Boundary Waters Adventures, part 2

Circa 1961’

REMEMBRANCES

Most things change with time; some for the better, some for the worse. Sometimes they even call it “progress.” Pictures can be lost, equipment can disappear, but the memories of my introduction into the boundary waters have only become more cherished with time. Over the years, restrictions have stiffened on what may be taken in and where you may go and where you can set up camp, but in the late fifties and early sixties anyone could throw a canoe on their back and head down the portage trail. Even with the greatly increased pressure from humans and nature’s major events (forest fires and major blow downs), Superior National Forest has weathered the incursions and changed but very little. (Perhaps the fishing was better “back then” and certainly there were fewer people going in, but you can fish off the same rocks in the same rapids or lakes.) So while my memory might not be one hundred percent, there are some things that stand out.

My first trip into “the brush” or “God’s country” came in 1961. As a thirteen year old I didn’t see the need for extensive planning prior to such a trip. “What’s the big deal; all you need is your fishing pole and a boat, right?” Planning menus, culling “unnecessary” items like: cards, cribbage boards and even pillows seemed like such a huge waste of time. After all, it wasn’t like we were going to traverse the entire fourteen thousand five hundred square miles of canoe country. Many sessions and discussions took place among the “adults” before the plans were considered finalized. (I now believe that these “planning meetings” weren’t all planning.) Then, a week before our departure date, it was discovered that my father would no longer be able to go on the trip. I don’t know how thrilled his two fishing buddies were with taking “his kid” in without him, but the kid wasn’t too thrilled about going without his dad.

The day of departure finally arrived and I believe I noted a misty look in the “old man’s” eyes as we pulled away without him. His son was making his first portage fishing trip without him to guide and direct. I’m not sure how well other thirteen year olds travel in the back seat of a car over long distances, but I was going to be different. I would show them how mature I was by staying awake and entertaining them with adult conversation and intelligent questions. “Will my twenty five pound test line be heavy enough for that record Northern Pike that I was going to catch?” Apparently they were duly impressed, because they woke me up when we stopped for gas. “Do you want a cup of coffee?” “Of course.” “How do you want it?” “Makes no difference.” (Because I had never drunk the stuff before.) This was an adult beverage and it tasted awful. Somehow I finished it, because I didn’t see how I could dump it out the window without getting caught. So it went, until thirteen hours, after we had left, I found myself in the town of Ely, MN.

Final provisions were purchased: four dozen eggs, bread, minnows, fishing licenses, etc., etc. Then we were off down the Echo Trail. This was a gravel road that seemed to wind on forever. Finally ended up in a small parking area where we were signing in on sheets of paper: how many in the party, where were we going, when did we expect to be back out. Again, I couldn’t see the reason. (“Adults sure wasted a lot of time and effort on useless stuff.”) Unfortunately, the reason would become glaringly clear at the trip’s end.

What was only a few inches on the portage maps took the better part of a day to cover. Possibly the expert help and suggestions offered on the trail by a thirteen year old had some bearing on this. Upon reaching what was to be our base camp, we found darkness quickly encircling us. All the way in the combine efforts of Bob and Bud had managed to keep me away from the “Duluth Pack” (an oversized pack that I believe was designed to be carried by gorillas). It was the last carry, only about a hundred feet, so they let me take it up from the canoe to where we would make camp. Frowns were easily created when the kid dropped the ninety-pound pack with the four dozen eggs in it. Tempers were beginning to get short and the trip in had fairly well exhausted us. So, after pitching the tent, having a quick meal (scrambled eggs), and doing the dishes, we all crawled into our sleeping bags. “Bob, do you want to put up a poke?” “The heck with it Bud, we’ll do it tomorrow.” “What’s a poke?” “Never mind, we’ll show you tomorrow.” Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!

