Chapter 3

“Push off from that hummock.”

“Roger that,” I replied.

I placed my paddle on the raised clump of marsh grass and pushed us to the right. We continued on our journey through the fen. The creek we were traversing was about fifteen feet wide and usually a couple of feet deep. Occasionally I would spot a scraggly shrub, a clump of blueberry bushes, or a Pitcher plant. The creek wound its way back and forth, as it made its way through the marsh. The grasses in the water looked like green snakes. They appeared as narrow strips of green, bent at the water’s surface and pointing in the opposite direction to where we were headed. It didn’t take much effort to paddle against the lazily moving current.

From previous experience, I knew that we would not be making good time on this portion of the route. There is just no way to move swiftly along a water trail that keeps doubling back on itself. The process is this; push of from a clump, push off from the bottom, paddle a little, and then repeat. What would normally take a half hour could easily end up taking three times that much. Of course, that was if the water continued to be deep enough to paddle through. There had been many times in the past, where we had been required to get out and pull and push the canoe.

“Push to the right on that next turn.”

I already knew what to do. My new canoe partner was beginning to get a little annoying. When Bob and I had canoed together, we rarely talked. Each one of us knew what to do and had complete confidence in his partner. That was evidently not the case with my new fellow canoeist.

The water was a brownish color due to the tannin that was leaching from the sphagnum moss and other vegetation. Occasionally, I might see the flash of fin in the water below. Looking up, I would scan the shoreline, hoping to see a moose. About a half mile back, we had lifted our canoe over a beaver dam blocking our path, but had seen no beaver.

The creeks are fun at first, but get a little tedious after doubling back for the thirtieth time. It was a relief when I saw the creek begin to widen gradually. What looked like it might be our portage appeared up ahead.

My dream had finally come to fruition. Ron had stopped by my house at six o’clock in the morning. We loaded up my gear and then headed north to Ely. We stopped in Cloquet, had a quick breakfast, and then continued on our way. The plan was to get in a solid six hours of paddling before we finally made camp. Of course, there was always the possibility that the campsite we wanted might be occupied. That should be less of a problem this late in the season.

We stopped at the Kawishiwi Ranger Station, in Ely, to pick up our entry permit. Fortunately for us, the parking lot was basically empty. We watched the required video of what to do and promised the Ranger that we were not packing any cans into the wilderness. We looked at a few displays in the center, and then proceeded on our way.

Ron slowly pulled his vehicle onto a gravel parking lot located near a narrow creek. This was the designated spot where our permit allowed us to enter the BWCA. Ron got out, stretched, and then proceeded to undo the homemade tie downs that held the canoe on the rack.

“Have you ever tried ratchet tie-downs,” I asked.

“No, these are the only ones I will ever use,” was the reply. That was the end of that conversation.

OK, I thought to myself. He is one of those guys. It seems that some men think that their way is the only way to perform a task. Myself, I try to listen to new ideas, just in case I might learn something that will make things go a little smoother. From previous experience, I know that my ideas are not the only good ones. It seems worthwhile if a man humbles himself, at times, and listens to what others have to share. I learned a much better way to pour gas in my boat tank from watching another guy. I hoped that our personalities wouldn’t be a big distraction on this trip.

“Grab the front of the canoe and help me carry it down to the water,” Ron said.

I lifted the canoe gently and together we carried it down to the sandy landing.

“You get the food pack and the supply pack. I’ll get the rest of the gear.”

I was beginning to miss Bob. Travelling with him had always been so easy. After making sure we had all our supplies, we locked the vehicle and walked down to the canoe.

“I’ll take the back,” Ron said. “You get the front.”

I did as I was told. Now keep in mind, I probably had eighty more pounds on my frame than Ron. He was one of those tall lanky guys. He had run in a number of marathons and had participated in the Birkebeiner Race on several occasions. He was one lean, mean, fighting machine.

I had never paddled in the front of a canoe before, at least since I was a kid. Bob and I had always known where our places were. We were a team and worked well together. Bob had a powerful stroke which he put to good advantage in the front, and I paddled in the back and kept our canoe going in a straight line. There really wasn’t a great need to steer that much, since our strokes were so finely tuned.

We hit one shallow spot in the creek, which forced us to push off from the bottom with our paddles. That lasted for maybe twenty feet. The remainder of the paddling was easy. We finally landed our canoe on the sandy shore and prepared to portage to our next lake.

“You take a pack and the canoe; I’ll get as much of the other gear as I can. I’ll be right behind you,” Ron said.

After loading up, I started down the trail. It was a wide path and I knew it was about one hundred and fifty rods long. In the old days, there would have been a marker post to inform you of the distance. In this case, I knew from studying my map at home, that our first portage was that long.

I have to admit, the weight of the pack and the canoe was having an impact on my legs. I tried to take my mind off the extra strain by looking at the scenery around me. It’s rather difficult to see much with your head in a canoe, but I did notice some lush vegetation on either side of the trail.

Pausing and tilting the canoe back to take a break, I spotted a clearing up ahead. It appeared to open onto a rock strewn shoreline. Getting closer, I could see that they were not just any ordinary rocks. Oh, no! They were jagged boulders the size of basketballs. I watched my step carefully as I made my way down to the water. One misstep could result in a sprained ankle or a hole in the canoe. I carefully rolled the canoe off my shoulders and into the water. I finally found a flatter spot where I could rest the front of the canoe and keep it from floating away.

“What happened to the nice log landings that I’m used to seeing,” I asked Ron when he came into view.

“Oh, the Wildlife Service has been removing those in the last few years. It seems that some people want the area restored to a more natural condition.”

I didn’t like his answer. What was the natural condition? How many years ago had voyagers laid down those logs to make the landings safer? How could the boulders I had walked over make the area any more natural? How could anybody know what the landing had looked like before? All I could think of was the possibility of someone being injured or having their equipment damaged.

I hurried back to get the rest of our gear, while Ron began to load the canoe. It wasn’t long before I was back in the front of the canoe and Ron was pushing us off from shore. Bob and I had developed such a smooth portaging technique, that no had ever passed us on a portage. I was missing my old pal even more.

This time our surroundings were much different. We made our way down a stretch of water with a low area dotted with lily pads on one side, and sheer black cliffs on the other. I searched the walls for pictographs, but didn’t see any. The waterway gradually opened onto a large lake, which was populated with a number of small islands.

“We want to keep to the right of that barren island up ahead,” Ron said as we paddled along.

This was another new experience for me. Ron had brought along his own maps, and evidently saw himself as the sole navigator. He hadn’t yet offered to share the map with me. On all my other trips, choosing the route had been my duty. If there had been any question about where to go, I would hand the map to Bob and we would discuss it together. I could see that things were going to be much different on this trip.

Now before you start thinking I’m a whiney fellow, I want to explain a few things. I have learned from previous experience that not all people work together smoothly, on a trip such as the one we were taking. It’s easy for one person to get on another’s nerves, and vice versa. Sometimes it can be the simplest thing, like ignoring a suggestion.

When you are pushing yourself, you can get tired and hungry from the extra physical exertion. It’s easy to take your frustration out on your partner. A disagreement might come up about which path to take. The wrong turn might result in several extra hours of paddling. On one trip I was leading, one canoe had taken off from the landing without waiting for the rest of us. It had taken a good hour for them to finally catch up, after running into a dead end and learning the error of their ways.