, and my grandma. Those fall weekends hunting pheasants and quail, and the countless cold days with my best friends in high school in pursuit of ducks, geese, turkeys, and doves changed the trajectory of my life, and forever bonded me to two great friends that would one day stand up as groomsmen at my wedding. Now I know it is time for me to pass the priceless gift of the outdoors on to my children. My head is filled with more questions than answers when I think of planning a trip with my son, with hopes of many more trips to follow after. How will I be able to manage the additional workload? When should we go? How can I make sure it provides the right balance of both challenge and fun? How can I make sure we find a few fish to catch along the way? I can only pray that God will show me the path forward. The planning process for next year begins as soon as I hit I-35 southbound out of Duluth tomorrow. [paragraph break] “The glory of God is man fully alive.”~St. Irenaeus [paragraph break] “I came that they might have life, and have it more abundatly.”~John 10:10 [paragraph break] Speaking of youth, have I really even grown up at all? As I lay here in my hammock journaling this afternoon covered by my cozy “winter camo” top quilt, I am reminded of the backpack I carried to kindergarten, which was a nylon brown army camo color. Am I still just a little boy that loves spending hours playing in the woods? Could that be the explanation for why I struggle so much to relate to the realities of the adult world I live in each day? Or does getting in touch with the little boy, the young soul inside of me, actually help me become the grown man I was born to be somehow? That little boy’s favorite TV show was Marty Stouffer’s “Wild America” on PBS. Over 30 years later, I’ve been fortunate to see a small part of that “Wild America” for myself, to struggle against it…and to revel in it. Surely, rediscovering that wonder isn’t all bad?

I conclude my final day at Grandpa Lake by quietly stoking the fire and eating supper. The sun is very low on the horizon and I take one last hike up to the top of the bluff behind the latrine just to sit and take it all in. After a day in which I filled many pages of my journal with my own thoughts, I need a moment to sit and listen to God, and to his marvelous creation before taking down the tarp and doing my final pack up of camp to be ready for a pre-dawn departure.

A Bald Eagle flies by and says:

“Do not fear, for I am with you; Do not be afraid, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will also help you, I will also uphold you with My righteous right hand.” ~Isaiah 41:10

The stormy sky says: “It is time for you to face the storm…to return and walk bravely.”

The jack pines say: “We were born of the fire decades before you were born. You too can gain life though the fire, and grow tall, straight, and strong.”

The Swainson’s Thrush says: “It’s not an end. It’s a beginning. Don’t take yourself too seriously. Keep singing your song. I love you. This place must be shared. This place must be shared. This place must be shared. Pass it on to others and part of you will be passed on through this place, through the memories…forever.”

The Chipping Sparrow says: “Come now. It’s time to begin.”

Stats—>Pike caught: 5 or 6?|Big ones that got away: 1 (there’s always one)|Naps: 1|Time spent journaling: Hours [paragraph break] ~Grandpa Lake

By the end of this first carry, the light is sufficient enough to stow my headlamp, and I’m very pleased to discover that the portage is much easier to take in this direction. I make it across in 18 minutes, helped by the net loss in elevation, cool morning temps, and lighter load. On the way back for the canoe, I spy some marsh marigolds just beginning to bloom. But the real highlight is my first-ever recording of a Hermit Thrush, which may be my favorite bird song of all time. Also singing in the woods is an Ovenbird, which is the first bird I heard and recorded on this trip when I stopped at Sugarloaf Cove just outside of Grand Marais. It is a storybook ending to this final portage.

I’m paddling on Seagull at 5:40. There’s some wind out here, but it’s not too bad, and I’m optimistic that I will be able to find shelter in the lee of the multiple islands that guard the east side of this massive lake. That said, the wind is coming directly from the southwest, so when there is an area of open fetch, the waves have already built up to a significant height for such an early hour…and they’re coming at me from the side. As I pass between a couple of large islands, headed toward the large northeast bay, I can see a solid line of whitecaps marching across the bay from over a half mile away. They’re so solid, they resemble windrows of freshly swathed alfalfa hay like I’m accustomed to seeing back home on the farm. There will be no gentle, peaceful goodbye to the Boundary Waters this year. Mother Nature is going to challenge me all the way to the exit point.

While my target is Blankenburg Landing on the far northeast end of Seagull, I’m concerned, because it isn’t marked on my map. I am unable to see an obvious landing to shoot for across the wide bay that is filled with menacing whitecaps poised to strike me broadside. It’s not even 6:30 yet, and it seems I’m the only one out here on the lake. Even this close to civilization, a solo capsize out here in this bay at this hour would be a dangerous situation. While I’m confident in my position at this point, I don’t know for sure what I’m looking for, and where exactly on the shoreline to point the canoe. What I absolutely do NOT want is a repeat of Gabimichigami, dangerously paddling the shoreline looking for a landing in these dangerous conditions.

