|
Boundary Waters Quetico ForumGroup Forum: Woodland Caribou Provincial Parktrip report/Leano to Musclow
|
Author
Text
07/04/2017 12:32AM
...trip report/Leano to Musclow/June 9 to June 21...long, but upon return to our home I broke my tibia doing a shoreline rehab and I have some time...and enjoy the feel of the Woodland again
through words...we traveled by Souris River/Quetico/2 humans/1 dog...after Leano we saw no other paddlers...we did see boats along the Bloodvein, Carroll, Artery, Kilburn...we have been in the WCCP since 1989, feel fortunate to travel here, and hope to return/often after healing and rehab...
The Loon, Compromise, and Cortisone….
Woodland Caribou/June 9-June 21, 2016.
…I’m just a traveler passing through/I won’t hurt or bother you though
you could lend an ear to my story/Potter’s Field…as sung by Railroad Earth.
…where you headed Del? …Same place you are Jeremiah: hell in the end…
Jeremiah Johnson to Del Gue/in the movie Jeremiah Johnson…
Corticosteroid injections are useful for treating flare-ups of OA pain and swelling with fluid buildup in the knee, Richmond says…from the archives of WebMD.
By late afternoon, the bird had scanned the entire shoreline. On the west of Musclow, behind our canoe, then in front this loon traveled with us…staring at the old Souris River canoe, peeking in the water, diving the deeper waters in the lee of a small island.
He left at dusk/late with the solstice, but returned in the morning, watching our camp on the sand spit, snorkeling down in the water, checking the sky around him…
…as the sun swung east, he disappeared with the drone of the float plane…giving up his place on Musclow for a moment of pickup. Compromise again on a 13 days of paddling: two aging paddlers, loon like, bought into the concept that each’s ideas had merit, that bad ideas might be thrown out, new approaches were good, and together the trip could be unique…good for our soul…
Often our Woodland trips don’t have a route…just a beginning and an end…and in between we write the gospel of the trip. So, we plotted: Leano to Musclow…fill in the details each day and reach this loon’s territory by summer’s start. We followed familiar: Leano to Kilburn…take the long portage to Upper Kilburn. Sweat rolls from bodies not comfortable with packs full of weeks’ worth of dog food, human treats, clothes, fishing gear, first aid patches for canoe, dog, and humans. Somewhere in the early kilometers down Leano Creek a pace is set: we lunch on the falls above Kilburn, tell stories of bee stings, misty mornings in the fall, and how we cherish this land. On Kilburn we decide: 900 meter portage…last year we did the paddle through Kilburn 4 times, yet we stare as we turn into portage bay, mark October moose memories, darting around August thunderstorms, and just those stubborn winds in your face. The long portage is introduction into the bush: deer flies find crevices in clothes, suck blood and vanish; tackle shifts in the packs, straps poke into our backs; and the reel handle falls off leaving new challenges to reeling in trout. We finish the trail on the sand of Upper Kilburn, throw retrieves to Birch, and do weather. Cumulus grow, flies boldly travel with the canoe biting ankles, and the southeast wind tells of rain. Upper Kilburn’s familiar shores bring debates of old camps and we pick the island site tucked along the west side…hiding from thunder. Loons search our selection, pretend to fish, hoot to each other, expecting perhaps more from us: quieter, cleaner, more graceful in the bush. We breathe easier as all the tents parts appear, the evening meal is found, and music plays from boreal birds above the thunder.
How far did you go? Where did you go? Catch anything? Always the result questioned…we want Paull on day 2…up through six trails, Confusion Lake…shallow water of the head waters of the Sturgeon River. Thunder bounces off us on the way out of Upper Kilburn, rain sprinkles on portage two, wind and a down burst attack on portage 3.
Tarp out, the rain quits quickly…repacking, enjoying sun, we paddle north: study the regrowth from fire, check water color, listen to woodpeckers on burnt jack pines. Clouds turn dark and we find shelter on a flat rock, the old campsite before portage out of Confusion…rain fills the canoe, soaks Birch, slogs the bread covering our tuna sandwiches. We dig in for an all-day rain: the sun appears, we scramble to the next portage, listen to thunder under the canoe carried over our head, mush through a bog, and walk down a slippery hill into Paull.
Don’t know what returns means to others, but coming into a land of human silence, a place that swims often in our minds during winter, and offers mystery marked in fire landscape, wolf scat, and moose dropping means a lot to us. Paull’s an old friend and here in Paull, a bear swims in front of the canoe, hides in the shades of a shoreline, and disappears, again clouds grow: high, strong white tops, lightning glows out of the tops then touches the ground, wind funnels from the west. We hide for the third time on this day: a good place…rock at our backs, solid trees, space to move in quieter moments. It’s roughly 4 pm…night fall and the storm stops. Wind: dries our packs, clothes, and knee braces. Carol’s knees have asked for them and each morning she velcros them up, gaining strength over arthritis…it is a ritual she will do each morning, sacrificing a bit of mobility over the pain of moving up and down.
