June 11 On June 9, I said goodbye to my wife and headed to Embarrass, Minnesota, where my elderly parents live. The next day, I picked up my permit, bought a few more supplies, and packed the rest of my gear. Every year I promise myself I'll cut down on weight, but no matter how much I leave behind, I always seem to find something else to pack. I'm carrying more than two weeks' worth of food in case I decide to stay longer than planned. That happened last year when high water on the Moose River forced me to reroute. I also never know how much fish I'll be eating, so it's best to be prepared. My dad, now 84, follows behind me with my canoe loaded in the back of his truck. We drive down the Echo Trail, a road filled with memories of family camping trips. I know he's reminiscing too, and I suspect he wishes he were coming with me. We arrive at the Indian Sioux North Entry Point around 9:15 a.m. The first thing I notice is the almost complete absence of bugs—a pleasant surprise for June. After unloading my canoe and gear, I say goodbye to my dad and begin the short downhill portage to the river. Along the trail, Moccasin Flowers, Blue-bead Lilies, and Bunchberries are in full bloom. My sister passed away in March after a long battle with cancer, and thoughts of her weigh heavily on my mind as I slip quietly into the river beneath a hazy sky stained by Canadian wildfire smoke. My older brother died sixteen years ago, and now she's gone too. My younger sister lives in California with her family, but because of the distance and her own health challenges, we don't communicate very often. I've become the child who will care for our aging parents. As the third child, I always looked to my older brother and sister for guidance. I assumed they'd be here to help when this stage of life arrived. I never imagined I'd be facing it mostly alone. It takes me about three and a half hours to reach Shell Lake. The portage from Lower Pauness into Shell is still partially flooded from beaver activity, forcing me to ferry my canoe across one section before continuing. The middle campsite on Con Island is open, so I decide to call it home for the night. It has an excellent landing, a decent cooking area, and several sturdy trees for hanging my food and gear. The forecast looks clear, so I decide not to set up the tarp. By the time camp is organized, I'm exhausted. I sink into my Crazy Creek chair, close my eyes, and drift into a short afternoon nap. Dinner is one of my favorites: a Knuti steak—my dad raises Black Angus cattle—grilled over the fire with instant mashed potatoes and broccoli. As evening settles in, I paddle out to fish. I catch a few bass and one keeper walleye before the sun drops below the trees. Back at camp, I build a small fire and settle into my first night in the Boundary Waters.