Jack returned to the campsite and retrieved his jacket from the bush upon which it had been drying. It was, he decided, essentially dry—finally. Certainly dry enough so that he could wear it as the cool of the evening enveloped him. He put it on. A dark, moonless night crept upon him. He identified the Big Dipper and Polaris, the North Star. Ah ha, he thought. That’s north and that’s the way I need to travel next. As it became darker, he watched greenish fingers of light rise out of the northern horizon. Northern lights. Northern lights on Northern Lights Lake.
As he sat at the beach, Jack thought about his ongoing journey. He would not be in haste, he decided. He would remain on this island—his island—tomorrow and push on the next day. He would canoe early each day, hoping to cover some distance before the wind grew strong. How far must I travel each day? Probably not more than three or four miles, he thought. An easy day’s paddle, except for the wind. He would make camp early and enjoy relaxing in the north woods. He was not sure how long his food would last, but he would try to ration it to stretch for five days upcoming. Surely, he thought, that would be long enough. And it would not be a disaster if he were sometimes a bit hungry. But he was certain that he could reach Minnesota within a week, probably in less time than that.
Without a map, he would find the portage at the northwest corner of the part of the lake he was in. After the portage, he recalled, he needed to head northwest again to find the waterway to Saganaga Lake. The south shore of that lake was Minnesota, although he would have to find a landing that provided access to the road to Grand Marais. He would be paddling northwest and into the wind for the next two travel days, he supposed. Hopefully early morning starts would make it not too difficult. Hopefully early morning starts would avoid afternoon thunderstorms.
Jack left the beach, returned to his tent, and opened his pack. He found his flashlight. It had survived, protected perhaps by clothes that surrounded it, and it produced a beam of light. He propped it on a rock, and by its light packed up his gear for the night. As he had before, he covered the food-containing Duluth pack and his collection of firewood. Once again, he put his personal pack into his tent. He returned to the beach and sat watching the northern lights for a short time. Then he stripped off his clothes and crawled into his tent. Inside his sleeping bag he was warm and comfortable. He slept.
— — — —
Jack awoke in the morning and made himself breakfast. He found that all of his gear was dry. Even his boots were mostly dry. Of course, he lacked a few items that the lake had claimed—importantly his axe and the Coleman stove.
But in general he was ready to travel on. Not today, however. He had already decided this day would be another day of rest and recovery. He did scour the island for more firewood. Beyond that, he relaxed. He swam and sunbathed. He paddled around the island. And at the end of the day he watched another beautiful sunset. As evening approached, he packed up all his gear and clothes, ready for a morning departure after taking down his tent and finishing breakfast. Flashlight in hand, he returned to his perch at the beach and watched stars appear, one at a time, as the evening sky darkened. Northern lights once again graced the sky across the water.
10. Portage
The sun was shining through aspen branches to light his campsite when Jack awoke and crawled out of his tent. Well, maybe not that early a start today, he thought looking up at the sun. He inspected his boots. Dry, he decided, or dry enough. He dressed. “Dry clothes,” he muttered gratefully. “Dry underwear, dry shirt, and dry socks.” His Levi’s and Gore-tex jacket were also dry. He felt he could cheerfully leave stormy days and wet clothes behind for the rest of his trip.
Jack went down to the beach and looked out. Once again there was a wind, but not as strong as it had been previously. Not much more than a pleasant, gentle breeze. Pretty much from the north, he thought. The lake surface was nearly smooth with occasional breeze-engendered patches of ripples. “I can canoe against that wind,” he said aloud. “Easily—if it doesn’t get any stronger.” A large duck with brown head rounded the corner of the island and swam past him. Hmm, he mused, that’s one we don’t have in Ohio, I think.What a handsome bird. Wonder what it’s called.
