Friday, August 28

I wake up early to gray pre-dawn light filtering through my tent. I crawl out of my warm cocoon, excited to be up before the sun. After a short hike to the latrine and back, I climb down a hill to stare hungrily up at the bear bag, which contains both stove and coffee, along with every other morsel of food we carried in. Unfortunately, our attempt at using the “PCT” method has gone a bit awry and the twig that keeps the bag up high has become stuck on the bag. I reluctantly determine this is a two-woman job and I’ll have to wait for Kristin to get up. In the meantime, I grab my book and find an almost armchair-shaped comfy spot in the rock face above the river as the eastern sky slowly turns hot pink. It drizzles on me gently but the pattering sound is pleasant and I am happy in my warm jacket with a good view.

When Kristin gets up, we eat a quick oatmeal breakfast and pack up. The drizzle tapers off quickly and it’s clear we’re in for another day of perfect weather. We’re not super efficient at this part yet, but we’re eager to get going away from the creepy, dreary trees.
It’s a matter of short minutes before we reach the first portage of the day - the longest one yet, at 210 rods. I don’t think Kristin is excited, but she’s a champ and never complains. I hike along guiltily behind her and her heavy load, trying to entertain with stories and songs.
After such a long day yesterday, we give ourselves permission to take it easy today. We linger in every narrow pinch of the river and hug the shore of the bays in wider stretches to study the shoreline and watch for animals. Kristin especially hopes to spot a moose and we both love watching otters play.
We pick a campsite just about 2 miles and three portages away from our first and spend the day exploring an eastward branch of the river toward Farm Lake. At one point, we watch a family of swans for a long time, and we happily discover that two short portages marked on the map are actually easy, if narrow, to paddle through.
As we paddle back to camp near dinner time, racing threatening storm clouds behind us, we encounter a lost-looking couple who call out “have you been here before?” This strikes me as humorously absurd, like what you might say at a fancy restaurant. ‘Have you been here before? How’s the linguini?’ Unsure what they actually want, I call back “how can we help?” while Kristin chimes in more eloquently, informing them that we’re coming from the east. It turns out they’re looking for the portage into Clear Lake, which is on our agenda for the next morning. They say they thought they found it but it just turned into a bunch of criss-crossing dead ends, and they’re feeling frustrated and a little desperate. With our night of campsite desperation fresh in my mind, I tell them where to find our site and invite them to share if they don’t find their way by nightfall. The man in the back seems eager to accept, but the woman in the front quickly declines. He then asks if we would be willing to land and help look for the portage. Kristin’s face falls and I think she’s inclined to agree, but I jump in and let them know we have “another mission” for the evening. BWCA etiquette is one thing - we need to look out for each other out here, but I feel like they can figure this one out on their own.
This campsite is far better than the last. This one has multiple tent pads and good trees for both hammock and bear bag. In the process of hanging up her hammock, Kristin comes nose-to-nose with some sort of bleached, desiccated crustacean-looking-thing that is firmly affixed to the tree trunk, like an enormous cicada shell. As the sun begins its slow descent, the storm clouds dissolve. Kristin stokes the fire, I pour wine into silicone mugs, and we watch the ‘alpine glow’ light up the tops of the trees across our little bay. Just before the night falls completely, Kristin suggests a sunset paddle. We grab our headlamps, roll up our sleep pants, and zip up our life vests. I feel apprehensive about the timing, but I’m glad Kristin suggested something outside of my comfort zone.
We paddle away from the burbling rapids near camp, through a wide channel and out towards the mouth of the bay. The water is mirror-smooth and birds swoop around us. A fish jumps close ahead, startling us both. Two large island-like boulders mark the entrance into a wider stretch of river and the trees are silhouetted black against the sun and mercurial water.
The moon shines so bright that night we both comment on it in the morning.