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Northern Frontier (work
in progress) A soft light begins to peel away the darkness in
the bunkhouse. Someone stirs in the upper bunk bed across the room. A
cough, a grunt, a fart signal the awakening of the crew of brothers and
nephews who will begin their annual BBF (burp, belch, fart) outing.
While the tradition has been to backpack up steep inclines to the
isolated interior of the High Sierras in California, this year there was
to be a big change.
This day began in the far northern reaches of
Minnesota on the edge of the international frontier bordering the U.S.
and Canada. The Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) stretches for hundreds
of miles into the wilderness. No mechanical vehicles are allowed to
traverse this protected area. No motors, no airplanes, no sails. The
traditional method of transport, the canoe, is the only means allowed
for exploring this vast terrain of lakes, forests, portages, swamps and
islands.
The jeering began immediately. “What the hell was that? I told you to stay away from that bean burrito.” “Hey, I heard you roaring in the night. I thought
you were choking, you snored so hard. Such talk may be juvenile, but it’s integral to the
tradition of the BBF.
The eight of us climbed from our beds and started
stuffing our sacks with those items used the night before. A fresh pot
of coffee was set to drip and each of us sorted our gear for what we
would need for the first day’s paddle--sunscreen, hats, bandanas,
drinking water and of course, mosquito repellant. In Minnesota they say
that the state bird is the mosquito. The threat of the spring mosquito
population is what prevented this group from making this journey in the
past years. It was only after brother Jim brought to bear his persuasive
powers on his older brothers that the canoe trip was planned. Our canoes were lined up along the shore of Lake
One next to the dock of our outfitter, Northland? The violet pink hues
of sunrise began to brighten on the horizon. Clumps of fog hovered above
the glassy surface of the lake that stretched to the pine forested land
surrounding the irregularly shaped lake. We could see only a small
portion of the lake that wound around the bend to the east and that
marked our starting direction toward our destination of Lake…… 15 miles
to the northeast. We estimated it to be a five-hour journey. A loon called to its mate. The haunting, lonely cry
echoed across the still morning. Most people have heard the loon’s call
without ever having been in the wilderness of Minnesota. The loon’s cry
is a popular sound effect used by foley artists in virtually every scary
movie made in the last twenty years. To the sound effects technicians
and their audiences of zombie, slasher or marsh creature films, the
sound evokes desolation, isolation, fear and wilderness. Whether in the
film setting of a tree filled landscape in an eastern forest or the
location shoot in the sand blown rocky terrain of the desert southwest,
the Loon is always present. We tenuously boarded our Kevlar crafts, in pairs,
with unsteady confidence. A push off from the sandy shore sent my canoe
carving through the mirror surface of the water. My son, Kellen and I
paddled into the silent morning with the exhilaration of city boys awed
by nature’s simplicity and peacefulness. Our thoughts wandered over the
anticipated appearance of a bear or jumping walleye.
An occasional mishandled paddle broke the silence
with a splash off the silken surface of the lake or its clang against
the rail of the canoe.
“Check out that beaver,” Don called out, pointing
ahead to the right of our course. Small ripples created a wake where the
tiny head of a beaver drove across the lake’s smooth surface. Its long
whiskers twitched with irritation before it dived below the surface, a
strong slap of the spatchula tail sent water spraying like buck shot
across the glassy water—then silence.
Rounding a bend, we exited a narrow channel rimmed
by marsh, tall reeds and cattails. A vast stretch of water lay to the
southeast. Several small islands dotted the aqua terrain of our chosen
direction of travel. This was( lake 2) over which we must paddle several
miles to our first portage of the day. Our objective now was to cross
the lake quickly before the morning breezes started to hinder our
progress and our strength.
We began the rhythmic pulling of the paddles in
strong steady strokes. My pulse drummed in my temples like a Roman
captain goading his sailors to row harder to drive the galleon toward
conquest.
The sun crested the tops of pines on the eastern
edge of the lake. Its' glow glinted off the lake surface which was
already losing it glassy surface to light ripples generated by the
morning breeze now inspired by the warming air.
The exertion of paddling was already increasing our
body temperatures but the addition of the direct sunlit caused us to
start peeling layers off our torsos that had been bundled against the
pre-dawn chill.
More activity started to appear from the surrounding shores. Campsites were emitting thin spirals of smoke where canoers were preparing breakfast. One campsite on the island to our left had its occupants packing their two canoes in preparation for departure. Their aluminum canoes wore a dark gray finish because they were still shrouded by the shade of their island's trees. A hollow metallic sound reverbrated across the lake when a duluth pack was plunked into the empty canoe.
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(c) 2006-2010 TJ
Western
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