BWCA Entry Point, Route, and Trip Report Blog
May 23 2022
Number of Permits per Day: 3
Elevation: 1406 feet
Crab Lake & Cummings Lake - 4
June 18, 2018
Number of Days:
Thursday, Friday, Saturday: Woke up to some fog on Thursday (actually it was Friday but I'm way too lazy to wipe out the photo on the left that’s no longer there. Guess I've moved into the realm of creative non-fiction). It wasn’t a total white out but close enough to do a little artsy-fartsy with the camera. Brian was relatively sleeping in mainly because I was up at 5:15. That's a little early for me but not for my bladder. Mine’s a fine bladder as bladder's go. Seeing as how it's the only one I have it was time to take the pressure off and keep the sleeping bag dry at the same time. These days that's my idea of a win-win. In the Boundary Waters video, they make you watch even though you've seen it a couple of dozen times, a big deal is made of leaving your scat in the latrine but says nothing about urine. So, I use it to mark my territory. Keeps the bears off knowing there's a large carnivore with a sick sense of humor roaming about. Bears are notorious for not liking puns, in particular plays on words. Not sure why since they lack any formal education. Could be its their sense of propriety, the dignity of being one of the lords of the forest and not wanting to have anything to do with scum from the Cities. Thursday's fog—the one not pictured above—was feathered wisps adrift on a near calm tarn (how's that for a nauseating image?). At the time I was way too tired to be that poetic. Mostly I was perched in my old Target folding chair bought for a canoe trip in the last century and hoping it wouldn't collapse when I nodded off. Our rain tarp was stretched over a humped slab and there was nary a place where all four legs could touch down at the same time. Brian's happy spot was about eight feet away. We said it was for comfort, but it may have had more to do with smell. Seems odd to me that most animals smell okay even though they don't bathe regularly, and humans generally stink. I recently read that when one of the Gemini capsules of the '60s was opened after fourteen days in space the rescuing crew vomited from the odor. I don't think ours was that bad. Our original intention was to take a couple of swims because of the hot weather but we didn't. Pine Lake isn't deep and has an intense bog stain. As for water purity, that's good, bogs filter. But even after filtering it's still amber in tone. Color aside, what kept us out of the water was life in action. Our four days was a fertile time. I'd seen mayfly hatches before and thought they were generally cute and cause for happy levity as in, "What do you mean not tonight?" When your lifespan is measured in hours, mood has no place when it comes to procreation. On Pine Lake we had three days of apocalyptic hatches. Clouds, myriads, flying examples of what a billion looks like. As the sun went down Brian, and I floated on the never-ending glass and were transfixed by fleets of them—hatching, fluttering up and off the water, swarming and copulating, joined together in pairs, triads and orgies. Yeah, we were surrounded by an orgy of Mother Nature. It said in no uncertain terms that when it came to life on Earth people weren't but a spit in a frying pan. In the mornings—not break of dawn early—we'd paddle out on a sea of death. Dead larvae and spent flies spread like chunky peanut butter on a slice of rye bread. It was the larvae that drew my eye. The mayflies in the air are generally cute little buggers but their larval stage digs deep into ugly. And on the water, now well into rotting, they're not something you want to bathe in. No sir, scooping one up for a closer look was about all I could handle. Could be evolution and metamorphosis are all about tempering ugly so maintaining the species seems like an appealing thing. On the left, in the photo that's not there, is Brian holding up one of the few fish we didn't eat. We'd have not eaten more but we didn't catch many. It wasn't for lack of trying. Nope, we worked the water hard, paddled every yard of shore, most of the islands and a couple of miles of the in-between. Pine's noted for its good fishing and the DNR's nettings say it's in the upper one percent of the Boundary Waters. We trolled and casted; threw spinners, plugs and jigs. I don't use live bait, seems like cheating. And these days not catching is no big deal for me. Simply perched in the aft seat, back throbbing, butt cheeks aflame where the tailbone hits the caning and arms aching from the never-ending paddling is enough for me. Could be I'm a sadist. Truth is, I like being on the water drowning in quiet. I love quiet. My hearing's not too sharp these days and easily loses conversation in background noise. In the Boundary Waters I can hear bird twitter and ripples tickling the shore rocks. The whirlpool made by Brian's paddle stroke as it passes the stern shushes in harmony with the creaking of the cane and ash seats. Most of each day found the lake glassed and the trees silent. Occasionally an assault by a gentle breeze would ripple the water, set us moaning in relief and the pines whispering thanks.