About four A.M. the next morning Bud was awakened by the sound of “clunk, rattle, rattle, splash!” At first he ignored it, but after two or three more “clunk, rattle, rattle, splashes” he got up to investigate. I was awakened by Bud hissing, “Bob get up, Bob!” When I looked out the tent screen I saw a very large black bear. This was not “Yogi Bear” and instead of baskets we had left our packs on the picnic table the night before. At that time firearms were not allowed in Superior National Forest, so we had no weapons at hand and the only way out of the tent faced the bear. The bear was about twenty-five feet away in front of the tent and stood about eighteen (18) inches above the log picnic table when on “all fours.” We considered cutting our way out the back and sneaking away. But what if this happened to be a sow with cubs? We might run into them. During a quick conference on what to do, Bob and Bud gave me the impression that this was not the friendly bear I had seen stealing picnic baskets in cartoons. We were in what could be considered serious trouble, what to do? We decided to make noise in hopes of scaring off our uninvited guest. The bear replied with huffs and growls. Translated, I believe he was telling us to shut up, as this was his private campsite and we were disturbing his breakfast. A few more weakened tries on our part and he finally became disgusted with us. He stuffed a three pound canned ham in his mouth for desert and sauntered into the brush.

The bear’s first target had been the remainder of the eggs (forty one of them). Marvelous appetizer, but apparently it dirtied his teeth, because he cleaned them by chewing up our Styrofoam minnow buckets and dumping the contents in the process. From there he moved on to the slab bacon, a very large hunk, which was obviously preferable to those little minnows that were flopping around on the ground. This was obviously not the bear’s first raid on this campsite. He was very methodical in his work, even to the point of puncturing canned goods on both ends to create a vent hole (much easier to suck out the contents that way). Any can found not to his liking he deposited behind him onto the rock bank incline. This accounted for the rolling noise as the cans went into the lake. The canned peaches were very much to his liking, but the creamed corn went in the lake immediately (Why I don’t know as this was sweet also.). While he didn’t obey his mother and eat his vegetables, it seemed as though he could read labels because he avoided the aerosol bug repellent spray cans. About half way through the snack the smell of gasoline must have offended him, because with what seemed to be a slight back hand brush, his paw sent the small (“Mighty Mite”) outboard motor over fifty feet on the first bounce. In short, a black tornado had turned our camp into a shambles.

After Mr. Black Bear left us, some comic relief came in watching Bob sweep up coffee grounds and dirt into a can. The dirt seemed to improve the flavor of his coffee for the remainder of the trip. After salvaging what we could Bob told Bud to go sit amongst the debris for a picture, “Look disgusted!” “What do you mean look disgusted?” Bud then showed me (without explanation) what a poke was, (where you put those things that you don’t want the critters to get at). As he hoisted the poke up into the tree limbs I thought I heard him muttering something about a horse and a locked barn door. It was now determined that our meals would have to be heavily supplemented by fish. So after putting camp in some assemblage of order, we went out looking for lunch.

The fish didn’t cooperate, but the next week proved to be much more than just fishing. I didn’t know it at the time, but my fishing partners were imparting decades of knowledge about this area to me. Bob had been coming to this area even before it was designated as national forest. The trip turned into a history and geography lesson. These lessons were much more palatable than any I’d ever received in school. From the first splashes of cold lake water in the face, until the sleeping bags were zipped up at night, nonstop knowledge was being imparted. A lake that wasn’t on the portage maps, where the springs were if you didn’t feel like drinking the lake water, cabin sites where a resort had been, a ranger’s cabin back in the brush off a portage trail, those secret fishing spots, all of it came with personalized names and the story behind each one. On and on it went.

While most of it was fun and games, I found out that there were camp chores and duties expected of me. At home I could duck out of doing a lot of the chores, but here the rewards seemed greater. “Bird’s nests” were removed from my reel while I fished with their rods. Plugs were retrieved from trees (“you’ll catch more fish if you keep it in the water…”). Grasshoppers that I was told to catch were magically turned into fish. It took a number of years to comprehend the lessons in patience and tolerance that I was shown on this trip. At most portages I would be off catching walleyes in the rapids, while they saw to the carrying. But my turn to carry was coming soon.