Seldom do we question going to Aegean. The paddle is old to us: Since 1990, we’ve come here, traveled between Paull and Aegean, viewed wolves along the Oiseau River, recorded wind falls, fire, and swallowed blueberries, spied caribou. Cleared by last year’s fire, Aegean is spotted earlier on the portage trail…we drop packs, return to the river, wonder at the regrowth, listen to summer growing, swat flies. Find the last of the four packs, dream on the return trail and talk to Aegean. Talk? The Woodland lakes have developed personalities in our minds. Aegean, in 1990, spoke of silence with gray brooding clouds, a massive cliff of subtle greens, browns, and gray, and fish that tackled our lines. In the end we paddled its shores fully, dreamt of the cliff in winter, slept on the long, gentle slopping rock at the boat cache, and eventually merged with this spirit.
This year we stumble on the lake…ignore the back drop and question where are we going. The 14 portages to Aegean have challenged Carol’s knees and we look for simple to Musclow: over the hill to Wrist and then Hanson into the Rostoul/Gammon. But did we come for simple, do we dream only for easier, or does winter stories fuel a better route. Silence in the tent at night, we break camp, agree on simple, wave good bye to the rock cliff, swing north to Wrist…tears of leaving a friend, tears of shortening in the route.
A north wind pushes at us on Wrist, we duck along the west shore for shelter, almost turn towards the Hanson route, then debate about giving in…not viewing the Haggart River, Bulging, Beamish or Welkin. Carol trusts that going the hard way is the right way: we walk softly along the goat slope, feel wind in our face on Welkin, smile as we find Beamish quiet, and camp on a long sloping rock facing north. Birch and I camped here last August, stared at northern lights, broke our camp stove, and awoke feeling part of the
land around us…not just visitors. Today, stars and moon glow, we hope for northern lights, and bless our route. The wind turns east, the moon hides in the clouds, and rain sprinkles us…the trip down the creek will be dark, closed in with narrow shores, low water flows, and mist falling from almost tree top heights….the trails have been used…we think last by a blundering old man and dog: we spot cuts off trees cut from last year’s route, Birch sniffs through vines finding covered routes, and we slip around the debris below Frenchman’s falls and under the logs above Surprise Lake.
Tuna at the base of the trail out of Surprise…we swallow water, thirst for travel on open waters, and plod uphill. Like most trails a year out from the fire, vines tangle our steps, a few trees block the route, and we enjoy the openness of the forest gardened by the burn. We break a strap on the Granite Gear pack coming into Haggart…hurrying I one arm the pack, pressure a stitch and the unique weight support system snaps…we grumble at the thought of more trails with less technology but our legs, arms, and backs have strengthened…so we ignore the irritation.
Haggart is wild with wind pushing us north…a gray sky drops into the waves, and we push faster than our plans for the night. We spot smoke to the east, see smoke in the northwest, here planes, ignore old camps, markers for lost friends, and decide Bulging is a good night camp. Experience is a bad teacher: the wind we know from past trips will push into the short trail landing by the falls, waves from the east will grow, and high rock walls stop the idea of a camp. Experience is a good teacher…we wait on the large island below the falls, time breathes of wind, watch fire planes explore the horizon, measure waves bouncing our canoe…then, we feel a drop of energy. load the canoe, and head into the waves…we bounce in the swells, water comes over the gunwales, we turn in mid lake, grab a high wave and surf to the island camp. We land on the lee side, Birch trembling, Carol a bit disheveled and me full of excitement: Bulging belches white caps racing on swells, forces cool air across our faces…we hide on the rock face on the quiet side: Carol sketches, Birch chews sticks, I dream. We wonder about the arctic travelers, wind pushing across open spaces, miles of uninterrupted molecules…humbled we set the tent in the teeth of the wind, using pegs, rocks, and Birch as anchors…the wind never quits that night…the moon flashes fair well for the trip, and mist drops.
Ah, the Haggart River…our first trip we portaged an 80 pound canoe through the canyon…struggled uphill and down…we’ve been through twice more, found it tough but doable: humans, dog, packs, and Kevlar canoes. We talk knees, think of maybe heading towards Donald then to the Gammon…then agree to head down the Haggart.
We’ve forgotten the upper river: larch trees, the wonderful lake with the large island, and deep westerly bay, the water finding crack through rock making some waterfalls. Above the many portages we twist wrong, get into a bay, not the river and find a storm following our route…we find a rock, tent goes up, we huddle through thunder, some hail, a bit of rain, and eat lukewarm beef stew inside the tent. It is a gift…the last good camp before Carroll Lake…morning finds an eagle at the first portage of the day…leading us to Carroll.
The trip is challenging? We scramble in shallows above take outs, lower canoes down hills, giggle that the last portage was easy…at one take out we walk on birch root, kneel with canoe on shoulders under a downfall, Carol rolls into the river holding the canoe on a step bank, mist falls, slippery rocks appear, and then Carroll Lake…Carol dries out, takes the maps, we breathe deep and head towards Artery Lake…waves pound us on our northward journey, Birch curls on top of the Duluth pack, shivers, islands hide routes…Right before the Craven River we find a long rock, ease onto a shore of red colored algae, unload, set up camp, and munch snacks…we debate a tent site: settle for/into the wind on the rock, cook under the tarp, watch loons, and watch mist cloud into the camp. We stay almost to noon the next day…and paddle into Craven…using Wheel Barrow portage where we once caught fish on consecutive casts for at least an hour, swans launch from the pools of a falls, and Craven roams north.