With the angle of the waves marching to the northeast, trying to punch through them bow first would only lead me out into the wide open expanse of Seagull to the southwest. My only logical choice is to keep following the shoreline of the bay to the northeast. And if I round the end of the bay to head back southwest toward Blankenburg Landing, I highly doubt I can even make forward progress directly into the mounting waves. No doubt about it, heading to Blankenburg just doesn’t seem possible, so I ride the waves deeper into the bay, with plans to stop at Seagull Outfitters, if I can see where it is. If I miss it, then I’ll make the turn toward Blankenburg and see how it goes. After about five minutes of frantic paddling with the waves on my stern, I spy a building flying the American flag with a mountain of Kevlar canoes stacked on storage racks. Whatever building this is, this is where I’m going now! With the waves continuing to hasten my journey, my canoe scrapes the promised land that is the gravel landing at Seagull Outfitters, and I toss my paddle ashore at 6:35 A.M. A staff member quickly assures me they’ll call Tuscarora for a ride and that I’m welcome to come inside to warm up and have a cup of coffee. I’ve made it. While the official end of a Boundary Waters trip is always met with some sense of longing for just one more night in the wild, the turbulent ending to this wet, windy, wave-ridden week finds me feeling more eager for shelter, a warm shower, and dry clothes than I’ve felt after past trips.

After unloading the canoe and organizing a bit, I meander about the store for a few minutes at Seagull, purchasing a few stickers and talking with the woman inside about the water levels on the Frost River, as well as about our shared hobby of birding and bird feeding. While I deal with keeping the squirrels away from my feeder back home, she has to deal with the black bears getting into her feeder up here! Soon my ride to Tuscarora arrives and I chat up the gentleman the whole way back, hearing some of his backstory while sharing some of my own. He encourages me to get my kids up here for a trip. After a week of interacting with virtually no one, I’m surprised by how easy and natural these social interactions feel.

After a shower at Tuscarora, I head inside to buy one more pint glass and more stickers. It’s busy in there, with at least a couple parties watching their entry videos. One group is a very fun-loving group of nine college-aged young men getting ready to head to the Larch Creek entry point for a long weekend of fishing. I can only imagine how much fun that trip was, albeit a completely different kind of trip than what I just had!

On the way back through Grand Marais, I try to drive back under my favorite road sign in the world that marks the entry to the Gunflint Trail, but it is closed off today due to a bike race in town. I’ve decided that the official tradition/superstition is to drive under the sign at the very start of the trip, and then to drive back under it after the trip ends. Next time! I continue to make my “soft re-entry” into society, not texting or calling anyone until I pass through Duluth, where I snag a much-needed cup of coffee. Out in the wild, I somehow subsist with less than normal sleep, fueled by the energy of the wilderness around me and the constant necessity to keep doing tasks around camp in order to be well fed and sheltered. With the weight of sleepiness upon me, I enjoy a long-overdue “catch up” phone call with my cousin, then switch back to more listening to podcasts and audiobooks.

I have been experimenting with how efficiently I can drive my Honda Civic on this trip, and while not fully intentional, end up stretching one tank of gas over 400 miles from Duluth to Des Moines, averaging over 40 miles per gallon. That was a bit more excitement than I wanted, so I switch back to catching up with an old friend or two then calling home to talk to my wife and daughter. Overall I had far fewer discussions with friends this year on the drive, but I rarely felt bored. Maybe my brain is thankful for the break and relishes the chance to just rest a bit.

Stats—>Lakes: 2|Paddle distance: 3.0 miles|Portages: 1|Rods: 209 (0.7 miles)|Travel time: 2 hours|Departure from Tuscarora: 8:25 A.M.|Arrival at home: 11:40 P.M.|Friends talked to: 3|Coffee cups drank: 3

Food: This year’s increased portions meant a few pounds more weight, but it was worth it. In spite of eating plenty, I still lost over 10 pounds over the course of the week. The dehydrated tomato soup was a fantastic addition, as was the whey powder. Bringing over a pound of summer sausage was a bit much, and bringing only a half pound of cheese was a bit short. Cheez-its, Rx bars, hot sauce, homemade beef jerky, and corn nuts are still great snacking options, and black cherry limeade powder is still perfect mixed up in a Nalgene after a long hard travel day.

Fishing gear:

Especially for solo travel, I find trolling to be the easiest way to go. Rapalas troll well…spoons and spinners are far more prone to snagging. So those will be the mainstay of my BWCA tackle box.

My steel leaders have awful swivels on them and are difficult to use. They’ll be replaced.

I will always fish with barbless hooks both at home and in the BWCA for safety. Fishing barbless certainly saved me some pain when I got hooked in the thumb on Grandpa. I don’t plan on dragging live bait along anytime soon, it’s just too much of a pain for me.

Other gear:

The Bic lighters worked well, but I am going to add more of those mini torches next year. The one I brought this year earned “most valuable cheap gear” honors after its clutch lighting of my stove in terrible conditions on “The Rock” on Alpine.

I paddled with my new carbon paddle on the last day of travel and it felt fine, though the 50” length still probably fit slightly better in the Northwind solo. In a tandem, I expect my carbon paddle to be perfect.

I used about 20 ounces of stove fuel. More than last year.

