Paddling though a water logged canyon, I look up and am filled with wonder at the height of the cliffs. The only sound audible to me is the sound of the water hitting the side of my canoe with each stroke I take. The walls of the canyon are colored by the changing levels of the water over the years. At the ridge of the canyon is a rocky shelf with a few hardy trees. The water is a beautiful shade of blue. As I paddle farther down the canyon, I hear the shrill cry of the bald eagle. When I look up, I see the beautiful white head of the eagle soaring high above me. Shortly, I come to the mouth of the canyon; it opens up into a large lake. The shore of the lake is covered by rocks placed in a random pattern. Some of the rocks are rounded smooth, a perfect place to bask in the sun. Other rocks are sharp and jagged waiting to scrape the bottom of my canoe. When I look down at the rocks just below the surface, I see the silver traces of aluminum scraped off from canoes before me. In one of the inlets of the lake, I find a beaver’s dam. At first it looks like a large pile of sticks and mud, but after closer examination, I can see the organization which makes the dam strong and secure from the attacks of the outside.
As I paddle on looking for a campsite for the night, I come to another inlet covered in water lilies. These plants are seemingly fragile, but trying to pull one from its watery home takes some effort. Also in this inlet, I find my campsite-it is a small open space beneath the pines. As I lay down on the soft brown pine needles, I am amazed by the height of the trees surrounding me. The pines have grown straight and tall over the years. Right next to the pines are paper bark birch trees. The bark on these trees is peeling off in long white stripes. As I gaze up looking at the trees, I fall asleep because of the shear peacefulness of the area.
After my nap I wake up from the sound of the crackling fire. The aroma of the fish cooking on the fire is making me hungry. The pine wood is cracking from the heat of the fire. I cannot wait for supper. The fresh caught fish is mouth watering. Looking at the breaded fillets of the northern on my plate makes me think about the life of the fish just hours before. The northern pike is the great hunter of the Boundary Waters. Its body is shaped like a snake to slip quietly through watery channels. The nose comes to a point, perfect for eating other fish. The only real predator of the northern is me, the human trespassing in his territory with my hook and line. Now the fish is reduced to a pile of bones set out on a rock for a bird to eat and its meat is laying on my plate waiting to be consumed by me. To go along with my fish I have a drink of nectar-like kool-aid. The kool-aid is so sweet because of lack of proper measuring tools. I also have a fantastic side dish of freeze dried green beans and to top it all off a wonderful blue berry cobbler with fresh blue berries.
After dinner I rest sitting around the campfire with my companions. Sometimes we sit in silence taking in the sites of the Boundary Waters. Other times we will engage in deep conversation about whatever is on our minds. As the sun sets we move to a rock in the lake, that is perfect to watch the setting sun and to star gaze on. The stars at night are so amazing. No lights from surrounding towns hinder my view. Every constellation is present and can be easily seen. Off on the horizon I can see the eerie blues and greens of the aura borealis. Soon I turn in to a night of sound sleep. In the morning my alarm clock, the sun, wakes me up. I quickly get up and start making pancakes and orange juice.
After breakfast I quickly break camp and start to canoe again. Soon I come to a portage possibly one of the most challenging on my trip. As I come to the entrance, I plan my approach. It is a four hundred eighty-five rod portage. I divide my possessions in to several groups: first the canoe; then the packs with my food in; and finally my tent and clothes. The portage itself is beautiful. On the side there is a water fall, just perfect for sitting in once I am done crossing the portage. Walking up the portage is a challenge with a canoe on your back or carrying two heavy packs. The path is unmarked, uneven and rocky. With the canoe on my back, the only place for me to look is down. Carefully I place each foot avoiding the tree roots reaching up from underneath the ground. The rocks have become giant obstacles for me to pass. Without anything to carry I can run up the hills easily, but when having to carry something, I have a challenge even walking just a few feet. Sometimes on the portage I see singns of bear and moose: an upturned log, scat laying next to the path, and a broke antler in the trail. The birds always make my arrival known by raising their voices in a cry of warning of danger. Soon the mosquitoes descend on my arms nothing keep them away not even DEET. The last hundred steps seem the hardest. I can see my destination, the next lake, in view, but I am not quite there yet. As soon as I reach the banks of the lake, I quickly relieve myself of my burden and hurry back over the portage for my next trip. After three long treks across the portage and many breaks I reach my goal. After a short rest and a snack, I start to load my canoe again. First I put the canoe in the water. It has to be deep enough that it will not become stuck on the bottom of the lake but close enough that the canoe will not drift away while I am loading. First goes in the bags that contain my food. They go closest to the back of the canoe where I sit so I may easily get a bite to eat. Next, in the front of the canoe goes the bags with my tent in and my clothes. Finally I put in my fishing poles and water bottles all within easy reach. Now I am ready to start paddling across the lake again.
One of the first things I see is a mother and father loon taking care of their babies. The loons have a pitch black head and spotted body. Their babies look like little gray balls of fluff floating on the water. Suddenly the father loon spots me and makes a cry of warning. His cry is sharp and shrill often described as the cry of the insane. The babies quickly swim to their mother or father and climb on their backs for protection.
As I paddle on, I think back on all the sights and sounds that I have experienced in the past week. The reasons why I put myself through the torture of the hard and long portages, my aching arms and shoulders. While I am at Boundary Waters, I figure out who I am as myself with out the conveniences of the modern world. I am reduced to making my own fire and scavenging for food. Looking up from my thoughts, I see a beautiful waterfall waiting for me to enjoy its splendor¾ another little oasis reminding me to take each paddle one stroke at a time.