Often we pride ourselves of knowing the routes without maps…here, in Craven, we’ve forgot everything…Carol reads the topo, points into the wind and we go north. Swans flutter beyond us, boundary signs appear on the Manitoba/Ontario border…the lake is wider, longer, higher rock than what we remember. At the fly in camp, eagles sit in the jack pine, white heads marking their landing. The cabin takes the conversation…here, we/Carol finds a design that fits our needs in Wisconsin on Couderay Lake…something that goes beyond the gaudy Twin Cities “up north” cabin of 4000 square fit. We chat on the paddle north, push the eagle towards Artery, and dream of simple: a simple place on our home waters, an easy paddle up this lake not marked by fire, snow downs, or pine beetles…soon we’re at the end of the lake…towards dusk…figuring out the portage.
First time through, 1991, we paddled the trail, ate blueberries on the north end, picked Labrador tea leaves from our boots on the south end. Being readers of Woodland literature the new portage should be somewhere…map scale: the end of the lake is around this corner, or does it go farther…we find an old fire ring, an old trail…the compass points east and a bit north…we look for the trail…the obvious rock cairn, the blaze on a nearby tree. Inching along the shore we get aloof: who will spot the route first? who understands the way portages are placed, marked, announced. The trail is so obvious…on a rock, on a gentle slope when the water is at normal height. We’re somewhat embarrassed that our route looked back in eastward pointing bays, old routes into a small lake, or close to the old, muddy trail. At take out, we debate doing the portage in low light, feel hunger, and a need to bath after two days of mist/mud/muck caked on our bodies…we carry up a 100 meters, find a mossy rock, stake the tent, eat by the lake, swat black flies, scold Birch for wandering with wolf scat, and smile at a setting sun…rain over!!
Dawn, rain appears…wet tent soaked packs, we wonder what this new trail will be. Starting in the rain builds apprehension. Canoe first, dropped after a ten minute walk…a pack goes by with Carol, Birch follows me back to the food packs, Carol returns for the fourth pack…we walk, step cautiously when the trail goes downhill, enjoy the woods, the sounds of birds deep in a forest. Above rain forms again, drips and drops into the woods, marks our coats as cool air refreshes our efforts. The end is a celebration: effort, beauty, accomplishment, grace in the route…
On Ford we pump water, eat, count mayflies stuck to the canoe, and search for the portage north. This is the coup de gras…the portage causally written on a paper in our kitchen: Ford to Artery to Musclow…causal, like 2200 meters was like weaving through a grocery store full of tourists. Buoyed by the last route, we know this trail will be used, newer, and forgiving for us…we find flagging tape, view spruce tangled over the route, wade through the creek seeping down the path, and dig out the saw: Best Buy hardware, twenty one inch blade, used to cut kindling for the winter fires. We wade muck, figure routes around tangles squeeze the canoe and packs through closely spaced trees, cut a few tip overs and reach the rock shelf tired, excited, determined, and cautious. We climb rock faces, drag the Souris River uphill, slide it downhill, smirk when a bog walk gives way, curl toes so our boots don’t get sucked off…at one point Carol rolls down a rock face, gets tangled in a jagged rock/Duluth pack strap quandary…Birch gets lifted up a step…and eventually, we get frustrated: no gull sounds, a loon wing, a merganser flying by…will the trail end…finally, after the 20th pose/maybe the 30th I see the lake, slide the canoe down we rock, push through marsh grass, and touch Artery Lake.
Tonight as I write this, I have a long incision above my left ankle…screws, a metal plate tying my tibia together, my knee above the wound aches from being stretched out all day. Yesterday, I redid the Craven to Ford portage, wandered through a conservation meeting, talked fisheries while gulping large cups of coffee. At nightfall, I went to the ER, had a nurse scrap the weep from the wound off my walking boot, been told to cool it for three days…I’ve hit the bed on trips to the bathroom, and I crutch to a door, open, smell the area, get a moment of the poses on the Artery trail. Yet, the story fuels me, masks pain of my good side over used today, see a star that marks my mother’s life, and hear an owl.
Ford to Artery…swamp, rock, travels: bed to bathroom, sliding up the stairs, and hobbling to the car…Above Artery I carry the last of Carol’s pose, hug Birch, demolish an energy bar, and smile…back on a pillow, lap top on my stomach, leg on a foam riser, the memories make me smile.
The sky is lifting…clouds are higher, the wind is turning northwest…all cries of our paddle up Artery. We find camp at an old site facing southeast: hang a tarp over down fall, place the tent avoiding the prairie columbine, drink water, and swat black flies. The clouds lower, mist becomes rain, and “we three” share the tent again. Our tent is MSR, 3 person, two doors/vestibules. We fill it…all the space…Carol, since neck surgery, and bad knees has pillows, inflatable mattress, and two knee braces…she brings her sketch books, reading light, and several books. Collectively, our first aid stuff/ironically a SAM splint is in it…holds space on our Granite Gear Pack…wet clothes hide under the tarp, but the dry clothes bag goes on the Granite Gear. Birch curls often on the Granite Gear pile but often stretches along a door if the pile lumps up…he has an air mattress/an old one from previous trips, and we cover him when damp with a space blanket or towel. Pants, jackets, underwear, towels get scattered in night turns and tosses. By cool mornings, most this year, Birch squirts between us, seeking warmth and maybe some security from his scouting duties on the trail. This year we read Sig Olson’s Lonely Land…the trip down the Churchill with five other people…his voice rings loud in our minds, and despite the fact that we’ve read this a lot/including on early dates, his story captures us.