Binoculars didn’t get used much, they’re just too large to keep accessible while paddling and portaging.

Taking the tarp was the right call, but I have to figure out an easier rigging system for it. Planning on using some Dutchware bling to avoid the hassle of tying time-consuming knots in the wind and cold.

I faithfully applied liberal amounts of “bag balm” to my hands each night before sleeping with cotton gloves, and my hands, especially my fingertips, still got pretty tender. I’m going to attach simple zipper pulls to every zipper I find that doesn’t have one, and I’d also like to find a suitable glove with good dexterity to wear when paddling or working around camp. Mechanix gloves perhaps?

Second place in the “most valuable cheap gear” contest goes to the two large IKEA “tarp bags” I brought along to haul firewood back to camp.

Bug spray is fine, but a headnet combined with long pants and sleeves is the best option.

For late May travel, my clothing is right at the bare minimum: Wool baselayer top/bottom, wool flannel, fleece jacket, 2 t-shirts, 1 pair of shorts, rain shell and pants, 3 pairs of underwear, 4 pairs of wool socks (2 would be ok), Crocs, Astrals, stocking hat, sun hat, and bad weather insulated hood/facemask. After my chilling experience on Alpine, I will forever have a specific set of perfectly dry clothes ready to go in a dry bag in my pack so I can always get into dry clothes and warm up.

Using a compression style dry bag for my hammock was a huge improvement, eliminating lots of bulk.

The new Voyageur maps were awesome! The only hiccups were self-induced, mistaking a line demarcating a burn area for a portage thus leading me down the dead end northwest bay on Mora, and mistakenly interpreting the large red triangle of a campsite on Agamok for being on Gabimichigami, which aided in my disorientation there when I couldn’t find the site that looked to be right next to the portage I was looking for.

My portage notes document was helpful, but I need to be more diligent about reviewing the notes as I travel during the day to refresh, as it would have limited the time lost looking for the re-located portage on the Frost River, and prevented me from my mishap when I missed the Ogish-Kingfisher portage.

I forgot the charging cord for my Garmin InReach, but perhaps that was a good thing because it helped limit texting while in the park. I nearly forgot the charging cord for my phone/camera/alarm clock.

I vowed to sleep more after last year’s travel-centric trip, but was only marginally successful. There’s just too much I want to do when I’m out there. I did have a day or two where I was able to sleep in until 6 or later, and snuck in a couple solid naps, though.

Once home, I had four days to recover before going back to work on Friday, due to pushing really hard through the early part of my month at work. This was a huge plus. Even still, my gear sat in a fermenting pile in the living room for three days before I finally was able to take care of it on Thursday.

For a future trip with 1-2 sons:

I have to figure out the sleep setup, ASAP. I love the comfort of sleeping in my hammock too much to go back to a tent. So I’ll need to acquire and properly set up a hammock for my son, and then try a few practice sleeps in the woods during cooler weather. This requires significant investment of brainpower, money, and time.

Fishing is important…and I need to do all I can to ensure we will catch some fish. Investing the time to travel to Grandpa and fish a lot helped, but I still have a long way to go here. Maybe I just need to hire a fishing guide for the day before we enter?

Limiting camp setups is required. I’m always amazed at all the energy one must expend to set up a campsite after a day of exhausting canoe travel. With someone else along needing my help, I need to cut the travel length by half or more most days.

High point of the trip: Catching/eating fish on Grandpa. The campsite on Little Sag. Low point: “The Rock” on Alpine. Struggling to find the portage on Gabimichigami in awful weather. Most beautiful: Mueller Falls, Mora-Little Sag portage. Best birdsongs: Bittern on Frost. Hermit Thrush on Grandpa. Veery on Missing Link. Close calls: Getting too cold on Alpine. Final paddle on Seagull.

The big takeaway: On the drive up, during my first phone call to my friend in Seattle, I said that when I go on to the Boundary Waters, I feel like God is spending the whole time saying “I love you” to me, and that I spend the whole time saying “Thank you” to God. This connection with God, as well as with my deep, inner, most-real self, is the best answer I have found to the question of “Why do I make all the effort to take to this big trip to the Boundary Waters?” When I am up there, I feel loved, in the deepest, most natural way I know. In directly interacting with nature, one of God’s love letters to us, I have a greater sense of God’s nearness, and his realness. The only natural response to this nearness is to say “Thank you” and “I love you” back to God. Even though I spend the great majority of my year intimately familiar with my own weaknesses and failures, when I am in the Boundary Waters, a very necessary acceptance and appreciation of who I truly am deep inside takes place. While humility and recognition of one’s limitations is required of any solo paddler, so is appreciation and confidence. Each small task I complete has a clearly sensed payoff, a small means of saying “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Grand total stats for trip—>Lakes: 32 (30 lakes, 2 rivers)|Portages: 38|Rods: 2330 (7.3 miles, 21.8 total miles walked on portages due to double portaging)|Beaver dams lifted over: 5|Beaver dams run: 14 + 3 very small dams|Rapids run: 2|Lost: 3 (Snipe, Mora, Gabimichigami)