Saturday, August 22, 2026 Day 2
Today was the day we entered the BWCA.
We woke up early at our campsite and started tearing everything down. We took our time with the restrooms and getting ourselves organized before heading back down to Grand Marais for breakfast at Java Moose. We grabbed breakfast sandwiches and coffee while Beka finished organizing our bags and I waited for our order.
From there, it was up the Gunflint Trail toward Tuscarora Lodge & Outfitters.
I had forgotten how long that drive from Grand Marais to Tuscarora was, and as the miles slowly ticked by, I started getting a little stressed about how late our entry was going to be. Normally, I like to get an early start. There’s something about being on the water early, when everything is quiet and you feel like you have the whole day ahead of you.
But this wasn't a normal trip. This was Beka’s first trip into the BWCA, and I was determined not to turn into the guy obsessing over schedules and arrival times. So I tried to play it cool and just go with the flow.
We finally arrived at the outfitter, and I went inside to check in and get our permit.
The person helping me couldn't find my name on the permit list.
That was strange.
I pulled up my confirmation email to see what was going on, and that's when I saw it.
I had booked our permit for the following weekend.

What a terrible feeling. For a brief moment, Panic set in and I thought the entire trip might be falling apart before we even put the canoe in the water. We talked through our options with the outfitter and even started considering whether we'd have to completely pivot to a different entry point.
Then, somehow, we caught a break.
There was an available permit for the same entry point we had originally planned on using.
We were saved.
And, as it turns out, this wasn't even my first time making this mistake. The exact same thing had happened to me and my group a few years earlier on my first-ever trip to Tuscarora.
Apparently, I have a history with incorrectly booked Tuscarora permits.
We quickly canceled the permit for the following weekend, hopefully freeing it up for someone else to grab, and then shifted into high gear. We picked up our Kevlar canoe, finalized the last few packing details, and made our way to the water.

At around 11:30 a.m., we finally pushed off from shore.
This was really, really late by my standards. Usually, I like to be on the water no later than 8:00 a.m.
But the weather wasn't exactly perfect, so I decided it was probably fine. We were here. We were on the water. And, most importantly, Beka was here with me.
We crossed Round Lake at a pretty good clip and soon found ourselves at the Missing Link portage, where we arrived at the same time as another group. We made quick work of it, despite the fact that this portage always seems to be longer than I remember.
We loaded back up at the other end and pushed off onto Missing Link with gusto.
We were almost to the real challenge of the day.
The notoriously intimidating Tuscarora Portage.
I had been looking forward to, and maybe dreading, this one. Our plan was to take our sweet time and double portage together. We'd each carry a bag as far as we could, walk back for the rest, and then I'd take the canoe while Beka carried the paddles.
The goal was simple: don't dread the portage. Enjoy it.
To help pass the time, we started playing different alphabet word games. It sounds pretty simple, but it worked. Instead of thinking about how far we still had to go, we were laughing, talking, and trying to come up with words for whatever category we had chosen. The mile-and-a-half portage took us about two hours, but honestly, it didn't feel like two hours. The time passed surprisingly quickly, and instead of the portage being something we had to endure, we actually enjoyed it. Eventually, we reached the end.
And that's when I noticed the smoke. We could see it hanging in the distance, and then we could smell it.
Wildfire smoke.
My mood immediately took a hit.
I had built this trip up in my head for a long time. I wanted Beka's first BWCA experience to be perfect. I wanted the weather to cooperate, the lake to be calm, the campsite to be great, and the entire trip to unfold exactly as I had imagined it. The smoke felt like the first crack in that picture. We pushed off from the portage, and as we paddled away, Beka reminded me that things can change quickly. She was right. As we rounded the corner and came out of the bay where the portage ends, Tuscarora opened up in front of us. The wind had picked up. And so had the waves.
The water that had seemed manageable just moments earlier was now rolling and choppy, with the kind of wind that makes you pay a little more attention to every paddle stroke. The lake suddenly felt much bigger than it had from the sheltered bay, and my plans for the rest of the afternoon didn't seem quite as important anymore. I had originally hoped to make it all the way to the island campsite. I had read good things about it and was excited to see it for myself. My backup plan was Site 517, a site where I'd spent two nights a few years earlier on my first BWCA trip. The waves made the decision for us. We headed for campsite 517.
As we came into the site, we landed nicely on shore, and I immediately felt a sense of relief.
We were home.
And what a great site it was.
I had remembered 517 fondly, and coming back felt a little like returning to an old friend. The shoreline had plenty of rocks to sit on and explore, with the lake stretching out in front of us and the forest rising behind the campsite. After spending the day driving, paddling, and hauling gear over about two and a quarter miles of portages, there was something really satisfying about finally being able to put the packs down and just look around. This is one of the things I love about the BWCA. There isn't much to a campsite in the traditional sense. There are no buildings, no electricity, no roads, and no real separation between you and the landscape. It's just a piece of shoreline, some flat ground, rocks to sit on, trees surrounding you, and a lake stretching off into the distance. And for us, that was home for the next two nights.
The rest of Saturday slowed down.
We took our time setting up camp and eventually settled into the site. The temperature had dropped and the evening was chilly, but the clouds and wind eventually gave way to a beautiful sunset. The light started to soften across the lake as the day wound down, and for a while we just sat there watching the sky change. The water, the trees, and the rocks around camp all seemed to take on a different color as the sun dropped lower. It was one of those moments where there wasn't really anything we needed to do. We played some cribbage as the last light disappeared and the evening settled in.

There would be no campfire tonight because of the fire ban, so we turned in relatively early, finished our cribbage game in the tent, and let ourselves drift off to sleep. Between the Tuscarora Portage and our restless night at Hungry Hippie, we were both exhausted. And thankfully, we slept much better. We actually managed to sleep until around 7:30 the next morning, which for us is sleeping in. What surprised us most was just how cold it got overnight. Luckily, Beka had a nice sleeping bag and a good sleeping pad, and she stayed warm all night and into the morning. I was not quite as fortunate. I sleep with a camping quilt and was using a sleeping pad that isn't really meant for colder weather. I was fine, but sometime during the night I apparently decided that my quilt wasn't enough and added a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and wool socks to the sleep system.

It could have been worse. And honestly, despite the cold, I still slept great.