It takes an hour to break camp…roll up sleeping bags, stuff sacks of clothes, sort out food for the trail, and eat a breakfast. This year, each morning started with the decision: rain gear? do we stay hear an hour to avoid the rain? how far to the next camp…only on Bulging/wind and Upper Carroll/rain did we “sleep” in. The solstice gave us ample paddling hours and we stretched the daylight into final dashes for the next good rock camp.
On Artery we met our old friend: the Bloodvein. Wide spaces, deciduous trees, ducks, weedy fish filled bays, and numerous beaver sticks. At the junction of Artery, where the directions meet we turned to Musclow, rode a wind to the falls. The pictographs held us…maybe the angle of coming upstream, maybe the low light, bright green foliage; eagles sitting on the opposite shores brought a new perspective. Maybe age slowed us to look, not photograph, study not judge, appreciate not see them as a site…Whatever, we stayed, drifted, heard water drip, currents flow, and felt the place.
It is a long paddle from lower Artery to Barclay…and we eventually turned into a wind and the current to add time to the paddle. Cool temps scuffed our faces and each turn brought hope that camp on Barclay would appear. Yet, if the trip goes quickly we miss huge popple, numerous ducks, long graceful river turns, the large islands of Mary’s Lake, loons, ravens, and eagles. We got to Barclay soon enough…found solastalgia/memories of the past stimulated by the landscape…and camped on a long flat rock into the wind. Sig Olson always wrote in the Lonely Land the need for the rock to camp on and maybe the book in the pack stimulated our search for these spots. Our camp is an old fishing meal site: clean, complete with dying jack pines, moose droppings, and patrolled by curious loons…a crow’s nest must be inland as squawking goes into the night…the wind curls around both sides of the island…making drying of clothes faster, but rain followed us up the Bloodvein an the drying folds into stacks of damp cloth.
At the start of the trip wind, mist, bugs, crunchy freeze dried veggies, broken reels, and constant clouds would have bothered us…now after ten days we accept, adapt, amuse ourselves in the environment. The long view across Barclay, the immense size of the waterway, the subtle power of the Bloodvein current swarm our thoughts and actions giving no time for serious grumbling. We take down a moist tent, pack bags in weather that promised sun and now pores on us…and head for Musclow.
Musclow: it’s been awhile…but always that long look to the far shore, the graceful rock ledges along the east shore, the view to the north inviting more exploration has kept its geography alive in our minds for twenty years. Up the river, huge beaver houses, trails leading to new popple sources, small lakes darting with ducks, feeder streams that add more water than most of our Wisconsin rivers. It is big country to us…one more portage and where at the solstice of the trip. We meet fisherpeople…hear stories of walleye on the line swallowed by pike…laugh that the last portage/the old one that had steps is weedy, grown over, and disappears briefly…Birch explodes from the canoe at the base of the falls, climbs the hill, nose down, returns with “it’s hear” eyes…we cut a down fall/Best Buy/Co Op Hardware/Hayward/nine dollars for the saw…double packs, find the old put in above the falls.
Musclow: but the wind is up, in our faces, and by the time we pass the pictograph, and reach lake entrance the waves control our fate…We lunch east of the rock guard of the lake…face the wind, turn and huddle behind a few spruce. Carol sketches the rocks with the orange lichens(?), I take photos of the waves, record dark gray clouds dropping water on the north shore…and we listen: wind breathes, rocking spruce meeting along the shore, wing flaps from mergansers, gurgles from water retreating shoreline granite…we're wet with rain and portage sweat, we’re cold from the wind and wearing polar fleece, anxious to cross the lake, scared at the size of the waves. I time the rocking spruce: note their movement by tree size…use the “baseline” to figure out wind speed, wave height, possible canoe travel. We debate storm routes, watch as one sits to the far north for an hour, get nervous about smaller blow ups coming on us…and then:
…the waves drop, the wind is down, the bounce off the rock is down and we load, race up the east shore for a long, flat rock camp…halfway out wind shifts to that awkward angle, quarters behind the bow sit, splashes over Birch…Carol grows silent, I’m laughing, not in macho chords, but damn this is fun…three souls racing a storm, looking for rock, a new view of the weather, and the feel of the Woodland…we find a long rock, surf the canoe onto granite, hop out and run with the boat up the shoreline beyond the waves.
Nirvana: before us people camped here, cleaned fish here…but it has been awhile…fire rings have plants growing in them, fire wood has green lichens…the spruce have grown to the tree line…we have space…at least a couple hundred meters of high rock complete with a view west and north, tent space, wind to chase away bugs, and time to reflect.
We started trying to fill in a route. Tried to fit our needs of sore knees, old bodies with desires to see long spaces, feel wind coming down lakes, scramble up hills hidden deep in the bush…at the start we didn’t always agree on the route, felt overwhelmed as we hung on rock faces, cut downfalls, and hid from lightning…but, now we made a neat trip.
Beyond this ledge in the softening waves a loon passes by…circling out, then passes by again and again…we have no science on loons only their companionship here in the Woodland and our home waters…we know we are invasive to their life on Musclow, Lac Courte Oreilles in Hayward or Brule Lake in the BWCA…but, the bird compromises and others follow our journey around Musclow for whatever reason…we are thankful…and when the plane comes two days later: the cortisone worked, our route gave us the loud conversation of Jeremiah Johnson and Del Gue, and the route followed after many discussions along the way created a great experience…just travelers passing through, hoping to not bother you.
