The night didn’t treat me well at all. The wind came up off the lake and swirled beneath my tarp all night long. It rained on and off. I woke before dawn, but it was difficult to get up and get moving in the cold rain. I’m not sure I could have without hot coffee and Granola. The most difficult part was putting on my cold, wet paddling clothes; which may have gotten more wet overnight. The temptation was strong to keep my warm, dry sleeping clothes on beneath my raingear, but I knew there was only one way to keep them dry, and it was not by wearing them. This was my least favorite part of each day.

  One other peculiar thing this morning was that upon waking, I noticed part of my right hand was numb. I didn’t think I was that cold. It was limited though, to my thumb, fore and middle finger, and only part of my ring finger. I knew that was exactly the anatomic distribution of the median nerve, and that it was likely carpal tunnel syndrome. I’ve never experienced it before, but of course the last three days had been nothing but repetitive arm movement and use of grip strength, so it made perfect sense and I wasn’t too worried about it. Sure enough, the feeling came back to normal once I was on the water and had paddled a little while. This would happen every morning for an hour or so for the remainder of the trip.

  The cold, wet darkness changed to a cold, wet gray haze as I paddled northeast on Knife Lake. The wind was from the north and I kept to the northern shore to stay in the lee. It wasn’t fun, and I didn’t think I’d travel very far in the rain. I was ahead of schedule and the thought of resting for half a day in the warm, dry hammock sounded nice. “Oh well”, I thought. “I’m out here and miserable already, I might as well just try and put some miles behind me- even if I‘m not moving fast at least I am still moving.” I knew that Knife Lake was long and skinny, and there wouldn’t be any portaging for a while. The rain tested me. It never completely stopped, but would alternate between a misty drizzle and a torrential downpour- every 15 minutes. You could see the clouds with heavy showers enveloping the shoreline hills about 5 minutes before they were upon me as well. I continued up Knife, past the area where I had previously been. The rest of the route to Lake Superior would be through unfamiliar territory.

  Ottertrack Lake was next, and was beautiful, even in the rain. The hills of eastern Knife had steepened to meet Ottertrack in cliff faces on either side as the water meandered amongst them. There were a few groups camped here, with smoky fires of wet fuel adding a familiar scent to the earthy aroma of damp forest. It shouldn’t be a surprise that by this time I myself smelled quite strongly of unwashed fitness, so most any other scent was welcomed. Ottertrack Lake was added to the list of places to come back and visit in the future.

  It wasn’t until two lakes later, however (at the beginning of Swamp Lake), that I came upon a family of otters. More than 5 or 6 of them playing in the narrows just after the portage into Swamp Lake. They saw me as I came closer, and a tandem canoe heading west paused to watch and point. The otters would take turns poking their heads up 8” or so above the water to have a look at me, give a disapproving hiss, and dive back down. It was a brief distraction from the cold, soggy paddling. Soon after, I crossed the main part of the lake and the first northern exposure of the day showed me that the wind was deceitfully stronger than it seemed on the narrow lakes I’d been paddling all morning. I started to wonder about the last major open water crossing: Saganaga.

  Sag is a big lake. The route goes straight across it with miles of open water. Skirting the shoreline would add double-digit miles to the trip. I knew the north wind would have a huge fetch across the lake, and I’d have to judge things carefully. I planned to follow the south shore 3 miles east towards American Point. Because of the shape of the lake, this would expose me to gradually increasing northern wind/waves; and if anything went wrong I’d just be blown against the shore.

  It started out windy, with a moderate chop. Crossing south of Cache Bay gave me a taste of big rollers from the north. By the time I got to the end of the point, I was bobbing in 2’ waves from almost a mile of clear open water to the north. But I sat low and balanced, and was doing fairly well rolling with it, and only the occasional ill-timed wave was breaking into the canoe. Not only was the lake trying to get me wet, but also the heavens were still alternating mist/downpour every 10 minutes. You could clearly see the squalls coming from across the huge lake and beyond, and it was only a matter of time before each one was upon me.

  As I rounded the point, a two-mile crossing lay before me, and it was decision time: can I safely make it, or should I wait on shore for conditions to improve? I took stock of the situation, and paddled on. The first mile went well. I could keep my bearing if I fought for it, but my main priority was managing the waves coming from my left side. I dug in, and pushed on: I was committed to the crossing now. I’m not sure if it was increasing weather or increasing exposure, but it was here that conditions rapidly deteriorated. It seemed to suddenly worsen with much stronger gusts of wind, and consequently larger waves. I had reached the middle of the lake, and now had almost 2 1/2 miles of open water north of me being picked up by the wind into a breaking swell that was tossed at my canoe.

