The following blog post is a piece I wrote for the Winter 2014 Boundary Waters Journal Collective Wisdom section. It is published and available now on the news stand. It’s a great issue with a lead winter camping story by Bear Paulson. My take on the Collective Wisdom assignment has kind of quirky Christmas feel so I don’t think Stu will mind me putting it on my blog today as long as I proclaim, “first published in the BWJ.”
Stu asked “Suppose you could take just one last trip in the BWCAW/Quetico. Where, when, how and with who would you spend this special trip? What aspects of wilderness canoe tripping are absolutely the most precious to you, and why?” I recommend you buy the magazine and check out what my colleagues wrote, but below is my take (unedited).
It’s tempting when conjuring a fantasy canoe trip to remember my most hair-raising experiences and weave those into my final Boundary Waters tale. For example, a long ago river trip interrupted near the Thai border in Malaysia by a communist insurgency. I remember the muzzle of an AK-47 being rammed up my left nostril by a commando all dressed in green with vegetation stuck in his helmet. I whimpered, “Tourist, tourist, tourist.” while he toyed with me and tapped the gun’s trigger with his finger. Or the time on the Kopka River in Ontario, when I was sandwiched between a pinned canoe and a granite boulder and the pressure made a pancake out my right foot. I spent the rest of that journey portaging on crutches carved by my crew from young poplars. Or maybe something inspired by this past summer in Alaska on the Noatak River. Beaten by gale force winds we were lining our canoes downstream searching the tundra in vain for the smallest nubbin to camp behind as a shield from the arctic wind. One of my companions remarked, “Notice how Rob gets more and more excited the closer we all get to death.” Addicted to defying death is more of a confession than a point of pride. My compulsion to walk on the wild side has confounded my employers, frustrated my friends, and perplexed those who have loved me. You might think my fantasy Boundary Waters canoe trip would be punctuated by charging bears, lightning strikes that melt my tent poles, and plunges over the waterfalls of the Falls Chain. But as much fun as those adventures might be, you would be wrong. I’m not proud of being a restless soul, and I learned long ago that fun does not equal happiness. To glorify living on the edge would be like an alcoholic whose fantasy is conjuring up an epic bender. If I remember the meaningful trips in my life, they will not be the adrenaline fueled moments where life hung in the balance. They would be my five coming-of-age trips with my five daughters. Those trips, wreathed in love and learning, would be what I would want to recreate. Six days in canoe country with the five women who were once my little girls.
I would start on Magnetic Lake on a blustery day. With Greta in the bow of my Savage River graphite canoe, we would safely paddle through the chop. I would remember her coming of age trip on Yellowstone Lake in similar water fifteen years ago. She did not like waves and tears streamed down her face. I told her it was okay to have butterflies in your stomach just make sure they’re flying in formation. She paddled onward crying but resolute. Now as a third grade teacher she navigates choppy seas every day. Those butterflies are still flying in formation, and the kids in her class are the winners. I couldn’t be prouder, and I would love to feel her steady stroke in the bow again.
I remember Lara’s coming-of-age trip on the arctic Snowdrift River over two decades ago. We had just enough food for that journey or maybe a little less. We planned to eat lots of fish and bannock, but I had forgotten that most girls, including mine, did not like to eat fish. So I was eating fish and she was eating everything else. But one night, as a feast, we decided to share our one big package of macaroni and cheese. Lara by this time was doing most of the cooking. As she was draining the water from the pot holding the macaroni, she tipped the pot a little too steeply. Swoosh, all the macaroni spilled out onto the sandy beach. That was the only pasta we had. No blaming, no regrets, we just washed it off and reheated it. Mushy gritty macaroni and cheese was dinner that night. But hunger made it okay, and we learned that sometimes shit happens. More importantly, we learned that the event is not as important as the response to the event. Lara went on to a career as a dolphin trainer. She works in places that many people think of as holiday destinations: Antigua, Hawaii, Cozumel the Cayman Islands. But it is was more a holiday for visitors than residents. In these places she endures hurricanes, sick dolphins, and the searing tropical sun. Conditions that she cannot control but from which somehow she must create a happy ending.
So on our second day in the Boundary Waters it would be warm and beautiful. Too beautiful maybe, as every campsite on Agnes Lake is occupied and I have a thought in my head that Stuart Lake will have an open site. So after the portages we hit Stuart at sunset and all those campsites seem occupied too. But there is one cramped site just shy of the portage to Fox Lake that is open. We seek out dry campfire wood with headlamps and pitch our tents on roots and rocks. Circled around a campfire and under a starry sky we tell stories, and laugh. We adapt.
My daughter Mari’s coming-of-age trip was a dog sled journey guided by Stu McIntyre. Our route was from Moose Lake up to Knife. We each had our own sleds and dog teams. Mari had been plagued with cardiomyopathy since infancy. Doctors predicted her lifespan to be hours, and then days, then weeks, then years. Finally, her cardiologist have given had given her the clearance to take a dogsled trip and to exert herself to her full ability. It was January and the snow was deep that year. Climbing the hills on some of the steep portages it was necessary for the drivers to get off their sleds and push to help the dogs up the hills. Two attempts by Mari up a steep slope both end sliding backwards. Dad wants to help, but holds back. With a face as bright and hot as a cherry red stovepipe, she says, “I am going to give it all I got!” Up and over the hill she goes.
The third day would be the Kelso Mountain Portage (Hey, this a fantasy trip I can jump all over the pIace) I would load up Mari with a big #4 Duluth Pack and send her trundling down the path hopefully with a granddaughter in her belly and thank the stars that her heart has mended and the world gets to be blessed by her unsinkable spirit.
Mandy’s coming of age trip was 12 days in Quetico. It was 101 degrees that week in the nations icebox, International Falls, so we had some heat. We also had Louisa’s tub all to ourselves one afternoon, and that is where I would like to return, this time, with the whole clan on our fourth day. It would be a day so hot that the water feels more like a spa. I wonder if Mandy would remember how she pretended to be a seal and slid down the slippery Precambrian rock and into the pools. She would, and for a moment we would all be children again, making believe that we were a family of seals.
Zoë’s trip was two rivers. The first a 150 mile journey down the Missouri River. It is Lewis and Clark country and what an epic and fun paddle ours was! When it was over Zoë was proud, Zoë was strong and Zoë missed mom. “It was great Dad, but can we just go home now?”
“And miss a week on the crown jewel of American rivers, the Middle Fork of Idaho’s Salmon River?” I said, “There is no half-way on a trip, or in life.” I was right.
It’s the last day of the trip. The crew is happy but spent. They are looking forward to showers, cold beer and their significant others, and they are also content after a great trip with Dad. But who is at the entry point, but my friend and Boundary Waters Journal publisher, Stu Osthoff. In his arms would be a big blue barrel of dehydrated food (if you know Stu and his disdain for dehydrated chow and blue barrels you know this is absolute fantasy) Nevertheless, there he is, with a blue barrel full of ultralight food, and an updated permit for me and my five girls for six more days!
“Group hug, group hug, six more days with Dad!” I would start to cry from the joy, and the scar on my nose, the one from the muzzle of the AK-47, would start to itch.