Tom, Carol, and Birch/Hayward, Wisconsin
through words...we traveled by Souris River/Quetico/2 humans/1 dog...after Leano we saw no other paddlers...we did see boats along the Bloodvein, Carroll, Artery, Kilburn...we have been in the WCCP since 1989, feel fortunate to travel here, and hope to return/often after healing and rehab...
The Loon, Compromise, and Cortisone….
Woodland Caribou/June 9-June 21, 2016.
…I’m just a traveler passing through/I won’t hurt or bother you though
you could lend an ear to my story/Potter’s Field…as sung by Railroad Earth.
…where you headed Del? …Same place you are Jeremiah: hell in the end…
Jeremiah Johnson to Del Gue/in the movie Jeremiah Johnson…
Corticosteroid injections are useful for treating flare-ups of OA pain and swelling with fluid buildup in the knee, Richmond says…from the archives of WebMD.
By late afternoon, the bird had scanned the entire shoreline. On the west of Musclow, behind our canoe, then in front this loon traveled with us…staring at the old Souris River canoe, peeking in the water, diving the deeper waters in the lee of a small island.
He left at dusk/late with the solstice, but returned in the morning, watching our camp on the sand spit, snorkeling down in the water, checking the sky around him…
…as the sun swung east, he disappeared with the drone of the float plane…giving up his place on Musclow for a moment of pickup. Compromise again on a 13 days of paddling: two aging paddlers, loon like, bought into the concept that each’s ideas had merit, that bad ideas might be thrown out, new approaches were good, and together the trip could be unique…good for our soul…
Often our Woodland trips don’t have a route…just a beginning and an end…and in between we write the gospel of the trip. So, we plotted: Leano to Musclow…fill in the details each day and reach this loon’s territory by summer’s start. We followed familiar: Leano to Kilburn…take the long portage to Upper Kilburn. Sweat rolls from bodies not comfortable with packs full of weeks’ worth of dog food, human treats, clothes, fishing gear, first aid patches for canoe, dog, and humans. Somewhere in the early kilometers down Leano Creek a pace is set: we lunch on the falls above Kilburn, tell stories of bee stings, misty mornings in the fall, and how we cherish this land. On Kilburn we decide: 900 meter portage…last year we did the paddle through Kilburn 4 times, yet we stare as we turn into portage bay, mark October moose memories, darting around August thunderstorms, and just those stubborn winds in your face. The long portage is introduction into the bush: deer flies find crevices in clothes, suck blood and vanish; tackle shifts in the packs, straps poke into our backs; and the reel handle falls off leaving new challenges to reeling in trout. We finish the trail on the sand of Upper Kilburn, throw retrieves to Birch, and do weather. Cumulus grow, flies boldly travel with the canoe biting ankles, and the southeast wind tells of rain. Upper Kilburn’s familiar shores bring debates of old camps and we pick the island site tucked along the west side…hiding from thunder. Loons search our selection, pretend to fish, hoot to each other, expecting perhaps more from us: quieter, cleaner, more graceful in the bush. We breathe easier as all the tents parts appear, the evening meal is found, and music plays from boreal birds above the thunder.
How far did you go? Where did you go? Catch anything? Always the result questioned…we want Paull on day 2…up through six trails, Confusion Lake…shallow water of the head waters of the Sturgeon River. Thunder bounces off us on the way out of Upper Kilburn, rain sprinkles on portage two, wind and a down burst attack on portage 3.
Tarp out, the rain quits quickly…repacking, enjoying sun, we paddle north: study the regrowth from fire, check water color, listen to woodpeckers on burnt jack pines. Clouds turn dark and we find shelter on a flat rock, the old campsite before portage out of Confusion…rain fills the canoe, soaks Birch, slogs the bread covering our tuna sandwiches. We dig in for an all-day rain: the sun appears, we scramble to the next portage, listen to thunder under the canoe carried over our head, mush through a bog, and walk down a slippery hill into Paull.
Don’t know what returns means to others, but coming into a land of human silence, a place that swims often in our minds during winter, and offers mystery marked in fire landscape, wolf scat, and moose dropping means a lot to us. Paull’s an old friend and here in Paull, a bear swims in front of the canoe, hides in the shades of a shoreline, and disappears, again clouds grow: high, strong white tops, lightning glows out of the tops then touches the ground, wind funnels from the west. We hide for the third time on this day: a good place…rock at our backs, solid trees, space to move in quieter moments. It’s roughly 4 pm…night fall and the storm stops. Wind: dries our packs, clothes, and knee braces. Carol’s knees have asked for them and each morning she velcros them up, gaining strength over arthritis…it is a ritual she will do each morning, sacrificing a bit of mobility over the pain of moving up and down.
Seldom do we question going to Aegean. The paddle is old to us: Since 1990, we’ve come here, traveled between Paull and Aegean, viewed wolves along the Oiseau River, recorded wind falls, fire, and swallowed blueberries, spied caribou. Cleared by last year’s fire, Aegean is spotted earlier on the portage trail…we drop packs, return to the river, wonder at the regrowth, listen to summer growing, swat flies. Find the last of the four packs, dream on the return trail and talk to Aegean. Talk? The Woodland lakes have developed personalities in our minds. Aegean, in 1990, spoke of silence with gray brooding clouds, a massive cliff of subtle greens, browns, and gray, and fish that tackled our lines. In the end we paddled its shores fully, dreamt of the cliff in winter, slept on the long, gentle slopping rock at the boat cache, and eventually merged with this spirit.
