Day 2: Psychos on Saganaga
Sunday, June 14th, 2026
We get to sleep in until 2:45 this morning, and have a goal of paddling out at 4:00. At 4:12, we first dip our paddles into the water and cross the wilderness boundary just a little after 4:15. While the winds aren’t howling by any means, I can hear it blowing through the trees and sense that we are in for a long, tough paddle. If the wind was forecast to be above 20 mph, I planned to schedule a tow for our departure. But the forecast has held steady at 15 mph for several days now, so we are going to paddle it. While I know Saganaga is a formidable lake to cross, especially with a young teen in the bow, I am confident that we are up to the challenge and will make the right call if the waves prove to be too much for us to handle.

Reluctantly crouched at the starting line

Engines pumping and thumping in time

~Cake, “The Distance”

I keep my thoughts on the challenge ahead to myself, knowing that we will both soon see very clearly the beautiful struggle that lies ahead of us. In the past, these opening minutes of a trip have felt like playing the quiet opening notes of a meticulously practiced concert piece, the peaceful beginnings of what will become a magnificent symphony of incredible music. Those feelings are not present today. Once again, I feel like we are both at the starting line of a very difficult race, one that will demand the utmost from us both physically and mentally, leaving us to question our motives for racing at all, or even our very existence. Mistakes will be made, and we will be buffeted not only by the harsh, unfeeling northwest wind, but by doubt itself. As athletes, Andrew and I are familiar with this feeling. Even when the end result isn’t a win, an experienced athlete knows deep inside that they gave it their all and are are proud of themselves for being brave and for laying it all on the line.

We paddle up the corridor, taking note of the campsites and bays on the map together as we pass, as well as our first Bald Eagle sighting of the trip. Initially we are slightly confused by the sight of Clark Island dead ahead of us, but we soon figure it out and are off and running. Our progress to the northwest is steady and confident, and the modest chop on the water provides little resistance. While our initial plan was to bypass Munker Narrows in favor of a less direct, sheltered route along the western shoreline, Andrew suggests that he’d like to head for the narrows to just take a look. While I’m pessimistic this will work, I decide there’s nothing wrong with checking it out. Soon enough I see the familiar, menacing sight of perfectly spaced whitecaps marching on the horizon, and let out an audible “Oof!” Andrew asks what I’m reacting to, and I simply point dead ahead past the narrows and say, “Big f—-ing WAVES!” Never one to back down from a challenge, Andrew is still comfortable with pressing on as I share a story or two from my very wet, cold, windy, wave-ridden solo trip down the Frost River two years ago, and talk about how when the whitecaps are really rolling, they resemble uniform windrows of alfalfa hay that we see back home in Kansas.

They deftly maneuver and muscle for rank

Fuel burning fast on an empty tank

Reckless and wild, they pour through the turns

Their prowess is potent and secretly stern

~Cake, “The Distance”

By the time we reach Munker Narrows, story time is over, and after five or so minutes of paddling as hard as we can, it’s clear we aren’t making any forward progress into the headwind as the canoe bucks up and over the parade of whitecaps. As soon as I call out to turn around to paddle along the southern shore of Long Island, Andrew responds with some quick c-strokes to make the turn. After about a minute of mild surfing during which I implore Andrew to keep on paddling hard, we gain the leeward side of Long Island and paddle to the southwest, intending to pass through the channel north of Gold Island, then south of Englishman Island before making our turn to the north to paddle up American Point. We allow our arms and minds a brief respite as I explain to him the plan, as well as our “outs” if the whitecaps are too much for us.

When we round the southern end of Englishman, there are whitecaps, but they don’t look too intimidating, and we feel safe plowing directly into them as we plod our way up the shoreline of American Point. I optimistically muse that if the waves are mostly from the north here, then we shouldn’t have much headwind to battle after rounding American Point and turning southwest. What I don’t mention is how dangerous whitecaps coming from the side are, nor how deceptively long the paddle is from American Point to Sag Narrows. Once we gain the point, we will come face to face with our fate. If it’s too rough, there are multiple campsites we can take shelter at.

All of these thoughts are premature. I see a distinctive jack pine on the end of a small point not far ahead and focus on making forward progress toward it. After ten minutes, it seems we’ve barely moved. It takes a full twenty minutes to make it to the jack pine, and I open up to Andrew for the first time today that this is really tough! But while our progress is slow, it remains steady and safe, so we dig deep and plod on. Rounding American Point is a moment we’ve been imagining all year, but once we do, there’s no time to celebrate or relax, because of the long crosswind paddle we now face. Both he and I take aim at the island in the distance that is in line with the opening to Cache Bay, and continue steadily paddling. We both know that once we make it past the island, the worst of the waves should be behind us. I keep a watchful eye on the waves approaching from the right and call out to Andrew when the larger ones approach. He does a marvelous job of keeping his paddle in the water and staying balanced the whole way. We come to call this island “Deception Island” because it seems so close to the point, but it takes forever to reach. Once we pass it, there are a few more significant waves to deal with, but soon enough we pass through the first narrows and at last feel like we can breathe easy. Both of us are beyond grateful to have that slog behind us, and I am thankful we didn’t get lost while battling the tempest!