About six days into the trip Bob took gravely ill. For most of two days he never left his sleeping bag. At the end of his second day’s illness Bud explained the seriousness of our situation. I began to understand what was meant by nature being unforgiving. Bud told me that if Bob “wasn’t well enough to walk out” the next day, he would leave us behind and go out for help. A full days portaging was tough enough without trying to carry out a sick man. Besides, Bob was no lightweight and I only weighed a little over a hundred pounds sopping wet. When Bud left, we would put a large white rag or tee shirt on the rocks in front of our campsite. This would hopefully signal any passing ranger, portage crew or float plane that we were in trouble. We might then be picked up and helped out before Bud got out and got us help. (There wasn’t much consolation in this, because I had yet to see a float plane and only one other party in the eight days we had spent so far.) The “sign in sheets” at the parking lot now made a lot more sense, but we couldn’t wait the necessary days until the rangers realized we were in trouble. That night there was one thirteen year old that didn’t sleep well. Visions of black bears and the wolves I had heard in the evenings, raced through my mind. Fantasies are great, but I really didn’t like what was conjured up by, “you’ll protect Bob while I go out for help”. After my initial “what ifs” were answered by calm replies, I became resolved to a rather quiet desperation.

As is so often the case in all worrying, it was for naught. We lucked out and Bob somehow forced himself up. We broke camp in one hell of a hurry and left some of our gear behind. I was now expected to carry a man’s weight, (or so I thought). No more goofing off. I took the bow in the canoe and was expected to watch out for those hidden rocks, paddle like a “voyageur” and carry on the portage trails. The time it took Bob to make one pass over the portage trail was the amount of time it took Bud and me to make a number of trips over the same trail to carry what gear we did take. The last portage out was one hundred seventy seven rods long (about a half of a mile). Even over uneven terrain it doesn’t sound like far to go, but try using unaccustomed muscles to carry a seventeen-foot aluminum square end canoe that weighs almost as much as you do. I had almost gotten the hang of it by this last portage and decided to skip one of the canoe rests. I swear that they had cut down the rest of them before I came to the next one. (Canoe rests, picnic tables from logs, latrines and other trail maintenance were accomplished by the “portage crews.” Not to be found today.)

We had made it out. We had been lucky in many ways. There is a certain amount of luck in any fishing trip; like finding a tent and a bunch of other gear with a note explaining why it was left behind. (Hope the bear didn’t get the next party and hope that they had enough sense to put up a poke.) Upon loading up the car, we were given one last gentle reminder of the fact that we and the 56’ Cadillac were out of our element. The bear tracks started up the hood, over the roof and down the trunk lid. Our next carelessness might not be forgiven. Future trips would have more experience, thought and common sense. Our last act before leaving was a bath in a nearby creek (Moose River). It was decided that it might be refreshing for all concerned. It seemed to help bring Bob around, but once on the road to home he never left the prone position in the back seat of his “Caddy”.

As I mentioned at the beginning if this little vignette, things change with time. Bob, Bud and the “old man” are no longer with us (although there were many other trips in) and most of the gear and pictures connected with this trip have long ago disappeared. Most of the gear wouldn’t be used in this day and age anyway (heavy canvas tent, etc.), but the memories are still there and still good in their remembrance during current times. It is for this reason that I strongly recommend this type of trip. Find the necessary youngster and acquaint him or her with the outdoor experience. Or possibly, will you be introducing yourself? In any case, if you don’t have the necessary experience and/or equipment, seek out the qualified outfitter or professional guide. Remember, when the first wild critter curiously approaches you, or a “Canadian Jay” tries to steal from your shore lunch, or the first time you hear a loon at dusk; I told you so. No planes overhead, no radio or TV, (and with enough portages) no other people around, the real thing; nature’s brand of silence, that can’t be experienced or duplicated in “civilization”.

“Excerpts from SIX (6) FROM SIXTY (60)”
Copy right TXu 2-234-819 January 2021

P.S.

Reading these is hopefully entertainment and not education, but there are tidbits of info that details how it has changed over time. The beginnings had no rules. Then limitations on what was allowed to be taken in, where you could camp and how many into each area or lake. While I’m not 100% on current rules, the first time I recall going down a portage trail and not seeing any “canoe rests” along the trail was different if not more difficult. No “portage crews” to maintain areas and campsites with the exception of a fire grate and a fiberglass commode (somewhere close) that ID’ed the “approved campsites.” Let the woods maintain itself while you “Leave no trace” or “Leave it better than you found it.” And no, I never joined the ultra lighters cutting the handles off the toothbrushes to save weight. You do try to limit your kit to that which might only require ONE trip/carry down the trails.