This year we stumble on the lake…ignore the back drop and question where are we going. The 14 portages to Aegean have challenged Carol’s knees and we look for simple to Musclow: over the hill to Wrist and then Hanson into the Rostoul/Gammon. But did we come for simple, do we dream only for easier, or does winter stories fuel a better route. Silence in the tent at night, we break camp, agree on simple, wave good bye to the rock cliff, swing north to Wrist…tears of leaving a friend, tears of shortening in the route.
A north wind pushes at us on Wrist, we duck along the west shore for shelter, almost turn towards the Hanson route, then debate about giving in…not viewing the Haggart River, Bulging, Beamish or Welkin. Carol trusts that going the hard way is the right way: we walk softly along the goat slope, feel wind in our face on Welkin, smile as we find Beamish quiet, and camp on a long sloping rock facing north. Birch and I camped here last August, stared at northern lights, broke our camp stove, and awoke feeling part of the
land around us…not just visitors. Today, stars and moon glow, we hope for northern lights, and bless our route. The wind turns east, the moon hides in the clouds, and rain sprinkles us…the trip down the creek will be dark, closed in with narrow shores, low water flows, and mist falling from almost tree top heights….the trails have been used…we think last by a blundering old man and dog: we spot cuts off trees cut from last year’s route, Birch sniffs through vines finding covered routes, and we slip around the debris below Frenchman’s falls and under the logs above Surprise Lake.
Tuna at the base of the trail out of Surprise…we swallow water, thirst for travel on open waters, and plod uphill. Like most trails a year out from the fire, vines tangle our steps, a few trees block the route, and we enjoy the openness of the forest gardened by the burn. We break a strap on the Granite Gear pack coming into Haggart…hurrying I one arm the pack, pressure a stitch and the unique weight support system snaps…we grumble at the thought of more trails with less technology but our legs, arms, and backs have strengthened…so we ignore the irritation.
Haggart is wild with wind pushing us north…a gray sky drops into the waves, and we push faster than our plans for the night. We spot smoke to the east, see smoke in the northwest, here planes, ignore old camps, markers for lost friends, and decide Bulging is a good night camp. Experience is a bad teacher: the wind we know from past trips will push into the short trail landing by the falls, waves from the east will grow, and high rock walls stop the idea of a camp. Experience is a good teacher…we wait on the large island below the falls, time breathes of wind, watch fire planes explore the horizon, measure waves bouncing our canoe…then, we feel a drop of energy. load the canoe, and head into the waves…we bounce in the swells, water comes over the gunwales, we turn in mid lake, grab a high wave and surf to the island camp. We land on the lee side, Birch trembling, Carol a bit disheveled and me full of excitement: Bulging belches white caps racing on swells, forces cool air across our faces…we hide on the rock face on the quiet side: Carol sketches, Birch chews sticks, I dream. We wonder about the arctic travelers, wind pushing across open spaces, miles of uninterrupted molecules…humbled we set the tent in the teeth of the wind, using pegs, rocks, and Birch as anchors…the wind never quits that night…the moon flashes fair well for the trip, and mist drops.
Ah, the Haggart River…our first trip we portaged an 80 pound canoe through the canyon…struggled uphill and down…we’ve been through twice more, found it tough but doable: humans, dog, packs, and Kevlar canoes. We talk knees, think of maybe heading towards Donald then to the Gammon…then agree to head down the Haggart.
We’ve forgotten the upper river: larch trees, the wonderful lake with the large island, and deep westerly bay, the water finding crack through rock making some waterfalls. Above the many portages we twist wrong, get into a bay, not the river and find a storm following our route…we find a rock, tent goes up, we huddle through thunder, some hail, a bit of rain, and eat lukewarm beef stew inside the tent. It is a gift…the last good camp before Carroll Lake…morning finds an eagle at the first portage of the day…leading us to Carroll.
The trip is challenging? We scramble in shallows above take outs, lower canoes down hills, giggle that the last portage was easy…at one take out we walk on birch root, kneel with canoe on shoulders under a downfall, Carol rolls into the river holding the canoe on a step bank, mist falls, slippery rocks appear, and then Carroll Lake…Carol dries out, takes the maps, we breathe deep and head towards Artery Lake…waves pound us on our northward journey, Birch curls on top of the Duluth pack, shivers, islands hide routes…Right before the Craven River we find a long rock, ease onto a shore of red colored algae, unload, set up camp, and munch snacks…we debate a tent site: settle for/into the wind on the rock, cook under the tarp, watch loons, and watch mist cloud into the camp. We stay almost to noon the next day…and paddle into Craven…using Wheel Barrow portage where we once caught fish on consecutive casts for at least an hour, swans launch from the pools of a falls, and Craven roams north.
Often we pride ourselves of knowing the routes without maps…here, in Craven, we’ve forgot everything…Carol reads the topo, points into the wind and we go north. Swans flutter beyond us, boundary signs appear on the Manitoba/Ontario border…the lake is wider, longer, higher rock than what we remember. At the fly in camp, eagles sit in the jack pine, white heads marking their landing. The cabin takes the conversation…here, we/Carol finds a design that fits our needs in Wisconsin on Couderay Lake…something that goes beyond the gaudy Twin Cities “up north” cabin of 4000 square fit. We chat on the paddle north, push the eagle towards Artery, and dream of simple: a simple place on our home waters, an easy paddle up this lake not marked by fire, snow downs, or pine beetles…soon we’re at the end of the lake…towards dusk…figuring out the portage.