  Nevertheless, things went from sketchy-to bad; and fast. I no longer had my bearing, but instead just tried to keep the boat pointed in a general easterly direction: knowing that safety was in the lee of any of the Munker islands. I didn’t watch the compass, or the map, or the terrain ahead. My focus was purely 60 degrees to the left and about 20 feet away from the canoe; watching for the next wave that was coming to get me, and deciding in a few seconds how I was going to handle it. Quarter the wave and paddle brace windward, brace leeward, or take it completely broadside and roll my hips to bob over the crest. I would have trouble estimating the size of the waves, but the big ones would loom tall enough to temporarily block my view of the northern horizon. A capsize here was not within the realm of recovery, and I would have been blown south for more than a mile before I could get back into the canoe. That would be a bad day. I barely noticed the rain at this point- my entire attention was turned to bracing for each wave; catching a few rapid forward strokes whenever I could. I was later reflecting on how focused I was: I wasn’t hungry, or wet or tired or cold; I didn’t have sore muscles or blisters; my butt wasn’t uncomfortable from sitting. All that went away and I was perfectly tuned to only the immediate environment: it was just me- and the next wave. Time slowed down as I read each swell of water barreling toward me and executed one or two strokes in response before the next one was in view.

  The crossing seemed to last forever, and once I found the lee of an island it was suddenly over. I stepped out on a rocky shoal to stretch and empty the water that had accumulated inside the canoe. A few minutes ago, there had been some real fear and uncertainty, and it was exhilarating to know I had made it! I shook myself out, hydrated, and ate some fuel before continuing east through much easier water. There was another four miles of lake left to cross, though the remainder was protected from large waves. The rain had increased and the wind was again pushing me around.

  Once I passed Connors Island I turned south toward the Granite River System. I had beaten one of the biggest trials I’d faced. As the large lake was about to pass out of my view, I turned over my shoulder and sharply barked, “F* you, Saganaga!” It scared me a bit to hear myself out loud- after not saying anything for a few days. I don’t normally curse like that, but it was more something of raw emotion belching forth from inside. I was at a place where polite social mores had a far distant importance to the animalistic triumph of successfully crossing the angry lake.

  Heading south, not only was the wind at my back but also the route was through more narrow, protected lakes and river channels. The Ham Lake Fire burned this entire river system ten years ago. Young poplars and birch were just starting to cover the large black branch-less trunks pointing up to the grey sky. Burnt landscape is absent the majestic beauty of a mature forest, and has always given me a sense of bleak unwelcoming. I was glad to be just passing through, but began to give thought as to where I would make camp for the night. Practically, It would be difficult to find a suitable hammock location in the burn area, and I wouldn’t exit the burn until Gunflint lake- at least another 20 miles. The daylight was mine to waste or paddle on.

  While the afternoon paddling today was easier, the dozen or so portages were not. I stumbled and nearly fell traversing the washed-out Horsetail Rapid portage. Heading upriver, there were a few sections of rapids without clear portage landings and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to paddle up, or portage around. Sometimes it was trial-and-error to find the path that would let me through. The Pine River section is particularly difficult to navigate. The river splits into multiple small channels and streams as it braids its way in every direction around bedrock obstructions. The combination of varying water levels and ill-defined portage trails over exposed bedrock means that the route tends to change from time-to-time. On one difficult portage I had the canoe on my shoulders and my head down concentrating on following any semblance of trail when I suddenly stopped with a thud as the bow of the boat met a rock wall about 7’ high. The trail didn’t go around, but with a few rocky steps went straight up and over the obstruction. I did think, though, of how beautiful this area must have been before the fire, and that I should make a point to come back here sometime. Somewhere along the Granite river, the rain that was my companion all day finally let up. As the evening closed, I reached Magnetic Lake and could see the channel on the other end leading to Gunflint.

  Gunflint Lake is 7 miles long, and while I knew I’d again be making camp in the dark, I also knew that Checkpoint #3 was at the other end of the lake. I was going to make it tonight! Once again, the somewhat arbitrary checkpoint was motivating me to push it. And push it I did. I stopped on a gravel beach on the Canadian side of western Gunflint to pump water and get out my headlamp. In the last of the twilight, I watched a family of beavers heading west make a wide circle out in the lake to avoid me. It was uneventful paddling Gunflint in the dark. I was able to hug the northern shore and keep out of the wind. Reaching the other side, I checked-in with the inreach and started to think about where to camp. The most eastern campsite on Gunflint was on an unburned island of mature white pine and cedar trees. I went to the lee side (south) and found the landing. Disappointing that there wasn’t much here for a campsite. In the dark, I followed one of the trails back into the woods and to my surprise the main camp was located in the middle of the island, and it was enormous. After a poor sleep on Knife Lake, my priority was finding a protected place to hang the hammock where I wouldn’t be bothered by the wind. I found it between two huge cedar trees, with the root ball of a down tree blocking any wind from the north. Perfect. As my hot food rehydrated, I changed into dry clothes and again hung clotheslines to try and dry my soaking wet gear overnight. Everything not sealed in a drybag was dripping wet. I hung the empty pack on the line and it immediately sagged to the ground under the weight. I was soon well fed and fast asleep after a trying day that carried me another 43 miles.