has me by the foot again. Fairly ill right now. Darren proof read and corrected my story for me. I don't have the energy to try to get pics. They are actual photographs.
Wood Lake October 2-5 1988 (I think that was the year.
I met three women at a training in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. We hit it
off and decided to go to this place we had heard of called The
Boundary Waters. Karen had been there once several years prior with
her then boyfriend.
The sum total of our experience was Karens one trip, Pat had car
camped a bit as a child with her family, Milou had never set foot in
the woods or a tent and myself who, as a Girl Scout leader, had camped
in a state park when I lived in Maine, as well as a tad of car
camping/canoeing in Virginia when my children were small. Despite
that, we made a plan and got moving. It was already late September.
Karen lived the farthest north, just above Eau Claire. We arranged to
meet at her old farmhouse on the evening of October 1. We each
brought what we thought we would need for gear as a group, and food
was the same arrangement (I remember some vague sense of a menu).
Karen had access to the boyfriends canoe and the other two were going
to borrow a canoe. Paddles were also borrowed. We didnt consider
sizing the paddles. Who cared!? We were going canoeing. Tents
comprised of Karens yard sale special, a very old 2 man Eureka
Timberline and a brand new dome tent that Pat had just purchased (and
didnt know tent seams needed to be waterproofed). After that trip,
innie or outie then became the huge question. I digress...
There we were, after supper, in the parlour, gear covering the entire
floor almost ankle deep. We vainly attempted to sort it out and make
some sense out of what to bring. Karens current fella stopped by, a
couple of hours into this endeavor, and burst into gales of laughter.
He laughed so hard he cried and couldnt stop laughing. As soon as he
would get himself under control, he burst again. We asked him to
leave.
I need to mention Karens two pot bellied pigs, Petunia and Amos, were
in the room with us. They nosed and knocked over every pile of gear
and soon found a sleeping spot right in the middle of it all.
It took us hours to sort, pack and load the two cars. Karen had tied
down a canoe a couple of times, as had I. So with no racks and old
towels under the gunwales, we managed to get them on (and they stayed
on, wonders of all wonders!) I am still astounded at our greeness.
We packed clothing and personal items in pillow cases and put them in
black plastic bags---real thin black plastic bags. I had a well-used
duffle bag that held the food and some rope. Cans of food, loaves of
bread, etc. Sleeping bags were ancient orange Wenzel car camping
square deals with lots of cotton in them. More plastic bags held
them. Our sleeping pads were some black, rubber-plastic, ribbed
things that folded into sections. Perhaps Thermarest of some sort.
Bed pillows were included in the plastic bags. Cook gear consisted of
two stainless sauce pans Pat had stored in the chicken coop (ick!), an
ancient coffeee pot and a backpacking fire grate. All of us had old
leather boots. Our smartest move was wool socks, wool shirts/jackets,
wool gloves and hats. Plastic yellow rain coats. All packed. Yes, by
then it was midnight. Down on the floor we went for a very few winks,
then off to this place called Ely and what ever wonders awaited us.
Roads were all two-laners in those days. I cant remember if that
awful, high bridge was between Superior and Duluth. I dont think so.
Outside of Virginia, you had to head sorta west towards Mt. Iron then
and quick exit back to 169 to Ely. I remember cause we missed that
exit...twice.
We arrived in this quiet, dinky town of Ely about 3 p.m. Karen and
her beau had stopped at a place called Voyageur North Outfitters for
showers, so we stopped to buy a map. The proprietors were a young,
friendly couple, all smiles and welcome. They had a daughter in high
school and another in middle school. The fella, John, showed us the
Fernberg Road and the entry point for Wood Lake. The bubbly woman,
Lynn, gave us some tricks of the trade as it were. They wished us well
and were too polite to laugh as we pulled away in our vagabond
caravan.
The entry to Wood Lake on the Fernberg Road was a space on the
shoulder of the road that would fit three cars, if you parked close.
Doing that closeness, it was questionable if you could open the car
doors to get out.
Next was the unload. We had mounds of black plastic bags. Hills of
plastic bags. Mountains of plastic bags. The canoes came next.
Karens borrowed 18 Grumman (? 80 + lbs ?). The boyfriend had done
her a favor and purchased a yoke. No pads, but we had a yoke!
The other borrowed canoe was a bit different. It was called a
Coleman. No yoke, no hand carriers at bow and stern. It was a bit of
a red and white whale to be polite. Not to be deterred, we commenced
to por`tage. Wood Lake portage must be, what? 80-90 rods? Of course,
plastic bags flowed down the trail. We decided to do one group at a
time.
We had orange horse collar life jackets (plastic kapok-filled bags
in a cotton vest). We balanced the thwart of the Grumman between the
human neck and the collar of the life jacket. Thus balanced, it made
its way to the water. Ouch.
The Coleman was a canoe of a different color. Pat and Milou decided
they would put all their stuff in the canoe and we would all take a
hold of the gunwales/ thwarts and carry it down to the lake. Sure
they would. We emptied out the canoe, carried all the multitude of
bags down and then the four of us took the gunwales/thwarts of the
beast and slowly, painfully carried that monster to the water. We
probably portaged a dozen times to get all the stuff down to the
put-in.