First time through, 1991, we paddled the trail, ate blueberries on the north end, picked Labrador tea leaves from our boots on the south end. Being readers of Woodland literature the new portage should be somewhere…map scale: the end of the lake is around this corner, or does it go farther…we find an old fire ring, an old trail…the compass points east and a bit north…we look for the trail…the obvious rock cairn, the blaze on a nearby tree. Inching along the shore we get aloof: who will spot the route first? who understands the way portages are placed, marked, announced. The trail is so obvious…on a rock, on a gentle slope when the water is at normal height. We’re somewhat embarrassed that our route looked back in eastward pointing bays, old routes into a small lake, or close to the old, muddy trail. At take out, we debate doing the portage in low light, feel hunger, and a need to bath after two days of mist/mud/muck caked on our bodies…we carry up a 100 meters, find a mossy rock, stake the tent, eat by the lake, swat black flies, scold Birch for wandering with wolf scat, and smile at a setting sun…rain over!!
Dawn, rain appears…wet tent soaked packs, we wonder what this new trail will be. Starting in the rain builds apprehension. Canoe first, dropped after a ten minute walk…a pack goes by with Carol, Birch follows me back to the food packs, Carol returns for the fourth pack…we walk, step cautiously when the trail goes downhill, enjoy the woods, the sounds of birds deep in a forest. Above rain forms again, drips and drops into the woods, marks our coats as cool air refreshes our efforts. The end is a celebration: effort, beauty, accomplishment, grace in the route…
On Ford we pump water, eat, count mayflies stuck to the canoe, and search for the portage north. This is the coup de gras…the portage causally written on a paper in our kitchen: Ford to Artery to Musclow…causal, like 2200 meters was like weaving through a grocery store full of tourists. Buoyed by the last route, we know this trail will be used, newer, and forgiving for us…we find flagging tape, view spruce tangled over the route, wade through the creek seeping down the path, and dig out the saw: Best Buy hardware, twenty one inch blade, used to cut kindling for the winter fires. We wade muck, figure routes around tangles squeeze the canoe and packs through closely spaced trees, cut a few tip overs and reach the rock shelf tired, excited, determined, and cautious. We climb rock faces, drag the Souris River uphill, slide it downhill, smirk when a bog walk gives way, curl toes so our boots don’t get sucked off…at one point Carol rolls down a rock face, gets tangled in a jagged rock/Duluth pack strap quandary…Birch gets lifted up a step…and eventually, we get frustrated: no gull sounds, a loon wing, a merganser flying by…will the trail end…finally, after the 20th pose/maybe the 30th I see the lake, slide the canoe down we rock, push through marsh grass, and touch Artery Lake.
Tonight as I write this, I have a long incision above my left ankle…screws, a metal plate tying my tibia together, my knee above the wound aches from being stretched out all day. Yesterday, I redid the Craven to Ford portage, wandered through a conservation meeting, talked fisheries while gulping large cups of coffee. At nightfall, I went to the ER, had a nurse scrap the weep from the wound off my walking boot, been told to cool it for three days…I’ve hit the bed on trips to the bathroom, and I crutch to a door, open, smell the area, get a moment of the poses on the Artery trail. Yet, the story fuels me, masks pain of my good side over used today, see a star that marks my mother’s life, and hear an owl.
Ford to Artery…swamp, rock, travels: bed to bathroom, sliding up the stairs, and hobbling to the car…Above Artery I carry the last of Carol’s pose, hug Birch, demolish an energy bar, and smile…back on a pillow, lap top on my stomach, leg on a foam riser, the memories make me smile.
The sky is lifting…clouds are higher, the wind is turning northwest…all cries of our paddle up Artery. We find camp at an old site facing southeast: hang a tarp over down fall, place the tent avoiding the prairie columbine, drink water, and swat black flies. The clouds lower, mist becomes rain, and “we three” share the tent again. Our tent is MSR, 3 person, two doors/vestibules. We fill it…all the space…Carol, since neck surgery, and bad knees has pillows, inflatable mattress, and two knee braces…she brings her sketch books, reading light, and several books. Collectively, our first aid stuff/ironically a SAM splint is in it…holds space on our Granite Gear Pack…wet clothes hide under the tarp, but the dry clothes bag goes on the Granite Gear. Birch curls often on the Granite Gear pile but often stretches along a door if the pile lumps up…he has an air mattress/an old one from previous trips, and we cover him when damp with a space blanket or towel. Pants, jackets, underwear, towels get scattered in night turns and tosses. By cool mornings, most this year, Birch squirts between us, seeking warmth and maybe some security from his scouting duties on the trail. This year we read Sig Olson’s Lonely Land…the trip down the Churchill with five other people…his voice rings loud in our minds, and despite the fact that we’ve read this a lot/including on early dates, his story captures us.