With birch bark tinder and the remains of his spruce and birch firewood, Jack built a fire and boiled a pot of water. Breakfast would once again be coffee and instant oatmeal. In fact, he realized, that would be the breakfast menu for the rest of this canoe trip. Eggs and bacon. How long would it be before he could enjoy a real breakfast again? And toast? Of course he thought, if I had bread for making toast with me, it would be soggy and unusable. I should be glad I have oatmeal. More than that, I hope it lasts until the end of this adventure.
After finishing breakfast, he took his dishes to the lake and washed them. He set them on a rock to dry. Then he set about breaking camp. Except for his breakfast things, his gear was already stowed in its Duluth pack. Likewise his food. He turned to his tent. He crawled back into it and swept it out as well as he could with his hand. Pebbles, spruce cones, dirt in general would be more welcome outside than inside his tent. Untying it from its frame, he let the tent drop. He pulled out its stakes and scraped the dirt off of them. He carefully folded the tent onto itself, brushing off the exposed undersides as he did so. Finally, he rolled it into a tight bundle with the frame components and stakes inside. He picked up the plastic drop cloth that had protected the bottom of the tent and shook it vigorously before rolling it into a tight bundle. It and the tent joined his now-dry breakfast items in the one of his Duluth packs that contained his camping gear.
Jack looked at his canoe as it sat on the beach. “I’ll do better,” he said aloud, “if I sit on the front seat and turn the canoe around so that the bow would now be the stern.” The canoe would be better balanced that way, he thought. Am I just making this up, he wondered, or is this something I remember from a Boy Scout camp, maybe? In any case the idea appealed to him. It was, in fact, what any experienced canoeist would do. Had he arranged himself thus in his canoe on the earlier day when he had met the storm, it might have helped him manage his bark. The canoe now rested on the beach oriented with the stern-now-bow to the water.
He carried the two Duluth packs and his personal pack to the canoe. He put them in place, and then took the line from the bow and used it to lash the packs to the gunwales and thwart. He walked back to the campsite and looked around it. Nothing left behind. Much of what trash he had engendered he had burned; the rest he put into his gear pack. It would go on to Minnesota with him and into a trash barrel there. Back at the water’s edge, he pushed the canoe most of its length into the water and put his paddle in the canoe where he would be able to reach it. Then he shoved off, managing to swing his legs into the canoe and keep his boots dry. The canoe slid away from the shore. A loon called; Jack saw it not far ahead and to the right. Its mate answered. Wonderful birds, he thought. Too bad we don’t have them on Lake Erie. All we have are gulls. Raucous scavengers. He turned his head and glanced back at the shore of the island. A good place, a real haven for a weary paddler, he thought.
The wind had freshened. This is not going to be so easy, Jack thought. However, it was early in the day and he had a limited distance to cover. Absent his map, he did not know precisely where the portage he sought was located. He did recall—in fact, was quite certain—that it was in the northwest corner of the southern basin of the lake. Therefore, he must travel northwest. Given the now-freshening, opposing, north wind, he realized that his best course would be to paddle directly into the wind. This would probably, almost certainly, bring him to the opposite shore east of the portage. He could then turn west and follow the shore to his destination. He wondered how one identifies a portage. Easily, he hoped. A well-trodden path, he supposed.
Looking ahead across the expanse of water before him, Jack saw what he assumed were multiple islands rather than shore. He felt he could deal with them as he encountered them, probably canoeing around them on the least windy side. About four
miles, he thought his lake-crossing journey would be today. Maybe a bit less. He could see the north shore ahead, but not close. In fact, he could see shore in all directions, Mostly islands, he presumed. Are any of them as nice as the one he had taken refuge on—“his island”? he wondered. Again he thought about his great, good fortune in being storm-washed onto such a favorable haven.
Jack dipped his paddle into the water and put all the strength of his arms and back into each stroke. Gratifyingly, the canoe responded and moved forward. Ruddering occasionally, he paddled into the wind, stroke after stroke. The wind gained strength as he moved into more open water. The going was tougher. He changed paddling sides. He paddled on. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that his island was disturbingly near. This is going to be another hard paddle, he thought. But a dry one, hopefully.