My thankfulness soon turns to humility when I realize we have paddled too far south into a bay and need to backtrack a bit. It’s been a few years since I’ve paddled through Sag Narrows, and I didn’t remember it being too tricky to find my way then, but it is a little tricky today! As we paddle through the narrows, I allow myself to fully relax for the first time all day. We see our first canoe of the day here, and they ask how Sag is. I don’t mince words in telling them it’s pretty rough out there, and that we’ve been paddling for five hours straight this morning to make it this far!

At the lift over into Swamp, we see several canoes and they give us a heads up that our slog isn’t over yet, because the mud on the Monument Portage is horrible. At this point, a portage of any sort sounds nice after so much time paddling hard in the canoe! The scouting report soon proves true. After using the dock to the maximum extent possible, we do our best to slog through the mud hole that guards the “real” landing of the portage. Andrew sinks deep enough to lose a shoe, which he is able to retrieve, and I sink knee deep with the canoe on my shoulders, which livens up this first “real” portage right away. I can only chuckle in response as I realize I’m nearly totally powerless to do much about it. Somehow I get the canoe off my shoulders and Andrew helps drag it away as I extract myself from the quagmire. Considering the start as well as our morning spent out in the gale, the rest of the portage is a non-event, albeit difficult enough. We snap photos by the large monument near the west end, then move our gear off to the side of the landing on Ottertrack to dig into our thermoses of breakfast at long last. Sitting on a tree root, the clutter of my life distilled down to four small packs and a canoe, eating some lukewarm oatmeal from a thermos, overlooking Mud Bay in a cloud of mosquitoes…now THIS is living! As the sun finally makes its first appearance of our trip, both of us are elated to be at this point, no matter how long it has taken us!

After breakfast, we have little trouble finding the portage to Ester, where we strip off our baselayers and a few other layers of clothes we needed for our crossing of Sag. The portage is uneventful, though I discover, as I expected, that I am unable to carry one of the light packs plus the canoe simultaneously. From this point onward, I carry the canoe first, then return to carry two packs at once for the second trip and am much happier. I’ve been hyping up the beauty of Ester Lake to Andrew for quite some time now, and it doesn’t disappoint. Most of the sites are vacant as we paddle through, and even though it’s not a small lake, the wind doesn’t give us any trouble at all here. Before long, we reach the short portage to Rabbit, which we quickly dispatch. At the landing, we can see that our targeted campsite is empty and will only require a short paddle across “afternoon standard” whitecaps.

We reach the landing of site #331 around 2:30 P.M., making for over 10 total hours spent traveling today. This is far longer than I anticipated! But we are here, and have this beautiful lake to ourselves! After a quick lunch from the thermoses, we methodically chug through setting up camp. I am surprised to hear Andrew say that he hasn’t set up his hammock since our trip to Grandpa Lake last year, so we set them up together with little trouble. The same can’t be said for our tarp. The fire grate sits extremely near to the lake, which sounds great in theory, but makes it nearly impossible to string a tarp over the kitchen area. After 45 minutes of struggling with the tarp, we call it quits. It’s always surprising how long it takes to set up camp properly with water, hammocks, chopped firewood, and other necessary comforts. After this struggle, I am beyond antsy to hit the lake for our first try at catching a Lake Trout at 7 P.M. We tie on a Little Cleo and a deep tail dancer, but have zero bites. While this is disappointing, we know that tomorrow is another day, and are happy to return to our site to enjoy supper and this gorgeous, calm evening on Rabbit.

The only thing Andrew and I both love more than anything (well, maybe anything except fishing) is sitting by the campfire. Even if we didn’t love it, a fire is mandatory tonight, because the mosquitoes are positively atrocious here! Supper is a voyageur’s feast of fried summer sausage + cheese with hot sauce and cheez-it “dust,” followed by two strip steaks cooked on the fire grate with a side of dehydrated hashbrowns. This meal was a late addition to the pack this year, but both the steaks and hashbrowns were a big hit, and will be coming along on future trips! I divided two cartons of Hungry Jack hashbrowns into six servings. Two servings fit perfectly in our fry bake pan, so we plan to have hashbrowns three times during our trip. With full bellies and bare feet drying by the hot fire, with the mosquitoes in check, Andrew and I allow ourselves to feel optimistic about catching a Lake Trout here tomorrow. Our stated plan is to “fish like hell” in the bays and shallower areas, certain that they will yield to our persistence. We are comforted to hear the computerized voice from the weather radio for the first time all trip, advising us of lighter winds and moderate temperatures in the days to come, with chances of rain showers most afternoons.

In this moment, all is right with the world again, for what feels like the first time since our last trip. Yes, we have yet to find much fishing success. Yes, we have many days ahead, and nothing is certain except that there will be more challenges to overcome. But I feel with absolute certainty that the wilderness is once again working its magic on us, demanding that we live with their minds deeply anchored in the present moment, while keeping an eye turned to the future, and completely casting off any concerns or regrets of the past. For this moment, and for the next eight days, this is the real world..pure, visceral, and unfiltered. We extinguish the fire, pray for God’s continued favor on us and our loved ones, for good fishing, and a good rest. What more could one possibly want?
Stats—> Portages: 4 | Portage rods: 180 | Paddle distance: 13.8 miles | Travel time: 10:15 | Fishing time: 1:30 | Fish caught: 0 | Lakes: Seagull River, Saganaga, Swamp, Ottertrack, Ester, Rabbit