It takes an hour to break camp…roll up sleeping bags, stuff sacks of clothes, sort out food for the trail, and eat a breakfast. This year, each morning started with the decision: rain gear? do we stay hear an hour to avoid the rain? how far to the next camp…only on Bulging/wind and Upper Carroll/rain did we “sleep” in. The solstice gave us ample paddling hours and we stretched the daylight into final dashes for the next good rock camp.
On Artery we met our old friend: the Bloodvein. Wide spaces, deciduous trees, ducks, weedy fish filled bays, and numerous beaver sticks. At the junction of Artery, where the directions meet we turned to Musclow, rode a wind to the falls. The pictographs held us…maybe the angle of coming upstream, maybe the low light, bright green foliage; eagles sitting on the opposite shores brought a new perspective. Maybe age slowed us to look, not photograph, study not judge, appreciate not see them as a site…Whatever, we stayed, drifted, heard water drip, currents flow, and felt the place.
It is a long paddle from lower Artery to Barclay…and we eventually turned into a wind and the current to add time to the paddle. Cool temps scuffed our faces and each turn brought hope that camp on Barclay would appear. Yet, if the trip goes quickly we miss huge popple, numerous ducks, long graceful river turns, the large islands of Mary’s Lake, loons, ravens, and eagles. We got to Barclay soon enough…found solastalgia/memories of the past stimulated by the landscape…and camped on a long flat rock into the wind. Sig Olson always wrote in the Lonely Land the need for the rock to camp on and maybe the book in the pack stimulated our search for these spots. Our camp is an old fishing meal site: clean, complete with dying jack pines, moose droppings, and patrolled by curious loons…a crow’s nest must be inland as squawking goes into the night…the wind curls around both sides of the island…making drying of clothes faster, but rain followed us up the Bloodvein an the drying folds into stacks of damp cloth.
At the start of the trip wind, mist, bugs, crunchy freeze dried veggies, broken reels, and constant clouds would have bothered us…now after ten days we accept, adapt, amuse ourselves in the environment. The long view across Barclay, the immense size of the waterway, the subtle power of the Bloodvein current swarm our thoughts and actions giving no time for serious grumbling. We take down a moist tent, pack bags in weather that promised sun and now pores on us…and head for Musclow.
Musclow: it’s been awhile…but always that long look to the far shore, the graceful rock ledges along the east shore, the view to the north inviting more exploration has kept its geography alive in our minds for twenty years. Up the river, huge beaver houses, trails leading to new popple sources, small lakes darting with ducks, feeder streams that add more water than most of our Wisconsin rivers. It is big country to us…one more portage and where at the solstice of the trip. We meet fisherpeople…hear stories of walleye on the line swallowed by pike…laugh that the last portage/the old one that had steps is weedy, grown over, and disappears briefly…Birch explodes from the canoe at the base of the falls, climbs the hill, nose down, returns with “it’s hear” eyes…we cut a down fall/Best Buy/Co Op Hardware/Hayward/nine dollars for the saw…double packs, find the old put in above the falls.
Musclow: but the wind is up, in our faces, and by the time we pass the pictograph, and reach lake entrance the waves control our fate…We lunch east of the rock guard of the lake…face the wind, turn and huddle behind a few spruce. Carol sketches the rocks with the orange lichens(?), I take photos of the waves, record dark gray clouds dropping water on the north shore…and we listen: wind breathes, rocking spruce meeting along the shore, wing flaps from mergansers, gurgles from water retreating shoreline granite…we're wet with rain and portage sweat, we’re cold from the wind and wearing polar fleece, anxious to cross the lake, scared at the size of the waves. I time the rocking spruce: note their movement by tree size…use the “baseline” to figure out wind speed, wave height, possible canoe travel. We debate storm routes, watch as one sits to the far north for an hour, get nervous about smaller blow ups coming on us…and then:
…the waves drop, the wind is down, the bounce off the rock is down and we load, race up the east shore for a long, flat rock camp…halfway out wind shifts to that awkward angle, quarters behind the bow sit, splashes over Birch…Carol grows silent, I’m laughing, not in macho chords, but damn this is fun…three souls racing a storm, looking for rock, a new view of the weather, and the feel of the Woodland…we find a long rock, surf the canoe onto granite, hop out and run with the boat up the shoreline beyond the waves.
Nirvana: before us people camped here, cleaned fish here…but it has been awhile…fire rings have plants growing in them, fire wood has green lichens…the spruce have grown to the tree line…we have space…at least a couple hundred meters of high rock complete with a view west and north, tent space, wind to chase away bugs, and time to reflect.
We started trying to fill in a route. Tried to fit our needs of sore knees, old bodies with desires to see long spaces, feel wind coming down lakes, scramble up hills hidden deep in the bush…at the start we didn’t always agree on the route, felt overwhelmed as we hung on rock faces, cut downfalls, and hid from lightning…but, now we made a neat trip.
Beyond this ledge in the softening waves a loon passes by…circling out, then passes by again and again…we have no science on loons only their companionship here in the Woodland and our home waters…we know we are invasive to their life on Musclow, Lac Courte Oreilles in Hayward or Brule Lake in the BWCA…but, the bird compromises and others follow our journey around Musclow for whatever reason…we are thankful…and when the plane comes two days later: the cortisone worked, our route gave us the loud conversation of Jeremiah Johnson and Del Gue, and the route followed after many discussions along the way created a great experience…just travelers passing through, hoping to not bother you.
Tom, Carol, and Birch/Hayward, Wisconsin
Search BWCA.com
Donate