An hour passed, then another, he supposed. He missed having a watch. Still the north shore seemed far off. But a backward glance reassured him that he was making progress. He paddled on, stroke after stroke. Paddling into the wind, a wind that seemed to him to be strengthening. Paddling into waves, but smaller than those of his disastrous previous run toward the portage, and on this day the waves were without whitecaps.
At length he reached land. Not the shore, he realized, but an island. He rested in the lee of the island, close to its shore, beneath an overhanging cedar tree. Looking back, he saw the island where he had camped after the storm. He had come a considerable distance. And out on the water, not far from him, was a loon. It called, and another loon responded. This island where he now found himself was, he hoped, not far from the north shore and the portage. However, without a map he was unable to do more than guess where the portage might be and how close to it he was. His plan, which seemed reasonable to him, was to continue past any islands, including the present one, to the north shore of this portion of the lake and then paddle his canoe along the shore in search of the portage. He should be sheltered from the wind as he moved along the shore. He would stay close to the shore.
Trying to avoid heading into the wind, he turned east to paddle around the lee side of the island. The lake became shallow, a sandy bottom visible not far beneath his canoe. The shore of the island formed a point, and a sandy reef extended out from the point well into the lake. Jack paddled out and around it. He then faced a lakescape of several islands and an uncertain distance and direction to the shore. Although the sun was at that moment hidden by a cloud, he thought he knew where it was and supposed it might be close to noon. The north would be around and behind more islands. Maybe I should pull up for lunch on this sandy point, he thought.
Jack turned his canoe toward the sandy shore and ran the front of it against the beach. He put down his paddle and got up to move forward. Holding onto the gunwales, he stepped carefully over the thwarts until he found his forward progress blocked by his packs. “Oh, well,” he said aloud, as he put one boot over the side and into the shallow water. He swung his other leg onto dry sand, turned, and pulled the canoe up onto the beach. Exploring the site, he found that the south, windless side of the sandy point upon which he had landed was pleasantly warm but plagued with black flies. It took but one or two fly bites for him to retreat to the windy north side.
Without removing it from the canoe, Jack opened the food-containing Duluth pack. Four days’ rations, he thought. That’s what’s left of what I brought, and that’s probably not enough to last to Minnesota. Not the way things have gone so far. All right. One granola bar for lunch today. Then this evening I’ll figure out how to make what I have last.
He retrieved his fleece-lined Gore-tex jacket, rolled it up to serve as a pillow, and stretched out on his back in the sand. A rest, if only for a few minutes, for his paddle-weary muscles. Sheltered from the wind and bathed in warm sunlight, he soon fell asleep. How long he slept he had no way of knowing, but the sun was still high in the sky when he awoke. A good nap, he thought, and now I’m ready to move on.
— — — —
Looking around, he realized that beyond the point he was on there was nothing more than a bay; there was no way through to the north shore. He would have to canoe out into the open lake and then further around the island to continue his journey. He launched himself back into the water and turned to paddle out into the lake. He could round the island on the wind-swept west side or the more sheltered east side. An easy choice for him. He went east, realizing that he might be further distancing himself from the portage, but willing to choose the additional distance over the windier, shorter route.
Having reached the north lakeshore, he was about two miles from the portage, although he did not know this. From what he could remember of his long-lost map, he decided he should turn west and paddle along the shore to the portage. Once more he put his back and arms into paddling. Sheltered from the wind, it was not a difficult paddle for him.
He had been traveling west along the northern shore for about an hour—maybe two miles, he guessed—when he came to the broad opening of a path through the woods. The portage! he surmised. Landing here was not going to be easy, however. There were large rocks, but no beach. There was also another canoe at the landing; it had been pulled up over some of the rocks onto the ground at the end of the path. Jack crawled forward in his canoe and retrieved the rope with which he had secured his packs. One end was attached to the bow—stern, originally—of his craft. A couple of paddle strokes brought him alongside the pile of lakeshore rocks. He clambered clumsily onto the rocks and tied the end of the rope to a birch tree.
