Up a little later than I wanted, but still on the water before dawn. I was happy with my choice of camp and had a great rest. While a wet mist settled in soon after sunrise, there had been no rain overnight, and my gear was, well....a little less wet than it had been. I left Gunflint Lake on the winding channel to Little Gunflint. Still going upriver, the channel from Little Gunflint to Little North was narrow, rocky, and with small rapids. I thought I might be able to paddle up some of it, but it was probably not wide enough to turn the boat around if the current was too much. I made it about halfway up the channel before bailing and stepping out to the side. From there it was easy enough to grab the bow rope and line the loaded canoe the rest of the way up the channel. As I did, I noticed some rusted iron rails on the opposite bank: this must have been an old rail portage at some time.

  Once on North Lake, the sun peeked through just enough to illuminate the low clouds over the lake. The glowing mist was flowing in and out among the hills that surrounded the lake and it was beautiful. I actually stopped paddling a moment to take it all in. After crossing North Lake I came upon the historic Height-of-Land portage. The continental divide. North Lake and all the waters I had traveled on so far flow northwest to Winnipeg and Hudson Bay. At the other end of the portage, South Lake and all the waters remaining flow southeast to Lake Superior and the Atlantic. This is the portage where fur trade Voyageurs would have a ‘baptism’ ceremony for new hires crossing the height of land for the first time. I checked mileage, and while I didn’t know how long it would take to paddle the Pigeon River, I thought it seemed reasonable I might make it to Fort Charlotte and the start of the Grand Portage today. That would be excellent: I could camp at the fort and dry out/repack everything, and the next day would involve no paddling whatsoever.

  South Lake had the same illuminated clouds as North, and the hills seemed to get bigger. I had entered the east-west ridges of towering diabase cliffs of the Rove geologic plate. My favorite lake here was Rose Lake. Rose Lake is almost 5 miles long, but begins as a small channel, which becomes an elongated bay that snakes around the terrain before it opens into the main basin beneath the high cliffs. Even though I was in a foggy mist with intermittent rain most of the day, it was incredibly scenic. Rose lake was another addition to the list of places I want to return.

  Up next was the Long portage form Rose to Rove. 2 miles long, and with a forked trail in the middle. Knowing the 9-mile Grand portage was tomorrow, I was resolved to carry the whole 2 miles here without rest. I hit the landing at 10:30 and began. The first section of trail was fairly flat, but dry. (I had read that it is sometimes flooded out by beaver activity.) When the trail forked, I met a group of older French Canadians who were traveling the opposite way and did not know about the fork leading south to Daniels Lake. I assured them of the correct direction of Rose Lake and kept on. They had gear with them but no canoe, and I should have asked if they had people on the trail in front of me still. My load was starting to feel real heavy, so I put my head down and picked up the pace, balancing the boat on my shoulders and pack without using my hands, and just watching a few feet of the trail in front of me for solid foot placements. About 200yds further, I heard a sharp, “Hey!” right in front of me and immediately stopped. There were two guys facing me: portaging a larger canoe on their shoulders, fore and aft. The lowered bow of my canoe had gone clear underneath theirs without touching, and was inches from the chest of the front guy, whom I almost rammed with my canoe! They hadn’t seen me coming either. We exchanged a good laugh at the near miss, and I stepped into the woods so they could pass.

  I didn’t know how far I had left, but the rest of the portage trail got much more difficult: up and down climbs and sidehill sections with tenacious footing. It took forever. It seemed like my pack didn’t have much weight on the hipbelt, and I thought my shoulders were going to explode. When I finally came to the landing on Rove Lake, I was beat. I hadn’t stopped or rested the canoe on the entire two miles, and it had taken me almost exactly an hour. I put the boat and pack down in the water, climbed in the canoe, and just reclined back on top of the pack for a few minutes. That was a tough portage, and if it was a test run for the Grand, it didn’t give me any sort of confidence for tomorrow’s 9-miler. I fueled and willed my arms to slowly start paddling across the three miles of Rove and Watap lakes, still nestled in a deep valley between 500’ hills. The portage to Mountain lake wasn’t bad, and I checked the time as I pushed off into Mountain: 12:30. The day was half over.

  Mountain Lake was 7 miles long, but I knew it was 7 miles without portage and I had an opportunity to make good time. I broke the lake into 2-mile sections, and put on the gas. If I was going to make Fort Charlotte tonight, I had to move. No wind to help me, but I hammered the paddle in a fast rhythm. I began to seriously sweat beneath my rain shell, and took it off- even though there was still a wet mist in the air it felt good. I worked hard to get to the end of Mountain Lake, averaging faster than 5 mph. It was a success, but I was tired. There were three separate portages (about a mile total) to reach Moose Lake. They were muddy and swampy and difficult to find, and it took me more than an hour to traverse the set.

  Next up was Moose lake: at four miles it is the last long east-west lake. I made water and set off fast with the same plan. About halfway across things began to fall apart. It was almost 4:00. I was tired. I rechecked the maps, and had at least 5 miles of paddling and 1.5 miles of portage before I even got to the Pigeon River. With 3 hours of overcast daylight left, I didn’t want to be caught on the Pigeon in the dark. Mainly, I didn’t want to do the unfamiliar rapid sections for the first time in the dark. I did not know the flow level, but knew from research that it had been slightly above average all year. I did not even know the specific drainage of the river, but reasoned that the past few days of rain could only help me over the bony parts. I did not know how long it would take to travel the Pigeon, and had heard reports that low water could easily eat up half-a-day walking the boat through shallow riffles. My BWCA maps didn’t extend to the Pigeon River and through either the forest service or the USGS I couldn’t manage to find a detailed map of the Pigeon river and grand portage trail. Both should be easy to navigate, as they only lead one direction, but I did not know accurate distances or terrain features. I had the general route marked on the Inreach GPS from looking at google earth photography, but a real map (or familiarity paddling the river) would have given a little more certainty to the situation.

  If I was fresh I could probably push it, but I was smoked from the day’s effort already. I realized I wasn’t going to make it to Fort Charlotte tonight. It was a blow to my esteem, and another mental low point. Looking back, it seems silly: I was days ahead of my goal, but somehow depressed that I couldn’t make some arbitrary mileage estimate I had made earlier in the day.

  I slowed down and took my time finishing Moose Lake, and making the portage into North Fowl. North Fowl Lake was shallow, with wild rice beds extending far from shore into the lake. I paddled south, and at 5:30 made camp on the second-to-last campsite before exiting South Fowl Lake to the river. The camp was on the middle of a sandspit separating North and South Fowl lakes. This is outside the BWCA and there are cabins and motorboats on the Fowl lakes. The campsite was heavily used, and ill kept with more trash and litter than you usually wish to see. The camp had a weird feeling to it. Nonetheless, I was in a ‘foul’ mood about camping so early, and moved slowly as I set things up. I hung everything I could to dry on lines and branches under thick spruce cover. I emptied the boat of almost all paddling gear and thought through a careful repack of everything I needed to carry the next day. I discovered that a critical seam on the waistbelt of my old pack was halfway torn off the pack itself. No wonder it didn’t seem to transfer much load to my hips: I’d have to be careful of that tomorrow. As a consolation, I again ate my favorite cheesy fritos and beans dinner as it got dark. Kind-of a bummer end to the day, and I had only paddled 33 miles.