Brian and I always wear our life jackets knowing we're both capable of momentary stupidity. Couple that with our waning grace and a wish for a longer life, we're willing to sweat for safety and lordy did we sweat. At least I did. A mid-day paddle had my shirt dripping. We drank a lot of water, close to a gallon each, every day. Even then we dehydrated. I occasionally lusted for a washtub of beer on ice. I'd sit in the tub and pour down the first knowing the second would send me off to another world where I'd giggle about how fun it was to stumble on the uneven ground and fall in the water to join my dead mayfly buddies. Blue dusted with high, thin clouds capping the amber below, we'd paddle and fish for hours. Brian was constantly at it. The man has a God given work ethic when it comes to continued frustration. I tire of the game easily. These days I'm content to keep us slowly putzing along while Brian works the shoreline. Once in a while we'd catch a gentle drift, I'd scull to control our position and throw a few casts. The shorelines were a mixture of grey-black volcanic stones from basketball to Volkswagen-sized. All were white striped near the waterline. Changing high water marks was my guess. Occasionally we'd come on what passes for an escarpment in the western Boundary Waters; their thirty-foot high, jagged black faces were few and far between—nothing like the three hundred footers over by Superior. But the scene was pleasant, mesmerizing and always speaking to us in shades of green from hilltop to the waterline. Even when we weren't listening, nature carried on a conversation with our souls. Could be that's why a man's willing to put up with a few days of physical discomfort. There's always a lot going on even when you're busy doing the meaningless. We rarely saw others. That was fine with me and no doubt with them also. Eagles riding thermals, a walleye exploding clear of the water for no apparent reason—never saw that before—an eagle diving to scoop a fish from a sunken island, alpenglow on the forest near sunset—the trees lit like neon, and all was coupled with never-ending conversation. Some meaningful, most bordering on idiotic (sorry Brian, sometimes I don't know when to shut up).
Sunday: The light show started around 2:30 in the morning. At times the flashes lit the tent like daylight and got me thinking about how close the big white pines were. The idea of being incinerated or crushed under a few tons of softwood held no appeal but I quickly fell back asleep. In my mind sleep trumps death. Brian told me we had a solid downpour for a couple of hours. Gully washer. Around 5:30 the roaring winds said it was time to wake up. The tent ballooned and snapped like a wet towel against an eleven-year-old's backside in a game of poolside high jinks but held its place and never shipped a drop. Thank you, Ryan Kruse. While it was rippin' and snortin' outside, we started stuffing gear away. We had a date at 11:00 with an ATV. This was no time to lallygag. Packing seems never ending. So much crap. A Conestoga wagon's worth to cram in three packs. By the time we crawled out to join the brightening gray the storm had all but passed. Brian made a fire and heated water for oatmeal. On Thursday my twenty-year-old Coleman stove had given up the ghost, blown the gasket under the main burner and made sounds like an arming hand grenade. That left us with a useless twenty pounds of metal box and gas, but we had matches and a forest full of wood as backup. Birch bark, bone-dry spruce twigs and a small stack of match-ready aspen from an abandoned beaver lodge provided all the fuel we needed for eight meals. Leaving is hard but not as hard as it was when I had a job waiting for me in the morning. Besides, four days of pounding the water, carrying packs, the never-ending tasks around camp, constantly sweating through my clothes and sleeping on the ground had worn me down. At seventy-two I'm not yet an old man but I'm close. Finally, everything packed, we walked the site picking up micro bits of litter and the load began. It was the food pack that did me in. My back was twisted when I hoisted it. Ping! Not a major torque but enough to let Brian know he'd have to load me on the portage. We left camp a half hour early. Most likely I'll never paddle a loaded canoe again, but our exit will leave me remembering there was a time I could track a dead straight line. Sweet. We were trim and balanced, moving a solid four miles an hour and rarely switching sides. Paddling a canoe is a skill I wasn't born to. No one is. But after thousands of miles, it'd grown to be a simple joy. I dislike the idea of having to say, "I remember when...", but I think that time has come. The portage proved no more than work. Pick it up, shut your mind off, watch your step, work. We paddled our last two and a half miles to the portage and tow. Tina was waiting. We slid dead center on the trailer at 11:00 on the dot. Ever the FedEx courier.