A family—man, woman, child, and dog—were busily organizing their gear to cross the portage. The woman, obviously the mother and also obviously pregnant, was in the process of putting two packs on her shoulders, one in front, one on her back. She smiled at him and said, “We’ll be out of here shortly.” Then she continued, “We do a canoe trip every summer. But, as you can obviously see, not next year. It’s easy to take our six-year-old daughter, but we’re not going to deal with an infant on a camping trip.”
“Oh, of course,” Jack replied. “I think you’re courageous to do this when you’re pregnant.”
“Well, the baby is not due for another six weeks. And we do want to get this trip in this year while we can. We love canoeing, and we love these north woods.” She paused, adjusting her load. “And you, where are you headed?”
“Hmm. I’m not sure. I’ll head back when the food get low, I guess. I quit my last job, and I wanted to get out before getting back on the treadmill.”
“Good for you. Good idea. Have a great trip.” The woman put her arm through the straps of their three life jackets and took her daughter’s hand. With the girl leading the dog on a long leash, they headed off, climbing over rocks across the portage.
I could do this some year with Marilyn, Jack said to himself. It would be great. She would love it. Even with a child or two.
As he watched them, Jack realized that this portage would not be easy. The landing was over rocks to an open area that facilitated organizing gear. Not easy, but manageable. But the portage itself appeared to be a scramble across more rocks, the route winding between trees marked by blue paint blazes. It would be tough going. While Jack watched, the husband of the young family picked up the two remaining large packs, putting one in front and one on his back. Leaning over, he grabbed the canoe by its gunwales and swung it up over his head to rest on his shoulders. He nodded to Jack and set off over the rocks across the portage.
Well, Jack thought, they make it look easy. But I don’t think so! Doing his best to keep his boots out of the water, Jack unloaded his canoe, placing his packs on rocks away from the water. Struggling, he managed to pull the canoe out of the water and onto rocks. He sat down and caught his breath. I think I should explore this a bit, he thought. I ought to know what I have to face, have to cross, before I actually start carrying my gear across.
Steadying himself on rocks and tree trunks, Jack slowly made his way across the portage. At what he judged might be the m
idpoint, he noticed that a length of two-by-four had been fastened and braced horizontally to a trail-side birch tree. That’s a place to rest with the canoe end propped against the cross piece while the other end rests on the ground, he realized. Maybe macho guys make it all of the way across without a break, but I’ll take advantage of that canoe rest stop.
It was not, in fact, a long portage. Less than the length of a football field, he guessed. But it was rocky, and the trail uneven. Reaching the north end of the portage, he found a small beach bordered by large rocks. However, there was no space among the rocks here where he could camp. He would have to push on or explore the neighboring shore to find a campsite.
He decided to make his way back across the portage. “Okay. Here I go,” he said aloud. He picked up his personal pack, the lightest of his burdens, and secured it on his back. No heroics, he thought. I’ll do this one at a time. Carefully, he made his way back across the portage trail and deposited his pack on rocks at the north end. He returned to collect another pack. He put the food pack on his back. Once again he crossed the portage, this time finding it easier to pick his way along the torturous trail. I’m glad I have good boots, he thought. This would be a bitch in sneakers. I don’t need a sprained ankle. After depositing that pack beside his personal pack, he returned to collect the last of his packs. Well, he thought as he once again crossed the portage, this would have been complicated had I still had the camp stove, axe, and stuff like that to deal with.
The canoe presented Jack with his last and most difficult challenge. He dragged it across rocks to the relatively level area where the man whom he had watched had lifted his canoe. A few scrapes on the bottom of the canoe did not concern him, as long as he avoided actually putting a hole in its bottom. Recalling the ease with which he had seen the man lift the canoe, Jack bent over, put a hand on each of the gunwales, and tried in vain to lift the canoe. He stood up, caught his breath, and tried once more. Again he failed. Well, he thought, there’s more to that than I thought. Let me see if I can get this canoe up some other way.
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