Saturday, June 14, 2025 Another cold night. Thankfully, I have my long underwear and 0-degree sleeping bag. I wake around 4:00 a.m. but don't crawl out until 5:00. As always, the first order of business is coffee. Breaking camp usually takes me an hour and a half to two hours. I'm not very hungry this morning—probably nerves. A long travel day lies ahead, and I never enjoy crossing big water. After loading the canoe, I paddle toward the Heritage portage. The landing is rocky and awkward, the kind that demands extra caution when traveling alone. The portage itself is short, and before long I'm winding my way through the shallow creek that leads into Heritage Lake. The devastation from spruce budworm is impossible to ignore. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of dead spruce line the western shoreline, their gray trunks standing like silent skeletons. Both campsites are empty, and as I paddle through Heritage Creek, the only sounds are the songs of White-throated Sparrows and chickadees. The portage into Loon Lake is about 220 rods. The first half climbs steadily until it meets the Sioux-Hustler Trail, then drops down to a sandy beach. Unfortunately, Loon also means motors. Before long, I hear them. Despite being in the wilderness, the sound carries surprisingly far. Loon is relatively calm today, but I stay close to the eastern shoreline rather than risk crossing open water. As I pass an occupied campsite, the steady hum of a generator drifts across the lake. While I understand that motors are allowed here, I've always felt they invite people to push the limits of what wilderness should be. From Loon, I continue through Little Loon and toward Slim Lake. The portage into Slim is 158 rods, beginning with a steep uphill climb. With my food pack on my back and the canoe overhead, I step onto an uneven rock and suddenly lose my balance. For a split second, I'm sure I'm going down and falling backward. For a moment, I feel my body and canoe shift as if an invisible hand has steadied me. I regain my balance. I stand there for a moment, my heart racing. Traveling alone leaves no room for carelessness. A simple fall can end a trip—or worse. After taking a few deep breaths, I continue on. On Slim, I meet a father and son heading toward Heritage. They ask if the northern campsite on Heritage is open; I tell them it was empty when I came through. There's a beautiful campsite perched high on a large granite outcrop overlooking the lake, but reaching it requires a steep climb. The campsite has a beautiful view of Slim Lake, but walking up and down the steep rock is not inviting after an already long day. Since it's only noon, I decide to keep moving toward North Lake. The narrows leading north are lined with towering red and white pines—true old-growth forest, something increasingly rare in the Boundary Waters. Last year, high water allowed me to bypass the Section 3 Pond portage, but this year I have to get out and drag the canoe through the shallows. Scratches are simply part of canoe travel, especially on rivers. About six hours after leaving Shell Lake, I arrive at North Lake. I'm exhausted. The first campsite near the portage isn't spectacular, but it'll do. It has decent tent pads, an adequate cooking area, and easy access to the water, though hanging food will be a challenge. As I look around camp, I realize I've completed one of the hardest travel days of the trip. More importantly, I can feel my body settling into the rhythm of wilderness travel. Lunch is simple: a bagel with peanut butter and honey, homemade jerky, and dehydrated chickpeas. I sink into my Crazy Creek chair and promptly fall asleep before even setting up my tent. Later that afternoon, I paddle around the lake to explore the other campsites. The northern site shows little sign of recent use. The eastern site looks promising from the water but proves disappointing once I land. While wandering through camp, a ruffed grouse calmly struts across the forest floor, seemingly unconcerned by my presence. On the troll back to camp, I catch a couple of small northern pike before calling it a day. Dinner is pasta with a basil-red sauce that I dehydrated before the trip. I enjoy this east-facing campsite. Late afternoon on a west-facing site can be brutally hot as the sun beats down and reflects off the water. Normally, I'd spend the evening paddling around the lake, but tonight I'm simply too tired. Instead, I build a small fire, settle into my Crazy Creek chair, and watch evening slowly settle over the water. As darkness gathers, a Barred Owl gives a distant, haunting call. Tonight, I have the entire lake to myself.