At this point it was dark. We pulled out the sleeping bags, threw
down the pads and went to sleep on the portage. We didnt know that
was illegal. It was soooo cold. I dont think any of us really slept.
Perhaps in between shivers. At the first tiny glimmer of daylight,
we loaded boats and started to paddle. I saw my first bear that day on
the far shore, having his morning sip of lake.
At last we came to our island site and settled in. I wish I could
say we saw more of the lake. We had no idea how burnt we were.
Karen and Pat were Alcohol and Other Drug counselors (AODA), Milou in
the middle of nursing school, and at that time I was counseling
seriously abused children. We ate breakfast, took a morning nap.
Lunch and had an all afternoon nap. Up in time to cook supper and back
to sleep for the night. A couple of fishing lines got wet and I
remember Pat and I paddled toward Hula on a short trip, in between
naps of course.
The night of October 3rd, we had a party. Pat had brought a can of
brown bread. She warmed it up, put candles in and gave me a surprise
birthday party. I was a whole 42. Just a young sprout I was.
That night, post party, I stayed alone at the campfire after the
others turned in. I was deep in reflexion into the fire. You know,
the longer you look at flames, the more transfixed you become. I have
no idea how long I sat there.
At some point, I became aware of an unfamiliar sound behind me.
Swish-ker-plunk, swish-ker-plunk. Prickle skin. Chills up my back.
Remember, I was a transplant, most recently from Virginia Beach,
Virginia. Southern girls have experience in dodging water moccasins,
or watching for sharks at Nags Head, NC beach, but not a northwoods,
unseen, water monster. If one sits real still, snakes will go away.
Maybe this was the case with the water monster. Id like to yell for
others to come, but if I make noise, the monster will eat me before
anyone gets out of their tent. I was very scared. Like petrified. At
some point, in my irrational spirial, some sanity prevailed. My
gosh, that sounds like a Clydesdale walking in the water.
Clydesdale..big..moose! I put out the fire and went to bed before
anything else could spook me. Or the moose could join me.
During the night it rained. Pat and Milou were soaked, and Karen and
I were mildly damp. We dried out on our last day, thinking we had had
an experience. Little did we know Manitou had more in store for us.
We awoke on the morning of the 5th, to an eerie silence and
stillness. No bird sounds, no wind -- nothing. It was creepy. We
unzipped the tent to see approximately ten inches of snow and it was
still coming down. Minnesota, blizzard style! A very quiet blizzard.
Beautiful blizzard. We packed up and headed out.
Except there was no more than three feet of visibility in front of the
canoe. It was snowing beyond belief. We had to put bandannas over our
mouths to keep the snow out so we could speak without breathing in ice
flakes. We followed the shoreline all the way back to the exit point,
which, being blind, took hours to paddle the short distance from the
island. And it was still snowing.
Once again we schlepped all those bags to the road. Now we were
almost knee deep in snow. There were two Forestry Department guys
grooming the trail as we came out. Actually, they were raking the
snow off the gravel. ??? (maybe the boss said go out and dont come
back until the days end???) They kept watching us haul back up the
portage with an occasional comment of lots of stuff there, eh?
Karen and I carried the Grumman up. Pat and Milou said they would
bring the Coleman on their own. Karen and I were delighted!
Shortly, here comes the Coleman on the shoulders of the Forestry
crewmen. Each man with a fresh $20.00 in his pocket. Love the way
Pat and Milou handle a problem!
A quick stop at VNO to say thanks and ask if they were selling any
used canoes next spring. Then, we turned our heads towards southern
territory on unplowed roads. Karen and I planned our next trip in the
spring on that ride. I knew then, I was hooked. There was no going
back. I was a canoe junkie in the BWCA.
I think it was around 6 a.m. when I pulled into Madison after an all
night drive. The snow followed me home. It was quite humorous, a tiny
red Toyota truck bulging with gear and a foot of snow on the top.
Yes, I obtained my first real canoe the next Spring. I think it was
$125.00 used. A honest to goodness, Voyageur North, 1981 16, 48#,
aluminum Beaver from Terrytown, MO with a yoke and pad. Sheer luxury.
She is the pride of my fleet still, and her name is aptly, Sister.
We have made many paddles together and still more await us.
My paddle partners are now spread to the wind. Pat had a heart
attack about five years after our first trip. She no longer does
wilderness paddling at her husbands request. Karen moved very far
north, married the Grumman man and we lost contact. Milou finished
nursing school and moved out west to be a cowgirl nurse. I stayed in
Madison where I continue to do therapy with adults and children (to
support my canoeing addiction).
Ive had many canoe adventures since this first one. Some were wild
and thrilling, such as paddling with Beluga Whales in the Churchill
Weir, northern Manitoba. However, nothing can top this first trip as
my adventure of a lifetime. My trip of trips. The one that makes me
smile every time I reflect on Wood Lake, the north water monster/horse
and four newbies with passion.
