I willingly agreed with the alarm dog that an early start was in order. It was sunny with a few high cirrus clouds and modest fog rising off the lake. Breakfast was another Spanish omelet with a tortilla and pot of coffee, followed by an early start.

I crossed Mora and did the quick portage to Tarry, crossed Tarry, and pulled into the portage toward Crooked. Its funny, but it suddenly seemed familiar, though I had not been here since I think 1992. I reached Crooked and decided to paddle around the islands rather than the big open area so I could survey the campsites as I passed. In a rare occurrence, I let those islands and channels get me a bit twisted around, and I passed the portage and ended up in the north west corner before I realized I had misjudged my distance. They don’t happen often, but I really hate those moments of realizing you are not exactly where you thought. I backtracked, and quickly found the portage to Gillis. I pulled up and started carrying my normal load as usual. This portage seems to have some options - line or carry to the pond, then rejoin the trail or head west, or just stick to the normal portage as I did. This portage also is notable for having remnants of one of those old trapper cabins which, as one of the few historical buildings left in the area, would deserve a few moments examination on the empty carry back. It really was a lovely spot for a cabin.

Around the pond the path was pretty muddy, and past the pond it was worse. There was one of those little swampy sections where rocks and a few logs have been strategically set to help portageurs across. Your eyes look down and your mind starts picking targets 2, 3, or 4 steps ahead so you can maintain your gate. I started right but with a midcourse correction I decided to swing left, requiring me to plant my left foot in some mud to reach a long log on with my right, but the mud was deceptive and my boot went down and down and down. I was wearing rubber boots that came almost to my knee, and they were almost tall enough to keep the mud out as I swung my right foot and found the log. Having a Duluth pack on my back, another on my front, and my camera bag swung over my right shoulder, I was far too top-heavy to have my momentum suddenly stop, and reflexively I let my left foot abandon my boot and find the log. A modest amount of arm swinging was then necessary before balance could be achieved. For my next acrobatic feat I would have to unsling my camera bag followed by each Duluth pack and drop them in some grassy stuff that looked like it would support them, all while trying to maintain my place on this log. In reality the consequences of failure were not severe as one of the two clean socks I had put on that morning was already slathered with wet black ooze and one boot is already stuck deep enough allow in some of that ooze. With a few minutes of twisting, swinging, and pulling, I got my boot back. In hindsight this would have been a fine photographic opportunity, but in the moment it really did not feel that way so words and imagination will have to do.

At the end of the portage I rinsed my formerly clean sock and boot and paddled out onto Gillis. It was not even noon yet, sunny, and just a modest breeze. I’m wondering how busy it will be as this lake is fairly easily reached in a day and a key point on several loops. I paddle directly north past the island and pause with my binoculars to see if I can detect which campsites might be available. Binoculars can save a lot of paddling in this type of situation, but I am not seeing anything. No canoes on the water, and no tarps or tents visible in the direction of any of the campsites.

I continue mostly north passing the large cliff faced island and pull up a the next campsite. I liked what I could see from the water, and once I pulled in I liked what I saw up close even more. Jumping ahead, this is just exactly what I like in a campsite, and would find it’s place in my mind as one of my favorites in the BW. This site had a sheltered sandy landing, a flat rocky point, several grassy tent pads with commanding views of the lake. The fire pit was protected from south and wests winds but the rocky ledge, and from direct east winds coming off the lake by a cluster of northern white cedars. And oddly, the fire grate was elevated somewhat so it was not necessary to bend all the way down to the ground to reach it. It would be a wonderful place to cook, so this was definitely a day to gather fire wood. I also was having that deja-vu feeling again. I know I’d stayed on Gillis in the early 1990’s on my first BWCA trip as an adult, but in my memory that site was located closer to the portage. Still so much of it seemed the same, and the only things it seemed to be missing were my old paddling partner and a picnic table.

I set my tarp up, more for protection from the sun than the rain or wind (thankfully), and for the first time this trip felt confident leaving the bug net packed. I set my tent on a nice spot where I will be able to look out and see mostly water. Then I hop back in the boat with my saw and paddle over to the backside of the island to look for firewood. I very rarely wander back from a campsite to look, as it almost always seems to be picked over for a long ways, and I like quality firewood. Paddling just 5 minutes (instead of walking 10-15) usually finds good wood in abundance, and the backside of the island delivered the goods and proved an interesting place to explore a bit.

Back in camp as I start processing wood my aged Sawvivor folding saw fails me. The screw dealy-bob gets stuck in the “not quite tight” position. I can just barely get the blade holes over the little knobs that hold it in place, but every few saw strokes it wants to pop off. After some mucking around with hand positions and drawing technique, I find a way to get a reasonable amount of wood cut with only occasional blade pop-offs. But I realize this is likely going to be this saw’s last trip. I processed quite a bit of wood, as I already knew I was likely to stay in that campsite the next night as well.

Since arriving in camp I had been routinely scanning the lake for other travelers. I found it strange that I had not seen anyone all the way up from Mora, no one on Gillis when I arrived, and no one had come onto the lake since I had. And the day before I had only seen that one group of four canoes heading out and in some hurry. My imagination started up. I started to wonder if it was possible that the BWCA had somehow been closed? Could some disastrous event have caused people to cancel their paddling plans? Perhaps some digital rogues had shut down our electrical grid, or caused mass currency crisis? Hmm. It all seemed a stretch, and yet where was everybody?

With the wood done, it was time to clean the sweat and sawdust off with a swim, then organize my gear for fishing. I’m far from an expert on fishing, but it seemed like the lakers were deeper than I would have expected. I was very glad I to have my depth finder I had just picked up this spring before my May trip to Knife. Like days before on Frost, the Gillis lakers were adequately cooperative, though a bit on the small side so I kept two. Then FINALLY, I hear a canoe hitting rocks in the direction of the Bat portage, and about 15 minutes later see two fellas paddling in. They were heading toward French Lake . I was in the north bay so they paddled right up, and were quick to assure me, with some slightly amused smiles on their faced, that electricity was still flowing and our currency was still stable.

Back in camp I cleaned the fish, marched their remains back into the woods about 300 feet, and set my trail camera to see what might be drawn to them. It was very nice to sit back in my chair under the bug-net-less tarp and enjoy a bit of whiskey and appetizers of dry salami and smoked cheddar. Then the fire was lit and fish fried in a cajon-y coating I had concocted and served with garlicky mashed potatoes. I cleaned and secured camp for the evening, and happily crawled into my tent early to read, leaving the awnings drawn open to occasionally look out over Gillis. About an hour later as the sun was finally setting I noticed something both interesting and welcome: a complete lack of mosquitoes resting on the mesh trying to find their way in. What an enormous change from 48 hours earlier.