Background: Back in 1976, a group of buddies acquainted through work connections, Don, Bill, Carl, and myself, ages around 30, began making (more or less) annual camping trips to northern Minnesota. For the first several years we did ski-in winter trips, with some memorable experiences, but eventually resulting in the consensus that we might have a better time if we were not essentially in survival mode most of the time. So we switched to canoe trips in the fall. Much nicer. Subsequently, the four of us, “The Paddleboys”, enjoyed well over 30 October trips into the BWCA.

We all loved the BWCA and the time together there. Impressions from these trips have been a significant factor in all our lives. Noteworthy here is that Don, a career landscape architect for the City of St. Paul Parks & Rec, was inspired on one of our early trips by a stream setting along one of the portages for his award-winning design for Mears Park in downtown St. Paul.

All of these shared wilderness experiences have of course resulted in a camaraderie lasting through the years - many years. Our canoe trip dynamic became a well- balanced combination between love and respect, and finely-tuned insult. Picture Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau as Grumpy Old Men. Eventually, around our campfire one night when we were all well into our 60's, there was discussion about how long we would be able to continue the tradition. We supposed that if we were actually fortunate enough to continue until we all were 70, we would revisit the topic, and would surely be able to call it a good run if we had to call it quits at that time.

So in 2019, that time came. Don, the youngest, had turned 70. We had returned to Nina Moose Lake to the “10” campsite where we had also camped nine years prior to that. We went across the lake to have lunch up on the high bluff above the west bay on the sunny, calm 70-degree October day. Awesome color - absolutely perfect. And we'd been up there on a same perfect day on that trip in 2010, where we had actually supposed that eventually, that might be a beautiful and fitting place for some of our ashes.

Ultimately, that 2019 trip wound up being the last for all four of us together. We all had to admit that the “elephant in the camp” (a.k.a. Father Time) probably had a valid point: We were just getting too old for this - an opinion echoed by our spouses.

And now, earlier this year, Don passed away, and had expressed that some of his ashes be scattered in the BWCA. Since Bill, as much as he wanted to be a part of that mission, would be unable to make the trip, it fell to myself and Carl, now 79 and 80, but happy to be able, hopefully, to fulfill Don's wishes. We had planned on camping a couple nights at the same great site on Nina Moose where we'd been before, and saying goodbye to Don on that high bluff. But when the fire ban took effect at the beginning of October we decided that since a campfire is to us such an essential part of the experience, we'd just make it a day trip. It was kind of fittingly ironic, I suppose, that the fire ban had taken place at this time, as Don had always been our “fire-meister” specialist in camp.

Getting to the actual trip report: Wednesday October 9. Up at 6:00 AM at the Adventure Inn in Ely. About 30 degrees under an incredible canopy of stars. Breakfast; humongous platters of stuffed hash-browns at Britton's. Headed up the Echo Trail splashed with the splendid autumn color to the accompaniment of Eagles, Willie Nelson, Cash, and Beach Boys tunes - just like the old days, but with some hollow emptiness of the occasion. Arrived at #16 entry point parking area with the warming sunshine. Perfect. Maybe 100 yards down the half-mile path leading to the Moose River, we were greeted by several fresh specimens of recent bear “activity”. Although in all of our trips over all those years, we had never even seen a bear, at that point I was sort of OK with the cash I'd recently spent on repellent for this little excursion. Which turned out to be a waste of money, except for the peace of mind, I guess.

Once on the river, it was readily apparent that it's been very dry for some time. Even with our minimal gear we were scraping bottom quite often. So when the going got easier for a stretch, with at least a paddle's-worth of draft, we knew we could expect a beaver dam ahead. There were three, I think, along with the two nuisance portages along the way to the lake. Anyway, after the mostly pleasant paddle down the river we arrived on Nina Moose at about 11:30, to the very low lake level. The traveled “channel” through the delta, maybe a couple hundred yards out to decent depth, was about 4 inches deep compared to the 2 or 3 inches on the surrounding area. Slow going; easy to run aground. Or a-muck, more accurately. But with the perfect weather, a fine time. When we got out onto the lake we noticed some curious white dots moving about on the water below the bluff on the far shore. Kayakers? But why would a group of kayakers all have white boats? Turns out that actually, all trumpeter swans are white. A surprising treat.

Arriving at the base of the bluff at high noon, we hauled the canoe up into the brush and proceeded with the bush-whacking. Up several long rock ledges, wooded and more or less terraced, leading to the high clearing, about 150' above the lake with a spectacular vista. Not an arduous climb, but one has to be careful and deliberate. On top, we broke out our crazy chairs and lunches, and enjoyed the splendid view as we reminisced. Across the lake, above the tamarack bog in it's beautiful but subdued gold and dun, the evergreen forested hills stretched to the horizon, accented with vast swaths and splashes of aspen-yellow under the azure sky. While appreciating that awesome view, and thanking Don for our even being there, we happened to discover that there was actually cell service, and called Bill to share a bit of the moment with him. Then we did a video recording of some thoughts and memories of Don, noting the significance of the place for the four of us. I recited a prayer, and lacking a bagpiper, did a simple harmonica rendition of an old hymn before scattering ashes to the gentle breeze in the warm afternoon.

We had figured that we should head back by 3:00 at the latest, in order to be back at the parking lot before sunset. We did leave the clearing at about 2:45, made our way down through the woods and located our canoe. On the winding way back up the tallgrass and willowbrush-lined Moose River, we came around a bend, and just ahead a heron was perched on an overhanging limb, aware of us and watching our approach. We were within about 10 feet of it when it bobbed slightly on its spindly legs as it spread its wings and gracefully lifted off, kind of in slow-motion, and glided across to the other side, only a bit ahead of us, where it perched and seemingly waited for us to catch up. When we did, it repeated the behavior as we quietly continued; and then again a third time, flying a bit farther up the channel, around the next bend where it finally settled to watch as we foreign but possibly familiar beings rather clumsily passed through his world in the waning sunshine of the season. A memorable wilderness incident. Serendipity? Or perhaps an escort on our way home by the spirit of Don? One wonders.

We got back to the car well before dark, and as we loaded up we recalled, with a full measure of bittersweet, Bill's perennial closing remark, “A mighty fine trip”.

R.I.P., Good Friend and Fellow Paddleboy Don.